 | CHAPTER VI.
“NINETY-SIX.”—A FLIGHT BY NIGHT. The kinsmen, or, The black riders of Congaree |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
“NINETY-SIX.”—A FLIGHT BY NIGHT.
Clarence Conway, with a single exception, had
every reason to be satisfied with the result of his expedition.
He had lost but one man, slain; and but two were
missing. One of these, as we have seen, was John
Bannister; the other was the unhappy father of the
wretched Mary Clarkson. The reader is already apprised
of the situation of the former; of the latter neither
party had any present knowledge: Conway was utterly
ignorant, and very anxious about the fate of his trusty
agent. The loss of John Bannister could not be compensated
to him by any successes whether as a soldier
or a man. He was incomparable as a scout; almost as
much so in personal conflict; superior in judgment in
most matters relating to partisan warfare; but, over
all, he was the friend, the ever faithful, the fond;—
having an affection for his leader like that of Jonathan of
old, surpassing the love of woman. Clarence Conway
did full justice to this affection. He loitered and lingered
long that night while leaving the field of conflict, in the
hope to see the trusty fellow reappear; and slow indeed
were his parting footsteps when, at the dawn of day, he
set his little band in motion for the Saluda. This measure
was now become one of inevitable necessity. He
had done all that could be required of him, and much
more than had been expected. It was not supposed that
with a force so small as his he could possibly occasion
any interruption or delay in the progress of an army such
as that led by Rawdon, and he had most effectually performed
done by Sumter and Marion on the waters of the Santee
below. Every messenger between Rawdon and Ninety-Six
had been cut off, and, while the urgent entreaties of
Cruger, having command of the latter garrison, had failed
in most cases to reach the ears of Rawdon, the despatches
of the latter promising assistance, and urging the former
to hold out, had been invariably intercepted. Nor were
the performances of the gallant young partisan limited to
these small duties only. He had, in concert with Colonel
Butler, a famous name among the whigs of Ninety-Six,
given a terrible chastisement to the sanguinary tory,
Cunningham, in which the troop of the latter was utterly
annihilated, and their leader owed his escape only to the
fleetness of an inimitable steed. But these events belong
not to our story.
With a sad heart, but no diminution of enterprise or
spirit, Colonel Conway took up the line of march for the
Saluda, with the purpose of joining General Greene before
Ninety-Six; or, in the event of that place being
already in possession of the Americans, of extending his
march towards the mountains, where General Pickens
was about to operate against the Cherokee Indians. But
though compelled to this course by the pressure of the
British army in his rear, his progress was not a flight.
His little band was so compact, and so well acquainted
with the face of the country, that he could move at
leisure in front of the enemy, and avail himself of every
opportunity for cutting off stragglers, defeating the operations
of foraging parties, and baffling every purpose or
movement of the British, which was not covered by a
detachment superior to his own. Such was his purpose,
and such, to a certain extent, were his performances.
But Conway was soon made sensible of the inefficiency
of his force to contend even with the inferior cavalry of
the enemy. These were only inferior in quality. In
point of numbers they were vastly superior to the Americans.
The measures which Rawdon had taken to
mount the loyalists in his army, had, to the great surprise
of the Americans, given him a superiority in this
and unexpected by their apprehensions. The march of
the British, though urged forward with due diligence by
their stern commander, was, at the same time, distinguished
by such a degree of caution as effectually to discourage
Conway in his attempts upon it. The onslaught
of the previous night justified the prudence of this wary
general. The audacity of the Americans was, at this
period, everywhere felt and acknowledged, and by none
more readily than Rawdon. His advance guard was sent
forward in treble force—his provincial riflemen skirted
the woods on the roadside, while his main army defiled
between, and his cavalry scoured the neighbouring thickets
wherever it was possible for them to hide a foe.
Conway was compelled to console himself with the profitless
compliment which this vigilance paid to his spirit
and address; and after hovering for the best part of a
day's march around the path of the advancing enemy,
without an opportunity to inflict a blow, he reluctantly
pressed forward with increased speed for Ninety-Six to
prepare General Greene for the coming of the new
enemy. Our course is thither also.
The post of Ninety-Six was situated on the crown of
a gentle but commanding eminence, and included within
its limits the village of the same name. This name was
that of the county, or district, of which it was the county-town.
Its derivation is doubtful; but most probably it
came from its being ninety-six miles from Prima George,
at the period of its erection the frontier post of the colony.
