University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.
THE SCENE CHANGES — NEW PARTIES.

We are to suppose, for the present, that our scouts, on
both sides, are equally prepared and willing to do the duties
agreed upon and assigned them; that one set of the outlaws
are to haunt the Barony, and watch for their chance, and take
advantage of it; that Dick of Tophet, with the Trailer, his associate,
is to “take the road” of Sinclair; and that these latter, in
return, are to be followed by Ballou and 'Bram, watchful of their
chances also, and especially pledged to see that their superior
suffers no harm. We are to suppose, farther, that, for the performance
of these several duties, the several parties are each
excellent in his way; and that there are to be fruits, growing
out of the tillage which they are to undertake, the quality of
which, affected as all tillage is apt to be by the sort of seasons
which the worker enjoys, may be of serious importance to all
of these parties, for good or evil. With these points understood,
we will leave them for a while, to operate secretly, while
we bestow our attention, for a brief space, upon Willie Sinclair,
whose movements are destined to bring us to the acquaintance
of other parties not yet present in our action.

The guerrilla, or partisan warfare, is necessarily one which
can only be characteristic of a very thinly-settled country —
one of great intricacies of swamp, forest, or mountain. It involves,
from this and the tributary causes, the necessity for a
great variety of duties; the warrior becoming, in turn, the
scout, the spy, the strategist, as well as the mere man-at-arms
and prize-fighter. We may gather from what we have shown
already, that Willie Sinclair had, besides, been recently required
by the nature of the service, to play the politician as well as spy.
He has been actually within the garrisoned city of Charleston

— garrisoned by a strong force of regulars — in the hands of
the enemy, to be detected by whom was sure to be followed by
short-shrift and sudden cord or shot. Yet he had lain there in
close concealment, and in close conference all the while with
leading citizens, for no less than three days. His emissaries,
meanwhile, had been busy in the parishes along the southern
seaboard, operating as far as Savannah, and even within the
lines of the garrison — that city being also a stronghold of the
British. The results, of great interest and value, contemplating
a general rising, which should include both these termini, were
all within his bosom, matter of life and death, upon which, in
some degree, the fate of the war in Carolina — it's prolongation
certainly — would greatly depend. We are not, therefore, to
feel any surprise to find Willie Sinclair taking the utmost precautions
for the safety of his person, as he pursues his way
toward the village of Orangeburg, a post of rest for the British,
commonly garrisoned by their troops, but at this juncture supposed
to be entirely free of their presence, in consequence of
the drafts which Lord Rawdon had been compelled to make
upon all his garrisoned places, in order to command resources
sufficiently large to take the field against the regular army of
Greene. Sinclair had nothing, accordingly, to apprehend from
this source — for a few days, at least — and his caution was
only to be exercised against small bodies of mounted tories,
riflemen, or cavalry, such as were commanded by native partisan
rangers, of whom Richard Inglehardt, a person of whom
we have had occasion to speak more than once, but whom we
have not yet had an opportunity of introducing to our readers,
was a very favorable specimen. Now, it was known that,
though somewhere about the Edisto, and in the precincts of
Orangeburg, Captain Inglehardt had none of his troop with
him. A wound in the arm, which had disabled him from active
service, had temporarily deprived him of his command, which
was operating with Rawdon's cavalry — an arm in which the
British general was weak — on the flanks of his army, scouting,
foraging, and doing the usual duties of cavalry, though really
mounted-riflemen. Still Inglehardt, it was also known, was not
sufficiently an invalid to be rendered idle of necessity, and it
was understood that he had been doing all the recruiting which
was possible to him, within a limited range along the Edisto.
What his success had been in this service — whether he had
secured few or many recruits — was a matter wholly unknown
to Sinclair, and rendered the utmost care necessary, on his part,
in making his approaches to the enemy's ground. He pursued,
for this reason, a somewhat circuitous route; and, stopping at
Rumph's place, on Turkey hill, to leave a whispered message
with a faithful negro, for the ears of his master, with which the
latter instantly “put out” — knowing very certainly where to
find him — Sinclair resumed his progress, and, riding at his
leisure, contrived to put himself in the cover of the Cawcaw
swamp, a tributary of the Edisto, and within a mile of Orangeburg,
just after night had settled down upon the forest. Here
he fastened his horse, hiding him away in a thicket which was
not easily penetrable, and with pistols carefully reprimed, and
his sword and knife convenient to his clutch, he took his way
out and upward, making fearlessly for the village.

