University of Virginia Library

31. CHAPTER XXXI.
DOUBT, ANXIETY, PREPARATION.

“You had the start of them twelve hours, major. They
tracked you to Turkey hill. They lost you there.”

“How do you know that, Ballou?”

“I tracked them, and found where they were at fault. I
know how they missed you. They followed your trail to the
stable, and supposed they followed it back to the house when
you set out again. But you did not go back to the house,
though that was the common way, when you went off. Your
horse wasn't brought up to the house at all. You went to the
stable, and there mounted. I found your moccasin track in the
sand by the post of the gate. When you left the stable you
went out of the back door, there you mounted, and went right
down into the creek; you kept the creek up for twenty yards,
when you went out upon the banks, and there took the Granby
road down for a while, when you struck into Cawcaw swamp,
and kept the edge of it till you were within a mile of the village;
there you fastened your horse to a hickory, on the edge
of a bay that was a sink hole — and pushed out straight for the
village. I reckon from the footmarks of the horse, stamping
where you hitched him, that you had him there half the night.
You brought him out twenty large ears of corn — no nubbins —
and three bundles of fodder. You brought it yourself; for there
were no foot-tracks but your own. When you mounted again,

which I reckon you did just about daylight, you took the road
on the outside of the village till you struck in for the bridge;
there you crossed, pushed up the river road for a bit, then went
into cover, and hitched your nag again, and kept him some
hours hitched, when you pushed forward again, and made through
the woods till you got to the bluff at Holly-Dale. Before I had
done tracking you to the village, 'Bram caught up with me, and
when we had tracked you to Holly-Dale, we crossed the river
at the ford below, and I planted 'Bram in the camp opposite the
Holly-Dale landing, where he was to signal you.”

“So far right — all as you say, Ballou! But what made you
separate from 'Bram?”

“I didn't think he was of much account in helping me —”

“Wha' dat! Ha! 'Bram nobody, I 'spose?”

“Yes, you're good enough, 'Bram, and could ha' helped me,
as I found afterward, but I didn't think it then. The business
then before me was to find the trail of Devil Dick and Brunson.
That was the true business, and it has kept me mighty busy I
can tell you — mighty busy ever since I left your trail. For
you see Dick and Brunson divided, and I could never get on
the spot where they did divide, and they worried me from side
to side, with the crossing of their trails, and I did not dare to
leave 'em to bring up 'Bram for fear I should lose 'em both.
But I soon found that when they had lost you at Turkey hill,
they guessed it boldly that you'd make for Holly-Dale, and
here they come, almost in a bee-line.”

“Ah! — well!”

“They've been on your track more than once, but I don't
think they found out our ford until to-day, even if they've found
it out at all, and what with your constant changes, and the use
of the dug-out both here and at Captain Rowe's, they've been
kept mighty busy to get and keep on the track. Well, as I
was to watch after them that were a-watching after you, I had
nothing to do but to keep their trails warm, and that's been
work enough. To-day, Devil Dick laid eyes on you, I reckon,
for the first time. He must have seen you go into the wood
with Captain Travis. He was hid — that is, his horse — which
is Pete Blodgit's by rights — was hid on the opposite side of
the bay where you and the captain sat and talked. I reckon

he was not more than three hundred yards of you all the time,
but I couldn't find his trail anywhere from his horse's.”

“He couldn't have heard our speech.”

“I don't know, but I reckon not. The bay was thick and
wide, more than a hundred yards across, and, as I tell you his
nag was fastened in the woods t'other side. If he had been
watching near enough to hear you, he would have been quite
near enough to shoot you both, and I reckon there was no good
reason why he shouldn't do it, if he could. He passed me going
down — I suppose after you had gone up — about fifty yards off,
and was then going it, in a smart canter, toward the village.
If I had been mounted, I could have overhauled him as he
rode, but my horse was hidden half-a-mile off, and I was snaking
it toward the bay, where I know'd you had gone in. As
for `the Trailer,' I lost his track yesterday, and couldn't stop
to hunt it up, being so keen after Devil Dick's, though from
what 'Bram tells me, and what I know myself, it must have
been him who shot at you this afternoon. 'Bram says 'twas a
pistol-bullet, and Brunson and Devil Dick, both have pistols
and nothing else, except perhaps a knife; and there's been no
hostile person, that I could find, upon any of the tracks hereabout
in the last three days. Of course that's always excepting
the visit of Captain Inglehardt and four of his mounted men to
Holly-Dale; but they took openly up the main road.”

