University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
A MIDNIGHT ATTACK.—A PRISONER.

Clarence Conway was not far distant from the
British camp, and was soon found by John Bannister,
after the latter had taken his leave of Watson Gray.
The partisan had already reached his troop, and got it in
partial readiness for immediate exercise. His force was
little more than that of a captain's command, consisting
of some eighty-five men all told; but, on occasion, his
regiment might be made complete. Such fluctuations
were constant in the American army; and were inevitably
consequent to the miserable system then prevalent
in regard to militia service. Marion's brigade has been
known to range from eight, to eight hundred men—and
this difference, in scarcely any case, the result of disaster.
The volunteers came and went, according to circumstances
of more or less necessity; and, sometimes as it suited
their inclinations. There were always good reasons for
this seeming laxity of discipline, as well because of the
pressure of a far superior foe, as in the exhausted condition
of the country of Carolina, where, for a space of
nearly two years, few crops of any kind had been planted;
and it became next to impossible to find food and forage
for any large body of men and horse, for any considerable
time together. The service was of a sort, also, to render
small bodies of horse far more useful than grand armies;
and where food was to be procured, and brought from a
great distance, such detachments were of the very last
importance. Conway's regiment, according to the necessities
of the service, was in half a dozen hands; Sumter

had a portion of it at this time, on the Santee; Marion
on the Pedee; while Greene exercised the remaining
divisions as Conway employed the small body in his
immediate command;—in cutting off supplies—intercepting
messengers, overawing the disaffected, and hanging
upon the skirts of the enemy where they marched, as at
this time, in a body too large for any more bold procedure.

Bannister found his leader well prepared for movement
and anxiously awaiting him. The former told his story
in a few words, not entirely omitting the ludicrous passages
which had taken place between himself and Gray.
As the connection between this latter person and Edward
Morton was very well known to Clarence, the mind of
the latter was rendered rather easy on the subject of his
brother. He knew that Morton was of sufficient importance
to the British army to make his restoration the particular
charge of Rawdon; but his satisfaction on this
subject was somewhat qualified when he remembered
that the patient would, necessarily, become an occupant
of the same dwelling with Flora Middleton. His anxieties
were such as are natural enough to the lover, who,
in such cases, will always be apt to fancy and to fear a
thousand evil influences. He had no doubts of the firmness
and fidelity of Flora, but knowing the connections of
Morton, he dreaded lest the latter should find some means
to abuse the hospitality which he well knew would be
accorded him. These thoughts were troublesome enough
to render activity desirable by way of relief; and, after a
brief space given to consultation with his favourite scout,
and private meditation, he determined to beat up the
quarters of Rawdon before morning.

It was midnight when Bannister began to bestir himself
and his comrades for this purpose. The troop had been
suffered to snatch a few hours of brief repose on the edge
of a little bay, that stretched itself nearly to the river bank
on one hand, and to the main road of the country on the
other; in such a position of security and under such good
watch that no apprehension could be excited for their
safety, a dense thicket covered their front; beyond, and

lying between the thicket and the barony, was an open
pine wood, the undergrowth being kept down by the destructive
practice, still barbarously continued in the south,
of firing the woods annually in the opening of the spring.
This wood was traversed by the scouts of Conway, who
saw the advanced videttes of the British, without suffering
themselves to be seen, and gradually receded as the
latter continued to approach; still, however, keeping
a keen eye upon the stations which they severally assumed.
On the present occasion, following the suggestion
of Watson Gray, Lord Rawdon had doubled his
sentries, and increased the usual number of videttes.
His post was well guarded, though nothing could have
been more idle than the fear that a force, such as he commanded,
could be securely annoyed by any of the roving
squads of horse which the Americans had dispersed
about the country. But, at this time, the timidity of the
British increased hourly in due degree with the increased
audacity of the Americans. There was too much at
stake to suffer any British commander to omit any of the
usual safeguards of an army; and their plans and performances,
from this period, show a degree of scrupulous
caution, which, at certain periods of strife—and this was
one of them in their situation—may, with justice, be
considered imbecility. To dash for a moment into the
camp of the British, and carry off a group of captives,
was one of the ordinary proofs of the novel confidence
which the partisans had acquired of their own prowess,
during the year in progress.

