Mellichampe : a legend of the Santee

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CORNELL

Chapter II. Indian Blood

To estimate the solitude of sucli a creature as Blonay under tlie present loss of his parent, by any of those finer standards of humanity which belong to a higher class and better habits, would be manifestly idle and erroneous. But that his isolation, pi'eviously from all others, and his close dependence for sympathy upon the one relative whom he had just lost, added largely to his degree of suffering now, is equally unquestionable. Supposing his mere human feelings to have been few and feeble, they were yet undivided. Concentrating upon the one object as they had done for so long a period, they had grown steady and unwavering ; and, if not very strong or very active at any time, they were at least suflSciently tenacious in their hold to make the sudden wrenching of their bands asunder to be felt sensibly by the survivor. But he did full justice in his deportment to the Indian blood which predominated in his veins. He had no uttered griefs ; no tears found their way to his cheeks, and his eyes wore their wonted expression, as he took his seat upon the floor of his lonely cabin, and, stirring the embers upon the hearth, proceeded, with the aid of the rich lightwood which lay plentifully at hand, to kindle up his evening fire.

But, if grief were wanting to the expression of his countenance, it did not lack in other essentials of expression. Having kindled his fire, he sat for some time before it in manifest contemplation. His brow was knitted, his eyes fixed upon the struggling blaze, his lips closely compressed, and a general earnestness of look indicated a laboring industry of thought, which, were he in the presence of another person,

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would never have been suffered so plainly to appear. For some time he sat in this manner -without change of position, and during all this period it would seem that he was working out in his mind some particular plan of conduct, in the pursuit^ of an object of no less difficulty than importance. Of that object we can only conjecture the nature from a reference to events, and to his actual condition. The vindictive blood within him — his irresponsible position in society — the severity of the treatment to which, justly or not, he had been subjected by one of the parties between whom the province was divided — and the recent dispensation which had deprived him of the companionship of one, who, however despicable and disgusting to all'others, was at least a mother to him — were circumstances well calculated to arouse the savage desire of vengeance upon those to whom any of his sufferings might be attributed.

That such were his thoughts, and such the object of his deliberations, may safely be inferred from the few words of muttered declamation which fell from his lips at intervals while thus rapt in his contemplations. It would be to no purpose to record thes6 words, since they do little more than afford a brief and passing sanction to the opinion we have thus ventured to entertain, and prove, at the same time, the character of a mood seemingly hostile to humankind in general. They were bitter and comprehensive, and summed up, to the cost of humanity, all the wrongs to which he had been subjected, and many others, wrongs in his sight only, of which he but complained. Yet an attentive listener might have observed, that in what he said thei'e was an occasional reference to one individual in particular, who was yet nameless ; which reference, whenever made, called up to his black, penetrating, but blear eyes, their most malignant expression. All their fires seemed to collect and to expand with a new supply of fuel at such moments, and his swarthy skin glowed upon ' his cheeks, as if partaking with them a kindred intensity of blaze.

He remained in this state of feeling and reflection for some hours, indulging his usual listnessness of habit while pursuing

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til e thought jyliicli his mood had prompted; when, at length, as if he had arrived at a full and satisfactory conclusion, he arose from his place, supplied the fire with new brands, and, as night had now set in, proceeded to bring forth his supper from the little cupboard where it usually stood. His fare was simple, and soon despatched. When this duty had been performed, he next proceeded to such arrangements as seemed to indicate his preparation for a long journey. He brought forth from the recess which had supplied him with his evening repast a small sack of corn-meal, possibly a quart or more, and a paper containing at least a pound of common brown sugar. A huge hoe, such as is used in the corn-field, was then placed by him before the blazing fire — the flour and sugar, previously stirred together, were spread thickly over it, and, carefully watching the action of the heat upon his mixture, he took due heed to remove it at that period when he perceived the flour to grow slightly brown, and the sugar to granulate and form in common particles along with it. It was then withdrawn from the fire, exposed for an hour to the air, and afterward poured into a sack made of the deerskin, which seemed to have been employed frequently for a like purpose. To this, in another skin, the remnant of a smoked venison ham was added, and the two parcels, with one or two other items in the shape of hoe-cake and fried bacon, were deposited in a coarse sack of cloth, opening in the centre like a purse, and so filled as to be worn across tfife-saddle after the fashion of the common meal-bag. This done, he proceeded to what appeared a general overhaul of the hovel. Various articles, seemingly of value, were drawn out from their secret recesses; these were carefully packed, away in a box, and, when ready for removal, their proprietor, honestly so or not, proceeded to secure them after his own manner. Leaving the cabin for an instant, be went forth, and soon returned bearing in his hands a spade, with which, in a brief space, he dug a hole in the centre of the apartment sufficiently large to receive and conceal his deposite. Here he buried it, carefully covering it over, and treading down the earth with his feet until it became as h;n-d as tliat which had been undisturbed around it. Placing every-

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thing wLicli lie was to remove ready for the moment of departure, he threw himself upon the miserable pallet of his hut, and soon fell into unbroken slumbers.

