University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.

Robinson having thus succeeded in his enterprise, now found
himself in circumstances of peculiar perplexity in regard to the
disposal of his prisoners. Here he was, in the neighborhood of
the British posts—in a district of country of which the enemy
might be said to have, at this moment, complete possession—(for
Horse Shoe himself was almost the only belligerent in the field
against them)—and, more than that, he was but a few miles' distant
from a camp whose scouts had chased him almost to his present
place of refuge. It was scarcely probable, therefore, that he
could hope to retain his captives long under his control, or prevent
the enemy from receiving intelligence of the capture. He was,
however, notwithstanding these embarrassments, as usual, cheerful,
confident, and self-possessed. He had no wish or motive to detain
the private soldiers as prisoners of war, and would at once have
dismissed them, if he could have assured himself that they would
not make the earliest use of their liberty to convey information of
their misadventure to the first corps of loyalists they should meet,
and thus get up a hot pursuit of him through the whole district.
But he had cogent and most important reasons for holding the
ensign, St. Jermyn, in close custody. It occurred to him, that this
officer might be used to control the procedure that should be
adopted by those who meditated injury to Arthur Butler; and he,
therefore, at once formed the resolution of communicating with the
nearest British authorities, in order to assure them that he would
retaliate upon the Ensign any pain that might be inflicted npon
his late comrade. His plan was speedily formed—it was to keep
his prisoners until night-fall, move off under cover of the darkness,

to some remote and concealed spot with St. Jermyn, and release
the others, on their parole or pledge not to take up arms until
regularly exchanged.

Whilst the sergeant was deliberating over these arrangements,
the prisoners were allowed to shelter themselves from the rain
under a shed near the door of the dwelling, where Andrew, with
all the pride and importance of his new station, marched to and
fro, before them, like a trained sentinel. There was a small log
building in the yard of Ramsay's mansion, which had been recently
erected as a store-house, and which being well secured at the door
by a padlock, Robinson determined to convert for the nonce into
a prison. It contained but one room, not above twelve feet square,
with an earthen floor, and received no light except such as was
admitted under the door, and through a few crannies about the
roof. Into this narrow apartment the soldiers were now marched;
a bundle of straw was thrown upon the floor; sundry flitches of
bacon, that hung upon the walls, were removed; and a few comforts,
in the way of food and drink, were supplied to render the
accommodation as tolerable to the inmates as was compatible with
their safe custody. This being done, our friend Andrew was posted
in the passage-way of the dwelling, in full view of the door of the
store-house, which was carefully locked, with a musket in his hand,
and with orders to make a circuit every five minutes round the
little building, to guard against any attempts at escape by undermining
the foundation.

As noon approached the weather began to clear up, and with
the first breaking forth of the sun came David Ramsay, the proprietor
of the farm which was the scene of the present operations.
His recognition of Horse Shoe Robinson was accompanied by a
hearty greeting, and with an expression of wonder that he should
have ventured, in hostile guise, through a country so beset as this
was by the forces of the enemy; but when he heard the narrative
of the exploit of the morning, and saw the trophies of its success
in the weapons piled against the wall, and, more especially, when
he received from the lips of his wife a circumstantial account of
the part which had been performed in this adventure by his son
Andrew, his delight seemed almost to be absorbed by his astonishment
and incredulity. The proofs, however, were all around him;

and after assuring himself, by an actual inspection of the prisoners
through one of the chinks of the store-house, he came into his own
parlour, sat down, and laughed out-right.

