University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

Barsfield retired to his slumbers that night with
pleasant anticipations. Blonay again sought the woods,
and sleeplessly sought, by the doubtful moonlight, his
way into the same swamp recesses which he had traversed
through the day. His leading passion was revenge,
and he spared no pains to secure it. He could sleep
standing against a tree; and he seemed not even to need
repose at all. He was gone all night, yet appeared at
the mansion of Mr. Berkeley ready for his breakfast,
and seemingly as if he had never felt fatigue.

The two maidens the next morning stood conversing
in the piazza. Barsfield, with his corps, baggage-wagons
and all, had just departed. Blonay, too, had set off, but
in a different direction. Piney Grove was once more
left to its old, sweet quiet; and a painful restraint and a
heavy weight seemed taken from the heart of Janet
Berkeley with the absence of her father's guests.

“Well, Janet,” exclaimed the livelier Rose Duncan,
as they looked down the long avenue, and surveyed its
quiet, “I am heartily glad our military visiters are gone.
I am sick of big swords, big whiskers, and big feathers,
the more particularly indeed, as, with many of this sort
of gentry, these endowments seem amply sufficient to
atone for, and redeem, the most outrageous stupidity,
mixed with much more monstrous self-esteem. There
was not one of these creatures, now, that could fairly
persuade a body, even in the most trying country emergency,
to remember she had a heart at all. All was
stuff and stiffness, buttons and buckram; and when the
creatures did make a move, it was a sort of wire and
screw exhibition—a dreadful operation in mechanics, as

if a clumsy inventor, armed with thumbs rather than
fingers, and mortally apprehensive that his work would
go to pieces before he could get it safely out of his
hands, had wheeled it out, and was wheeling it in, soured
and sullen, from a consciousness that, in so wheeling it,
the rickety thing had not shown to advantage. And
these are soldiers?—Well, Heaven save us, I pray, as
much from their love as from their anger. The latter
might bayonet one, it is true; but I should as surely die
of the annoyance and ennui that would inevitably come
with the other. Look up, my dear cousin, and tell me
what you think.”

It was thus that the lively Rose Duncan discoursed
of the tory troop to her cousin. Janet replied quietly—
a pleasant but subdued smile touching her lips, softly
and sweet, as a faint blush of sunlight resting upon some
drooping flower by the wayside.

“And yet, my dear Rose, you have no reason to
complain: you certainly made a conquest of the young
lieutenant, Mr. Clayton; his eyes spoke eloquently
enough; and his mouth, whenever it was opened, was
full of the prettiest compliments. You must not be ungrateful.”

“Nor am I. I do not complain of, nor yet will I appropriate,
the `goods the gods provide me.' I take leave
to congratulate myself on their leaves-taking—all—not
to omit my simpering, sweet, slender Adonis, the gentle
lieutenant himself. Pshaw, Janet, how can you
suppose that I should endure such a sillabub sort of
creature? You must have pitied me, hearing, with no
hope of escape, his rhapsodies about music and poetry—
moonlight and bandana handkerchiefs; for he mixed
matters up in such inextricable confusion, that I could
have laughed in his face but that it required some effort
to overcome the stupid languor with which he possessed
me. You needn't smile, Janet—he did,—he was a
most delicate bore.”

“And you really desire me to believe, Rose, that he
has made no interest in your heart?” was the response
of Janet to all this tirade. The graver maiden of the
two seemed disposed to adopt some of the light humour
of her companion, and annoy her after her own fashion,

“Interest!—heart!—how can you talk such stuff,
Janet, and look so serious all the while? You should
be pelted with pine-burs, and I will undertake your
punishment before the day is well over. By-the-way,
talking of pine-burs, I am reminded, though I don't see
why, of the strange blear-eyed countryman. What a
curious creature, with that stiff, straight black hair—so
glossy black,—and those eyes that seem popping from
his head, and look of all colours,—and then the rigid,
yet loose fixture of his limbs, that seem like those of a
statue, drawn asunder, and left hanging by the merest
ligatures. What a queer creature!”

“He seems poor and humble,” replied Janet, “and
is probably affected mentally. He seems idiotic.”

“Not he—not he! His gaze is too concentrative
and too fixed to indicate a wandering intellect: then,
why his frequent conversations with that bull-necked
lover of yours, Barsfield? Did he not take him into
the woods when the countryman came back yesterday
evening, and keep him there a full hour? I tell you
what, Janet, that fellow's a spy: he's after no good
here; and, as I live, here he is, coming back full tilt
upon his crooked pony, that's just as queer and ugly as
himself.”