The stars were yet shining, and it lacked a good hour of the daylight, when he arose from his couch and began to bestir himself in preparations for departure. Emerging from the hovel with Iris bundles, as we have seen them prepared the night before, he placed them under a neighboring tree, and, undoing the string from the neck of the hungry cur that kept watch in his kennel immediately beside the hovel's entrance, he left him in charge of the deposite, Avhile he took his way to the margin of a little canebrake a few hundred yards off. There, with a shrill whistle and a brief cry two or three times repeated, he caUed up from its recesses a shaggy pony — a creature of the swamps — a hardy, tough, uncouth, and unclean little animal, which followed him like a dog to the hovel which he had left. The hollow of a cypress yielded him saddle and bridle, and the little goat-like steed was soon equipped, and ready for his rider. This done, Blonay fastened him to a tree near his dog, and, without a word, proceeded to apply the torch to several parts of the building. It was not long before the flames rose around it in every quarter ; and, lingering long enough to perceive that the conflagration must noit- he effectual, the half breed at length grasped his rifle, mounted his tacky, and, followed by his ill-looking dog, once more took his way to the village of Dorchester.

Moving slowly, he did not reach the village until the day had fully dawned. He then proceeded at once to the garrison, and claimed to be admitted to the presence of the commander. Proctor was too good a soldier, and one too heedful of his duty, to suffer annoyance from a visit at so early an hour ; and, though not yet risen; he gave orders at once for the admission of the applicant, and immediately addressed himself to the arrangement of his toilet. With a subdued but calm air of humility, Blonay stood before the Briton — his countenance as immovable and impassive as if he had sustained' no loss, and was altogether unconscious of privation. Regarding him with more indulgence than had hitherto been his custom,

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Proctor demanded of him, first, if the soldiers had properly assisted him in the last offices to his mother ; and next, his present business. Blonay had few words, and his reply was brief.

" The old woman didn't want much help, and wc soon put her away. About what I want now, major, it a'n't much, and it'll be a smart bit of time 'fore I come back to trouble you agin."

" Why, where do you propose to go V demanded the Briton.

" I'm thinking to go up along by Black river, and so up into Williamsburgh, and perhaps clear away to old Kaddipah — Lynch's creek, as they calls it now. I don't know how long I may be gone, and it's to get a paper from you that I'm come.''

" To Black river and Lynch's creek — why, know you not that the rebels are as thick as hops in that quarter? What carries you there 1"

" There's a chap in that quarter stands indebted to me, and I wants he should settle, seeing pay-day's come and gone long ago. I a'n't 'fear'd of the rebels, for I'm used to the woods and swamps, and 'taint often I'll be in their company. I'll keep out of harm's way, major, as long as I can ; and when I can't keep out any longer, why, then I'll stand a shot, and have done-witli it."

" And what sort of paper is it that you desire from me 1" asked Proctor.

" Why, sir — a little protection like, that'll be good agin our own people, and stand up for my loyalty. You can say I'm a true friend to his majesty, and how you knows me ; and that'll be enough, when you put your own name to it in black and white."

" But to show that to a rebel will be fatal to you. How will you determine between them V

" Every man has his own mark, major, same as every tree ; and where the mark don't come up clear to the eye, it will to the feel or the hearing. I'm a born hunter, major, and must take my chance. I a'n't afear'd."

" And yet, Blonay, I should rather not give yon. a passport to go in that quarter. Can you not wait until Lord Cornwallis takes that route ? Is your claim so very considerable V

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'Taint so mucli, major, but I can't do so well without it. I'velseen in want of it long enough, and I'm dubous him that owes me ^yilI cleai- away and go into North Carolina, and so I'll lose it. You needn't be scared for me, major ; I'm not going to put my head in the bull's mouth because his hide has a price in market ; and I think, by the time I get up there, Marion's men will be all off. I a'n't afeard."

Pi'octor, after several efforts to dissuade him from his purpose, finding all his efforts unavailing, gave him the required passport, which he carefully concealed from sight, and with many acknowledgments and professions of loyalty, took his departure. From Dorchester, proceeding to the battle-ground, he again carefully noted the tracks of the one shoe, which he followed with the keen eye of a hunter, from side to side of the road, in its progress upward to the cypress swamp. Sometimes losing it, h§ turned to the bushes on either hand, and where they seemed disordered or broken, he continued the trail, until, again emerging from the cover, he would find, and resume the more distinct impression, as it was made upon the clay or sandy road. In this way he reached the broken ground of the swamp, and there he lost it. Alighting, therefore, he concealed his pony in a clump of bushes, and with his rifle primed and ready for any emergency, he pursued his farther search into the bosom of the swamp on foot. Here he still thought that he might find the partisans — if not the entire troop of Singleton, a least a portion of it; probably — though on this head he was not sanguine — the very object of his search. From point to point, with unrelaxing vigilance and caution, he stole along until he reached the little creek which surrounded and made an island of the spot where Singleton had held his temporary camp.

