Chapter 24

"Salina," said her father, solemnly, "you have done a very treacherous and wicked thing! I pity you!"

Severest reproaches could not have stung her as these words, and the terrified look of her sister, stung the proud and sensitive Salina.

"I have done a damnable thing! I know it. Do you ask what made me? The devil made me. I knew it was the devil at the time; but I did it."

"O, what shall we do, father?" said Virginia.

"There is nothing you can do, my daughter, unless you can reach our friends and warn them."

"O," she said, in despair, "there is not a lamp or a torch! All have been taken!"

"And it is well! It would take you at least an hour to go and return; and that man--" Mr. Villars would never, if he could help it, speak Lysander's name--"will be here again before that time, if he is coming."

"He is not coming," said Salina. "He swore to me that he would not take advantage of his escape to betray or injure any of you. He will keep his oath. If he does not----"

She paused. There was a long, painful silence; the old man musing, Virginia wringing her hands, Toby keeping watch outside.

"Listen!" said Salina. "I am a woman. But I will defend this place. I will stand there, and not a man shall enter till I am dead. As for you, Jinny, take _him_, and go. You can hide somewhere in the caves. Leave me and Toby. I will not ask you to forgive me; but perhaps some time you will think differently of me from what you do now."

"Sister!" said Virginia, with emotion, "I do forgive you! God will forgive you too; for he knows better than we do how unhappy you have been, and that you could not, perhaps, have done differently from what you have done."

Salina was touched. She threw her arms about Virginia's neck.

"O, I have been a bad, selfish girl! I have made both you and father very unhappy; and you have been only too kind to me always! Now leave me alone--go! I hope I shall not trouble you much longer."

She brushed back her hair from her large white forehead, and smiled a strange and vacant smile. Virginia saw that her wish was to die.

"Sister," she said gently, "we will all stay together, if you stay. We must not give up this place! Our friends are lost--we are lost--if we give it up! Perhaps we can do something. Indeed, I think we can! If we only had arms! Women have used arms before now!"

Toby entered. "Dey ain't comin' dis yer way, nohow! Dey's gwine off to de norf, hull passel on 'em."

"Give me that pistol, Toby," said Salina. "You can use Cudjo's axe, if we are attacked. Place it where you can reach it, and then return to your lookout. Don't be deceived; but warn us at once if there is danger."

"My children," said the old man, "come near to me! I would I could look upon you once; for I feel that a separation is near. Dear daughters!"--he took a hand of each,--"if I am to leave you, grieve not for me; but love one another. Love one another. To you, Salina, more especially, I say this; for though I know that deep down in your heart there is a fountain of affection, you are apt to repress your best feelings, and to cherish uncharitable thoughts. For your own good, O, do not do so any more! Believe in God. Be a child of God. Then no misfortune can happen to you. My children, there is no great misfortune, other than this--to lose our faith in God, and our love for one another. I do not fear bodily harm, for that is comparatively nothing. For many years I have been blind; yet have I been blest with sight; for night and day I have seen God. And as there is a more precious sight than that of the eyes, so there is a more precious life than this of the body. The life of the spirit is love and faith. Let me know that you have this, and I shall no longer fear for you. You will be happy, wherever you are. Why is it I feel such trust that Virginia will be provided for? Salina, let your heart be like hers, and I shall no longer fear for you!"

"I wish it was! I wish it was!" said Salina, pouring out the anguish of her heart in those words. "But I cannot make it so. I cannot be good! I am--Salina! Is there fatality in a name?"

"I know the infirmity of your natural disposition, my child. I know, too, what circumstances have done to embitter it. Our heavenly Father will take all that into account. Yet there is no one who has not within himself faults and temptations to contend with. Many have far greater than yours to combat, and yet they conquer gloriously. I cannot say more. My children, the hour has come which is to decide much for us all. Remember my legacy to you,--Have Faith and Love."

They knelt before him. He laid his hands upon their heads, and in a brief and fervent prayer blessed them. Both were sobbing. Tears ran down his cheeks also; but his countenance was bright in its uplifted serenity, wearing a strange expression of grandeur and of joy.

XLIII.

