University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.

Butler's baggage, ever since he left Robinson's habitation on the
Catawba, had been divided into two parcels, one of which he
carried in a portmanteau on his own horse, and the other had been
stowed away in a pair of black leather saddle-bags that were flung
across Captain Peter. These latter sufficed, also, to inclose, in
addition to the sergeant's own wardrobe, sundry stores of provender,
which the careful appetite and soldier-like foresight of the
trusty squire had, from time to time, accumulated for their comfort
upon the road-side. After the escape of the sergeant, this baggage
had been kept with more scrupulousness than might have been
expected from the character of the freebooters into whose possession
it had fallen; and now, when Butler had been surrendered up to
the custody of Colonel Innis, it was restored to the prisoner without
the loss of any article of value. On this morning, therefore, Butler
had thrown aside the rustic dress in which he had heretofore
travelled, and appeared habited as we have described him when first
introduced to the reader.

After a very slight meal, which had been administered with more
personal attention and consideration for his rank and condition than
he was prepared to expect, an officer entered his apartment and communicated
an order to him to repair to the yard in front of the
quarters. Here he found a sergeant's guard mustered to receive
him, and he was directed to march with them to the place that
had been selected for his trial. The spot pitched upon for this
purpose, was at the foot of a large mulberry that stood on the border
of the plain, at a short distance from the house.

When the guard arrived with the prisoner, Colonel Innis was
already seated at the head of a table, around which were placed

several officers, both of the regular and militia forces. Writing
materials were also arranged upon the board, and at the lower end,
a few paces removed from it, stood a vacant chair. Behind this
was erected a pile of drums, with one or two colours laid transversely
across them. Sentinels were stationed at different points
near this group, and within their lines were collected the principal
officers of Innis's command. Somewhat more remote, a number
of idle spectators were assembled, amongst whom might have been
discerned Habershaw, Curry, and many of the heroes who had
figured at Grindall's ford. Captain St. Jermyn had taken a station
a little to the left of the presiding officer at the table, and in the
rear of those who appeared to have the management of the
approaching procedure, and now stood, with his hands folded,
apparently an anxious and interested looker-on.

There was a thoughtful and even stern expression upon every
face when Butler appeared—and a silence that was scarce broken
by the occasional whispers in which the several individuals present
communicated with each other. The guard marched the prisoner
around the circle, and inducted him into the vacant chair, where
he was received by a quiet and cold inclination of the head from
each member of the court.

For a few moments he looked around him with a scornful gaze
upon the assemblage that were to sit in judgment upon him, and
bit his lip, as his frame seemed to be agitated with deep emotion:
at length, when every look was bent upon him, and no one
breathed a word, he rose upon his feet and addressed the company.

“I understand that I am in the presence of a military court,
which has been summoned for the purpose of inquiring into certain
offences, of the nature of which I have not yet had the good fortune
to be informed, except in so far as I am given to infer that
they purport of treason. I ask if this be true.”

The presiding officer bowed his head in token of assent, and then
presented a paper, which he described as containing the specification
of charges.

“As an officer of the American army, and the citizen of an independent
republic,” continued Butler, “I protest against any accountability
to this tribunal; and, with this protest, I publish my wrongs

in the face of these witnesses, and declare them to arise out of facts
disgraceful to the character of an honorable nation. I have been
drawn by treachery into an ambuscade, overpowered by numbers,
insulted and abused by ruffians. I wish I could say that these
outrages were practised at the mere motion of the coarse banditti
themselves who assailed me; but their manifest subserviency to a
plan, the object of which was to take my life, leaves me no room
to doubt that they have been in the employ and have acted under
the orders of a more responsible head”—

“Keep your temper,” interrupted Innis, calmly. “Something is
to be allowed to the excited feelings of one suddenly arrested in
the height of a bold adventure, and the court would, therefore,
treat your expression of such feelings at this moment with lenity.
You will, however, consult your own welfare, by giving your
thoughts to the charges against you, and sparing yourself the
labor of this useless vituperation. Read that paper, and speak to
its contents. We will hear you patiently and impartially.”

“Sir, it can avail me nothing to read it. Let it allege what it
may, the trial, under present circumstances, will be but a mockery.
By the chances of war, my life is in your hands; it is an idle
ceremony and waste of time to call in aid the forms of justice, to
do that which you have the power to do, without insulting Heaven
by affecting to assume one of its attributes.”

