University of Virginia Library

44. CHAPTER XLIV.

Brief time was taken by the fugitives for refreshment at David
Ramsay's dwelling. Here Butler put on the disguise which Christopher
Shaw had provided for him. Then arming himself with a
pair of pistols which John had appropriated to his use, the trooper
himself using a similar precaution, our two adventurers resumed
their journey. Their first object was to gain a point, some seven
or eight miles distant, in the direction of the Fair Forest, where
John Ramsay had concealed a few troopers that had been furnished
him by Williams, to give their aid, if necessary, in securing Butler's
escape.

From this point they were to proceed, with all possible despatch,
to Williams's camp. However hazardous the experiment of attempting
to traverse the country in open daylight, it was deemed still
more dangerous to tarry any length of time so near the scene of
their late adventure. Butler and his comrade, therefore, pushed
forward with as much expedition as possible, resolved to outrun
the fresh pursuit which they had reason to apprehend upon the
discovery which the morning must produce at the miller's habitation.

Soon after sunrise the rain ceased to fall, the clouds dispersed,
and a fresh and brilliant morning broke forth upon the heavens.
The success of their late exploit had raised the spirits of the wanderers.
A sense of intense delight animated Butler's feelings: a
consciousness of liberty once more enjoyed, after hopes deferred
and almost despairing captivity, seemed to regenerate him and
make him acquainted with emotions he had never felt before. His

heart was full of gratitude to his new friend Ramsay, and the expression
of it was warm and sincere. Nature had never appeared so
lovely to him as now: the whispers of the forest and the murmur
of the clear brook fell on his enfranchised ear like the sweetest
music: there was melody for him even in the screams of the jay
and the harsh notes of the crow: and once when his companion
had halted in sight of a buck that bounded through the wood
before him, Butler, apprehensive that John was about to discharge
a bullet after the forest-rover, found himself involuntarily pleading
the cause of the noble animal: “Do not draw your pistol on him,
Ramsay, I pray you. Let him run; it is liberty—liberty, good
comrade—and that is sacred.”

Before eight o'clock they had reached the rendezvous. Here they
found three troopers who, although armed, were habited in the
plain dress of the country, which enabled them to claim the denomination
either of Whig or Tory militia, as their occasions might
demand. These men had lain perdue, for some days, in the depth
of the forest, impatiently awaiting for intelligence from Ramsay.

“Well, Harry Winter,” said John, laughing, “what say you now?
I have brought you the miller's boy at last. Have I not made my
word good?”

“Truth, John,” replied the trooper, “there is more stuff in you
than we counted on. Macdonald must be a silly crow to let the
fox steal his cheese from him so easily.”

“You would have come nearer the mark, Harry, if you had
called him a sleepy lout, for whilst he was nodding I took his cake
off the griddle. It was fair filching by night, as the Major will
tell you. But come, lads, here is no time for dallying, we mustn't
have the grass growing to our horses' heels, when we have a whole
pack of King George's hounds on our trail. So move, boys!” and
saying these words, John led the party forward at a rapid gallop.

They had not gone far before they found themselves upon a road
which led through a piece of thin wood that covered a small tract
of marshy ground, the nature of which brought the party into a
more compact body as they approached the narrowest point of the
defile. At a short distance beyond this impediment the track
became broader, where it ascended a hill thickly covered with an
undergrowth of bushes.

Our friends had scarcely arrived in the narrow pass before they
perceived on the hill in front of them, a company of some ten or
fifteen horse, rapidly advancing towards them. In a moment all
conversation was checked, and Harry Winter turning to his companions,
had barely time to remark,

“I answer all questions: be silent, and if asked, swear to the
truth of every word I say—steady: these fellows are Tories.”

As he ceased speaking, the foremost of the strangers had already
come up to them.

“Where from, and whither do you go?” asked Harry Winter,
with a stern accent.

“From below Ninety-Six, and on our road to Fort Granby,” replied
a clownish voice.

“Peace, you knave!” interrupted one who appeared to be the
leader of the party, and whose carriage and demeanor announced
him to be an officer; “by what authority do you undertake to
answer a challenge on the highway? Back, to your place, sir.”

The rebuked rustic hung his head, as he reined his horse back
into the crowd that now thronged the road.

“As we are of the larger party,” said the same person, addressing
himself to Winter, “we have the right to the word. Who are
you and whence come you?”

“We belong to Floyd's new draft,” replied Winter with great
coolness, “and left Winnsborough yesterday morning.”

