University of Virginia Library

54. CHAPTER LIV.

We return for a moment to look after Butler. As near as my
information enables me to speak—for I wish to be accurate in
dates—it was about the 23d of September when our hero arrived
at Gilbert-town, and found himself committed to the custody of
Ferguson. His situation, in many respects uncomfortable, was not
altogether without circumstances to alleviate the rigor of captivity.
Ferguson, though a rough soldier, and animated by a zealous partisanship
in the royal cause which imbued his feelings with a deep
hatred of the Whigs, was also a man of education, and of a disposition
to respect the claims of a gentleman fully equal to himself
in rank and consideration—even when these qualities were
found in an enemy. His intercourse, of late, had been almost
entirely confined to the wild spirits who inhabited the frontier, and
who, impelled by untamed passions, were accustomed to plunge
into every excess which the license of war enabled them to practise.
He had, accordingly, adapted his behavior to the complexion of
this population, and maintained his authority, both over his own
recruits and such of the opposite party as had fallen into his
hands, by a severe, and not unfrequently by even a cruel bearing.
Following the example set him by Cornwallis himself, he had
more than once executed summary vengeance upon the Whigs
whom the chances of war had brought into his power; or, what
was equally reprehensible, had allowed the Tory bands who had
enlisted under his banner, to gratify their own thirst of blood in
the most revolting barbarities. Towards Butler, however, he demeaned
himself with more consideration—and sometimes even
extended to him such little courtesies as might be indulged without

risk to the principal purpose of his safe custody. A separate
room was provided for the prisoner, and he was allowed the occasional
services of Harry Winter and the other companions of his
late misfortune. Still, the familiar scenes of suffering and death
which Butler was constrained to witness amongst his compatriots,
and the consciousness of his own inability to avert these calamities,
greatly weighed upon his spirits. His persuasion, too, that Ferguson
was now aiding, by what seemed to be a most effectual
participation, in the plan for the capture of Clarke, and his belief
that this blow would sadly afflict, if not altogether dishearten the
friends of independence in the South, added to his private grief.
He knew nothing of the mustering of the mountaineers, and saw
no hope of extrication from the difficulties that threatened to overwhelm
his cause.

Such was the condition of Butler during the first four or five
days of his captivity at Gilbert-town. At the end of this period,
circumstances occurred to raise in his bosom the most lively excitement.
Suddenly, an order was issued for the immediate movement
of the army southwards—and the prisoners were directed to accompany
the march. It was apparent that information of importance
had been received, and that some decisive event was at hand.
When, in pursuance of this command, the troops were marshalled
for their journey, and Butler was stationed in the column, along
with all the other prisoners of the post, he was startled to observe
the dragoon, James Curry, appear in the ranks, as one regularly
attached to the corps. Butler had seen nor heard nothing of this
man since he had parted from him at Blackstock's after the battle
of Musgrove's mill; and his conviction, that, acting under the
control of some higher authority, this individual had been the
principal agent in his present misfortunes, gave him a painful
anxiety in regard to the future. This anxiety was far from being
diminished, when he now discovered that the same person, with a
party of dragoons, was specially intrusted with his guardianship.
Winter and the other troopers who had, until this moment, been
allowed to keep him company, were now directed to take a station
amongst the common prisoners, and Butler was furnished with his
horse, and commanded to submit to the particular supervision of

the dragoon. These arrangements being made, the march of Ferguson
commenced.

The army moved cautiously towards the upper sections of the
district of Ninety-Six. It was evident to Butler, from the frequent
hints dropped in conversation by the royalist officers, that Ferguson
supposed himself to be getting every moment nearer to Clarke.
In this state of suspense and weariness the first day's march was
concluded.

The second was like the first. Ferguson still moved south,
slowly, but steadily. Every man that was met upon the road was
questioned by the commanding officer, to ascertain whether there
was any report of troops westward. “Had any crossed Saluda—
or been heard of towards the mountains!”—was an invariable
interrogatory.

None, that the person questioned knew of—was the common
reply.

“Tush! the devil's in it, that we can hear nothing of the
fellow!” exclaimed Ferguson, after the fifth or sixth wayfarer had
been examined. “Clarke and his beggars are flesh and blood—
they travel by land, and not through the air! Faith, I begin to
think Cruger has saved us trouble, and has got his hand on the
runaway's croup! James Curry.”

The dragoon rode to the front and bowed.

“You left Fort Ninety-Six only on Wednesday?”

“I did.”

“Where was Cruger then?”

“Marching towards Saluda, with Brown—following Clarke, as
it was supposed—but on rather a cold scent as one of the couriers
reported.”

“Humph! I must get still nearer to the mountains,” said Ferguson,
as he clenched his teeth and seemed absorbed in thought.