Ramsay was a staunch friend of the independence of his country;
and although he had not been up in arms in the cause, he gave it
all the aid he could by the free expression of opinion, and by a
resolute refusal to comply with the requisitions of the royalists.
His eldest son had joined Sumpter, and had already been active
in the field; and he himself looked, with an almost certain expectation,
to see visited upon himself that proscription under which
thousands were already suffering, and which he had only escaped
as yet by the temporizing delays of his opponents, or by their neglect,
arising out of the incessant hurry and pressure of their military
operations in the organization of the new dominion which the
royal forces had but lately acquired. He was a man of sturdy
frame—now only in the prime of life—brave, thoughtful, and intelligent,
and firmly resolved to stand by his principles through
whatever adverse chances. The present aspect of affairs was, to
his mind, almost decisive of his fate: the capture of these prisoners,
made from information derived from his own family, and in which
his own son had been a principal agent; their confinement, too, in
his own house, were facts of so unequivocal a character as inevitably
to draw upon him the prompt ire of the Tories, and compel
him to assume the attitude and abide by the issues of a partisan.
As he had faith in the justice of his quarrel, and a strong devotion
to the principles upon which it was sustained, he did not hesitate
in the crisis before him, but heroically determined to meet the
worst that might befal. He, therefore, in the present emergency,
became a useful and efficient ally to Robinson, who opened to him
the full history of Butler, and the course of measures he was about
to pursue for the relief of that unfortunate officer.

We must now leave the sergeant holding watch and ward over
his vanquished foes, and shift our scene to Musgrove's Mill.

The family of Allen Musgrove were in a state of great disquietude.
Horse Shoe Robinson had disappeared before day-light; and
when the miller and his nephew left their beds, a little after the
dawn, the only intelligence they had of the departure of their guest
was inferred from finding the stable door open and the sergeant's

horse absent. This fact was explained when Mary met them at
breakfast. Horse Shoe had set out for Ramsay's to learn some
tidings of John, and to enlist him in an effort to liberate Butler.
He had departed under cover of darkness to avoid molestation
from Innis's scouts, and she, Mary Musgrove, had placed the key
of the stable, the night before, in a place where Horse Shoe might
find it. Such was the extent of the maiden's information. The
day passed wearily upon her hand: she was anxious to hear something
of Butler—something of Horse Shoe—and something, we
suppose, of John Ramsay. Frequently during the morning she
and Christopher Shaw held secret conferences: they spoke in
whispers: suspense, care, and doubt were pictured upon her face;
and as the rain pattered against the windows she oftentimes stood
before them, and looked out upon the distant road, and across the
wide fields, and then upwards to the clouded sky. The sun at
length appeared, and his rays seemed to shoot a glimpse of joy
into the breast of the maiden, as she walked forth to note the drying
of the roads, and to see the clear blue, which, in that climate,
outvies the mellow and rich tints of a Tuscan heaven.

The day waxed, and the birds sang, and nature was gay, but the
maiden was restless and unquiet: the day waned, and the sun rode
downwards on the western slope in gorgeous beauty; but Mary
was ill at ease, and thought little of the grand and glorious firmament.
Her communings with Christopher Shaw, meantime, became
more eager: she and her cousin were seen to wander towards
the mill; then Christopher left her, and, presently, he might be
discovered leading two horses, one bearing a side-saddle, down to
the margin of the stream. There was a short visit to the house by
the young man—a word whispered in the ear of the mother—a
shake of her head, an expression of doubt, a final nod of assent,—
and, in the next moment, Mary and Christopher were seen trotting
off on horseback, on the road that led towards Ramsay's.

When they had ridden some two or three miles, and had entered
upon the high-road between Ninety-Six and Blackstock's—somewhere
near to that piece of haunted ground, where, on the morning
of this very day, a goblin had struck down James Curry from his
steed—they descried a military party of horse and foot slowly advancing
from the direction to which they were travelling. In a

