University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.

The deed was done; and Humphries, fatigued by a
long and arduous duty on the previous night, and doubly
so from the exciting circumstances just narrated, hurried
to his place of retreat and repose in the swamp covert
of the partisans. He could sleep now. For a long
period his sleep had been troubled and unsatisfactory.
His apprehensions were now quieted, and sweet must
be that first sleep which we feel to be secure from the
efforts of a long-sleepless enemy.

His companions, meanwhile, had the duties of the
scout to execute, and each had gone upon his several
tasks. Witherspoon, with whom our course now lies,
true to his friend, proceeded at once to the woods that
surrounded the camp of Barsfield. He maintained a
close watch upon the premises in which Mellichampe
lay a prisoner. How he knew of the youth's predicament
may not be said, but certain it is he was informed
both as to the nature of his injuries and his condition.
He had, probably, lurked in the hollow, or listened from
a tree, while an incautious sentinel prattled to his comrade;
or, which is not less probable, he had gathered
his intelligence from some outlying negro of the plantation,
whose address enabled him to steal forth at intervals,
in spite of the surrounding sentinels.

Solicitous, to the last degree, for the safety of the
youth, of whose safety, while in the custody of Barsfield,
he half despaired, he availed himself of his duties as a
scout to lurk about the neighbourhood, in the faint hope
to communicate with, or in some other way to serve, the
prisoner. Night after night, for a week before the
period to which we have now come, had he cheered the

heart and strengthened the hope of Mellichampe with
his well-known whistle. It may be scarce necessary to
say, that the faithful inferior found no less gratification
in this sad office than did the youth to whom it taught
the unrelaxing, though as yet ineffectual, watchfulness
of a friend.

The dexterity of Witherspoon admirably sorted with
his fidelity and courage. Fearlessly did he penetrate
the nearest points to which he might approach, without
certainty of being seen, of the camp of his enemy.
The frequent exercise of his faculties as a woodman—
a native ease and self-confidence, and a heart too much
interested in a single object to feel any scruples, or fear
any danger, prompted him to a degree of hardihood
which, in a less admirable scout, would have been childish
audacity: but it was in him the result of a calm
conviction of his own readiness of resource, and of his
general ability to meet emergencies. He knew himself
as well as his enemy, and relied upon his own sense
of superiority. This confidence, however, seduced him
into no incautiousness. He timed his movements with
a just reference to all the circumstances of his situation,
—chose his route and designed his purpose well before
entering upon it; and, this done, dashed forward with the
boldness of the tiger, and the light, scarce perceptible
footstep of the wild turkey in April.

It was night when, after making a circuit around
Barsfield's position, and scanning it carefully on every
side, he reached a copse at the head of the avenue,
where, on a previous occasion, we found himself and
Mellichampe concealed. It was an old haunt, and he
threw himself on the grass and mused listlessly, like
one who, after long strifes and a heating exercise abroad,
comes home to the repose and permitted freedoms of
his own fireside and family. The camp-fires were
sprinkled about the woods before him, looking dimly
enough in contrast with the pale but brighter gleams of

the now ascending moon. The house in which Mellichampe
was confined stood a little beyond, but as yet
undistinguishable. The scout lay and mused upon the
fate and probable fortunes of his friend, and his thoughts,
breaking through the bounds of his own restraining consciousness,
were framed into words upon his lips without
his own volition.

“I could swear he answered me last night. There's
no mistake. Three times it come upon the wind; first,
quick and shrill, to catch the ear—then slow and sad—
and then quick and shrill agin. 'Twas a great distance
to hear a whistle, but the wind come up jist then,
and I'm sure I heard it, and it was sich a blessed sort
of music, coming from Airnest, that, by Gracious!—I
can't help it—I'll go closer agin, and see if I can't get
some more of it. It's a sign he's doing better if he's
able to whistle, and it's a clear sign he hears me when
he's able to answer. I'll try it agin soon as I see that
big fire kindled that burns upon the left, for then I know
they'll be busy at the supper. He shall hear me agin,
by Gimini!—he shall know I ain't forgotten him, though,
to be sure, there's but little can be done for him yet.
Them d—d blasted tories are too thick about Barsfield,
and the `fox' must wait and watch a little longer before
he can make a break. Gimini! it's hard enough, but
there's no way to help it.”

