University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.

That day was spent in arrangements. Barsfield
chose his men for the purposes of assassination—but he
did not surrender his secret to their keeping. He was
too wary for that. They had their places assigned,
and all that he condescended to unfold to them, by
way of accounting for the special appointment and the
earnest commands which he gave, may be comprised
in few words.

“I suspect,” said he, “that there is some treason
among us. I suspect the scout—Blonay. I have reason
to think he purposes, either this night or the next, to
betray the camp to Marion, and to escape with the spy
Mellichampe. You will therefore preserve the utmost
watchfulness upon the posts which I assign you; and,
if you see any thing to alarm you, any thing worthy of
suspicion, act upon it decisively and without pause. If
you see the prisoner with the scout, spare neither—put
them both to death. To seek to recapture the spy
might lose him, and such an event would be ruinous and
disgraceful. I trust to you, men—you will do your
duty.”

In the chamber of Mellichampe, whose fate thus
hung upon a thread, the interest, it may be supposed, was
not less important and exciting. Concealed in a shawl
assumed for the purpose, the maiden carried to her lover
the much desired weapons which Scipio had received
from Witherspoon. The message of the trusty woodman
was also delivered correctly, and the intelligence
strengthened the youth accordingly, and half reconciled
Janet to the experiment which she so much dreaded.

“This is well—this is excellent!” cried Mellichampe,
grasping the pistols, trying the charge, and examining
their condition,—“this is well,—both loaded—
good flints,—I fear nothing now, Janet. At least, I am
able to fight,—I am not less able to destroy than my
enemies.”

She turned away with a shudder; but she felt happier
and more hopeful as she beheld his exultation.

Not less busy in the camp of Marion, the entire
force of the partisans was preparing for the assault.
Every available arm was required for the service, as the
little squad of the “swamp fox” at this period barely
numbered one hundred and fifty men—many of these
only partially armed, and some of them who had never
been in fight before.

“Have you had reports from the scouts, Major Singleton?”
demanded the general.

“Not yet, sir. I have sent out Humphries and
Witherspoon, who will bring us special accounts by
noon. We shall have time enough then for our movement.”

“Quite—quite. This plan of Thumbscrew's is admirable.
If the scouts do handsomely, we can put a
dead shot for every sentinel on one side of the avenue.
It can scarcely fail, I think.”

“Impossible, sir—if the action is concerted, and I
think we have time enough to make it so. The firing
of the tents must follow the first knowledge we have

of Mellichampe's movement; and that knowledge, if I
mistake him not, we shall have as soon as he leaves the
house, for Witherspoon has sent him his pistols. When
the alarm is given by the blaze, I will charge from the
lower bay—to which I can get, with all my men, by
nine o'clock—moving slowly and without detection.
With proper firmness we cannot help but succeed.”

“I doubt not we shall do so, major—I doubt not that
we shall defeat the tory, and I hope annihilate his force;
but, in that first moment, I dread every thing for Mellichampe.
The tory, doubtless, will watch every step
which he takes, and he may be murdered the moment
after he leaves the house.”

“But it is on one route only that he puts his guard.
Relying on his scout as faithful, he will calculate upon
his bringing Mellichampe into his very jaws—”

“And how know we that he is not faithful to his employer?
What reason is there to believe him friendly
to Mellichampe? This is my doubt. So long as
Barsfield can pay this fellow in solid gold, he has his
fidelity.”

“Yes, sir,—very probably; but I scarcely think that
Mellichampe will keep the one track. I rely greatly
on his sagacity in all matters of this sort, and think
that the moment he leaves the dwelling, he will not feel
himself bound to follow the lead of his companion.”

“I hope not,” was the response of Marion to the
sanguine calculations of Major Singleton; “I hope not,
but I apprehend for him. We must do our best, however,
and look to Good Fortune to help us through
where we stumble. But no more. See now to your
farther preparations, for we move by dusk.”

The affair on hand impressed no one more seriously
with its importance than Thumbscrew. He addressed
Major Singleton the moment after his return, bringing
the desired intelligence, which he did at noon. He addressed
him to solicit what he styled a favour.

“But why incur a danger so great, and, seemingly,
so unnecessary? I see no use for it, Thumbscrew.”

“No use!—there's use for it, major, and satisfaction;
as for danger, I'm a born danger myself, and I shouldn't
be afraid to stand in the way of my own shadow. But
I don't think there's any danger, major,—to cross the
avenue ain't so mighty hard to a man like me, that's
played, in my time, a part of every beast, and bird, and
crawling critter that's known to a Santee woodman. I
can pass them sentries like a gust from a big winged
bird, and so they'll think me. I can git into that bay
without waking a blind moscheto; and, once I gits
there, I can do a mighty deal now, I tell you, by a sartin
whistle which I has, to tell Airnest Mellichampe
where to find me.”

