University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.
THE BARON TAKES FLIGHT.

Meanwhile, the outer and the greater world has not been
quietly at rest, purring like a fat tabby at its slumber upon the
hearth rug, while we have been observing the action in progress
among a portion of our own dramatis personæ. Lord Rawdon
has been kept busy in his camp at Orangeburg; on the qui vive
lest Greene should be down upon him without giving signals.
His situation is one to embarrass a general exceedingly. He
can not obtain information. Lacking in horse, and the few
troops of this arm in his service, being constantly busy in the
work of foraying for the army — lacking, also, as these do, in
enterprise and moral — he finds it impossible to ascertain exactly
what the continentals are about. Their mounted men are sufficiently
active, everywhere, not only to keep him from intelligence,
but to keep him apprehensive of a movement on every
quarter; and all sorts of rumors reach him, and distress him,
touching the movements of his enemies. His liver does not
improve under the circumstances; and he is anxious to leave a
position which is so distressingly full of anxieties; but it is now
a point of honor that he should not do so, so long as there is any
possibility of a demonstration being made by Greene.

But though much worried, and something bewildered by his
circumstances, Rawdon is too good a soldier to pule, and peak,
and pine, and do nothing. He strains every nerve, spares no
exertion, to put his army on a good footing, so that he shall be
ready for attack, at any moment, and, if spared a struggle, for
which he can only inadequately prepare at best — then, that he
shall be able to leave the army in good position and condition

to his successor. Grimly he works, day by day, in Orangeburg.
He is severe as Rhadamanthus, and, no doubt, tries to be as
just as Minos. He has needed to hang a few raw Irishmen —
his own countrymen — for a riot, that looked like mutiny. He
has driven all the idle mouths out of the village. He has
bought, or seized, all the horses that could be laid hands on;
and his liver gets no better! He must try other specifics; but,
just now, he can not try Charleston. He is fettered by duty
for the present, and this bondage does not improve his temper.
His subordinates are hourly made sensible of this.

Meanwhile, Lord Edward Fitzgerald has been required to
rejoin his regiment, the nineteenth, at Monck's Corner. His
lordship found it no longer pleasant to serve as aide to a general
whose liver is so much out of order as Rawdon's; and, being
of an enterprising disposition besides, and hearing vague rumors
of a movement of Sumter's below — the movement on Murray's
ferry had reached his ears — he signified his desire to join his
regiment, to which Rawdon readily listened. With a corps of
forty horse, badly mounted, and mostly loyalists, Fitzgerald
succeeded in getting to Monck's Corner at the lucky interval,
when all the American light parties, having struck down for the
Ashley river and Goose creek country, he found the roads tolerably
clear. He took the Sinclair barony en route, and tendered
his escort to the colonel of that ilk. But, just then, our
loyalist baron was suffering from a severe grip of the gout,
which left him inaccessible to every suggestion, of whatever
sort, and made that of travel particularly personal and offensive.
We are afraid that his civility, if not hospitality, was something
faulty on this occasion; and, which made the visit of particularly
ungracious result, in the eyes of Fitzgerald, Carrie Sinclair
so contrived it as not to give our young Irish noble a
single chance of a private chat with her. Either she was
always about her father, or about the household affairs, or Lottie
was always with her.

Lord Edward cursed the Fates which required that he should
set off at dawn of day, without obtaining a single love-chance.
He had not sufficiently overcome the preliminary difficulties, as
to venture to summon the fortress. He reached Monck's Corner
without interruption, his party being one of those the progress

of which contributed to the alarm of our friend 'Bram, now
serving as scout-sergeant to the bewildered ladies of the Travis
household, where they harbored, lurking, perdu, in that of the
Widow Avinger.

But though, under the griping pain of his gout, our Baron Sinclair
was, perhaps, somewhat cavalier in his treatment of Lord
Edward, he yet greatly regretted his inability to avail himself
of the proffered escort. At the particular moment when the
escort was tendered him, his case was at the worst — he was
immovable, and the young lord could not wait for him. He
would sooner have submitted to a rapier-thrust, under the fifth
rib, than stirred a peg of his own motion. Three days after, however,
the acuteness of his pains over, he prepared to depart. It
was easy now to do so. All his preparations had been duly made.
The great family carriage was in the courtyard, four fine blacks
(horses, not negroes) were harnessed to it, and old Sam was
mounted on the box. Behind, you see Little Peter, rising like
Gog upon Magog, upon a monstrous raw-boned steed of wonderful
dimensions. The carriage was an affair of state in the old
families of those days in Carolina. It was of London manufacture,
and modelled after that of the lord-mayor — possibly of
Whittington's time. Four horses were much more necessary to
such a vehicle, than two would be to the modern equipage of
the same denomination. Of course, our baron was accompanied
by his daughters; and there was a little negro-girl whom they
stowed away in some capacious crevice.

