University of Virginia Library

49. CHAPTER XLIX.

Cornwallis, after the battle of Camden, turned his thoughts to
the diligent prosecution of his conquests. The invasion of North
Carolina and Virginia was a purpose to which he had looked, from
the commencement of this campaign, and he now, accordingly,
made every preparation for the speedy advance of his army. The
sickness of a portion of his troops and the want of supplies rendered
some delay inevitable, and this interval was employed in
more fully organizing the civil government of the conquered province,
and in strengthening his frontier defences, by detaching considerable
parties of men towards the mountains. The largest of
these detachments was sent to reinforce Ferguson, to whom had
been confided the operations upon the north-western border.

The chronicles of the time inform us that the British general lay
at Camden until the 8th of September, at which date he set forward
towards North Carolina. His movement was slow and
cautious, and for some time, his head-quarters were established at
the Waxhaws, a position directly upon the border of the province
about to be invaded. At this post our story now finds him, the
period being somewhere about the commencement of the last
quarter of the month.

A melancholy train of circumstances had followed the fight at
Camden, and had embittered the feelings of the contending parties
against each other to an unusual degree of exasperation. The
most prominent of these topics of anger was the unjust and severe
construction which the British authorities had given to the obligations
which were supposed to affect such of the inhabitants of
South Carolina, as had, after the capitulation of Charleston, surrendered
themselves as prisoners on parole, or received protections

from the new government. A proclamation, issued by Sir Henry
Clinton in June, annulled the paroles, and ordered all who had obtained
them to render military service, as subjects of the king.
This order, which the prisoners, as well as those who had obtained
protections, held to be a dissolution of their contract with the new
government, was disobeyed by a large number of the inhabitants,
many of whom had, immediately after the proclamation, joined
the American army.

Cornwallis permitted himself, on this occasion, to be swayed by
sentiments unworthy of the character generally imputed to him.
Many of the liberated inhabitants were found in the ranks of Gates
at Camden, and several were made prisoners on the field. These
latter, by the orders of the British general, were hung almost
without the form of an inquiry: and it may well be supposed that,
in the heat of war and ferment of passion, such acts of rigor, defended
on such light grounds, were met on the opposite side by a
severe retribution.

Almost every day, during the British commander's advance,
some of the luckless citizens of the province whom this harsh construction
of duty affected, were brought into the camp of the invaders,
and the soldiery had grown horribly familiar with the
frequent military executions that ensued.

It was in the engrossment of the occupations and cares presented
in this brief reference to the history of the time, that I have now
to introduce my reader to Cornwallis.

He had resolved to move forward on his campaign. Orders
were issued to prepare for the march, and the general had announced
his determination to review the troops before they broke
ground. A beautiful, bright, and cool autumnal morning shone
upon the wide plain, where an army of between two and three
thousand men was drawn out in line. The tents of the recent encampment
had already been struck, and a long array of baggage-wagons
were now upon the high-road, slowly moving to a point
assigned them in the route of the march. Cornwallis, attended by
a score of officers, still occupied a small farm-house which had
lately been his quarters. A number of saddle-horses in the charge
of their grooms, and fully equipped for service, were to be seen in
the neighborhood of the door; and the princip I apartment of the

house showed that some of the loiterers of the company were yet
engaged in despatching the morning meal. The aides-de-camp
were seen speeding between the army and the general, with that
important and neck-endangering haste which characterizes the tribe
of these functionaries; and almost momentarily a courier arrived,
bearing some message of interest to the commander-in-chief.

Cornwallis himself sat in an inner room, busily engaged with
one of his principal officers in inspecting some documents regarding
the detail of his force. Apart from them, stood, with hat in
hand and in humble silence, a young ensign of infantry.

“Your name, sir?” said Cornwallis, as he threw aside the papers
which he had been perusing, and now addressed himself to the
young officer.

“Ensign Talbot, of the thirty-third Foot,” replied the young
man: “I have come by the order of the adjutant-general to inform
your lordship that I have just returned to my regiment, having
lately been captured by the enemy while marching with the third
convoy of the Camden prisoners to Charleston.”

“Ha! you were of that party! What was the number of
prisoners you had in charge?”

“One hundred and fifty, so please your lordship.”

“They were captured”—

“On Santee, by the rebels Marion and Horry,” interrupted the
ensign. “I have been in the custody of the rebels for a week, but
contrived, a few days since, to make my escape.”