“And where bound?”

“To Augusta, on business with Brown.”

“Ah ha!” exclaimed the officer, “Brown is pinched by the rebels.
It is well you have thought of him. What have you to say to him?
Do you bear despatches?”

“Your pardon, sir—that's a secret.”

“You need not be afraid, good fellow, we are friends.”

“I can hardly tell you the exact business,” replied Winter. “You
will meet Floyd himself with a hundred men, before you ride five
miles. I believe we are going to reinforce the garrison.”

“You will be very welcome,” said the Tory officer, “Brown will
give you a hearty reception, but devilish slim fare; he is surrounded
with hornets.”

“So much the better,” replied Winter, “we have a knack at

taking the sting out of the hornets, nowadays. Good morning,
sir. Report us, if you please, to Colonel Floyd, when you come
across him, and tell him the hour of the day when you met us.”

During this short parley the two parties had become united into
a common throng, completely filling up the road; and the proximity
into which they were severally brought, gave rise to various inquiries
after news amongst the subordinates on either side. In this
press, Butler was startled to observe the eyes of an individual
scanning him with a somewhat pointed scrutiny, and it was with an
emotion that had well nigh betrayed him, that he recognised in
this person one of Macdonald's soldiers. It was the man whom
the lieutenant had despatched, a few days previous, with an errand
to the post at Ninety-Six, and who was now returning with this
detachment of militia. The soldier was evidently at fault, for in a
moment afterwards Butler could perceive, from his expression of
face, that whatever might have been his first suspicion, it was
quieted by another glance. The disguise was so far effectual.
But another cause of alarm arose, that for an instant brought Butler
into greater jeopardy. The horse on which the messenger was
mounted, was the yoke-fellow of the lean Wall-Eye, and the two
beasts had been long accustomed to work side by side in the same
wagon. Their mutual recognition, at this critical moment, became
distressingly conspicuous. Their noses were brought in contact,
and they began to whinny and paw the gronnd in that intelligible
manner which constitutes one of the forms of expression by which
this portion of the brute creation acknowledge their attachments.
The presence of mind of John Ramsay saved the explosion which
must soon have followed. He spurred his horse between the two noisy
and restless animals, and immediately addressed a conversation to
the soldier, which for the moment turned his thoughts into another
channel.

By this time the conference had terminated, and the two leaders
respectively directing their men to move forward, the defile was
passed and each party extricated from the other. But no sooner
was the separation completed than Butler's brutish steed, Wall-Eye,
began to neigh with the most clamorous vociferation, whilst a
response was heard in the same tones as pertinaciously reiterated
from the retreating companion on the other side of the defile.

“We were in great danger from yonder Tories,” said Ramsay,
addressing Butler, “did you see that one of these fellows rode the
mate of the beast you are on? Who could he be?”

“It was one of Macdonald's men,” replied Butler, “I knew the
fellow the moment we met; but, thank Heaven, this humble dress
concealed me.”

“Faster, Major!” cried John, “these cursed horses are calling
after each other now. Pray, push forward until we get out of
hearing. How unlucky that Christopher Shaw should have given
you one of the wagon cattle!”

“Look back, lads!” exclaimed Winter with great earnestness,
“there is something wrong, these fellows are returning. Whip and
spur, or we are overtaken!”

Macdonald's soldier, it seems, having his attention drawn to the
singular motions of his horse, had become suddenly confirmed in
the suspicion which at the late meeting for a moment rested upon
his mind, as to the identity of Butler; and having communicated
his thought to the commanding officer, the whole party of the
Tory militia had wheeled about to demand a further investigation:
they were now some hundred paces in the rear of the fugitives, and
were pressing forward at high speed, the officer in the front calling
out at the same time,

“Hold!—Rein up and return! We have questions to ask. Halt,
or we shall fire!”

“To it, boys!” cried Harry Winter. “Your safety is in your
legs!”

And the party pricked onward as fast as they could urge their
cavalry along the road. The chase continued for some half hour
or more; the little escort of Butler leaving the road and plunging
into the recesses of the forest. An occasional pistol-shot was fired
during this retreat, but without effect on either side. The tangled
character of the ground over which they passed, greatly retarded
the pursuit, and before the half hour was spent none but a few of
the boldest horsemen of the assailants were found persevering in
the chase. Seeing their number diminished, and finding also that
the horses of his own comrades were beginning to flag, John Ramsay
assumed the command, and directed his party to turn about
and offer battle to the pursuers. The immediate effect of this

movement was to bring the assailants to a halt, which was no
sooner witnessed by John, than he shouted “Charge, lads, charge,
and the day is ours! Hack and hew, good fellows: down with
the bloodhounds!”

