University of Virginia Library

41. CHAPTER XLI.
SKRIMMAGING.

Very soon after Sinclair had left Holly-Dale — as soon after
as possible — the great cumbersome family carriage of Mrs.
Travis was got in readiness, and that lady and Bertha prepared
to depart from the well-known and familiar places, seeking
temporary refuge across the Santee. Four fine blooded bays
were harnessed to the coach, which was required to bear the
two ladies, the servant-maid, and the one-eyed driver, Cato.
The name of the old Roman, who never distinguished himself
as a whip, but might reasonably assert some distinctions for
himself, of another sort, was yet hardly misapplied in the case
of our Cato, who, very certainly had been a famous Jehu in
better days. He was the only family negro whom Travis, as a
novus homo could claim. He had inherited Cato in right of his
wife, and, as an old family negro, the fellow was held to be
faithful. This was the usual characteristic of the class. It
was the “new negro”— the African fresh from the coast, whom
it was found good policy always to distrust. Cato was not
simply faithful. He was sternly and bravely so. He was
fearless in the assertion of the rights of his “young missis,” by
which title he continued to recognise the mother of Bertha,
long after the latter had entered her teens. To both, and to
his master, Cato never hesitated to offer his opinions, and if
necessary, his rebuke. As if conscious of his integrity and of
its recognition in the family, he asserted his moral rights under
it, and was just as frequently guardian and censor, in his province,
as body-servant or carriage-driver.

Captain St. Julien readily comprehended the character of
Cato in his first conversation with him; and a judicious understanding
between the parties, at the commencement of the

journey, contemplated all the possible dangers that might happen
along the route. With so many divisions of the enemy
approaching the very precincts, through which the cavalcade
was to pass, they might reasonably apprehend some encounters
with a foe whom it was their policy to avoid.

The auspices were seemingly quite favorable when the party
set forth. They crossed the Edisto at Shilling's, and soon began
to press downward, inclining in toward Orangeburg, until the
Caw-caw swamp should be passed, when it was the policy of
St. Julien to give the village a pretty wide berth to the right,
in order to escape the danger of contact with Stewart and his
regiment, who were now known to be pushing up with all possible
speed to the junction with Rawdon. This danger once
passed, the farther progress was to be pursued along the road
running across the head of the “Four-Holes,” and intersecting
one of the two roads leading down the country, parallel to the
course of the Santee, until they should be able to strike direct
for Nelson's Ferry. Once in this road, which was supposed to
be in possession of Marion's parties, the progress was considered
safe.

Such was the arrangement. But it was subject to contingencies.
When St. Julien, timing his movements to those of
the lumbersome carriage of the family, was approaching the
lowest of the routes across the Caw-caw, one of his scouts rode
in and gave intelligence of a considerable body of the enemy's
horse on the other side. It became necessary to pursue, for
the present, a route along the upper margin of the Caw-caw,
keeping that stream and swamp between themselves and the
unknown enemy. In sooth, our little party had a very narrow
strait — almost as narrow as that bridge, Al Sirat, of the Mussulman's,
which conducts to heaven — by which to pass through
the converging masses of the British. There was Rawdon
from above, soured by sickness, irritated by the hot weather,
vexed at the failure of Stewart to join him at Granby, and
altogether in very bad temper, with the world generally, and
his Irish troops in particular, pressing down from Granby along
the eastern side of the North Edisto; Cruger, embarrassed by
the fugitive colonies of the Nine-Six loyalists, and followed
closely by Pickens, seeking a junction with Rawdon, as the

only means of making himself safe; Stewart, with his regiment
of buffs, and a large convoy of provisions and munitions,
goading on his teams the nearest road from Charleston; and
sundry scattered bodies of tories who had been busy as forayers,
while Greene and Rawdon were playing for heavier
stakes above.