_THE COMBAT._

Pomp, rifle in hand, bearing a torch, led the patriots on their rapid return through the caverns.

"Lights down!" he said, as they approached the vicinity of the sink. "We shall see them; but they must not see us."

They halted at the natural bridge; the torch was extinguished, and the patriots placed their lanterns under a rock. They then advanced as swiftly as possible in the obscurity, along the bank of the stream. In the hall of the bats they met Carl, who had seen their lights and come towards them.

"Hurry! hurry!" he said. "They are coming down the trees like the devil's monkeys! a whole carawan proke loose!"

Captain Grudd commanded the patriots; but Pomp commanded Captain Grudd.

"Quick, and make no noise! We have every advantage; the darkness is on our side--those loose rocks will shelter us."

They advanced until within a hundred yards of where the shaft of daylight came down. There they could distinguish, in the shining cleft under the brow of the cavern, and above the rocky embankment, the forms of their assailants. Some had already gained a footing. Others were descending the tree-trunks in a dark chain, each link the body of a rebel.

"We must stop that!" said Pomp.

The men were deployed forward rapidly, and a halt ordered, each choosing his position.

"Ready! Aim!"

At that moment, half a dozen men of the attacking party advanced, feeling their way over the rocks down which Penn and his companions had been seen to escape. The leader, shielding his eyes with his hand, peered into the gloom of the cavern. Coming from the light, he could see nothing distinctly. Suddenly he paused: had he heard the words of command whispered? or was he impressed by the awful mystery and silence?

"Fire!" said Captain Grudd.

Instantly a jagged line of flashes leaped across the breast of the darkness, accompanied by a detonation truly terrible. Each gun with its echoes, in those cavernous solitudes, thundered like a whole park of artillery: what, then, was the effect of the volley? The patriots were themselves appalled by it. The mountain trembled, and a gusty roar swept through its shuddering chambers, throbbing and pulsing long after the smoke of the discharge had cleared away.

Pomp laughed quietly, while Withers exclaimed, "By the Etarnal! if I didn't fancy the hull ruf of the mountain had caved in!"

"Load!" said Captain Grudd, sternly.

The rebels advancing over the rocks had suddenly disappeared, having either fallen in the crevices or scrambled back up the bank while hidden from view by the smoke. The chain descending the tree had broken; those near the ground leaped down or slid, while those above seemed seized by a wild impulse to climb back with all haste to the summit of the wall. A few threw away their guns, which fell upon the heads of those below. At the same time those below might have been seen scampering to places of shelter behind rocks and trees.

If ever panic were excusable, this surely was. Since the patriots were terrified by their own firing, we need not wonder at the alarm of the rebels. Some had seen the flashes sever the darkness, and their comrades fall; while all had felt the earthquake and the thundering. To those at the entrance it had seemed that these were the jaws and throat of a monster mountain-huge, which at their approach spat flame and bellowed.

"Now is our time! Clear them out!" said Grudd.

"Rush in and finish them with the bayonet!" said Stackridge. Six of the guns had bayonets, and his was one of them.

"Not yet!" said Pomp. "They will fire on you from above. We must first attend to that. Shall I show you? Then do as I do!"

Instinctively they accepted his lead. Loading his piece, he ran forward until, himself concealed under the brow of the cavern, he could see the rebels in the tree and on the cliff.

"Once more! All together!" he said, taking aim. "Give the word, captain!"

The men knelt among the loosely tumbled rocks, which served at once as a breastwork and as rests for their guns. The projecting roof of the cave was over them; through the obscure opening they pointed their pieces. Above them, in the full light, were the frightened confederates, some on the tree, some on the cliff, some leaping from the tree to the cliff; while their comrades in the sink lurked on the side opposite that where the patriots were.

"Take the cusses on the top of the rocks!" said Stackridge. "The rest are harmless."

"It's all them in the tree can do to take keer of themselves," added Withers. "Reg'lar secesh! All they ax is to be let alone."

