University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.

Chafed with the excitement of battle, and mortified
with the humiliation of defeat, Barsfield dashed forward
to meet with Tarleton, to whom he conveyed the particulars
of the affray. It needed but few words to do this

at such a moment—the scene was in progress even then
before the eyes of the legionary. The wild shouts of
the partisans, scattered along the fields, and flying from
the greater force approaching them—the occasional
sounds of the rifle—the lurid glare of the flames, ascending
in gigantic columns from the burning mansion, sufficiently
informed the ready senses of a leader so intelligent
and sagacious as the practised Tarleton. He was
a man of deeds rather than of words, and a few brief,
quick questions drew from Barsfield all that he sought to
know.

“What number of rifles, Captain Barsfield, has Major
Singleton?”

“Some thirty, sir, or more.”

“What other force?”

“Ten or twenty horse, which we had first broken
through, sir, on your approach.”

“And from which our approach saved you?”

Barsfield bowed. Tarleton waved his hand, and gave
his troop their orders with coolness and decision. In
the next moment he led them forward with a fleet pace
down the avenue, towards the burning dwelling and the
park. He thought to find his enemy scattered and unprepared,
as he now and then beheld in the distance, by
the light of the flames, an occasional figure darting by,
seemingly in flight, and the shouts of the partisans rose
here and there from opposite quarters of the area. The
sight of these figures and the insulting shouts stimulated
his advance, and aroused his natural appetite for strife.
With habitual impetuosity, he hurried forward in a quick
trot, making for the point which most immediately promised
him an encounter with his foe.

He found them much sooner than he had expected.
His enemy was prepared for him. Singleton was apprized
of the approach of Tarleton quite as soon as Barsfield
in the avenue, and he now prepared to execute the
orders of Marion, for which the present condition of

things gave him a favourable opportunity. He threw his
men without the park. The fences lay between the two
parties. One half of his force he immediately sent down
the hill to prepare the horses, putting them in readiness
for instant flight. His riflemen, who had been too late
to check the retreat of Barsfield, were nevertheless just
in time on the outer edge of the park, and skirting one
side of the avenue, with its thick copse interposing sufficiently
to protect them from a charge of cavalry, to gall
the advance of Tarleton. They received their orders,
and stood prepared to execute them. Covered by the
trees, each man stood in silence, prepared to single out
his enemy, and immediately after scud off along the
fences, and join his comrades at the foot of the hill.
Cool and watchful, Singleton remained at hand to watch
the progress of both parties. He himself had prepared
to do a like duty with his men. He had thrown aside
the sabre, and a favourite rifle in his hands was quite as
deadly a weapon as in that of any other of his troop.
The legion came bounding forward, and the signal for
their hostile reception came from the rifle of the partisan
commander. It had its echoes—each an echo of death—
and the advancing column of Tarleton, in that narrow
avenue, reeled and recoiled under the fatal discharge. A
dozen troopers fell from their saddles with the fire,
stiffening in the fast embrace of death, and scarce conscious
of their wounds. But in another instant the fierce
voice of Tarleton, clamorous and shrill, rose like that
of a trumpet above all other sounds—

“Scoundrels, forward! Wherefore do ye pause?
Through the bush to the right—charge, rascals, ere I
cleave ye down to the earth! Charge the d—d rebels
—charge—and give no quarter!”

The ditch was cleared—the obedient troopers, accustomed
hitherto only to victory under the lead of Tarleton,
went over the bank and scrambled through the copse
with more daring than success. The overhanging

branches were hewn away in an instant—a path was
cleared for the advance through the close foliage, and,
like bold cavaliers, a score of the troopers made their
way through the obstruction. But where was the enemy?
Where were they whose fatal rifles had dealt them so
much loss? They had melted away like so many shadows—they
were gone. Fiercely the dragoons dealt idle
blows upon the surrounding bushes, which might have
been supposed to shelter a lurking rifleman, but their
sabres clashed together and found no foe. The partisans
had vanished from their sight, but they had not yet
gone. While yet the dragoons gazed bewildered and in
wonderment, the repeated shot from the same select and
deadly marksmen singled them out, one by one, from
another sheltered clump of wood, not more than fifty
yards in advance; and the remaining few who had passed
into the open ground and were still exposed, could hear
the distinct commands of Singleton—

“Another round, men—one more. Each his man.”

