University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.
A PROPHECY FULFILLED.

My Lord Rawdon slept badly while in Orangeburg. His
liver was out of order. His skin performed its functions feebly.
The climate was doing its work upon him. He was preparing
to withdraw from the labors of a field, in which he had merited
better fortune than he had found. He had served his sovereign
faithfully and with ability. Young and sanguine, his impulse
was regulated by a rare prudence, and becoming energy. He
was prompt, ready, decisive, full of forethought, and a man of
deliberate calculations. In the field, he possessed largely the
military faculty, the coup d'œil, and kept his several divisions admirably
in hand to meet the emergency. It has been absurdly
said that he pretended sickness, in order to escape a country in
which he could gather no more laurels, and escape a duty in
which the probability was that he should forfeit those already
won. We see no grounds for this notion. His antecedents do
not justify it. He had never shown any disposition to shirk
the duty, however perilous or troublesome, and no man had
shown himself better able to shape events to his uses and turn
contingencies to account. That he shammed the invalid seems
to us preposterous, though we can very well conceive that he
foresaw the results of the war — saw that it was finally approaching
a termination, which was unfavorable to the crown — and
was not disposed to quarrel with the Fates, who had given him
a good plea for withdrawing from the scene, before the drama
reached its catastrophe. But he was really an invalid. The
climate had done its work upon his European blood. It worked
sluggishly. His skin was inactive, his liver dormant, and he
detested the blue-pill.

See him as he sits in his quarters at Orangeburg, receiving
reports. Cruger is present, a clever New York loyalist, of excellent
military talents, firm and enterprising. His fifteen hundred
regulars, added to the force already in Orangeburg, gives
to the British general about three thousand men — a force which
could have easily overwhelmed the skeleton regiments of Greene,
who, when he reached the high hills of Santee, had less than eight
hundred regulars, and one half of them on the sick list. His
militia were in greater number, but almost naked and half-starved.
He retreated seasonably. His whole strength, when
he receded from Orangeburg, lay in his mounted men, the
cavalry and rangers of Marion and Sumter, and the legion of
Lee.

But the British army was in almost equally bad condition.
The loyalists were the only troops that could really be relied
upon. The Irish were a source of constant anxiety — restless,
ready to desert always, and sometimes, as in the case recently
reported by Mat Floyd, not slow at mutiny, even with the gallows,
in terrorem, staring them in the face.

Rawdon listens languidly to the report of Cruger. His eyes
do not brighten.

“They are, then, beyond the Congaree?”

“And Wateree.”

“There is, then, some respite during the dog-days.”

And he rested his head upon his palms, and looked vacantly
out of hollow, jaundiced eyes.

“You are looking very badly, my lord.”

“Ah! do you think so?”

“I certainly do. You need rest.”

“I shall never have it in this cursed country. I must leave
it!”

Cruger shook his head doubtfully.

“We can not spare you, my lord.”

“I must spare myself, Cruger: I must retire.”

“Do not think of that, my lord! Recruit! Run down to
Sullivan's island, and try sea-bathing. It will give you new
life, to complete triumphantly your career in this quarter, and
recover all the ground we have lost — recover the country.”

Rawdon only smiled languidly. Just then, a fine, graceful

fellow, with shining, expressive countenance, and great animal
spirits, darted — we had almost said bounced — into the room,
with a movement which scarcely comported with the gravity
of military discipline in the presence of a superior. Rawdon
looked up, and smiled more decidedly, as he said:—

“Ah, Lord Edward, your spirits were worth a thousand
pounds to me to-day.”

“I'faith, my dear Lord Rawdon, I should cheerfully share
them with you for far less money. A fig for care! Why let
it trouble you? I am come to ask a favor — to let me cure you,
and make myself happy.”

“Really, you propose wonders. Pray, what is this secret of
such magical twofold operation?”

“A very simple one. Let us take holyday; leave drill and
drumming for a while, and go chase butterflies. Fly from camp
and close quarters. That's all.”

“And where do you propose that we should go, Fitzgerald?”

“To Sinclair's barony. Don't smile. I'm seriously in search
of health for you, and happiness for myself.”

“Beware, Lord Edward! Have a care lest, in my next letters
home, I report you to Lady Inchiquin, for the special benefit
of her fair protégé, Miss Sandford.”

“Oh, dear, my lord, that's an old story. Besides, 'twas nothing
but a flirtation. Sandford understood me all the while.
She's a clever girl, and not the fool to suppose that, because a
young fellow says a fine thing or two in her ears, she is to regard
him as dying for her love. There was nothing in that
affair, I assure you.”

“Is there anything more in this?”

“Oh, by my soul, yes! I can't get Carrie Sinclair out of my
head.”

“But, how about the heart? If she does not garrison that
region, I may suppose you still safe.”

“Nay, she's there too seriously. She is too strong for me
my dear lord.”

“Then I sha'n't go with you, or encourage you to go. I am
in some degree accountable for you at home. And what would
your excellent mamma say to a wife from the wildwoods of Carolina
— an American rustic?”

“What! Carrie Sinclair a rustic? Ah, I see you're only
laughing at me. But do not laugh. I'm serious. It's a very
serious subject. I am really touched, struck, sorely wounded,
and can not for the life of me keep from thinking of her. And
where's the objection? In point of wealth, and beauty, and
intelligence, and fine manners, she is equal to most of the women
I know at home. In fact, my dear lord, I've calculated
the whole affair — considered it in all its bearings — am now
quite sure of my own consent, and hope for mamma's.”

“What! do you take for granted that of the young lady?”

“Fie, my lord! how could you think me such a puppy? No
— I wish that were possible. Far from it; I hold that to be
rather doubtful. I have heard that she has a suitor, a friend
of her brother — the same dashing fellow who tumbled in headlong
upon us out of the swamp here, within half-a-dozen miles
of the village.”