few moments they met the first platoon of the cavalry, headed by
a trumpeter and the unsightly captain Hugh Habershaw. They
were detained at the head of this column, whilst some questions
were asked respecting the object of their journey, the troops in their
neighborhood, and other matters connected with the affairs of the
times. Christopher's answers were prompt and satisfactory: he
was only riding with his kinswoman on a visit to a neighbor;
Innis's camp was not above two miles and a half away, and the
country in general was quiet, as far as he had the means of knowing.
The travellers were now suffered to pass on. In succession,
they left behind them each platoon of threes, and then encountered
the small column of march of the infantry. Mary grew pale as
her eyes fell upon the form of Arthur Butler, posted in the centre
of a guard. Her feeling lest he might not recognise her features,
and guess something of her errand, almost overpowered her. She
reined up her horse, as if to gratify an idle curiosity to see the
soldiers passing, and halted in a position which compelled the ranks
to file off, in order to obtain a free passage round her. Every look
seemed to be turned upon her as the escort marched near her
horse's head, and it was impossible to make the slightest sign to
Butler without being observed. She saw him, however, lift his
eyes to hers, and she distinctly perceived the flash of surprise with
which it was kindled as he became aware of her features. A faint
and transient smile, which had in it nothing but pain, was the only
return she dared to make. An order from the van quickened the
march; and the detachment moved rapidly by. As Mary still
occupied the ground on which she had halted, and was gazing
after the retreating corps, she saw Butler turn his face back towards
her; she seized the moment to nod to him and to make a quick sign
with her hand, which she intended should indicate the fact that she
was now engaged in his service. She thought she perceived a
response in a slight motion of Butler's head, and now resumed her
journey, greatly excited by the satisfaction of having, in this accidental
rencounter, obtained even this brief insight into the condition
of the prisoner.

The sun was set, when Mary with her convoy, Christopher
Shaw, arrived at Ramsay's. Always an acceptable guest at this
house, she was now more than ever welcome. There was business

to be done in which she could discharge a most important part,
and the service of Christopher Shaw in reinforcing the garrison
was of the greatest moment. When the intelligence regarding the
movement of Butler to Innis's camp was communicated to the
sergeant, it suggested a new device to his mind, which he determined
instantly to adopt. Butler was at this moment, he concluded,
in the hands of those who had engaged the ruffians to set
upon him at Grindall's ford, and it was not improbable that he
would be summarily dealt with: there was no time, therefore, to
be lost. The sergeant's plan, in this new juncture, was, to compel
the young ensign to address a letter to the British commandant, to
inform that officer of his present imprisonment, and to add to this
information the determination of his captors to put him to death,
in the event of any outrage being inflicted upon Butler. This
scheme was communicated to Ramsay, Shaw, and Mary. The
letter was to be immediately written; Mary was to return with it
to the mill, and was to contrive to have it secretly delivered, in the
morning, at Innis's head-quarters; and David Ramsay himself was
to escort the maiden back to her father's house, whilst Shaw was
to attend the sergeant and assist him to transport the young ensign
to some fit place of concealment. The private soldiers were to
remain prisoners, under the guard of Andrew, until his father's
return, when they were to be released on parole, as prisoners
of war.

The plan being thus matured, Robinson went forthwith to the
prison-house, and directed Ensign St. Jermyn to follow him into
the dwelling. When the young officer arrived in the family
parlor, he was ordered to take a chair near a table, upon which
was placed a light, some paper, pen, and ink.

“Young man,” said Robinson, “take up that pen and write as I
bid you.”

“To what end am I to write? I must know the purpose you
design to answer, before I can put my hand to paper.”

“To the end,” replied Horse Shoe firmly, and with unwonted
gravity, “of the settlement of your worldly affairs, if the consarns
of to-morrow should bring ill luck to a friend of mine.”

“I do not understand you, sir. If my life is threatened to
accomplish an unrighteous purpose, it is my duty to tell you at

once, that that life belongs to my king; and if his interests are to
suffer by any forced act of mine, I am willing to resign it at once.”

“Never was purpose more righteous, sir, in the view of God and
man, than ours,” said David Ramsay.

“I have a friend,” added Horse Shoe, greatly excited as he
spoke, “who has been foully dealt by. Some of your enlisted
gangs have laid an ambuscade to trap him: villany has been
used, by them that ought to be ashamed to see it thriving under
their colors, to catch a gentleman who was only doing the common
duties of a good sodger; and by mean bush-fighting, not by fair
fields and honest blows—they have seized him and carried him to
the camp of that blood-sucking Tory, Colonel Innis. I doubt more
harm is meant him than falls to the share of a common prisoner
of war.”

“I know nothing of the person, nor of the circumstances you
speak about,” said the ensign.