Well might St. Julien, with his little squad of twenty-five
troopers, and his burdensome coach of state with its precious
inmates, feel the necessity of taking every possible precaution,
in order to escape being ground to powder between the several
masses then tending to a common centre. Yet, had he known!
The formidable troop, from which, misled by his scout, he
thought it necessary to skulk, consisted of a detachment of
Marion's command, just despatched by Greene with the hope
of intercepting Stewart and his convoy. Under the cover of
the four hundred mounted men, whom the famous partisan led
on this expedition, St. Julien might have made a safe progress,
fourteen or fifteen miles; since all the country east of Stewart's
route, and below the Caw-caw, was now fairly under cover of
his rifles. Leaving St. Julien to his obscure road, we will take
that pursued by Marion.

It was on the 6th of July that Greene succeeded in passing
Lord Rawdon. Reserving to himself a single company of
Washington's cavalry, simply to watch the progress of the
British army, Greene despatched Marion on the expedition
against Stewart. Marion kept himself usually well-informed.
On the 7th of July, his scouts apprized him of the approach of
Stewart, who was totally unconscious of an enemy. At midnight
of the same day, Marion sallied out from his covert confident
of the prey which seemed gliding fairly into his jaws,
even as the fly walks into the open mouth of the crocodile.
But, for once, his scouts were premature — had made themselves
too secure of fortune. They had tracked the enemy to
the door of the trap, but never once seemed to fancy that he
might turn aside at the entrance. They had made no provision
against the very event which happened. At the last moment,
Stewart had a choice of roads, and influenced only by the condition
of the roads themselves, and totally unapprehensive of
any foe, the British colonel simply took the route which Marion

did not cover; and while the partisan swept down for his
destruction along the one route, Stewart made his way upward
in safety by the other. Not altogether in safety, for a dash of
one of Marion's squadrons, recovering lost ground, succeeded
in cutting off the rear guard, with a portion of the convoy.
Stewart, himself, with the main body of his troop, entered
Orangeburg on the morning of the 8th, hardly yet conscious of
the danger he had escaped.

While these events were in progress, St. Julien moved forward
slowly, and with great precaution. He kept his scouting
parties considerably in advance. He had been some three hours
only on the road, after leaving Holly-Dale, when his scouts
rode in with tidings of a second British party only a mile off,
consisting of some thirty men. They were reported to be
putting their horses in motion; but, of their course, nothing was
known. It was just possible that they might be pursuing another
route; possible, that they might not cross his path. It was,
perhaps, easy for him to elude them. But it was well to know
who they were. They were at present in his way. They
were but thirty in number, and his force was twenty-five. St.
Julien resolved in a single instant. He was the quietest person
in the world, but the most decisive. He drew his lieutenant
aside, gave him brief directions in a whisper, then watched him
quietly for awhile, as he divided the command into two parts,
and led them forward slowly, leaving but four troopers to follow
with their captain. The squads thus moving off turned slowly
into the woods on the upper side of the road, and very soon
disappeared from sight.

As soon as St. Julien had seen them disappear, he rode up to
the side of the carriage, and with a pleasant smile upon his lips,
and a courtier-like bow, he said:—

“We are possibly to have a brush with the enemy. Our
scouts report a squad of tories on the route ahead. It is needful
that I should look after them. But this need not alarm
you, ladies. Do not be uneasy. I make no doubt we shall
readily disperse them; but, whatever the event, I have given
Cato instructions what to do. He seems firm and intelligent,
and should any disaster befall my command, you had better trust
him implicitly.”

“But will you have to fight, Captain St. Julien?” demanded
Mrs. Travis, in faltering tones.

“It is very probable,” was the reply.

“But, captain, could it not be avoided?”

St. Julien's face slightly reddened.

“It might! The thing is surely possible. It only needs
that I should forget myself, my duty, my name, my orders, and
take to flight; in which event, while I should get off safely,
your carriage and party would probably fall into the hands of
the pursuers.”

