University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

By a short path the stranger and his companion
moved from the bridge to the place of gathering. It
was not long before they found themselves in the thick
of the crowd, upon the green plot in front of the church,
from the portals of which the heavy roll of the drum
commanded due attention from the populace. The
proclamation which the commander of the garrison at
Dorchester now proceeded to read to the multitude,
was of no small importance. Its contents were well
calculated to astound and terrify the Carolinians who
heard it. It was one of the many movements of the
British commander, unfortunately for the cause of royalty
in that region, which, more than any thing besides,
contributed to arouse and irritate that spirit of resistance
on the part of the invaded people, which it should
have been the studious policy of the invaders to mollify
and suppress. The document in question had been
just issued by Sir Henry Clinton, declaring all paroles
or protections granted hitherto to be null and void, and
requiring the holders of them, within twenty days, to
resume the character of British subjects—taking up
arms in the promotion of his majesty's cause, against
their brethren, under pain of being treated as rebels to
his government. The motive of Sir Henry for a
movement so exceedingly injudicious, may be only
conjectured from the concurrent circumstances of the
time. The continental army, under De Kalb, was on
its way to the South—Gates had been ordered to command

it—and this intelligence, though not generally
known to the people of Carolina, could not long be
withheld from their possession. It was necessary to
keep them from any co-operation with their approaching
friends; and no more effectual mode, simply considered
by itself, could have been suggested to the
mind of the Briton than their employment under his
own banners. This apart, the invasion of the adjoining
states of Virginia and North Carolina had been long
since determined upon, and was now to be attempted.
Troops were wanted for this purpose, and no policy
seemed better than to expend one set of rebels upon
another. It was also necessary to secure the conquered
province; and the terrors of the hangman were providently
held out, in order to impel the conquered to the
minor risks of the bayonet and shot. The error was
a fatal one. From that hour the declension of British
power was precipitately hurried in Carolina: the people
lost all confidence in those who had already so grossly
deceived them; for the condition of the protection or
parole called for no military service from the citizen
who took it. He was simply to be neutral in the contest;
and however unworthy may have been the spirit
consenting even to this condition, it cannot be denied
that a foul deception had been practised upon them.
The consequences were inevitable; and the determined
hostility of the foe was coupled, on the part of the
Carolinians, with a wholesale scorn of the want of
probity manifested by the enemy they were now not
so unwilling to encounter.

From the church-porch the proclamation was again
read to the assembled multitude. The crowd was
variously composed, and various indeed was the effect
which it produced among them. The stranger and his
companion, at a little distance, listened closely to the
words of the instrument; and a smile of joy, not unmarked
by Davis, played over the features of the
former as he heard it read. The latter looked his indignation:
he could not understand why such a paper
should give pleasure to his comrade, and could not

forbear, in a whisper, demanding the occasion of his
satisfaction.

“It pleases you, squire? I see you smile!”

“It does please me—much, very much,” responded
the other, quickly, and with emphasis, but in a whisper
also.

“What!” with more earnestness, said the countryman—“what!
does it please you to listen to such
villany as this? I do not understand you.”

“Not so loud, comrade; you have a neck, and these
fellows a rope: besides, there's one to the left of us
whose looks I like not.”

The other turned in the direction signified, and saw
the propriety of his companion's caution, as he beheld
within a few feet the harsh features of the notorious
Captain Huck, a furious and bloody tory-leader, well
known, and held in odious estimation, throughout the
neighbourhood. The stranger went on, still whispering—

“Look pleased, friend Davis, if you can: this is
no time to show any but false colours to the enemy.
I am pleased, really, as you think, and have my reason
for being so, which you shall know in good time. Take
breath, and listen.”

The paper was finished, and the detachment moved
on its way to the “George Tavern,” the crowd generally
following; and there it was again read. Our two friends
kept together, and proceeded with the multitude. The
stranger was eminently watchful and observant: he
noted well the sentiment of indignation which all faces
manifested; there could be no doubt of that expression.
The sober farmer, the thoughtless and gay-hearted
planter of the neighbourhood, the drudge, the
mechanic, the petty chapman—all had in their looks
that severe soberness which showed a thought and
spirit, active, and more to be respected, as they were
kept so well restrained.

