University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.
'BRAM'S CABIN IN THE SWAMP.

The district of Orangeburg, in South Carolina, constitutes
one of the second tier (from the seaboard) of the political and
judicial divisions or districts of that state. It is a vast plain,
with a surface almost unbroken, in the southern and western
portions, by elevations of any sort. In this region, it is irrigated
by numerous watercourses, rivers, and creeks, that make
their way through swamps of more or less width and density.
These are all thickly covered with a wild and tangled forest-growth,
skirted with great pines, and dwarf-oaks, to say nothing
of a vast variety of shrub-trees; the foliage of which,
massed together by gadding vines, usually presents, in midsummer,
the appearance of a solid wall, impervious to sight and
footstep.

The precinct received its first European settlers in 1704.
These, originally the subjects of the prince of Orange, naturally
conferred his name upon the district. But the settlements
were not confined to this people. Along the Santee, the Congaree,
and Edisto, there were Huguenot and English families,
that came in afterward; and, occasionally, a small group of
Scotch, and protestant Irish, might be found, occupying tracts
which were comparatively isolated from all others.

These several settlements maintained each its original national
characteristics; and, even at the opening of the Revolution,
there had been little or no amalgamation among them. They

did not even associate; and the only cementing agency which
they acknowledged, bringing the several parties into social relation,
grew gradually, in the growth of a native population.
The children of all parties spoke the English language, and
this proved a bond of union, in the absence of other ties, of a
strength sufficient to neutralize, in a great degree, the original
antipathies of the parent stocks.

Near the creeks and rivers, the settlements were, naturally,
most numerous; and, speaking with regard to the standard acknowledged
among the people, these watercourses were comparatively
thickly inhabited. Along the Santee, for example,
and the two great lines of thoroughfare from Charleston to the
Congarees, the sound of a horn, in times of danger, could bring
out, almost anywhere, a score of mounted men; though we need
scarcely inform our readers, in respect to a region so lacking in
homogeneity — during the revolutionary period — that the same
means would be just as apt to find them divided very equally
into opposing parties. The French, or Huguenot settlements,
would be sure to wear whig colors; so also the Irish; the
Scotch and English were mostly dogged loyalists; while the
German population were nearly equally divided in sentiment
between the colony and the crown.

Of the native born, a vast majority were patriots, particularly
the younger men; and these, necessarily brought together
from all the settlements, blended the otherwise adverse national
sentiments of the original stocks, into that rare sort of union,
which Anacreon Moore rather fancifully describes as the “one
arch of peace.” To this mingling of their young, was due, in
some degree, the occasional forbearance of the parents; many
of whom, on both sides, took parole or protection, and forebore
the field; as much because of the committal of their sons, as because
of any selfish apprehensions of their own.

There was still a fair proportion, however, who felt, or acknowledged,
none of these restraints; and who, whether from
a natural and earnest sentiment of loyalty, or because of their
full faith in the powers of the German sovereign on the throne
of Britain, to coerce his rebellious subjects into obedience,
joined the banner of the king as soon as it was unfurled, and
proved themselves as fierce and unsparing, as if they dealt only

with their natural enemies. It is not our purpose here to indicate
the various causes which led the people to choose opposition
on either side; but, we may add, that, as in all such cases,
there were baser motives also at work; there were private
feuds to avenge, hot rivalries to assuage, and plunder to be won.
It may be that the progress of our history will unfold all of
these motives in turn.

There is a small watercourse, buried in swamp and thickly
fringed with a natural and noble forest-growth, which, rising at
nearly equal distances between the Santee and the Edisto, finds
its way at last into the latter river. This stream goes still by
the old rustic title of the Four-Holes swamp. In the times of
which we write, it was one of the places of refuge for the outlying
patriot. The settlements along its upland margin were
infrequent; and, though skirted by one of the common thoroughfares
of the county, the region was of too suspicious a
character to suffer the traveller to linger as he rode. There
was nothing to woo the lover of the picturesque in the prospect
around him, and curiosity had but little motive to pierce the
dark and silent recesses of those thickets which seemed impenetrable
from without; and the mysterious stillness and obscurity
of which, were well calculated to arm the instincts of the wayfarer
with a tremulous sense of danger. He rarely suffered
himself or his steed to pause and bait as he sped over the route,
so long as the gloomy shadows of this great thicket were cast
upon his path.