“Where found the rebels men to master you?”

“Even from the country through which we journeyed,” replied
the ensign.

“The beggarly runagates! Who can blame us, Major
M`Arthur,” said the general, appealing to the officer by his side,
with an interest that obviously spoke the contest in his own mind
in regard to the justice of the daily executions which he had
sanctioned: “who can blame us for hanging up these recreants for
their violated faith, with such thick perfidy before our eyes? This
Santee district, to a man, had given their paroles and taken my
protection: and, now, the first chance they have to play me a
trick, they are up and at work, attacking our feeble escorts that
should, in their sickly state, have rather looked to them for aid.

I will carry out the work; by my sword, it shall go on sternly!
Enough, Ensign, back to your company,” he said, bowing to the
young officer, who at once left the room.

“What is your lordship's pleasure regarding this Adam
Cusack?” inquired M`Arthur.

“Oh, aye! I had well nigh forgotten that man. He was
taken, I think, in the act of firing on a ferry-boat at Cheraw?”

“The ball passed through the hat of my Lord Dunglas,” said
M`Arthur.

“The lurking hound! A liege subject turning truant to his duty;
e'en let him bide the fate of his brethren.”

M`Arthur merely nodded his head, and Cornwallis, rising from
his chair, strode a few paces backwards and forwards through the
room. “I would tune my bosom to mercy,” he said, at length,
“and win these dog-headed rebels back to their duty to their
king by kindness; but goodwill and charity towards them fall
upon their breasts like water on a heated stone, which is thrown
back in hisses. No, no, that day is past, and they shall feel the
rod. We walk in danger whilst we leave these serpents in the
grass. Order the gentlemen to horse, Major M`Arthur; we must
be stirring. Let this fellow, Cusack, be dealt with like the rest.
Gentlemen,” added the chief, as he appeared at the door amidst
the group who awaited his coming, “to your several commands!”

Captain Brodrick, the principal aide, at this moment arrested the
preparations to depart, by placing in Cornwallis's hand a letter
which had just been brought by a dragoon to head-quarters.

The general broke the seal, and, running his eye over the
contents, said, as he handed the letter to the aide, “This is something
out of the course of the campaign; a letter from a lady, now
at the picquet-guard, and it seems she desires to speak with me.
Who brought the billet, captain?”

“This dragoon, one of a special escort from the legion. They
have in charge a party of travellers, who have journeyed hither
under Tarleton's own pledge of passport.”

“Captain,” replied Cornwallis, “mount and seek the party.
Conduct them to me without delay. What toy is this that brings
a lady to my camp?”

The aide-de-camp mounted his horse, and galloped off with the
dragoon. He was conducted far beyond the utmost limit of the
line of soldiers, and at length arrived at a small outpost, where
some fifty men were drawn up, under the command of an officer
of the picquet-guard, which was about returning to join the main
body of the army. Here he found Mildred and Henry Lindsay,
and their two companions, Horse Shoe and old Isaac, attended by
the small escort furnished by Tarleton. This party had been two
days on the road from Mrs. Markham's, and had arrived the preceding
night at a cottage in the neighborhood, where they had
found tolerable quarters. They had advanced this morning, at an
early hour, to the corps de garde of the picquet, where Mildred
preferred remaining until Henry could despatch a note to Lord
Cornwallis apprising him of their visit.

When Captain Brodrick rode up, the travellers were already on
horseback and prepared to move. The aide-de-camp respectfully
saluted Miss Lindsay and her brother, and after a short parley
with the officer of the escort, tendered his services to the strangers
to conduct them to head-quarters.

“The general, madam,” he said, “would have done himself the
honor to wait on you, but presuming that you were already on
your route to his quarters, where you might be better received
than in the bivouac of an outpost, he is led to hope that he
consults your wish and your comfort both, by inviting you to
partake of such accommodation as he is able to afford you.”

“My mission would idly stand on ceremony, sir,” replied Mildred.
“I thank Lord Cornwallis for the promptness with which
he has answered my brother's message.”

“We will follow you, sir,” said Henry.

The party now rode on.

Their path lay along the skirts of the late encampment upon the
border of an extensive plain, on the opposite side of which the
army was drawn out; and it was with the exultation of a boy,
that Henry, as they moved forward, looked upon the long line of
troops glittering in the bright sunshine, and heard the drums
rolling their spirited notes upon the air.