He soliloquized thus upon a variety of matters, all
bearing upon this subject; and, had a scout of the enemy
been crouching among the branches of the tree
above him, he might have picked up for Barsfield many
a vauable little secret touching the condition and the
force of Marion. The faithful Witherspoon was one
of those ingenuous persons who do not hesitate to speak
their thoughts out freely, and who, thinking to himself, is
yet quite as likely to be confiding and communicative,
as if he was really engaged in delivering a message to
his superior. You could have heard from his lips on

this occasion, without much striving to hear, what were
the general objects of the partisan—how he was busy
gathering his men in the swamp for the co-operation, in
future strife, with the newly-forming army of Greene,—
of designs upon the rapidly-rushing, and, perhaps, too
self-confident career of Bannister Tarleton,—and, to
come more immediately to the interest before us, he
might have learned now, for the first time, as we do, of
the organization of an especial corps, to be commanded
by Major Singleton, having for its object the rescue of
the youthful Mellichampe, whenever it should be ascertained
that he was to be removed to Charleston. This
was a primary consideration with the partisan. The
tender mercies of a Charleston commandant, and of a
board of British officers for inquiry, were well known;
and the sacrifice of the youth was a fear with all his
friends, should he not be rescued from the clutches of
his foe before his transfer to the scene of trial. Too
hazardous an enterprise to aim at this rescue while the
youth lay in Barsfield's well-defended encampment, the
partisan simply prepared himself to be in readiness at
the moment when a signal from his scouts should apprize
him of the movement of any guard of the enemy
in the direction of the city. An ambush on the wayside
was the frequent resort of warriors who were only too
few, too poorly armed and provided, to risk a more
daring sort of warfare.

The camp of Barsfield was soon illuminated by the
additional fire of which Witherspoon had spoken. As
soon as he beheld it he proceeded, cautiously but fearlessly,
to pass the intervening road; then, keeping close
alongside of the left or upward bank of the avenue leading
to the settlement, he stole along from tree to tree,
until he heard the measured tread of the more advanced
sentinels. A necessity for greater precaution induced
a pause. He stole, a moment after, to the edge of the
ditch, into which he descended; then, crawling upon

hands and knees up the bank, he looked over into the
avenue, and distinguished the glittering raiment of the
first sentinel. In the distance he beheld a second,
with corresponding pace, moving his “lonely round.”
Resting his chin upon his palm, Witherspoon took a
cool survey of the prospect, and did not even withdraw
himself into the hollow when the nearest soldier, having
gained his limit, wheeled to retrace his steps.

“I could nail that fellow's best button now with a sly
bullet, if 'twas any use, and he wouldn't know what
hurt him,” was the half-muttered thought of the scout as
the sentinel approached. The man came forward until
he stood abreast of our scout, who buried himself in the
long grass as he approached; then, again wheeling, he
commenced his monotonous return. It was now the
moment for Witherspoon: he gathered himself up instantly,
waited in readiness until the sentinel had gone
half of his distance, then, with a single bound, leaped
down into the avenue, and sought his way across. His
tread was light—wonderfully light—for a man so heavy;
but it did not escape the quick ear of the watchful
Briton. He turned instantly, presented his piece, and
challenged. But the coast was clear; there was nothing
to be seen; the scout had already crossed the road,
and was sheltered in the thick copse on the other bank
of the avenue. The leaves and brush were shaken, and
the only response made to the challenge of the sentry
was the hooting of a melancholy owl, and a noise like
the shaking of wings among the branches.

“What's the matter?” cried the companion sentinel,
approaching the challenger, who had remained stationary
in the brief interval occupied by this event. “What
have you seen?”

“Nothing—it's only an owl. These woods are full
of them; the d—d things keep one starting on all sides
as if the `swamp fox' himself was scrambling over the
ditch.”

The scout lay close, and heard the question and response.
He chuckled to himself with no little self-complaisance
as he listened.

