University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.

Williams had commenced his retreat before the dawn, as much
with a view to accomplish a large portion of his journey before
the heat of the day, as to protect himself against the probable
pursuit of the rallied forces of the enemy. His destination was
towards the mountains on the north-western frontier. The over-throw
of Gates had left a large force of Tory militia at the disposal
of Cornwallis, who, it was conjectured, would use them to
break up every remnant of opposition in this region. It was therefore
a matter of great importance to Williams, to conduct his
little force into some place of security against the attacks of the
royalists.

Colonel Elijah Clarke had, ever since the fall of Charleston, been
employed in keeping together the few scattered Whig families in
that part of Carolina lying contiguous to the Savannah, with a
view to an organized plan of resistance against the British authorities;
and he had so far accomplished his purpose as to have procured
some three or four hundred men, who had agreed to hold
themselves in readiness to strike a blow whenever the occasion
offered. These men were to be mustered at any moment by a preconcerted
signal; and, in the meantime, they were instructed, by
confining themselves to their dwellings, or pursuing their ordinary
occupations, to keep as much as possible out of the way of the
dominant authorities.

Clarke resided in Georgia, whence he had fled as soon as the
royalist leader, Brown, had taken possession of Augusta; and we
have already seen that a letter from Colonel Pinckney, at Charleston,
which Horse Shoe Robinson had been intrusted to deliver,

had summoned Arthur Butler to this frontier to aid in Clarke's
enterprise.

Colonel Isaac Shelby, a resident of Washington county in Virginia,
until the settlement of the southern line of the State had
left him in the district at present known as Sullivan county in
Tennessee, had been an efficient auxiliary in Clarke's scheme, and
was now ready to summon a respectable number of followers for
the support of the war on the mountain border. He and Clarke
had accidentally arrived at Williams's camp a day or two before
the attack upon Innis, with a view to a consultation as to the general
interests of the meditated campaign; and they had only tarried
to take a part in the engagement from a natural concern for
the fate of their intended comrade, Butler. Having no further
motive for remaining with Williams, they were both intent upon
returning to their respective duties, and, accordingly, during the
retreat of the following day, they took their leave.

The vigilance with which these partisans were watched by their
enemies, almost forbade the present hope of successful combination.
From a consciousness of the hazard of attempting to concentrate
their forces at this juncture, they had determined still to pursue
their separate schemes of annoyance, until a more favorable
moment for joint action should arise; and, in the interval, to hide
themselves as much as possible in the forest. It was consequently
in the hope of preserving his independence at least, if not of aiding
Clarke, that Williams now moved with so much despatch to
the mountains.

His course lay towards the head waters of the Fair Forest river,
in the present region of Spartanburg. This district was inhabited
only by a few hunters, and some scattered Indians of an inoffensive
character; it abounded in game, and promised to afford an easy
subsistence to men whose habits were simple, and who were
accustomed to rely upon the chase for support. The second day
brought our hardy soldiers into the sojourn they sought. It was a
wilderness broken by mountains, and intersected by streams of
surpassing transparency; whilst its elevated position and southern
latitude conferred upon it a climate that was then, as well as now,
remarked for its delicious temperature in summer, and its exemption
from the rigors of winter.

The spot at which Williams rested was a sequestered valley,
deep hidden in the original woods, and watered by the Fair Forest,
whose stream, so near its fountain, scarcely exceeded the dimensions
of a little brook. Here he determined to form a camp, to which
in times of emergency he might safely retreat. With a view to
render it easy of access as a rendezvous, he caused landmarks to be
made, by cutting notches on the trees—or blazing them, in the
woodman's phrase—in several directions, leading towards the
principal highways that penetrated the country. The retreat thus
established is familiar to the history of the war, under the name of
the Fair Forest camp.