Its history is one of great local interest. Originally a
mere stockade for the defence of the settlers against Indian
incursion, it at length became the scene of the first
conflicts in the southern country, and perhaps in the
revolutionary war. It was here that, early in 1775, the
fierce domestic strife first began between the whigs and
tories of this region;—a region beautiful and rich by
nature and made valuable by art, which, before the war
was ended, was turned into something worse than a
howling wilderness. The old stockade remained at the
beginning of the revolution, and when the British overran
one of the most valuable of that cordon of posts which
they established around and within it. Its protection and
security was of the last importance to their interests. It
enabled them to maintain a communication with the Cherokees
and other Indians; and to keep in check the whig
settlements on the west of it, while it protected those of
the loyalists, north, south, and east. The most advanced
post which they occupied, its position served to strengthen
the influence of Camden and Augusta, and assisted them
to overawe the population of Georgia and North Carolina.
It was also for a long period the chief depôt of recruits;
and drew, but too successfully, the disaffected youth of
the neighbourhood into the royal embrace.
The defences of this place had been greatly strengthened
on the advance of the American army. Colonel
Cruger, an American loyalist, who was entrusted with
the command, was an officer of energy and talents; and
proved himself equally adequate and faithful to the trust
which was reposed in him. Calling in the aid of the
neighbouring slaves, he soon completed a ditch around
his stockade, throwing the earth, parapet height upon it,
and securing it within by culverts and traverses to facilitate
the communication in safety between his various
points of defence. His ditch was farther secured by an
abattis, and, at convenient distances, within the stockade,
he erected strong block-houses of logs. But the central
and most important point in his position, lay in a work
of considerable strength—which the curious in antiquarian
research and history may see to this day in a state
of comparative perfectness—called the “Star Battery.”
It stood on the southeast of the village which it effectually
commanded, was in shape of a star, having sixteen salient
and returning angles, and communicated by lines with
the stockade. In this were served three pieces of artillery,
which, for more ready transition to any point of
danger, were worked on wheel carriages. On the north
side of the village arises a copious fountain, of several
eyes, which flows through a valley. From this rivulet
the garrison obtained its supplies of water. The county
it, was also fortified, as was another stockade fort, lying
on the opposite side of the valley, of considerable strength,
and having within it a couple of block-houses, which assisted
in covering the communication with the spring.
A covert way led from the town to the rivulet; and the
whole, including the village, was enclosed by lines of
considerable extent and height. To defend his position,
Cruger had a select force of six hundred men, many of
them riflemen of the first quality, and not a few of them
fighting, as they well knew, with halters about their
necks.
Greene commenced the siege under very inauspicious
circumstances, and with a force very inadequate to his
object. This siege formed one of the most animated and
critical occurrences during the southern war, and had
already lasted near a month, when Colonel Conway joined
his little troop to the force of the commander-in-chief.
The available army of Greene scarcely exceeded that of
Cruger. He had no battering cannon; and there was no
mode of succeeding against this “Star” redoubt, which
was the chief point of defence, but in getting over or
under it. Both modes were resolved upon. Regular
approaches were made, and on the completion of the
first parallel a mine was begun under cover of a battery
erected on the enemy's right. This work was prosecuted
day and night. No interval was permitted—one
party laboured, while a second slept, and a third guarded
both. The sallies of the besieged were constant and
desperate; not a night passed without the loss of life on
both sides; but the works of the Americans steadily
advanced. The second parallel was at length completed,
the enemy summoned to surrender, and a defiance returned
to the demand. The third parallel was begun,
and its completion greatly facilitated by the invention of
a temporary structure of logs, which, from the inventor's
name, were called the “Mayham towers.” These were,
in fact, nothing more than block-houses, constructed of
heavy timbers, raised to a height superior to that of the
beleagured fort and filled with riflemen. These sharp-shooters
of the garrison from their guns. Hot shot were
tried to destroy the towers, but the greenness of the
wood, in June, rendered the effort unavailing. The
artillery of the “Star” could no longer be used by daylight,
and by night it was little to be dreaded. The garrison
was now greatly straitened. Their provisions were
fast failing them; they could no longer venture for water
to the rivulet. Women were employed for this purpose
by daylight, and men in women's clothing; and by
night they received their supplies with the help of
naked negroes. Other means were found for conveyance.
Burning arrows were shot into the fort, but Cruger
promptly threw off the roofs of his houses. An attempt
was made to destroy the abattis by fire, but drew down
death on every one of the daring fellows who attempted
it Beside the “Mayham towers,” one of which was
within thirty yards of the enemy's ditch, the besiegers
had erected several batteries for cannon. One of these,
twenty feet in height, and within one hundred and forty
yards of the “Star,” so completely commanded it, that it
became necessary to give its parapet an increased elevation.
