University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

Singleton and Humphries were hailed as they approached
the patrols, by the voice of Lance Frampton,
the younger son of the maniac. He had volunteered

to fill the post which had been deserted by Goggle.
He told them of his absence, and was gratified by
receiving from his commander a brief compliment
upon his precision and readiness. Such approval was
grateful to the boy, coming from Singleton; for the
gentle manner of the latter had already won greatly
on his affections. The boy, though but fifteen, was
manly and fearless, full of ambition, and very promising.
He rode well, and could use his rifle already
with the best shots of the country. The unsettled life
of the partisan warrior did not seem to disagree with
his tender years, so far as he had already tried it; and his
cheerless fortunes, indeed, almost denied him the choice
of any other. Still, though manly in most respects,
something of sadness rested upon his pale countenance,
which was soft like that of a girl, and quite
unlike the bronzed visages common to the sunny region
in which he had been born and lived. In addition to
the leading difference between himself and the people
of his own condition around him, his tastes were naturally
fine, his feelings delicate and susceptible, his
impressions acute and lasting. He inclined to Major
Singleton intuitively, as the manly freedom, and ease
of deportment, for which his commander was distinguished,
were mingled with a grace, gentleness, and
pleasant propriety, to which his own nature insensibly
beguiled him. He saluted them, as we have already
said, with becoming modesty, unfolded his intelligence,
and then quietly sank back to his position.

Humphries did not seem much surprised at the
intelligence.

“As I expected,” he said; “it's the nature of the
beast. The fellow was a born skunk, and he will die
one. There's no mending that sort of animal, major,
and there's little use, and some danger, to waste time
on it.”

“How long is it, Lance, since his departure became
known to Lieutenant Davis?” was the inquiry of Singleton.

“Not a half-hour, sir. When Lieutenant Davis

went the rounds, sir, to relieve him, the place was
empty, and he said Goggle must have gone before
the storm came up.”

“Had you the storm here, Lance?” inquired Humphries.

“Not much of it, sir. It swept more to the left,
and must have been heavy where it went, for the roaring
of the wind was louder here than it felt. The trees
doubled a little, but didn't give—only some that had the
hearts eaten out. They went down, sir, at the first
push of the hurricane.”

Singleton conferred briefly with Humphries, and
then despatched the boy to Davis, with instructions to
place the party in moving order by sunrise—the two
officers, riding more slowly in the same direction, conferred
upon future arrangements.

“That fellow's absence, Humphries, will compel us
to change our quarters, for his only object must be to
carry the news to Dorchester.”

“That's it, for certain, major; and the sooner we
move the better. By midday to-morrow, Proctor and
Huck, and the whole of 'em would be on our haunches,
and we only a mouthful. A start by the time the sun
squints on the pine tops, sir, would do no harm; and
then, if you move up to Moultrie's old camp at Bacon's
bridge, it will be far enough to misguide them for the
present. From the bridge, you see, you can make the
swamp almost at any moment, and yet it's not so far
but you can get to `The Oaks' soon as ever Proctor
turns back upon Dorchester.”

“What force has he there, think you?”

“Not enough to go far, sir, or stay out long. The
garrison's but slim, and Huck is for the up country, I
heard him say. He may give you a drive before he
goes, for he is mighty ready to please Proctor; but
then he goes by Monk's corner, and so on up to Nelson's
ferry; and it will be out of his way to set upon
you at Moultrie's.”

“Why does he take that route, when his course is
for the Catawba?”

“Ha! sir, you don't know Huck. He's an old
scout, and knows where the best picking lies. He
goes along that route, sir, skimming it like so much
cream as he goes; and wo to the housekeeper, loyalist
or whig, that gives him supper, and shows him too
much plate. Huck loves fine things; and for that
matter, plunder of any kind never goes amiss with a
tory.”

“True; and the course he takes through Sumter,
gives him spoil enough, if he dares touch it; but
Marion will soon be at Nelson's, where we hope to
meet him. Let us ride on now, and see to our movement.”

“With your leave, now, major, I'll go back to Dorchester.”

“With what object?”

“Why, sir, only, as one may say, to curse and quit.
That rascal Goggle will be in Proctor's quarters by
daylight, and will soon have a pretty story for the
colonel. I must try and get there before him, so as to
stop a little the blow. Since it must come, it needn't
come on anybody's head but mine; and if I can keep
my old father from trap, why, you see, sir, it's my
born duty to do so.”

“How will you do that?”

“I'll tell you, sir. Dad shall go to Proctor before
Goggle, and shall denounce me himself. He shall
make something out of the Englishman by his loyalty,
and chouse Goggle at the same time. Besides, sir, he
will be able to tell a truer story, for he shall say that
we've gone from the Stonoe, which, you know, will
be the case by that time. So, if he looks for us there,
as Goggle will advise him, the old man will stand
better than ever in the good graces of the enemy;
and will be better able to give us intelligence, and
help our cause.”

“But will your father like such a mission?”

“Like it, major! why, aint I his son—his only
son—and won't he do, think you, what I ask him? To
be sure he will. You will see.”