The pretty little hamlet of Orangeburg, though so situated
as to constitute an important dépôt and port of rest and watch
during the existing war; and the uses of which, in the same
way, had been exercised in frequent colonial periods; was yet,
at the time of which we write, a very small settlement, numbering
somewhat less than two hundred inhabitants, white and
black, in very equal numbers. The village lies along the banks
of the North Edisto, half a mile from the river. It is neatly
laid out, with some regard to regularity, and contained in 1781
several very decent dwellings, according to the notions of that
day, and boasted of several well-bred and polished inhabitants;
some of whom were comparatively wealthy. The buildings
were usually of small size, seldom exceeding two stories, rooms
and chambers being on a contracted scale, as is still the case
mostly in the southern dwellings of the forest-country. There
were two taverns, and perhaps as many lodging-houses for
more private accommodation. A proof of the progress of civilization,
the jail was one of ample dimensions and adequate
strength, and so located as, in the event of necessity, to become
a citadel, overawing the settlement. It had been already used
for this purpose by the British. There was one great fabric
besides — a sort of bazar, the property of good old Christopher

Rowe, formerly an Indian fighter; in later periods a trader
with the Red-men, who were wont to assemble in great numbers,
Catawbas and Congarees, at his dwelling — the bazar in
question — which stood on the angle of a square at the lower
entrance of the village. Here he accumulated such stores as
the Red-men craved, and received in return their furs and peltries.
Here he had amassed a considerable fortune, retiring
from war, if not from trade, and holding a position, from age
and past performances, which suffered him, in his latter days,
to go unscathed by either party during the progress of the
Revolutionary feud. But, nearly down to this period, the Indian
bazar of the old trader was usually thronged with his
wild visiters, to the gratification of the lads of Edisto. Here,
under the exciting influence of the strong waters which they
too “parlously” loved, they danced and junketed after their
grotesque fashion; their rude sports sometimes proving quite
as troublesome to their more civilized neighbors — the boys excepted
— as they were grateful to themselves. But Kit Rowe,
as he was more familiarly known in the precinct, was well
aware of the processes by which to tame their humors, and
when a quiet suggestion, or an adroit diversion, failed to bring
them to order, he did not scruple to soothe them down with an
oaken towel — a sort of rule in which the old soldier had no
little faith. He had learned excellent lessons of discipline, particularly
among the Red-men, from frequent service in the old
French and Indian wars along the borders of the Carolinas and
Virginia — a region which admirably trained the young colonists
of the south for the great contest which was even then in
preparation with the mother-country. His commission in the
regiment of foot, led by Colonel John Chevillette, is still extant,
bearing the date of 1755, and the signature of Governor Glenn,
a civilian, whose ambition it was to make a military figure, without
the adequate bone and muscle for military boots. But all
this is digressive, particularly as our veteran has retired equally
from war and trade, and, at the period of our story, was in
the enjoyment of a tolerable degree of repose — as much as civil
war can possibly allow — under his own vine and fig-tree. His
dwelling, one of size as we have said, with sundry warehouses
contiguous, was now distinguished by as great a degree of quiet
as it was once noisy with its herds of Red-men. His grounds,
stretched down in numerous acres from the outskirts of the
village to a considerable distance along the river. One half of
this territory lay still in the original forest, and a portion of
this was swamp, dense, intricate, and overhung with majestic
trees, forming a proper place of harborage for the outlying
rebel.

To this harborage, avoiding the village even while compelled
to approach it, Willie Sinclair made his way, and when the
darkness promised to afford him adequate covering, he stole up
to the house of the veteran captain. The latter sat in his
piazza — a luxury with which no southern householder willingly
dispenses, and on the balaster sat a tankard of Jamaica moderately
dashed with simple water. They drank brave draughts
in those days, were tough of brain as of muscle, and increased
the potency of their potations at those hours when brain and
muscle were equally permitted to forego all daily duties. We
have reason to think that old Kit Rowe's noggin that night — at
that hour — nine, or thereabouts — was of especial flavor. We
may add, speaking from authority, that he was already half through
it, and was meditating its pleasantness of flavor, in the last toss
which he had taken, when his thoughts were suddenly turned
into a new and very different channel, by a peculiar whistle on
the edge of the wood, west of the dwelling.