Bags of sand were employed for this purpose.
Through these, apertures were left for the use of small-arms;
and the removal of the sand-bags by night, gave
room for the use of the artillery. Bloody and deadly
was the strife that ensued for ten days, between the combatants.
During this period not a man could show himself
on either side without receiving a shot. As the conflict
approached its termination it seemed to acquire
increased rancour, and an equal desperation, under different
motives, appeared to govern both parties.
This could not be sustained long, and the fall of the
garrison was at hand. Cruger still held out in the hope
of succour, for which he had long implored his commander.
He had sufficient means, apart from the natural
courage which the good soldier may possess, for making
him defend his post to the very last extremity. There
were those within its walls to whom no indulgence would
have been extended by its captors—men whose odious
security even of those laws which are allowed to temper
with mercy the brutalities of battle. But their apprehensions,
and the resolution of Cruger, could not long supply
the deficiencies under which the besieged were suffering.
But two days more were allotted them for the retention
of a post which they had so gallantly defended. But
these two days were of the last importance for good or
evil to the two parties. In these two days the American
commander was apprised of the circumstances which
rendered it necessary that the place should be carried by
assault or the siege raised. The arrival of Conway announced
the approach of Rawdon, and the same night
furnished the same important intelligence to Cruger.
But for this intelligence that very night must have witnessed
the surrender of the post.
The circumspection and close watch which had been
maintained so long and so well by the American general
and his able subordinates, and which had kept the garrison
in utter ignorance of the march of Rawdon from
Charlestown, was defeated at the last and most important
moment from a quarter which had excited no suspicions.
The circumstance has in it no small portion of romance.
A young lady, said to be beautiful, and certainly bold—
the daughter of one tried patriot and the sister of another
—had formed in secret a matrimonial connexion with a
British officer, who was one of the besieged. Her residence
was in the neighbourhood, and she was countenanced
in visiting the camp with a flag, on some pretence
of little moment. She was received with civility and
dined at the general's table. Permitted the freedom of
the encampment, she was probably distinguished by her
lover from the redoubt, and contrived to convey by signs
the desire which she entertained to make some communication
to the besieged. The ardour of the lover and
the soldier united to infuse a degree of audacity into his
bosom, which prompted him to an act of daring equally
bold and successful. He acknowledged her signal, darted
from the redoubt, received her verbal communication,
and returned in safety amidst a shower of bullets from
told by tradition. It differs little from that which history
relates, and in no substantial particular; what is obscure
in the tale, but increases what is romantic. The feu de
joie of the besieged and their loud huzzas apprised the
American general of their new hopes; and too plainly
assured him that his labour was taken in vain.
Colonel Conway was admitted that night to the tent of
the general, where a council of war was to be held as to
the course now to be pursued. Greene necessarily presided.
Unmoved by disappointment, unembarrassed by
the probable defeat of his hopes and purposes, this
cheerful and brave soldier looked around him with a
smile of good humour upon his military family while
he solicited their several opinions. His fine manly face,
bronzed by the fierce glances of the southern sun, and
heightened by an eye of equal spirit and benevolence,
wore none of that dark disquietude and sullen ferocity,
the sure token of vindictive and bad feelings, which
scowled in the whole visage of his able opponent, Rawdon.
A slight obliquity of vision, the result of small-pox
in his youth, did not impair the sweetness of his glance,
though it was sufficiently obvious in the eye which it
affected. Conway had seen him more than once before,
but never to so much advantage as now, when a defeat
so serious as that which threatened his hopes, had rendered
necessary the measure of consultation then in hand.
He looked for the signs of peevishness and vexation but
he saw none. Something of anxiety may have clouded
the brow of the commander, but such an expression only
serves to ennoble the countenance of the man whose pursuits
are elevated and whose performances are worthy.
Anxiety makes the human countenance only the more
thoroughly and sacredly human. It is the sign of care,
and thought, and labour, and hope—of all the moral
attributes which betoken the mind at work, and most
usually at its legitimate employments.