“Nay, captain, do not mistake me. I should be the last person
to desire, even for my safety, that you should do anything
discreditable to manhood: and you will please remember, besides,
that it is a woman who speaks, whose feminine fears must
not weigh against a soldier's judgment. My only thought was
that — that — really, I see, that what I would say now amounts
only to what I said before — that it seems our best policy to
avoid encounter. If we could elude the enemy—”

“Such would be your policy, my dear madam, and if my
only duty was your escort, I should seek only your safety, at
any sacrifice. But you will remember that my military duties
are paramount. It is only an incidental service which keeps
me beside your carriage for a while. It would not be proper
for me to evade or to seek to evade any reasonable chance of
striking the enemy, even though at some peril to your escort.
But, in truth, we have no choice. The enemy is before us, in
no great strength — in numbers hardly beyond our own. We
can not pass him without a meeting. If we attempt to cross
the Caw-caw, we risk the encounter with Stewart; and you
have been already advised of the enemy's presence in force at
the lower crossing. To turn back upon our own steps, is perhaps
quite as great a danger, as we know that Rawdon is pressing
down from above, and can not now be far off. You see,
my dear madam, that our best policy is to seek to brush the
feebler enemy from our path in front, and to delay as little in
doing so as possible. Good morning, Mrs. Travis. Good morning,
Miss Bertha. By the way, Miss Bertha, you may find some
very pretty wild flowers in this wood. Just take your course
downward for the swamp, as soon as Cato stops the carriage. He

will drive into the lower woods, so as to keep from sight of the
road. A little ramble will relieve your limbs for a season. In
these piney woods, where they slope down to the bays, you will
find a great variety of flowers, and I should be pleased, on my
return, to see you with a handsome bouquet. Here, at this
very season, you will find the yellow orchis, which is a pretty
country damsel; the passion flower may be gathered where the
woods are most open; its carnation contrasts beautifully with
the blue pulchra; throw a few springs of sensitive plant between
them; and then sprinkle the white azalea around and about the
cluster; the garden-shrub grows wild in all this region; the
brilliant silk weed, with its rich blood tints, and the cardinal
flower, will wonderfully help your variety; the yellow and purple
saracenia, and the blue flag, you will gather along the
swamp, but look out for snakes where you seek for these.
There is a dragon that always watches over Beauty. Don't
forget the “wake robbin,” and the “old man's beard,” the leafy
green look of the one, and the snow-white fringes of the other,
will greatly help the contrasts; and if you will make your girl
gather you a single pond lily from the bay, for the centre of
your group, you will have as beautiful a bouquet as Marie Antoinette
would be proud to plant upon her toilet. Pardon me
that I am not suffered to join with you in the search. I am
passionately fond of flowers. I half believe them to be fallen
angels — particularly these odorless wild flowers. By the way,
do you know why they are so odorless and so beautiful, Miss
Bertha?”

“No, indeed! Why? I am curious for the reason.”

“Because they are designed as field and wayside flowers
only, and thus address themselves only to the passing eye —
meant only for the sight, to cheer the traveller, not to delay
him — and this reminds me that I have no time to lose” —
taking out his watch. “Good morning, ladies, and a pleasant
ramble. Cato!”

“Sah! cappin!”

“Remember, Cato, what I have told you.”

“Nebber you f'aid [afraid] cappin! I onderstands. I do
wha' you tells me. He done! I say 'em!”

Cato waved his whip, and nodded his head with the air of

a man who would round his periods conclusively. But St. Julien
waited for no answer. With a smile and bow to the ladies, and
a finger lifted to Cato, he bent forward on his charger, gave him
the spur, and followed the route which his lieutenant had pursued.
He overtook his troopers as they worked forward, silent
as serpents, trailing through the woods.

Not a bugle sounded; not a voice spoke above a whisper;
but quietly gliding from officer to officer and man to man, St.
Julien whispered the necessary orders and encouragement to
all. He aimed to surprise his enemy; an achievement which
he thought easy enough, after the report made by his scouts.
And he proceeded to this sort of business with the same calm,
subdued, and gentle manner, with which he had counselled the
young damsel of the wild flowers of the region and how best to
compose them into a bouquet.