It is to this very region, however, that we propose to conduct
the reader now. We shall penetrate the silent and shadowy
fortress of swamp and forest, following a footpath which you
would scarcely discover for yourself; the traces of which, from
without, are quite undiscernible by the uninitiated. We enter
a creek, breaking boldly through a fence of willows. Our steeds
leave no track in the water. We follow the stream for fifty
yards, and knee-deep in the swamp we are surrounded by a
wood of cypresses. Before us another fortress of forest spreads
away, thick and matted. We press boldly up against it, and a
faint gleam of light appears, as shining through a crevice, on
our left. We descend, following this gleam. It opens sufficiently
to admit of our passage through a copse of cane and

willows over which hang great branches of gum and tupola.
We pass a hammock, thickly covered with woods. And still
our way lies through water. The path grows sinuous and would
be lost, but for certain marks upon the branches of the trees
under which we are required to move. You would not see
these marks. No one could see them, were they not shown;
or decipher their mystic uses, were they not explained. They
have been carefully made, not only to escape the casual
glance, but to shape, step by step, the course of him who has
been taught the cipher. The refuge has been often sought. It
has hitherto justified the hope of security which it promised.
The spot was long known and honored after the Revolution, as
“'Bram Johnson's Castle.”

But we have not reached “'Bram's Castle” yet. There is
still a tract of wood and water to be passed. The refuge is one
designedly difficult of access, and even to him who knows the
indices by which to find it, the way is circuitous and the paths
difficult. But we will suppose these to be overcome. The region
has been laid bare since the war, and many have been the
curious spectators whom the familiar scout has conducted to the
curious hiding-place of the patriots. Let us penetrate at once
to the recess, supposing the difficult progress to be overcome,
and emerging suddenly from the thicket and swamp, upon a
hammock, an islet of the swamp, covered with mighty trees,
pine and beech, a sandy spot, high, dry, and sheltered, as if a
retreat for the Genius Loci, whom we will suppose a bearded
Druid, brooding in silence while he grows to stone, and the
gray moss winds about him, a natural shroud for the High
Priest of a perished people.

It was on the afternoon of one of the hottest days of June —
one of the hottest months in Carolina — in the year of grace
one thousand seven hundred and eighty-one, that a horseman
made his way along the route described, and penetrated to the
little swamp islet, or hammock, upon which the cabin of 'Bram
Johnson stood. The stranger was very certainly a military
man, though it would be difficult to describe his costume as a
military uniform. He evidently belonged to the irregular service.
His clothes were of a dark blue, and consisted of an
overall, or hunting-shirt, of linen or cotton material. His smallclothes

were of the same material, and leggins, of blue also,
much after the Indian fashion, completed his outfit. The cap
which he wore was of common fur, without feather. He carried
a broadsword at his side, and pistols, doubly shotted, filled his
holsters. His steed was a glorious black, without spot upon all
his body, one white star excepted, which was conspicuous upon
his right fore shoulder. The rider was of vigorous build; not
so heavy as compact and symmetrical; some five feet eleven
inches high, erect of carriage, and probably twenty-seven years
of age. He had a finely-formed oval face, well bronzed, cheeks
full, chin prominent, and eyes gray and searching as the eagle's.
The forehead was broad, the head high, and the chestnut curls
escaped beneath his cap, and hung loose and long upon his
shoulder. Clearly, there was need for shears and razor, the
beard being quite as long and massive as the hair.

Our horseman had penetrated all the avenues leading to the
hammock of 'Bram Johnson, without disturbing any echoes.
He stopped his steed when about to emerge upon the banks,
and alighted where he stood, fastening the animal to a swinging
bough that hung above the creek. With his sabre in his
hand the rider quietly ascended the hammock, and made his
way forward, with the stride of one quite sure of his ground,
and without apprehending interruption. He was clearly one
of those in possession of the “open sesame.” He passed quietly
but confidently among the great beeches, cypresses, and sycamores,
which covered the islet, until his eye caught glimpses of
a vein of smoke that rose from the cabin of 'Bram Johnson.
Then he paused for a moment, and, stealing from tree to tree,
as if suddenly counselled with the necessity of caution, he continued
to press forward, in this stealthy manner, until the wigwam
of the negro stood full in sight before him.