On the right hand of Greene sat one who divided between
himself and the commander-in-chief the attention
of the ardent young partisan. This was the celebrated
engineer, and, under his guidance, the several approaches
had been made. His tall, erect, military form, pale, thin
and melancholy features, light brown hair, already thinned
above his lofty brow, together with the soft blue eye
which lightened them up at moments with almost girlish
animation, seemed to the mind of Conway inexpressibly
touching. The fate and name of Kosciuzko seemed so
intimately connected with that of his country, that the
eye of the spectator beheld the miseries of Poland in the
sad features of its melancholy exile. His words, few,
and sweetened as it were by the imperfect English in
which they were expressed, riveted the attention of all,
and were considered with marked deference by the commander,
to whom they were addressed. There were
other brave men at that anxious table, but Conway had
eyes and ears for none but these. There was Lee of
the legion, whom Greene emphatically styled the eye
and wing of his army; Campbell of the Virginians, who
subsequently fell at the Eutaw, while bravely leading on
his command; Kirkwood of the Delawares, happily designated
as the continental Diomed, a soldier of delightful
daring; Howard of the Marylanders; Rudolph of the
legion, Armstrong, and Benson, and others; whose presence
would enlighten any council-board, as their valour
had done honour to every field in which they fought;
but the centre of attraction lay between the two great men
—emphatically great either in their achievements, or in
the proud relation which they bore to the human family
for which they suffered. The name of Kosciuzko belongs
to two hemispheres, and though his position may
have been subordinate in one, his name is honourably
identified with the history of both.
The consultation was brief. The points to be discussed
were few.
“You perceive, gentlemen,” said Greene, opening the
proceedings, “that our toils appear to have been all taken
in vain. Apprised of Lord Rawdon's approach, the
garrison will now hold out until the junction is effected,
and for that we cannot wait, we are in no condition to
whose exertions merit my warmest acknowledgments,
represents his force as quite too formidable for any thing
that we can bring against him. He brings with him
three fresh regiments from Ireland, the remains of the
regiment of Boze, near six hundred loyalists whom he
has mounted as cavalry, besides Coffin's dragoons;—in
all, an army little short of three thousand men. To this
we can oppose scarce eight hundred in camp and fit for
duty; Marion and Sumter are too far, and too busy, below,
to leave me any hope of their co-operation before
Rawdon comes within striking distance; and the presence
of his lordship in such force, will bring out Cunningham
and Harrison, with all their loyalists, who will give sufficient
employment for Pickens and Washington above.
Retreat is absolutely necessary, but shall our labours here
for the last month be thrown away? Shall we give up
`Ninety-Six' without a struggle? Shall we not make the
effort to gain the post, and behind its walls prepare for
the reception of Rawdon?”
The unanimous opinion of the council tallied with the
wishes of the commander. The assault was resolved
upon. The necessary orders were given out that night,
and the army was all in readiness, on the morning of the
18th of June, to make the final attempt. The forlorn
hope was led, on the American left, against the `Star'
battery, by Lieutenants Seldon and Duval. Close behind
them followed a party, furnished with hooks fastened to
staves, whose particular duty it was to pull down the
sand-bags which the enemy had raised upon their parapet.
Colonel Campbell next advanced to the assault at the
head of the 1st Maryland and Virginian regiments. These
all marched under cover of the approaches, until they
came within a few yards of the enemy's ditch. Major
Rudolph commanded the forlorn hope on the American
right against the stockade, supported by the legion infantry,
and Kirkwood's Delawares. The forts, the rifle
towers, and all the American works were manned, and
prepared to sweep the enemy's parapet, previous to the
advance of the storming party. Duval and Seldon were
driving off the enemy, were to open the way for the
workmen. The sand-bags pulled down, Campbell was to
make the assault, availing himself of their aid in clambering
up the parapet. To Colonel Lee was left the assault
upon the stockades, of which, when obtained, he was
simply to keep possession, and await events.
A discharge of artillery at noon, was the signal for the
assault, which was followed by the prompt movement of
the storming parties. An uninterrupted blaze of artillery
and small-arms covered the advance of the forlorn hope;
and, enveloped in its shadowing smokes, this gallant little
band leapt the ditch and commenced the work of destruction.
But the besieged who had so bravely and for so
long time defended their ramparts, and whom the approach
of Lord Rawdon had inspirited with renewed
confidence, was prepared for their reception; and met
the assault with equal coolness and determination. The
assailants were encountered by bristling bayonets and
levelled pikes, which lined the parapet, while a stream
of fire, poured forth from intervals between the sand-bags
was productive of dreadful havoc among them. The form
of the redoubt gave to the besieged complete command
over the ditch, and subjected the besiegers to a cross
fire, which the gradual removal of the abattis only tended
to increase. The day was lost—the hope of the assailants,
small at the beginning, was now utterly dissipated,
and mortified and pained, less at being baffled than at the
loss of so many brave men, Greene gave the orders which
discontinued the assault. Yet for near three quarters of
an hour, did these brave fellows persist, notwithstanding
the fall of two-thirds their number and both their leaders.