As she said, Blonay reappeared at this moment, and
the dialogue ceased accordingly between the maidens.
The Half-Breed grinned with an effort at pleasantness
as he bowed to them, and, speaking a few words to Mr.
Berkeley, as if in explanation of his return, he proceeded
to loiter about the grounds. The eyes of Rose
watched him narrowly, and with no favourable import;
but Blonay did not seem to heed her observation. He

now sauntered in the park, and now he leaned against a
tree in the pleasant sunshine; and, by his torpid habit
of body, seemed to justify Janet to her more lively cousin
in the opinion which she had uttered of his idiocy. But
the scout was never more actively employed than just
when he seemed most sluggish. He was planning the
sale of Marion's camp to Tarleton. He was loitering
about Piney Grove with the double object of being nigh
his enemy's hiding-place and of meeting with the legionary.

“He is a spy, Janet. He has been put here as a
watch over us and upon Mellichampe. Barsfield knows
Mellichampe to be rash, as he has shown himself, and
he has put that fellow here to look out for and shoot
him.”

Janet shuddered, and her eyes involuntarily turned to
the spot where, at a little distance, the Half-Breed stood
leaning against a tree. How imploring was the expression
of her eye! Could he have seen it, if such were
his purpose, he must have relented. Such was the
thought of Rose—such the hope of Janet. The scout
had seen that look—he had felt its expression.

“But where is he now, Janet?” was the question of
Rose a few moments after. He was gone, and so
stealthily they had not suspected his movement. The
Half-Breed was again upon the track of his enemy.

Barsfield, meanwhile, though dispensing with the attendance
of Blonay, did not fail to avail himself, in one
respect, of the information which the latter had given
him. The proximity of Marion in the swamp, with a
hundred men or more, aroused the tory to increased exertion,
and counselled the utmost prudence in his march,
as it showed the neighbourhood of so superior an enemy.
The arms, baggage, clothing, and ammunition,
intended to supply a large body of tories, and which were
intrusted to his charge, were of far more importance to
his present purposes than of real intrinsic value. Not

to deliver them safely into the hands of those who were
to employ them, and whom he was to employ, would be
to suffer dreadfully in the estimation of his British superiors,
and in his own personal interests. To have them
fall into the hands of the rebels, were to accumulate
evil upon evil, as no acquisition which the latter could
make at this period could be of greater importance.
It was well for him that these suggestions filled the
mind of the tory. He was a tolerable soldier on a small
scale, and was already well conversant with the partisan
warfare. He sent forward a few trusty horsemen to
reconnoitre and keep the advance; and, moving cautiously
and with watchful eyes, he hoped to make his
way without interruption. But he was not fated to do
so, as we shall see anon.

Major Singleton, having a more extended line of
country to traverse, and a greater variety of duties to
perform, started from the swamp at dusk, and some time
before the rest. Marion set forth by midnight; and
Captain Melton, after attending to some matters of minor
importance, led off his little corps an hour later.
Our attention will chiefly be given to this latter band, of
which Ernest Mellichampe was the first-lieutenant, and
Jack Witherspoon the orderly. By the dawn they found
themselves at one of the lower crossing-places upon the
river, probably that at which it would be the aim of
Barsfield to cross; but, as this was uncertain, it was
not the policy of Melton to await him there. The position
was by no means good, and the ground too much
broken for the free use of cavalry.

With the dawn, therefore, Melton moved his troop
slowly up the road, intending to place them in ambush
behind a thick wood which lay in their route, and which
had been already designated for this purpose. The road
ran circuitously through this wood, forming a defile,
around which a proper disposition of his force must
have been successful, and must have resulted in the