Our baron, bolstered up with blanket and military cloak, with
cushions adjusted to his feet, was already lifted into the vehicle,
when he called aloud for sword and pistols. He tried the latter
with the ramrod, and satisfied himself that the charge was worthy
of the bore in each. He adjusted these conveniently to his
grasp, in the pocket of the coach beside him. His rapier hung
before him, just as ready to the gripe. You will please suppose
that creature comforts were not improvidently forgotten by so
good a housekeeper as Carrie Sinclair. And, ere the vehicle
was set in motion, what a cohort of Ethiopians gathered around,
to wave and shout the farewell to master and mistress. And
each squad had its own satrap, prominently advanced, cap in
hand; at the head of all, the redoubtable Benny Bowlegs — overseer

and driver — a sort of cross of orderly-sergeant upon driver.
Benny had sundry causes of dissatisfaction and complaint, which,
dwelt upon in previous conferences, he was fain to renew at the
parting moment.

“I tell you, maussa, 'tis a mos' foolish derangement, dis, dat
takes ole Sam, who's jes' as good as nobody — and Leetle Peter,
who habs no experiences in de worl', and leffs behind de berry
pusson dat can manage de trab'ling operations. Wha's de good
ob ole Sam, and Leetle Peter, ef you gits into any skrimmaging
wid dem d—d reffygees? I's de properesome pusson for hab
de charge ob dis trab'ling distractions.”

“Oh, don't talk of troubles, and distractions, and skrimmages,
to us now, Daddy Ben, when we are on the eve of starting!”
said Carrie.

“I ain't put 'em off, tell dis time, Miss Carrie. I bin talk to
ole maussa 'bout 'em before.”

“To be sure you did, you troublesome old rascal!” cried the
colonel, with a groan, as a twinge of his gouty timbers reminded
him of his mortality. “To be sure you did; and that is
just sufficient reason that you shouldn't bother me again about
the matter. I tell you, old dog, that you are quite too conceited!
Old Sam is as good a driver as ever you were in your best
days; and Little Peter is twice as strong as you are, ef there's
any need of fighting — do you hear?”

“Yes, maussa, Pete hab de strengt', but whey he git he sodger
edication? I l'arn wid youse'f in de Cherokee war.”

“Oh, d—n the Cherokee war now! and no more of your
stuff, Benny. I should take you with me, and should prefer to
do so, you old rascal, if I didn't want you here! — prefer you to
any other outrider, if it will do your conceit any good to hear
me say it; but we can't spare you from the plantation. I need
you here, I say, to keep the garrison, and save the property, and
beat off outlaws, and run the hands, if need be, across the swamp.
You remember all my directions on these subjects? And, hark
you, old fellow, have you hidden away all the indigo in the
swamp?”

“Ebbry bit. De debble hese'f couldn't fin' 'em, nor Debble-Dick
neider!”

“Well, I can't stop now for further directions. We have no

time to lose. I must have your wisdom, and your military education,
and your fidelity and courage, here, old fellow! You
are captain of the garrison, do you hear? and that should satisfy
your monstrous vanity, I'm sure. It would, if you were a white
man. But a conceited negro, Benny, has the stomach of an
ostrich.”

“Me, Benny, conceited, maussa? — me?”

“Yes, as a peacock. But, give me your hand, old fellow.
There! see to everything. I look to you — to no one else.
So be satisfied. God bless you, Benny! God bless you, my
people! Take care of yourselves; follow Benny. He will
take care of you. Good-by all!”

And the answer — through all the notes of the gamut — was
vociferous from a hundred mouths.

“Gorrah bress you, maussa! Gorrah bress you, young missis!
De Lawd be wid you, and hab massy 'pon you!” — “Good-by,
Miss Carrie?” — “Da! da! Lottie! Da! da! bring frock for
Sissy Bepp!” — “An' knife for Bike, please!” — “An' Leetle
Lottie, 'member de Jews' harp you bin promise for Jupe!”
And there was no end to commissions, farewells, and benedictions,
which followed the party down the avenue long after it
had got quite out of hearing.