“God save the king!” cried the officer, as he concluded
the instrument, from the steps of the tavern.

“Ay, God save the king, and God bless him, too!”

cried old Humphries, at the entrance. A few only of
the crowd gave back the cry, and even with them the
prayer was coldly uttered; and there was nothing like
that spirit which, when the heart goes with the decree
of the ruler, makes the welkin ring with its unregulated
rejoicings.

“You are silent: you do not cry with the rest,” said
one at the elbow of the stranger. He turned to behold
the features of the tory-captain, of whom we have
already spoken, who now, with a scrutinizing glance,
placed himself close beside the person he had addressed.
The mean cunning—the low, searching expression
of his look—were eminently disgusting to the
youth, who replied, while resuming his old position—

“What? God save the king? Did I not say it? It's
very natural; for I'm so used to it. I'm quite willing
that God should save his majesty—God knows he
needs it.”

This was said with a very devout countenance, and
the expression was so composed and quiet, that the
tory could say nothing, though still not satisfied, seemingly,
with much that was in the language. It sounded
very like a sneer, and yet, strictly speaking, it was
perfectly unexceptionable. Baffled in this quarter, the
loyalist, who was particularly desirous of establishing
his own claims to British favour, now turned with a
similar inquiry to Davis; but the countryman was
ready, and a nudge in the side from his companion,
had any thing been wanting, moved him to a similar
answer. Huck was not exactly prepared to meet with
so much willingness on the part of two persons whose
movements he had suspected, and had been watching;
but concluding them now to be well-affected, he did not
scruple to propose to them to become members of the
troop of horse he was engaged in raising. To the
stranger he first addressed himself, complimenting him
upon his fine limbs and figure, and insisting upon the
excellent appearance he would make, well-mounted and
in British uniform. A smile of sovereign contempt
overspread the youth's features as he listened to the

tory patiently to the end. Calmly, then, he begged
permission to decline the proposed honour.

“Why, you are loyal, sir?” he asked, seeming to
doubt.

“Who denies it?” fiercely replied the stranger.

“Oh, nobody; I mean not to offend: but, as a
loyal subject, you can scarce withhold yourself from
service.”

“I do not contemplate to do so, sir.”

“And why not join my troop? Come, now, you
shall have a lieutenancy; for, blast me, but I like your
looks, and would be devilish glad to have you. You
can't refuse.”

“But I do,” said the other, calmly—almost contemptuously.

“And wherefore?” Huck inquired, with some show
of pique in his countenance and manner—“wherefore?
What better service? and, to a soldier of fortune, let
me ask you, what better chances than now of making
every thing out of these d—d rebels, who have gone
into the swamps, leaving large estates for confiscation?
What better business?”

“None: I fully agree with you.”

“And you will join my troop?”

“No!”

The man looked astonished. The coolness and
composure with which the denial was made surprising
him not less than the denial itself. With a look of
doubt and wonderment, he went on—

“Well, you know best; but, of course, as a good
citizen, you will soon be in arms: twenty days, you
know, are all that's allowed you.”

“I do not need so many: as a good citizen, I shall
be in arms in less time.”

“In whose troop?—where?”

“Ah, now we come to the point,” was the sudden
reply; “and you will now see why I have been able
to withstand the tempting offers you have made me. I
am thinking to form a troop of my own, and should I
do so, I certainly should not wish so much success to
yours as to fall into your ranks.”

“Indeed! Well, I'm glad, any how, that his majesty
is likely to be so well served with officers. Have you
yet applied for a commission to the commandant?”

“No: nor shall I, till my recruits are strong enough
to make my appearance respectable.”

“That's right! I know that by experience. They
never like you half so well as when you bring your
men with you: they don't want officers so much as
men; and some of the commands, if they can chouse
you out of your recruits, will not stop to do so; and
then you may whistle for your commission. I suppose
your friend, here, is already secured for your
squad?”

The tory referred to Davis, who did not leave his
companion to reply; but, without scruple, avowed himself
as having already been partially secured for the
opposition troop.