In a short time after this, the column diverged from their
former course by a road that led westward.

Thus ended the second day.

During the next two days, Ferguson had become manifestly
more circumspect in his movement, and spent the greater portion
of this interval upon a road which was said to extend from Ninety-Six,
to the Allegany mountain. Here he remained, with the

wariness of the tiger that prepares to spring upon his prey; and
it was with a petulant temper that, after this anxious watch for
forty-eight hours, he turned upon his heel and summoned his
officers around him, and announced his determination to penetrate
still further into the forest. Like a man perplexed and peevish
with crosses, he soon changed his mind, and ordered a lieutenant
of cavalry into his presence.

“Take six of your best appointed men,” he said, “and send one
half of them up this road towards the mountains—the other half
southwards—and command them not to stop until they bring me
some news of this night-hawk, Clarke. Let them be trusty men
that you can depend upon. I will wait but twenty-four hours for
them. Meantime,” he added, turning to another officer present,
“I will send a courier after Cruger, who shall find him if he is
above ground.”

The following day—which brings us to the third of October—a
decisive change took place in the aspect of affairs. Before either
of the scouts that had been lately despatched had returned, a
countryman was brought into Ferguson's camp, who, being submitted
to the usual minute examination, informed the questioners,
that some thirty miles, in the direction of Fort Ninety-Six, he had
met upon the road a large party of cavalry under the command
of Colonel Williams—and that that officer had shown great
anxiety to learn whether certain Whig troops had been seen near
Gilbert-town. The informant added, that “Williams appeared to
him to be strangely particular in his inquiries about Ferguson.”

This intelligence seemed suddenly to awaken the British partisan
from a dream. He was now one hundred miles south of Cornwallis;
and, both east and west of the line of communication
between them, it was apparent that hostile parties were assembling,
with a view to some united action against him. It struck him now,
for the first time, that an enemy might be thrown between the
main army at Charlotte and his detachment, and thus cause him
some embarrassment in his retreat—but it was still with the scorn
of a presumptuous soldier that he recurred to the possibility of his
being forced to fight his way.

“They are for turning the tables on me,” he said, in a tone of

derision, “and hope to pounce upon my back while I am taken up
with this half-starved and long-legged fellow of the mountains.
But I will show them who is master yet!”

In this temper he commenced his retreat, which was conducted
slowly and obstinately; and it may be supposed that Butler, as he
involuntarily followed the fortunes of his enemy, contemplated
these movements with an anxious interest. The common report of
the camp made him acquainted with the circumstances which had
recommended the retreat, and he, therefore, watched the course of
events in momentary expectation of some incident of great importance
to himself.

At night Ferguson arrived at the Cowpens, just twenty-four hours
in advance of his enemies. Whilst resting here he received intelligence
of the stout array that had lately assembled at Gilbert-town,
and which, he was now told, were in full pursuit of him. It
was, at first, with an incredulous ear that he heard the report of
the numbers of this suddenly-levied mountain-army. It seemed
incredible that such a host could have been convened in such brief
space and with such secret expedition; and even more unworthy
of belief, that they could have been found in the wild and thinly-peopled
regions of the Allegany. His doubt, however, yielded
to his fear, and induced him to accelerate his pace.

His first care was to despatch, on that night, a courier to Cornwallis,
to inform the general of his situation and ask for reinforcements.
The letter which bore this request is still extant, and will
show that even in the difficult juncture in which we have presented
the writer of it, his boastful confidence had not abandoned him.

Before the succeeding dawn he was again in motion, directing
his hasty march towards the Cherokee Ford of Broad river. This
point he reached at sun-down. His journey had been pursued, thus
far, with unremitting industry. If his motions had corresponded
to his affected disesteem of his enemy, he would here have halted for
rest; but, like one who flies with the superstitious dread of a goblin
follower, the retreating partisan looked over his shoulder with an
unquiet spirit, and made a sign to his companions still to press
forward. They crossed the river at night, and did not halt again
until they had traversed some six or eight miles beyond the further
bank.

The anxiety, suspense, and eager expectation of Butler increased
with these thickening demonstrations of the approach of a period
which he foresaw must be decisive, not only of his own hopes, but,
in a great degree, of the hopes of his country. The retreat of
Ferguson towards King's Mountain, which now lay but a few miles
in advance, was a visible and most striking type of the vanishing
power which for a brief half-year had maintained its domination over
the free spirits of the south, and which had aimed, by a cruel and
bloody rule, to extinguish all that was generous and manly in these
afflicted provinces.

Contenting myself with this rapid survey of events which, of
themselves, possess an interest that would, if time and space permitted
me, have justified the detail of a volume, I go back to the
regular current of my story.