University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.

Barsfield had neither ridden so far, nor in such
haste, as the partisans that morning. This alone saved
him. His horses were inferior; and, but for the fatigue
which his enemies had undergone, he must have been
overtaken. The judicious disposition which the tory had
made of his baggage-wagons, in sending them back to
Piney Grove at the first appearance of danger, also contributed
greatly to the facility of his movements; and,
unimpeded by the necessity of guarding them, and not

much breathed by the stirring encounter through which
they had passed, the stout horses which his men bestrode,
though not so swift as those of the Americans,
were yet better able to make headway in the flight.
The pursuit was hotly urged, though unsuccessful.
The horses of Singleton were too much jaded with the
hard ride of twenty odd miles which they had taken,
and could not be made to keep up even with the fagged
animals of Mellichampe's little troop. Barsfield escaped
them, and safely passed through the avenue of Piney
Grove before the pursuing party came in sight. The
baggage-wagons of the tory had just arrived, and, with a
sagacious disposition of his force, which indicated abilities
worthy of a better cause, he proceeded to make effective
arrangements for the reception of Singleton's
troop, which was quite too large to suffer him to think
that so enterprising a partisan would draw them off without
a farther attempt upon him. Dismounting his men
rapidly, therefore, he threw open the doors of the basement
story of the mansion; and, without leave asked
or given—the exigency was too pressing for mere courtesies—he
made his dragoons stable their steeds in the
spacious apartments. Emptying the baggage-wagons of
their contents, he armed his men with the muskets, of
which there was sufficient provision; and, having secured
the residue of their stores within the walls of
the dwelling-house, he proceeded, to the great disquiet
of Mr. Berkeley and the terror of the young ladies, to
close the doors and make a fortress of the family mansion.
The upper rooms were barricaded with chairs
and tables; and, watchful at all the windows, the troopers
stood ready with their muskets, peering forth conspicuously
and warningly in all directions from the
building.

This was scarcely done when the partisans came
down the avenue. It was with no little vexation that
Singleton surveyed this prospect. His eye at a moment

beheld the difficulties of his situation, and the danger of
any assault upon a foe so well prepared. To rush
on brick walls, and be met by musket-bullets, without
being able to obtain sight of the defenders, was not the
part of a discreet valour; and yet, to leave an enemy
so enfeebled as Barsfield was without farther efforts to
overcome or destroy him, was still more irksome to a
brave spirit like that of the officer in command. The
rash and headlong Mellichampe, however, thinking only
of his personal hostility to Barsfield, could hardly be restrained.
He was for immediately charging and trying
the weight of an axe upon the doors of the dwelling.

“Ay, ay; but how to get there?” cried the more sagacious
Singleton. “No, no, Mellichampe, we must
try some better plan—some safer enterprise. To cross
the yard in the teeth of those muskets would be certain
death to nearly every man who makes the effort, and we
are but too poorly provided with soldiers to be thus profligate.
We must think of something else; and, in order
to have time for it, let us send a message to the
tory. Let us see what fair words will do, and the
promise of good quarter. Besides, we must make
some arrangements for getting the family out of the
house before making any assault.”

The truth of these suggestions was unquestionable;
and Mellichampe volunteered to bear the despatches,
but Singleton refused him.

“No, no; the risk will be great to you; and the tory
hates you too well to stop at trifles. He might be
tempted to some desperate act if you are to be the messenger.
I prefer Witherspoon.”

“Jist as you say, major; I'm ready, as the alligator
said to the duck. I'm ready; though I ain't a great
speaker, yet I can tell Barsfield what he's to reckon on
if he don't come to tarms. If so be all I've got to say
is to tell him he'll be licked if he don't give up and surrender,
I can do that easy enough,” was the prompt
speech of the scout.

“You know there's danger, Witherspoon,” said Singleton.
“This fellow Barsfield may not think it becoming
to treat with a rebel; and he may send a bullet
through the head of a courier and think no sin of it.”

“Well, he'd be a mean skunk to do sich a thing,
major; that's agin all the civilities of war. I knows
there's a danger, but I can't help it. `Man that is born
of woman,' says the scripture—I don't rightly call to
mind the other part—but it means that we've all got to
die some time or other, and 'taint the part of a brave
man to be always dodging from danger. I must take
my chance, major, so git your paper ready.”

Singleton pencilled brief but honourable proposals
to the tory, pledging the enlargement of himself and
party on parole if they would surrender; and denouncing
otherwise the well-known horrors of a storm. A
permission, in the event of his refusal to surrender, was
extended to Mr. Berkeley and his family, but no other
person, to leave the beleaguered dwelling. Witherspoon
received the paper, and prepared to depart.