These arrangements being completed in the course of the first
day after his arrival, Williams now applied himself to the adoption
of measures for the safety of Arthur Butler. Amongst the spoils
that had fallen into his hands, after the victory over Innis, was the
document containing the proceedings of the court-martial. The
perusal of this paper, together with the comments afforded by
Robinson, convinced him of the malignity of the persecution which
had aimed at the life of the prisoner. It occurred to him, therefore,
to submit the whole proceeding to Lord Cornwallis, to whom, he
was persuaded, it either had been misrepresented, or, most probably,
was entirely unknown. He did not doubt that an appeal to the
honorable feelings of that officer, with a full disclosure of the facts,
would instantly be followed by an order that should put Butler
under the protection of the rules of war, and insure him all the
rights that belong to a mere prisoner taken in arms in a lawful
quarrel. A spirited remonstrance was accordingly prepared to this
effect. It detailed the circumstances of Butler's case, which was
accompanied with a copy of the proceedings of the court, and it
concluded with a demand that such measures should be adopted
by the head of the army, as comported with the rights of humanity
and the laws of war; “a course,” the writer suggested, “that
he did not hesitate to believe his lordship would feel belonged both
to the honor and duty of his station.” This paper was consigned
to the care of an officer, who was directed to proceed with it,
under a flag of truce, to the head-quarters of the British commander.

Soon after this, Robinson apprised Williams that Ramsay and

himself had determined to venture back towards the Ennoree, to
learn something of the state of affairs in that quarter, and to apply
themselves more immediately to the service of Butler. In aid of
this design, the sergeant obtained a letter from Williams, the purport
of which was to inform the commandant of any post of the
loyalists whom it might concern, that an application had been
made on Butler's behalf to Cornwallis, and that the severest retaliation
would be exercised upon the prisoners in Williams's custody,
for any violence that might be offered the American officer. Putting
this letter in his pocket, our man of “mickle might,” attended
by his good and faithful ally, John Ramsay, took his leave of “The
Fair Forest” towards noon of the fourth day after the battle near
Musgrove's mill.

The second morning after their departure, the two companions
had reached the Ennoree, not far from the habitation of David
Ramsay. It was fair summer weather, and nature was as gay as
in that piping time before the blast of war had blown across her
fields. All things, in the course of a few days, seemed to have
undergone a sudden change. The country presented no signs of
strife: no bands of armed men molested the highways. An occasional
husbandman was seen at his plough: the deer sprang up
from the brushwood and fled into the forest, as if inviting again
the pastime of the chase; and even when the two soldiers encountered
a chance wayfarer upon the road, each party passed the
other unquestioned—there was all the seeming quiet of a pacified
country. The truth was, the war had rolled northwards—and all
behind it had submitted since the disastrous fight at Camden. The
lusty and hot-brained portions of the population were away with the
army; and the non-combatants only, or those wearied with arms,
were all that were to be seen in this region.

Horse Shoe, after riding a long time in silence, as these images
of tranquillity occupied his thoughts, made a simple remark that
spoke a volume of truth in a few homely words.

“This is an onnatural sort of stillness, John. Men may call this
peace, but I call it fear. If there is a poor wretch of a Whig in
this district, it's as good as his life is worth to own himself. How
far off mought we be from your father's?”

The young trooper heaved a deep sigh. “I knew you were thinking

of my poor father when you spoke your thoughts, Horse Shoe.
This is a heavy day for him. But he could bear it: he's a man
who thinks little of hardships. There are the helpless women,
Galbraith Robinson,” he continued, as he shook his head with an
expression of sorrow that almost broke into tears. “Getting near
home one thinks of them first. My good and kind mother—God
knows how she would bear any heavy accident. I am always
afraid to ask questions in these times about the family, for fear of
hearing something bad. And there's little Mary Musgrove over
at the mill”—

“You have good reason to be proud of that girl, John Ramsay,”
interrupted Robinson. “So speak out, man, and none of your stammering.
Hoot!—she told me she was your sweetheart! You
hav'n't half the tongue of that wench. Why, sir, if I was a lovable
man, haw, haw!—which I'm not—I'll be cursed if I wouldn't
spark that little fusee myself.”

“This fence,” said Ramsay, unheeding the sergeant's banter, “belongs
to our farm, and perhaps we had better let down the rails and
approach the house across the field: if the Tories should be there we
might find the road dangerous. This gives us a chance of retreat.”

“That's both scrupulous and wise, John,” replied the sergeant.
“So down with the pannel: we will steal upon the good folks, if
they are at home, and take them by surprise. But mind you, my
lad, see that your pistols are primed; we mought onawares get
into a wasp's nest.”

The fence was lowered, and the horsemen cautiously entered the
field. After passing a narrow dell and rising to the crest of the
opposite hill, they obtained a position but a short distance in the
rear of the homestead. From this point a melancholy prospect
broke upon their sight. The dwelling-house had disappeared, and
in its place was a heap only of smouldering ashes. A few of the
upright frame-posts, scorched black, and a stone chimney with its
ample fire-place, were all that remained of what, but a few days
before, was the happy abode of the family of a brave and worthy
man.