Ah, the dear black, dirty scamps of negroes, big and little, on
one of the old ante-revolutionary plantations! They acknowledge
loving necessities as the fleas do; are as free in their intimacies
as the frogs of Egypt; will blacken the very sunshine
upon your walls with the pressure of their affections; and carry
real, genuine hearts, full of sympathy for all the family, in spite
of their rarely-washed visages — which revolt, instinctively, at
the unnatural application of soap and water to a skin that greatly
prefers friction with oil and sunshine. But we must go on.

Colonel Sinclair was fortunate in his progress. He suffered
no interruptions, and was permitted to grunt at ease, upon the
grips of his gout, and to make himself as comfortable as he
could in the narrow province to which his ample physique was
perforce contracted. You will please suppose him, at best, to
have got on badly. Still the worst of his present attack was
passed, and it was only what the physicians facetiously call the
“tail of the gout” that gave him any inconveniences. His feet

were simply sore and swollen, and every now and then he suffered
a twinge of toe or ankle such as a loving blacksmith's vice
could effect upon a joint into which the operator should thrust
at the same time a tiny cambric needle. The restraint was
something too of an annoyance, riding in a close vehicle. Our
colonel was an equestrian, and never rode in a carriage if he
could help it. When able to escape its use, he cursed all such
contrivances of art. Now he groaned uneasily at a necessity
which he could not escape.

The weather, though still hot, was not otherwise unpleasant.
The roads were good. The carriage was slow of movement,
but this rather on account of the invalid than because of any
inability of the horses. As already said, the moment was
favorable to a safe progress down to Monck's Corner. The
American parties were mostly below; the British were chiefly
circumscribed within the bounds of the Orangeburg and Charleston
garrisons, except the command of Colonel Coates at the
Monck's Corner post, where the Nineteenth regiment, with
some auxiliar forces were stationed. There had been small
commands elsewhere about, on the route or near it, but these
have been electrically affected by the progress below of the
American parties, and have drawn in their antennæ. Still,
there were roving squads of both parties — unlicensed forayers,
who might be looked for at any moment, and with whom nobody
could feel quite safe, unless they were able to make fight.
It may have been some of these rapscallions who dashed by the
carriage, twice or thrice during the progress. It was not easy
to conjecture who they were. Their uniforms were not uniform,
and of nondescript cut and color. These all came from
above, or turned in from lateral roads, and were all spurring
below. They offered no offence, however, and no inquiry calculated
to provoke the wonder of our travellers. At each approach
of these parties the veteran grasped his pistols, and kept
them ready with finger on trigger. But his valiancy remained
unchallenged. The strangers all proved fast riders, scarcely
giving more than a look to the party as they drove below, like
so many vultures trooping to the carnage.

Little Peter looked knowing as they passed him by. He
might have answered the colonel's doubts had the latter condescended

to inquire. The parties — Little Peter would have
sworn — were all Marion's, on their way back to the camp of
the Swamp-Fox. The large business on hand below gave them
no time for loitering.

“What hawks can these be?” muttered the colonel.

“Civil ones, at least,” said Carrie Sinclair. “I suspect them
to belong to the liberty party.”

“Liberty devils! Rebels, Miss Sinclair! Heartless, soulless,
insensible, savage, ridiculous rebels! Liberty indeed! as
if liberty was designed for such scum of the earth; as if the
great body of any people, of any country, were in any way
prepared for that blessing which belongs only to the gods, or at
most to the best and wisest of the human family. Don't use
such nonsensical phrases again, my daughter. You may be
right enough in your conjecture that they belong to the rebel
party: their vagabond looks and costume would seem to say as
much. Such rapscallions to constitute an army, and to dream
of liberty! Ha! ha! ha! Really, the more you see of this
wretched rebellion, the more absurd and monstrous it shows
itself.”

“Of the absurdity of it, my dear father,” answered Carrie
demurely, “it may be prudent to say nothing until we see the
result. Rebellion is said to change its name when it succeeds.
Success is very apt to strip the enterprise of the absurdity which
attended its outset.”

“But” — with a sort of horror in his countenance — “you
can not fancy surely that there is any prospect of success for
rapscallious rebellion such as this?”

