# The Partisan/II

* "Sweet flow thy waters, Ashley, and pleasant on thy banks
* The mossy oak and massy pine stand forth in solemn ranks;
* They fringe thee in a fitting guise, since with a gentle play,
* Through bending groves and circling dells thou tak'st thy mazy way—
* Thine is the summer's loveliness, saved when September storms
* Arouse thee to the angry mood that all they face deforms;
* And thine the recollection old which makes thee proudly shine,
* When happy thousands saw thee rove, and Dorchester was thine."
The scene is very much altered now. Dorchester belongs to Ashley no longer. It is a name—a shadow. The people are gone; the site is distinguished by its ruins only. The owl hoots through the long night from the old church-tower, and the ancient woods and the quiet waters of the river give back, in melancholy echoes, his unnoted cries. The Carolinian looks on the spot with a saddened spirit. The trees crowd upon the ancient thoroughfare; the brown viper hisses from the venerable tomb, and the cattle graze along the clustering bricks that distinguish the ancient chimney-places. It is now one of those prospects that kindle poetry in the most insensible observer. It is one of the visible dwelling-places of Time; and the ruins that still mock, to a certain extent, his destructive progress, have in themselves a painful chronicle of capricious change and various affliction. They speak for the dead that lie beneath them in no stinted number; they record the leading features of a long history, crowded with vicissitudes.
But our purpose now is with the past, and not with the present. We go back to the time when the village of Dorchester was full of life, and crowded with inhabitants; when the coaches of the wealthy planters of the neighbourhood thronged the highway; when the bells from the steeple sweetly called to the Sabbath worship; and when, throughout the week, the shops were crowded with buyers, and the busy hammer of the mechanic, and the axe of the labourer, sent up their crowding noises, imaging, upon a small scale, many of ​the more stirring attributes of the great city, and all of its life. Dorchester then had several hundred inhabitants. The plan of the place lies before us now—a regularly laid out city, of perfect squares, with its market-place, its hotels, and its churches; its busy wharves, and its little craft of sloop and schooner, lying at anchor, or skimming along the clear bosom of the Ashley. It had its garrison also, and not the smallest portion of its din and bustle arose from the fine body of red-coated and smartly-dressed soldiers then occupying the square fort of tapia-work, which to this day stands upon the hill of Dorchester—just where the river bends in with a broad sweep to the village site—in a singular state of durability and preservation.
This fort commanded the river and village alike. The old bridge of Dorchester, which crossed the Ashley at a little distance above it, was also within its range. The troops at frequent periods paraded in the market-place, and every art was made use of duly to impress upon the people the danger of any resistance to a power so capable to annoy and to punish. This being the case, it was amusing to perceive how docile, how loyal indeed, are those inhabitants, who, but a few weeks before were in arms against their present rulers and who now only wait a convenient season to resume the weapons which policy had persuaded them to lay aside.
None of the villagers were more dutiful or devout in their allegiance than Richard Humphries—Old Dick, sly Dick—Holy Dick, as his neighbours capriciously styled him—who kept the "Royal George," then the high tavern of the village. The fat, beefy face of the good-natured Hanoverian hung in yellow before the tavern door, on one of the two main roads leading from the country through the town. The old monarch had, in this exposed situation, undergone repeated trials. At the commencement of the Revolution, the landlord, who, after the proverbial fashion of landlords in all countries, really cared not who was king, had been compelled by public opinion to take down the sign and replace it with another more congenial to the popular feeling. George, in the mean time, was assigned less conspicuous lodgings in an ancient garret. The change of circumstances restored the venerable portrait to its place; and under the eyes of the British garrison, there were few more ​thorough-going loyalists in the village than Richard Humphries. He was a sociable old man, fond of drink, who generally filled his own glass whenever called upon to replenish that of his customer. His house was the common thoroughfare of the travelling and the idle. The soldier, not on duty, found it a pleasant lounge; the tory, confident in the sympathies of the landlord, and solicitous of the good opinion of the ruling powers, made it his regular resort; and even the whig, compelled to keep down his patriotism, in order to keep up his credit, not unwisely sauntered about in the same wide hall with the enemy he feared and hated, but whom it was no part of his policy at the present moment to alarm or irritate. Humphries, from these helping circumstances, distanced all competition in the village. The opposition house was maintained by a suspected whig—one Pryor—who was avoided accordingly. Pryor was a sturdy citizen, who asked no favours; and if he did not avow himself in the language of defiance, at the same time scorned to take steps to conciliate patronage or do away with suspicion. He simply cocked his hat at the ancient customer, now passing to the other house; thrust his hands into the pockets of his breeches, and, with a manful resignation, growled through his teeth as he followed the deserter with his eye—"The white-livered skunk! He may go and be d—d."