He knew all about that whistle, and he answered it — and,
just here, a word or two may not be amiss on the subject of
the politics of the people in this section of the state. Of this
matter, we have already said something at the opening of this
narrative — have spoken at large in our historical summary at
the beginning; — but it may be proper here to repeat that the
Orangeburg precinct was divided in its sentiments with regard
to the Revolution, divided quite as much because of principle
as policy — that is, so far as the nature of the controversy
was understood. But the subject of controversy was not very
intelligible to our simple farmers, many of whom were foreigners,
speaking no other language than the German, and but few of
whom had ever been influenced by any motive prompting the
study of this, or any other topic, the knowledge of which could
only be gleaned from books. For that matter, when parties

rage, the true points at issue are rarely understood by the people
— are rarely made before the people by their politicians — and,
perhaps, are scarcely necessary to be made. But this aside.
Certainly, among our Dutch inhabitants along the Edisto, with
certain exceptions, the sentiment, whether for or against the
revolutionary movement, was by no means a warm or impassioned
one, except among the young men — and they, as usual,
were governed mostly by association, by feeling, and not by
any conviction of absolute duty, the result of a calm discussion,
and a full understanding of the controversy. The older inhabitants
accordingly, like Kit Rowe, stood aloof from the issue;
and as they had already served their time to the public exigency,
their scruples and indifference were regarded with a natural
and proper indulgence. Their sons, however, were not so
cautious. They were to be found in opposite ranks; though, as
rebellion has always a certain charm for young blood, the greater
number were with the Revolutionists, and this preponderance
as naturally determined the predilections of the aged and infirm.
Where they could not take the field themselves, they
worked in secret; found refuge for the fugitive, tended his hurts,
supplied his wants, furnished counsel and intelligence to the
more active, and did good service of which tradition alone preserves
the record. Marion encouraged these parties to keep up
a friendly intercourse with the British, and reaped the full
benefits of this policy.

But enough of this! Enough that good old Kit Rowe understood
that signal whistle, answered it, and put another tankard
in readiness, with the square Dutch pottle, a good half-gallon
receptacle, in near neighborhood of the ample cup from which
he was imbibing his own potent draughts.

The coast was clear, and Willie Sinclair soon made his appearance,
and joined the old man in the piazza.

“Take it strong, major,” said the veteran, pointing to the
vessel —“it's no use to waste good liquor upon thin water; and
I reckon you're off a long day's ride. The Jamaica is good;
— nine year-old in this house.”

“A nod's as good as a wink to a blind horse, captain, and it
needs neither nod nor wink to persuade a thirsty one. But our
heads are not quite as strong now-a-days, as when you first

studied the laws of drink and discipline, and — what do you
think of that?”— showing the color of the mixture.

“Too thin for service in hot weather and on a long day's
march.”

“'Twill do! 'twont exactly make my accounts square with
the world, but it will suffice to bring me round. And how do you
carry your shoulders, captain, under the heavy burdens of life?”

“Why, major, life is not a bad thing if you know how to
treat it well. I don't know but I could stand the weight of
twenty more years tacked on to mine. I shouldn't object to
taking a jump backward twenty years, for I find, major, that
the got is not so pleasant as the getting; and that it's in the use
of life and not the mere having it, that we find all the good of
it, and I reckon most of the religion too.”

“Ah! if you were twenty years younger, captain, I might
hope to see you on a trail now. Then I'd be sure you'd take
the field with the best of us, and have a famous dash now and
then at these British blackguards.”

“Yes, indeed; and any color of guards. But you're all
getting on very well without me.”

“Ah! how do you know that?”

“I don't know it. Precious little do we get to know in these
quiet parts. But I feel it. I judge by feeling pretty much,
and that brings me intelligence. There's something in the
wind that brings people knowledge of what's going on elsewhere.
There's signs that you can't see, that you only feel,
that help you to judge of the doings of the world. Now, though
I don't hear a syllable of what's doing between the two armies,
until its all over, yet I feel sure that the British are agoing
backward. It's strange that I feel so certain; but I've always
found a sort of — what do you call it — a sort of instinct, that
seemed to tell me what was to happen whenever the affair was
a great one, and likely to do us hurt, or give us help — to please
us or to trouble us. And just now, I'm as confident of our gains,
as if I had it from the best authority. Yet the last news was
that Rawdon was driving Greene before him, as a drunken
jockey drives a fast trotter; and didn't I see with my own eyes,
his three brand-new Irish regiments that he marched through
the village with from Charleston.”

“You are right. We are gaining ground; and it will not be
long before you see his lordship back with his new regiments a
little reduced in flesh and and spirit as in numbers.”

“They have it hot enough for long marching now. It's been
all day like blazes in the sky.”

“We shall probably have some fighting under your own eyes
before long. Greene has turned about upon Rawdon, and is in
pursuit of him in turn.”

And a long talk ensued between the two, in which Sinclair
recounted all those events, in the relative progress of the two
armies, which the other had not heard.