“I don't know, sir. Appearances are certainly very suspicious
at the present juncture. Why are we running away from
home? Why is my Lord Rawdon about to run away from Orangeburg?
Why have the British generals run away from all
their posts of Camden, Granby, Ninety-Six, Fort Motte, Augusta
— everywhere, except Orangeburg and Charleston? If
these signs have any import whatever, then rebellion is fast
losing its old aspects, whether of monstrosity or absurdity.”

“Nonsense! What should a woman know of such matters?
These movements of the British generals, which you most ridiculously
style `runnings,' are, in other and proper words, `strategics.'

They merely indicate a profound policy: they are designed
to delude these vulgar and conceited rebels, who, if they
forget themselves, and dare to occupy the places which have
been temporarily abandoned, will become the certain victims
of that policy which thus designs to snare them to their fate.”

“As we bait a mouse or rat trap, and draw off that the rat or
mouse may have the liberty to cage himself?”

“Precisely; though your comparison is scarcely sufficiently
dignified for the subject, Miss Sinclair.”

“Well, I don't know, my dear father; but I fancy that, if I
were a warrior, I should be very grateful to the enemy who
should build a fortress, and fill it with cannon, store it with
guns, and powder and shot, and all the munitions of war — make
ready his defences, line his walls, hang out his banners, show a
brave front — yet run off and leave his fortress and all his munitions
the moment I came against him.”

“Hem! I tell you, Carrie, the subject is entirely beyond
your comprehension.”

“Very likely, sir. Your explanations certainly tend to make
it so. But I can see that there is a subtlety somewhere, and I
begin now to suspect that, when Lincoln surrendered Charleston
to Sir Henry Clinton, he was only executing a grand stroke
of policy — getting the whole British army into a trap, in order
to cut 'em all off at a blow. And the signs are tending that
way apparently. But, this being the case, is it altogether
proper policy for us to go to that city, where we shall be as so
many poor little mice in a baited cage, fattening up for some
great mouser of rebellion? Were it were not wiser policy for
us to turn aside, and either go back to the barony, or cross the
Santee into a country where, just now, the rebels permit no
cages to be built?”

“Pshaw! you are a fool, girl, and don't know what you are
talking about! At all events, it is quite as absurd for us to be
discussing here the strategics of British generalship. Still more
absurd to be beguiled into such a discussion because of the encounter
with certain dirty blackguards, who carry rifles and
shot-guns, and pretend to be military, and impudently dream of
such a thing as liberty. Liberty is indeed a goddess, and she
admits no rapscallions to her altars.”

“Well, my father, I learn for the first time from you that the
uniform makes the soldier.”

“Who said any such nonsense?”

“I must infer it from what you say.”

“And what nonsense have I spoken to justify any such inference?
I tell you, girl, the subject is one only to be discussed
by men. It is beyond you. You are only repeating at second
hand the absurdities which you have heard from that ridiculously
conceited and obstinate brother of yours, who will get
himself knocked on the head, or hung, when he is most top-heavy
in feather.”

“Ah, no! Leave Willie Sinclair to take care of himself.
He is a soldier, father, and a brave fellow to boot.”

“He might have been, in a regular and honorable service;
but, with such rascally fellows as these—”

“Stop, my dear father. The proverb says, `Never curse the
bridge that carries you over.' In the spirit of the proverb, let
me say, never curse those who forbear to trouble you when
they might; who have the power to harm, when you can not
resist, and who deny themselves the opportunity to do so, and
at a period when there are few securities for life and property,
when opportunity invites the marauder.”

“Ha! let the rascals attempt it. I carry a brace of lives
here,” showing his pistols — “and I can still wield a rapier,
my girl, in defence of my children and my honor. — But—” a
moment after — “But you are right, Carrie; the fellows were
civil and forbearing, and we should be thankful. I confess to
have forgotten for the moment my religion in my loyalty. The
fellows might have done us harm, and were civil; and I — I —
with this miserable game leg of mine to be talking of what I
could do in a struggle. I am as great a braggadocio as Benny
Bowlegs. Ah! that twinge was a proper penalty for my lack
of Christian patience and humility. Still, my dear girl, these
fellows, though they may be civil — and have some notion of
order, are not soldiers, by any means — never will be soldiers.
It is not in them. Soldiers, forsooth! The awkward,
ungainly, sprawling, lanksided, listless caterans. Ah! my
child, you should see a British army in all its grandeur — its
thousands in line or column, glorious in costume — in crimson

and gold and green — its great banners streaming to the wind
— its gorgeous panoply — glittering steel and golden gonfalon!
— its serried ranks of bayonets — its charging battalions of
horse! — What can such ragamuffins hope, when opposed to her
formidable legions?”