This daring and enduring courage enabled them to occupy
the curtain and maintain, hand to hand, the conflict with
the garrison. They yielded at length, rather to the summons
of their commander, than to their own fear of danger;
the greater part of their men were killed or wounded,
but the latter were brought off amidst the hottest fire of
the garrison. The misfortune of Greene did not end
here. The British general was at hand, and, the dead
and commenced the retreat which carried Clarence Conway
still farther from a region in which all his feelings
and anxieties were now deeply and doubly interested.
We will not attempt to pursue his flight, but retracing
our steps in a quarter to which he dare not turn, we will
resume our march along with that of the British army,
when they left the Middleton Barony, to advance upon
Ninety-Six.
But, in going back to Briar Park, it is not our purpose,
at this time, to trespass again upon its inmates. We
shall simply join company with our ancient friend, John
Bannister, and trace his progress, as a prisoner, in the
train of his captors. Watson Gray having been entrusted
by Lord Rawdon with the exclusive disposition of this
business, in consequence of the suggestions which the
latter had made him the night before, had very naturally
assigned the custody of the scout to the Black Riders, of
whom, under a roving commission, Gray ranked as an
inferior officer. He had every reason for believing the
charge to be a secure one. Bannister had long been an
object of dislike and apprehension to this troop, as he had
on several occasions discovered their most secret haunts,
and beaten up their quarters. His skill in the woods was
proverbial, and dreaded by all his enemies accordingly;
and the recent display which he had made, in the case
of Gray himself of that readiness of resource which had
rendered him famous, was very well calculated to mortify
the latter, and make him desirous of subjecting his own
captor, to all the annoyance likely to follow captivity.
Whatever may have been the motives by which he was
governed in this proceeding, the probability was apparent
and strong that Supple Jack could not have been put into
less indulgent custody; but circumstances baffle the
wisest, and events, which are utterly beyond human foresight,
suddenly arise to confound all the calculations of the
cunning. John Bannister found a friend among the
Black Riders when he little expected one. When the
army came to a halt that night, which was not till a
tolerably late hour, their camp was made on the northern
district of Edgefield, a commanding spot was chosen for
the bivouac, and every precaution taken to secure it from
disturbance for the night. The preparations for supper
produced the customary stir, but these were rapidly dismissed:
excessive fatigue had lessened appetite, and sleep
was alone desirable to the regiments which had been
pressed forward to the utmost of their marching powers,
from the very first moment of their leaving Charlestown.
The intense heat of the climate, at that season, made this
task an inappreciably severe one. The duties of the
cavalry had been, if possible, still more severe than those
of the infantry; compelled as they were to make continual
and large circuits through the country, around the
line of march of the army, in order to defeat the ambuscades
of the Americans, which were not less frequent
than successful. Group after group dispersed, and,
hanging their martial cloaks in the trees above them, to
guard them from the deleterious dews of the night, the
warriors, one by one, resigned themselves to repose.
The Black Riders were stationed beside a grove which
skirted one of the forks of the little Saluda, and were not
the last to avail themselves of the general privilege of
sleep. A few trees sufficed to cover their entire troop,
and they clustered together in several small bodies, the
horses of each group being fastened to swinging limbs of
trees close to those which sheltered their riders, in order
that they might be ready at hand in any sudden emergency.
In the centre of one of these squads lay John
Bannister. He was bound hand and foot; the bandages
upon the latter members being only put on for sleeping
purposes and withdrawn when the march was to be resumed.
A few rods distant, paced a sturdy sentinel, to
whom the double duty was entrusted of keeping equal
watch upon the horses and the prisoner. With this exception,
Bannister was almost the only person whose
eyes were unsealed by slumber in the encampment of the
dragoons. He was wakeful through anxiety and thought,
for though one of the most cheerful and elastic creatures
breathing, he had too many subjects of serious apprehension,
enjoy that repose which his body absolutely needed.
There was yet another reason to keep him wakeful. He
was very far from being resigned to his fate. He had
no taste for the condition of the prisoner, and the moment
that found him a captive found him meditating
schemes for his own deliverance. His plans had reference
to himself entirely. He was one of those self-dependent
people, who never care to look abroad for those
resources which may be found within; and closing his
eyes where he lay, and affecting the sleep which he
could not obtain, he wearied himself with the examination
of a hundred different plans for escaping from his
predicament. While he lay in this position he heard
some one approach and speak to the sentinel. A brief
dialogue ensued between them, carried on in terms quite
too low to be distinguished by him, but the tones of the
stranger's voice seemed familiar to the ear of the listener.