When they arrived at a point where the road emerged from a
narrow strip of forest, they could discern, at the distance of a few

hundred paces, the quarters of the commander-in-chief. Immediately
on the edge of this wood, a small party of soldiers attracted
the attention of the visitors by the earnest interest with which they
stood around a withered tree, and gazed aloft at its sapless and
huge boughs. Before anything was said, Mildred had already ridden
within a few feet of the circle, where turning her eyes upwards she
saw the body of a man swung in the air by a cord attached to
one of the widest-spreading branches. The unfortunate being was
just struggling in the paroxysms of death, as his person was
swayed backwards and forwards, with a slow motion, by the
breeze.

“Oh, God! what a sight is here!” exclaimed the lady. “I
cannot, will not go by this spot. Henry—brother—I cannot
pass.”

The aide-de camp checked his horse, and grasped her arm,
before her brother could reach her, and Horse Shoe, at the same
moment, sprang to the ground and seized her bridle.

“I should think it but a decent point of war to keep such
sights from women's eyes,” said Robinson, somewhat angrily.

“Peace, sirrah,” returned the aide, “you are sancy. I trust,
madam, you are not seriously ill? I knew not of this execution,
or I should have spared you this unwelcome spectacle. Pray,
compose yourself, and believe, madam, it was my ignorance that
brought you into this difficulty.”

“I will not pass it,” cried Mildred wildly, as she sprang from
her horse and ran some paces back towards the wood, with her
hands covering her face. In a moment Henry was by her side.

“Nay, sister—dear sister,” he said, “do not take it so grievously.
The officer did not know of this. There now, you are better; we
will mount again, and ride around this frightful place.”

Mildred gradually regained her self-possession, and after a few
minutes was again mounted and making a circuit through the
wood to avoid this appalling spectacle.

“Who is this man?” asked Henry of the aide-de-camp, in a half
whisper; “and what has he done, that they have hung him?”

“It is an every-day tale,” replied the officer; “a rebel traitor,
who has broken his allegiance, by taking arms against the king in
his own conquered province. I keep no count of these fellow; but I

believe this is a bold rebel by the name of Adam Cusack, that was
caught lately at the Cheraw ferry; and our boobies must be
packing him off to head-quarters for us to do their hangman's
work.”

“If we were to hang all of your men that we catch,” replied
Henry, “hemp is an article that would rise in price.”

“What, sir,” returned the officer, with a look of surprise, “do
you class yourself with the rebels? What makes you here under
Tarleton's safeguard? I thought you must needs be friends, at
least, from the manner of your coming.”

“We ride, sir, where we have occasion,” said Henry, “and if
we ride wrong now, let his lordship decide that for us, and we will
return.”

By this time the company had reached head-quarters, where
Mildred found herself in the presence of Lord Cornwallis.

“Though on the wing, Miss Lindsay,” said his lordship, as he
respectfully met the lady and her brother upon the porch of the
dwelling-house, “I have made it a point of duty to postpone
weighty matters of business to receive your commands.”

Mildred bowed her head, and after a few words of courtesy on
either side, and a formal introduction of herself and her brother to
the general as the children of Philip Lindsay, “a gentleman presumed
to be well known to his lordship,” and some expressions of
surprise and concern on the part of the chief at this unexpected
announcement, she begged to be permitted to converse with him
in private. When, in accordance with this wish, she found herself
and her brother alone with the general, in the small parlor of
the house, she began, with a trembling accent and blanched
cheek—

“I said, my lord, that we were the children of Philip Lindsey,
of the Dove Cote, in Amherst, in the province of Virginia; and
being taught to believe that my father has some interest with
your lordship—”

“He is a worthy, thoughtful, and wise gentleman, of the best
consideration amongst the friends of the royal cause,” interrupted
the earl, “so speak on, madam, and speak calmly. Take your
time, your father's daughter shall not find me an unwilling
listener.”

“My father was away from home,” interposed Henry, “and
tidings came to us that a friend of ours was most wickedly defamed
and belied, by a charge carried to the ears of your lordship; as
we were told, that Major Arthur Butler of the Continental army
who had been made a prisoner by your red-coats somehow or
other—for I forget how—but the charge was that he had contrived
a plan to carry off my father from the Dove Cote—if not to kill
him, which was said, besides—and upon that charge, it was
reported that your people were going to hang or shoot him—hang,
I suppose, from what we just now saw over here in the woods—
and that your lordship had given orders to have the thing put off
until the major could prove the real facts of the case.”