Conway, however, was not the man to do any thing
rashly at such a moment. If caution was necessary to
the British, prudence was also a high virtue, at this particular
juncture, with the Americans. Before he led his
men forward, he determined to explore the British camp
himself; and having arranged with Bannister for a concerted
espionage, the two went forward for this purpose,
though on different routes. Conway pursued the way
through the pine forest in front, while Bannister took an
opposite but parallel course along the high road, which
he crossed for this purpose. They were absent about

two hours, and, in the mean time, every thing was quiet
enough in the camps. At the end of this period they returned
in safety; and a mutual report enabled them to determine
upon the course which they were to take. They
had satisfied themselves of the true position of the British
army, and discovered, that, while the sentries were
doubled on the path to which it was advancing, they had
not conceived it necessary to place more than an ordinary
watch on that which they had passed over during the day.
By making a small circuit of a mile and a half along a
negro footpath which carried them through a swamp on
the right, Conway found that he could get into the British
rear, and probably use the sabre to advantage on the
edge of the encampment. This was to be done with the
main body of the troop, while a feint was to be made with
the residue along the better guarded British line in front.

It was near two o'clock in the morning when the preparations
of the partisans were completed; and John
Bannister had already gathered together the division
which had been assigned him, when he was plucked on
the sleeve by a soldier whose person he could not distinguish
in the shadows where they stood. This person
called him aside for a moment, and Bannister then discovered
him to be the father of poor Mary Clarkson.
This man was a sullen, dark, solitary, but unsubdued
spirit; who said nothing, felt nothing, asked for nothing,
complained of nothing, and had but one desire in the
world. John Bannister had missed sight of Clarkson till
now, and, perhaps, had rather avoided him since his return
from the scene in which his unlucky arm inflicted
the unintentional injury upon the child of the former.
He now shrunk to look upon the miserable old man; and
when he spoke to him, it was with a feeling of compunctious
sorrow, almost as great as he would have felt had
he himself inflicted upon the unhappy father the wrong
which was due to Edward Morton only.

“You ha'n't spoke to me about going with you, Jack
Bannister,” said Clarkson, with some irritation in his
tones; “but I'm going with you jest the same.”

“No, Jake, you're to keep with Lieutenant Peyton's

party, that's to make a feint here in front. He'll call you
up, the moment we set off.”

“I don't stay with him, Jack;—I must keep with you
or the colonel,” said the man doggedly.

“But why, Jake, why won't you stay?”

“You're going to strike at the camp, ain't you? You'll
ride up to the barony, perhaps?”

“May be so—there's no telling yet.”

“That's why I want to go with you or the colonel.”

“Well, now, Jake, I'd much rather you'd stay with
the lieutenant.”

“It's onpossible,” said Clarkson obstinately. “Look
you, Jack Bannister, I don't take it as friendly, that you
didn't tell me that Ned Conway was at the barony.”

“How do you know?—who told you?” demanded the
woodsman in some astonishment.

“Never you mind. I know that you saw him there,
and what's more I know that the colonel fit with him,
and's hurt him mightily. But I know he's not got what's
to finish him; and I'll go where there's any chance to
do it.”

“Lord, Jake, there's no chance. We'll not get nigher
to the camp than the outposts, and if we can carry off a
few outskarters it's all we look for. Ned Conway is at
the house, I reckon, snug in his bed, with more than a
thousand men close round him. There's no chance for
you to reach him.”

“I reckon I can work through all of them, John
Bannister, seeing what's my business. I must go with
you or the colonel—no mistake.”

Bannister knew his man—knew how idle was every
thing like expostulation, and though he also well knew
that such a determination as Clarkson expressed was
only like to ensure his being knocked on the head sooner
than any of the rest, yet, as that was only a chance of
war among military philosophers, he let him have his
way, and quietly enrolled him with the rest. It would
have been a study for the painter to have seen the savage
old man reload his rifle, pick the touchhole, put in extra
priming, and turn the bullet in his jaws, ere he wrapped

it in the greasy fold of buckskin of which his patches
were made.