“Why, dear father, will you be so blind and so unjust! Did
not just such people as these constitute your provincial regiments
in the old French war? and did they not save the remnant
of Braddock's regulars, when they fled in a panic which
would have disgraced the vilest poltroons upon earth? And
did not Middleton's provincials do the same good turn for Grant's
regulars among the Cherokees? and was it not for this very
sort of disparagement that Middleton cudgelled Grant, himself,
in the streets of Charleston?”

“And you would have me cudgelled too, I suppose, as well
as Grant, for being so free spoken of your favorites.”

“No, sir; but I would have you just!”

“You are right in that, Carrie. To be just always should be
the highest ambition of a gentleman. To be unjust, in however
small a matter, and in reference to however small a person, is
always a meanness. I would not willingly be unjust; but Carrie
when in addition to a disloyal son, and the devil, who is
every man's double, I have another ever-present enemy in the
gout, you must not be surprised if I occasionally err against my
own principles, and my own desires. Say no more. The colonists
can fight — can make good soldiers, spite of the uniforms
— nay, I will admit the possibility — can be successful rebels!
I begin to confess a fear to myself, daily, that they will become
so; and if so, Carrie, I will admit further, it is because they
have not had justice. Where, for example, was the necessity
of their sending us such a general as Edward Braddock, when
there was such a military buckskin in the country as George
Washington? and why give us such impertinent puppies as
Grant, when the country could produce natives like Moultrie,
and Marion, and Sumter, and Middleton, and a thousand besides,
who were worth a thousand such popinjays. Rebels,
though these men be, they are nevertheless able and skilful
rebels, and brave and audacious rebels — and like to be, I fear,
successful rebels; and they have been made rebels, in too many

cases, I fancy, by the cruel injustice which denied them the
right authority among their people! I have said this very thing
to Earl Cornwallis, to my Lord Rawdon, and to many others;
though, you are not to understand me as admitting, for a moment,
that their rebellion is justified because of the injustice
which might have provoked it. Their loyalty should have been
superior to self.”

“And the prince that challenged that loyalty should have
been superior to self too, and superior to fraud and wrong, my
father.”

“What fraud — what wrong, and — but who is here? Your
wild girl, Nelly, as I live, Carrie, and her eternal little lightfooted
pony.”

Sure enough, in the midst of the political conference between
father and daughter, Nelly Floyd cantered up suddenly beside
the carriage.

“Why, Nelly, is it you?” said Carrie.

“Well, my girl, how is it? I am glad to see you well again
as ever,” was the good-humored address of the baron, while
little Lottie, in silence possessed herself of the hand of Nelly,
which, at the stopping of the coach, was thrust in at the
windows.

“Oh! well, sir, I thank you. I scarcely feel the hurt at all
now. And I'm glad to see that you are able to travel, sir.”

“Able to travel. Able to fly, you mean! I am able to endure
a travelling horse, my girl, but that's all. I'm able for no
more.”

“And you, dear Miss Carrie?”

“Oh! I'm quite well, Nelly. I haven't time to be otherwise.
My father' does all my sickness, and Lottie does all my play;
so, between the two, I'm relieved of almost all of the usual cares
of girlhood.”

“And you might add womanhood too, while in the satirical
vein, for the description will suit half the sex, even though
you leave out the children entirely. But where are you from,
my girl?”

The question seemed to disquiet the girl, though not to confuse
her. But she answered promptly enough.

“Oh! not far, sir; I haven't had to ride any distance to-day.”

“Egad, I suspect you are half the time on the road.”

He was really moderate in his estimate.

“I love to ride, sir,” answered the girl evasively — “and
Aggy never tires, sir.”

“She's Virginny all over then, according to the old song.
But where are you bound now?”

“Nowhere, sir, exactly. Just riding about.”

“By my faith, you love it with a strange passion. You take
the road without fear of those refugee rascals that seem to be
everywhere, and from whom your escape has been so narrow
already. Are you not afraid, my girl?”

“Oh! no, sir; not afraid.”