Bannister opened his eyes and discerned the two persons;
but in consequence of the umbrage of the trees
between he could only see their lower limbs; after a
while one of them disappeared, and fancying that it was
the stranger, and that the sentinel would again resume
his duties, the prisoner again shut his eyes and tried to
resume the train of meditation which the intrusion had
disturbed. He had not long been thus engaged when he
was startled by the low accents of one speaking behind
the column of the tree against which his head was leant,
and addressing him by name.
“Who speaks?” he demanded in the same whispering
tones in which he had been addressed.
“A friend.”
“Who?”
“Muggs.”
“What, Isaac?”
“The same.”
“Ah, you varmint! after I convarted you, you'll still
follow the British.”
“Hush!” whispered the other with some trepidation
in his tones. “For God's sake, not so loud. Stockton
left, and I'm dub'ous they're half awake now.”
“But how come you here, Muggs?”
“Why, nateral enough. I hearn the army was on its
march, and I reckoned there was guineas to be got on the
march, in exchange for rum and sugar; so I hitched horse
and wagon together, and turned sutler for the troop as I
used to; and mighty glad are they to see me; and
mighty glad I am to see you, John Bannister, and to try
and give you a help out of your hitch.”
“I'm dub'ous of you, Isaac Muggs. I'm afeard you
aint had a full convarsion.”
“Don't you be afeard. Trust to me.”
“How? Trust to you for what? will you loose me—
git me a horse, and a broadsword—hey? Can you do
this for the good cause, Isaac, and prove your convarsion.”
“Don't talk, but turn on your side a little, so that I
can feel where your hands are tied. Be quick—I haint
much time to spare. Ben Geiger, who is your sentry, is
gone to my wagon to get a drink, and will be back pretty
soon, and I'm keeping watch for him, and a mighty good
watch I'll keep.”
“There,—cut Muggs, and let me get up: but you
must cut the legs loose too. They've hitched me under
and over, as if I was a whole team myself.”
“And so you are, John Bannister; but you mustn't
git up when I cut you loose.”
“Thunder! and why not, Muggs. What's the use of
loosing foot and fingers if one's not to use them.”
“Not jest yet; because that'll be getting Ben Geiger
into a scrape and me at the back of it. You must wait
till he's changed for another sentry, and till I gives the
signal. I'll whistle for you the old boat horn tune that's
carried you many a long night along the Congaree;—you
remember?—well, when you hear that you may know
that the sentry's changed. Then watch the time, and
when the t'other sentinel draws off toward the horses,
you can crawl through them gum bushes on all fours and
get into the bay. As for the horse, I'm dub'ous there's
But I'll meet you on t'other side of the bay, and bring
you a pistol, or sword, or whatever I can find.”
“Well, well! You bring the sword and pistol. It'll
be mighty hard where there's so many, if I can't find the
nag myself.”
“Work your hands:” said the landlord.
“They're free, they're free;” was the exulting response
of the scout, almost too loudly expressed for prudence.
“Hush, for God's sake, and don't halloo until you're
out of the bush. Take the knife now in your own hands,
and cut loose you're feet. But you must lie quiet, and
let the ropes rest jest where they are. Make b'lieve
you're asleep till you hear my whistle, and then crawl
off as if you were all belly, and wriggle away as quiet as a
blacksnake. I must leave you now. It's a'most time
for Ben Geiger to get back.”
The scout did not await a second suggestion to apply
the keen edge of the hunter's knife, which the landlord
furnished him, to the cords which fastened his feet.
These he drew up repeatedly with the satisfaction of one
who is pleased to exercise and enjoy the unexpected
liberty which he receives; but the suggestions of the
landlord, which were certainly those of common sense,
warned him to limit these exercises, and restrain his
impatient members, till the time should arrive for using
them with advantage. He accordingly composed himself
and them, in such a manner as to preserve the appearance
of restraint; arranged the perfect portions of the ropes
above his ankles, and tucked in the severed ends between
and below. Then, passing his hands behind him, as before,
he lay on his back outstretched with all the commendable
patience of a stoic philosopher awaiting the
operations of that fate with which he holds it folly if not
impertinence to interfere. The landlord, meanwhile,
had resumed the duties of the sentinel, and was pacing
the measured ground with the regularity of a veteran, and
the firm step of one who is conscious of no lapse of
faithfulness. The scout's eyes naturally turned upon him
with an expression of greatly increased regard.