Sinclair listened to this narrative with close attention, interrupting
it only when he desired fuller details in regard to particular
facts. Ballou resumed, and closed thus:—

“I pushed after Devil Dick, till I made sure that he had
crossed the bridge, and had gone into the village. Then I
turned about and pushed up where I thought I should find you.
But I thought it best to snake awhile on the old trail of Brunson,
for I was jubous he was going to give us trouble; and so it was
that I happened to come upon 'Bram, who was crawling over a log,
and forgetting himself, and giving a grunt like an old hog every
now and then; as if a good scout wasn't always a silent dog.”

“I hu't [hurt] myse'f on de log, das wha' mek me grunt; and
ef you bin hu't youse'f like me, Mass Ballou, I reckon you lay
up t'ree day wid grunts and 'flictions.”

Ballou didn't notice this resentful speech. He resumed:—

“It's for you, major, to say what's to be done. There's no
saying what Devil Dick's gone to Orangeburg for. But he's
after mischief. He's a deserter from Inglehardt's own rangers,
and so's Brunson, but they'll join again, if Inglehardt'll let
them. My idee is that he's gone to make terms with his old
captain, and that he expects to catch you here at Holly-Dale.
So, look out — that's all — be on the look out.”

“Bertha, I must see your father. You and Henry must now
return to the house. But you will scarce need any more sleep
to-night, eh?”

This was said archly, and he walked on with the damsel, in
the direction of the dwelling, and their parting words were inaudible
to other ears.

“Henry,” said he to the boy —“are you willing to do duty?”

“Anything, Major Willie, for you.”

“Do you know the place called `Bull-fight Pond'?”

“Yes, every cypress round it.”

“Can you get a horse by sunrise to-morrow and canter off
there, letting nobody know but Bertha?”

“Yes, I can do it, if I let nobody know. But if father or
mother guessed it, they'd never suffer it. They're for keeping
me a boy always.”

“Take this ring, ride thither as soon as you can in the morning;
you will probably find the troops of St. Julien there. Give
him that ring, by which he will know that you come from me,
and tell him that he must use his spurs. Let him come off with
you, and see that he hides away in the wood on the opposite
side of the road just fronting your upper avenue. He will know
my signal, and when he arrives here and puts himself in cover,
tell him to hang out his as agreed on.”

The brother and sister moved quickly to the house. Sinclair
lurked about the edges of the thin wood which lay between
him and the river. The two scouts kept watch on the thickets
below. Soon, Captain Travis joined our major of dragoons, and
received in brief sentences, the report made by Ballou.

It staggered him.

“This is unfortunate. It will precipitate events. I expected
to break with him, and was preparing to defy him. To-morrow's
interview will probably enable me to do that. But—”

The other interrupted him.

“Of that interview he can know nothing. I have no reason
to suppose that this spy has arrived at anything more than the
fact that we have been together, and that I am harbored at
Holly-Dale. He has only reached me, by suspecting that I
would be here.”

“And Inglehardt will seek you here? He hates you, and
would destroy you without remorse.”

“I know it — but fear nothing for myself. I shall be prepared
for Inglehardt and will gladly welcome the struggle with
him. But there is one whom I am loath to peril here, with the
chances of a conflict before me, the results of which are doubtful.
Why not defer this interview?”

“To me it would probably be fatal! To save myself I shall
have to fly — whither? To the doubtful securities of the
American party. No! not unless I had the one guaranty from
the only hand that can give it. I must have his pledge. I
will trust no other.”

“But can you not put yourself in hiding until the opportunity
for the meeting is afforded you?”

“That would be fatal to my fortunes. It would be equivalent
to a full confession of all that might be charged against me,
and would lead to the confiscation of all my effects.”

“Your negroes might be run this very night. 'Bram will take
charge of them to and across the Santee.”

“I will not risk that. I know that Rawdon with his twelve
hundred men are approaching from the Congaree. I know
that Stewart, with a like force and convoy, is pressing up from
below, to a junction with Rawdon. Between these armies the
risk would be immense, since they necessarily preclude the
possibility of any American parties between.”

“Not so conclusive. Greene is in full pursuit of Rawdon,
and his forces consist mostly of mounted infantry. Sumter,
Washington, Marion, and Lee, working apart at this moment,
are under orders for co-operation. They will unite and force
Rawdon to an engagement, with the odds all on our side. But
do you know that Cruger is pressing down from Ninety-Six
with a force of twelve hundred also, the garrison at that place,
and all the loyalists of the region, the men all mounted, and

ordered to take this very route between the forks of Edisto?
Judge what are the chances of safety for your negroes, if Cruger
finds them here, and learns from Inglehardt that you have
abandoned the royal cause.”

Travis clasped his head between his hands.

“On every side I see the danger. But Cruger is not here
yet, and can not well be here under three days; and I will not
— I dare not — trust the Americans with my property, until I
have the guaranty of that one signature which alone can insure
me safety. If it comes to the worst, Major Sinclair, I can always
buy off Inglehardt.”