The place was silent as the grave. He crossed the narrow stream, and carefully inspected- the ground. It bore traces enough of recent occupation. The ashes of several fires, still retaining a slight degree of warmth — the fresh track of horses, that of the broken shoe among them — hacked trees and torn bushes — all told of the presence there, within a brief space, of the very persons wh6m he now sought. The search of Blonay,

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■worthy of that of the ablest Indian hunter, was thorough and complete. From the one island, he took his way to sundry others which lay in its neighborhood, susceptible of occupation, in all of which he found traces of men and horses, encouraging him to proceed farther and with continued caution. At length ho passed an oozy bog, and stood upon a little hummock, which seemed formed for a place of refuge and repose. An awful silence rested over the spot, and the exceeding height of the cypresses, and the dense volume of undergrowth which surrounded and darkened the wide intervals between them, seemed almost too solid to admit of his progress. The gloom of the region had all the intensity of night, and appeared to impress itself upon the feelings of one even so habitually wanting in reverence as the half-breeds. He stopped for an instant, then moving forward by a route which he seemed to adopt with confidence, he rounded the natural obstruction of woods and thicket, and an amphitheatre opened before him, not so spacious as it was perfect.

He paused suddenly — he heard a footstep — there was evidently a rustling in the woods. He stole behind a tree for au instant, sank upon his knee, lifted his rifle, which he cocked with caution, and watched the quarter intently from which the sound had arisen. A shrill scream rose upon the air, and in the next instant he beheld a monstrous wildcat, startled like himself, and by him, bound forward to an opposite point of the area, and leap into the extending arms of a rotten tree, that shook under its pressure. Perching upon the very edge of a broken limb which jutted considerably out, it looked down with threatening glance upon his approach. He rose from his knees and advanced to the spot whence the animal had fled and over which it still continued to brood with flaming eyes and an aroused appetite. It was not long before Blonay discovered the occasion of its presence.

The figure of a man, huge in frame, seemingly powerless, lay stretched upon the ground. The half-breed soon recognised the person of the maniac Frampton. He lay upon the little mound which covered the remains of his wife. To this he seemed to have cj.-awled with the latest efforts of his strength.

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That strength was now nigh exhausted. His clothes were in tatters, and covered with traces of blood and mire. His bloodshot eyes were glazing fast. The curtain of death was nearlydrawn over them, but his feeble hand was uplifted occasionally to the tree where the wildcat sat watching hungrily for the moment when the restless but feeble motion of the dying man should cease. Blonay approached, and, as his eye glanced from man to beast, he lifted his rifle, intending to shoot the monster. The action seamed to irritate the creature, whose haff-suppressed scream, as Blonay advanced his foot toward him in the act to fire, appeared to defy and threaten him.

" The varmint !" exclaimed the half-breed, " I could shoot liim now easy enough, but it's no use. There's plenty more on 'em in the swamp to come after him, and I don't love them any better than him. There's no reason why I should keep the moat from him only for them. It's the natur of the beast to want its fill, and what the wild-cat don't eat the buzzards must. The varmint won't touch him so long as he can move a finger, and when he can't he won't mind much how many of 'em get at him."

So speaking, he turned from the animal to the maniac. The hand was uplifted no longer. The eye had nothing of life's language in it. The last lingering consciousness had departed for ever ; and Blonay looked up to the watching wild-cat, as he turned the body with his foot, muttering aloud as he did so — " Adrat it, you may soon come down to dinner."

The animal uttered a short, shrill cry, two or three times repeated, and with a rising of its bristles, and such a flashing of its eyes, that Blonay half determined to shoot it where it stood, for what appeared to him its determined insolence. Once, indeed, he did lift his rifle, but, with the thought of a moment, he again dropped it.

"It's only a waste," he muttered to himself, " and can do no good. Besides, it's a chawed bullet. It's of no use to bite lead when a wildcat's to be killed. Smooth bullet and smooth bore will do well enough, and them I ha'n't." , ,

Such Avere his words as he turned away from the spot, and departed for the place where his horse was fastened — such

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■was liis philosophy. The bullet, marked for vengeance by the impression of his teeth, was not to be thrown away upon mere pastime ; and, though feeling a strong desire to destroy the cat, he was yet able to forbear. He hurried through the quagmire, but had not gone far when the repeated screams of the animal, calling probably to its fellows, announced to the half-breed that he had already begun to exult in the enjoyment of his long-withheld and human banquet.