It was a very sultry afternoon, as we have said, on one of
the hottest days in our hottest month. The present season was,
if possible, far hotter than usual; and, in that dense empire of
shrub and forest, where the winds could at no time penetrate
with vigour — where they could not course or sweep, but only
trickle, as it were — the atmosphere weighed like a coppery
fluid upon the universal nature. The stranger had sensibly

felt its pressure, and his movements had been slow accordingly.
The perspiration streamed from his brows, and the blood
throbbed violently in the veins upon his forehead. But the
sight that met his eyes seemed to make him forgetful of his own
exhaustion. A smile curled his lips, and rested upon his noble
features, like a soft sunset upon a happy landscape. It was
evident that his was a lively nature, keenly susceptible of the
playful and the humorous. He paused, and the words rose
to his lips, as if spoken in the ears of a companion.

“Now, look at that rascally negro. There he sits, drowsing
in the sunset, mouth wide, and every sense steeped in forgetfulness.
An alligator might take him as he sleeps, and make
his first mouthful of him before he could open his eyes. Yet
is he set to watch and wait. He has gorged himself with terrapin
and rice. He has probably had a fat possum for dinner;
or, possibly, has contrived to pick up some luckless pig, straying
out of hearing of Holman's stye. He, at all events, will
contrive to feed and fatten though his master starves.”

Thus saying, the stranger quietly drawing his sabre, smote
a hickory shoot from a neighboring tree, and thus armed he
approached the sleeping negro. 'Bram [Abram] was a portly
fellow, loosely clad, a white homespun shirt and duck trowsers
constituting his only coming. The shirt was open at the breast,
displaying a broad massive trunk, like that of Hercules. The
sweat rolled down from his face and neck, or stood out upon
his skin in big bead-like drops that glistened like oil. His
deep breathing was like that of a young cayman, crying for
his supper. Never was being more happily unconscious of
what the morrow was to bring forth. A smart stroke of the
hickory over his shoulders suddenly enlightened him. A second
brought him to his feet, and fairly opened his eyes. Rubbing
his irritated shoulder with one hand, while he threw out the
other in defence, he cried —

“Wha' de debbil dat! who dat, I say, da hit maussa nigger
wid hick'ry?”

The stroke was repeated, and the fellow opened his eyes this
time to a full knowledge of the person in whose presence he
stood.

“Ki! Mass Willie, da you?”

“And this is the way, you rascal, that you watch the camp
when I am gone?”

“Psho, maussa, I bin see you all de time! I know he bin
you from de fuss [first].”

“Then you must have a famous passion for hickory, you rascal,
to receive three cuts of it before letting me know that you
were awake.”

“Psho! de hick'ry aint hutt [hurt].”

“Ah! will you try a little more of it?” But the black retreated,
rubbing his shoulders afresh.

“Thank you, Mass Willie; but 'scuse me, ef you please; no
more dis time. Next time, maybe, I will tank you for anoder
tas'e [taste].”

“You will get more than a taste, 'Bram, if I catch you another
time, sleeping in broad daylight, when your business was
to keep close watch until Ballou came in. Suppose the tories
had found you out?”

“Oh! maussa, he bin so hot dis ebning, and I jis bin loss
myself wid sleep when you bin coming. I no bin quite 'sleep
neider, for I t'ink I bin yerry de hoss, and t'ink I bin see somebody
cross my eye jis when you come up on de hammock. I
don't t'ink I bin loss myse'f 't all.”

“Shut up, and don't lie to me, 'Bram! But this sort of
watching will never do! Suppose it had been one of Carmichael's
tories instead of me?”

“How tory guine fin' he way yer, Mass Willie?”

“How did we find our way here?”

“Oh, we berry differen' sort of people, maussa. We hab
sense, maussa. More dan dat, enty I know dem tory is all gone
up de country wid de red coats.”

“But they are coming back as fast as possible, and some of
them will no doubt arrive in Orangeburg to-night or to-morrow.”

“Ki! you say so, maussa?”

“Yes, indeed, you rascal; and if this is the way that you
watch when you are sent out, we shall have a round chance of
being taken, — every mother's son of us, by Coffin's cavalry, or
Fisher's scouting parties.”

“Wha' de use for you talk so, Mass Willie, when you knows
its onpossible. How dem poor little carrion hoss of Coffin guine

run we down? How dem dutty [dirty] nigger of Fisher guine
fin' we out? Enty I know he can't come it, try he bes'; as for
dem cabalry of Coffin, he gone up t'ree week ago. I shum [see
um] when he pass t'rough Orangebu'g. He bin down, some of
dem, to young missis place, and bring off heap of corn and fodder.
I speck Pete Blodgit will tell you all 'bout it when you
axes um; dat is, if he aint too big a rascal; and I'm jubous
'bout he rascality — dat same Pete.”