The partisan had managed admirably, but he was
now compelled to fly. The advantage of ground was
no longer with him. Tarleton, with his entire force, had
now passed through the avenue, and had appeared in the
open court in front. The necessity of rapid flight now
became apparent to Singleton, and the wild lively notes
of his trumpet were accordingly heard stirring the air at
not more than rifle distance from the gathering troop of
Tarleton. Bitterly aroused by this seeming audacity—
an audacity to which Tarleton, waging a war hitherto of
continual successes, had never been accustomed, his ire
grew into fury—

“What, men! shall these rebels carry it so?” he cried
aloud. “Advance, Captain Barsfield—advance to the
right of the fence with twenty men, and stop not to mark
your steps. Advance, sir, and charge forward. You
should know the ground by this time. Away!”

To another he cried—striking the neck of his steed
impatiently with the broad side of his sabre—

“Captain Kearney, to you wood! Sweep it, sir, with
your sabres; and meet me in the rear of the garden!”

The officers thus commanded moved to the execution
of their charges with sufficient celerity. The commands
and movements of Major Singleton were much more
cool and not less prompt. He hurried along by his scattered
men, as they lay here and there, covered by this or
that bush or tree.

“Carry off no bullets that you can spare them, men
—fire as soon as they reach the garden, and, when your
pieces are clear, take down the hill and mount.”

Three minutes did not elapse before the rifles had
each poured forth its treasured death; and, without
pausing to behold the effects of their discharge, each partisan,
duly obedient, was on his way, leaping off from
cover to cover through the thick woods to the hollow
where their horses had been fastened.

The furious Tarleton meanwhile led the way through
the garden, the palings of which were torn away to give
his cavalry free passage. With a soldier's rage, and the
impatience of one not often baffled, he hurried forward
the pursuit, in a line tolerably direct, after the flying partisans.
But Singleton was too good a soldier, and too
familiar with the ground, to keep his men in mass in a
wild flight through woods becoming denser at every step.
When they had reached a knoll at some little distance
beyond the place where his horses had been fastened, he
addressed his troop as follows:—

“We must break here, my men. Each man will take
his own path, and we will all scatter as far apart as possible.
Make your way, all of you, for the swamp, however;
where, in a couple of hours, you may all be safe.
Lance Frampton, you will ride with me.”

Each trooper knew the country, and, accustomed to
individual enterprise and the duties of the scout, there

was no hardship to the men of Marion in such a separation.
On all hands they glided off, and at a far freer
pace than when they rode together in a body. A thousand
tracks they found in the woods about them, in pursuing
which there was now no obstruction—no justling
of brother horsemen pressing upon the same route. Singleton
and his youthful companion darted away at an
easy pace into the woods, in which they had scarcely
shrouded themselves before they heard the rushing and
fierce cries of Tarleton's dragoons.

“Do you remember, Lance,” said Singleton to the
boy—“do you remember the chase we had from the
Oaks, when Proctor pursued us?”

“Yes, sir—and a narrow chance it was when your
horse tumbled. I thought they would have caught and
killed you then, sir; but I didn't know any thing of fighting
in the woods then.”

“Keep cool, and there's little danger anywhere,” responded
Singleton. “Men in a hurry are always in
danger. To be safe, be steady. But—ha! do you not
hear them now? Some of them have got upon our
track.”

“I do hear a noise, sir—there was a dry bush that
cracked then.”

“And a voice—that was a shout. Let us stop for a
moment and reload. A shot may be wanted.”

Coolly dismounting, Singleton proceeded to charge
his rifle, which had been slung across his shoulder. His
companion did the same. While loading, the former felt
a slight pain and stiffness in his left arm.

“I am hurt, Lance, I do believe. Look here at my
shoulder.”

“There's blood, sir—and the coat's cut with a bullet.
The bullet's in your arm, sir.”

“No—not now. It has been there, I believe, though
the wound is slight. There, now—mount—we have no
time to see it now.”

“That's true, sir, for I hear the horses; and, look
now, major, there's two of the dragoons coming through
the bush, and straight towards us.”

“Two only?” said Singleton, again unslinging his
rifle. The boy readily understood the movement, and
proceeded to do likewise, but he was too late. The shot
of Singleton was immediate, and the foremost trooper
fell forward from his horse. His companion fled.

“Don't 'light, Lance—keep on. There's only one
now, and he won't trouble us. The other—poor devil!
his horse was too fleet for his master's safety. Away,
sir.”