destruction or capture of the entire force of the tories.
The spot was well known to the partisans, and had been
determined upon, even before the party left the river, as
well adapted, beyond any other along the road, for the
contemplated encounter. It lay but seven miles off,
and one hour's quick riding would have enabled them to
reach and secure it. But Melton pursued a regular, or
rather a cautious gait, which, under other circumstances
and at another time, would have been proper enough.
But now, when the object was the attainment of a particular
station, a forced movement became essential, in
most part, to their success; certainly to that plan of
surprise which they had in view. Mellichampe more
than once suggested this to his superior officer; but the
latter was one of those persons who have solemn and
inveterate habits, from which they never depart. His
horse had but one gait, and to that he was accustomed.
His rider had but a single tune, and that was a dead
march. The consequence of these peculiarities was a
funeral movement on the present occasion, and no argument
of Mellichampe could induce Melton to urge the
advance more briskly. He cursed the monotonous
drone in his heart; and, biting his lips until the blood
started from them, he predicted to himself that the party
would be too late. And so indeed it happened. Barsfield,
whom the intelligence brought by Blonay had
prompted to renewed speed in his movements, had set
forth, as we have seen, by the dawn of day, and was
upon the road quite as soon as Melton, who had been
travelling half the night. Had the counsel of Mellichampe
been taken, the desired position would have
been gained easily by the partisans; for, as it lay a little
nearer to “Piney Grove” than to the swamps, and as
Barsfield, though urging his course forward with all due
rapidity, was unavoidably compelled to move slowly,
burdened as he was with his baggage-wagons, nothing
could have been more easy than to have attained it with
a proper effort. But Melton was not the man to make
an effort—he had no mind for an occasion; and the
force of habit, with him, was far more controlling than
any impulse from necessity. Such a man is no genius.
He stopped his troop here and there, to scour this or
that suspicious-looking growth of underwood—sent out
his scouts of observation, as if he had been engaged in
the vague and various duties of the forager, instead of
pushing forward with the single object—the performance
of the task which he had in hand. The consequence
of this blundering was foreseen, and partially
foretold, by the indignant Mellichampe, who could
scarcely restrain his anger within terms of courtesy.
Bitterly aroused, he was ready almost for revolt; and, but
for the presence of the danger, and the necessity of turning
his wrath in the more legitimate direction of his enemies,
it was apparent to all that, from the harsh tones and
stern looks interchanged by the two officers, an outbreak
must soon have followed. But the thoughts of all were
turned to other objects, as, suddenly, one of their troopers
rode up, informing Melton of the approach of Barsfield
close at hand. He had only time to marshal his
men on the side of a little copse and bay that lay between
himself and the foe, when the heavy tramp of
the cavalry and the creaking wheels of the baggage-wagons
were heard at a little distance. A timely resolution,
even then, though comparatively unprepared,
might yet have retrieved the error which the commander
of the troop had committed; but his looks
were now indecisive, his movements uncertain, and he
gave his orders for a change of position, imagining that
a better stand presented itself a little distance back.

“This must not be, Captain Melton!” cried Mellichampe,
indignantly. “It is quite too late, sir, to think
of any such change. A retrograde movement, full in the
face of an advancing enemy, will have the effect of a retreat
upon our troop, and give the enemy all the advantage

of our panic and confusion, together with the courage
and confidence which our seeming flight must inspire
in them. We cannot change now, and we must make the
best of our position. Had my advice been minded—”

He was interrupted as the close sounds of the advancing
tories met his ears. Melton saw the impossibility
of any change now, and the discovery on his part
produced in his mind all the feelings of surprise and
discomfiture which he had planned for the reception of
his foe. He gave his orders, it is true; but he did not
look the officer to his men, and they did not feel with
him. Not so with Mellichampe; the few words which
had passed in the hearing of the troop between him
and his commander—the air of fierce decision which
his features wore—the conscious superiority which they
indicated—were all so many powerful spells of valour,
which made the brave fellows turn their eyes upon him
as upon their true leader. And so he was. The imbecility
of Melton became more conspicuous as the
moment of trial approached. He halted, hung back,
as the enemy entered upon the little defile in which only
it could be attacked; and thus exposed his men, when
the attack was made, to all the disadvantages arising from
a suffered surprise. It was then that the impatient
blood of Mellichampe, disdaining all the restraints of
discipline, urged him forward in the assault with a fierce
shout to his men, and a scornful jeer almost in the ears
of his commander, as, driving his good steed before
him, he advanced to the charge, which he made with so
much force and impetuosity as at once to stagger the
progress of the tories. Barsfield was just then emerging
from the pass—a little cornfield, with its worm-fence
enclosure, lay on one hand, and, on the other, the woods
were open and free from undergrowth. It was here that
Melton's men had been posted, not so advantageously
as they would have been had they reached the spot
which Marion had designated for them; but sufficiently

well to have rendered the attack successful under a spirited
charge such as that made by Mellichampe. But
the information which Barsfield had received from Blonay
had made him extremely cautious, as we have already
seen, and he had properly prepared himself
against, and was on the look-out for, assaults like the
present. With the first appearance of the enemy, his
men were ordered to display themselves in open order;
the wagons were suffered to fall behind, and were carried
back under the escort of a single dragoon to the
spot from which they had started in the morning. To this
effect the instructions of Barsfield had been already
given. Free and unencumbered, the tory met his enemy
boldly, and received him with a discharge of pistols.
The steed of Mellichampe was at this moment careering
within a few paces of him. The sabre of the youth
waving above his head, and, with a bitter smile, rising in
his stirrups, he cried out, as he prepared to cross weapons
with his enemy—

“Dog of a tory, we have a clear field now! There
are none to come between us. Strike, villain, and strike
well; for, by my father's blood, I will give you no quarter!”

