University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.
MESHES.

“Well, it's mighty strange, I'm thinking, that they
don't go for'a'd. They're as cautious and scary, now,
as if the whole of Sumter's rigiment was at the Park.
They're after some new mischief, that's more in want
of a night covering than any they've ever done before.
Well, we'll see! There's Watson Gray with his corporal
guard at the house; and here's the Black Riders
here; and if the two git together, it's precious little that
John Bannister can do, with the help of Isaac Muggs,
and he with one hand only. If I could work poor Jake
Clarkson out of their fingers, he'd make a third, and no
small help he'd give us in a straight for'a'd, up and
down fight. But, I'm dub'ous he stands a bad chance
in the grip of Watson Gray. If I could git round now
to the barony, and show reason to Miss Flora, to slip off
to the river, I wouldn't wait for Ned Conway to stir; but
I'd hide her away in the Congaree, where the swamp-fox,
himself, couldn't find her. But then there's no

hope of that. There's a sort of strange thinking among
young women, that's never had a husband, as if it
wouldn't be so decent and dilicate, to trust a single man
under such sarcumstances; which is mighty foolish!
But something must be done, and John Bannister must
be in the way of doing it. Lord love us!—if he would
only send Clarence now, with fifty of his troop, among
these bloody black reffygees!”

The course of John Bannister's thoughts may be traced
in the above soliloquy. The good fellow felt the difficulties
of his own position, though, it is clear, that apprehension
for himself was the last subject in his mind; the
only one which awakened no anxiety, and called forth
little consideration. To rescue Flora Middleton was his
sole object. He knew the desires of Edward Conway
for that maiden, and naturally concluded that the arrival
of his troop would give him the power to accomplish his
wishes, even by violence, if necessary. It was therefore
a reasonable occasion for surprise and conjecture, when
he found the outlaws taking their halt and supper on the
skirts of the barony, and in profound silence and secresy;
where nothing lay in the way to prevent or retard their
reunion with their captain. He little knew the character
and extent of those malign influences, which prevailed
among that wild and savage body, unfavourable to their
ancient leader.

It was with increasing concern and interest that Bannister,
in following and watching the movements of the
outlaws, found them about to throw a line of sentinels
between the grounds of the barony and the river landing.
This measure denoted certain suspicions which they entertained,
as he fancied, of the practices in which he had
been recently engaged; and it became necessary that he
should find means to apprise his comrade, Muggs, on
the other side of the Congaree, of the danger that awaited
any undue exposure of his person in his future crossings
to and fro.

“A long swim!”—muttered the faithful scout, with a
slight shiver, as he surveyed the river;—“and rather a
cold swim, too, at midnight; but I'll have to do it. If I

don't they'll riddle poor Isaac's belly with bullets, when
he's thinking of nothing worse to put in it than his
breakfast. But I must dodge about the house first and
see what's a-going on in that quarter. It seems strange
to me that they shouldn't have made themselves known
to their captain! What's to be afraid of? But rogues
is always a myster'ous and dub'ous sort of things.
A rascal never goes straight to his business. If he has
to shake hands with you he does it with a sort of twist,
and a twirl, and sometimes a squint, that looks every
which way but the right one. Now, it's reasonable that
a good scout should shy off, and dodge, and make himself
as squat and small, under a bush, as he naterally
can, and as a big body will let him;—but when the
game's a straight for'a'd one; when there's no dangers
nor inimy, and only one's own affairs to see after—it's
a sign of a rogue all over that he shirks. It shows that
he shirks from the love of the thing and not because it's
a needcessity.”

John Bannister did not suffer his moral philosophy to
keep him inactive. He was one of those who philosophize
yet go forward—a race of which the world has
comparatively few. In obedience to his determination,
as expressed above, he stole through ways, which had
been sufficiently traversed by his feet to be familiar,
which led him, without detection, to the grounds immediately
about the mansion. At the front door of the
dwelling, which was closed, he saw one sentinel on
duty. But he yawned, emphatically and loud, more
than once while the scout was watching him; and by
his listless movements seemed evidently weary enough
of his watch to leave it to itself at the first seasonable
summons. The most perfect military subordination was
not preserved by him as he paced to and fro along the
court. He sang, and whistled, and soliloquized; and,
not unfrequently, relieved the dull measured step of the
sentinel, by the indulgence of such a gavotte, as a beef-eating
British soldier of the “prince's own” might be
supposed capable of displaying in that period of buckram
movement.

