In the meantime, our captain of loyalists had gone forward in his
projects with a very free and fearless footstep. The course which he
pursued, in the present instance, is one of a thousand instances which
go to illustrate the perfect recklessness with which the British
conquerors, and their baser allies, regarded the claims of humanity,
where the interests, the rights, or the affections of the whig
inhabitants of South Carolina were concerned. Though resolutely rejected
by Frederica, Dunbar yet seemed determined to attach no importance to
her refusal, but, dispatching a messenger to the village of Orangeburg,
he brought from thence one Nicholas Veitch, a Scotch Presbyterian
parson, for the avowed object of officiating at his wedding rites. The
parson, who was a good man enough perhaps, was yet a weak and timid one,
wanting that courage which boldly flings itself between the victim and
his tyrant. He was brought into the Dutchman’s cottage, which Dunbar now
occupied. Thither also was Frederica brought, much against her will;
indeed, only under the coercive restraint of a couple of dragoons. Her
parents were neither of them present, and the following dialogue ensued
between Dunbar and herself; Veitch being the only witness.
“Here, Frederica,” said Dunbar, “you see the parson. He comes to marry
us. The consent of your parents has been already given, and it is
useless for you any longer to oppose your childish scruples to what is
now unavoidable. This day, I am resolved, that we are to be made man and
wife. Having the consent of your father and mother, there is no reason
for not having yours.”
“Where are they?” was the question of Frederica. Her face was very pale,
but her lips were firm, and her eyes gazed without faltering into those
of her oppressor.
“They will be present when the time comes. They will be present at the
ceremony.”
“Then they will never be present!” she answered, firmly.
“Beware, girl, how you provoke me! You little know the power I have to
punish—”
“You have no power upon my voice or my heart.”
“Ha!”
The preacher interposed, “My daughter be persuaded. The consent of your
parents should be enough to incline you to Captain Dunbar. They are
surely the best judges of what is good for their children.”
“I cannot and I will not marry with Captain Dunbar.”
“Beware, Frederica,” said Dunbar, in a voice studiously subdued, but
with great difficulty—the passion speaking out in his fiery looks, and
his frame that trembled with its emotions.
“‘Beware, Frederica!’ Of what should I beware? Your power? Your power
may kill me. It can scarcely go farther. Know, then, that I am prepared
to die sooner than marry you!”
Though dreadfully enraged, the manner of Dunbar was still carefully
subdued. His words were enunciated in tones of a laborious calm, as he
replied,
“You are mistaken in your notions of the extent of my power. It can
reach where you little imagine. But I do not desire to use it. I prefer
that you should give me your hand without restraint or coercion.”
“That I have told you is impossible.”
“Nay, it is not impossible.”
“Solemnly, on my knees, I assure you that never can I, or will I, while
I preserve my consciousness, consent to be your wife.”
The action was suited to the words. She sunk on her knees as she spoke,
and her hands were clasped and her eyes uplifted, as if taking a solemn
oath to heaven. Dunbar rushed furiously toward her.
“Girl!” he exclaimed, “will you drive me to madness. Will you compel me
to do what I would not!”
The preacher interposed. The manner of Dunbar was that of a man about to
strike his enemy. Even Frederica closed her eyes, expecting the blow.
“Let me endeavor to persuade the damsel, my brother,” was the suggestion
of Veitch. Dunbar turned away, and went toward the window, leaving the
field to the preacher. To all the entreaties of the latter Frederica
made the same reply.
“Though death stared me in the face, I should never marry that man!”
“Death shall stare you in the face,” was the fierce cry of Dunbar. “Nay,
you shall behold him in such terrors as you have never fancied yet, but
you shall be brought to know and to submit to my power. Ho, there!
Nesbitt, bring out the prisoner.”
This order naturally startled Frederica. She had continued kneeling. She
now rose to her feet. In the same moment Dunbar turned to where she
stood, full of fearful expectation, grasped her by the wrist, and
dragged her to the window. She raised her head, gave but one glance at
the scene before her, and fell back swooning. The cruel spectacle which
she had been made to witness, was that of her father, surrounded by a
guard, and the halter about his neck, waiting only the terrible word
from the ruffian in authority.
In that sight, the unhappy girl lost all consciousness. She would have
fallen upon the ground, but that the hand of Dunbar still grasped her
wrist. He now supported her in his arms.
“Marry us at once,” he cried to Veitch.
“But she can’t understand—she can’t answer,” replied the priest.
“That’s as it should be,” answered Dunbar, with a laugh; “silence always
gives consent.”
The reply seemed to be satisfactory, and Veitch actually stood forward
to officiate in the disgraceful ceremony, when a voice at the entrance
drew the attention of the parties within. It was that of Elijah Fields.
How he had made his way to the building without arrest or interruption
is only to be accounted for by his pacific progress—his being without
weapons, and his well-known priestly character. It may have been thought
by the troopers, knowing what was in hand, that he also had been sent
for; and probably something may be ascribed to the excitement of most of
the parties about the dwelling. At all events, Fields reached it without
interruption, and the first intimation that Dunbar had of his presence
was from his own lips.
“I forbid this proceeding in the name and by the authority of God,” was
the stern interruption. “The girl is already married!”