# The Partisan/XVII

* "Commune with him, and fear not. Foul though he be,
* Thy destiny is kindred with his own,
* And that secures thee."
They had scarcely gone from sight, when Goggle entered the dwelling. The old hag started from her seeming stupor, and all her features underwent a change. She fondled upon her son with all the feeble drivelling of age; called him by various affectionate diminutives, and busied herself, in spite of her infirmities, waddling about from corner to corner of the hut, to administer to his desires, which were by no means few. He, on the other hand, manifested the most brutal indifference to all her regards, shook her off rudely as she hung upon his shoulders, and, with a boisterous manner, and a speech coupled with an oath, demanded his supper, at the same time throwing himself, with an air of extreme indolence, along the bed.
"And, Neddy dear, what has kept you so late? Where have you been, and whence come you last?" were the repeated questions of the old woman.
"A'drat it! mother—will you never be done asking questions? It's not so late, I'm sure."
"Later than you said; much later, by two hours, boy."
"Well, if it is, what then? It's well you have me at all, for I've had a narrow chance of it. Swow! but the bullets sung over my ears too close for comfort."
"You don't say so, Ned! What! that stark, bull-head Humphries, has he shot at you, Ned, my son?"
"Him or Singleton, d—n 'em. But I have a hitch on him now that shall swing him. He plays 'possum no longer with Huck, if you have a tongue in your head, mother."
"Who—I? What am I to do, Ned, boy? Is it to put Bill ​Humphries in trouble? If it's that, I have the heart to do it, if it's only for his talk to-night."
"Yes, I heard it."
"You! Why, where were you, Ned?"
"There."
He pointed to the end of the hovel, where, snugly concealed on the outside, his eye, piercing through a hole between the logs, had witnessed all that had taken place in the apartment while the partisans held it.
"And you heard and saw all?" said the old woman. "You heard his foul speech, and you saw him lift his hand to strike me because I spoke to him as he deserved! But he dared not—no, he dared not! 'Twas as much as his life was worth to lay hands on me. His arm should have withered! That it should."
"Psho! Psho! withered!" exclaimed the son scornfully. She might deceive herself, but not him.
"But who was the other man, Neddy—the Captain?"
"His name's Singleton, and he's a major of the continentals—that's all I know about him. He took me prisoner with some others of Travis's, and I joined his troop, rather than fare worse. This gives me pickings on both sides; for since I've joined we've had smart work in skirmishing; and down at Archdale Hall we made a splash at Huck's baggage-wagons, and got good spoil. See, here's a watch—true gold!—was this morning in a red-coat's fob, now in mine."
"It's good gold, and heavy, my son;—will give you yellow-boys enough."
"Ay, could we sell—but that's the devil. It comes from a British pocket, and we can't venture to offer it to any of their colour. As for the continentals, they haven't got any but their ragged currency, and that nobody wants. We must keep the watch for a good chance, for that and other reasons. I took it from a prisoner by sleight of hand, and it must not be known that I have it, on either side. Proctor would punish, and the young fellow Singleton, who has an eye like a hawk, he would not stop to give me a swinging bough if he thought I took it from one of his prisoners."
"Give it to me, boy: I'll save you that risk."
​"You shall do more, mother; but first get the supper. I'm hellish hungry, and tired out with the chase I've had. A'drat it! my bones are chilled with the mud and water."
"There's a change in the chest, boy, beside you. Put the wet clothes off."
"It's too troublesome, and they'd only get wet too; for I must start back to the camp directly."
"What camp?"
"Singleton's—down upon the river—five miles below the Barony. I must be there, and let him see me, or he'll suspicion me, and move off. You will have to carry the message to Proctor."
"What, boy! will you go back and put your neck in danger? Suppose he finds you missing?"
"Well, I'll tell him the truth, so far as the truth will answer the purpose of a lie. I'll say that I came to see you, and, having done so, have come back to my duty. They cannot find fault, for the troopers every now and then start off without leave or license. I'm only a volunteer, you see."