“But seriously, my young girl, you have good reason to be
cautious, and afraid too.”

“Oh! I am very cautious, sir.”

“Well, but look you, my good little girl, a young creature
like you, and of your sex too, has reason to be something more
than cautious in respect to travelling the highways, alone, at
such a time as this. You are doing wrong. I must scold you.
Do you know your weakness. Do you know what your sex
calls for — what it imperatively demands. Come, come, don't
be skittish now,” seeing a restiffness in the girl's manner, and
a twitching of her bridle which augured a hasty flight — “come,
you must listen to your friends. We must stop this wild and
perilous game which you are playing. You do not guess — do
not dream — how great is the peril” — here the looks of the
baron were full of awful significance — “you will be lost before
you know where you are.”

The girl smiled, as she answered:—

“Ah, sir! I know the woods too well. You couldn't lose me
in any forest between the Santee and the Savannah. I know
the woods, sir, as the mariner knows the sea!”

She had interpreted his speech literally.

“The simple innocent!” muttered the baron. Then, aloud:
“You do not understand me. You are exposed to dangers —
dangers, I say — of which you do not guess! That's what I
mean. Horrible dangers — shameful dangers — distressing dangers
— dangers, my girl, worse than any death.”

“Oh! I don't think so, sir.”

“But you must let your friends think for you. Come now,
there's nothing to keep you here. Keep on with us, and when
we get to Monck's Corner, I will make arrangements for getting
you a vehicle, when you can travel more honorably and agreeably.
Come, go with my daughter to Charleston, and live with
us, as one of my family. I like you, my good girl — like you
very much, and so does Carrie; and you must go and live
with us.”

Carrie warmly seconded the entreaties of her father. But,
the girl shook her head in denial — somewhat sadly, however.

“I thank you, sir, but I can not now. I have much serious
matter to keep me here, and keep me watchful. And, I am
very cautious, sir, and very careful; and risk nothing which is
avoidable. I know there are dangers, but I also know where
they lie — from what quarter they threaten, and how to escape
them.”

“If you do, then, by Jupiter, you are a d—d sight wiser
than most of the graybeards that I know, of either of the sexes.
But what serious matters can you have — a mere girl — what
troubles — that should render necessary any exposure?”

“Ah, sir, where do you learn that youth is exempt from care
and trouble — that age only has the privilege of care?”

“By my faith, a searching question!” exclaimed the baron,
as he looked up in wonder. “The privilege of care! Girl, you
are a mystery to me. That is said with great profundity or
great simplicity, and I can not say which. Care is, doubtlessly,
the grandest of human privileges. It makes all the difference
between man and other animals. But men rarely rise to a sense
of it as a privilege, or as grateful in any way, and women still
more rarely. If you, a girl, are able to do so — but no!—” and
the baron muttered to himself — “no! it was but a random shaft
of speech.”

He was confirmed in this notion as he looked at the features
of the girl. She was surveying him, hearkening to his comment
— which was half a soliloquy — with a look of the utmost simplicity,
as if totally unconscious of anything in her own remark
which was calculated to provoke surprise. Our baron might
even have fancied her deficient in ordinary intelligence, judging
from the quiet indifference of her expression, but that the eyes,

the mouth, and the whole face, had in them so much of soul as
well as sweetness; as if Thought were there, but stripped of all
support of the passions; as if the intelligence were of a sort to
secure the possessor from all disturbing influences of earth.
While the look exhibited the utmost unconsciousness of what
was the force in her remark, it was yet so expressive, in general
respects — so full of frankness, and ingenuous grace, and vivacity
too — that it disarmed every doubt of the capacity of the
intellect which informed it. And yet the whole matter was a
problem: the girl, though totally free from mystery in her manner,
was yet evidently a mystery to all who beheld her, or listened
to her voice.

When our baron stopped in his speech, Nelly seemed to wait,
as if expecting that he would resume it; but, as he did not, she
again spoke.

“You warn me of danger, Colonel Sinclair, while you yourself
are going into it.”

“Me!”

“Yes, sir; and oh, it is pitiful to carry your daughters to
where they may see human blood running like water!”

“How! human blood, Nelly!” cried Carrie Sinclair; “of
what do you speak? what do you mean?”