“Well, good luck to you. But I say, comrade, you
have commanded before—of course, you are prepared
to lead?”

“I have the heart for it,” was the reply; and as the
stranger spoke, he extended his arms towards the tory
captain, while elevating his figure to its fullest height;
“and you can say yourself for the limbs. As for the
head, it must be seen if mine's good for any thing.”

“I doubt it not; and service comes easy after a
brush or two. But wouldn't you like to know the
colonel?”

“Who?—Proctor—the colonel in command here?”

“The same.”

“In time, I'll trouble you, perhaps, to help me to
that knowledge. Not yet; not till I get my recruits.”

“You are right in that; and, talking of the recruits,
I must see after mine; and, so, a good-evening to you,
and success. We shall meet again.” The tory moved
among the separate groups as he spoke, and the stranger
turned to Davis, while he muttered—

“Ay, we shall meet again, Master Huck, or it will
be no fault of mine. If we do not, Old Nick takes
marvellous care of his own. But, ha! comrade, keep
you here awhile: there is one that I would speak with.”

At a little distance apart, at one wing of the
tavern, stood a man, attired in the blue homespun
common to the country wear, among the humbler
classes; and with nothing particular to distinguish
him, if we may except a face somewhat more round
and rosy than belongs usually to the people dwelling in
Dorchester and its neighbourhood. He was like them
in one respect—having a sidelong, indirect movement,
coupled with a sluggish, lounging, indifferent gait,
which is the general feature of this people, unless
when roused by insult or provocation. In his hand he
carried a whip of common leather, which he smacked
occasionally, either for the sharp, shot-like sounds
which it sent forth, or when he desired to send to a
greater distance that most grumbling of all aristocrats,
the hog, as it approached him. The quick eye of the
stranger had singled out this personage; and, leaving
Davis where he stood, and moving quickly through
the straggling groups that still clustered in front of the
tavern, he at once approached him confidently as an
old acquaintance. The other seemed not to observe
his coming, until our first acquaintance, speaking as he
advanced, caught his notice. This had no sooner been
done, than the other was in motion. Throwing aside
his sluggishness of look, he recognised by a glance the
stranger youth, and his head was bent forward to listen,
as he saw that he was about to speak. The words of
our old acquaintance were few, but significant—

“I am here before you—say nothing—lead on, and
I will follow.”

With a nod, the person addressed looked but once
at the speaker; then, without a word, moving from his
easy position against the tavern, and throwing aside all
show of sluggishness, he led the way for the stranger;
and, taking an oblique path, which carried them in a
short time into the neighbouring woods, they soon left
the village behind them. Davis had been reluctant
to separate from the companion to whom he had so
readily yielded his confidence. He had his doubts—
as who could be without them in that season of general

distrust?—but when he remembered the warm, manly
frankness of the stranger—his free, bold, generous, and
gentle countenance—he did not suffer himself to doubt
for a moment more that his secret would be safe in his
possession. This, indeed, was the least of his difficulties.
The fair coquette of the inn had attracted
him strongly, and, with a heavy heart, he turned into the
“Royal George;” and, throwing his form at length
upon a bench, he solaced himself with an occasional
glance at Bella Humphries, whose duties carried her
to and fro between the bar and the sitting-room; and
with thoughts of that vengeance upon his enemy
which his new position with the stranger seemed to
promise him.

Meanwhile, following the steps of the individual he
had so singled out, the latter kept on his way until the
village had been fairly passed; then, plunging down a
little by-path, into which the former had gone, he soon
overtook him, and they moved on closely together in
their common progress. The guide was a stout able-bodied
person, of thirty years, or perhaps more—
a rough-looking man, one seemingly born and bred
entirely in the humble life of the country. He was
powerful in physical development, rather stout than
high, with a short, thick neck—a head round and large,
with eyes small, settled, and piercing—and features
even solemn in their general expression of severity.
He carried no visible weapons, but he seemed the man
to use them; for no one who looked in his face could
doubt that he was full of settled purpose, firm in his
resolve, and reckless, having once determined, in the
prosecution of the most desperate enterprise.