"Take care, boy; you will try the long lane once too often. They suspect you now, I know, from the askings of that fellow Humphries; and him too, the other—what's his name?—he, too, asked closely after you."
"Singleton. I heard him."
"What Singleton is that, boy? Any kin to the Singletons hereaway in St. Paul's?"
"No, I believe not. He's from the 'High Hills,' they say, though he has friends at 'The Oaks.' It was there he went to-night. But the supper, mother—is it all ready?"
"Sit and eat, boy. There's hoecake and bacon, and some cold collards."
"Any rum?" he inquired, rising sluggishly from the bed, and approaching the little table which, while the preceding dialogue had been going on, his mother had supplied with the edibles enumerated. She handed him the jug, from which, undiluted, he drank freely, following the stronger liquid with a moderate draught from the gourd of water which she brought him at the same moment. While he ate, he muttered occasionally to his mother, who hung around ​him all the while in close attendance, regarding the besmeared, sallow, and disfigured wretch with as much affection as if he had been the very choicest of all God's creatures. Such is the heart, erring continually in its appropriation of sympathies, which, though intrinsically they may be valueless, are yet singularly in proof of that care of nature, which permits no being to go utterly unblest by its regard, and bestows on every homestead, however lowly, some portion of its soothing and its sunshine.
Goggle had eaten, and now, like a gorged snake, he threw himself once more at length upon the couch that stood in the corner, grumbling, as he did so—
"A'drat it! I hate to go out again! But I must—I must go back to camp, to blind Singleton; and as for that fellow Humphries, hear you, mother—I was in the pond by Coburn's corner when he came upon me, and just about to cross it. They called out, and crack, crack went their pistols, and the balls both times whizzed close above my head. It was then they gave chase, and I lay close, and hugged the hollow. Singleton's horse stood right across me, and I expected his hoofs every moment upon my back."
"You don't say so, Neddy?"
"Ay, but I do—but that's not it. The danger was something, to be sure, but even then I could listen—I could hear all they said; and I had reason to listen, too, for it was of me Humphries spoke. The keen chap suspected me to be the man they chased, though they could not make me out; and so he spoke of me. Can you count up what he said, mother?"
"No, Neddy; how should I?"
"What! and you tell fortunes, too, and bewitch, so that all of them call you cattle charmer, yet you can't tell what Bill Humphries spoke about me, your own son! For I reckon I am your son, no matter who was my right father!—Can you not tell,—eh?"
"No, sure not: some foul speech, I reckon, considering who spoke it."
"Ay, foul speech enough, if you knew. But the long and short of it, mother, is this, and I put the question to you plainly, and expect you to answer plainly—"
"What do you mean, my son?"
​"Ay, that's it—I'm your son, I believe that; but tell me, and tell me truly—who was my father? It was of that that Humphries spoke. He spoke for all the country round, and something, too, I've heard of before. He said I was no better than my father; that he was a horse-thief, and what was worse, that I had a cross in my blood. Speak, now, mother—speak out truly, for you see I'm in no passion; for, whether it's true or not, I will have it out of him that spoke it, before long, some way or other. If it's true, so much the worse for him, for I can't cut your throat, mother—I can't drink your blood; but what I can do, I will, and that is, have the blood of the man that knows and speaks of your misdoings."
That affectionate tenderness of manner which she had heretofore shown throughout the interview, passed away entirely after this inquiry of Goggle. She was no longer the mother of her son. A haggard scorn was in every feature—a hellish revival of angry passions, of demoniac hate, and a phrensied appetite. As she looked upon the inquirer, who, putting such a question, yet lay, and seemingly without emotion, sluggishly at length upon her couch, her ire seemed scarcely restrainable—her figure seemed to dilate in every part—and, striding across the floor with a rapid movement, hostile seemingly to the generally enfeebled appearance of her frame, she stood directly before, and looking down upon him—
"And are you bent to hearken to such foul words of your own mother, bringing them home to my ears, when your bullet should have gone through the head of the speaker?"