“You are on your way to Charleston. You are going by
Monck's Corner; but there the soldiers are gathering — the soldiers
of both sides. Even now, Sumter, whom they call the
Gamecock, and who deserves the title, is hurrying down to that
very place; and Marion is there; and a whole host besides.
Did you not see Marion's men pass you — three squads, all with
sprigs of cedar in their caps? The horn has been sounded,
calling 'em up, all the way to the South Edisto. All the scouts
and forayers are going in; and they are driving everything before
them. The British have no horse, and all of these are
horsemen; and they aim to destroy the British posts at Monck's
Corner, and Wantoot, and Fairlawn, and all about the Cooperriver
country.”

“And how know you all this, my girl?”

“Oh, I see and hear! I tell you it is so, believe me. Marion
and Sumter are both there, and they have a thousand men,
and more are coming in; for the corn-harvest is over, and the

indigo is made, and every farmer is now able, if he is willing, to
take the field.”

“Pshaw, Nelly! they can never raise a thousand men in that
quarter, and at this season of the year.”

“Oh, dear sir — Colonel Sinclair — but, in truth, you must
believe me! For all that I tell you is true — sure.”

“Pooh! pooh! And do you not know that there is a British
regiment at Monck's Corner, my girl — a British regiment —
full, fresh, and commanded by as brave a colonel as heads any
army regiment at this moment in America?”

“Oh, yes, sir: the British have almost a thousand men also.
But they have only a few horse — nothing to the men of Marion
and Sumter—”

“Pooh, Nelly, my girl! Five hundred British regulars, with
bright bayonets, are equal to a thousand, ay, five thousand militia,
at any time.”

“Do you think so, sir?” answered the girl, with a simplicity
that seemed to bother the colonel. He laughed good-humoredly,
however, and said:—

“Well, Nelly, as you put it to me so closely, I confess I do
not exactly think so; but if five hundred British regulars are
not equal to any thousand of Marion's ragamuffins, then I'll
never sing `Rule Britannia' again.”

“Your son is one of Marion's men, colonel: do you think
him only half as good as a British dragoon?” asked Nelly, as
if seeking the solution of a difficulty. He gazed at her vacantly
a moment, then said, with a sort of roar:—

“By the powers, girl, if Willie Sinclair is not equal to any
colonel of dragoons in the British army, I'll — I'll — I'll — turn
rebel myself!”

“I think he is, colonel; and I tell you that Marion and Sumter
have a great many brave and powerful soldiers like Colonel
Sinclair.”

“Like me?”

“No, sir — like your son.”

“But he's only a major.”

“Oh, you hav'n't heard! He's promoted. He's made a
colonel by Governor Rutledge himself; and—”

“By Jupiter, promotion seems a rapid thing in this rebel service!

I did not get a colonelcy before fifty, and then I had to
raise my own regiment.”

“So much in favor of the rebel service. The natives have
some chance in that,” slyly put in Carrie Sinclair.

“Yes, and the difference must tell in every way,” answered
the veteran, with a gloomy shake of the head. “A system,”
he continued, “which encourages the young, is not only likely
to seduce thousands to its flag, but is also as likely to develop
the genius and ability of many who will prove superior to any
course of training. But, Nelly, my good girl, while I thank
you for your information, and believe much of it to be true, I can
not fear for the result when the forces are so nearly equal. If
Coates has a regiment of five hundred men, and half as many
horse, he can not be driven from his post.”

“He will retreat, sir; he will — I know it.”

“Five hundred British bayonets, opposed to a thousand clodhoppers,
never retreat.”

“They will, sir — they will! Marion's men can shoot, sir, as
no European can shoot.”

“Ay, my girl, but will a British officer stop at shooting,
when it requires but a word, `Charge!' — and where are the
militiamen to withstand the shock of British steel?”

“They will fly — the British — nevertheless,” said the girl,
pertinaciously.

“Never! I fear nothing. I must go on.”

“Oh! do not, sir — do not; for what I tell you is the truth.
They will retreat. The British soldiers have lost their confidence.
Their horse can not stand the cavalry of Marion and
Sumter. Your own son is a far better dragoon than any in the
British service. And oh, sir, even if this be not true — even if
the British keep their ground — would you carry your daughters
to the place of slaughter? For there will be blood, sir —
there will be a fearful strife, and much blood will be spilt.
Why should they be spectators of it? Turn back, sir, to your
plantation. There is no war there.”

“But how long will it be so? I have the opinion of Lord
Rawdon himself, and my son both, counselling me to leave.”