This animated exhortation was followed up by a prompt onset,
in which the brave trooper led the way; and such was the impetuosity
of the assault that the enemy, although consisting of twice
the number of those who attacked them, were forced to give
ground. A sharp skirmish ensued, during which several pistol-shots
were discharged on both sides, and some encounters, hand to
hand, were sustained with a sturdy resolution; but, at last, our
friends succeeded in turning their opponents to flight. The combat
had been maintained in that pell-mell form of attack and
defence, which defied compact or organized resistance; and the
individuals of each party had been scattered over the wood for a
considerable distance, so that when the late pursuers were compelled
to retreat, each man urged his horse in such a direction as was
most favorable to his escape. By degrees, Butler's few companions
began to reassemble at that part of the wood where they had
made their first stand.

“There is nothing like striking the first blow at the right time,”
said Harry Winter, as, with his hat in his hand to allow the air to
cool his brow, he rode up to Butler, and halted to gain breath.
“Give me a hot charge on a slow enemy, and I don't care much
about two to one of odds. Thank God that business is cleanly
done, and here we are all safe I hope. Where is John Ramsay?”
he inquired, looking around him, and observing that their comrade
was not amongst the number assembled.

“I saw him close at the heels of the runaways,” said one of the
men. “John has a trick of seeing a scrimmage to the end; and
it is an even bet that he is now upon the trail like a fresh hound.
The last I noticed of him was at the crupper of a couple of
the rascals that, I'll engage, before now he has set his mark
upon.”

“Then we must to his assistance!” exclaimed Butler, eagerly;
and without waiting for further consultation he set off at full speed,
in the supposed direction of John Ramsay's pursuit. The rest followed.
They had ridden some distance without being able to

perceive any traces of their missing companion. Butler called aloud
upon Ramsay, but there was no answer; and, for some moments,
there was an anxious suspense as the party halted to listen for the
sound of the footsteps of the trooper's approach. At length, a horse
was seen far off in the wood, bounding over the turf at a wild and
frightened pace; the saddle was empty, and the bridle-rein hung
about his feet. On seeing his companions, the excited steed set up
a frequent neigh, and, with head and tail erect, coursed immediately
up to the group of horsemen. Here he came to a sudden
halt, snorting with the terror of his late alarm. There were drops
of blood upon the saddle.

“Gracious Heaven!” cried Butler, “some evil has befallen Ramsay.
Scatter and search the wood.”

It was with confused and melancholy earnestness that they all
now continued the quest. After a painful suspense, one of the
men was heard to shout to the rest that their lost comrade was
found. The summons soon brought the party together. Ramsay,
pale and faint, was stretched upon the grass of the forest, his
bosom streaming forth a current of blood. In an instant Butler
was seen stooping over him.

“Oh, this is a heavy ransom, for my deliverance!” he said with
the deepest anguish, as he raised the trooper's head and laid it on
his lap, whilst the blood flowed from the wound. “Speak, dear
friend, speak! Great God, I fear this blow is mortal! Some
water, if it can be found—look for it, Winter; he has fainted from
loss of blood.”

Whilst Harry Winter went in search of the necessary refreshment,
Butler tore his cravat from his neck and applied it to staunch the
wound. The administration of a slight draught of water, after a
short interval, sufficiently revived the disabled soldier to enable him
to speak. He turned his sickly and almost quenched eye to
Butler, as he said:

“I was foolish to follow so far. I have it here—here,” he added
in a feeble voice, as he put his hand upon his breast, “and it has
done my work. I fought for you, major, because I was proud to
fight for a friend; and because”—here his voice failed him, as for
a moment he closed his eyes and faintly uttered—“it is all over—
I am dying.”

“Nay, good John,” said Butler, whilst the tears ran down his
cheeks; “it is not so bad as that—you are weak from bleeding—
you will be better presently. Oh God! oh God!” he muttered to
himself, “I would not have had this to save my own life, much
less as the price of my liberty!”

“I fought for you,” said the wounded man, again reviving, “because
Mary wished it. This will kill Mary,” he added after a pause.
“She warned me not to be rash, but I could not help it. Be kind
to her, Major Butler, and take care of her. Tell her I did not
fear to die; but for her sake, and for the sake of my poor mother.
Go to my parents; let them know I thought of them in my last
thoughts.”