“Well,” said he in mental soliloquy, “I was half
dub'ous I'd have to lick Muggs over agen, before he could
be brought to a reasonable way of thinking. I was
mightily afeard that he only had half an onderstanding of
the truth when I gin him that hoist on the Wateree; but
it's a God's providence that orders all things, in his
blessed marcy, for the best, and let's one licking answer
for a stout man's convarsion. I'm dub'ous, if Muggs
hadn't ha' lost one arm in the wars, if he would have
onderstood the liberties we're fighting for half so easily.
Liberty's a difficult thing to be onderstood at first. It
takes mighty hard knocks, and a heap of thinking, to
make it stand out clear in the daylight; and then it's
never half so clear or half so sweet as when there's some
danger that we're going to lose it for ever, for good and
all. If ever I wanted to teach a friend of mine how to
believe in the reason of liberties, I'd jist lock him up in a
good strong jail for three months, or mou't be six, put
on a hitch of ploughline on hands and legs, and then argy
him to show that God made a mighty great mistake when
he gin a man a pair of feet and a pair of hands when he
might see for himself that he could sleep in the stumps at
both ends and never feel the want of 'em. But there
comes Ben Geiger, I suppose, and I must lie as if mine
were stumps only. Lord! I'll show 'em another sort
of argyment as soon as Isaac gins that old Congaree
whistle. It's only some twenty steps to the wood, and
I reckon it can't be much more to the bay, for the airth
looks as if it wanted to sink mighty sudden. These chaps
round me snort very loud—that's a sign, I've always
hearn, of sound sleeping. I don't much mind the risk of
getting off to the bay, but I'm getting too fat about the
ribs to walk a long way in this hot weather. Noise or
no noise, I must pick out one of them nags for the journey.
Let 'em snort. I don't much mind pistol-bullets when
they fly by night at a running horseman. They're like
them that shoot 'em. They make a great bellowing but
they can't see. Let 'em snort; but if I work my own
legs this night, it'll be to pick out the best nag in that
gang, and use him by way of preference.”
Time moved very slowly, in the estimation of the
anxious scout. Ben Geiger, the sentry, had resumed his
watch and walk. Muggs had disappeared, and solemn
was the silence that once more prevailed over the encampment.
Two full hours had elapsed since the limbs
of Bannister had been unloosed, and still he waited for the
signal which was to apprise him that the moment for
their use was at hand. But it came at last, the long
wailing note, such as soothes the heart with sweet melancholy,
untwisted from the core of the long rude wooden
bugle of the Congaree boatman, as he winds his way
upon the waters of that rapid rushing river. The drowsy
relief-guard soon followed, and Ben Geiger disappeared
to enjoy that luxury of sleep from which his successor
was scarcely yet entirely free. He rubbed his eyes and
yawned audibly while moving to and from with unsteady
step along the beaten limits of his round. His drowsy
appearance gave increased encouragement to the woodsman.
But even this was not necessary to give confidence
to so cool a temper, so cheerful a spirit, and so adroit a
scout. The sentry had looked upon the prisoner and the
horses in the presence of the guard when Geiger was
relieved. Satisfied that all was safe, he had started upon
his march; and, giving sufficient time to the guard to
resume their own slumbers, Jack Bannister now prepared
himself for his movement. This event, which would
have been of great importance, and perhaps of trying
danger to most persons in his situation, was really of
little consequence in his eyes. With the release of his
hands and feet he regarded the great difficulty as fully
at an end. The risk of pistol-shot, as we have seen
from his soliloquy, he considered a very small one.
Besides, it was a risk of the war in which he was engaged,
and one which he had incurred an hundred times
before. On foot, he well knew that he could surpass the
best runner of the Indian tribes, and once in the thick
bay which was contiguous, he could easily conceal himself
beyond the apprehension of cavalry. If he had any
anxiety at all, it was on the subject of choosing a horse
of the adjacent oaks.
“There's a dark bay, I'm thinking, that, as well as I
can make out in the moonlight, is about the best. The
black is a monstrous stout animal, but too high and heavy
for the sand roads. The gray is a little too showy for
a scout that ought to love the shade better than the sunshine.
I reckon I'll risk the bay. He ain't too heavy
and he ain't too low. He has legs enough for his body,
and his body looks well on his legs. He'll do, and if
I could only take the saddle from the black and clap it on
the bay, I'd be a made horseman. It's a prime English
saddle, and I reckon the holsters don't want for filling.
It's mighty tempting, but—”
A favourable opportunity for making a movement
now suggesting itself, his soliloquy was cut short. The
scout had his eyes all around him. The sentinel's back
was toward him, and he commenced his progress. To
the citizen, uninformed in the artifices of Indian warfare,
the mode of operations adopted and pursued by our scout,
would have been one of curious contemplation and study.