“Mayn't I carry my rifle, major?—I don't feel altogether
natural when I don't have it, partic'larly when
I'm to go seek my enemy.”

“No arms, Witherspoon; nothing but the flag.”

He handed the weapon to Mellichampe with no small
reluctance.

“Take care of her, Airnest; she's a sweet critter,
and makes a crack that's born music, and I loves her.”

With no more words, and with a single glance towards
the youth, that spoke volumes of affection warmly
and truly felt, the scout, without any hesitation, turned
away from the park where this conference was carried
on; and, waving his handkerchief aloft—the substitute
for a flag—he proceeded on his way of peril to the
dwelling.

“I see a rebel with a flag!” said one of the tories
who first discerned the despatch to his commander.
“Shall I shoot him, sir?”

The hesitation of Barsfield to reply was almost a
permission, and the man had his gun lifted and ready;
but the tory captain thought it more proper or more prudent
to forbear.

“No; let him come: and you, Clayton, receive him
at the entrance. But see that no other approaches.
Fire at the first man who appears within reach of your
muskets.”

In an inner room, in the presence of the family,
Barsfield received the messenger. His reply to the
message was one of scornful disdain.

“Well, now, cappin,” said Thumbscrew, coolly,
“you'd better not send any sich word to the major, for
he's old hell with his grinders, and it'll be pretty bad for
you if he once gits them into your flesh. They'll meet
now, I tell you, if he does.”

“You are answered,” was the temperate reply of the
tory, who then turned to Mr. Berkeley.

“The rebel graciously accords you permission, with
your family, to leave the dwelling, Mr. Berkeley. You
are at perfect liberty to do so, if you please; but, if you
will rely on my defences, there is no danger: the place
is perfectly tenable.”

“No, no, dear father,—let us go—let us fly. There
is danger; and, even if there be none, it is no place
for us.”

“But where shall we go, my daughter?” said the old
man, utterly bewildered.

“To the overseer's house, father. It is out of the
reach of all danger, and there is room enough for us
all.”

They came forth with Witherspoon, who led them at
once into the park, where Mellichampe received and
escorted them to the dwelling-house of the overseer, a
rude but spacious building, that stood in a field running
along at a little distance to the west of the avenue,
within sight and hearing of the mansion-house, but beyond

reach of fire-arms from that quarter. It was a
moment of sweet sorrow, that which Mellichampe and
Janet enjoyed in the brief interview which the necessities
of the time permitted them. The cheerful and
stimulating sounds of the trumpet recalled him to his
duties, and, with a word of encouragement and hope,
which was answered by her tears, he hurried away to
the field of strife, and the presence of the energetic
Singleton.

“Lieutenant Mellichampe, take your men, throw
down yonder panels, and cross into the garden; keep
them under cover where the shelter is sufficient to conceal
your movement, and have your horses then fastened
at the foot of the hill rising on the right. A couple of
sentries will guard them there. This done, return to
the post assigned you in the garden, covering the dwelling
on the rear with your rifles.”

Mellichampe moved promptly, in obedience to his
orders, and soon succeeded in securing possession of
the garden. Dividing his command in such a manner
as to place a similar body of men in watch over each
quarter of the building, Singleton proceeded to try the
effect of his rifles upon such of the defenders as were
more than necessarily exposed. His men were dismounted
for this purpose, their horses secured in safety,
and each man was put in possession of his tree.

To the rifles of Singleton the muskets of Barsfield's
party readily responded, and for a few moments the
din and uproar were continued with no little spirit. The
musketry soon ceased, however. Barsfield discovered
that it was not his policy to risk his men, two of whom
had fallen in this overture, in any such unequal conflict.
The certainty of the rifle, in such hands as those of the
partisans, was too great a danger to be wantonly opposed
by musket-men. There was no necessity for any
such exposure on the part of the besieged: all that they
were required to do was to keep watch upon the area

below, and prevent the nearer approach of the beleaguering
party. After a few rounds, therefore, had shown
what results must follow such a combat, Barsfield forbade
the firing from the house, and commanded that
his men should lie close, only watching for an occasional
exposure of the persons of their enemies within
certain reach of their muskets.

The bugle of Singleton called up his officers. They
assembled, as at a central and safe point, at the overseer's
dwelling, to which the family of Mr. Berkeley had
retired. A small room was assigned the partisans, and
there they carried on their hurried deliberations.