“He'd hop higher and dance a mighty sight better,”

murmured John Bannister as he beheld the “signor of
the night” in this grave exercise, “if he was only on
the `liberty' side of the question. He gits a shilling a
day, and a full belly; but he ain't got the light heart
after all. Give me a supper of acorns, b'iled or unb'iled,
in the Santee swamp, before all his hot bread, if so be,
the cause I'm a-fighting for can't give me better heart to
dance than that. Lord! he can no more shake a leg
with the Congaree Blues than he can sight a rifle.”

Contenting himself with this comparison, and the brief
survey which had induced it, he turned away, and traversing
the settlement, came to the out-house in which,
once before, he had seen the guard busy in their gaming
practices. A light glimmering through the log chinks
apprised him of the presence there of occupants; and,
approaching cautiously, and peeping through an aperture
in the rear of the mud structure, he was struck with the
sight of an object, to him, of very painful interest. This
was Jake Clarkson, very securely fastened with ropes,
which confined both his hands and feet. The old man
leaned rather than sat, against the wall of one section of
the building. A dull composure, which seemed that of
mortal apathy, overspread the poor fellow's countenance.
His eyes were half closed, his mouth drawn down, and
open, and the listlessness of death, if not its entire unconsciousness,
prevailed in the expression of all his features.
Four of the soldiers were present in the apartment;
two of them stretched at length upon the floor,
seemingly asleep; and the other two, busy to themselves,
playing languidly at their favourite game, which they
relieved by a dialogue carried on sufficiently loud to
enable Bannister to learn its purport. From this he
gathered enough to know that the improvement of Edward
Conway was such as to promise them a change,
for which they pined,—from the dull monotonous recurrence
of the same unexciting duties, to the adventures
of the march, and all those circumstances of perpetual
change, which compensate the rover for all the privations
which he must necessarily undergo in leaving his early
homestead. But the eyes and thoughts of Bannister were
fixed on the prisoner only. The pressure of surrounding

foes only made him the more anxious to gather and
secure his friends, and thinking of poor Mary—was also
calculated to make him eagerly desirous to restore her
father. This desire grew more keen and irresistible the
more he watched and reflected, and it was with some
difficulty that he restrained his lips from the impetuous
assertion of his determination to release him from his
bonds or perish. This resolve, though not expressed
aloud, was still the occasion of a brief soliloquy.

“Dang my buttons, if I don't try it. If there's time
it can be done, and there's no harm in trying. A rifle in
Jake's hands is a something that acts as well as speaks;
and if so be, we're to have trouble, a bullet from a twisted
bore is a mighty good argyment in clearing the track for
the truth. It's a sort of axe-stroke, leading the way for
the grubbing-hoe.”

Ten minutes after, and Jake Clarkson was roused
from his stupor by the slight prick of a sharp instrument
from behind him. The nervous sensibility of the old
man had been pretty well blunted by time, trial, and
misfortune; and he neither started nor showed the
slightest symptom of excitement. But his eyes grew
brighter, his mind was brought back to the world in
which his body lingered still; and a lively apprehension
was awakened within him, lest the gambling soldiers
should see, or hear, the hand that he now felt was busy
in the effort to extricate him from his bonds. He did
not dare to stir or look; but he was already conscious
that the couteau de chasse of the woodman, fastened to
a long stick, had been thrust through the crevices of the
logs, and was busily plied in sawing asunder the cords
that fastened his arms. These had been tied behind the
prisoner, and he prudently kept them in that position
even though, in a few moments after, he felt that their
ligatures had yielded to the knife. The workman ceased
from without. His task, so far as it could be effected
by him, seemed to be ended; but the feet of the prisoner
were still secured. The friendly assistant seemed to
have disappeared. A full half hour elapsed and he heard
nothing. The soldiers still kept at their game, and the
prisoner, exhausted with the excitement of his new

