Hansford: A Tale of Bacon's Rebellion

by St. George Tucker

CHAPTER VII.

“'We try this quarrel hilt to hilt.'
Then each at once his falchion drew,
Each on the ground his scabbard threw,
Each looked to sun, and stream, and plain,
As what they ne'er might see again;
Then foot, and point, and eye opposed,
In dubious strife they darkly closed.”
Lady of the Lake.

It is a happy thing for human nature that the cares, and vexations, and fears, of this weary life, are at least excluded from the magic world of sleep. Exhausted nature will seek a respite from her trials in forgetfulness, and steeped in the sacred stream of Lethe, like the young Achilles, she becomes invulnerable. It is but seldom that care dares intrude upon this quiet realm, and though it may be truly said that sleep “swift on her downy pinions flies from woe,” yet, when at last it does alight on the lid sullied by a tear, it rests as quietly as elsewhere. We have scarcely ever read of an instance where the last night of a convict was not passed in tranquil slumber, as though Sleep, the sweet sister of the dread Terror, soothed more tenderly, in this last hour, the victim of her gloomy brother's dart.

Thomas Hansford, for with him our story remains, slept as calmly on this night as though a long life of happiness and fame stretched out before his eyes. 'Tis true, that ere he went to bed, as he unbelted his trusty sword, he looked at its well-tempered steel with a confident eye, and thought of the morrow. But so fully imbued were the youth of that iron age with the true spirit of chivalry, that life was but little regarded where honour was concerned, and the precarious tenure by which life was held, made it less prized by those who felt that they might be called on any day to surrender it. Hansford, therefore, slept soundly, and the first red streaks of the morning twilight were smiling through his window when he awoke. He rose, and dressing himself hastily, he repaired to the study, where he wrote a few hasty lines to his mother and to Virginia—the first to assure her of his filial love, and to pray her forgiveness for thus sacrificing life for honour; and the second breathing the warm ardour of his heart for her who, during his brief career, had lightened the cares and shared the joys which fortune had strewn in his path. As he folded these two letters and placed them in his pocket, he could not help drawing a deep sigh, to think of these two beings whose fate was so intimately entwined with his own, and whose thread of life would be weakened when his had been severed. Repelling such a thought as unworthy a brave man engaged in an honourable cause, he buckled on his sword and repaired with a firm step to the place of meeting. Alfred Bernard, true to his word, was there.

And now the sun was just rising above the green forest, to the eastward. The hands, as by a striking metonymy those happy laborers were termed, who never knew the cares which environ the head, were just going out to their day's work. Men, women and children, some to plough the corn, and one a merry teamster, who, with his well attended team, was driving to the woods for fuel. And in the barn-yard were the sleek milch cows, smelling fresh with the dewy clover from the meadow, and their hides smoking with the early dew of morning; and the fowls, that strutted and clucked, and cackled, in the yard, all breakfasting on the scanty grains that had fallen from the horse-troughs—all save one inquisitive old rooster, who, flapping his wings and mounting the fence to crow, eyed askant the two young men, as though, a knight himself, he guessed their bloody intent. And the birds, too, those joyous, happy beings, who pass their life in singing, shook the fresh dew from their pretty wings, cleared their throats in the bracing air, and like the pious Persian, pouring forth their hymn of praise to the morning sun, fluttered away to search for their daily food. All was instinct with happiness and beauty. All were seeking to preserve the life which God had given but two, and they stood there, in the bright, dewy morning, to stain the fair robe of nature with blood. It is a sad thought, that of all the beings who rejoice in life, he alone, who bears the image of his Maker, should have wandered from His law.

The men saluted one another coldly as Hansford approached, and Bernard said, with a firm voice, “You see, sir, I have kept my appointment. I believe nothing remains but to proceed.”

“You must excuse me for again suggesting,” said Hansford, “that we wait a few moments, until these labourers are out of sight. We might be interrupted.”

Bernard silently acquiesced, and the combatants stood at a short distance apart, each rapt in his own reflections. What those reflections were may be easily imagined. Both were young men of talent and promise. The one, the favourite of Sir William Berkeley, saw fame and distinction awaiting him in the colony. The other, the beloved of the people, second only to Bacon in their affections, and by that great leader esteemed as a friend and entrusted as a confidant, had scarce less hope in the future. The one a stranger, almost unknown in the colony, with little to care for in the world but self; the other the support of an aged mother, and the pride of a fair and trusting girl—the strong rock, on whose protection the grey lichen of age had rested, and around which the green tendrils of love entwined. Both men of erring hearts, who in a few moments might be summoned to appear at that dread bar, where all the secrets of their hearts are known, and all the actions of their lives are judged. The two combatants were nearly equally matched in the use of the sword. Bernard's superior skill in fence being fully compensated by the superior coolness of his adversary.

Just as the last labourer had disappeared, both swords flashed in the morning sun. The combat was long, and the issue doubtful. Each seemed so conscious of the skill of the other, that both acted chiefly on the defensive. But the protracted length of the fight turned to the advantage of Hansford, who, from his early training and hardy exercise, was more accustomed to endure fatigue. Bernard became weary of a contest of such little interest, and at last, forgetting the science in which he was a complete adept, he made a desperate lunge at the breast of the young colonist. This thrust Hansford parried with such success, that he sent the sword of his adversary flying through the air. In attempting to regain possession of his sword, Bernard's foot slipped, and he fell prostrate to the ground.