University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.

As soon as David Ramsay had departed with the maiden for
Musgrove's mill, Robinson ordered his own and Christopher Shaw's
horse to be saddled, and another to be made ready for St. Jermyn.
His next care was to determine upon a secure place of retreat—
reflecting that the news of the capture of the ensign must soon
reach the British posts, and that the country would be industriously
explored with a view to his rescue. A spot known to the
woodsmen of this region by the name of the Devil's Ladder,
which was situated in the defile of a mountain brook that emptied
into the Ennoree, occurred to Christopher Shaw as the most secret
fastness within their reach. This spot lay some twenty miles
westward of Ramsay's, accessible by roads but little known, and
surrounded by a district which grew more wild and rugged the
nearer it approached the defile.

Here it was supposed the party might arrive by daylight the
next morning, and remain for a few days at small risk of discovery;
and thither, accordingly, it was resolved they should repair.

This being settled, Horse Shoe now procured a supply of provisions
from Mistress Ramsay, and then proceeded to arm himself
with the sword and pistols of the ensign, whilst Christopher
suspended across his body the sword of Goliath, as the sergeant
called the brand he had snatched up at Blackstock's, and also took
possession of one of the captured muskets.

“If it don't go against your conscience, Mistress Ramsay,” said
Horse Shoe, when the preparations for the journey were completed,
“I would take it as a favor, in case any interlopers mought happen
to pop in upon you, if you would just drop a hint that you have

hearn that Sumpter's people had been seen about these parts. It
would have an amazing good bearing on the Tories. Besides
making them wary how they strayed about the woods it would be
sure to put the bloodhounds on a wrong scent, if they should
chance to be sarching for the young ensign. I know you women
are a little ticklish about a fib, but then it's an honest trick of the war
sometimes. And, to make you easy about it, it will be no more
than the truth to say you did hear it—for, you obsarve, I tell you
so now.”

“But,” replied the scrupulous matron, “if they should ask me
who told me, what should I answer?”

“Why,” said the sergeant, hesitating, “just out with it—tell 'em
you heard it from one Horse Shoe Robinson; that'll not make the
news the worse in point of credit. And be sure, good woman,
above all things, to remind David, when he gets back to night,
that the rank and file, in our prison yonder, are not to be turned
loose before three o'clock in the morning.”

This last caution was repeated to Andy, who still performed the
duty of a sentinel at the door of the out-house. All things being
now arranged for their departure, Ensign St. Jermyn was brought
from the chamber where he had been confined, and was invited to
join the sergeant and Christopher at supper before they set out.
This meal was ably and rapidly discussed by the stout yeomen, and
scarcely less honored by the prisoner, whom the toils and privations
of the day had brought to enjoyment of a good appetite.

With many cheering and kind expressions of encouragement
from the sergeant, the young officer prepared to comply with the
demands of his captors, and was soon in readiness to attend them.
Robinson lifted him into his saddle with a grasp as light as if he
was dealing with a boy, and then bound him by a surcingle to the
horse's back, whilst he offered a good-humored apology for the
rigor of this treatment.

“It is not the most comfortable way of riding, Mr. Ensign,” he
said, with a chuckle; “but fast bind, fast find, is a'most an
excellent good rule for a traveller in the dark. I hope you don't
think I take any pleasure in oncommoding you, but it is my
intention to lead your horse by the rein to-night, and this friend of
mine will keep in the rear. So, by way of a caution, I would just

signify to you that if you should think of playing a prank you
will certainly bring some trouble upon your head—as one or
another of us would in that case be obliged to fire. It is nothing
more than military punctilium to give you a friendly warning of
this.”

“You might dispense with this severity, I should think,” replied
the prisoner, “upon my pledge of honor that I will make no effort
to escape.”

“I can take no pledge in the dark,” returned Horse Shoe;
“daylight mought make a difference. If we should happen to fall
in with any of your gangs I'm thinking a pledge wouldn't come to
much more than a cobweb when I should ax you to gallop out of
the way of your own people. Flesh is weak, as the preacher says,
and, to my mind, it's a little the weaker when the arm is strong or
the foot swift. Temptation is at the bottom of all backsliding.
No, no, Mr. Ensign, you may get away, if you can; we'll take care
of you whilst we're able—that's a simple understanding.”

Without further speech the party proceeded on their journey.
They travelled as rapidly as was consistent with the ease of
the prisoner and the nature of the ground over which they had
to move. For the first eight or ten miles, their route lay across
a country with but few impediments, except such as arose
from the unseasonable hour of the ride. After this they found the
toil and hazard of travel continually increasing. They had been
retreating from the settled country towards a rough wilderness,
which was penetrated only by an obscure road, so little beaten as
to be scarcely discernible in the faint starlight, and which it
required all Christopher's skill in woodcraft to follow. Our
travellers, consequently, often lost their way, and were obliged to
get down from their horses and grope about to ascertain the path.
The stars had shone all night through a cloudless firmament, but
the deep shade of the forest thickened around the wanderers, and
it was frequently with difficulty, even, that they could discern each
other's figures.