“What do you know about it, 'Bram?”

“He sell de cawn and fodder, maussa, to de redcoat. He git
de money for 'em.”

“I know that already. But did you learn how much he sold?”

“I bin watch close. He sell heap. De redcoat feed dere
t'ree days; den he carry off t'ree, sebben, five, eleben wagon
loads of cawn and fodder — all up to Orangebu'g.”

“No, nonsense, 'Bram. I know you don't love Pete Blodgit,
but that's no reason why you should lie about him. How many
wagon-loads were carried off?”

“I speck he hab seben or eleben, maussa, da's a trute.”

“Seven — or eleven!”

“Yes; de cawn bin at de bottom, de fodder on top. I can't
tell how much, but Pete get money for 'em. I see de goul'in
he hand, more dan I kin count.”

“That, too, I know; but can you guess how much?”

“He hab he han' full — more dan full! I see dat! But I
can't count 'em, whay I bin hide!”

“Where did you hide to see all this?”

“Bury up in de fodder in de loff [loft]. I lay down wid my
mouth 'pon hole in de floor, an' I bin look t'rough de floor 'pon
Pete Blodgit and the o'd'ly sargen' where him an' Pete bin
down in the stable. He git he han' full of goul' guinies; dat I
know; and he hab han', maussa — you ebber bin obzarb Pete
Blodgit han', maussa! — he hab hand like shubble [shovel]!”

“I believe you are right, 'Bram, about the measure of his
hands, but —”

“To be sure, I right! He heb em like shubble, for true;
and he kin shet he han' on wha' he git, maussa, I tell you. Ha!
dat Pete Blodgit, maussa;—keep you eye 'pon 'em! You guine
fin' 'em out yit, some day. He's a most dutty rascal.”

“Hush, 'Bram: no more of that. I will keep my eye upon
both of you. And now, what of Ballou? Has he been drinking
again?”

“He guine ebber lef' off drink, maussa, so long as Jimmaker
run? Jim Ballou mus' drink if he hab Jimmaker. He
soak all day las' Sunday.”

“Was he sober the day when he went off?”

“I speck so; but dere's no telling, maussa. He so usen to
drink, dat, drunk or sober, he hab he leg always.”

“You were down at Holly-Dale, 'Bram, and saw Henry.”

“Nebber see Mass Henry; he bin gone somewhar'. See
Miss Bertha. He [she] ax 'bout you, maussa! Ha! You bin
look 'pon em when he ax 'bout you, wid he eye look down,
and de red kibber [cover] all he face, you feel warm all 'bout
de heart. He's a most beautiful gal child, is Miss Bert'a.”

“Did you see the old gentleman?”

“Wha'! de cappin? Enty he cuss me, for d—n bull-head
son ob a buffalo! Look yer, Mass Willie, keep you eye sharp
'pon dat same ole Cappin Trabis. He hab heep o' dealing wid
dem tory in de Fork. He eat dinner wid dem redcoat in de
garrison at Orangebu'g. He git British guineas and high price
for ebbry t'ing he kin sell in Orangebu'g. You t'ink he hab
good feeling for you, Mass Willie, cause you fadder and him
bin togedder in de ole Cherokee war! — you t'ink he look kin'
'pon you when you gone to see Miss Bert'a? nebber blieb em!
He's no better, I tell you, dan a d—n tory.”

“Silence, sir. No more of this.”

“I can't silence, maussa! Look you, enty I look 'pon em,
arm in arm, walking de piazza wid dat Dick Inglehardt. You
know Dick Inglehardt. Enty he tory to de backbone? Well,
you know wha' he go for when he gone to Holly-Dale?”

The negro watched the effect of his information upon his
master's visage. He did not deceive himself in the conjecture
that what he said would make the other look grave. With a
subdued voice, the master inquired:—

“Was Richard Inglehardt at Holly-Dale when you were
there the other day?”

“To be show [sure] he bin day! Big as a gineral, walking
up and down de piazza, as who but he!”

“Did he see you, 'Bram?”

“Catch me at dat, Mass Willie! Oh! no, when I shum, I
back into de bush. I know bery well, ef he see 'Bram, he say
to hesef—'Bram maussa no fur off. He bin day heap o' times
lately, I speck. I shum riding out from Orangebu'g wid de ole
cappin. Bote of dem hab shot in de eye.”