Grudd gave the word. Flame from a dozen muzzles shot upwards from the edge of the pit. When the smoke rolled away, the cliff was cleared. Not a rebel was to be seen, except those in the tree franticly scrambling to get out, and two others. One of these had fallen on the cliff: his head and one arm hung horribly over the brink. The other, in his too eager haste to escape from the tree, had slipped from the limb, and been saved from dashing to pieces on the rocks below only by a projection of the wall, to which he had caught, and where he now clung, a dozen feet from the top, and far above the river that rolled black and slow in its channel beneath the cliff.

"Now with your bayonets!" said Pomp. "This way!"

There were six bayonets before; now there were eight.

"That Carl is worth his weight in gold!" said the enthusiastic Stackridge.

While the patriots, preparing for their second volley, were getting positions among the rocks on the left, Carl had crept up the embankment in front, and brought away two muskets from two dead rebels. These were they who had fallen at the first fire. Both guns had bayonets. Pomp took one; Carl kept the other. Cudjo with his sword accompanied the charging party; Grudd and the rest remaining at their post, ready to pick off any rebel that should appear on the cliff.

Swift and stealthy as a panther, Pomp crept around still farther to the left, under the projecting wall, raising his head cautiously now and then to look for the fugitives.

"As I expected! They are over there, afraid to follow the stream into the cave, and hesitating whether to make a rush for the tree. All ready?"

He looked around on his little force and smiled. Instead of eight bayonets, there were now nine. Penn had arrived.

"All ready!" answered Stackridge.

Pomp bounded upon the rocks and over them, with a yell which the rest took up as they followed, charging headlong after him. Cudjo, brandishing his sword, leaped and yelled with the foremost--a figure fantastically terrible. Penn, with the fiery Stackridge on one side, and his beloved Carl on the other, forgot that he had ever been a Quaker, hating strife. Not that he loved it now; but, remembering that these were the deadly foes of his country, and of those he loved, and feeling it a righteous duty to exterminate them, he went to the work, not like an apprentice, but a master,--without fear, self-possessed, impetuous, kindled with fierce excitement.

The rebels in the sink, fifteen in number, had had time to rally from their panic; and they now seemed inclined to make resistance. They were behind a natural breastwork, similar to that which had sheltered the patriots on the other side. They levelled their guns hastily and fired. One of the patriots fell: it was Withers.

"Give it to them!" shouted Pomp.

"Every cussed scoundrel of 'em!" Stackridge cried.

"Kill! kill! kill!" shrieked Cudjo.

"Surrender! surrender!" thundered Penn.

With such cries they charged over the rocks, straight at the faces and breasts of the confederates. Some turned to fly; but beyond them was the unknown darkness into which the river flowed: they recoiled aghast from that. A few stood their ground. The bayonet, which Penn had first made acquaintance with when it was thrust at his own breast, he shoved through the shoulder of a rebel whose clubbed musket was descending on Carl's head. Three inches of the blade come out of his back; and, bearing him downwards in his irresistible onset, Penn literally pinned him to the ground. Cudjo slashed another hideously across the face with the sword. Pomp took the first prisoner: it was Dan Pepperill. The rest soon followed Dan's example, cried quarter, and threw down their arms.

"Quarter!" gasped the wretch Penn had pinned.

"You spoke too late--I am sorry!" said Penn, with austere pity, as, placing his foot across the man's armpit to hold him while he pulled, he put forth his strength, and drew out the steel. A gush of blood followed, and, with a groan, the soldier swooned.

"It is one of them wagabonds that gave you the tar and fedders!" said Carl.

"And assisted at my hanging afterwards!" added Penn, remembering the ghastly face.

Thus retribution followed these men. Gad and Griffin he had seen dead. Was it any satisfaction for him to feel that he was thus avenged? I think, not much. The devil of revenge had no place in his soul; and never for any personal wrong he had received would he have wished to see bloody violence done.

The prisoners were disarmed, and ordered to remain where they were.

"Bring the wounded to me," said Pomp, hastening back to the spot where Withers had fallen.

