University of Virginia Library

47. CHAPTER XLVII.
SCENE CLOSES IN CLOUD AND MYSTERY.

It is a necessary law of our existence that we are not allowed
to have things just as we wish them. Life runs not more
smoothly than love. The course of both is broken with frequent
impediments, if only in order that the stream should
possess a due degree of vitality for its own strength and purification.
We are not allowed to feel secure, at any moment,
in our possession, or in the full realization of our favorite purposes.
Use all precautions, exercise all our vigilance, assert
duly all our resources of thought and genius, and still we find
ourselves thwarted by impediments which we are rarely able
to foresee, and not often able to contend with.

Willie Sinclair had proved himself as circumspect, vigilant
and industrious as brave. He had cheerfully gone to his tasks
and these were as various as exacting. He had calmly undertaken
the most perilous situations, and had encountered their
difficulties and dangers with an ability which had resulted, thus
far, in the most perfect success, in all those respects which concerned
the interests of the army and the country. He had
won the admiration even of such admirable judges and performers
as Rutledge and Marion. But in his personal fortunes
— in respect to those interests which concerned his individual
sympathies and affections — everything had gone wrong. He
had offended his father by his patriotism — had still further
offended him, by suffering his heart to go astray into pastures
which were forbidden — and now the added mortification of
seeing the object of his affections, and all her family, involved
in dangers, including sundry forms of peril, while in his keeping
partially, and mostly because of their connection with
himself;—in this lay the chief sting of his present suffering.

He had failed utterly in his search after Bertha and her
mother. They had left no traces which he could light upon.
Such as he had followed, had only deluded him from the right
path; and he returned to camp in despair. He had lost every
clue to the pursuit. For the moment, he appeared unmanned;
and when he had reported the results of his expedition to
Marion, it required all the ingenuity of the famous partisan to
inspirit him. Not that he was disposed to forego future exertion
in the pursuit of his object. That was the one purpose
which he had in contemplation; and when he summoned his
general out to a conference, it was with the view to obtaining
the desired permission to continue his search after the family
of Travis, without regard to the action of the army.

Marion fully sympathized with the natural grief and apprehension
of our hero. He knew, just as well as anybody else,
what should be the apprehensions felt for the safety of Mrs.
Travis and her daughter — to say nothing of the father and son.
He knew the wild outlawry ranging through the country; the
reckless brutality of the refugees on both sides; the cold and
savage nature of Inglehardt; the dangers which threatened
male and female equally of the scattered family. But he had
his consolations. He gave Sinclair a full report of the resolves
made in council, and mentioned the fact that, with Greene's
permission, Rutledge had reserved himself (Sinclair) with the
corps of St. Julien, for special duties, which he had yet kept
private.

“I have no question, major, that the governor has done so in
order to give you carte blanche, with special reference to the
Travis family. But here he comes.”

Rutledge appeared at the remark, and shook Sinclair's hand
with affectionate sympathy.

“Come further this way, general,” said he. And they retired
to a fallen tree on the edge of a thicket, and there seated themselves.
“You have been unsuccessful, Sinclair?”

“Wholly so, governor.”

“No clues?”

“None, sir! I followed such only as misled me. I have
not the the slightest idea what course now to pursue. I have
no traces of the party, and no plans.”

“Ideas,” said Rutledge, cheerily, “do not obey the will!
They come without premeditation. You may not have them
to-night, but they will come with the morning. You know not
how wonderful is sleep, in giving freedom to conjecture. You
are exhausted. You have not slept; — with such a state of
your nervous system, to think would be impossible.”

And he felt the pulse of the dragoon officer as he spoke, and
looked into his eyes.

“Your nervous system is out of order. You have neither
slept nor supped. You must do both, or you will be sick. Your
tone is enfeebled. You must especially exert your will, if you
would be usefully active. Hear me, colonel — and by the way,
here is your commission. You will do me the honor to accept
this proof of my high appreciation of your recent services.”