“So much the better for you,” replied the sergeant. “If your
people are brave sodgers or honest men, you will not have much
occasion to be afeard for yourself; but, by my right hand! if so
much as one hair of Major Arthur Butler's head be hurt by Colonel
Innis, or by any other man among your pillaging and brandishing
bullies, I myself will drive a bullet through from one of
your ears to the other. This game of war is a stiff game, young
man, but we will play it out.”

“Major Arthur Butler!” exclaimed the officer, with astonishment,
“is he taken?”

“Ha! you've hearn of him, and know something, mayhap, of
them that were on the look-out for him?”

“I cannot write,” said the officer sullenly.

“No words, sir,” interrupted Horse Shoe, “but obey my orders;
write what I tell you, or take your choice. I will bind you hand
and foot to a tree on yonder mountain, to starve till you write
that letter; or to feed the wild vermin with your body, if you
refuse.”

The ensign looked in Robinson's face, where a frown of stern
resolution brooded upon his brow, and a kindling tempest of anger
showed that this was not a moment to hazard the trial of his clemency.

“What would you have the purport of my letter?” asked the
officer, in a subdued voice.

“That you have got into the hands of the Whigs,” replied the
sergeant; “and that if so be any mischief should fall upon Major
Butler, by the contrivings of your friends, you die the first minute
that we hear of it.”

“I have had no hand in the taking of Major Butler,” said the
young St. Jermyn.

“I am glad of it,” answered Robinson, “for your sake. You will
die with a better conscience. If you had a hand in it, young man,
I wouldn't ask you to write a line to any breathing man: your
brains would spatter that door-post. Take up the pen and write, or
stand by the consequences.”

The officer took up the pen, then, hesitating a moment, flung it
down, saying:

“I will not write; do with me as you choose.”

“The young man drives me to it, against my own nature,” said
Robinson, speaking under strong excitement. “If he will not pen
that letter, then, David Ramsay, you will write to Innis, in my
name, and say Galbraith Robinson has got the Ensign where no
Tory foot will ever follow him, and holds him to answer the first
mischief that is done to Arthur Butler. But, I swear to this sulky
boy, that if that letter goes to Innis for want of a better, as I am
a man and a sodger, he will never taste food or water till I hear
that Major Butler is free. He shall starve in the mountain.”

“Oh, God! oh, God!” ejaculated the young soldier, in bitterness
of heart; and covering his face with his hands, he threw his
head upon the table, where he wept tears of agony. At length, looking
in the countenance of Robinson, he said: “I am young, sir—
not above twenty years. I have a mother and sisters in England.”

“We have no time to spare,” interrupted Robinson, “much less
to talk about kinsfolk. Major Butler has them that love his life
better than e'er an Englishwoman loves her son. If they are
brought to grief by this onnatural rascality, it matters nothing to
me if every daughter and sister in England pines away of heart-sickness,
for the loss of them that they love best. Take my
advice, my lack-beard,” added Robinson, patting him on the

shoulder, “and write the letter. You have the chances of war in
your favor, and may save your neck.”

“I will do your bidding, sir,” said the ensign, after a pause.
“Under the compulsion of force, I agree to write,” and he once
more took up the pen.

“You speak now like a reasonable gentleman,” said Horse Shoe.
“I pity you, friend, and will preserve you against harm, so far as
it can be done in the circumstances of the case.”

The ensign then wrote a few lines, in which he communicated
to Colonel Innis, or to whatever officer his letter might be delivered,
the straits in which he found himself, and the resolution of his
captors to hold his life forfeit upon the event of any rigors, beyond
those of an ordinary prisoner of war, imposed upon Major Butler.
When he had finished, he gave the paper to Robinson.

“Read it aloud, Mr. Ramsay,” said Horse Shoe, delivering the
scrawl to his friend.

Ramsay read what was written.

“It must be wrote over again,” said Horse Shoe, after he had
heard the contents. “First, it must make no mention of his being
only a few miles off; that must be left out. Secondly, my name
needn't be told; though if the runagates knowed he was in my
hands, they wouldn't think his chance any better on that account.
Let him say that the Whigs have got him—that's enough. And,
lastly, he must write his own name in full at the bottom. And,
look you, young man, don't be scrawling out the lines in such a
way that your own hand-write moughtn't be known. That must
speak for itself, because upon this letter depends your life. You
understand?”