Barsfield calmly seemed to await his approach, and
exhibited no lack of courage: yet his sabre was unlifted—his
bridle lay slackened in his hand; and, but
for his erect posture and firm seat, it might be supposed
that he was a mere looker-on in the affray. He replied
to the furious language of his youthful opponent in tones
and language as fierce.

“You may swear by your own blood soon, boy, or I
much mistake your chances.”

The sabre of the youth glared in his face at this
reply, and the movement of the tory was made in another
instant with all the rapidity of thought. His horse,
under the quick impulse of a heavy bit, was brought
round in a moment: in another, a huge pistol was drawn

from his holsters, and the careering steed of Mellichampe
received the bullet meant for his master in his
own breast. He fell forward upon his knees, made an
imperfect effort to rise, and the next moment plunged
desperately and struggled almost under the feet of Barsfield's
horse. A few seconds sufficed for Mellichampe's
extrication; and he was barely in time, by throwing up
his sabre, to arrest the stroke of his enemy's. On foot
he now pressed forward upon Barsfield, and sought to
close so nearly in with him as to make it difficult for
him to employ his sabre, unless by shortening it too
greatly to permit of his using it with any advantage.
But the tory saw his design, and immediately backed
his steed. Mellichampe pursued him, with his accustomed
rashness, and must certainly have been slain by
the tory, who had now drawn another pistol from his
holster, when Witherspoon, who had been hotly engaged,
but had seen with anxiety the contest between the
two enemies, now rushed between; and, setting the
huge and splendid horse which he rode directly in the
teeth of that of Barsfield, the shock of their meeting
threw the latter completely upon his haunches, and nearly
unseated his rider. The sabres of Barsfield and Witherspoon
then clashed hurriedly, and, though chafed to be
robbed of his prey even by his friend, Mellichampe was
compelled to forbear his particular game, and turn his
attention entirely to his own safety. A horse plunged
by him riderless, which he was fortunate enough to
seize, and he was mounted opportunely just as a fresh
charge of the tories separated Witherspoon from his
opponent, whom he had pressed back into the defile,
and which drove the sergeant, in his turn, down upon the
original position of the attacking party. The charge
was for a few moments irresistible, and two or three of
the men fairly turned their horses and fled from before
it. Captain Melton, seeing this, gave the order to retreat,
and the trumpet sounded the quick and mortifying
signal. But the voice of the youthful Mellichampe
sounded even above the shrill alarum of the instrument,
as, with a desperate blow with his sabre, he struck the
recreant trumpeter to the earth.

“Shame to you, men of Marion!—shame!—do you
fly from the tories of Waccamaw? Do you give back
before the Winyah clay-eaters? Follow me!”

The cry of Witherspoon was yet more characteristic,
and, perhaps, far more potential.

“You forget, boys, sartainly, that the tories find it
natural to be licked; and if they was to lick you now,
that's licked them so often, they wouldn't know what to
do for joy. Turn to, and let's lick 'em again!”

The call was not made in vain. True valour is quite
as contagious as fear, since it is always quite as earnest.
The partisans heard the words of their leaders,—they
saw the headlong rush of their steeds; and they rushed
forward also with as generous an emotion. They were
received with a front quite as firm, and a spirit not less
forward than their own. The tories, too, had been inspirited
by their success in the first shock, and, with
loud cheers, they prepared for the second. The encounter,
as it was made just at the mouth of the defile,
a circumscribed position, where each man found his
opponent, had something of the character of the mixed
fight of the middle ages. The rush was tremendous;
the strife, for a few moments, terrible. But all in vain
did the eye of Mellichampe distinguish, and his spirit
burn once more to contend with his deadly enemy.
They were kept asunder by the tide of battle. The
ranks were broken; the fight became pell-mell; and,
on a sudden, while each man was contending with his
enemy, a fierce cry of triumph and of vengeance burst
from the lips of Barsfield himself. Mellichampe, though
closely engaged with a stout dragoon, suffered his eye
to seek the spot whence the sound arose, and at once
beheld its occasion. Barsfield had been contending

with a slender, but fine-looking youth, whom he had
disarmed. The hand of his conqueror had torn him
from his horse with all the strength of a giant. The
youth lay at his feet, resting upon one hand, and looking
partly upon his foe and partly round, as if imploring
succour from his friends. Mellichampe distinguished
the features instantly, though smeared with blood. They
were those of Gabriel Marion, the nephew of the general,
a youth of nineteen only.