Sinclair bowed as he took the paper.

“Hear me, Sinclair. You are physically weak, mentally
suffering — morally and physically prostrated. If you do not
bring up your body, by the exercise of your mind, you will
have fever in twenty-four hours. Now, my dear fellow, do you
conceive the mischief of that fever? It will incapacitate you
for this search after the Travis family! I have set my heart
on this search, which can be executed by nobody so well as
yourself. That damsel, Bertha Travis, and her excellent
mother, succeeded in the brief meeting which I had with them,
in twining themselves about my heart. I am resolved that
you shall recover them! For this purpose, anticipating — or
holding as possible — your present failure, I obtained General
Marion's consent to the appropriation, to my own object, of
your services and those of Captain St. Julien with his troop.
You are to enjoy a roving commission; moving at your own discretion,
and only required to co-operate with General Sumter's
command when occasion offers. Now, my dear Sinclair, unless
you assert your will, for the benefit of your body, this commission
will be of no value in your hands. You will be on your
back, prostrate with fever, in less than twenty-four hours. Now,
it is useless to tell a man that he must feed, or physic, rest, or
work, if his mind does not spring in concert with the counsel.
I tell you what is before you — what is the trust given to your
hands — what is the danger to the objects which you love — and

what is the degree of force that we can accord to you in the
prosecution of your duties. We can do no more. Nobody can
do more for you. You must do the rest for yourself. Look to
the danger — look to the trust. Let your mind rise to the exigency,
and you will grow strong; you must will it — will it —
and sleep and eat, under the will which demands that you be
strong. These ladies you can rescue — no doubt of it — if you
give yourself a little time, and work with heart. Travis you
may rescue. I see nothing to alarm you for the safety of either
of these parties, if you only feel what you have to do, and resolve
to do it with your usual promptness. If not — then God
be merciful to this poor family, for they are all in a most serious
danger.”

“Ah! if it be not too late, sir!” answered Sinclair, in
chocking accents.

“We are not to suppose this under any circumstances. It is
sufficient to find it too late. The very fear that it is so, is apt
to enfeeble the exertion, which would else provide the remedy.
But, in the case of Travis and his son, it can not be too late,
we know. We know the game of their captor, supposing him
to be Inglehardt. His profit lies in keeping the secret of
Travis, and using it against the terrors of his prisoner. It is
only when he finds that nothing can be gained, in this way, that
he will betray him. Meanwhile, we may be very sure that
Inglehardt will keep father and son as secretly as safely. He
would lose all hold upon the family were they surrendered as
prisoners to the British. He has the two somewhere in private
bonds. In respect to Mrs. Travis and her daughter, the rapidity
with which they have been carried off is, itself, in some degree,
proof of their safety. Brutality and outrage, if designed, would
be perpetrated instantly, and their captors would not have burdened
themselves with the prisoners. They are clearly kept
for ransom; and this proves that they have been taken — if
taken at all — by those who are not connected with the regular
service; some outlying bands of tories; and we know that there
have been several skulking about in this region. There has
been some clever trick by which the tracks of the carriage have
been concealed. In your impetuosity, you have probably failed
to examine the ground with sufficient care. In all probability,

there has been some route across the Caw-caw nearer than the
one at which you crossed, and over which they have been
taken. It is not impossible, indeed, that they have crossed in
the track of the British army, and have gone into Orangeburg.”

“If Ballou were here! or even 'Bram!” said Sinclair.