hope, leaned once more against the wall. In doing so he
again felt the sharp prick of the knife-point. Cautiously,
but with nerves that now trembled for the first time, he
availed himself of one of his freed hands to possess himself
of the instrument, which now, separated from the
handle, had been left, by the scout, for the farther benefit
of the prisoner. He clutched it with a strange delight.
The momentary impulse almost moved him to spring to
his feet, and bound upon the guard with the most murderous
determination. But the prudence of his friend's
course from without, was not wasted upon him. He
quietly secured the knife behind him, placed his hands
in the same position in which his cords had previously
secured them, and, with new hopes in his bosom, prepared
to wait the proper moment when he might safely
proceed to finish the work of his emancipation.

Satisfied that he had done all that he could, at the
time, for the rescue of Clarkson, the scout took his way
back to the river, the banks of which he ascended a few
hundred yards, and then, without reluctance, committed
himself to the stream. Half-way across, the rocks
afforded him a momentary resting-place, from which he
surveyed, with a mournful satisfaction, the white cross
which his hands, but a little while before, had reared
upon the grave of Mary Clarkson. It stood conspicuous
in sight for several miles along the river. The still
hours of the night were speeding on; and the murmur
of the river began to be coupled with the sudden notes
of birds, along its banks, anticipating the approach of the
morning. A sense of weariness for the first time began
to fill the frame of the woodman, and it needed a strong
and resolute effort to prevent himself from yielding to
sleep upon the slippery black rock which gave him a
temporary resting-place in the bosom of the stream.
Plunging off anew, he reached the opposite banks,
fatigued but not dispirited; and soon transferred the
duties of the watch to his comrade. To the landlord he
briefly communicated the events of the evening, and bestowed
upon him the necessary caution.

Meanwhile, a spirit equally anxious and busy, pervaded
the breasts of some few in the encampment of the

Black Riders. The watches had been set, the guards
duly placed, and the sentinels, being made to form a
complete cordon around the barony, Lieutenant Stockton,
acting as captain, went aside, in consultation with his apt
coadjutor, Ensign Darcy. The tone and language of the
former were, now, much more elevated, more confident
and exulting, than usual. The realization of his desires
was at hand. He had met the approbation of Lord
Rawdon, in the conduct which he had displayed in the
management of his troop, during the late march, and
nothing seemed wanting to his wishes, but that his
immediate superior should be no longer in his way. But
to supersede him was not easy, since the personal
grounds of hostility which Stockton felt could not be
expressed to their mutual superior; and these were such
as to lead the former to desire something beyond the
mere command of the troop which he had in charge.
It was necessary not merely to degrade but to destroy
his principal. The humiliating secret which Edward
Morton possessed, to his detriment, was equally an
occasion for his hate and fear; and all his arts had been
exercised to find some pretext for putting out of his way
a person whose continued life threatened him with constant
and humiliating exposure. Circumstances had co-operated
with the desires of the conspirators. The secret
of Edward Morton had been betrayed. It was known
that he desired to escape from the troop;—that he was
planning a secret flight to the city;—that he had already
sent off considerable treasure; and, that he awaited nothing
but a partial recovery of his strength, and the arrival
of certain boats which had been pledged to him by
the landlord, Muggs, to put his project in execution. In
this proceeding, he had violated the laws of the confederacy—the
fearful oath which bound the outlaws together;
—an oath taken in blood; and the violation of which
incurred all the penalties of blood. No wonder that
Stockton exulted. His proceedings were now all legitimate.
His hate had a justifiable sanction, according to
the tenets of his victim, equally with himself. It was
the law of the troop. It was now indeed his duty to
prosecute to the death the traitor who would surrender
all of them to destruction; and the only remaining
security left to Morton was the rigid trial to which his
band was sworn. The bloody doom which his treachery
incurred, was to be inflicted only after the fullest proofs
that it was justly merited. In this lay his only hope of
safety, and this hope rested upon a slender foundation.
One of his special and most trusted agents had been
brought over by the machinations of Darcy, and had betrayed
him. He had involved another of the band in his
developements, and this other had confessed. Two witnesses
concurring against him and the proof was held to
be conclusive; and of these two witnesses Stockton was
secure. But other considerations were involved in the
deliberations of the parties. Edward Morton they knew
to be a desperate man. Watson Gray was a man to be
feared as well as hated. These were in possession of a
strong brick dwelling, with probably a dozen musketeers
under arms, and commanded by Rawdon to obey them
in every particular. It was no part of the policy of
Stockton to come to blows under such circumstances.
Some artifice was necessary to effect his objects. To get
the soldiers out of the way, to baffle Gray, and secure
possession of Edward Morton, was the design which
they had resolved upon, and this required considerable
management, and excessive caution in their approach.
Besides, one of their witnesses was absent on a scout,
and to declare their purpose until he was present to
maintain it by his oath would have been rash and imprudent.
It was also their object to capture the landlord,
Muggs, whose proposed agency in securing the boats for
the flight of Edward Morton was known to the conspirators
through the individual who had first betrayed his
employer to his enemies. Hence the watch which had
been set upon the river-landing, and which had compelled
Bannister to swim the stream that night. These matters
formed the subjects of deliberation between the two conspirators.
Their successes, so far, made them sanguine
of the future; and the rich rewards which it promised
them, made them equally joyful. The treasures of their
captain were to be equally divided between themselves,
and we find them accordingly quite as busy in counting,
as in securing their chickens.