“With the hand of your daughter?” said the other indignantly.

“Ay, sir! and a child, for whom a father has toiled all his
life, may well make a sacrifice in his behalf, which will insure
her all that he has toiled for.”

Sinclair strode the ground to and fro, with impatience, anxiety,
and a feverish vexation, which he could scarcely suppress
from speech.

“Captain Travis,” he said, “is it possible that you do not
see what you require me to put in peril — the very destinies of
the state?”

“I can not help it, sir! I must have the required securities.
None other will avail me. But I do not think that Inglehardt
will attempt anything so soon. He knows not what we know.
He only knows that you have been with me — that you are
lurking about — and that I am dealing with you, and so against
himself.”

“And will not this precipitate his action?”

“Not till he is stronger. His force is small, and he will apprehend
from Coulter.”

“Captain Travis, I pledge you my life that you will receive
the required indemnity without needing his presence here. I
will guaranty it. Say the word, and I despatch Ballou to keep
him from coming here. I will remain, and do what I can toward
receiving Inglehardt in a proper manner.”

But Travis had become dogged in degree with his own apprehensions.

“I must have the signature — the certificate — and then I

care not how soon the issue comes. I shall then be ready for
any event. But I know too well the tender mercies of the
whigs to the loyalists to trust them without written security,
which shall acknowledge my services, now, while the war lasts,
and after it, when the reign of peace shall witness the resentments
of society against the victims of war. I must insist upon
the arrangement or nothing.”

“Be it so. I shall submit the facts to himself, though I ride
all night. He shall determine for himself.”

“Remember, Major Sinclair, how many necks of Charleston
citizens lie in my keeping!”

“Do not threaten, Captain Travis, I implore you!” was the
answer, in tones full of disgust.

“I can't help it, sir. Tell him all.”

“Enough; I will tell him all that it is proper he should
know. But, I would have you, as the father of Bertha Travis,
forbear a language which would give her pain, and can not do
you honor.”

“Oh! sir, I have survived the romantic notions of youth.”

“Honor and magnanimity are, I trust, not less the virtues
of age. Can it be, sir, that, under any circumstances, you
would give up to British vengeance, the people of whom you
speak?”

“I must make them, if need be, the price of my own security.”

“Heavens!” exclaimed Sinclair, striding away. He returned
a moment after.

“Sir — Mr. Travis — I will communicate with my principal
to-night. He shall know the risk which he is required to encounter,
and if he determine to meet you, I will do all that I
can to see that he does not suffer. If you will not trust me, he
may trust you; and I — I will put my trust, under God, in myself,
and my own resources. Enough then — I must hasten
from you. One word before we part. You have those fatal
papers in safety?”

“I have!”

“Let me give you a friend's counsel. If there be any of
your papers in the village likely to give you trouble, gallop
down there to-night, with all the secrecy you can, and get them
in your possession.”

“I am safe in that quarter.”

“So much the better. I leave you. If you do not hear from
me by midday to-morrow, take for granted that we withdraw
from the meeting. It is one which I dare not counsel now.”

The next moment, Sinclair had left the place, and, accompanied
by Ballou and Abram, was recrossing the river to his
camp. There, he gave commissions to both, which were to be
executed before morning, and while he himself prepared to
leave the swamp for a rapid ride toward the northeast, Ballou
set off for the ford with instructions to seek for Coulter; 'Bram,
on the other hand, sped away in the opposite direction.

“If there is to be treachery and danger,” said our major of
dragoons to him, “they shall not find me unprepared.”

At twelve o'clock, the next day, Travis received a slip, containing
these words:—

It was enough. Travis destroyed the paper as soon as he
had read it. He had heard nothing of Inglehardt. The day
was calm and bright. He did not believe that he had anything
to fear. Inglehardt was not likely to hurry himself. He did
not relish open demonstrations. He preferred a secret policy,
and this always requires time.

Where, meanwhile, was Sinclair? — where Ballou and 'Bram?
Young Henry Travis, too, has gone, unsuspected upon his mission
— brave, ambitious boy — speeding at a smart canter in
search of the troop of St. Julien. All are at work; all busy to
one end, the issue of which is yet deeply hidden beneath the
cloudy veil which ever hides the coming dawn. They are all
busy, and with cheerful hearts and hopeful spirits. But the
adverse stars are working. Their enemies are busy also; as
how should it be otherwise? — the natural antagonism of evil,
being the true motive-power for the exercise of good! Oh!
what an absurdity were Virtue, if Vice stood not confronting
her, with black aspect, and serpent cunning, and horrent spear!