“Ha!” said Cato, “he hab 'trong sense for sodger, dat same
slim cappin. He no hab black eye and leetle mout' for not'ing.
I see de debbil in he eye, for all he talk so softly and small
jes' like a gal. He no gib too much tongue. You no yer [hear]
bugle blow. He hush 'em up. He's for ambushment fight, I
tell you. He guine 'trike jes' like rattlesnake!”

“But what are we to do, Cato?” demanded his mistress.

“Enty de cappin, he'se'f, tell you Cato is know? Nebber
you min'. Jes' leff it all to me, young missis.”

“But, Cato, I should like to know something too. What is
there secret in these instructions of Captain St. Julien?”

“Hegh! Da's jes' like ooman's! He mus' be knowing to
ebbry t'ing. Wha' good he guine do you for know? De
cappin know, Cato know: — Wha' den? You guine alter wha'
de cappin say?”

“No, Cato, but I would like to know what it is.”

“You know soon 'nough, when you see what Cato guine
done.”

And no further answer would the fellow vouchsafe, as he
wheeled his horses to the right and drove them down toward
the swamp, and sufficiently far into the thicket to conceal the
vehicle from any wayfarers along the road.

“Der you is — all safe!” cried the negro, as he held up his
horses. “Reckon dem tory nebber can see we yer from de

road. Ef he want for fin' we, he mus' put he nose down to de
groun' and run' in. An' now, you yerry wha' de cappin bin tell
you. Git out ef you wants to, and 'tretch you limb, and pick
de yaller flowers ob de forest. Ha! he's a berry 'trange sawt
o' pusson, dat cappin; jes' he guine fight wid broadsword and
pistol, he tell we 'bout de flowers ob de forest, and whay for
look for 'em, and all dem 'ting wid big name. And jes' wid he
mout' full ob flowers, he guine cut down de hossman and de
hosses, and shoot de people as he run!”

And the ladies descended from the carriage, and began to
look about for flowers, when suddenly there was a sharp blare
of the bugle, and then a confused sound, a strange hum, as of
numerous insects, rising rapidly into the uproar, the clash and
clang of a very spirited combat, hand to hand and a l'outrance.

St. Julien's broadswords were soon at breakfast, their teeth
meeting in the flesh.

He was deliberate — very much so — as a man of action; but
he consumed very little time in his deliberations. It was
only to possess himself of all the facts in the case, as gatherable
from his scouts, that he drew rein for a brief moment in the
wood.

The enemy were to be surprised. They were in possession
of an old mill-seat, on the Caw-caw. They were scattered along
a narrow causeway. They had breakfasted, and whiskey had
been their substitute for coffee. They were refreshed, and,
something more, exhilarated — never once dreaming of an
enemy so near them. On the contrary, under the lead of a
notorious Florida outlaw, one Lem Watkins, after a season of
foray on the South Edisto and Savannah, they were preparing
to unite themselves with the main army, and to share in its expected
spoils. Their horses stood ready bitted, saddled and
bridled for a start. Some were fastened to branches of trees
upon the roadside; others might be seen upon the causeway
leading to the mill; Watkins himself, with a group, was taking
a stirrup-cup, just above the stream itself, which happened to be
quite low and fordable. A dozen of them were in the saddle,
when, these details all previously ascertained by the scouts of
St. Julien, and his troop having worked their way down under
cover of the woods until concealment was no longer possible, he

gave the signal, and his bugle rolled out the sharp blasts which
sounded to the charge.

Then rose the wild hurrah, the savage whoop! and the dragoons
thundered down upon the enemy. The tories, who were
dismounted, rushed for their horses. Those who were mounted
dashed forward along the causeway down into the swamp.
Watkins dropped his bottle of whiskey into the stream, and
scrambled across it to the opposite bank where his horse was
fastened. Here he mounted, and wound his bugle, and shouted
to his troopers to show front and not be ridden down. They
might have done so; since the causeway, for a space, was but
of wagon-width, and might have been held against thrice the
number of foes, by the half-dozen troopers who would have
covered it. On each side the ground was mucky and fenny.
But a surprise is apt to prevent all mental calculations.