“That we pause to inquire,” replied Innis, “is a boon of mercy
to you. The offence of rank rebellion which you and all your fellow-madmen
have confessed, by taking up arms against your king,
carries with it the last degree of punishment. If, waiving our
right to inflict summary pain for this transgression, we stay to hear
what you can say against other and even weightier charges, you
should thank us for our clemency. But this is misspending time.
Read the paper to the prisoner,” he added, addressing one of the
officers at the table.

The paper was read aloud. It first presented a charge against
the prisoner for violating the terms of the parole given at the capitulation
of Charleston. The specification to support this charge
was that, by the terms of the surrender, General Lincoln had
engaged that the whole garrison should be surrendered as prisoners
of war, and that they should not serve again until exchanged.

The prisoner was described as an officer of that garrison, included
in the surrender, and lately taken in the act of making war upon
his majesty's subjects.

The second charge was, that the prisoner had insinuated himself,
by false representations, into the territory conquered by the
royal army; and that, in the quality of a spy, he had visited the
family of a certain Walter Adair, with a view to obtain a knowledge
of the forces, plans, movements, and designs of the various
detachments engaged in his majesty's service in the neighborhood
of Broad River.

And, third and last, that he, together with certain confederates,
had contrived and partially attempted to execute a plan to seize
upon and carry away a subject of his majesty's government, of
great consideration and esteem—Mr. Philip Lindsay, namely, of
the Dove Cote, in the province of Virginia. That the object of
this enterprise was to possess himself of the papers as well as
of the person of the said Philip Lindsay, and, by surrendering
him up to the leaders of the rebel army, to bring upon him the
vengeance of the rebel government, thus exposing him to confiscation
of property, and even to peril of life.

Such was the general import and bearing of the accusations
against the prisoner, expressed with the usual abundance of verbiage
and minuteness of detail. Butler listened to them, at first,
with indifference, and with a determination to meet them with
inflexible silence; but, as the enunciation of them proceeded, and
the extraordinary misrepresentations they contained were successively
disclosed, he found his indignation rising to a height that
almost mastered his discretion, and he was on the point of interrupting
the court with the lie direct, and of involving himself in
an act of contumacy which would have been instantly decisive of
his fate. His better genius, however, prevailed, and, smothering
his anger by a strong effort of self-control, he merely folded his
arms and abided until the end, with a contemptuous and proud
glance at his accusers.

“You have heard the allegations against you, sir,” said Colonel
Innis; “what say you to them?”

“What should an honorable man,” replied Butler, “say to such
foul aspersions? The first and second charges, sir, I pronounce to

be frivolous and false. As to the last, sir, there are imputations in
it that mark the agency of a concealed enemy, lost to every impulse
of honor—a base and wicked liar. Confront me with that
man, and let the issue stand on this—if I do not prove him to be,
in the judgment of every true gentleman of your army, an atrocious
and depraved slanderer, who has contrived against my life
for selfish purposes, I will submit myself to whatever penalty the
most exasperated of my enemies may invent. It was my purpose,
sir, to remain silent, and to refuse, by any act of mine, to acknowledge
the violation of the rights of war by which I have been
dragged hither. Nothing could have swayed me from that determination,
but the iniquitous falsehood conveyed in the last accusation.”

“We cannot bandy words with one in your condition,” interrupted
the president of the court. “I must remind you again,
that our purpose is to give you a fair trial, not to listen to ebullitions
of anger. Your honor is concerned in these charges, and you
will best consult your interest by a patient demeanor in your present
difficulties.”

“I am silent,” said Butler, indignantly, taking his seat.

“Let the trial proceed,” continued the president. “You will
not deny,” he said, after an interval of reflection, “that you are a
native of Carolina?”

“I can scarcely deny that before you,” replied Butler, “who, in
my absence, as report says, have been busy in the investigation of
my affairs.”

“There are bounds, sir, to the forbearance of a court,” said Innis,
sternly. “I understand the taunt. Your estates have been the
subject of consideration before another tribunal; and if my advice
were listened to, the process relating to them would be a short one.”

“You are answered,” returned Butler.

“Nor can you deny that you were an officer belonging to the
army under the command of General Lincoln.”

Butler was silent.

“You were at Charleston during the siege?” inquired one of the
court.

“In part,” replied Butler. “I left it in March, the bearer of
despatches to Congress.”