It is probable that such a person, though looking directly
at the object, would have been slow to discern its movements,
so sly, so unimposing, so shadowy as they were.
With the flexibility of a snake his body seemed to slide
away almost without the assistance of hands and feet.
No obvious motion betrayed his progress, not the slightest
rustling in the grass, nor the faintest crumpling of the
withered leaf of the previous autumn. His escape was
favoured by the gray garments which he wore, which
mixed readily with the misty shadows of the night and
forest. Amid their curtaining umbrage it was now impossible
for the sentinel to perceive him while pursuing
his rounds; and aware of this, he paused behind one of
the trees on the edge of the encampment, and gently
elevating his head, surveyed the path which he had
traversed. He could still distinguish the sounds of sleep
from several groups of his enemies. The moonlight was
glinted back from more than one steel cap and morion,
which betrayed the proximity of the Black Riders.
band whose pathway had been traced in blood along the
Congaree and Saluda. More than one of the associates
of the scout had fallen by their felon hands. The scout
ground his teeth together as he surveyed them. How
easy, with their own broadswords, to make his way,
even at little hazard to himself, over severed necks and
shoulders spouting with their gore. The feeling was
natural to the man, but for an instant only. Bannister
dismissed it with a shudder; and turning warily in another
direction, he proceeded to put in execution his design
of choosing the best horse from among the group,
for the purpose of making his flight as agreeable to himself,
and as costly to his enemies, as was possible.
Circumstances seemed to favour him, but he never forewent
his usual caution. He proceeded with sufficient
gentleness, and produced no more disturbance among the
animals than they habitually occasioned among themselves.
His closer examination into their respective
qualities confirmed the judgment which he had previously
formed while watching them from a distance. The dark
bay was the steed that promised best service, and he succeeded
with little difficulty in detaching him from the
bough to which he was fastened. To bring him forth
from the group, so as to throw the rest between himself
and the sentinel's line of sight, was a task not much more
difficult; and but little more was necessary to enable our
adventurous scout to lead him down the hill side into the
recesses of the bay, in the shade of which he could mount
him without exposure, and dart off with every probability
of easy escape. But courage and confidence are very
apt to produce audacity in the conduct of a man of much
experience; and our scout yearned for the fine English
saddle and holsters which were carried by the black.
Dropping the bridle of his bay, therefore, over a slender
hickory shoot; he stole back to the group, and proceeded
to strip the black of his appendages. But, whether the
animal had some suspicions that all was not right in
this nocturnal proceeding, or was indignant at the preference
which the scout had given in favour of his companion
liberties taken by the intruder in a manner that threatened
to be more fatal to the fugitive than all the pistols of the
encampment. He proceeded by kicking and biting to
prove his jealousy and dislike, and this so effectually, as
to make it a somewhat difficult matter for the scout to
effect his extrication from the group, all of whom were
more or less restive, and prepared to retort upon the
black the sundry assaults which, in his random fury, he
had inflicted upon them. This led to a commotion which
attracted the attention of the sentinel, and his challenge,
and evident approach, compelled Bannister to discard his
caution and betake himself with all expedition to the
steed which he had captured. He darted forward accordingly,
and the sharp bang of the pistol followed his
appearance on the back of the steed. This, though it
awakened only the merriment of the fugitive, aroused the
whole encampment. There was no time for contemplation;—none
for the expected conference with the landlord.
John Bannister knew this. He cast an instinctive
glance to the northern heavens, as if seeking for their
guiding star, then pricking his steed with the point of his
knife, they dashed away with a hurry-scurry through the
woods that defied their intricacies, and seemed to laugh
at the vain shouts and clamour of the Black Riders, who
were seeking to subdue to order, with the view to pursuit,
their now unmanageable horses. The circumstance that
had led to the discovery of Bannisters' flight, availed
somewhat to diminish the dangers of the chase. Before
the refractory steeds could be quieted, and the dragoons
on the track of his flight, the tread of his horse's heels
was lost entirely to their hearing. They scattered themselves,
nevertheless, among the woods, but were soon
recalled from a pursuit which promised to be fruitless;
while Bannister, drawing up his steed when he no
longer heard the clamours of his pursuers, coolly paused
for a while to deliberate upon the circumstances of his
situation. But a few moments seemed necessary to
arrive at a resolution; and, once more tickling his
horse's flanks with the point of his knife, he buried
himself from sight in the darkest recesses of the forest.
| CHAPTER VI.
“NINETY-SIX.”—A FLIGHT BY NIGHT. The kinsmen, or, The black riders of Congaree | |