University of Virginia Library

43. CHAPTER XLIII.

The month of September was more than half gone. The night
had just set in, and the waxing moon shone forth from a clear
heaven, flinging her rays upon the rippling surface of the Ennoree
and upon the glossy leaves that flickered in the wind by the banks
of the stream, when Mary Musgrove, with wary and stealthy pace,
glided along the path, intricate with shrubbery, that led upwards
immediately upon the margin of the river. For a full half hour
had she toiled along this narrow way since she had stolen past the
sentinel near her father's gate. The distance was not a mile; but
the anxious maiden, pursued by her own fears, had more than
once, in the fancy that she was followed, stopped in her career and
concealed herself in the thick copse-wood, and listened with painful
intensity for the footsteps of those whom her imagination had set
upon her track. There was, however, no pursuit: it was the
prowling fox or the raccoon whose leap had disturbed the dry and
rotten branches that lay upon the ground; and Mary smiled with
faint-heartedness at the illusions of her own mind. She arrived at
last beneath the brow of a crag that jutted over the stream, and in
the shade of one of the angles of the rock, she discerned the figure
of a man seated upon the grass. She paused with a distrustful
caution, as she challenged the silent and half-concealed person.

“Hist, John! is it you? For mercy, speak! Why would you
frighten me?—Me, Mary. Don't you know me?” said the maiden,
as she took heart of grace and advanced near enough to put
her hand upon John Ramsay's shoulder. “Powers above! the

man's asleep,” she added with a laugh. “Who would have thought
I should have caught you napping, John, at such a time as this!”

“Why, in truth, Mary,” said John Ramsay, waking up under the
touch of his mistress, and rising to his feet, “I deserve to be shot
for sleeping on my watch; but I have been so driven from post to
pillar for this last fortnight, that it is as much as I can do to keep
my eyes open when night comes on. So Mary, you will forgive
me, and more particularly when I tell you I was dreaming of you;
and thought this war was at an end, and that you and I were
happy in a house of our own. I have been waiting for you for
upwards of an hour.”

“Ah, John, I don't think I could sleep if it had been my turn to
watch for you.”

“There's the difference,” replied John, “betwixt you women and
us men; you are so full of frights and fidgetings and fancyings,
that I do verily believe all the sleeping doses in the world could
never make you shut your eyes when anything is going on that
requires watching, whether it be for a sick friend or for a piece of
scheming. Now, with us, we take a nap on a hard-trotting horse,
and fall to snoring up to the very minute that the trumpet wakes
us to make a charge. What news from Butler?”

“It is all fixed,” answered Mary, “to our hearts' content. Lieutenant
Macdonald, ever since Cornwallis's letter, allows Major Butler
greater privileges; and the sentinels are not half so strict as
they used to be; so that I think we may give them the slip. By
the gable window that looks out from the garret room, the Major
will be able to get upon the roof, and that, he thinks, is near
enough to the tree for him to risk a leap into its branches; though
I am almost afraid he is mistaken, for it looks awfully wide for a
spring. He says if you will be ready with the horses an hour before
day-light to-morrow, he will try the leap, and join you at the
willows above the mill. Christopher will saddle one of the wagon-horses
and lead him to the place.”

“And the sentinel who keeps guard on that side?”

“Ah, John, that puzzles us,” said Mary; “I'm so much afraid
that you will be rash. It is in your nature to forget yourself.”

“Tut, girl; don't talk of that. I'll find a way to manage the
sentinel. I will steal up to him and take him unawares; and then

seizing him by the throat, give him his choice of a knife in between
his ribs, or a handful of guineas in his pocket.”

“Hadn't we better tell him what a good man the Major is?” said
Mary, alarmed at the idea of a struggle in which her lover's
life might be endangered, “and try to coax him to take our
side?”

“Ha, ha!” ejaculated the trooper involuntarily, “that's a very
good woman's thought, but it won't hold out in a campaign. The
fellow might happen to have some honesty, and then away goes
our whole scheme. No, no; blows are the coin that these rascals
buy their bread with, and, faith, we'll trade with them in the same
article.”

“But then, John, you will be in danger.”