“Poor old fellow!” muttered Bannister to himself as
he beheld these operations, “I'm thinking he says a
prayer every time he chooses a bullet; I'm sure he does
whenever he's grinding his knife.”

It was with some reluctance that Clarkson was persuaded
to gird a sabre at his side. The instrument was
new to his hand, but he clutched it with sufficient familiarity
when Bannister told him it was heavy and sharp
enough to cleave a man through from his shoulder to his
thigh. All being now in readiness, Conway gave instructions
to Lieutenant Peyton to make no movement on the
front, until sufficient time had been allowed him for getting
into the rear of the encampment; and then to give
the alerte with all the clamour he could command. By
two and two, he led his troops forward, each man on foot
and guiding his steed with rein shortened, until they had
passed the narrow open neck of high land on which the
public road ran, and which separated the one bay which
he had lately occupied from another to which he now
bent his steps. A British vidette was stationed not more
than a hundred yards from the point of passage, and
great indeed were the anxieties of Clarence and of all,
until the horses ceased to traverse the highland, and entered
upon the mucky unresounding footing of the swamp.
But they escaped without notice. The British sentinel
was in his drowsiest mood, and suffered the passage to
be effected without alarm. The last two files were now
entirely beyond his hearing, and Conway, throwing off
the difficult constraint, gave orders to his followers to
mount and follow him at as swift a pace as possible
through the negro trail which they now traversed. Then,
a silence as awful as that of the grave descended upon the
forest which he had left, and prevailed over the same for
a space of nearly two hours more, when Lieutenant
Peyton prepared to make the feint, which was to divert
the attention of the British camp from the point which
was seriously threatened. With twenty men, judiciously
scattered along the front so as to present an object of

equal alarm to the whole line of the enemy's sentries, he
slowly advanced, and having that advantage which arises
from a perfect knowledge of his ground, his approach
remained unseen and unsuspected until it was almost
possible for his pistols to be emptied with some prospect
of each bullet being made to tell upon its separate
victim.

A silence almost equally great prevailed over that vast
hive of human hearts, which was then beating within the
immediate precincts of the barony. Sleep had possessed
the great body of its inmates. Exhaustion had done its
worst. The forced marches of Lord Rawdon, stimulated
as they had been by the fear of losing the last and strongest
outpost of his government, together with its brave
and numerous garrisons, had severely tested the strength
and the spirit of his troops, and deep was the lethargy
of all those to whom the privilege of sleep had been
accorded. Nor were those to whom it had been expressly
denied, in a condition of much more ability and
consciousness. The sentinels, though strictly cautioned,
had suffered themselves to be persuaded that there could
be no danger, in a region in which they well knew there
was no enemy embodied in sufficient force to make itself
feared by their own; and if they had not formally yielded
themselves up to sleep upon their places of watch, they
at least made no serious effort to escape its grateful influences,
and were no longer vigilant as they would have
been in a time of danger. Through the avenue, and
ranged along the grounds of the park which lay beside
it, two thousand men in groups, lay upon their arms, in
happy slumber, uncovered to the serene sky of May;
while, in the silvery glances of the soft moonlight, which
glistened brightly from his steel cap and polished bayonet,
the drowsy sentinel performed his weary round of watch;
or, leaning in half consciousness only, against the massive
trunk of some ancient oak, yielded himself, in momentary
forgetfulness, to dream of the green island or
the heathery highlands of his European home.

In the mansion where Lord Rawdon had taken up his
abode, the same silence prevailed, but not the same degree

of apathy. Busy and sad hearts, and suffering
forms, were wakeful in its several chambers. Rawdon
himself slept;—but, in the apartment assigned to the
chief of the Black Riders, Watson Gray was an anxious
watcher. The surgeon had examined and dressed the
wounds of the former, upon which he had as yet declined
to give an opinion. Conway had lost much blood, and
this, Gray very well knew, was rather favourable to his
condition. The patient lay, not sleeping, perhaps, but
with his eyes closed and his senses seemingly unobservant.
An occasional groan escaped him, as if unconsciously.
Exhaustion, rather than repose, was signified
by his quiescence.