"All in good time, mother. The bullet should have gone through his head but for an accident. But it's well it did not. He would have died then in a moment. When I kill him now, he shall feel himself dying, I warrant."
"It is well, boy. Such a foul speaker should have a death of terror—he deserves it."
"Ay, but that's neither here nor there, mother,—you have not answered my question. Speak out; was I born lawfully?"
"Lawfully!—and what care you, Ned Blonay, about the lawfulness or the unlawfulness of your birth—you who hourly fight against the laws—who rob, who burn, who murder, whenever a chance offers, and care not? Is it not your pleasure to break the ​laws—to live on the profits and the property of others? Whence came the purse you brought here last week, but from the red-coat who travelled with you as a friend, and you, all the time receiving pay from his people? Whence came this watch you just now put into my hands, but from your prisoner? and the hog of which you ate for supper, your own rifle shot it in the swamp, although you saw the double fork in the ear, and the brand on its quarter, which told you it belonged to Squire Walton, at 'The Oaks?'—what do you care about the laws, then, that you would have me answer your question?"
"Nothing; I don't care that for all the laws in the country—not that! But still I wish to know the truth of this matter. It's for my pleasure. I like to know the truth; whether I mind it or not is another thing."
"Your pleasure, boy—your pleasure! and what if I tell you that Humphries spoke true—that you are—"
"A bastard! speak it out—I want to hear it; and it will give me pleasure—I love that which provokes me. I can smile when one does me an injury—smile all the time I bear it quietly, for I think of the time when I'm to take pay for it. You don't understand this, perhaps, and I can't give you any reason to make it more plain. But so I do—and when Humphries had done speaking, I would have given something handsome to have had him talk it over again. When I have him in my power, he shall do so."
"The Indian blood! It will show itself anyhow!"—was the involuntary exclamation of the old woman.
"Ha! what's that, mother!"
"Ask me not."
"Ay, but I will—I must; and hear me once for all—you tell me the truth, on the instant, or you never see my face again. I'll go to the Indies with Sir Charles Montague, that's making up a regiment in Charleston for that country."
"Beware, boy—ask me not—any thing else. You will hate me if I tell you. You will leave me for ever."
"No—don't be afraid. Come, speak out, and say—was my father's name Blonay?"
​"Blonay was my lawful husband, boy, when you were born," said the woman, evasively.
"Ay, that may be well enough," he exclaimed, "yet I be no son of his. Speak the truth, mother, and no two bites of a cherry. Out with it all—you can't vex me by telling it. Look here—see this wound on my arm—when it begins to heal, I rub it until it unscars and grows red and angry again. I like the pain of it. It's strange, I know, but it's my pleasure; and so I look to be pleased with the story you shall tell me. Was Blonay my father?"
"He was not."
"Good!—who was?"
"Ask no more."
"Ay, but I will—I must have it all—so speak on."
"I will not speak it aloud—I will not. I have sworn it."
"You must unswear it. I cannot be trifled with. You must tell me the secret of my birth, and all. I care not how dark, how foul, how unlawful—you must suppress nothing. This night must give me the knowledge which I have wanted before—this night you speak it freely, or lose me for ever."
The woman paced the apartment convulsively, undergoing, at every moment, some new transition, from anger and impatience, to entreaty and humbleness. Now she denounced the curiosity of her son, and now she implored his forgiveness. But she cursed or implored in vain. He lay coolly and sluggishly, utterly unmoved, at length, upon the bed; heedless of all her words, and now and then simply assuring her that nothing would suffice but the true narrative of all that he wished to know. Finding evasion hopeless, the old woman seemed to recover her own coolness and strength with the resolve which she had taken, and after a little pause for preparation, she began.