“And you were in arms on the night of the thirteenth, at Grindall's
Ford?” continued the same questioner.

“I confess it, sir.”

“That's enough,” interrupted Innis. “In the ninth article of
the capitulation of Charleston we read: `all civil officers, and the
citizens who have borne arms during the siege, must be prisoners
on parole.”'

“I should say,” interposed St. Jermyn, who now, for the first
time, opened his lips, “that the prisoner scarcely falls within that
description. The words `during teh siege' would seem to point to
a service which lasted to the end. They are, at least, equivocal;
and I doubt Lord Cornwallis would be loath to sanction a judgment
on such a ground.”

Upon this ensued a consultation amongst the officers at the table,
during which Butler was withdrawn to a short distance in the rear
of the assemblage. Several of the unoccupied soldiers of the
camp, at this stage of the trial, had crowded into the neighborhood
of the court; and the sentinels, yielding to the eagerness of
the common curiosity, had relaxed their guard so far as to allow
the spectators to encroach beyond the lines. Among those who
had thrust themselves almost up to the trial-table were a few children,
male and female, bearing on their arms baskets of fruit and
vegetables, which had been brought within the camp for sale. A
smart-looking girl, somewhat older than the rest, seemed to have
gained more favor from the crowd than her competitors, by the
temptation which she presented of a rich collection of mellow
apples; and perhaps her popularity was in some degree increased
by the soft and pleasant-toned voice in which she recommended
her wares, no less than by the ruddy, wholesome hue of her cheek,
and an agreeable, laughing, blue eye, that shone forth from the shade
of a deep and narrow sun-bonnet, the curtain of which fell upon
her shoulders and down her back.

“Buy my apples, gentlemen,” said the pretty fruit-merchant,
coming up fearlessly to Colonel Innis, in the midst of the consultation.

“Three for a penny; they are very ripe and mellow, sir.”

The colonel cast his eye upon the treasures of the basket, and
began to select a few of the choicest fruit. Thus encouraged, the

girl set her load upon the table, in the midst of the hats and
swords with which it was encumbered, and very soon every other
member of the court followed the example of the presiding officer
and became purchasers of the greater part of the store before
them. When this traffic was concluded, the little huckster took
up her burden and retired towards the group of spectators. See
ing the prisoner in this quarter, she walked up to him, curtsied,
and presented him an apple, which was gratefully accepted, and the
proffered return, from him, in money, refused.

When about a quarter of an hour had elapsed, Butler was
resummoned to his seat, and the court again proceeded to business.
The inquiry now related to the second charge—that, namely,
which imputed to the prisoner the character of a spy in his visit
at Adair's. To this accusation, Captain Hugh Habershaw and
several of his troop were called as witnesses. The amount of testimony
given by them was, that, on the eleventh of the month, they
had received information that a Continental officer, whose real
name and title was Major Butler, but who was travelling in disguise
and under an assumed name, from the Catawba towards the
Broad River, in company with a well known, stark Whig—a certain
Horse Shoe Robinson—was expected in a few days to arrive
at Wat Adair's. That Habershaw, hoping to intercept them, had
scoured the country between the two rivers; but that the travellers
had eluded the search, by taking a very circuitous and unfrequented
route towards the upper part of Blair's Range and Fishing Creek.
That, on the night of the twelfth, the two men arrived at Adair's,
unmolested; and, on the morning of the thirteenth, some of the
woodman's family had met Habershaw and apprised him of this
fact; adding, further, that the prisoner had offered a bribe to
Adair, to induce him to give information in regard to the loyalist
troops in the neighborhood, with a view to communicate it to a
certain Colonel Clarke, who had appointed to meet Butler and his
companion somewhere on the upper border of the province. That,
in consequence of this attempt, Adair had directed the prisoner
towards Grindall's Ford; and, this intelligence being communicated
to the witness, he had conducted his troop to that place, where he
succeeded in arresting the prisoner and his comrade, with the loss
of two men in the struggle. The narrative then went on to give

the particulars of Horse Shoe's escape, and the other facts with
which the reader is acquainted. This account was corroborated by
several witnesses, and, amongst the rest, by Curry.