The way they were pursuing grew more and more
tangled as they went, gradually sinking in level, until
the footing became slightly insecure, and at length
terminated in the soft oozy swamp surface common to
the margin of most rivers in the low country of the
south. They were now close on the banks of the
Ashley, which wound its way, perceptible to the two
in occasional glimpses, through the close-set foliage
by which they were surrounded. A few more strides

through the copse and over the miry surface, brought
them again to a dry elevation, isolated by small sluices
of water, and more closely wrapped in brush and covering.
Here their progress was arrested, for they were
now perfectly secure from interruption. In all this time,
no word had been exchanged between the parties; but
the necessity for farther caution being now over, they
came to a pause, and the silence was broken as follows
by our last-made acquaintance:—

“We are safe here, Major Singleton, and can now
speak freely. The sharpest scout in the British garrison
could not well come upon us without warning,
and if he did, would do so by accident.”

“I'm glad of it, for I'm heartily tired, and not a little
impatient to talk with you. But let us be at ease.”

They threw themselves upon the ground—our elder
acquaintance, whom we now know as Major Singleton,
with an air of superiority which seemed familiar, choosing
the most favourable spot, while the other remained
standing until his companion had adjusted himself;
and then took his seat respectfully on the ridgy roots
of the pine-tree spreading over them.

“And now, Humphries,” said Singleton, “what of
my sister—is she safe, and how did she bear the
journey?”

“Safe, major, and well as could be expected, though
very feeble. We had some trouble crossing the Santee,
but it did not keep us long, and we got on tolerably
well after. The whole party are now safe at `The
Oaks.”'

“Well, you must guide me there to-night, if possible;
I know nothing of the place, and but little of the country.
Years have passed since I last went over it.”

“What! have you never been at `The Oaks,' major?
I was told you had.”

“Yes, when a boy; but I have no distinct memory
on the subject, except of the noble trees, the thick
white moss, and the dreamy quiet of all things around.
The place, I know, is beautiful.”

“You may well say so, major; a finer don't happen

often in the low country, and the look at it from the
river is well worth a journey.”

“Ah! I have never seen it from that quarter. But
you said my uncle was well, and”—here the voice faltered
a little—“and my cousin Katharine—They are
all well?”

“All well, sir. The old squire is rather down in
the mouth, you see, for he's taken a protection, and he
can't help seeing the troubles of the county. It's this
that makes his trouble; and though he used, of old time,
to be a dashing, hearty, lively, talkative gentleman,
always pleasant and good-humoured, yet now he says
nothing; and if he happens to smile at all, he catches
himself up a minute after, and looks mighty sorry for
it. Ah, major, these cursed protections—they've made
many a good heart sore in this neighbourhood, and the
worst is to come yet, or I'm mistaken.”

“A sore subject, Humphries, and not very necessary
to speak on. But what news—what stirring, and how
get on our recruits?”

“Slowly enough, major; but that is to be expected
while the country is overrun with the red-coats. The
folks are afraid to move, and our poor swamp-boys
can't put their noses out yet—not until the enemy turns
his back on them for a while, and gives them chance
for a little skirmish, without the risk of the rope. But
things would change, I'm certain, if the great general
you spoke of, with the continentals, would only come
south. Our people only want an opportunity.”

“And they shall have it. But what intelligence here
from the city?”

“None, sir, or little. You heard the proclamation?”

“Yes, with joy—with positive delight. The movement
is a grand one for our cause: it must bring out
the ground-rats—those who skulked for safety into contracts,
measuring honour by acres, and counting their
duty to their country by the value of their crops.”

“True—I see that, major, but that's the thing I
dread. Why should you desire to bring them out?”

“Why, because, though with us in spirit and sentiment,

they yet thought to avoid danger, while they
believed themselves unable to serve us by their risk.
Now, forced into the field—compelled to fight—is it
not clear that the argument is all in favour of our side?
Will they not rather fight in conformity with their feelings
and opinions than against them? particularly when
the latter course must place them in arms against their
friends and neighbours—not to speak of their countrymen—in
many instances to their relatives, and the
members of their own families. By forcing into the
field those who were quiet before, Sir Henry Clinton
has forced hundreds into our ranks, who will be as
slow to lay down their weapons as they were to take
them up.”