The tories made two or three shows, wheeling about and displaying
a front to their assailants. But the charge was too
rapid — too headlong, and so, irresistible. To keep ahead, to
dash across the causeway and stream, and find cover in the
opposite woods, seemed the common impulse of the fugitives,
and a fair proportion of them succeeded in doing so — those who
perished along the route under St. Julien's sabres, just offering
sufficient impediment to delay the onslaught for the safety of
the rest. But once was there anything like a conflict. Three
brave fellows planted themselves in the middle of the causeway,
emptied their pistols into the faces of half a score of the
dragoons, tumbled one of them from his saddle, crossed swords
with the rest, and were hurled out of the track, ridden down,
tumbled from the causeway, and cut to pieces before they could
rise.

Quarter was neither asked nor given. The work with them
was short. They had been guilty of the blunder of receiving
the charge at a halt, instead of setting their own steeds in motion.
The momentum of the shock was irresistible, But they
embarrassed the charge, delayed it, and two thirds of their comrades,
running pellmell, succeeded in getting over the swamp.

The proportion was too great to be allowed to escape. Our
dragoons were just enough heated to make a chase agreeable,
and where an enemy might go, a brave foe might surely follow.

St. Julien dashed after them.

Watkins made a rally. But the showing was a false one. It
was but for a moment. With the near rush of the dragoons,
the tories broke incontinently, and made for the open woods;
the pursuers after them, occasionally smiting as they went,
shearing off head or arm of the unhappy fugitive whose hope
rested upon the legs of a beast wanting the necessary sinews.

The open woods are reached, but offer no security — nay,
afford better chances to the dragoons, who are all well mounted,
and on powerful, large animals. It was now that the sword
began to glean its victims. Watkins, himself, was closely pursued
by St. Julien. A small group, less than a score, held on
with him. They were nearing the open road. This tended to
lessen their chances of safety.

“Why not surrender and get quarter?” said the lieutenant
of Watkins, as they ran side by side.

“Ha! and what the good of that? If not the broadsword,
it is the gallows!”

Very true! Every mother's son of them was an outlaw.

Breathless, headlong they rushed out into the open road, and
whirled their steeds upward. Not twenty yards behind them,
swept St. Julien forward with his whole squadron, minus twe
men only and three horses. In another moment, the fugitives
are lost — just so soon as the pursuers find themselves on the
open track! But, even as Watkins gains the road, he shouts,
yells with a sense of relief, gives his steed new spurs — lashes
the sides of the beast with repeated rowels — and the others do
the same. Headlong the beasts go, over and over, rolling in
the sand. St. Julien dashes out upon them, with all his squadron,
ready to reap the field!

He is disappointed of the prey. His uplifted sabre is arrested.
He gathers up his steed with a sudden curb that staggers
the beast. He prepares to wheel — to fly in turn.

He is in the immediate presence of the whole British army
of Rawdon! Watkins, with his beast, has rolled over at the
very feet of the British van! His neck is not broken, and he
has, this time, escaped the keen edge of the partisan's sabre.

The British drums beat the alarm livelily.

“What is this?” cried Rawdon, galloping to the head of his

column. But nobody could explain. The army was prepared
for battle, the artillery unlimbered and hurried up to the front;
the wearied regiments, marching in loose order up to this moment,
and no small disarray, were made to change front, and
prepare for attack. The British general, one of the ablest, by
the way, in the service, had no reason to doubt that Greene's
whole army was at hand. He knew that he was pursued. He
knew that Greene, himself, with a strong force of mounted men,
had actually passed him; and he might well suppose that a
forced march like his own, by a people accustomed to the climate
and so strong in cavalry, had proved them better able to
endure so heavy a strain upon their strength and sinews, than
his European troops, so many of whom were fresh from Ireland.
Besides, the country was one highly favorable for surprises.
So dense were the forests, so deep the swamps, so
sinuous the routes, that two armies might sometimes pitch
their tents within a mile of each other, and, unless provided
with excellent scouts, might never suspect their mutual proximity
until too late.