Stackridge and another were lifting the fallen patriot and bearing him to the shelter of the cave. Pomp assisted, skilfully and tenderly. Then followed those who bore away the wounded prisoners and the guns that had been captured. Pepperill had been ordered to help. He and Carl carried the man whose face Cudjo had slashed. This was the only rebel who had fought obstinately: he had not given up until an arm was broken, and he was blinded by his own blood. Penn and Devitt brought up the rear with the swooning soldier. When half way over they were fired upon by the rebels rallying to the edge of the cliff. Grudd and his men responded sharply, covering their retreat. Penn felt a bullet graze his shoulder. It made but a slight flesh wound there; but, passing down, it entered the heart of the wounded man, whose swoon became the swoon of death. This was the only serious result of the confederate fire.

"I am glad I did not kill him!" said Penn, as they laid the corpse beside the stream.

Then out of the mask of blood which covered the face of the stout fellow who had fought so well, there issued a voice that spoke, in a strange tongue, these words:--

"_Was hat man mir gethan? Wo bin ich, mutter?_"

But the words were not strange to Carl; neither was the voice strange.

"Fritz! Fritz!" he answered, in the same language, "is it you?"

"I am Fritz Minnevich; that is true. And you, I think, are my cousin Carl."

They laid the wounded man near the stream, where Pomp was examining Withers's hurt.

"O, Fritz!" said Carl, "how came you here?"

"They said the Yankees were coming to take our farm. So Hans and I enlisted to fight. I got in here because I was ordered. We do as we are ordered. It was we who whipped the woman. We whipped her well. I hope my good looks will not be spoiled; for that would grieve our mother."

Thus the soldier talked in his native tongue, while Carl, in sorrow and silence, washed the blood from his face. He remembered he was his father's brother's son; a good fellow, in his way; dull, but faithful; and he had not always treated him cruelly. Indeed, Carl thought not of his cruelty now at all, but only of the good times they had had together, in days when they were friends, and Frau Minnevich had not taught her boys to be as ill-natured as herself.

"What for do you do this, Carl?" said Fritz. "There is no cause that you should be kind to me. I did you some ill turns. You did right to run away. But our father swears you shall have your share of the property if you ever come back for it, and the Yankees do not take it."

"It is all lies they tell you about the Yankees!" said Carl. "O Pomp! this is my cousin--see what you can do for him."

Pomp had been reluctantly convinced that he could do nothing for Withers: his wound was mortal. And Withers had said to him, in cheerful, feeble tones, "I feel I'm about to the eend of my tether. So don't waste yer time on me."

So Pomp turned his attention to the Minnevich. But Penn and Stackridge remained with the dying patriot.

"Wish ye had a Union flag to wrap me in when I'm dead, boys! That's what I've fit fur; that's what I meant to die fur, if 'twas so ordered. It's all right, boys! Jest look arter my family a little, won't ye? And don't give up old Tennessee!"

These were his last words.

Penn and Stackridge rejoined their comrades in the fight.

"Shoot him! shoot him! shoot him!" cried Cudjo, in a frenzy of excitement, pointing at the rebel who had fallen from the tree upon the projection of the chasm wall. "Him dar! Dat Sile Ropes!"

"Ropes?" said Penn, looking up through the opening. "That he!"--raising his gun. "But he can do no harm there; and he can't get out."

"Don' ye see? Dey's got a rope to help him wif! Gib him a shot fust! O, gib him a shot!"

The projection to which the lieutenant clung was a broken shelf less than half a yard in breadth. There he cowered in abject terror betwixt two dangers, that of falling if he attempted to move, and that of being picked off if he remained stationary and in sight. To avoid both, he got upon his hands and knees, and hid his face in the angle of the ledge, leaving the posterior part of his person prominent, no doubt thinking, like an ostrich, that if his head was in a hole, he was safe. The very ludicrousness of his situation saved him. The patriots reserved him to laugh at, and fired over him at the rebels on the cliff. At each shot, Silas could be seen to root his nose still more industriously into the rock. At length, however, as Cudjo had declared, a rope was brought and let down to him.

"Take hold there!" shouted the rebels on the cliff. Ropes could feel the cord dangling on his back. "Tie it around your waist!"

Silas, without daring to look up, put out his hand, which groped awkwardly and blindly for the rope as it swung to and fro all around it. Finally, he seized it, but ran imminent risk of falling as he drew it under his body. At length he seemed to have it secured; but in his hurry and trepidation he had fastened it considerably nearer his hips than his arms. The result, when the rebels above began to haul, can be imagined. Hips and heels were hoisted, while arms and head hung down, causing him to resemble very strikingly a frog hooked on for bait at the end of a fish-line. The affrighted face drawn out of its hole, looked down ridiculously hideous into the rocky and bristling gulf over which he swung.