“The tale is partly true, young sir,” said Cornwallis. “We
have a prisoner of that name and rank.”

“My sister Mildred and myself, thinking no time was to be lost,
have come to say to your lordship that the whole story is a most
sinful lie, hatched on purpose to make mischief, and most probably
by a fellow by the name of—”

“My brother speaks too fast,” interrupted Mildred. “It deeply
concerned us to do justice to a friend in this matter. If my father
had been at home a letter to your lordship would have removed
all doubts; but, alas! he was absent, and I knew not what to do,
but to come personally before your lordship, to assure you that to
the perfect knowledge of our whole family, the tale from beginning
to end is a malicious fabrication. Major Butler loves my father, and
would be accounted one of his nearest and dearest friends.”

Cornwallis listened to this disclosure with a perplexed and
bewildered conjecture, to unravel the strange riddle which it presented
to his mind.

“How may I understand you, Miss Lindsay?” he said; “this
Major Butler is in the service of Congress?”

“Even so. Your lordship speaks truly.”

“Your father—my friend, Philip Lindsay, is a faithful and persevering
loyalist.”

“To the peril of his life and fortune,” replied Mildred.

“And yet Butler is his friend?”

“He would be esteemed so, if it please your lordship—and, in
heart and feeling, is so.”

“He is related to your family, perhaps?”

“Related in affection, my lord, and plighted love,” said Mildred,
blushing and casting her eyes upon the ground.

“So!—Now I apprehend. And there are bonds between
you?”

“I may not answer your lordship,” returned the lady. “It only
imports our present business to tell your lordship, that Arthur
Butler never came to the Dove Cote but with the purest purpose
of good to all who lodged beneath its roof. He has never come
there but that I was apprised of his intent; and never thought
rose in his heart that did not breathe blessings upon all that
inhabit near my father. Oh, my lord, it is a base trick of an
enemy to do him harm; and they have contrived this plot to
impose upon your lordship's generous zeal in my father's
behalf.”

“It is a strange story,” said Cornwallis. “And does your father
know nothing of this visit? Have you, Miss Lindsay, committed
yourself to all the chances of this rude war, and undertaken this
long and toilsome journey, to vindicate a rebel charged with a most
heinous device of perfidy? It is a deep and painful interest that
could move you to this enterprise.”

“My lord, my mission requires a frank confidence. I have heard
my father say you had a generous and feeling heart—that you
were a man to whom the king had most wisely committed his
cause in this most trying war: that your soul was gifted with moderation,
wisdom, forecast, firmness—and that such a spirit as yours
was fit to master and command the rude natures of soldiers, and
to compel them to walk in the paths of justice and mercy. All
this and more have I heard my father say, and this encouraged
me to seek you in your camp, and to tell you the plain and undisguised
truth touching those charges against Major Butler. As
Heaven above hears me, I have said nothing but the simple truth.
Arthur Butler never dreamt of harm to my dear father.”

“He is a brave soldier,” said Henry, “and if your lordship
would give him a chance, and put him before the man who invented
the lie, he would make the scoundrel eat his words, and they
should be handed to him on the major's sword-point.”

“The gentleman is happy,” said the chief, “in two such zealous

friends. You have not answered me—is your father aware of this
visit, Miss Lindsay?”

“He is ignorant even of the nature of the charge against Arthur
Butler,” replied the lady. “He was absent from the Dove Cote
when the news arrived; and, fearing that delay might be disastrous,
we took the matter in hand ourselves.”

“You might have written.”

“The subject, so please your lordship, was too near to our hearts
to put it to the hazard of a letter.”

“It is a warm zeal, and deserves to be requited with a life's
devotion,” said Cornwallis. “You insinuated, young sir, just now,
that you suspected the author of this imputed slander.”

“My brother is rash, and speaks hastily,” interrupted Mildred.

“Whom were you about to name?” asked the general, of
Henry.

“There was a man named Tyrrel,” replied the youth, “that has
been whispering in my father's ear somewhat concerning a proposal
for my sister” (here Mildred cast a keen glance at her brother
and bit her lip) “and they say, love sometimes makes men desperate,
and I took a passing notion that, may be, he might have been at the
bottom of it; I know nothing positively to make me think so, but
only speak from what I have read in books.”