“What! drunk?”

“Jis' dat, and not'ing else; but 'twas arter dinner, Maussa,
close on to sundown, and when a genpleman has a sawt o' right,
you know, to onsettle his standing wid a sawt o' sentiment.”

“You are getting equally elegant in your modes of thought
and speech, Abram; and if you would only drop your habit of
swearing, there's no telling the degree of elegance to which you
might arrive. But let us look into your cabin. I want my
homespun.”

“Wha'! you guine a 'sguising yourself agin, Mass Willie. I
speck you guine right off now to Hollydale. You mus' look
sharp 'bout you ef you guine dere.”

“No matter where I go, 'Bram; it is not exactly my cue to
let you know all my movements.”

“Ha! you better! you better tek [take] me wid you. You
git in trouble some day, when 'Bram aint close by to help you
out o' de ditch. Dem tory will sure for fin' you out, some day,
t'rough all dat 'sguising; and taint yaller homspun, and coon-skin
cap, and bushy wig and whisker wha' guine hide you from
'em, when you stan' up so straight in your mocksens, and show
sich leg as dat t'rough your leggins.”

“You are a cunning rascal, 'Bram,” replied the other with a
smile, laying his hand upon the negro's shoulder kindly as he
spoke, while the latter applied his key to the padlock. The
door of the cabin was open, and the two went in together.

When, after a space, the master reappeared from the cabin,
he was completely disguised in the rude, simple garments of
the poorest sort of countrymen. He had, besides, taken the
precaution to stain his face and hands, with a thin decoction of
some native roots from the woods, so that the fair white and
red of his complexion were hidden in a gipsy sort of bronze,
which, to any but a very close examination, would seem natural
enough.

We do not care to report the further dialogue between the
parties. It will not concern our narrative. The master extended
his hand.

“And now, 'Bram, I must leave you. I must ride to Pete
Blodgit's to-night. Take care of yourself, and do not leave
the cabin on any account till Ballou returns. One or other
of you must be here always. I have dropped a letter in the
hollow for Colonel Singleton. Should he come while you are
here, or any of his officers, say to him, or them, that the Great
Buffalo means to lie down for awhile, and rest upon the hills.”

“De high hills, Mass Willie.”

“Ay, ay, the high hills of Santee; and say further, that the
Gamecock wants them to hear his crow, and join him for a
great flight below.”

“I comperhends, maussa. I knows. De Gamecock—”

“I only wish you to repeat what I say, 'Bram; it is not
necessary that you should comprehend it. If you have one
fault, 'Bram, more than another, which I could wish you to
correct, it is that of being a little too wise for your master.”

“Oh! psho, Mass Willie. Git out! Don't be a poking fun
wid a sharp finger at you nigger. But, one ting, Mass Willie.
I yer say day hab mak' you promoted. You's a ginneral now,
or somet'ing or udder like it.”

“Only a major, 'Bram; only a major!”

“But dat's de nex' ting, or mighty close on to a ginneral,
I'm a t'inking.”

“Good-bye, 'Bram!”— offering his hand.

“God bless you, Mass Willie; God for ebber bless you, and
sen' you safe, wid a warm spur, trough de berry camp ob de
enemy.”

“The prayer may be more reasonable than you dream of,
old fellow. Good-bye, 'Bram.”

He shook the negro's hand affectionately and departed as he
came. 'Bram followed him to the edge of the hammock, and
when he had gone from sight — buried in the thick woods in
front — and when his horse's tread could be heard no longer, the
faithful slave murmured, with half a sigh, a tear glistening in
his eye as he turned back to his cabin:—

“God bress he heart! God bress he heart! I lub 'em like

my own chile. But I always fear'd when I shum go off widout
'Bram. I knows wha' he is, for running he hoss 'mong dem
tory. He aint fear'd of dem tory no more dan I fear'd of
grasshopper. Le' [let] any of dem speak to him wid sassy
tongue, and how he will smash he teet'. Ha! I 'member dat
scrimmage by M`Code ferry; den de one down by Lenud's;
den up ag'in in Lynch's; I yer de ole Gamecock say, hese'f,
dat Willie Sinclair is all h-ll for a charge! I so wish I bin
wid em.”

But we will leave the slave to his meditations, while we follow
the footsteps of his master, whose present occupation, we
may whisper in the reader's ear, contemplates equally his own
and the affairs of the partisan cavalry under the command of
Marion.