And he mused, and speculated aloud. His mind was once
more beginning to work, under the practical coercion of that
of Rutledge. The latter knew quite well that the best relief
for the despondency of an eager mind, is new responsibility and
provocation — and he gave it. The discussion of probabilities
succeeded. The general plan of the raid contemplated by the
partisans was unfolded, in all its necessary details, for Sinclair's
information; and, in its examination, he gradually showed to
his hearers that he was beginning to exert that will, the activity
of which, Rutledge insisted, was necessary to keep him from
prostration by disease. At length Marion said:—

“Sinclair knows all that we need tell him, governor. Let
him brood to-night — what there is left of it — over what he
knows. He will have some leisure in the morning also, since
none of the mounted men will take up the line of march
until the infantry is sufficiently advanced. We must keep our
ground here, and cover their departure from the enemy. If
Rawdon marches out from Orangeburg, even with all the force
of Cruger added to his own, we can head them at pleasure.
Our friend, here, will have need to think for the next twelve
hours, as to his own plan of operations. In that time he may
hear from his scouts. At all events, whether he hears or not,
his policy is now to be deliberate. He must re-examine the
ground where the carriage was concealed; and to do this thoroughly,
let him take any scout he pleases from my command.
Ballou, if he comes in in season, is worth the whole of them;
but if not, there are many who ought to be able to take and
keep the track of a four-wheeled carriage drawn by four horses.
Let us leave the rest to him.”

The army moved off by dawn, leaving the mounted men and
cavalry to cover the ground and conceal the fact of their departure.
They did not move a moment too soon. They were no
longer in a condition to be useful. Two thirds of the continentals

were sick; the Virginia militia all sick, and in such a
temper of despondency, that it was apprehended they would all
abandon the camp that night, and disappear homeward, a large
number having already deserted. The army (foot) had become
an absolutely disorderly crew — demoralized by starvation, want
of clothes, and the exhaustion of forced marches. The militia
were generally discontent; alleging, in justification, the partiality
shown to the continentals; and, especially, the petting
of particular commands at the expense of the whole army.
But, leaving them to their progress, which brought them finally
in safety to their salubrious camp upon the Santee hills, we
shall linger a few moments in that of the partisans — the mounted
men, who, after covering the retreat of the infantry, were destined
for active service on so many points below.

At two o'clock, on the morning of the 13th July, the army
was in motion. At dawn, the general followed with his escort.
So well did the mounted men cover the ground, and cut off all
communications with Orangeburg, that Greene, with his foot,
was beyond the Congaree before Rawdon suspected his departure.

Then were the mounted men let loose upon that memorable
incursion into the Low Country, which drove the scattered parties
of the enemy into the walls of Charleston, and prostrated the
royal power to the very gates of that city. On the 14th July,
the detachments of Sumter were sweeping all the avenues that
led below, while he, with the main body, was pursuing the
road along the southside of the Congaree, leading to the east of
Cooper river. At the same time, Willie Sinclair, with the
troop of St. Julien, was once more traversing, with measured
steps, and keen scrutiny, the track pursued by the carriage of
Mrs. Travis, to the moment when it turned aside for temporary
refuge in the thicket. Our dramatis personæ are thus “all at
sea.”

Here, a curtain falls, for the present, over the several parties.
There is a necessary interval in which all is obscurity. A cloud
envelopes the fortunes of Travis and his son; a mystery wraps
the fate of his wife and daughter. But the pursuer is everywhere
upon their heels, and a genius, courage, fortitude, and

zeal, which are sure to recover the fugitives, if this be possible
to human enterprise and endeavor! Meanwhile, the two
great rivals, the generals of Britain and America, are making
their preparations for the final trial of strength between them.
In their posts of watch and rest, they are recruiting their forces
and bracing their sinews for the last wrestle for possession of
the state. Meanwhile, the partisans are in motion, prompt in
enterprise, and eager for performance. The details of their
several progresses must be reserved for another volume, when
we shall seek, in the tale of the bloody field of “Eutaw” to
Till then, we pray the patience of such readers as are curious
to learn the fate of those who have been the principal objects
of our regard in the preceding chapters.

IN PREPARATION,
EUTAW;
A SEQUEL TO
“THE FORAYERS, OR THE RAID OF THE DOG-DAYS.”

By W. GILMORE SIMMS, Esq,