University of Virginia Library

CONCLUSION.

The rage of Stockton, at being thus defrauled of his
prey, at last, though violent, was of no effect. He discharged
his own pistol at the boat which contained the
fugitives; an idle act, which was followed by a like discharge
from some twenty of his followers. They might
as well have aimed their bullets at the moon. John
Bannister answered them with a shout,—which, to
their consternation, found an echo from twenty voices
in the woods behind them. They turned to confront
an unexpected enemy. Clarence Conway was already
upon them. His little band, in advance of the other two
divisions, began the fray as soon as it had reached
within striking distance; and the sudden effect of their
surprise compensated well for the inadequacy of their
numbers. The broadsword was doing fearful execution
among the scattered banditti, before Stockton well knew
in what direction to turn to meet his enemy.

But the power which he had thus so lately gained,
was too sweet, and had called for too much toil and
danger, to be yielded without a violent struggle: and,
if mere brute courage could have availed for his safety,
the outlaw might still have escaped the consequences of
his indiscretion. He rallied his men with promptness,
enforced their courage by the exhibition of his own;
and his numbers, being still superior to the small force
which had followed Conway through the woods, the
effect of his first surprise was overcome, and the issue
of the conflict soon grew doubtful. But it did not long
remain so. The division from below soon struck in,
and the outlaws gave way. They broke at length, and

endeavoured to find safety by flying up the banks of
the river; but here they were met by the third division,
and their retreat entirely cut off. Hemmed in on every
side, assured that no quarter would be given them, they
asked for none, but fought and died upon the ground to
which they had been forced. It was the fortune of
Stockton to fall under the sabre of Clarence Conway;
while Darcy, leaping into the river perished beneath a
blow from the clubbed rifle of John Bannister, whose
boat, a moment after, touched the shore. Nothing could
exceed the rapturous expressions of his wild whoop of
joy at this unlooked-for meeting,—meeting with his
friend and leader, in a moment of such complete victory,
amply atoned to him for all the trials, risks and
anxieties to which he had been exposed, from the night
of their separation. Not one of the Black Riders escaped
the conflict. The greater number fell beneath the swords
of their conquerors; but some few, in their desperation,
leapt into the Congaree, which finally engulfed them
all. Clarence Conway, after the close of the conflict,
devoted a few painful moments to the examination of
the bloody field. But John Bannister threw himself between
his commander and one of the victims of the
day. The eye of Clarence, searchingly fell on that of
his follower; and he at once divined the meaning of
the interruption.

“It's here then, that he lies, John? How did he
die?”

“Yes, Clarence, there he is;—a rifle bullet kept off a
worse eending. He died like a brave man, though it
mou't be, he didn't live like a good one. Leave the rest
to me, Clarence. I'll see that he's put decently out of
sight. But you'd better push up and see Miss Flora,
and the old lady. I reckon they've had a mighty scary
time of it.”

“I thank you, John. I will look but once on the son
of my father, and leave the rest to you.”

“It's a ragged hole that a rifle bullet works in a
white forehead, Clarence; and you'll hardly know it;”
said the scout as he reluctantly gave way before the
extended hand of his superior. Clarence Conway gazed
in silence for a space upon the inanimate and bloody

form before him; a big tear gathered slowly in his eyes,
but he brushed away the intruder with a hasty hand;
while he turned once more to meet his followers who
were slowly gathering in the back grounds. He felt,
even at that moment, a cheering sensation, as he knew
that his brother had fallen by another hand than his.
That pang, at least, was spared him; and for the rest,
the cause of sorrow was comparatively slight.

“He could have lived;” he murmured as he turned
away from the bloody spectacle—“He could have lived
only as a dishonoured and a suspected man. His path
would have been stained with crime, and dogged by
enemies. It is better that it is thus! May God have
mercy on his soul!”

Our story is on the threshold of the conclusion. We
have little more to say. Flora Middleton and her lover
were soon reconciled, and the misunderstanding between
them easily and promptly explained. Jacob
Clarkson and John Bannister were living and sufficient
witnesses to save Clarence Conway the necessity of
answering for himself, and of denouncing his late kinsman.
Between unsophisticated and sensible people,
such as we have sought to make them appear, there
could be no possibility of a protracted session of doubts,
misgivings, shynesses and suspicions, which a frank
heart and a generous spirit, could not breathe under for
a day, but which an ingenious novelist could protract
through a term of years, and half a dozen volumes. In
the course of a brief year following these events, the
British were beaten from the country, and Clarence and
Flora united in the holy bonds of matrimony. The last
was an event which nobody ever supposed was regretted
by either. John Bannister lived with them at
the barony, from the time of their marriage, through the
pleasant seasons of a protracted life. Many of our
readers may remember to have seen the white-headed
old man who, in his latter days, exchanged his sobriquet
of Supple Jack, for one more dignified, though, possibly,
less popular among the other sex. He was called “Bachelor
Bannister,” towards the closing years of his life,

and, in the presence of the ladies, did not quarrel with
the designation. His long stories about the Revolution,
of his own feats and those of Clarence Conway,
were remembered and repeated by him, with little variation,
to the last. In this he differed considerably from
ordinary chroniclers of the old school, simply, perhaps,
because his stories were originally more truthful, and
his memory, in spite of his years, which were “frosty
but kindly,” was singularly tenacious to the end. Our
narrative has been compiled from particulars chiefly
gained, though at second-hand, from this veracious
source. John Bannister lived long enough to see the
eldest son of Clarence Conway almost as good a marksman
with the rifle, and as supple a forester, as he himself
had been in his better days; and his dying moments
were consoled by the affectionate offices of those, whom,
with a paternal wisdom, he had chosen for his friends
from the beginning. It may be stated, en passant, that
one exquisite, Mr. Surgeon Hillhouse, neither lost
his life nor his wardrobe in the conflict at Middleton
Barony. He survived his wounds and saved his baggage.
His self-esteem was also preserved, strange to
say, in spite of all his failures with the sex. He was
one whom Providence had wondrously blessed in this
particular. Of self-esteem he had quite as many garments,
if not more, than were allotted to his person.
He certainly had a full and fresh suit for every day in
the year.