Butler heard the testimony with the most painful sensations.
There was just enough of truth in it to make the tale plausible,
and the falsehood related to points which, as they were affirmed
upon hearsay, he could not repel by proof. There was a common
expression of opinion amongst the bystanders—who in general
were inclined to take the side of the prisoner in reference to the
charge which was supposed to affect his life—that this accusation
of Butler's acting the part of a spy was sustained by the proof.
In vain did he protest against the injustice of being condemned on
what was alleged to have been said by some of Adair's family; in
vain did he deny that he had offered a bribe to Adair for information
respecting the Tories; and equally in vain did he affirm that
he had asked of Adair nothing more than the common hospitality
due to a traveller, and for which he had made him a moderate
requital—the only money the woodman had received from him.
The current was now setting violently against him, and it seemed
impossible to stem it.

“It is but due,” said Captain St. Jermyn, a second time interposing
in behalf of the prisoner, “to the rank and character of
Major Butler, since a portion of this testimony is second-hand, to
take his own examination on these alleged facts. With permission,
therefore, I would ask him a few questions.”

“The court will not object,” said Innis, who throughout affected
the air of an impartial judge.

“It is true, Major Butler, that you were at Adair's on the night
of the twelfth?” said the volunteer advocate of the prisoner.

“I was, sir.”

“And you made no concealment of your name or rank?”

“I will not say that,” replied Butler.

“You were under a feigned name then, sir?” inquired Innis, as
St. Jermyn seemed a little confounded by the answer he had
received.

“I was called Mr. Butler, sir; my rank or station was not communicated.”

“Your dress?”

“Was an assumed one, to avoid inquiry.”

“This man, Horse Shoe Robinson,” said St. Jermyn, “was
known to Adair as a whig soldier?”

“Well known,” replied Butler; “and I was also represented as
belonging to that party. Adair himself led us to believe that he
was friendly to our cause.”

Here several members of the court smiled.

“Had you met any parties of loyalists,” inquired Innis, “in your
journey between Catawba and Broad?”

“We had—more than one.”

“How did you escape them?”

“By assuming feigned characters and names.”

“Your purpose was to join Clarke?”

“I am not at liberty to answer that question,” replied the prisoner.
“Suffice it, sir, I was travelling through this region on a
mission of duty. My purpose was to act against the enemy. So
far the charge is true, and only to this extent. I came with no
design to pry into the condition of the royal troops; I sought only
a successful passage through a contested, though sadly overpowered
country.”

“You offered no money to Adair,” said St. Jermyn again, as if
insisting on this point of exculpation, “but what you have already
called a moderate requital for his entertainment?”

“None,” replied the prisoner—“except,” he added, “a guinea,
to induce him to release, from some wicked torture, a wolf he had
entrapped.”

“It will not do,” said Colonel Innis, shaking his head at St.
Jermyn; and the same opinion was indicated in the looks of
several of the court.

“I was at Walter Adair's that night, and saw the gentleman
there, and heard all that was said by him; and I am sure that he
offered Watty no money,” said our little apple-girl, who had been
listening with breathless anxiety to the whole of this examination,
and who had now advanced to the table as she spoke the words.
“And I can tell more about it, if I am asked.”

“And who are you, my pretty maid?” inquired Colonel Innis,
as he lifted the bonnet from her head and let loose a volume of
flaxen curls down upon her neck.

“I am Mary Musgrove, the miller's daughter,” said the damsel,
with great earnestness of manner, “and Watty Adair is my uncle,
by my mother's side—he married my aunt Peggy; and I was at
his house when Major Butler and Mr. Horse Shoe Robinson came
there.”

“And what in the devil brought you here?” said Habershaw,
gruffly.

“Silence!” cried Innis, impatient at the obtrusive interruption
of the gross captain. “What authority have you to ask questions?
Begone, sir.”

The heavy bulk of Hugh Habershaw, at this order, sneaked back
into the crowd.

“I came only to sell a few apples,” said Mary.

“Heaven has sent that girl to the rescue of my life,” said Butler,
under the impulse of a feeling which he could not refrain from
giving vent to in words. “Pray allow me, sir, to ask her some
questions.”

“It is your privilege,” was the answer from two or three of the
court; and the spectators pressed forward to hear the examination.