The arguments of Witherspoon soon persuaded his
superior, and he went alone, long in advance of the partisans,
on his individual and daring adventure. He
gained the bay with the same ease and good fortune
which marked his progress in a similar effort, which we
have previously described. There he waited anxiously,
but in patience, the events which were at hand.

At nightfall the partisans, the entire force of Marion,
approached “Piney Grove”—not so near as to be subjected
to any danger of discovery, yet sufficiently so to
be in readiness for any circumstance which might suddenly
call them forward. In a deep wood, the very
one in which Scipio's interview had taken place with
Witherspoon, they alighted, and Marion proceeded to
divide his men into three bodies. To one, under command
of Colonel Horry, he assigned the task of firing
the tents and striking at the main post of the encampment.
To another troop, acting simply as cavalry, under
Major Singleton, he gave it in charge to attack the
rear by a sudden and fierce onset, the moment that
Horry should commence the affair—the firing of the
tents being a common signal. To himself he reserved

the more difficult, if not more dangerous task, of distributing
his men as riflemen, in front, along the whole
line of the avenue, prepared to commence the attack in
that quarter; and, pressing through the avenue—having
first slain the sentinels, each man of whom was to
be marked out by a corresponding rifleman—to unite
with the other two bodies near the bay so frequently
spoken of, where it was their hope to be in time to save
Mellichampe from the knife or pistol of the prepared
assassins.

This arrangement made, Singleton's troop remounted
their horses, and, under the direction of their leader,
made a wide circuit around the camp, so as to throw
themselves into the thicket lying in its rear. This they
gained before the moon rose. The men commanded
by Marion and Horry fastened their horses securely out
of the reach of danger, and pressed forward on foot to
their several stations. The riflemen stole individually
from cover to cover, until they ranged themselves along
the whole line of the avenue, and looked down upon
the pacing sentinels, who walked their rounds all unconscious
of the lurking death which lay hovering in dreadful
silence, and unseen, around them. Each partisan
in this way had selected his victim; and the “swamp
fox” himself, lying along a little ditch overgrown with
weeds and half full of water, lay as secretly and still
as ever did the adroit animal whose name had been assigned
him.

The hour was approaching. Barsfield had set his
snare, and was impatient.

“Go now—and bring him forth,” he said to Blonay.
“The time is close at hand.”

The Half-Breed, obedient to his will, left him on the
instant.

“He is mine at last!” was the triumphant thought
which the tory muttered at that moment to himself.

“The toil will soon be over, and I shall triumph now—
I will bathe my feet in his blood.”

He went the rounds of the men whom he had stationed
on the watch for his victim. Some were immediately
around the house, though not known to Blonay.
Barsfield anticipated the possibility of the fugitive's taking
another direction than that which he had prescribed.
For this possibility he had prepared. He was
resolved that his plan should not fail through want of
due precautions. He saw that all were in readiness;
and, not remote, he took a station for himself which
would enable him, as soon as the deed was done, to
gratify himself with the sight of his murdered victim.

“Hist! hem!” were the sounds that saluted Mellichampe
at the door of his chamber. The hour had
come. In the next instant the door was unlocked, and,
with a fearless heart, having his pistols ready in his
grasp, he met his guide at the entrance.

“Are you Mr. Blonay?” was his question, as the
darkness of the passage-way did not permit him to distinguish
features. The reply was affirmative.

“I am ready,” said the youth. “Lead on.”

“Go not—go not, dear Ernest!” cried Janet Berkeley,
who was also watchful; “Go not, I pray you,—it is
not too late,—return to your chamber, for I dread me of
this trial. It will be fatal,—you cannot escape these
assassins, and the night is so bright and clear—”

“Hush!” he whispered,—“see you not?” and he
pointed to Blonay.

“I know—I know; but trust not—risk not, I implore
you, Ernest. Mr. Blonay knows—he says that
there is danger. He told me so but this moment.”

“Nay, Janet,—but you are too apprehensive. I
know the skill of Mr. Blonay,—he can help me through
the danger, and I fear it not.”

“But, dear Ernest—”

He interrupted her, as, passing his arm about her
waist, he bent down and whispered in her ears,

“Would you prefer to see me hanging from a tree?
Remember, Janet, this is my only hope.”

“God help me! God be with you, and save you!”
she exclaimed.

He folded her to his bosom, and oh! the agony of
doubt that assailed both hearts at that instant. It might
be the last embrace that they should take in life. A
mutual thought of this nature produced a mutual shudder
at the same moment in their forms.

“One—one more, my beloved!” he cried, as they
parted—and, in another instant, he was gone from sight.
She sank down where he left her. Her hands were
clasped, and, too feeble for effort, yet too alive to her
anxieties to faint into forgetfulness, she strove, but how
vainly, even where she lay, to pray for his safety.