University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

At day-dawn the next morning the trumpet of the
legion sounded shrilly over the grounds where Tarleton,
during the night, had made his encampment. With the
signal each trooper was at his post. Tarleton himself
was already dressed, and about to buckle the heavy
sabre at his side which his arm had ever been so proverbially
ready to wield. The fire—the stern enthusiasm
—which grew out of his impatience for the strife, already
glowed balefully and bright upon his countenance. He
was joined at this moment by another—an officer—a
man something his senior, and, like him, accustomed,
seemingly, to command.

“Your trumpets sound unseasonably, Tarleton, and
destroyed as pleasant a vision as ever came from the
land of dreams. I fancied the wars were over—that
I was once again in Old England, with all the little ones
and their sweet dam about me, and your heartless trumpet
took them all from my embrace—all at one fell
swoop.”

Tarleton smiled, but smiled in such a sort that the
speaker almost blushed to have made his confession of
domestic tenderness to such uncongenial ears. He
continued—

“But you care nothing for these scenes, and scruple
not to break into such pleasures to destroy. You have
no such sweet cares troubling you at home.”

“None, Moncrieff—none, or few. Perhaps I might
please no less than- surprise you, were I to say that I
wish I had; but I will not yield you so much sympathy;
particularly, indeed, as there is no time for these matters
or such talk when we are on the eve of grappling with
an enemy.”

“Enemy! what enemy?” demanded the other.

“Our old enemy, the `swamp fox,” responded Tarleton,
coolly.

“What, Marion!—why, where is he?”

“But a few miles off. I hope to have late breakfast
with him—time serving, God willing, and our appetite
for fight as good as that for breakfast.”

“But know you where he is, and how? Will he stand
for your coming? Will he not fly, as usual—double himself
round a cypress while you are piercing your way
through its bowels?”

“Ay, doubtless, if he can—we must try to prevent
that; and I have hopes that we can do it. His scouts
have been around us, like so many vultures, all night;
and Barsfield reports that one has had the audacity to
fire upon a sentinel. This shows him to be at hand, and
in sufficient force to warrant the belief that he will stand
a brush.”

“But how find him, Tarleton? His own men cannot
easily do that, and you have never yet been allowed to
see his feathers.”

“I shall now, however, I think—for I perceive our
guide stands in readiness. Look at him, Moncrieff—did
you ever see such a creature? Look at his eyes—do
they not give you pain—positive pain, to survey them?
They seem only to be kept in his head by desperate
effort; and yet, behold his form. He does not appear
capable of effort—scarcely, indeed, of movement. His
limbs seem hung on hinges, and one leg, as you perceive,
appears always, as now, to have thrown the whole
weight of the body upon the other.”

“A strange monster, indeed: and is that the creature
to serve you? Can he put you on the trail?”

“He pledges himself to do so. He has seen the
`swamp fox' and his men, all at ease, in their camp, and
promises that I shall see them too, under his guidance.”

“And you will trust him?”

“I will.”

“What security have you that he does not carry you
into trap?”

“His own neck; for, as sure as he makes a false
move, he swings from the nearest sapling. He shall be
watched.”

“If this be the case, Tarleton, how can you go forward?
Will it not be for me then to execute my mission?”

“Not till I fail. If I can drub Marion, and either put
him to death or make a prisoner of him, your mission
will be null. There will be no use in buying one whom
we can beat. But, if he now escapes me, I give it up.
He would escape the devil. You may then seek him
out with your most pacific aspect—offer him his pension
and command among us, as our sagacious commander-in-chief
has already devised, and make the best use afterward
of his skill in baffling Green, as he so long has
baffled us. If he does half so well for his majesty as
for his continental prog-princes, he will be worth quite as
much as you offer for him, and something more.”

“True—but, Tarleton, this chance may never offer
again. We may never get a guide who will be able to
pilot me through these d—d impervious and pestilential
morasses—certainly few to show me where to find him
out.”

“We must risk that, Moncrieff. I will not give up
my present chance of striking him, though you never
have the opportunity you seek. He has baffled me too
long already, and my pride is something interested to
punish him. The prospect is a good one, and I will not
lose it. Hark you, fellow!”

The last words were addressed to Blonay, who, in
sight of the speaker all the while, now approached at the
order. The stern, stony eye of the fierce legionary
rested upon him searchingly, with a penetrating glance
scarcely to be withstood by any gaze, and certainly not

by that of the Half-Breed, who never looked any one in
the face. Some seconds elapsed before Tarleton spoke,
and when he did his words were cold, slow, brief, and
to the purpose.

“You are ready, sir?”

The reply was affirmative.

“You hold to your assertion that you can lead me to
where Marion camps?”

“I can lead you, sir, to his camp, but I can't say for
his being in it. He may get wind of you, if his scouts
happen to be out.”

“I know, I know—you said this before, and proposed,
if I remember rightly, that I should divide my force in
order to mislead. But I know better than to do that. I
risk nothing now when I know nothing of his force, and
I am not so sure, sir, that you are altogether the man to
be relied on. I shall watch you, sirrah; and remember,
it is easier, fellow, to hang you up to a bough than to
threaten it. Go—prepare. Ho! there, Hodgson—put
half a dozen of your best dragoons in charge of this
guide, and keep him safe, as you value whole bones.”

“I will not run, sir,” said Blonay, looking up for the
first time into the face of Tarleton.

“I know that, sir—you shall not,” responded the other,
coolly.

The signal to move was given in a few moments after,
and Barsfield saw the departure of Tarleton in pursuit
of Marion with a singular feeling of satisfaction and
relief.

It is not our present purpose, however, to pursue the
route taken by Colonel Tarleton in search of his famous
adversary. Such a course does not fall within the purpose
of our present narrative. It may be well, however,
as it must be sufficient, to say, that, under the guidance
of Blonay, he penetrated the spacious swamp of the
Santee, and was led faithfully into and through its intricacies—but
he penetrated them in vain. Step by step, as

the dense body pressed its way through brake, bog, and
brier, did they hear the mysterious signals of the watchful
partisans, duly communicating to one another the approach
of the impending danger. Vainly did Tarleton
press forward his advance in the hope of arriving at the
camp before these signals could possibly reach it; but
such a pathway to his heavily-mounted men was very
different in its facilities to those who were accustomed
daily to glide through it; and the scouts of Marion hung
about Tarleton's advance in front, sometimes venturing
in sight, and continually within hearing, to the utter defiance
of the infuriated legionary, who saw that nothing
could be done to diminish the distance between them.
At length they reached the island where the “swamp
fox” made his home, but the bird had flown. The couch
of rushes where Marion slept was still warm—the fragments
of the half-eaten breakfast lay around the logs
which formed their rude boards of repast, but not an
enemy was to be seen. Stimulating his men by promises
and threats, Tarleton still pursued, in the hope to
overtake the flying partisans before they could reach the
Santee; but in vain were all his efforts; and, though
moving with unexampled celerity, he arrived on the
banks of the rapid river only in time to behold the last of
the boats of the “swamp fox” mingling with the luxurious
swamp foliage on the opposite side. The last twenty-four
hours had been busily and profitably employed by
Marion. He had utterly annihilated the tories who had
gathered at Baynton's Meadow. Never, says the history,
had surprise been more complete. He came upon
the wretches while they played at cards, and dearly did
they pay for their temerity and heedlessness. They were
shot down in the midst of dice and drink, foul oaths and
exultation upon their lips, and with those bitter thoughts
of hatred to their countrymen within their hearts which almost
justified the utmost severities of that retribution to
which the furious partisans subjected them.