Butler carefully interrogated the maiden as to all the particulars
of his visit, and she, with the most scrupulous fidelity, recounted
the scenes to which she had been a witness. When she came to
detail the conversation which she had overheard between Adair
and Lynch, and the events that followed it, the interest of the bystanders
was wound up to the highest pitch. There was a simplicity
in her recital of this strange and eventful story, that gave it a
force to which the most skilful eloquence might in vain aspire;
and when she concluded, the court itself, prejudiced as the members
were against the prisoner, could not help manifesting an emotion
of satisfaction at the clear and unequivocal refutation which
this plain tale inferred against the testimony of Habershaw and
his confederates. Innis alone affected to treat it lightly, and
endeavored in some degree to abate its edge, by suggesting doubts
as to the capacity of a young girl, in circumstance so likely to confuse
her, to give an exact narrative of such a complicated train of
events. Every cross-examination, however, which was directed to
the accuracy of the maiden's story, only resulted in producing a

stronger conviction of its entire truth. This concluded the examination
on the second charge.

The court now proceeded to the third and last accusation against
the prisoner.

To this there was but one witness called—James Curry. In the
course of the examination this man showed great address and
knowledge of the world. He gave some short account of himself.
He had been a man born to a better condition of life than he now
enjoyed. His education had been liberal, and his associations in
life extremely various. It was to be inferred from his own relation,
that he had fallen into some early indiscretion which had thrown
him into the lowest stations of society, and that his original delinquency
had prevented him from ever rising above them. He had
served for many years in the army, and was present at the surrender
of Charleston, being at that period a confidential servant, or
man of business, to the young Earl of Caithness, the aide-de-camp
of Sir Henry Clinton. Upon the departure of that young nobleman
with the rest of Sir Henry's military family, for New York, he
had remained behind, and had taken a similar service to that which
he had left, with another officer of some repute. “There were
state reasons,” he said, “why this gentleman's name could not now
be communicated to the court.” That, in the month of July, he
had attended his master on a visit to Mr. Philip Lindsay, in Virginia;
and whilst in the immediate vicinity of that gentleman's
residence, at a small country tavern, he had accidentally become
privy to the design of the prisoner, and the same Horse Shoe Robinson
who had been mentioned before, to seize upon the person
and papers of Mr. Lindsay: that these two persons had actually
arrived at the tavern he spoke of to commence operations. That
he had overheard them discussing the whole plan; and he had no
doubt they had allies at hand to assist in the scheme, and would
have proceeded that same night to put it in execution, if he had
not frustrated their design at the risk of his life. That, with the
view of interrupting this enterprise, he had lured Robinson, the
companion of the prisoner, to walk with him at night to the margin
of a small river near the tavern, where he accused him of the
treacherous design which he and his comrade had in view: that,
in consequence of this, Robinson had endeavored to take his life,

which was only saved by a severe struggle; and that, being thus
discovered in their purpose, this man, Robinson, and the prisoner
had made a hasty retreat towards Gates's head-quarters.

Such was in effect the narrative of James Curry, which was
solemnly given upon oath. Butler was for some moments confounded
with astonishment at the audacity of this falsehood. He
urged to the court the improbability of the whole story. “It
would have been easy,” he said, “if I had been hostile to Mr.
Philip Lindsay—which, God knows, there are most cogent reasons
to disprove—it would have been easy to procure his arrest without
an attempt at a violent seizure by me. I had only to speak, and
the whole country around him would have united in treating him
as an object of suspicion, on account of his politics.” He admitted
that he was at Mrs. Dimock's at the time spoken of—that Robinson
attended him there; but all else that had been said relating
to the visit, he affirmed to be utterly false. He gave the particulars
of the meeting between Horse Shoe and the witness, as he
had it from Robinson; and spoke also of his knowledge of the
visit of Tyrrel at the Dove Cote—“which person,” he said, “he
had reason to believe, came under a name not his own.”

“How do you happen to be so familiar,” inquired Innis, “with
the affairs of Mr. Lindsay?”

“That question,” replied Butler, “as it refers to matters entirely
private and personal, I must decline to answer.”

Curry, upon a second examination, re-affirmed all he had said
before, and commented with a great deal of dexterity upon Butler's
statement, particularly in reference to such parts of it as the
prisoner's repeated refusal to answer had left in doubt. After a
protracted examination upon this point, the trial was at length
closed, and Butler was ordered back to his apartment in the farm-house.

Here he remained for the space of half an hour, an interval that
was passed by him in the most distressing doubt and anxiety. The
whole proceeding of the court boded ill to him. The haste of his
trial, the extraordinary nature of the charges, and the general unsympathizing
demeanor of the court itself, only spoke to his mind
as evidences of a concealed hostility, which sought to find a plausible
pretext for making him a sacrifice to some private malevolence.