“This is child's play, gentlemen,” said Singleton;
“can we find no better mode of dislodging these rascals?
Our shot do little good now. There is no object
to aim at. Barsfield has discovered the difference
between rifled and smooth bore, and keeps too snug to
suffer any harm at our hands. We must think of something,
gentlemen; and it must be done quickly, or not
at all, for Tarleton's on the road, and we must beat
Barsfield by noon, or leave him. What do you say?
I should be pleased, gentlemen, to have your suggestions.”

“Many men, many minds.” It would be needless to
say, that there must be various counsels when there are
many counsellors. Each had his notion and his plan,
but to all there were objections. Humphries, at length,
proposed to fire the dwelling. All agreed that this was
the wisest suggestion—the effective plan, if it could
only be made available. But who was to carry the fire
to the fortress,—who was to cross the yard, in the teeth
of thirty muskets, and “bell the cat?”—and what would
be the chances of his life, or of his success, in the endeavour?
This was the question, to which there was
no ready answer. It was obvious enough that any one
approaching the building with such a purpose, or with
any purpose, as an enemy, must be shot down by its

defenders. A silence of several minutes followed the
utterance of these views by Singleton. The silence was
broken by one—a slender, pale, and trembling youth,
who emerged from behind the commander. His lips
quivered as he spoke, but it was not with fear. His eye
kindled with light, even while its long dark lashes seemed
suffused with the dews of a tender heart.

“I will go, major,” were his quickly-uttered words.

“You, Lance?—why, boy, you will be shot down
instantly. Impossible!—you must not think of it!” was
the imperative reply.

“But, sir, I can run fast: I can first get to the fallen
tree, and so quickly, I don't think they can hit me in that
time; and then the next push is for the piazza. Once
I get under the piazza, I will be safe:” and the lad
trembled with his own earnestness.

“Perhaps you might, Lance, but it would be impossible
to preserve your fire in such a race, and the risk
is too great to be undertaken with such a prospect.”

Singleton was imperative, but the youth continued to
urge his plan. At that moment a servant, entering the
apartment, beckoned Mellichampe away. He was sent
for by Janet, who received him in the adjoining room.

“I have heard,” said she, “some of your deliberations
without intending it: but your voices are loud,
and these are thin partitions. The youth must not be
suffered to go to certain death. I understand your difficulty,
and think it may be overcome. I have a plan
for you.”

“You!” exclaimed Mellichampe, with a smile.

“Yes: look at this bow and these arrows,” pointing
to a noble shaft, which leaned in the corner of the
room; “they were the gift of a Catawba warrior to my
father when I was but a child. They are as good as
new. They will convey combustibles to the roof,—
they will do what you desire.”

“But your old home—your family dwelling, Janet,—

sacred to you as your birthplace, and as the birthplace
of your mother—” was the suggestion of her lover.

“Sacred as my home, as my own and my mother's
birthplace, it is yet doubly sacred as my country's.
Place your combustibles upon these arrows, and send
them to the aged roof of that family mansion; and I
shall not joy the less to see it burn because it is my
father's, and should be mine, when I know that in its
ruin the people and the cause I love must triumph. God
forbid and keep me from the mean thought that I shall lose
by that which to my country must be so great a gain.”

The wondering and delighted Mellichampe could only
look his admiration. She stood before him, with her
dark eye flashing, but suffused, and her lip trembling
with the awful patriotism and warm feeling in her soul,
as the very imbodiment of liberty itself,—that divine
imbodiment whose substance is truth, whose light is
life, whose aim is a perfect humanity.

“Dearest Janet,—worthy of adoration as of love,—
your self-sacrificing spirit is a rebuke to my own heart.
I would have saved that mansion for your sake, though
even my enemy—my deadly enemy—should escape his
just punishment thereby.”

“Go, Ernest,” she responded, “go!—you have no
time to lose. Let not that noble youth expose himself
to certain death. Take the arrows, and do not let the
hand tremble and the eye turn aside when you direct
them to that sacred roof; it is now devoted to our
country.”

He seized the bow and arrows, carried her hand to
his lips, and rushed back to the place of conference.
Singleton was overjoyed when the primitive weapon was
put into his hands.

“Happy chance!—and who has given you these,
Mellichampe?”

“A woman!”

“What, Miss Berkeley?”

“Yes.”

“And with a knowledge of their probable use?”

“With the avowed purpose of destroying by them
her father's dwelling and her own.”

“Noble creature!” was the only exclamation of Singleton.
The thoughts of his mind wandered away, at
that instant, without his power to control them; and, in
his mind's eye, he surveyed the form of another self-sacrificing
maiden,—how different from Janet Berkeley
in form and character, but, oh! very like in soul.