In another part of the house lay his suffering victim.
Her mind wandered in all the misdirected heat of delirium,
the result equally of mental and physical pain. By
her side sat Flora Middleton. The sex of the poor victim
had been made known to the mistress of the mansion
through the medium of the servants, by the timely management
of Watson Gray;—but that wily associate of
the outlaw chief, had not omitted the opportunity which
it afforded him of turning the event to favourable account
in behalf of the man he served so faithfully.

“It's a poor girl,” he said to the servant to whom his
information was entrusted, “that followed Colonel Conway
from the Congaree, and when he and his brother
fought by the vault, which they did about your young
mistress, the poor girl jumped between to save the
Colonel, and got her hurts that way. She's only dressed
in boy's clothes that she mightn't be known among the
troop.”

The falsehood found its way to the ears for which it
was intended; and the proud heart of Flora Middleton
rose in indignation as she heard it.

“But the wretched woman is yet a woman, and she's
suffering;”—was the humane sentiment with which she
silenced the communicative negro. “She is a woman,
whatever may be her vices, and I will see to her myself.”

And when she beheld her, she could no longer scorn

the frail victim of a misplaced affection and a reckless
lust. Emaciated and wan, the miserable girl sang and
gibbered with all the unconcern of the confirmed maniac;
and prated at intervals of the childish follies which are
usually the prime sources of pleasure to the child. She
spoke of girlish wants and girlish pleasures, and ran on
in a manner of inconsiderate merriment, which was of all
things the most mournful and heart-sickening to contemplate.
But she seemed neither to see nor hear. It was
only when the surgeon pressed his hand upon the wounded
skull that she lapsed away into utter silence, which
was accompanied by a vacant stare upon the operator, so
hideous in the death-like imbecility which it expressed
as to make Flora shudder and turn away with a sickening
horror that took from her all strength to serve or to assist.
It was only when the surgeon had finished the
operations which he deemed necessary, that she could
resume strength to return to the chamber, and the patient
then lay in a condition of stupor that secured her
effectual silence for the time. Not a word now escaped
her lips, but a choking sob occasionally heaved her bosom
as if with convulsion, and amply denoted the “perilous
stuff” which lay thick and deadly about her heart.
Flora Middleton sat beside her, with one female servant
in attendance, when all the rest had retired. Her personal
presence was not necessary, but she could not
sleep on account of the troublesome and humiliating
fancies which possessed her, on the subject of the story
which she had heard in regard to Clarence Conway.
That she should have surrendered her best affections to
one who could thus have abused and degraded the warmest,
if not the loftiest devotion of her sex, was, indeed, a
subject of humiliating consideration to a spirit so proud
as hers;—and it was with a feeling of relief that the sudden
sharp shot of the assault, and the wild ringing of the
midnight trumpet, while it denoted the approach of unexpected
conflict, disturbed the train of painful thought
into which her mind had unavoidably fallen.

The tumult without was as wild and terrible as it had
been sudden. A moment of the deepest midnight stillness

had been succeeded by one of the fiercest uproar.
Excited, rather than alarmed, she hurried from the
chamber, and encountered at the head of the stairway
the person of Lord Rawdon, who was joined a moment
after by Watson Gray. His lordship saw her, and a
smile, which was scarcely one of good nature, over-spread
his countenance as he remarked:

“Your rebel Colonel is busy among us, Miss Middleton:—he
is a bold fellow, but will pay for his rashness.”

“I told your lordship that you would soon find him,
but he is even more easy of access than I thought him,”
was the reply of the maiden, who, at the moment, had
forgotten every thing that she had ever heard to her
lover's disadvantage, and now glowed with all the
natural pride of one who joyed in the courage of her
countryman.

“I trust that he will wait to receive my acknowledgments
for his early attentions;” was the answer of
his lordship, uttered through his closed teeth, as he
hurried down the steps. But the wish of his lordship
was not gratified. The alarm was not of long continuance,
though, in that brief space of time which it had
occupied, it had been sharp in an equal degree, and the
surprise of the camp had been made with as much success
as its audacity deserved. The sentries had been
hewn down at their posts, one patrol entirely cut off,
and a party of the assailants, penetrating to the head of
the avenue, had cut in pieces a half score of Hessians
before they had well started from their slumbers. The
whole affair had been the work of a few moments only,
and when the British were in condition to meet the
invader, there was no enemy to be found. They had
dissipated with the flexibility of the atmosphere, in the
obscure haze of which they completely vanished from
the eyes of the pursuing and vengeance-breathing soldiery.