“By Gimini!” he half muttered, aloud, “what a
poor skunk of a fellow I'd be, now, if my edication
was no better than that sentry's. Not to know a man's
hollow from a blind bird's!”

Waiting a few moments until the guardians of the
night had resumed their walk, he at length boldly left
the copse, and proceeded without hesitation, though cautiously,
still nearer to the house which held the prisoner.

Meanwhile, full of anxiety, the lovers lingered together.
This was the night on which Scipio was despatched
in search of Witherspoon, and all their thoughts
were necessarily given to his successful management
of the enterprise. Well might they be anxious; and
how natural was the deep and breathless silence which,
for protracted hours, overspread the apartment as if with
a dense and heavier mantle than that of night. The arm
of Mellichampe infolded the waist of the maiden. She
lay sadly, as was her wont, upon its supporting strength;
and her cheek, with all the confidence of true and unsophisticated
affection, rested upon his bosom. She
feared nothing—she doubted nothing—at that moment;
for she knew how noble was the heart that beat beneath
it. Her fears were elsewhere. The fate of her lover
hung suspended, as it were, upon a thread. He was
about to seek a perilous chance for life, to escape from
a more perilous, and, as it appeared to them, an unavoidable
necessity. Upon the cunning of the slave—upon
his successful search after the partisans,—and upon
their readiness and ability for the adventure, the life of
Mellichampe depended! How many contingencies to
be met and overcome! How many difficulties to
be avoided or surmounted—how many dangers to be
hazarded and sought! The accumulating thoughts of
these took from her all hope. She was no longer sanguine,

though her more buoyant lover, in all the eloquent
warmth of a young heart, strove to persuade her
into confidence. She lay upon his bosom, and wept
bitter tears.

Suddenly there came again to the apartment the
faint, distant, but distinct sound—the whistle of the
woodman. Mellichampe lifted her head from its place
of rest, and his heart increased its beatings. His eye
brightened: and, as she beheld its glance, her own kindled
amid its tears. Again, and again, did the well-known
notes glide into the apartment, and well did the
youth know then that his friends were at hand.

“Hear—hear it, my Janet. He is there,—it is
Witherspoon,—it is his signal,—the same that has come
to me, and cheered me, night after night, when you could
no longer be with me. Do you not hear it?”

The sense of the maiden did not seem so quick as
that of her lover. She paused, and, though her eye had
caught a glow from the kindled expression of his, it still
seemed that she doubted the reality of the sounds, when
an appeal was made to her own distinct consciousness.
She was a sweet dependant—one who could receive
consolation from the assurances of another: but, save
in love, who could give little in return.

“Is it a whistle, Ernest?—it seems to me little more
than a murmur of the wind. Ah, I do—I do hear it
now,—it is—it is a whistle.” And her head sank, in
her joy, again upon the manly and aroused bosom of
her lover.

“It is he, and all's well if Scipio does not miss him.
Janet, dear love, we must see to this. Scipio may not
yet be gone; and, if not, methinks I can direct him to
the very spot whence these sounds come. I know I
can. See, dear,—hark!—to the north,—directly to the
north—is it not? You hear it now,—there,—in that direction,
and that is towards the little bay that lies between
this house and the avenue. That's just the spot

in which a good scout would lurk at such a moment, and
from that spot he knows that I can hear his signal. He
must be there now; and, if Scipio passes in that direction,
he must find him. If not gone, the fellow must
go at once, for Witherspoon can't remain long in one
spot while in this neighbourhood. The scouts may
trouble him. See to it, then, dear Janet,—see if
Scipio be not gone, and send him on that course: and
hold me not burdensome, dearest, that I give you,
in these dangerous hours, more employment that affection.”

“Speak not thus, Ernest,” replied the maiden, fondly,
as she proceeded to execute the mission; “speak not
thus—not thus to me. Are not love's labours his pleasures
always?—does he not rejoice to serve? I do, I am
sure. I feel that my best pleasures are my labours always—always
when they are taken for you.”

“Heaven bless you, my Janet,” he murmured, fondly,
in reply, as his lips were pressed upon her forehead;
“Heaven bless you, and make me worthy of all this
devotion.”