It was on a pleasant afternoon in June, that a tall, well made youth, probably twenty-four or twenty-five years of age, rode up to the door of the "Royal George," and throwing his bridle to a servant, entered the hotel. His person had been observed, and his appearance duly remarked upon, by several persons already assembled in the hall which he now approached. The new comer, indeed, was not one to pass unnoticed. His person was symmetry itself, and the ease with which he managed his steed, the unhesitating boldness with which he kept on his way and gazed around him at a period and in a place where all were timid and suspicious, could not fail to fix attention. His face too, was significant of a character of command, besides being finely intelligent and tolerably handsome; and though he carried no weapons that were visible, there was something exceedingly military in his movement; and the cap which he wore, made of some native fur and slightly resting upon one side of his thickly clustering brown hair, imparted a daring expression to his look, which gave confirmation to the idea. Many were the remarks of those in the hall as, boldly dashing down the high road, he left the church to the right, and moving along the market-place, came at once towards the tavern, which stood on the corner of Prince and Bridge streets.
"A bold chap with his spurs, that," exclaimed Sergeant Hastings, of the garrison, who was a frequent guest of the tavern, and had found no small degree of favour with the landlord's daughter. "A bold chap, that—do you know him, Humphries?"
This question brought the landlord to the window. He looked intently upon the youth as he approached, but seemed at fault.
"Know him? why yes, I think I do know him, sergeant: that's—yes—that's—bless my soul, I don't know him at all!"
"Well, be sure now, Humphries," coolly spoke the sergeant. "Such a good-looking fellow ought not to be forgotten. But he 'lights, and we shall soon know better."
A few moments, and the stranger made his appearance. The landlord bustled up to him, and offered assistance, which the youth declined for himself, but gave directions for his horse's tendance.
"Why do you call me captain?" demanded the youth, sternly.
"Bless me, don't be angry, squire; but didn't you say you was a captain?" apologetically replied Humphries.
"I did not."
"Well, bless me, but I could have sworn you did—now didn't he, gentlemen?—sergeant, did'nt you hear—"
"It matters not," the stranger interrupted; "it matters not. You were mistaken, and these gentlemen need not be appealed to. Have my horse cared for, if you please. He has come far and fast to-day, and will need a good rubbing. Give him fodder now, but no corn for an hour."
"It shall be done, captain."
"Hark'ee, my friend," said the youth angrily, "you will not style me captain again, unless you would have more than you can put up with. I am no captain, no colonel, no commander of any sort, and unless you give me the troops, am not willing to wear the title. So, understand me."
"Ask pardon, squire; but it comes so common—ask pardon, sir;" and the landlord shuffled off, as he spoke, to see after his business. As he retired, Sergeant Hastings made up to the new comer, and with all the consequence of one having a certain portion of authority, and accustomed to a large degree of deference from those around him, proceeded to address the youth on the subject matter of his momentary annoyance.
"And with your leave, young master, where's the harm in being captain or colonel? I don't see that there's any offence in it."
"None, none in the world, sir, in being captain or colonel, but some, I take it, in being styled such undeservedly. The office is good enough, and I have no objections to it; but I have no humour to be called by any nickname."
"Nickname—why, d—n it, sir—why, what do you mean? Do you pretend that it's a nickname to be called an officer in his majesty's troops, sir? If you do, sir—" and the sergeant concluded his swaggering speech with a most stormy stare.
"Pistols and daggers! most worthy officer in his majesty's troops, do not look so dangerous," replied the youth very coolly. He saw at a glance the sort of Hector with whom he had to deal, and ​would have answered him with his boot, but that his policy demanded forbearance. He continued, pacifically: "I have no sort of intention to offend captain or sergeant. I only beg that, as I am neither one nor the other, nobody will force me into their jackets."
"And why not, young master?" said the sergeant, somewhat pacified, but still, as he liked not the nonchalance of the stranger, seemingly bent to press upon him a more full development of his opinions. "Why not? Is it not honourable, I ask you, to hold his majesty's commission, and would you not, as a loyal subject, be very glad to accept one at his hands?"
There was no little interest manifested by the spectators as this question was put, and they gather more closely about the beset stranger, but still keeping at a deferential distance from the sergeant. He, too, looked forward to the reply of the youth with some interest. His head was advanced and his arms akimbo, and, stationed in front of the person he examined, in the centre of the hall, his clumsy compact person and round rosy face looked exceedingly imposing in every eye but that of the person for whose especial sight their various terrors had been put on. The youth seemed annoyed by the pertinacity of his assailant, but he made an effort at composure, and after a brief pause replied to the inquiry.
"Honourable enough, doubtless. I know nothing about the employment, and cannot say. As for taking a commission at his majesty's hands, I don't know that I should do any such thing."
"Ha! not take a commission from the hands of his majesty! This looks suspicious! And pray, sir, tell us why you would not accept his majesty's commission?"