“John! John!” exclaimed Butler, unable to give further utterance
to his feelings.

The dying trooper lay for some moments silent, and his comrades
stood around him in mute grief, and hung their heads to
conceal their emotions from each other.

“In my pocket,” said Ramsay, “is a Testament. Mary gave it
to me for a keepsake. Take it out.”

Butler drew forth the small volume.

“What shall I do with it?” he asked, in a mournful whisper.

“Give it to Mary, back from me. And this plait of her hair
upon my wrist, major, take it and wear it on your own; it will
remind you of my Mary—you will guard her from harm.”

“Before God, John Ramsay,” said Butler with solemn fervor, “I
promise you, that, while I live, she shall not want. Your parents,
too, shall be my special care.”

“Then I shall die with easier heart. Thanks, thanks—friends,
farewell!” feebly ejaculated the stricken soldier, whose eye,
already glazed with the pangs of death, now glanced upon the
attending group, and after a brief but painful interval closed in
darkness.

John Ramsay spake no more, and his short breathing showed
that life was fast ebbing in its channel. The audible sobs of
Butler, for some moments, were alone heard in the circle, as he sat
supporting the head and grasping the hand of his brave comrade.
The struggle was at last over, and the gallant spirit of the generous

soldier had fled. Butler took from the wrist the bracelet of Mary's
hair, which was now stained with the blood of its late owner, and,
with an earnest vow to redeem his promise, drew it over his own
hand.

The scene that followed this melancholy adventure was one of
solemn interest. The proximity of the enemy, although defeated,
rendered a delay at this spot, in the present circumstances of Butler,
exceedingly hazardous; yet he could not entertain the thought of
continuing his journey until he had communicated to David Ramsay
the distressing tidings of his son's death. The last request of
John seemed also to impose this task upon him as a sacred obligation,
due to the friendship which had terminated in so disastrous
an end. Butler's resolution, therefore, was soon taken. He determined
immediately, at all hazards, to make his way back to Ramsay's
cottage, and to endeavor to console the afflicted parents under
their severe bereavement. Disdaining, in his present state of feeling,
the disguise that seemed to make him almost a stranger to
himself, he threw aside the miller's dress and again appeared in
his true character, resolved manfully to meet what he now believed
to be the almost certain result—a recapture with all its probable
consequences. Some of his party, who were acquainted with the
localities of their present position, suggested to him that a Whig
family of the name of Drummond resided at no great distance
from the scene of the late encounter, and that, by bearing the body
to this place, they might secure for it a decent burial. The remains
of the trooper were accordingly laid upon a rude litter, and his
mourning comrades slowly and sorrowfully wended their way
through the forest to the designated habitation. Here they
arrived about noon, having traversed a space of more than two
miles to gain this asylum.

Drummond was a woodman, and occupied a rude cabin, with a
small clearing around it, in the depths of the wilderness, so remote
from the highway as to promise as much security from the quest
of the enemy, as might be expected from any portion of the region
in which he lived. He received his guests with kindness; and as
he was himself acquainted with the family of the deceased, he
exhibited a lively sympathy with the mourners around the body.

When Butler now made known his purpose to set out immediately
for the habitation of David Ramsay, Winter asked permission
to accompany him, but the woodman interposed, and recommended
that he alone should be permitted to perform that errand,
leaving the others to remain with the corpse until his return.

“It is, before all others, my duty,” said Butler; “and come
what may, I will perform it.”

“Then we will go together,” added the proprietor of the cabin.
“It will be wise to wait until the day is a little more spent, and
return in the darkness of the night. David Ramsay will come
back with us. He would like to see his son before we put him in
the ground.”

“That shall be as you please, friend,” said Butler. “I will be
under your guidance.”

An hour or two before sun-down, Butler and his new companion
left the cabin, and took their route across the woods towards Ramsay's
dwelling, leaving the dead body in charge of the woodman's
family and the three soldiers. The distance they had to travel
did not exceed eight miles. The repulse of the Tory party in the
skirmish of the morning seemed to have induced a belief, on the
part of the enemy, that the fugitives had made a successful retreat
which was now beyond pursuit, and there were, in consequence, no
parties on the road to molest the travellers. Under these circumstances,
it was still daylight when they came in view of David
Ramsay's homestead.