“What of that, girl? When have I been out of danger? And
don't you see, Mary, what good luck I have with it? Never fear
me; I will stifle the fellow in the genteelest fashion known in the
wars.”

“And if it must be so, John, I will say my prayers for you with
more earnestness than I ever said them in my life. As my father
says, the God of Israel will stand by our cause: and when He is for
us, what care we who is against us?”

“You are a good girl, Mary,” replied John Ramsay, smiling.
“Get back to the house; let Major Butler know that you have seen
me, and that I will be ready.”

“He is to be at the window,” said Mary, “and I am to signify
to him that you are prepared, by setting up a plank against the
garden fence in a place where he can see it. He is to keep a look-out
from the window all night, and when the time comes you are
to flash a little powder on the edge of the woods upon the hill: if
he is ready then he will show his candle near the window-sill; that,
he says, must be a sign for you to come on; and when he sees you
he will take the leap.”

“I understand it,” said Ramsay. “Tell Christopher to be sure
of the horse.”

“I have a great deal of courage, John, when danger is far off—
but when it comes near, I tremble like a poor coward,” said Mary.
“Does not my hand feel cold?”

“Your lips are warm, Mary,” replied John, kissing her, “and
your heart is warm. Now, never flag when it comes to the trial.
Everything depends upon you. We shall be very happy, by-and-by,
to talk this thing all over. How many soldiers are on Macdonald's
guard? Have none left you since I saw you yesterday?”

“None,” said Mary: “one man left the mill two days since.
I think I heard them say he was going to Ninety-six, on business
for the lieutenant.”

“Well, well, it makes but little odds how many are there, so
they but sleep soundly. Our business is more to run than to fight.
Mary, my girl, step across to my father's to-morrow, and he will
tell you what has become of me. We must get the Major out of
this country of wolf-traps as fast as we can.”

“I forgot to ask you,” said the maiden, “if you had some coarse
clothes ready for the Major. He must not seem to be what
he is.”

“Trust me for that,” replied the trooper. “Christopher has
given me a bundle with as fine a dusty suit in it as any miller's
boy ever wore; and besides that, I have a meal bag to throw
across the Major's saddle: and as for myself, Mary, there's ploughman
in my very looks. We shall cheat all the Tories betwixt this
and Catawba.”

“Now, John, before I leave you, I have one favor to ask.”

“And what is that?” inquired the generous-hearted soldier,
“you know, if I can, I will grant it before it is named.”

“I would ask as a favor to me,” said Mary, with earnestness,
“that you will not be too venturesome: the Major is a wiser man
than you, so be governed by him. Remember, John, if any ill
were to happen to you, it would break my heart.”

“I am not so foolhardy, my girl,” replied Ramsay, “but, that
when there's occasion for it, I can show as clean a pair of heels as
any man: and so, for your sake, you kitten,” he said, as he put
his hands upon her cheeks, and again snatched a kiss, “I will
run to-morrow like a whole troop of devils. And now, Mary, good
night, and God bless you girl! it is time you were at home. Yet
upon second thoughts, I will walk part of the way with you. So,
take my arm and let us begin the retreat.”

“John, I do so fear you may be hurt,” said the maiden, as they

pursued their way along the path, her whole thoughts being
absorbed with the danger of the enterprise. “Be careful when
you come near the sentinel to wait until his back is turned. This
moon shines bright, and you may easily be seen.”

“But look, girl, the moon has scarcely two hours yet to travel,
and, from that circle round it, I shouldn't wonder if we had rain
before day-light; so by the hour we have fixed for the Major's
escape, it will be dark enough: therefore you may be easy on
that score.”

The humble and ardent lovers pursued their way towards the
miller's dwelling with slow steps, intently engaged in conversing
over the chances of their perilous project, until they arrived at a
point beyond which it was not safe for John Ramsay to venture.
Here, after many affectionate caresses and fond adieus, they
separated—the maiden to steal to her place of rest, the soldier to
hasten back to his horse, that awaited him near the scene of the
late meeting.

Mary soon arrived at the mill; then sauntering carelessly
towards the dwelling-house, began, the better to conceal her purpose,
to sing a simple air, during which she had wandered up to
the garden fence, where she delayed long enough to set up the
plank. The small window in the angle of the roof of the cottage
looked down upon the spot where she stood; and as she cast her
eyes towards this part of the building, she received a recognition
from the prisoner, in a slight waving of the hand, which was
sufficiently observable by the light of the taper within.