They reached at length the small stream upon whose banks,
some miles above, was situated the place to which their steps were
directed; and they were thus rendered more sure of their road, as
they had only to follow the ascending course of the brook. The

delays and impediments of the journey had nearly outrun the
night, and whilst our travellers were yet some two or three miles
from their destination, the first traces of morning began to appear
in the east. The increasing light disclosed to them the nature of
the scenery around. A limpid rivulet tumbled over a rocky
channel, girt with a profusion of brush and briar, amongst which
were scattered a thousand wild-flowers, that, renovated by the dew,
threw forth a delicious perfume. A succession of abrupt hills,
covered with the varied foliage of a rich forest growth, bounded
the brook on either side. Occasional rocks jutted above the heads
of the travellers as they wound along the paths, worn by the wild
cattle in the bottom of the dell.

Both Robinson and Shaw had dismounted when they entered
this defile, and whilst the former led the horse of the prisoner his
companion preceded him to explore the doubtful traces of the
road, which frequently became so obscure as to render it necessary
to seek a passage in the bed of the stream. During all this
progress Horse Shoe's good nature and light-heartedness were
unabated. He conversed with the prisoner in the same terms of
friendly familiarity that he did with Shaw, and neglected no
attention that might in any degree relieve the irksomeness of
St. Jermyn's necessary thraldom.

That peculiar conformation of country which had given rise to
the name of the place to which they were conducting the prisoner,
was now to be discerned at some little distance ahead. It
presented a series of bold crags of granite intermixed with slate,
in which rock piled upon rock presented a succession of shelves,
each beetling over its base, and thus furnishing a shelter against
the weather. Some of these were situated near the bank of the
stream, projecting over the water, whilst others towered at different
heights, in such a manner as to bear a resemblance to a flight
of huge steps cut in the slope of the mountain, and by this likeness,
doubtless, suggesting the imaginative name by which the
spot was known to the few hunters to whom it was familiar. The
cavern-like structure of these ledges abundantly supplied the
means of concealment to both men and horses, from the casual
notice of such persons as accident might have brought into this
sequestered defile.

When the party arrived at the foot of the Devil's Ladder, it was
with great satisfaction to all that they now made a halt. A short
time was spent in selecting a spot, amongst the impending cliffs,
of such a character as might afford the advantage of shelter, as
well as the means of ready look-out and escape in case of discovery
or pursuit. The place chosen was about half way up the hill,
where the ridge of a promontory enabled the occupants to see
some distance up and down the valley; whilst the crag itself contained
within its recesses a chamber sufficiently large for the purpose
to which it was to be applied. A natural platform, near this
point, allowed sufficient space for the horses, which might be conducted
there by a sideling path up the slope; at the same time,
the means of retreat were furnished by the nature of the ground
towards the top of the hill.

To this place of security the ensign was ordered by his guard,
and, being released from his bonds, he dismounted and threw
himself at length upon the mossy surface of the rock, where he
lay wearied in body and dejected in mind. The horses were taken
in charge by Shaw; provisions were produced, and all arrangements
of caution and comfort were made for passing the next two
or three days in this wild sojourn.

Here, for the present, we must leave our adventurers, to tell of
other matters that are proper to be made known to the reader of
this history.

In due time David Ramsay returned from Musgrove's. Precisely
at three o'clock in the morning, the soldiers were released
according to the terms of the parole; and my reader will, no
doubt, be pleased to hear that Andy, being discharged from duty,
went to bed as drowsy as e'er a man of mould after a feat of
glory, and slept with a sleep altogether worthy of his heroic
achievement.

The next day passed by, at Ramsay's dwelling, with a varied
and fearful interest to his family. They had received intelligence,
before night, of the event of Butler's trial, and had reason to
rejoice that Mary Musgrove had so played her part in the delivery
of the letter. They were apprised also of the reward that had
been offered for the discovery of the bearer of this letter, and were
informed that detachments of horse were out to scour the country

in quest of the ensign. These tidings filled them with apprehension.
It occurred to Ramsay that if, perchance, the released prisoners
should fall in with any of the parties of the loyalists, they
would of course relate their story, and thus bring down the full
rancor of the Tory wrath upon his household: this would also
lead with more certainty to the pursuit of Horse Shoe. There
was still good reason to hope that the liberated men might not so
soon be able to give the alarm; inasmuch as they were more likely
to shape their course towards Fort Ninety-Six than to repair to
Innis's camp, where they might be forced to do duty, as much
against their inclinations as against their parole. They might
even, from a natural aversion to labor, prefer loitering about the
country rather than put themselves voluntarily in the way of
military operations.

“Come what will of it,” said Ramsay, summing up the chances
for and against him; “I will be ready for the worst. Many better
men have given all they had to the cause of independence, and I
will not flinch from giving my share. They may burn and break
down; but, thank God, I have a country—aye, and a heart and
an arm to stand by it!”