"Ned Blonay, it is now twenty-nine years since you were born—"
"Not quite, mother, not quite,—twenty-eight and some seven months. Let's see, November, you remember, was my birthday, and then I was but twenty-eight; but go on, it's not important—"
"Twenty-eight or twenty-nine, it matters not which—you were born lawfully the son of John Blonay, and as such he knew and ​believed you. Your true father was an Indian of the Catawba nation, who passed through the Cypress the year before on his way to the city."
"Go on—the particulars."
"Ask not that—not that, boy; I pray ye—"
"All—all."
"I will not—I cannot—it was my wickedness—my shocking wickedness! I will not speak it aloud for worlds."
"Speak it you must, but you may whisper it in my ears. Stoop—"
She did so, passively as it were, and in a low tone, broken only by her own pauses and his occasional exclamations, she poured into his ear a dark, foul narrative of criminal intercourse, provoked on her part by a diseased appetite, resulting, as it would seem, in punishment, in the birth of a monster like himself. Yet he listened to it, if not passively, at least without any show of emotion or indignation; and as she finished, and hurrying away from him threw herself into her old seat, and covered her skinny face with her hands, he simply thrust his fingers into the long straight black hair depending over his eyes, which seemed to carry confirmatory evidence enough for the support of the story to which he had listened. He made no other movement, but appeared, for a while, busy in reflection. She every now and then looked towards him doubtfully, and with an aspect which had in it something of apprehension. At length, rising, though with an air of effort, from the couch, he took a paper from his pocket which he studied a little while by the blaze in the chimney, then approaching her, he spoke in language utterly unaffected by what he had heard—
"Hark ye, mother; I shall now go back to the camp. It's something of a risk, but nothing risk, nothing gain; and if I run a risk, it's for something. I go back to blind Singleton, for I shall tell him all the truth about my coming here. He won't do any thing more than scold a little, for the thing's common; but if he should—"
"What, my son?—speak!"
"No," he muttered to himself, "no danger of that—he dare not. But you come, mother,—come to the camp by sunrise, and see ​what you can. You'll be able to prove I was with you after the storm, and that'll clear me; then you can go to Dorchester, make all haste, and with this paper, see Proctor, and put it in his own hands yourself. There's some news in it he will be glad to pay for. It tells him something about the camp; and that about Col. Walton, shall make him fly from 'The Oaks,' as an old owl from the burning cypress. You can also tell him what you see at camp, and so use your eyes when you come there. Mind, too, if you see Huck or any of his men, keep dark. He would chouse you out of all the pay, and get the guineas for himself; and you might whistle for your share."
He gave her a dirty paper as he spoke, in which he had carefully noted down every particular relating to his new service, the force, the deeds, and the camp of Singleton—all that he thought would be of value to the enemy. She heard him, but did not approve of his return to the camp. The conference with Singleton and Humphries, together with the undisguised hostility of the latter, had filled her mind with troublesome apprehensions; and she warned her son accordingly; but he took little heed of her counsel.
"I'm bent upon it, mother, for it's a good business. You come—that's all, and say when and where you've seen me to-night. Come soon—by sunrise, and I'll get off clear, and stand a better chance of being trusted by the commander."
"And Bill Humphries?"
"Ah! he must have his swing. Let him. The dog swallows his legs at last, and so will he. I only wait the time, and shall then shut up his mouth in a way shall be a lesson to him for ever—in a way he shan't forget, and shan't remember. He shall feel me before long."
"And he shall feel me too, the reprobate; he shall know that I have a power, though he laughs at it."
"A'drat it, but it's dark, mother; a thick cloud's yet over the moon, and but a sloppy path for a shy foot, but it must be done. There's some old hound yelping yonder in the woods; he don't like being out any more than myself."
"You will go, Ned!" and the old woman's hand was on his ​shoulder. He shoved it off with something of hurry, while he answered—
"Yes, yes; and be sure you come, and when you have helped me out of the scrape, go, off-hand, to Proctor. See him, himself;—don't let them put you off. He will pay well and not chouse you, for he's a true gentleman. Good-night—good-night."
She watched him from the door-way until he was completely lost from sight in the adjacent forest.