“He keeps his quarters there?”

“Where? at whose house?”

“Widow Bruce's, as you might have guessed.”

“True, so stout a loyalist as she is, with such a profound
faith in the graces and virtues of George the Third, must have
possessed infinite attractions for so good a subject. But, while
I can understand how he should desire to lodge with her, I do
not see why she should accommodate him. She is such an aristocrat
that, I fancied, even a good loyalist, unless backed by the
prestige of an ancient family, would hardly persuade her to receive
him. Besides, she's well off, and in receiving lodgers, has
usually admitted those only who could assert their dignities
without regard to their merits.”

“Oh! it's all owing to the times. Everything's in such confusion
now, that people who have got money need friends of all
sorts, just to help them to keep it. Widow Bruce is more civil
and condescending now than she was, and she takes in the drover's
son, who is captain of mounted men, and never troubles
his pride by telling him how often she has seen his dad, barelegged,
driving his steers to market.”

“Has he recovered from his wound.”

“Pretty much. It's a little stiffish, I reckon; but he's able
to use it. I saw him not three days ago on horseback, and he
used the wounded arm without any trouble that I could see.”

“How has he got on recruiting along the river?”

“Well, I reckon the chance for him was small. He haint

picked up many, and the few he's got ar'n't of much account.
But he's got some, and I reckon he'll keep 'em about him. If
he didn't, there's enough about the village, at times — now that
he's got over his wounds — to make a dash, and carry him off.
But don't you risk a good deal, major, to be coming here single-handed,
just about this time?”

No! I think not. I keep close, trust nobody, feel my way,
have weapon ready, and my horse harbors close at hand in the
swamp.”

“The famous black! Ah! he's a beauty, and deserves a
dragoon's confidence! But take care! There's some about
Orangeburg that don't love any of your blood, and would make
no bones of butchering you, or selling you to Inglehardt, for
the weight of one of your buttons in gold. I reckon you are
satisfied that Inglehardt would like no better trade than to buy
you at any price.”

“Ah! you think so?”

“Yes, indeed! If he knows as much as I do — if he knew
as well as me, how often you get up to Holly-Dale!”

“I suspect, my good old friend, that he knows quite enough
to feel no good will for me; I shall accordingly try to keep out
of his clutches while I can.”

“But, major, is it not rather a strange way to keep out of his
clutches, by coming, as I may say, almost into 'em?”

“No doubt, could he see or suspect my presence.”

“But he's all suspicion, major. He's the coldest, cunningest
slyest, most suspicious person you ever did see, and wonderfully
smart. He guesses at a thing sooner than any man I ever
knew. And he has his spies all about. And he's merciless
when he gets the whip-hand of you. Now, there would be no
chance for you, if he once had you in his power; and he'll get
you there, as sure as flint and steel, if you trust anything to
Captain Travis.”

“That is the chief danger, captain; and it so happens that I
must trust to Travis. I have business with him; must see him;
must risk something to do so; and must, in some degree, rely
upon his word.”

“Then let me just say one thing: keep knife and pistols
ready when you meet him; and, at the first wink of mischief,

out with steel and bullet and pitch into him, savage as an Indian
when he wants to feel the hair. There's no way else.
Travis is in and out of the village every day. Take him on
the roadside, and when he's had no chance to set his traps for
you. That's the way. You can find out if he comes into the
village to-morrow. It'll be soon after breakfast if he does.
Then waylay him and have your talk out in the bushes. I
know how you feel toward his daughter Bertha, and she's a girl
that's a sort of beautiful apology for a bad father, but I can't
help telling you just what I know is the truth. Beware of the
father, whatever you may feel for the child!”

We need not pursue this conversation, though the parties
did till a tolerably late hour, when Willie Sinclair, in
spite of the old man's invitation, took refuge in the swamp
with his horse, to whom he carried out an armful of fodder
and a sack of corn. We need scarcely state that Kit Rowe
gave the major a good supper, though at a late hour, which
was washed down with a fresh stoup of Jamaica, when the
young man was again exhorted to take it strong, as a security
against the night air. We do not say that he neglected the injunction.
There were some small matters of business, relating
to the war, transacted between them, which do not need more
particular mention, and the night had sped on to the small
hours ere they separated. At dawn, Willie Sinclair had crossed
the river, at the bridge, just below the village, and had planted
himself in waiting, close in the thicket, but near enough to
watch the river-road from above, taking Kit Rowe's counsel to
intercept Travis without notice, and in a spot where, if his purposes
were treacherous, he could possess no agencies, other than
his own, for putting them in execution.