“Give it me,” said the ensign; “I will write it as you desire.”

And again the unfortunate officer applied himself to the task
that was imposed upon him; and in a short time produced a letter,
which, being subjected to the criticism of the bystanders, was pronounced
satisfactory.

As soon as this was done, St. Jermyn was conducted into another
apartment, and there confided to the guardianship of Christopher
Shaw. Horse Shoe now took a light and the writing materials
from the table, and repaired with David Ramsay—both of them
well armed—to the store-house, where the other prisoners were

confined. After they had entered and closed the door, posting
Andrew with his musket on the outside, Horse Shoe addressed the
men in a gay and cheerful tone:

“Come, my lads, as you are good, honest fellows, that can have
no great love for these little country cabins, judging by your bad
luck and oncomfortable circumstances in that one where I found
you this morning, I have come to set you free. By the laws of
war, you have the right, if I choose to take it, to give me your
parole. So now, if you have a mind to promise me, on the honor
of sodgers, not to sarve again until you are fairly exchanged, you
shall all leave this before day-break. What do you say to the
terms?”

“We are all agreed,” replied the men, with one accord.

“Then write out something to that effect,” said the sergeant to
Ramsay. “You that can't scratch like scholards, stick your marks
to the paper—d'ye hear?”

The parole was written out by Ramsay, and duly signed or
marked by each of the four men. This being done, the sergeant
informed them that, exactly at three in the morning, the door
would be opened, and they would be at liberty to go where they
pleased, provided they pledged themselves to visit no post of the
enemy within twenty miles, nor communicate any particulars relating
to their capture or detention to any British or Tory officer or
soldier, within seven days. This pledge was cheerfully given, and
after a few words of jocular good-nature were exchanged on both
sides, Horse Shoe and his companion retired.

David Ramsay now ordered out his own and Mary Musgrove's
horses, with an intention to set out immediately for the mill.

“Does Major Butler know that you are in his neighborhood?”
inqired Ramsay of the sergeant, before the horses were brought to
the door.

“Oh, bless you, yes,” replied Horse Shoe. “I left word for him
yesterday at Blackstock's, by giving the babblers there something
to talk about, which I knew he would hear.” And the sergeant
went on to relate the particulars of his stop at that post: “And I
sent him a message,” continued he, “this morning, by James Curry,
in the same sort of fashion. A little before daylight, I heard the
devil singing one of his staves upon the road back here, so loud

that he seemed to be frightened by ghosts or sperits; so I rode up
fast behind him, and cuffed him out of his saddle, and then away
I went like a leather-winged bat. I knowed the curmudgeon's
voice, and I expect he knowed my hand, for he has felt it before.
I'll be bound, he made a good story out of it; and, as such things
fly, I make no doubt it wasn't long reaching the ear of the major,
who would naturally think it was me, whether James told my
name or not, because he knows my way. It was as good as writing
a letter to the major, to signify that I was lurking about, close
at hand. I never went to school, Mr. Ramsay, so I write my letters
by making my mark. I can make a blow go further than a word
upon occasion, and that's an old-fashioned way of telling your
thoughts, that was found out before pen and ink.”

“Well, Horse Shoe, you are a man after your own sort,” replied
Ramsay, laughing. “Come, Mary, take the letter; our horses are
at the door.”

“Good bye t'ye, David,” said Horse Shoe, shaking Ramsay's
hand; “it may be some days before we see each other again. Kit
and me will be off with this young ensign before you get back.
Don't forget the prisoners at three o'clock. And, a word, David—
where had we best take this young sparrow, the ensign, to keep
him out of the way of these fellows that are scouring the country?”

“Leave that to Christopher Shaw,” replied Ramsay; “he knows
every nook in the country. So, now, friend Robinson, good night,
and luck go with you!”

It was a clear star-lit night, and every tree and pool sent forth a
thousand notes from the busy insects and reptiles that animate the
summer hours of darkness, when David Ramsay set out with Mary
Musgrove for her father's house.