It was with feelings of a tumultuous satisfaction that Mat Dunbar found
himself in possession of this new prize. He at once conceived a new
sense of his power, and prepared to avail himself of all his advantages.
But we must suffer our friend Brough to become the narrator of this
portion of our history. Anxious about events, Coulter persuaded the old
African, nothing loth, to set forth on a scouting expedition to the
farmstead. Following his former footsteps, which had been hitherto
planted in security, the negro made his way, an hour before daylight,
toward the cabin in which Mimy, and her companion Lizzy, a young girl of
sixteen, were housed. They, too, had been compelled to change their
abodes under the tory usurpation; and now occupied an ancient tenement
of logs, which in its time had gone through a curious history. It had
first been a hog-pen, next a hunter’s lodge; had stabled horses, and had
been made a temporary fortress during Indian warfare. It was ample in
its dimensions—made of heavy cypresses; but the clay which had filled
its interstices had fallen out; of the chimney nothing remained but the
fire-place; and one end of the cabin, from the decay of two or more of
its logs, had taken such on inclination downward, as to leave the
security which it offered of exceedingly dubious value. The negro does
not much regard these things, however, and old Mimy enjoyed her sleeps
here quite as well as at her more comfortable kitchen. The place,
indeed, possessed some advantages under the peculiar circumstances. It
stood on the edge of a limestone sink-hole—one of those wonderful
natural cavities with which the country abounds. This was girdled by
cypresses and pines, and, fortunately for Brough, at this moment, when a
drought prevailed, entirely free from water. A negro loves any thing,
perhaps, better than water—he would sooner bathe in the sun than in the
stream, and would rather wade through a forest full of snakes than
suffuse his epidermis unnecessarily with an element which no one will
insist was made for his uses. It was important that the sink-hole near
Mimy’s abode should be dry at this juncture, for it was here that Brough
found his hiding place. He could approach this place under cover of the
woods. There was an awkward interval of twelve or fifteen feet, it is
true, between this place and the hovel, which the inmates had stripped
of all its growth in the search for fuel, but a dusky form, on a dusky
night, careful to crawl over the space, might easily escape the casual
glance of a drowsy sentinel; and Brough was partisan enough to know that
the best caution implies occasional exposure. He was not unwilling to
incur the risk. We must not detail his progress. Enough that, by dint of
crouching, crawling, creeping, rolling and sliding, he had contrived to
bury himself, at length, under the wigwam, occupying the space, in part,
of a decayed log connected with the clayed chimney; and fitting himself
to the space in the log, from which he had scratched out the rotten
fragments, as snugly as if he were a part of it. Thus, with his head
toward the fire, looking within—his body hidden from those within by
the undecayed portions of the timber, with Mimy on his side of the
fire-place, squat upon the hearth, and busy with the _hominy_ pot,
Brough might carry on the most interesting conversation in the world, in
whispers, and occasionally be fed from the spoon of his spouse, or drink
from the calabash, without any innocent person suspecting his
propinquity. We will suppose him thus quietly ensconced, his old woman
beside him, and deeply buried in the domestic histories which he came to
hear. We must suppose all the preliminaries to be dispatched already,
which, in the case of an African _dramatis personæ_, are usually
wonderfully minute and copious.
“And dis nigger, Tory, he’s maussa yer for true?”
“I tell you, Brough, he’s desp’r’t bad! He tak’ ebbry ting for he’sef!
He sway (swears) ebbry ting for him—we nigger, de plantation, boss,
hog, hominy; and ef young misses no marry um—you yeddy? (hear)—he will
hang de maussa up to de sapling, same as you hang scarecrow in de
cornfiel’!”
Brough groaned in the bitterness of his spirit.
“Wha’ for do, Brough?”
“Who gwine say? I ’spec he mus fight for um yet. Mass Dick no chicken!
He gwine fight like de debbil, soon he get strong, ’fore dis ting gwine
happen. He hab sodger, and more for come. Parson ’Lijah gwine fight
too—and dis nigger’s gwine fight, sooner dan dis tory ride, whip and
spur, ober we plantation.”
“Why, wha’ you tink dese tory say to me, Brough?”
“Wha’ he say, woman?”
“He say he gwine gib me hundred lash ef I no get he breckkus (breakfast)
by day peep in de morning!”
“De tory wha’ put hick’ry ’pon your back, chicken, he hab answer to
Brough.”
“You will fight for me, Brough?”
“Wid gun and bagnet, my chicken.”
“Ah, I blieb you, Brough; you was always lub me wid you’ sperrit!”
“Enty you blieb? You will see some day! You got ’noder piece of bacon in
de pot, Mimy? Dis hom’ny ’mos’ too dry in de t’roat.”
“Leetle piece.”
“Gi’ me.”
His creature wants were accordingly supplied. We must not forget that
the dialogue was carried on in the intervals in which he paused from
eating the supper which, in anticipation of his coming, the old woman
had provided. Then followed the recapitulation of the narrative, details
being furnished which showed that Dunbar, desperate from opposition to
his will, had thrown off all the restraints of social fear and decency,
and was urging his measures against old Sabb and his daughter with
tyrannical severity. He had given the old man a sufficient taste of his
power, enough to make him dread the exercise of what remained. This
rendered him now, what he had never been before, the advocate himself
with his daughter in behalf of the loyalist. Sabb’s virtue was not of a
self-sacrificing nature. He was not a bad man—was rather what the world
esteems a good one. He was just, as well as he knew to be, in his
dealings with a neighbor; was not wanting in that charity, which, having
first ascertained its own excess of goods, gives a certain proportion to
the needy; he had offerings for the church, and solicited its prayers.