“I hope so, major; but I fear that many will rather
strike for what seems the strongest, and not ask many
questions as to which is the justest side.”

“No—this I fear not. The class of people on which
I rely are too proud to suffer this imposition, and too
spirited not to resist the indignity which it puts upon
them. They must be roused by the trick which has
been practised, and will shake off their sleep. Let us
hope for it, at least.”

“I am willing, sir, but fear it. They have quite too
much at stake: they have too much plate, too many
negroes, and live too comfortably to be willing to stand
a chance of losing all by taking up arms against the
British, who are squat close alongside of them.”

“So should I fear with you, Humphries, and for like
reasons, if the protections protected them. I doubt not
that they would be willing to keep quiet, and take no
part in this struggle, if the conquerors were wise enough
to let them alone; but they kick and cuff them on all
occasions, and patriots are frequently made by kicking.
I care not for the process, so it gives us the commodity.
Let them kick on, and may they get extra legs for the
purpose!”

“Amen,” said Humphries, gravely. Then changing
the topic somewhat, he asked him—

“You were with Jack Davis, of Goose Creek, major,

when you first came up—I thought you were unknown
in these parts?”

“You thought rightly; I am still unknown, but I
learned to know something of him you speak of, and
circumstances threw us together.” Here Singleton
related the occurrences at the tavern, as already known
to us. Humphries, who was the son of the landlord,
gave close attention, and with something more than
ordinary interest. He was not at any time a man to
show his feelings openly, but there was an increased
pressure of his lips together as that portion fell upon
his ear which described the interference of his sister,
the fair coquette Bella, for the protection of her castoff
lover. His breathing was far less free at this
point of the narrative; and when Singleton concluded,
the listener muttered, partly in soliloquy and partly in
reply—

“A poor fool of a girl, that sister of mine, major;
loves the fine colours of the jay in spite of his cursed
squalling, and has played upon that good fellow, Davis
—Prickly Ash, as we sometimes call him in the village—till
he's half out of his wits. Her head, too, is
half turned with that red coat; but I'll cure her of that,
and cure him too, or there's no virtue in twisted bore.
But, major, did you do any thing with Davis?”

The answer was affirmative, and Humphries continued—

“That's a gain, sir; for Davis is true, if he says it,
and comes of good breed: he'll fight like a bull-dog,
and his teeth shall meet in the flesh. Besides, he's a
great shot with the rifle, like most of the boys from
Goose Creek. His old mother kept him back, or he'd
a-joined us long ago, for I've seen how his thoughts
run. But it's not too late, and if the word's once out
of his mouth, he's to be depended on—he's safe.”

“A few more will do. You have several others,
have you not, gathering in a safe place!” said Singleton.

“In the swamp—thirteen, true as steel, and ready
for fight. They're only some six miles off, and can

be brought up in two hours, at notice. See, this river
comes from the heart of the Cypress Swamp, where
they shelter; and if there be no tory among us to show
them the track, I defy all Proctor's garrison to find us
out.”

“We must be among them to-morrow. But the evening
wears, and the breeze freshens up from the river:
it is sweet and fresh from the sea—and how different,
too, from that of the forests! But come—I must go
back, and have my horse in readiness for this ride to
`The Oaks,' where you must attend me.”

“Your horse! Where is he?” asked the other,
quickly.

“In your father's stable.”

“He must not be suffered to stay there; if he is,
you will not have him long. We must hide him out,
or that black-hearted tory, Huck, will be on his quarters
before three days: he's beating about the country now
for horses as well as men.”

“See to it, then, for I must run no such risk. Let
us return at once,” said Singleton.

“Yes; but we take different roads: we must not
know each other. Can you find the way back alone,
major?”

“Yes—I doubt not.”

“To the left now—round that water; keep straight
up from the river for a hundred yards, and you fall into
the track. Your horse shall be ready in an hour, and
I will meet you at supper.”

They parted—Singleton on his way as directed, and
Humphries burying himself still deeper in the copse.