Unmoved by the solemnity of the proceeding, the youth with the utmost quietness replied—
"For the very best reason in the world—I should scarcely know what to do with it."
"Oh, that's it!" said the sergeant. "And so you are really not an officer?"
"No. I've been telling you and this drinking fellow, the landlord, all the time, that I am no officer, and yet neither of you seems satisfied. Nothing will do, but you will put me in his majesty's commission, and make me a general and what not, whether I will or no. But where's the man?—Here, landlord!"
"Father's out, can I serve, sir?" said a soft voice, followed by the pretty maid of the inn, the fair Bella Humphries, whose person was now visible behind the bar.
"Yes, my dear, you can;" and as the stranger youth spoke, and the maid courtesied, he tapped her gently upon the cheek, and begged that he might be shown his apartment, stating, at the same time, the probability that he would be an inmate for several days of the tavern. The sergeant scowled fiercely at the liberty thus taken, and the youth could not help seeing that the eye of the girl sank under the glance that the former gave her. He said nothing, however, and taking in his hand the little fur valise that he carried, the only furniture, besides saddle and bridle, worn by his horse, he followed the steps of Bella, who soon conducted him to his chamber, and left him to those ablutions which a long ride along a sandy road had rendered particularly necessary.
The sergeant meanwhile was not so well satisfied with what had taken place. He was vexed that he had not terrified the youth—vexed at his composure—vexed that he had tapped Bella Humphries upon her cheek, and doubly vexed that she had submitted with such excellent grace to the aforesaid tapping. The truth is, Sergeant Hastings claimed some exclusive privileges with the maiden. He was her regular gallant—bestowed upon her the greater part of his idle time, and had flattered himself that he stood alone in her ​estimation; and so, perhaps, he did. His attentions had given him a large degree of influence over her, and what with his big speech, swaggering carriage, and flashy uniform, poor Bella had long since been taught to acknowledge his power over her fancy. But the girl was coquettish, and her very position as maid of the inn had contributed to strengthen and confirm the natural predisposition. The kind words and innocent freedoms of the handsome stranger were not disagreeable to her, and she felt not that they interfered with the claims of the sergeant, or would be so disagreeable to him, until she beheld the scowling glance with which he surveyed them.
In the hall below, to which the landlord had now returned, Hastings gave utterance to the spleen this matter had occasioned.
"That's an impudent fellow—a very impudent fellow. I don't like him, at all!"
The landlord looked up timidly. "And what, sergeant—what!"
"I say, I don't like him. I suspect him!"
"Suspect! God ha' mercy; and who do you think—who do you think he is, sergeant?"
"How should I know? I asked you: you know every thing; at least, you pretend to. Why are you out here? Who is he?"
"Bless me, I can't say; I don't know."
"What do you think he is?"
"Think! I think! oh! no! no! I don't think."
"He certainly is an impudent—a very suspicious person."
"Do you think so, sergeant?" asked one of the persons present, with an air of profound alarm.
"I do—a very suspicious person—one that should be watched narrowly."
"I see nothing suspicious about him," said another, the same individual who had placed himself beside the stranger when the wrath of the sergeant was expected to burst upon him, and when he had actually laid his hand upon his sword. "I see nothing suspicious about the stranger," said the speaker, boldly, "except that he doesn't like to be troubled with foolish questions."
"Foolish questions—foolish questions! Bless me, John Davis, do you know what you're a saying?" The landlord spoke in great ​trepidation, and placed himself, as he addressed John Davis, between him and the sergeant.
"Yes, I know perfectly what I say, Master Humphries; and I say it's very unmannerly, the way in which the stranger has been pestered with foolish questions. I say it, and I say it again; and I don't care who hears it. I'm ready to stand up to what I say."
"Bless me, the boy's mad! Now, sergeant, don't mind him—he's only foolish, you see."
"Mind him—oh no! Look you, young man, do you see that tree? It won't take much treason to tuck you up there."
"Treason, indeed! I talk no treason, Sergeant Hastings, and I defy you to prove any agin me. I'm not to be frightened this time o' day, I'd have you to know; and though you are a sodger, and wear a red coat, let me tell you there is a tough colt in the woods that your two legs can't straddle. There is no treason in that, for it only concerns one person, and that one person is your own self, and I'm as good a man as you any day."
"You d—d rebel, is it so you speak to a sergeant in his majesty's service? Take that"—and with the words, with his sword drawn at the instant, he made a stroke with the flat of it at the head of the sturdy disputant, which, as the latter somewhat anticipated the assault, he was prepared to elude. This was done adroitly enough, and with a huge club which stood conveniently in the corner, he had prepared himself without fear to guard against a repetition of the attack, when the stranger, about whom the coil had arisen, suddenly made his appearance, and at once interposed between the parties.