“My God! my thoughts were running upon this! I feared
their spite would break at last upon my father's head,” cried John
Ramsay, as he put spurs to his horse and galloped up to the ruins:

“the savages have done their worst. But my father and mother,
where are they?” he exclaimed, as the tears rolled down his cheeks.

“Take heart, my brave boy!” said Robinson, in the kindliest
tones. “There's a reckoning to come for all these villanies—and
it will go hard with many a Tory yet before this account is settled.”

“I will carry a hot hand into the first house that covers a Tory
head,” replied the young trooper, passionately; “this burning
shall be paid with ten like it.”

“All in good time, John,” said Robinson coolly. “As for the
burning, it is no great matter; a few good neighbors would soon
set that to rights, by building your father a better house than the
one he has lost. Besides, Congress will not forget a true friend when
the war is well fought out. But it does go against my grain, John
Ramsay, to see a parcel of cowardly runaways spitting their malice
against women and children. The barn, likewise, I see is gone,”
continued the sergeant, looking towards another pile of the ruins a
short distance off. “The villains! when there's foul work to be
done, they don't go at it like apprentices. No matter—I have
made one observation: the darkest hour is just before the day, and
that's a comfortable old saying.”

By degrees John Ramsay fell into a calmer temper, and now
began to cast about as to the course fit to be pursued in their present
emergency. About a quarter of a mile distant, two or three
negro cabins were visible, and he could descry a few children near
the doors. With an eager haste, therefore, he and the sergeant
shaped their course across the field to this spot. When they
arrived within fifty paces of the nearest hovel, the door was set
ajar, and a rifle, thrust through the aperture, was aimed at the
visitors.

“Stand for your lives!” shouted the well known voice of David
Ramsay. In the next instant the door was thrown wide open, the
weapon cast aside, and the father rushed forward as he exclaimed,
“Gracious God, my boy and Horse Shoe Robinson! Welcome,
lads; a hundred times more welcome than when I had better
shelter to give you! But the good friends of King George, you
see, have been so kind as to give me a call. It is easy to tell when
they take it in their head to visit a Whig.”

“My mother1” exclaimed John Ramsay.

“In and see her, boy—she wants comfort from you. But, thank
God! she bears this blow better than I thought she could.”

Before this speech was uttered John had disappeared.

“And how came this mishap to fall upon you, David?” inquired
Horse Shoe.

“I suppose some of your prisoners,” replied Ramsay, “must have
informed upon Andy and me: for in the retreat of Innis's runaways,
a party came through my farm. They stayed only long
enough to ransack the house, and to steal whatever was worth
taking; and then to set fire to the dwelling and all the out-buildings.
Both Andy and myself, by good luck, perhaps, were absent,
or they would have made us prisoners: so they turned my wife
and children out of doors to shift for themselves, and scampered off
as fast as if Williams was still at their heels. All that was left for
us was to crowd into this cabin, where, considering all things, we
are not so badly off. But things are taking an ill turn for the
country, Horse Shoe. We are beaten on all sides.”

“Not so bad, David, as to be past righting yet,” replied the sergeant.
“What have they done with Major Butler?”

“He was carried, as I learned, up to Blackstock's, the evening of
the fight; and yesterday it was reported that a party has taken
him back to Musgrove's. I believe he is now kept close prisoner
in Allen's house. Christopher Shaw was here two days since, and
told us that orders had come to occupy the miller's dwelling-house
for that purpose.”

Horse Shoe had now entered the cabin with David Ramsay, and
in the course of the hour that followed, during which the family
had prepared refreshment for the travellers, the sergeant had fully
canvassed all the particulars necessary to be known for his future
guidance. It was determined that he and John should remain in
their present concealment until night, and then endeavor to reach
the mill under cover of the darkness, and open some means of communication
with the family of the miller.

The rest of the day was spent in anxious thought. The situation
of the adventures was one of great personal peril, as they
were now immediately within the circle of operations of the enemy,
and likely to be observed and challenged the first moment they
ventured upon the road.