But he had not the courage and strength of character to be virtuous in
spite of circumstances. In plain language, he valued the securities and
enjoyments of his homestead, even at the peril of his daughter’s
happiness. He urged with tears and reproaches, that soon became
vehement, the suit of Dunbar as if it had been his own; and even his
good _vrow_, Minnecker Sabb, overwhelmed by his afflictions and her own,
joined somewhat in his entreaty. We may imagine poor Frederica’s
afflictions. She had not dared to reveal to either the secret of her
marriage with Coulter. She now dreaded its discovery, in regard to the
probable effect which it might have upon Dunbar. What limit would there
be to his fury and brutality, should the fact become known to him? How
measure his rage—how meet its excesses? She trembled as she reflected
upon the possibility of his making the discovery; and while inly
swearing eternal fidelity to her husband, she resolved still to keep her
secret close from all, looking to the chapter of providential events for
that hope which she had not the power to draw from any thing within
human probability. Her eyes naturally turned to her husband, first of
all mortal agents. But she had no voice which could reach to him—and
what was his condition? She conjectured the visits of old Brough to his
spouse, but with these she was prevented from all secret conference. Her
hope was, that Mimy, seeing and hearing for herself, would duly report
to the African; and he, she well knew, would keep nothing from her
husband. We have witnessed the conference between this venerable couple.
The result corresponded with the anticipations of Frederica. Brough
hurried back with his gloomy tidings to the place of hiding in the
swamp; and Coulter, still suffering somewhat from his wound, and
conscious of the inadequate force at his control, for the rescue of his
wife and people, was almost maddened by the intelligence. He looked
around upon his party, now increased to seven men, not including the
parson. But Elijah Fields was a host in himself. The men were also true
and capable—good riflemen, good scouts, and as fearless as they were
faithful. The troop under Dunbar consisted of eighteen men, all well
armed and mounted. The odds were great, but the despair of Richard
Coulter was prepared to overlook all inequalities. Nor was Fields
disposed to discourage him.
“There is no hope but in ourselves, Elijah,” was the remark of Coulter.
“Truly, and in God!” was the reply.
“We must make the effort.”
“Verily, we must.”
“We have seven men, not counting yourself, Elijah.”
“I too am a man, Richard;” said the other, calmly.
“A good man and a brave; do I not know it, Elijah? But we should not
expose you on ordinary occasions.”
“This is no ordinary occasion, Richard.”
“True, true! And you propose to go with us, Elijah?”
“No, Richard! I will go before you. I _must_ go to prevent outrage. I
must show to Dunbar that Frederica is your wife. It is my duty to
testify in this proceeding. I am the first witness.”
“But your peril, Elijah! He will become furious as a wild beast when he
hears. He will proceed to the most desperate excesses.”
“It will be for you to interpose at the proper moment. You must be at
hand. As for me, I doubt if there will be much if any peril. I will go
unarmed. Dunbar, while he knows that I am with you, does not know that I
have ever lifted weapon in the cause. He will probably respect my
profession. At all events, I _must_ interpose and save him from a great
sin, and a cruel and useless violence. When he knows that Frederica is
irrevocably married, he will probably give up the pursuit. If Brough’s
intelligence be true, he must know it now or never.”
“Be it so;” said Coulter. “And now that you have made your
determination, I will make mine. The odds are desperate, so desperate,
indeed, that I build my hope somewhat on that very fact. Dunbar knows my
feebleness, and does not fear me. I must effect a surprise. If we can do
this, with the first advantage, we will make a rush, and club rifles. Do
you go up in the dug-out, and alone, while we make a circuit by land. We
can be all ready in five minutes, and perhaps we should set out at
once.”
“Right!” answered the preacher; “but are you equal to the struggle,
Richard?”
The young man upheaved his powerful bulk, and leaping up to the bough
which spread over him, grasped the extended limb with a single hand, and
drew himself across it.
“Good!” was the reply. “But you are still stiff. I have seen you do it
much more easily. Still you will do, if you will only economise your
breath. There is one preparation first to be made, Richard. Call up the
men.”
They were summoned with a single, shrill whistle, and Coulter soon put
them in possession of the adventure that lay before them. It needed
neither argument nor entreaty to persuade them into a declaration of
readiness for the encounter. Their enthusiasm was grateful to their
leader whom they personally loved.
“And now, my brethren,” said Elijah Fields, “I am about to leave you,
and we are all about to engage in a work of peril. We know not what will
happen. We know not that we shall meet again. It is proper only that we
should confess our sins to God, and invoke his mercy and protection. My
brothers—let us pray!”
With these words, the party sunk upon their knees, Brough placing
himself behind Coulter. Fervent and simple was the prayer of the
preacher—inartificial but highly touching. Our space does not suffer us
to record it, or to describe the scene, so simple, yet so imposing. The
eyes of the rough men were moistened, their hearts softened, yet
strengthened. They rose firm and resolute to meet the worst issues of
life and death, and, embracing each of them in turn, Brough not
excepted, Elijah Fields led the way to the enemy, by embarking alone in
the canoe. Coulter, with his party, soon followed, taking the route
through the forest.