“Pete Flagg has charge of the negroes, over two hundred
already, and there are those from the place of his
stepmother, which he planned to take off with him in
these boats of Muggs. I know where to go for his
guineas—ay, to lay my hands upon the vault; but we
must get the memorandum acknowledgment which I
reckon he has about him, from John Wagner, who keeps
his money. There must be three thousand guineas at
the least.

“We share equally,” said Stockton, with eager eyes.
“That of course is understood.”

“Yes: but there should be a private paper between
us,” said Darcy.

“What need? we know each other.”

“Ay, but the best friends cannot be too cautious.
I have drawn out a little memorandum which we can
both sign to-morrow.”

“Agreed; I'm willing. But no witnesses, Darcy—
that would ruin all.”

“Yes—that's the d—l. Let the troop once know
what we eount upon—and our chance would be as bad,
or even worse than his. We should hang with him!”

“Him we have! Him we have! I would Brydone
were here. I long for the moment to wind up our long
account of hate. It will be the sweetest moment of my
life when I command them to drag him to the tree.”

“Be patient—don't let your hate risk our gains. We
can get nothing by working rashly. These eight or ten
soldiers that he has here would make desperate fight.
That scoundrel, Gray, must have suspected us when he
asked Rawdon for them.”

“Well, well—he'll have his turn also.”

“I doubt we'll have to fix him along with the captain.
He's a bird out of the same nest.”

“I shall be willing. I have no love for him.”

“Did you tell Brydone when to meet you here?”

“Yes!—that's all arranged!”

“By that time we ought to have possession of the
captain.”

“Ay, then, or never! We must have him and all
things in readiness by the time Brydone comes. Are
you sure of the men? Is there none doubtful?”

“None!—There's a few milk-hearted fellows only,
but they're of the scary sort. They'll offer no opposition
when they find so many against them.”

“Be sure of them also, if you can. I'd even give
something to make all sure. There must be no bungling
at the last moment. If there is, and he has any chance
to talk, he is so d—d artful of tongue, that he'd work
courage in the most cowardly heart. I fear him still.”

“I do not. I know them, and I know him,” replied
the subordinate. “His day is done. He hasn't the same
power over them that he had of old, and the late profits
have enlightened them considerably on the subject of
your better management.”

“Yes—those guineas were good arguments, I think.”

“Famous!—but the better is to be shown. His treachery
is the best. Let them but know conclusively that
his purpose was to give them up, break the law, and
leave them—perhaps, betray them first into Sumter's
clutches—and there will be but one voice among them,
and that will be, `death to the traitor!”'

“So be it. To-morrow night we have him, and with
the rise of another sun he dies.”

“Yes, if Brydone come in time for the trial.”

“Brydone or not, Darcy—he dies.”