“He shall not die, by Heaven!” cried Mellichampe
aloud; in the same moment, with a daring effort, drawing
his horse back from the encounter with the enemy with
whom he was engaged, as if in flight,—a movement
which, encouraging the other to press forward, disordered
his guard, and placed him at disadvantage.
Meeting his stroke, Mellichampe set it readily aside;
then, striking in turn at the head of his opponent, he
put spurs to his horse, without looking to see what had
been the effect of his blow, and, passing quickly beyond
him, rushed forward to meet with Barsfield. But, as he
approached, he saw that nothing could be done for the
youth, whose hand was uplifted,—a frail defence—in opposition
to his conqueror's weapon.

“Stay, Barsfield,—strike him not, scoundrel, or look
for the vengeance—”

But, ere the speech was finished, the youth leaped
once more to his feet, and the weapon meant for his
head passed over it. Young Marion then grasped the
sword-arm of his enemy; but, drawing his remaining
pistol in the same moment, Barsfield shot him through
the breast. The cry of grief on the one hand, and of
triumph on the other, contributed greatly to discourage
the partisans. That moment was fatal to several more
in their ranks, and the disparity of force was now in
favour of the tories. They were soon conscious of the
fact, and pressed upon their enemies. Stung with
shame, Mellichampe made a desperate effort, and, nobly

seconded by a few, threw himself in the path of the
enemy, and bravely disputed every inch of ground,
yielding it only under the pressure of numbers.

“I cannot fly, Witherspoon,—speak not of it, I tell
you. I know that the odds are against us, but we must
only strike the oftener.”

“Well, Airnest, jist as you say. You know best if
you like it; and so, knock away's the word.”

Two or three brief sentences between the friends
conveyed the difficulties and dangers of the scene and
the spirit of the combatants. The partisans fought well,
but they grew weaker in numbers and individual strength
with every movement of the protracted battle. They
had not well calculated the difference of personal capacity
for strife and endurance of fatigue between drilled
men and volunteers; and, though the spirit of the latter,
for a time, is more than a match for the hardening practice
of the former, yet it very seldom endures so well.

“I will perish on this field—I will not leave it, and
show my back to that scoundrel! Come on, men!—
come on, Witherspoon!—let us pluck up spirit for another—a
last—a desperate charge. I must meet with
Barsfield now; there are too few on either side to keep
us long apart.”

A brief pause in the combat, as if by tacit consent,
enabled Mellichampe, in the breathing time which it afforded,
to convey this suggestion and resolve to the few
fierce spirits still gathering around him—driven back,
but not yet defeated—dispirited, perhaps, but far from
subdued. They freely pledged themselves to the resolution,
and, with a cheer, as if they had been going to a
banquet, they drove the rowels into their jaded steeds,
and joined once more in the struggle. But the weapons
had scarcely crossed, and the close strife had not yet
begun, when the shrill notes of a bugle rang through
the wood to the left of the combatants.

“It is Singleton's trumpet,” cried Mellichampe aloud

to his men; and a cheer of encouragement involuntarily
went up from their lips as they listened to the grateful
music. In the next moment, at full gallop, the re-enforcement
of Singleton came plunging forward to the
rescue from the woods on every side, while the full-toned
voice of their gallant leader shouted to the fainting
combatants to strike on without faltering. Barsfield,
so lately confident of his triumph over his enemy, and
of his vengeance upon the one foe in particular about
to be realized, was compelled to forego the prey almost
within his grasp.

“Now may the hell have him that fights for him!”
cried the disappointed tory, as, with the first appearance
of Singleton's troop, he ordered his own bugles to sound
the retreat. Clearing, with terrible blows, the few enemies
that were yet clinging around him, Barsfield
wheeled furiously in his flight, while close at his heels,
pursuing to the very gates of Piney Grove, but not fast
enough to overtake him, Singleton urged forward his
wearied animals, in the fond hope of annihilating a foe so
insolent, and who promised to become so troublesome.