“Go, then, over the Santee. Seek the nearest ferry.”

“Oh, do, my father!” entreated Carrie.

“What! are you so scary too? No, no, Carrie! Never shall
it be said that I turned back, having once set my hand upon
the plough. I go on, and have no fear but that Colonel Coates
can give me shelter at Monck's Corner till I can see my way to
Charleston. I have spoken. Once more, Nelly, my girl, will
you go with us, and be one of our family? You see us as we
are. I am a rough old bear, at best; and, when the gout is on
me, I am a hyena. Beware of me then. Otherwise, you have
no cause of fear. For cause of love, my girl, I refer you to
Carrie and little Lottie.”

“Oh, do go with us, Nelly!” said Carrie.

“Impossible, dear Miss Sinclair; but, though I refuse, my
heart is full of gratitude. But I can not go with you. I have
much that demands my constant care and attention. Hist you,
a moment!—” and, as Carrie leaned her ear out of the window
of the carriage, she whispered:—

“Oh, Miss Sinclair, I have found him — my brother! Alas!
I find him again in bad company, and I'm trying, when I can
get a chance, to win him away from it; for I see the terrible
fate that awaits him, though he does not, and he will not believe
me. Oh, he is so foolish, so perverse! but I still hope — hope
— hope! I can hardly do anything else but hope.”

“How I could wish that I could help you! Will money be
of any use?”

This was said in a whisper.

“No, no! I thank you; but it is not money that will serve
me here.”

The baron began to grow impatient.

“We must drive on, my girl. Once more, will you go with
us, and be one of our family?”

“I thank you, sir — I can not say how much I thank you;
but this is impossible. I have duties here, sir, that make it
impossible.”

“Duties!” Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he cried,
“But where do you live, Nellie — with whom?”

“Me? oh, I live everywhere — here!” And she waved her
hand out, as if over the forest.

“You do not mean to say that you lodge and sleep in the
woods?”

“When I can do no better.”

“Good Heavens, my girl, you must go with us! Sleep in the
woods?”

“Yes, sir, and a pleasant couch it affords when the weather
is so mild and fine as this, and when there is no rain.”

“But the snakes, my girl — the wolves!”

“They never trouble me.”

The fact was a curious one, and to be remembered in connection
with what else is singular in the history of this damsel. As
old Mother Ford was wont to say, long afterward, to Carrie Sinclair
and others:—

“I have known her sleep within three feet of a rattlesnake's
hole in midsummer; and I have come upon her at early sunrise,
while she has been sleeping there, and I have seen with my
own eyes a monstrous rattlesnake creep all round her going
into his hole, and never offering to trouble her. I do believe
that she had a power to charm the beasts.”

To resume:—

“But, my good girl, such a life, such exposure — and to a
young and delicate creature like yourself! Why, you are
slighter than my Carrie.”

“Oh, sir, but I am very strong, and I sleep on a hard bed
much better than on a soft one; and the woods shelter me
kindly, and the heavens cover me, and the eye of God is over
all, and I have no fear, somehow; and it is only in our fears, I
believe, that Nature is ever terrible.”

And, as she spoke these words, she turned half about upon
the saddle of her pony, and her hand was waved toward the
woods, and toward heaven; and the confidence that glowed in
all her features was absolutely spiritual, while the action was
that of a perfect grace. And, in the thoughts of Carrie and her
father both, she seemed even to grow beautiful — her eye kindling
as if rapt, her cheek glowing, and her hand waving with
an air so nobly graceful. Very strange and wondrous winning
did she seem, certainly, as she sat her horse, like a damsel of
Mexico, her costume half in the picturesque fashion of the
Turkish sultana, while her head was surmounted with a straw
sombrero, from beneath which her hair in mass, clipped tolerably
short, fell down upon her shoulders.

“Come with us, girl!” cried the veteran, with an almost savage
look of authority.

“Do, do come with us, Nelly!” cried Carrie, while the tears
rose into her eyes.

“Thanks, thanks! But no! my necessity lies here, and I
must go to that. But oh, may God's blessing cover you as with
a mantle, and his love gladden you, wherever you go, with all
the blossoms of the spring!”

And, hastily lifting the hand of Carrie Sinclair to her lips,
she kissed it, flung it from her as if passionately, and putting
spurs to her pony, darted away like an arrow from the bow.