He was therefore prepared to expect the worst when, at the close
of the half hour, St. Jermyn entered his chamber.

“I come, sir,” said the officer, “to perform a melancholy duty.
The court have just concluded their deliberations.”

“And I am to be a sacrifice to their vengeance. Well, so be it!
There was little need of deliberation in my case, and they have
soon despatched it,” said Butler, with a bitter spirit, as he paced
up and down his narrow chamber. “What favor have these, my
impartial judges, vouchsafed to me in my last moment? Shall I
die as a common felon, on a gibbet, or am I to meet a soldier's
doom?”

“That has been thought of,” said St. Jermyn. “The commanding
officer has no disposition to add unnecessary severity to your
unhappy fate.”

“Thank God for that! and that the files detailed for this service
are to be drawn from the ranks of my enemies! I will face
them as proudly as I have ever done on the field of battle. Leave
me sir; I have matters in my thought that require I should be
alone.”

“Your time, I fear, is brief,” said St. Jermyn. “The guard is
already at hand to conduct you to the court, who only stay to pass
sentence. I came before to break the unhappy news to you.”

“It is no news to me,” interrupted Butler. “I could expect no
other issue to the wicked designs by which I have been seized. This
solemn show of a trial was only got up to give color to a murderous
act which has been long predetermined.”

At this moment, the heavy and regular tap of the drum, struck
at equal intervals, and a mournful note from a fife, reached the
prisoner's ear.

“I come!” exclaimed Butler. “These fellows are practising their
manual for an occasion in which they appear impatient to act.
One would think, Captain St. Jermyn,” he added, with a smile of
scorn, “that they needed but little practice to accomplish them for
a ceremony which has of late, since his majesty has extended his
merciful arm over this province, grown to be a familiar piece of
military punctilio.”'

St. Jermyn hastily fled from the room, and rushing out upon the
grass-plot where the guard was collected, cried out:

“Silence, you base and worthless knaves! Is it thus you would
insult the sufferings of an unfortunate enemy, by drumming, under
his very ear, your cursed death-notes? Strike but one note upon
that drum again, and I will have you up to the halberds.”

“The music did but try a flourish of the dead march,” replied
the sergeant of the guard; “they are a little rusty, and seeing that
the Whig officer”—

“Another word, sir, and you shall be sent to the provost-marshal.
Attend the prisoner.”

“I am here,” said Butler, who had overheard this conversation,
and had already descended to the door.

With a mournful and heavy heart, though with a countenance
that concealed his emotions under an air of proud defiance, he took
his place in the ranks, and marched to the spot where the court
were yet assembled.

“A chair for the prisoner,” said some of the individuals present,
with an officious alacrity to serve him.

“I would rather stand,” replied Butler. “It is my pleasure to
hear the behests of my enemies in the attitude a soldier would
choose to meet his foe in the field.”

“Mine is a painful duty, Major Butler,” said Innis, rising, as he
addressed the prisoner. “It is to announce to you that, after a
full and most impartial trial, in which you have had the advantage
of the freest examination of witnesses, and every favor accorded to
you which the usages and customs of war allow, you have been
found guilty of two of the charges imputed to you in the list with
which you were furnished this morning. Notwithstanding the
satisfactory testimony which was given in your behalf by the girl
Mary Musgrove, in relation to your conduct at the house of Adair,
and however disposed the court were to abandon an accusation
which thus seemed to be refuted, it has occurred to them, upon
subsequent reflection, that, by your own confession—given, sir,
permit me to say, with the frankness of a soldier—you came into
this district in disguise and under false names, and thus enabled
yourself to collect information relative to the condition of the royal
forces, which it was doubtless your purpose to use to our detriment.
The court, for a moment, might have led you to entertain hope
that they were satisfied that in this charge you had been wronged.

The simple, affecting, and, no doubt, true narrative made by the
miller's daughter produced a momentary sensation that was too
powerful to be combated. That narrative, however, does not
relieve you from the effect of your own confessions, since both
may be true, and the charge still remain unimpaired against
you.

“The offence of breaking your parole and infringing the terms
of the capitulation of Charleston, is open to a legal doubt, and,
therefore, in tenderness to you, has not been pressed; although
the court think, that the very circumstance of its doubtful character
should have inculcated upon you the necessity of the most
scrupulous avoidance of service in the conquered province.