“The plan is good, and reminds me of Pryor. You
will see him, and hurry his recruiting. Say to him,
from me, how much Col. Marion expects from him, as,
indeed, the letter I gave him has already persuaded
him. Remind him of that letter, and let him read it
to you. This will please him, and prompt to new
efforts, should he prove dull. But let him be quiet—
nothing impatient, till Colonel Walton is prepared to
start. Only keep in readiness, and wait the signal.
For yourself, when you have done this, delay nothing,
and risk nothing in Dorchester. You have no plea if
found out; and they will hang you off-hand as soon as
taken. Follow to Bacon's bridge as soon as possible,
and if you find me not there, I am either in the swamp,
or in the south towards the Edisto; possibly on the
road to Parker's ferry. I wish to keep moving to baffle
any pursuit.”

Protracted but little longer, and only the better to
perfect their several plans, the conference was at
length concluded, and the two separated; the one proceeding
to his bivouac, and the other on his journey
of peril, along the old track leading to the bridge of
Dorchester.

Singleton had scarcely resumed command of his
squad before the fugitive Goggle stood before him,
with a countenance cold and impassive as ever, and
with an air of assurance the most easy and self-satisfied.
The eye of the partisan was concentrated upon
him with a searching glance, sternly and calmly, but
he shrunk not beneath it.

“You have left your duty, sir—your post; what
have you to say?”

The offender frankly avowed his error, but spoke
in extenuation.

“The storm was coming up, sir; nobody was going
to trouble us, and I thought a little stretch to the old
woman—my mother, sir, that is—would do no harm.”

“You were wrong, sir, and must be punished.
Your duty was to obey, not to think. Lieutenant
Davis, a corporal's guard!”

Goggle looked somewhat astounded at this prompt
movement, and urged the measure as precipitate and
unusual.

“But, major, the troopers go off continually from
Col. Washington's troop, when they want to see their
families—”

“The greater the necessity of arresting it in ours;
but you will make your plea at morning, for with the
sunrise you shall be examined.”

The guard appeared, and as the torch flamed above
the head of the fugitive, Singleton ordered him to be
searched narrowly. With the order, the ready soldiers
seized upon and bound him. His rifle was withdrawn
from his grasp—a measure inexpressibly annoying to
the offender, as it was a favourite weapon, and he an
excellent shot with it. In the close search which he
underwent, his knife, and, indeed, everything in his
possession, was carefully withdrawn, and he had reason
to congratulate himself upon the timely delivery of
the stolen watch to his mother; for the prisoner from
whom it had been taken had already announced its
loss; and had it been found upon the thief, it would
have been matter, under the stern policy pursued by
Singleton, for instantly hurrying him to some one of
the thousand swinging boughs overhead. With the
clear daylight, a court martial at the drum-head sat in
judgment on the prisoner. He told his story with a
composure that would have done credit to innocence.
There was no contradiction in his narrative. Singleton
proposed sundry questions.

“Why did you not stand when called to?”

“I was but one, major, and you were two; and
when the British and tories are thick about us, it
stands to reason that it was them calling. I didn't
make out your voice.”

“And why did you not proceed directly to your
mother's? why let so much time elapse between the
pursuit and your appearance at her cabin?”

“I lay close after they had gone, major, for I didn't
know that they had done looking after me.”

Prompt and ready were his several responses, and,
apart from the initial offence of leaving his post,
nothing could be ascertained calculated to convict
him of any other error. In the mean time he exhibited
no more interest in the scene than in the most
ordinary matter. One side of his body, as was its
wont, rested upon the other; one leg hung at ease,
and his head, sluggish like the rest of his person, was
bent over, so as to lie on his left shoulder. At this
stage of the proceedings, his mother, whose anxieties
had been greater on the subject than those of her son,
now made her appearance, tottering towards the
group with a step in which energy and feebleness
were strangely united. Her first words were those of
reproach to Singleton:—

“Now, wherefore, gentleman, do you bind the boy?
Is it because he loves the old woman, his own mother?
Oh, for shame! it's a cruel shame to do so! Will you
not loose the cord?”

She hobbled over to the place where her son stood
alone, and her bony fingers were for a moment busied
with the thongs, as if she strove to release him. The
prisoner himself twisted from her, and his repulse was
not confined to his action.

“A'drat it, mother! have done. Say it out what you
know, and done with it.”

“What can you say, dame, in this matter?” inquired
Singleton.

“It's my son you tie with ropes—it's a good son to
me—will you not loose him?”

“He has done wrong, dame; he has left his post,
and has neglected his duty.”

“He came to see his mother—his old mother; to
bring her comfort, for he had been long away, and she
looked for him—she thought he had had wrong. Was
there harm in this?”

“None, only as he had other duties, not less important,
which he sacrificed for it. But say what you
know.”

She did so, and confirmed his story; was heard

patiently through a somewhat tedious narrative, in
which her own feelings, and a strange show of love
for the indifferent savage, were oddly blended with the
circumstances which she told. Though unavailing to
save him from punishment, the evidence of his mother,
and her obvious regard, had the effect of modifying its
severity. The court found him guilty, and sentenced
him to the lash. Twenty lashes, and an imprisonment
in the discretion of the commander, were
decreed as his punishment.