"Fire!" said Captain Grudd.

The volley was aimed, not at Silas, but at those who were hauling him up. Cudjo shrieked with frantic joy, expecting to see his old enemy plunge head foremost among the stones on the bank of the stream. Such, no doubt, would have been the result, but for one sturdy and brave fellow at the rope. The rest, struck either with bullets or terror, fell back, loosing their hold. But this man clung fast, imperturbable. Alone, slowly, hand over hand, he hauled and hauled; grim, unterrified, faithful. But it was a tedious and laborious task for one, even the stoutest. The man had but a precarious foothold, and the rope rubbed hard on the edge of the cliff. Cudjo shrieked again, this time with despair at seeing his former overseer about to escape.

"That's a plucky fellow!" said Stackridge, with stern admiration of the soldier's courage. "I like his grit; but he must stop that!"

He reached for a loaded gun. He took Carl's. The boy turned pale, but said never a word, setting his lips firmly as he looked up at the cliff. Silas was swinging. The soldier was pulling in the rope, hitch by hitch, over the ledge. Stackridge took deliberate aim, and fired.

For a moment no very surprising effect was perceptible, only the man stopped hauling. Then he went down on one knee, paying out several inches of the rope, and letting the suspended Silas dip accordingly. It became evident that he was hit; he still grasped the rope, but it began to glide through his hands. Silas set up a howl.

"Hold me! hold me!"--at the same time extending all his fingers to grasp the rocks.

The brave fellow made one last effort, and took a turn of the rope about his wrist. It did not slip through his hands any more. But soon _he_ began to slip--forward--forward--on both knees now--his head reeling like that of a drunken man, and at last pitching heavily over the cliff.

Some of the cowards who had deserted their post sprang to save him; but too late: the man was gone.

It was fortunate for Silas that he had been let down several feet thus gradually. He was near the ledge from which he had been lifted, and had just time to grasp it again and crawl upon it, when the man fell, turning a complete somerset over him, fearful to witness! revolving slowly in his swift descent through the air; still holding with tenacious grip the rope; plunging through the boughs like a mere log tumbled from the cliff, and striking the rocks below--dead.

He had taken the rope with him; and Silas had been preserved from sharing his fate only by a lucky accident. The knot at his hips loosened itself as he clutched the ledge, and let the coil fly off as the man shot down.

Not a gun was fired: rebels and patriots seemed struck dumb with horror at the brave fellow's fate. Then Carl whispered,--

"That vas my other cousin! That vas Hans!"

"Cudjo! Cudjo! what are you about?" cried Penn.

The black did not answer. Beside himself with excitement, he ran to the leaning tree and climbed it like an ape. The naked sword gleamed among the twigs. Reaching the trunk of the tall tree he ascended that as nimbly, never stopping until he had reached the upper limbs. There was one that branched towards the ledge where Silas clung. At a glance choosing that, Cudjo ran out upon it, until it bent beneath his weight. There he tried in vain to reach his ancient enemy with the sword; the distance was too great, even for his long arms.

"Sile Ropes! ye ol' oberseer! g'e know Cudjo? Me Cudjo!" he yelled, slashing the end of the branch as if it had been his victim's flesh. "'Member de lickins? 'Member my gal ye got away? Now ye git yer pay!"

While he was raving thus, one of the soldiers above, sheltering himself from the fire of the patriots by lying almost flat on the ground, levelled his gun at the half-crazed negro's breast, and pulled the trigger.

A flash--a report--the sword fell, and went clattering down upon the rocks. Cudjo turned one wild look upward, clapping his hand to his breast. Then, with a terrible grimace, he cast his eyes down again at Ropes,--crept still farther out on the branch,--and leaped.

Silas had his nose in the angle of the ledge again, and scarcely knew what had happened until he felt the negro alight on his back and fling his arms about him.

"Cudjo shot! Cudjo die! But you go too, Sile Ropes!"