“The last charge against you is fully proved. Not a word of
counter evidence has been offered. Strictly speaking, by the usages
of war, this would not be an offence for the notice of a military
tribunal. The perpetrators of it would be liable to such vindictive
measures as the policy of the conqueror might choose to adopt.
That we have given you, therefore, the benefit of an inquiry, you
must regard as an act of grace, springing out of our sincere desire
to do you ample justice. The nature of the offence imputed and
proved is such as, at this moment, every consideration of expediency
demands should be visited with exemplary punishment. The
friends of the royal cause, wherever they may reside, shall be protected
from the wrath of the rebel government; and we have,
therefore, no scruple in saying, that the attempt upon the
person of Mr. Philip Lindsay requires a signal retribution. But
for this last act, the court might have been induced to overlook
all your other trespasses. Upon this, however, there is no hesitation.

“Such being the state of the facts ascertained by this tribunal,
its function ceases with its certificate of the truth of what has been
proved before it. The rest remains to me. Without the form of
an investigation, I might, as the commanding officer of a corps on
detached service, and by virtue of special power conferred upon me,
have made up a private judgment in the case. I have forborne to do
that, until, by the sanction of a verdict of my comrades, I might
assure myself that I acted on the clearest proofs. These have been
rendered.

“My order, therefore, is, in accordance with the clear decision of
the court,—and, speaking to a soldier, I use no unnecessary phrase
of condolence,—that you be shot to death. Time presses on us and
forbids delay. You will be conducted to immediate execution.
Major Frazer,” he said, turning to one of his officers, “to your
discretion I commit this unpleasant duty.” Then, in a tone of
private direction, he added, “Let it be done without delay; pomp
and ceremony are out of place in such a matter. I wish to have
it despatched at once.”

“I would speak,” said Butler, repressing the agitation of his
feelings, and addressing Innis with a stern solemnity, “not to
implore your mercy, nor to deprecate your sentence: even if I could
stoop to such an act of submission, I know my appeal would reach
your ears like the idle wind: but I have private affairs to
speak of.”

“They were better untold, sir,” interrupted Innis with an affected
air of indifference. “I can listen to nothing now. We have other
business to think of. These last requests and settlements of private
affairs are always troublesome,” he muttered in a tone just audible
to the officers standing near him; “they conjure up useless sympathies.”

“I pray you, sir,” interposed St. Jermyn.

“It is in vain, I cannot hear it,” exclaimed the commander, evidently
struggling to shake from his mind an uncomfortable weight.
“These are woman's requests! God's mercy! How does this
differ from death upon the field of battle? a soldier is always
ready. Ha! What have we here?” he exclaimed, as a trooper
rode up to the group. “Where are you from? What news?”

“A vidette from Rocky Mount,” answered the horseman. “I am
sent to inform you that, yesterday, Sumpter defeated three hundred
of our people on the Catawba, and has made all that were ahve,
prisoners, besides capturing fifty or sixty wagons of stores which
the detachment had under convoy for Camden.”

The first inquiries that followed this communication related to
Sumpter's position, and especially whether he was advancing
towards this camp.

“He is still upon Catawba, tending northwards,” replied the
vidette.

“Then we are free from danger,” interrupted Innis. “I am
stripping the feathers from a bird to-day that is worth half of Sumpter's
prize,” he added, with a revengeful smile, to an officer who
stood by him.

During this interval, in which the commander of the post was engaged
with the vidette, the guard had conducted the prisoner back to
the house, and Innis, freed from the restraint of Butler's presence,
now gave way to the expression of a savage exultation at the
power which the events of the morning had given him, to inflict
punishment upon one that he termed an audacious rebel. “The
chances jump well with us,” he said, “when they enable us to
season the joy of these ragged traitors, by so notable a deed as the
execution of one of their shrewdest emissaries. This fellow Butler
has consideration amongst them, and fortune too: at least he had
it, but that has gone into better hands; and, to say truth, he has a
bold and mischievous spirit. The devil has instigated him to cross
our path; he shall have the devil's comfort for it. The whole party
taken did you say?”—

“Every man, sir,” replied the vidette.

“How many men had this skulking fellow, Sumpter, at his back?”

“They say about seven hundred.”

“And did the cowards strike to seven hundred rebels?”

“They were tangled with the wagons,” said the soldier, “and
were set on unawares, on the bank of the river, at the lower ferry.”