It was time to speed. The report of the shot and the
fall of the dragoon gave a direction to the whole force of
the pursuers, whose shouts and cries might now be
heard ringing in all directions of the forest behind them.

“They can't reach us, Lance. We shall round that
bay in a few seconds, and they will be sure to boggle into
it. On, boy, and waste no eyesight in looking behind
you. We are safe. I only hope that all our boys are
as much so. But I fear that we have lost some fine fellows.
Poor Mellichampe!—but it is too late now.
Push on—the bay is before us.”

Thus speaking, guiding and encouraging the boy, the
fearless partisan kept on. In a few minutes they had
rounded the thick bay, and were deeply sheltered in a
dense wood, well known at that period by a romantic
title, which doubtless had its story.

“My Lady's Fancy. We are safe now, Lance, and
a little rest will do no harm.”

The partisan, as he spoke, drew up his horse, threw
himself from his back, fastened him to a hanging branch,
and, passing down to a hollow where a little brooklet ran
trickling along with a gentle murmur, drank deeply of its
sweet and quiet waters, which he scooped up with a calabash
that hung on a bough, waving in the breeze above.
Then, throwing himself down under the shadow of the

tree, he lay as quietly as if there had been no danger
tracking his footsteps, and no deadly enemy still prowling
in the neighbourhood and hungering for his blood.

The chase was given over, and the lively tones of the
bugle recalled the pursuers. The legionary colonel
stood upon a hillock, awaiting the return of the men,
who came in slowly and half exhausted from the profitless
pursuit. He wiped the dust and the sweat from his
brow, but a rigid and deep blue vein lay like a cord across
his forehead. A gloomy cloud hung about his eyes, and
yet his lips, pale, and seemingly passionless, were parted
with a smile. They quivered slightly, and the tips of his
white teeth rested upon the lower lip for a moment, as
if to control his speech, when he beheld the person of
the tory captain among those approaching him.

“And now—what of this affair, Captain Barsfield?
We have time now to speak of it,” was the salutation of
Tarleton; and he alighted from his steed as he spoke,
and the point of his sabre was made to revolve quickly,
while he listened, upon the up-curling peak of his thick
military boot. Barsfield briefly narrated the events
which we have witnessed, and, saving some little natural
exaggeration of the numbers on the side of the partisans,
with tolerable correctness. The narrative, as he listened,
did not seem to diminish the disquiet of his hearer.

“But fifty men, you say?—the entire force of the
rebels but fifty men!—and your force, if I err not, thirty
at the least. But fifty men!”

“There may have been—indeed, sir, there must have
been—more; and—”

“A bad business, sir—a very bad business, Captain
Barsfield,” said the other, interrupting him. “The affair
has not been rightly managed, though where the defect
lay may not now be said. What force was it you encountered
in the morning?”

“A squad of thirty, sir, and more. I had defeated
them, and they would have been cut to pieces, but for the

sudden appearance of the troop of Major Singleton,
which you have just dispersed.”

“No more, sir—no more. Take your men, and examine
the ground and the avenue. See to the wounded
prisoners, Captain Barsfield—have them well secured,
and ascertain the extent of your own loss. There must
be an inquiry into this business quickly. Move, sir—
we have no time to lose.”

The blood mounted into the tory's cheek as he listened
to these orders—the fire of intense satisfaction glared
and gathered in his eye, and, fearful that his feeling
would be seen by the piercing glance of Tarleton, he
turned away instantly in the execution of his orders. A
fierce hope of vengeance, yet to be satisfied, was at his
heart. He had not forgotten that his mortal enemy
lay wounded on that field. He knew that, although
wounded, Mellichampe was yet alive. The command
to scour the scene of conflict was precisely the command
which he most desired; affording him, as it did, an
opportunity of making certain the stroke which, even in
the hurry of battle, he had considered incomplete. A
fierce emotion of delight, under which he trembled,
seized upon his frame as he heard the command; and,
bowing with ill-concealed satisfaction to his superior, he
hurried away with all the rapidity of a newly-stimulated
passion, not merely to the execution of his orders, but to
the final consummation of his own bloody scheme of
vengeance—the death of that hated rival, in the pursuit
of which he had been so often baffled when most sanguine
of success. The knife was now in his hand,
however, and the devoted victim lay before him.