Rawdon was feeble in cavalry. He had none in fact; his
only body of horse having been cut up completely, at Granby,
not a week before, by a detachment from Lee's legion. To
supply his deficiency, in this most necessary arm of war, in a
plain and sparsely-settled country like Carolina, a body of volunteer
gentry, his own staff, the field-officers, and some few loyalists
— in all something less than a hundred men — had organized
themselves for cavalry service on this march, and with
reference to the very sort of danger which now appeared to
threaten them. The corps was led by Lord Edward Fitzgerald.

This gallant young nobleman, for whom so melancholy a fate
was in reserve, to be developed in future histories, soon led his
charge against St. Julien. He had been operating on the
flanks and rear — it being supposed that the American army
was still behind them.

The troop was not an efficient one. It was badly mounted
in the first place; and one half of them carried small-swords.
It was motley in equipment, and few of them had enjoyed any
advantages, of drill or training, in the present form and organization

of the troop. Nevertheless, it was still too strong, numbering
some ninety men, to suffer St. Julien to risk the issue,
in the very face of the British army. To keep up a good front,
and claw off quietly from the game, was the policy of St. Julien.
But would the enemy suffer this? With their infantry to back
them, there was hardly a hope of it. But, as this was all of
cavalry that the British army could command, it was no part
of their policy that it should venture far from the main body in
pursuit. Rawdon was particular in his injunctions to this effect.
He knew not but that St. Julien's troop was employed as a decoy.
Still, it was needful to brush the assailants from his path;
and the dashing young Irishman, who had volunteered to head
this command, darted out, at a smart gallop, upon our partisans.

St. Julien readily conceived the British policy, and this
necessarily counselled his own. He could not successfully
maintain the assault of Fitzgerald, and the latter could not venture
to pursue him far. His game lay in the heels of his horses.
He wheeled about accordingly, the moment that he made the
discovery of his enemy in force, sounded his bugle for the retreat,
and sent his men a-head—down the road toward Orangeburg.
It was impossible under the press of the enemy to recross the
Caw-caw.

Then followed the chase, continued for a mile down the road.
St. Julien felt that he could always take the measure of his
pursuers' feet. He had very much the best horses. He did
not urge his beasts. Looking back, from time to time, he saw
that the pursuing force was scattered—the better mounted were
considerably a-head of the rest—leaving the party in advance
very little more numerous than his own. He kept his troop in
hand, ready for the moment.

When Turkey creek was passed, he sounded the rally,
wheeled about, gave his steed the goad, and dashed on to the
embrace of sabres. His steel crossed with that of Fitzgerald.
The shock of the two parties was fierce and the strife sharp. It
lasted, however, but a moment. Soon the whole force of the
British cavalry pressed up to the melée, and the retreat was
once more resumed. A few saddles on both sides had been
emptied in the brief discussion, and the two captains had pretty
well warmed with their gallant passage-at-arms.

Fitzgerald felt that his foe could leave him at any moment,
and he taunted him with a fling at his chivalry. St. Julien
only smiled as he answered:—

“Another time, my lord. You hold the pledge of Peyre St.
Julien that he will not always fly.”

“Peyre St. Julien! Ah! ha! That is the gallant of Carrie
Sinclair!” And with the recollection, his lordship urged even
more keenly the pursuit than before. He now had a personal
feeling in the matter.

It was not St. Julien's policy to be driven into Orangeburg,
where he might find his hands full, with Stuart's buffs and
Coffin's cavalry, fresh from the city. Nor was it his game to
venture below that place, with the chance of meeting this force
on the road; and, very soon there would be small choice of
roads, two only offering, one obliquing in an eastern direction,
and running sinuously from the village to the Santee,
heading the Four-holes swamp; the other crossing the Caw-caw
a mile from the village, being the very route which he had designed
to pursue, but from which he had been diverted by the
tidings, brought by his scouts, of a large body of mounted men.
That body of mounted men too, lay between him and all these
points, unless they had changed their ground in the last few
hours. But he was necessarily compelled to reason and to act
as if they still were in his path. He was thus between two or
more enemies. Unless he could strike into the woods, and cut
directly across the country, he was in danger of falling, one
side or the other, into the meshes of a more powerful foe. The
shortest course, and boldest, was still the best.