Matters having gone so far to the maiden's satisfaction, she now
retreated into the house.

The reader will perceive from this narrative that Butler's
fortunes had greatly improved since we last took leave of him.
The messenger despatched to Cornwallis by Williams had brought
back to the Fair Forest, where it will be remembered the vanquishers
of Innis had retreated, a more favorable answer than
even the republican leader had hoped. The British commander
was not ignorant of the capture of Butler, but the circumstances
of the trial had not before been communicated to him. Upon the
representation of Williams, he had no hesitation to order a respite

to be given to the prisoner for such reasonable time as might be
necessary for further investigation. This obvious act of justice
was more than, in the circumstances of the times, might have
been expected from Cornwallis. The cruel and bloody policy
which he adopted towards the inhabitants of the Carolinas,
immediately after the battle of Camden, showed a tone of personal
exacerbation that was scarcely consistent with the lenity displayed
towards Butler. It is not unlikely, therefore, that the fear of
retaliation upon the young St. Jermyn, of whose fate he might
have been informed from officers of his own camp, might have
induced him to temporize in the present case, and to grant a suspension
of proceedings against the rebel prisoner. The reply to
Williams's letter accordingly intimated that, for the present, Major
Butler should be held in close custody as a prisoner of war,
leaving the determination of the manner in which he was finally
to be disposed of, a subject for future consideration.

John Ramsay, after the departure of Horse Shoe Robinson for
Virginia, instead of rejoining his regiment, returned to the Fair
Forest camp, where he remained with Williams, until the answer
from Cornwallis was received. The tidings of this answer he undertook
to convey to Butler, and he again set out for his father's house.
John felt himself now regularly enlisted in the service of the
prisoner, and having found means to communicate his present
employment to General Sumpter, he obtained permission to remain
in it as long as his assistance was of value. The service itself was
a grateful one to the young trooper: it accorded with the
generosity of his character, and gratified his personal pride by the
trust-worthiness which it implied: but more than this, it brought
him into opportunities of frequent meeting with Mary Musgrove,
who, passionately beloved by the soldier, was not less ardent than
he in her efforts to promote the interest of Butler.

The state of the country did not allow John to be seen in
day-time, and he and Mary had consequently appointed a place of
meeting, where in the shades of night they might commune
together on the important subjects of their secret conspiracy.
Night after night they accordingly met at this spot, and here all
their schemes were contrived. Mary sometimes came to David
Ramsay's dwelling, and the old man's counsel was added to that

of the lovers. Christopher Shaw and Allen Musgrove were not
ignorant of what was in contemplation, but it was a piece of
necessary policy that they should appear to be as little connected
with the prisoner as possible. Christopher, therefore, pursued his
duties as assistant-quarter-master or purveyor to the little garrison
under Macdonald's command, with unabated assiduity.

The plan of Butler's escape was John Ramsay's. He had been
anxiously awaiting an opportunity to attempt this enterprise for
the last fortnight, but the difficulty of concerting operations with
the prisoner had retarded his movement. This difficulty was at
last overcome, and, for a few days past, the plan had been arranged.
All that was left to be done was to appoint the hour.
Christopher Shaw and Mary, alone of the miller's family, were
made acquainted with the details. Christopher was to provide a
horse and a suitable disguise for Butler, and these were to be
ready at a tuft of willows that grew upon the edge of the river
some quarter of a mile above the mill, whenever Mary should
announce that John was ready to act. Ramsay's horse was to be
brought to the same spot. The preparatory signals, already
mentioned, were all agreed upon and understood by the parties.
Butler was to escape to the roof, and thence by the boughs of a
large oak that grew hard by the miller's dwelling. A sentinel
was usually posted some fifty paces from this tree, and it was a
matter of great perplexity to determine how his vigilance was to
be defeated. This difficulty, John resolved, should be overcome
by a stern measure: the man was to be silenced, if necessary, by a
blow. John Ramsay was to steal upon him in the dark, and if
signs of alarm were given, he was to master the sentinel in such
a manner as the occasion might require, being furnished by Butler
with a purse of gold, if such a form of influence might be
necessary.