The hour of dusk had scarcely arrived before they were again
mounted on horseback. They proceeded cautiously upon the road
that led through the wood, until it intersected the highway; and,
having attained this point, John Ramsay, who was well acquainted
with every avenue through the country, now led the way, by a
private and scarcely discernible path, into the adjacent forest, and
thence, by a tedious and prolonged route, directed his companion
to the banks of the Ennoree. This course of travel took them
immediately to the plain on which Innis had been encamped—the
late field of battle. All here was still and desolate. The sheds
and other vestiges of the recent bivouac were yet visible, but not
even the farm-house that had constituted Innis's head-quarters
was reoccupied by its original inhabitants. The bat whirred over
the plain, and the owl hooted from the neighboring trees. The
air still bore the scent of dead bodies which had either been left
exposed, or so meagrely covered with earth as to taint the breeze
with noisome exhalations.

“There is a great difference, John,” said Horse Shoe, who seldom
let an occasion to moralize after his own fashion slip by,
“there's a great difference between a hot field and a stale one.
Your hot field makes a soldier, for there's a sort of a stir in it that
sets the blood to running merrily through a man, and that's what
I call pleasure. But when everything is festering like the inside
of a hospital—or what's next door to it, a grave-yard—it is mighty
apt to turn a dragoon's stomach and make a preacher of him. This
here dew falls to-night like frost, and chills me to the heart, which
it wouldn't do if it didn't freshen up the smell of dead men. And
there's the hogs, busy as so many sextons among Innis's Tories:
you may hear them grunt over their suppers. Well, there is one
man among them that I'll make bold to say these swine hav'n't
got the stomach to touch—that's Hugh Habershaw: he sleeps in
the mud in yonder fence-corner.”

“If you had done nothing else in the fight, Horse Shoe, but
cleave that fellow's skull,” said Ramsay, “the ride we took would
have been well paid for—it was worth the trouble.”

“And the rapscallionly fellow to think,” added Horse Shoe,
“that I was a going to save him from the devil's clutches, when I

had a broadsword in my hand, and his bald, greasy pate in reach.
His brain had nothing in it but deceit and lies, and all sorts of
cruel thoughts, enough to poison the air when I let them out. I
have made an observation, John, all my life on them foul-mouthed,
swilling braggers—that when there's so much cunning and blood-thirstiness,
there's no room for a thimbleful of courage: their heart's
in their belly, which is as much as to signify that the man's a most
beastly coward. But now, it is my opinion that we had best
choose a spot along upon the river here, and leave our horses. I
think we can manœuvre better on foot: the miller's house is short
of two miles, and we mought be noticed if we were to go nearer
on horseback.”

This proposal was adopted, and the two friends, when they had
ridden a short distance below the battle ground, halted in a thicket,
where they fastened their horses, and proceeded towards the mill
on foot. After following the course of the stream for near half an
hour, they perceived, at a distance, a light glimmering through the
window of Allen Musgrove's dwelling. This induced a second
pause in their march, when Ramsay suggested the propriety of his
advancing alone to reconnoitre the house, and attempting to gain
some speech with the inmates. He accordingly left the sergeant to
amuse himself with his own thoughts.

Horse Shoe took his seat beneath a sycamore, where he waited
a long time in anxious expectation of the return of his comrade.
Growing uneasy, at last, at John's delay, he arose, and stole cautiously
forward until he reached the mill, where he posted himself
in a position from which he was able to see and hear what was
going on at the miller's house. The porch was occupied by three
or four persons, whose conversation, as it came to the sergeant's
ear, proved them to be strangers to the family; and a ray of light
from a taper within, after a while, made this more manifest, by
revealing the scarlet uniform of the enemy. Horse Shoe was thus
confirmed in the truth of the report that Butler had been brought
to this place under a military escort. With this conviction he
returned to the sycamore, where he again sat down to wait for
the coming of his companion.

It was after ten o'clock, and the sergeant was casting over in his

thoughts the long absence of John, when his attention was aroused
by the sound of footsteps, and the next instant John Ramsay and
Mary Musgrove stood beside him.

“What kept you till this time of night?” was the sergeant's
accost.

“Softly, man, I have news for you,” replied Ramsay. “Here is
Mary herself.”

“And so she is, indeed!” exclaimed the sergeant, at the same
time shaking her hand, “this is my petticoat-sodger; how goes it
with you, girl?”