He must try and cripple his immediate pursuer, and so disable
him, as to be able to take the woods without risking pursuit
from this one source of annoyance.

Done — attempted rather — almost as soon as resolved upon.

Again, the eagerness of the pursuit had divided the force of
the pursuers.

St. Julien timed his performances, with a due regard to this
circumstance. Again, at a given signal, he wheeled about,
brought his troop to the charge, and spurred forward, a bride
abattue, and with such a shout from the lungs of all, as betrayed
the resolution for a most desperate trial of strength.

The shock was beautifully given, and manfully borne. But
Fitzgerald himself went down before it, his horse reeling, and
finally rolling over him. The clash and clatter of the sabre
followed, sounds like the tinkering of a thousand kettles, and
ugly cuts were given and taken, and more than one saddle
emptied. The foremost squad of Fitzgerald — he himself —
was nearly lost, when his rear came up in separate bodies each
producing its effect upon the field. The young Irish lord,
bruised only, recovered his legs and saddle. A few more
mounted men galloped up from Rawdon's army; others were
beginning to appear; the enemy was increasing, and St. Julien
was forced once more to show his back to the pursuers.

They pressed him closely. His troop was much more jaded
than the enemy. His several charges, upon the tories first, and
subsequently upon the force of Fitzgerald, began to tell upon
his horses, while his pursuers, on the other hand, their movements
timed to those of a fagged and exhausted infantry, were
comparatively fresh.

The flight began to falter; the chase increased in earnestness.
The parties were now but a mile from Orangeburg, and again
they mingled in pell-mell conflict.

It was now forced upon the partisans against their desires.
The game became serious. St. Julien was hardly pressed, and
several of his men were down. The whole of the mounted
force of the British, numbering ninety men or more, had reached
the field of strife, and, for half-a-mile, along the main road, the
conflict was going on among the separated groups.

“Yield, Captain St. Julien, and have good terms,” cried Fitzgerald
approaching him.

“It will be time enough for that hereafter,” was the reply of
St. Julien. The swords of the two again crossed. It was quick
work. Both were good swordsmen; both good riders; both of
similar build, and probably the same degree of strength.

One, two, three! —

Cut! — point! —

How beautifully the sabres flashed, clashed, clove together and
recoiled.

But, suddenly, the champions were dashed asunder. Wave
after wave rolled in between them. The stunning blare from

twenty bugles — the stunning shouts from five hundred great
stentorian throats — startled all the echoes of Caw-caw! Fitzgerald,
he knew not how, found himself suddenly in full flight,
followed close by all his troopers; — his fine, painted volunteer
cavalry — his handsome painted knights — with scarlet coats,
flaring feathers, and any quantity of gold lace and crimson
sashes, were driving wildly a-head, sauve qui peut, sounding in
the ear of every instinct.

Fitzgerald was a little stunned — had some curious sensations
about the head and ears — was about to ask of a dozen, as they
hurried up, after the secret of this new uproar — when he began
to distinguish the meaning of the shouts which followed him.

“Marion's men! Marion's men! Hurrah for the old swamp-fox!”

It was Marion, indeed, just coming up from his dash at
Stewart's convoy. He brought with him four hundred mounted
men. Hotly was the chase pressed upon the young Irish
gallant. Trooper after trooper of his handsome little squadron
was picked up or cut down as they rode and ran! It
was with the cheer of half-drowning men that the fugitives
hailed the sight of Rawdon's red-coats, coming on at a trot, and
opening to receive and shelter them, with presented bayonets
toward their foes.

The musketry now began to speak from the advancing
columns, and the troopers of the swamp-fox drew in their bridles,
and yielded slowly and sullenly, before the advancing infantry
of the British.