On the same evening, towards sun-down, a horseman drew up
his rein at Ramsay's door. He was young—in the prime of early
manhood, his dress was that of a rustic, his equipment showed
him to be a traveller—a weary one, from the plight of his horse,
and, like most travellers of the time, well armed. He did not
stand to summon any one to the door, but put his hand upon the
latch with eager haste, and entered with the familiarity of one
acquainted with the place. Mistress Ramsay was seated at her
spinning-wheel, anxiously brooding over the tales of the day.
Her husband reclined in his chair, silently and thoughtfully smoking
his pipe. They both sprang up at once, as the visitor crossed
the threshold, and with fervent joy greeted their son John Ramsay.
The household was clamorous with the affectionate salutations
of the parents, of the brothers and sisters, and of the domestics.
John was the eldest of Ramsay's children, and had just reached his
paternal roof after an absence of some months, during which he had
been in service with Sumpter. The gathering in of the members
of a family around the domestic board, in times of peril and distress,

is one of the luxuries of the heart that in peace we cannot
know. The arrival of John Ramsay at the present moment was
a source of the liveliest happiness to his parents. They needed a
cheerful as well as a resolute comforter. John had, only twenty-four
hours previous, left Sumpter near Rocky Mount—immediately
after the battle with the British convoy was won. He was sent
with despatches to Colonel Williams, a Whig partisan of note,
who was now supposed to be in the neighborhood of the Saluda.
These had some reference to the military movements of the parties;
and John Ramsay was permitted by Sumpter to make a
short halt at his father's house.

In the first hour after his arrival, he had given to the family
the history of his homeward ride. He had discovered that hostile
forces—of which, until his journey was nearly finished, he heard
nothing—were encamped in the neighborhood; that a court-martial
had been sitting for the trial of an American officer, as a spy, and
had condemned him to be shot. He had been apprised, moreover,
that small parties were out, riding into every corner of the country.
He himself had nearly been surprised by one of these, as he
endeavored to make his way to the house of Allen Musgrove,
where he had proposed to himself a visit, even before he came to
his father's, but, fearing something wrong, he had fled from them,
and baffled their pursuit, although they had chased him more than
a mile; he had, in consequence, been deprived of the opportunity
of visiting the miller.

“Although it is four months since we have seen you, John,” said
the dame, with a tone of affectionate chiding, “yet, you would
turn aside to get under Allen Musgrove's roof, before you thought
of the arms of your mother.”

John's sun-burnt cheek blushed crimson red as he replied, “It
was but a step out of the way, mother, and I should not have
stayed long. Mr. Musgrove and his folks are safe and well, I hope,
and Christopher?”

“Tut, boy! speak it out, and don't blush about it,” interrupted
the father briskly: “she is a good girl, and you needn't be ashamed
to name her, as you ought to have done, first and before all the
rest. Mary is well, John, and has just proved herself to be the
best girl in the country.”

This little passage of mirth between the parents and their son,
led to a full narrative by David Ramsay of the events which had
occurred in the last two or three days, concluding with the capture
of the ensign, and the retreat of Horse Shoe and Christopher
Shaw to the Devil's Ladder. The communication wrought a grave
and thoughtful mood on the young soldier. It presented a crisis
to him for immediate action. He was wearied with a long ride,
but it seemed to him to be no time for rest.

“Father,” he said, after turning over in his thoughts the intelligence
he had just received, “it was a brave and beautiful thing
for so young a lad as Andy to do; and the taking of the ensign
has served a useful purpose, but it brings this house and family
into danger. And I fear for poor Mary. Christopher Shaw must
get back to the mill, and quickly too. His absence will bring his
uncle's family into trouble. I will take Christopher's place, and
go to Horse Shoe's assistance this night. We may take the prisoner
with us to Williams.”

“To-night!” said the mother anxiously, “you would not leave
us to-night, John?”

“Aye, to-night, wife,” answered David Ramsay, “the boy is
right, there is no time to spare.”

“Have mercy upon us,” exclaimed the dame; “to ride so far
to-night, after so heavy a journey, John!—you have not strength.”

“Dear mother,” said John, “think that you are all in danger,
and that Mary, who has behaved so well, might be suspected, and
brought to harm. I must hurry forward to Colonel Williams, and
this road by the Devil's Ladder is far out of my way. No, I am
not so much fatigued, mother, as you suppose. I will rest for a
few hours, and then try the woods. Daybreak, I warrant, shall
not find me far from Horse Shoe.”

John Ramsay was not above six-and-twenty. He was endued
with a stout and manly frame, well adapted to hard service; and
this was associated with a bold and intelligent countenance, which,
notwithstanding the dint of wind and weather, was handsome.
He had for a year or two past been actively engaged in the war,
and his manners had, in consequence, acquired that maturity and
decision which are generally found in those whose habits of life
render them familiar with perils. On the present occasion he

regarded the necessity of co-operation with Robinson as so urgent,
that no other thought crossed his mind but that which belonged
to the care of putting himself in condition to make his services
effectual.

With this view he now directed his horse to be carefully tended;
then, having taken a hearty meal, he retired to rest, desiring that
he might be waked up at midnight, when he proposed to follow
the path of Horse Shoe and his comrade.