In the lower hall of the mansion, Lord Rawdon received
the report of the officers of the night, to whom,

it may be supposed, his countenance was in no respect
gracious. Naturally stern of temper, the annoyance
was calculated to increase its severity, and add to the
habitual harshness of his manner. He stood against
the chimney-place, as the several officers in command
made their appearance, and his keen eyes examined
them with frowning expression from beneath the thick
bushy brows, which were now contracted into one overhanging
roof, which almost concealed them, in turn,
from the sight of those whom they surveyed. Sharp,
indeed, was the examination which followed, and bitter,
though brief, were the various comments which his
lordship made on the several events of the evening as
they were reported in his hearing.

“Majoribanks,” said he, “you were in charge of the
camp appointments for the night. You will make your
full returns at morning of the officers on duty; and let
them report to you the names of the last relief. What
is the report you make of the camp now? What is the
killed, wounded, and missing?”

The portly, noble-looking, and truly noble officer
whom he addressed, answered with equal ease and
dignity.

“The returns are ready for your lordship now;”
placing the papers in his hands—“this, your lordship
will perceive, is the list of officers and guards on
duty; and here is a brief summary of the killed and
wounded, which are found. It will need an inspection
of the rolls of companies to ascertain the missing, and
this cannot be so well done till daylight.”

“'Tis well, sir,—you are prompt and ready. I wish
your officers of the night had known their duty so
well.” And with this speech he bestowed upon the
surrounding group a single glance of vexation and
reproof.

“Humph!” he exclaimed as he read—“Can it be
possible! So many slain outright; good fellows too—
not apt to sleep upon their posts”—and he enumerated
with his voice and finger—“Fergus, Childs, Spohrs,

Dilworth, Mooney, Wagner—fourteen slain and as
many wounded.” He crumpled the paper in his hands
with increased vexation.

“By heavens, these beggarly rebels will learn to
walk by noonday into our camps, and hew and havoc
where they think proper. The British name will be a
subject for their mockery, and as for our valour!—for
shame, for shame, gentlemen; what will be thought of
this proceeding? what report shall I make of this conduct
to our king?”

He strode, unanswered, to and fro along the unoccupied
portion of the hall; the officers under his rebuke,
looking, with downcast eyes, that did not once venture
to meet his glance.

“And what of the enemy, Majoribanks? Have they
got off in utter safety? If I mistake not, I heard a full
platoon from the grenadiers—”

“We have found but one dead body, your lordship.”

“Indeed!—one body. They will fight us all night,
and every night, on the same terms:” and his lordship
laughed outright in very chagrin and bitterness.

“And one prisoner;”—continued Majoribanks.

“Ah:—one prisoner! Well, you hung him, did
you?”

“No, your lordship: we did not hang him;” was the
cold but respectful answer of Majoribanks. “We knew
not that such a proceeding would be either proper or
desirable.”

Rawdon's eyes gleamed with a savage keenness of
glance on the speaker, as he replied—

“Ha! you did not, eh? Well, let it be done instantly!
I will answer for its propriety. Gray,” he
continued, turning to the scout, who stood at the entrance,
“see to it. You shall be our provost for the
occasion. Find out the nearest tree—not in sight of
the dwelling, mark me,—and let the rope be a good
one. Let him be hung with due propriety.”

Majoribanks turned away to conceal his emotion,
while Gray replied—

“May it please your lordship, it might be advisable

to examine the person before hanging him. He can
probably give you some valuable intelligence—something,
perhaps, about `Ninety-Six.”'

“True, true!—it does please me. Bring him before
us. I will examine him myself.”

An officer disappeared, and a few moments only had
elapsed, when, conducted by a file of soldiers, our old
associate John Bannister was placed before the British
commander.