Such is the outline of the plan by which Butler's disenthralment
was to be attempted.

Mary Musgrove, before she retired to her chamber, sought Christopher
Shaw and made him acquainted with the appointment of
the hour, and then left him to manage his own share of the enterprise.
It was now near ten at night, and Christopher, who had
charge of Allen Musgrove's stable, in order to avoid the suspicion

of being seen stirring at a later hour, immediately set off to saddle
the horse. One of the wagon team, well known in the family by
the name of Wall Eye, was selected for this service, and being
speedily accoutred, was conducted to the willows, where he was
tied fast to a tree, to remain until the hour of need. The young
miller soon returned, and it was not long afterwards that the
household and its military companions were wrapt in the silence of
unsuspecting repose.

Butler, at the hour of the customary visit of the watch, had gone to
bed; and, feigning sickness, had been allowed to burn a light in his
room during the night. His chamber door, also, by special favor, was
closed; and the night advanced without suspicion or distrust from
any quarter. At two o'clock the last sentinels were relieved, and
the form had been gone through of inspecting the prisoner's chamber.
To all outward show, Butler was asleep: the door was
again shut, and all was still. The time for action now arrived.
Butler rose silently from his bed, dressed himself, and, putting his
shoes into his pockets, stole in his stockinged feet to the little gable
window at the further end of his apartment. Here he remained,
gazing out upon the night with fixed attention. The moon had set,
and the sky was overcast with clouds, adding a fortunate obscurity
to the natural darkness of the hour. By still greater good luck,
after a few moments the wind began to rise and rain to descend.
Everything seemed to favor the enterprise. The shadowy form of the
sentinel, who was stationed on this side of the house, was dimly
discerned by Butler through the gloom; and it was with joyful
satisfaction that he could perceive the soldier, as the rain fell in larger
drops, retreat some distance from his post and take shelter beneath
the shrubbery that grew in the garden. At the same moment a
flash upon the hill, which might have been mistaken for summer
lightning, announced to him that his faithful comrade was at hand.
Desirous to take advantage of the present neglect of the sentinel,
and to avoid the possibility of bringing him into conflict with Ramsay,
Butler hastily showed his candle at the window, then extinguished
it, and throwing himself out upon the roof, scrambled
towards the nearest point of the impending branches of the oak.
Here, without a moment's pause, he made a fearless leap that flung
him amongst the boughs. The darkness prevented him from

choosing the most favorable lodgment in the tree, and he fell across
a heavy limb with such force as to take away his breath—receiving,
at the same time, a severe contusion in the head. For a brief
space he hung almost senseless, and there was reason to apprehend
that he would fall in a swoon to the ground; but the occasion
braced his sinking strength, and before many minutes he revived
sufficiently to make his way to the trunk, by which he descended
safely to the earth. He now threw himself on his hands and feet,
and crept to the garden fence. The rain still increased, and fell in
a heavy shower. In another instant he surmounted the barrier,
and betook himself with his utmost speed towards the mill, behind
which he sought concealment and temporary rest.

“Stand,” said John Ramsay, who had just reached this point on
his way to the house, and now, taken by surprise, presented a pistol
to Butler's breast. “One word above your breath and you die.
Be silent, and here is gold for you.”

“Ramsay,” said Butler, in a low tone, “is it you?”

“Your name?” demanded the trooper, still presenting the pistol.

“Butler,” was the reply.

“Thanks—thanks, good Major, for that word! You have
been before me. I thought you would not miss this rain. Is all
well?”

“Better, much better, than we could have hoped,” answered Butler.
“Seeing the sentinel was off his guard, I took time by the
forelock, and have saved you trouble.”

“For God's sake, Major, let us not delay here. Our horses are
waiting for us above.”

“I am ready,” said Butler, having now put on his shoes. “My
brave fellow, I owe you more than I can find words to utter: lead
the way.”

The liberated captive and his gallant comrade instantly hastened
towards the horses, and mounting with a joyful alacrity, soon set
forward at a gallop in the direction leading to David Ramsay's
cottage. Here they arrived just as the day began to dawn.