“I have only a moment to spare,” replied the maiden cheerfully,
“and it is the greatest of good luck that I thought of coming out;
for John gave me a signal, which I was stupid enough not to understand
at first. But, after a while, I thought it could be no one
but John Ramsay; and that, partly, because I expected he would
be coming into the neighborhood ever since I heard of his being
at his father's, after the ensign was made a prisoner.”

“I went,” said John Ramsay, “to the further side of the house,
where I set to whistling an old-fashioned tune that Mary was
acquainted with—walking away all the time in an opposite direction—as
if there was nothing meant—”

“And I knew the tune, Mr. Horse Shoe,” interrupted Mary,
eagerly, “it was Maggie Lauder. John practised that trick once
before to show me how to find my way to him. Upon that, I
made an excuse to leave the room, and slipped out through the
garden—and then I followed the whistling, as folks say they follow
a jack-o'-lantern.”

“And so, by a countermarch,” continued the young dragoon,
“we came round the meadow and through the woods, here.”

“Now that you've got here at last,” said Horse Shoe, “tell me
the news.”

“Major Butler is in the house,” said Mairy and John, both speaking
at once. “He was brought there yesterday from Blackstock's,”
continued the maiden. “Orders came from somebody that he was
to be kept at our house, until they had fixed upon what was to be
done with him. Colonel Innis was too ill to think of such matters,
and has been carried out of the neighborhood—and it is thought
he will die.”

“How many men are there to guard the prisoner?” asked the
sergeant.

“There are more than twenty, with a lieutenant from Ninety-Six,
who has the charge of them.”

“And how does the major bear his troubles?”

“He seems to be heavy at heart,” replied the maiden. “But that
may be because he is away from his friends. Though my father,
who is a good judge of such things, says he suffers tribulation like
a Christian. He asked me privately, if I had heard anything of
you, Mr. Robinson: and when I told him what folks said about
your being with the people that beat Colonel Innis, he smiled, and
said if any man could get him free, it was Horse Shoe Robinson.”

“Do they allow you to see him often?” inquired the sergeant.

“I have seen him only two or three times since he came to the
house,” answered the maiden. “But the officer that has charge of
him is not contrary or ill-natured, and makes no objection to my
carrying him his meals—though I am obliged to pretend to know
less about Major Butler than I do, for fear they might be jealous of
my talking to him.”

“You can give him a letter?”

“I think I can contrive it,” replied the maiden.

“Then give him this, my good girl,” said Robinson, taking Williams's
letter from his pocket and putting it in Mary's hand. “It is
a piece of writing he can use whenever he is much pressed. It
may save him from harm. Now, I want you to do something
more. You must find a chance just to whisper in his ear that
Horse Shoe Robinson and John Ramsay are in the neighborhood.
Tell him, likewise, that Colonel Williams has sent a messenger to
Lord Cornwallis to lay his case before that officer, and to get some
order for his better treatment. That the doings of that rascally
court-martial have been sent by the messenger, hoping that Lord
Cornwallis, if he is a brave and a Christian man—as they say he is
—will stop this onmerciful persecution of the major—which has
no cause for it under heaven. Will you remember all this?”

“I'll try, sir,” responded Mary; “and besides I will tell it to my
father, who has more chance of speaking to Major Butler than I
have.”

“Now,” said Horse Shoe, “we will be here again to-morrow night,

a little earlier than this; you must meet us here. And say to the
major, if he has any message for us, he may send it by you. But
be cautious, Mary, how you are seen talking with the prisoner. If
they suspect you it will spoil all.”

“Trust to me,” said the girl; “I warrant I have learned by this
time how to behave myself amongst these red-coats.”

“There, John,” continued Horse Shoe, “I have said all I want
to say, and as you, I have no doubt, have got a good deal to tell
the girl, it is but fair that you should have your chance. So, do
you walk back with her as far as the mill, and I'll wait here for
you. But don't forget yourself by overstaying your furlough.”

“I must get home as fast as possible,” said Mary; “they will be
looking for me.”

“Away, John Ramsay—away,” added Horse Shoe; “and have
your eyes about you, man.”

With this command John Ramsay and the miller's daughter
hastily withdrew, and were soon out of the sergeant's hearing.

After an interval, which doubtless seemed short to the gallant
dragoon, he returned to his comrade, and the two set out rapidly
in quest of their horses; and once more having got into their
saddles, they retraced their steps at a brisk speed to Ramsay's
cabin.