A long howl—a shriek of demoniac energy—from the
old woman, as she heard the doom, rung in the ears
of the party. Her long skinny finger was uplifted in
vain threatenings, and her lips moved in vague adjurations
and curses. Singleton regretted the necessity
which made him sanction the decree, but example was
necessary in the lax state of discipline at that time
prevailing throughout the country. Marion, who was
himself just and inflexible, had made him a disciplinarian.

“You will not say `Yes' to this,” cried the old
woman to Singleton. “You are a gentleman, and
your words are kind. You will forgive the boy.”

“I dare not, dame. The punishment is already
slight in comparison with that usually given for an
offence so likely to be fatal as this of which your son
has been guilty. He must submit.”

The old woman raved furiously, but her son rebuked
her. His eyes were thrown up obliquely to the commander,
and the expression of his face was that of a
sneaking defiance, as he rudely enough checked her
in her denunciations.

“Hold tongue, mother—a'drat it! Can't you thank
the gentlemen for their favour?”

A couple of soldiers strapped him up; when, having
first taken off his outer jacket, one of them, with a
common wagon-whip, prepared to execute the sentence,
while the old woman, almost in danger from the lash,
pressed closely to the criminal, now denouncing and
now imploring the court; at one moment abusing her

son for his folly in returning to the camp, and the next,
with salt tears running down her withered cheeks,
seeking to sooth and condole with him in his sufferings.
They would have removed her from the spot before the
punishment began, but she threw herself upon the earth
when they attempted it, and would only rise when
they forbore the effort. He, the criminal, was as impassive
as ever. Nothing seemed to touch him, either
in the punishment he was to receive, or the agonizing
sensations which he witnessed in his mother, and
which were all felt in his behalf. He helped the soldiers
to remove his vest, and readily turned his back
towards them, while, obliquely over his shoulder, his
huge staring eyes were turned to the spot where Singleton
stood, with glance averted from the scene of
ignominy.

The first stroke was followed by a piercing shriek
from the old woman—a bitter shriek and a curse; but
with the stroke she began counting the blows.

“One”—“two”—her enumeration perpetually broken
by exclamations of one sort or another—now of
pity, now of horror, denunciation, and the most impotent
expressions of paralytic rage—in some such phrases as
the following:—“The poor boy!—his mother never
whipped him!—they will murder him!—two—for
he came to see her—three—was ever the like to
whip a son for this!—four—God curse them! God
curse them!—five—I can curse, too, that I can—they
shall feel me, they shall hear me!—six, seven—that
is eight—nine. Oh, the wretches! but bear up, Ned,
bear up—it is half over—that is ten—my poor boy!
Oh, do not strike so hard! Look! the red on the
shirt—it is blood! Oh, wretches! have you no
mercy?—it is most done—there, there—stop! Hell
blast you for ever!—that was twenty. Why did you
strike another? I curse you with a black curse for
that other stroke! You ragged imp!—you vile polecat!—I
curse you for that stroke!”

The execution was over. Unflinching to the last,
though the strokes were severely dealt, the criminal

had borne them. He looked the very imbodiment of
callosity. His muscles were neither composed nor
rigid during the operation; and though the flesh evidently
felt, the mood of the wretch seemed to have
undergone no change. Before he could yet be freed
from the cords, his mother's arms were thrown around
him; and though he strove to shake her off, and shrunk
from her embraces, yet she persisted, and, with a childish
fondness, she strove, with kind words, while helping
him on with his jacket, to console him for his
sufferings.

“And you will go with me now, Neddy—you will
go from these cruel men?”

“I cannot, mother; don't you know I'm to be under
guard so long as the major chooses?”

“He will not—you will not tie him again; you will
let him go now with his mother.”

She turned to Singleton as she spoke; but his eye
refused her ere his tongue replied—

“He will be in custody for twelve hours; and let
me say to you, dame, that for such an offence his punishment
is a very slight one. Marion's men would
suffer two hundred lashes, and something more restraint,
for the same crime.”

“God curse him!” she said, bitterly, as she again
approached her son, with whom she conversed apart.
He whispered but a word in her ear, and then turned
away from her; she looked after him a moment, as
the guard marched him into the rear, but her finger
was uplifted towards Singleton, and the fierce fire
shooting out from her gray eye, and moving in the
direction of the pointed finger, was long after remembered
by him. In a few moments more, she was
gone from the camp, and, with a degree of elasticity
scarcely comporting with her years, was trudging fast
on her way to Dorchester.

Waiting until she had fairly departed, Singleton at
length left his lodge on the Stonoe, and leaving no trace
of his sojourn but the dying embers of his fires, he led
the way towards the designated encampment at Bacon's

Bridge. This was a few miles above Dorchester, on
the same river, and immediately contiguous to the Cypress
Swamp. An old battery and barracks, built by
General Moultrie, and formerly his station, prior to the
siege of Charlestown, furnished a much more comfortable
place of abode than that which he had just vacated.
Here he took that repose which the toils of the
last twenty-four hours rendered absolutely necessary.