“Aye, that's the way! An ambuscade, no doubt,—a piece of
cowardly bush-fighting. Fresh men against poor devils worn
down by long marching! Well, well, I have a good requital for
the rascally trick. Major Butler's blood will weigh heavy in the
scale, or I am mistaken! Come, gentlemen, let us to quarters—we
must hold a council.”

“Here is a letter,” said one of the officers of the court, “which
I have this moment found on the table, under my sword belt; it
seems, from its address, to contain matter of moment. How it came
here does not appear.”

“`To Colonel Innis, or any other officer commanding a corps in
his majesty's service,”' said Innis, reading the superscription;
“besides, here is something significant, `for life or death, with
speed.' What can this mean?” he added, as he broke open the

paper and ran his eyes hastily over the contents. St. George!
here is something strange, gentlemen. Listen!—

“Treason and forgery, paltry forgery!” exclaimed Innis, with a
smile of derision, as he finished reading the letter. “What ho!
tell Frazer to lead out the prisoner, and despatch him without a
moment's delay. So much for this shallow artifice!”

“A base forgery,” said one of the officers in attendance, “and
doubtless the work of the rebel major himself. He will die with
this silly lie upon his conscience. St. Jermyn, here!” cried out
the same officer to the captain, who was now at some distance,
“here is an attempt to put a trick upon us by a counterfeit of your
brother's hand, telling a most doleful and improbable falsehood.
Look at it.”

St. Jermyn read the letter, and suddenly turning pale, exclaimed:
“Sir, this is no trick. It is my brother's own writing. He is in
the custody of the Whigs! How came this here? Who brought
it? When was it written? Can nobody tell me?”

“Tut, St. Jermyn!” interrupted the officer, smiling, “you surely
cannot be imposed upon by such a device. Look at the scrawl
again. In truth, are you sure of it, man?” he inquired with great
surprise, as he perceived the increasing paleness of St. Jermyn's
brow.

“My brother's life is in imminent danger,” replied St. Jermyn,
with intense earnestness. “Colonel Innis, as you value my happiness,
I entreat you, countermand the order for the prisoner's execution.
I implore you, respect this letter; it is genuine, and I dread
the consequences. My poor brother, the youngest of my family,

and the special darling of his parents! For heaven's sake, good
colonel, pause until we learn something more of this mysterious
business.”

“For your sake, my friend, and until we can investigate this
matter,” said Innis, “let the execution be suspended.”

St. Jermyn instantly hurried to the guard, to communicate the
new order.

“Whence comes this missive?” demanded Innis. “It has
neither date nor place described. Who brought it? Did any one
see the bearer?” he asked aloud of the bystanders.

No one answered except the officer who had first discovered
the paper. “I know nothing more than what you see. It was
here upon the table. How long it had been there I cannot tell.”

“It is strange,” continued Innis. “Can this young St. Jermyn
have fallen in with Sumpter? Or, after all, is it not an ingenious
forgery which has deceived our friend the captain? Still, who
could have brought it here?”

The letter was again examined by every individual present.

“It must be genuine,” said one of the officers, shaking his head.
“Captain St. Jermyn was very much in earnest, and it is not likely
he could be deceived. It has been mysteriously deposited here by
some agent of the Whigs. The person should be found, and compelled
to give us more specific information. This matter must be
looked to; the ensign, I doubt not, is in perilous circumstances.”

“Let the prisoner be strictly guarded, and held to wait our future
pleasure,” said Innis. “I would not put in jeopardy the young
ensign's life. A reward of twenty guineas shall be given to any
one who brings me the bearer of this letter. And you, Lieutenant
Connelly, take thirty troopers, and scour the country round to gain
intelligence of this capture of Edgar St. Jermyn. Be careful to
examine every man you meet, as to the presence of Whig parties in
this district. Away instantly, and do not return without tidings
of this singular event.”

The camp, by these occurrences, was thrown into great bustle.
The prisoner was securely lodged in his former quarters, and placed
under a double guard; consultations were held amongst the
officers; and Butler himself was strictly interrogated in regard to
the appearance of this mysterious letter, of the contents of which

he was yet ignorant. The examination threw no light on the
affair; and, very soon afterwards, a troop of horse were seen sallying
beyond the limits of the camp, under Lieutenant Connelly, to
seek information of the fate of Ensign St. Jermyn.