Cornwallis smiled as he replied playfully: “Tush, my young
philosopher, you must not take your wisdom from romances. I
have heard of Tyrrel, and will stand his surety that love has
raised no devil to conjure such mischief in his breast. What will
satisfy your errand hither, Miss Lindsay?”

“A word from your lordship, that no harm shall befall Arthur
Butler beyond the necessary durance of a prisoner of war.”

“That is granted you at once,” replied the general, “granted
for your sake, madam, in the spirit of a cavalier who would deny
no lady's request. And I rather grant it to you, because certain
threats have been sent me from some of the major's partisans,
holding out a determination to retaliate blood for blood. These
had almost persuaded me to run, against my own will, to an
extreme. I would have you let it be known, that as a free grace
to a lady, I have done that which I would refuse to the broadsword
bullies of the mountains. What next would you have?”

“Simply, an unmolested passage hence, beyond your lordship's
posts.”

“That too shall be cared for. And thus the business being
done, with your leave, I will go to more unmannerly employments.”

“A letter for your lordship,” said an officer, who at this moment
entered the door, and putting a packet into the general's hand,
retired.

Cornwallis opened the letter and read it.

“Ha! by my faith, but this is a rare coincidence! This brings
matter of interest to you, Miss Lindsay. My officer, Macdonald,
who had Butler in custody, writes me that, two days since, his
prisoner had escaped.”

“Escaped!” exclaimed Mildred, forgetting in whose presence
she spoke, “unhurt—uninjured. Thank Heaven for that!”

Cornwallis sat for a moment silent, as a frown grew upon his
brow, and he played his foot against the floor, abstracted in
thought. “These devils have allies,” he muttered, “in every
cabin in the country. We have treachery and deceit lurking
behind every bush. We shall be poisoned in our pottage by these
false and hollow knaves. If it gives you content, madam,” he
said, raising his voice, “that this Major Butler should abuse the
kindness or clemency of his guard and fly from us at the moment
we were extending a boon of mercy to him through your supplications,
you may hereafter hold your honorable soldier in higher
esteem for his dexterity and cunning.”

“I pray your lordship to believe,” said Mildred, with a deep
emotion, which showed itself in the rich, full tones of her voice,
“that Major Butler knows nothing of my coming hither. I
speak not in his name, nor make any pledge for him. If he has
escaped, it has only been from the common instinct which teaches
a bird to fly abroad when it finds the door of his cage left open
by the negligence of his keepers. I knew it not—nor, alas! have
I heard aught of his captivity, but as I have already told your
lordship. He is an honorable soldier, rich in all the virtues that
may commend a man: I would your lordship knew him better
and in more peaceful times.”

“Well, it is but a peevish and silly boy,” said Cornwallis,

“who whines when his pie is stolen. The war has many reckonings
to settle, and we contrive to make one day's profit pay
another's loss. The account for the present is balanced; and so,
Miss Lindsay, without discourtesy, I may leave you, with a fair
wish for a happy and prosperous journey back to your father's
roof. To the good gentleman himself, I desire to be well
remembered. And to show you that this briery path of war has
not quite torn away all the habiliments of gentleness from us, I
think it dutiful to tell you that, as I have become the confidant of
a precious love-tale, wherein I can guess some secret passage of
mystery is laid which should not be divulged, I promise you to
keep it faithfully between ourselves. And when I reach the Dove
Cote, which, God willing, under the banners of St. George, I do
propose within three months to do, we may renew our confidence,
and you shall have my advice touching the management of this
dainty and delicate affair. And now, God speed you with a fair
ride, and good spirits to back it!”

“I am much beholden to your lordship's generosity,” said
Mildred, as Cornwallis rose with a sportive gallantry and betook
himself to his horse.

“Come hither, Mr. Henry,” he said after he had mounted,
“farewell, my young cavalier. You will find a few files of men to
conduct you and your party beyond our posts: and here, take
this,” he added, as now on horseback, he scrawled off a few lines
with a pencil, upon a leaf of his pocket-book, which he delivered
to the youth, “there is a passport which shall carry you safe
against all intrusion from my people. Adieu!”

With this last speech the commander-in-chief put spurs to his
horse, and galloped to the plain, to review his troops and commence
the march by which he hoped to make good his boast of
reaching the Dove Cote.

How fortune seconded his hopes may be read in the story of
the war.