“Ah, you had a pretty passage with him that day! I see
now that I have not to credit all your chivalry on that occasion
to so frigid a sentiment as patriotism.”

“I confess, my dear lord, that I was a little more braced to
the conflict when the fellow told me his name. Why he should
do so, unless that he had heard or surmised my attentions to
Miss Sinclair, I can not conceive.”

“These things travel with the wind. The tales of lovers
seem to be like those winged seeds that disperse and plant themselves
whenever and wherever the wind blows. But, seriously,
my dear Fitzgerald, as you phrase it, the match is very far from
a bad one. It will suit you exactly. The lady is of good old
English-Scotch family — the father as proud and fierce as Lucifer
— and they may claim aristocratic connections at home.
Her fortune is good; and, so far as person is concerned, your
taste commends your choice. If we are to be driven out from
the country, there is no need why you should not keep foothold
in it. They have no hostility to Irishmen as such; and, as an
irish lord, you will find grace in society. But, my dear boy,
will not your course of wooing be a rather rapid one?”

“As an Irishman, it would be only proper that it should. But
I do not design now to propose — only feel my way a little farther,
and make it clear. I flatter myself that I was not wholly

wanting in interest to Miss Sinclair, when we were at the barony
together.”

“On that subject I can say nothing. I only know that I
afforded you full opportunity. You owe me something for the
prolonged employment which I gave to the old man in private.”

“To be sure I do; and I am grateful, believe me. But, my
dear Lord Rawdon, will you not go?”

“Is it possible, at this moment?”

“What's to prevent? The enemy is beyond reach, across
the Wateree, and not in a condition to give us any trouble.
You have quieted all discontents here; got the army once more
into regular paces; and here's Stuart and Cruger.”

“By-the-way,” said Rawdon, looking round, “where's Cruger?”

“He slipped out, the moment I began to talk matrimony, as
if a soldier's loves were ever a secret. But here you have Stuart
and Cruger, both veterans and trustworthy; the roads are
clear; and we both need air, exercise, change, and a fresh
glimpse of that social world which is so grateful to both of us.
That old medicine of the baron will do wonders with you. Let
me prescribe for you, my dear lord, and share the benefits of
the prescription.”

“Well, my dear boy, I can hardly balk your humor. It
jumps with my own. Order an escort of fifty or a hundred
picked mounted men, and report when ready.”

“Hurrah! hurrah!” shouted the young Irishman as he darted
out of the apartment.

The fevered tone of Rawdon led him to anticipate favorable
results from the proposed journey. He wondered that he himself
had not thought of it before. He was, accordingly, quite
ready, when Fitzgerald reported his escort to be so.

And glad were all parties once more to be upon the highroad.
The cavalcade departed at an early hour the next morning.

That very day, at sunrise, old Rhodes had an interview with
Mrs. Travis and her daughter. We need not report the dialogue
between them. Enough, that she contracted to give him
her order upon her husband for one hundred guineas, the moment
that he (Rhodes) should conduct her party to Nelson's

ferry in safety; the paper to be so worded that no questions
were to be asked; and the draft was to be made payable to
bearer.

And they, too, set off on their progress, as soon after the arrangement
was made as possible.

“Let us go at once, mother; do not wait for breakfast — wait
for nothing — I am dying for sunlight and fresh air!”

The carriage was soon made ready. When old Cato appeared
in sight of his mistress, the old fellow was greatly affected —
tears were in his eyes — but he never relaxed in his solemnity.

“Dey has kep' you fastened up, mistress — and you, Miss
Bert'a. Le' me tell you dat dey had fasten' me up too. Ef
'twan't for dat, missis, I'd ha' made 'em see de debble wid bote
eyes tell dey let you out!”

And he shook the hands of both, as if he would have wrung
them off. Cato was once more upon the box, and beginning to
feel himself. But the two Rhodes's, father and son, Mat Floyd,
and the rest of the gang, rode in company, keeping close to the
driver on each side of the carriage. Moll Rhodes was left at
their encampment. The job would afford twenty guineas a-piece
to each of the gang, and they were not the persons to trust one
another. But for this suspicion among themselves and of themselves,
they well knew that any one of them would have sufficed
for an escort. And so the party drove and rode.

An hour after they had gone, Nelly Floyd found her way to
the place of harborage, found her sister Molly only, and the
woman who kept house. Molly told her very freely that they
had all departed, but lied to her on the subject of the route
taken. Some little pains had been taken to conceal the carriage
tracks, as on a previous occasion. The ladies had walked to it
into the woods, a hundred or two yards below the settlement.
And so, poor Nelly was once more on a wide sea of conjecture,
but still resolute to seek, in the hope to find and aid.

But Nelly Floyd was not the girl to wait long in uncertainty.
She was, as the reader will have observed, a girl of very remarkable
enthusiasm, the secret of her restless and energetic
action, and of a beautiful feminine simplicity of character, free
from all affectations, and resolutely earnest and religiously true,
Her supposed madness was due to this simplicity which prompted

her to speak fearlessly, and without circumlocution always, just
what she thought, and the enthusiasm which as constantly lifted
her moods beyond the aim of all around her, and into an intensity
which the coarse and inferior mind rarely comprehends
when unassociated with a selfish object.

Nelly took the road downward, governed, it would seem, by
a mere instinct. She reflected that there was a carriage and a
heavy one, heavily laden, to retard the rapidity of the party,
and by putting her pony into a smart canter, she reasonably
calculated to overcome the lost hour during which the fugitives
had been upon the road. She succeeded in doing so, and to
the surprise and annoyance of old Rhodes, she suddenly dashed
up alongside of the coach, presenting a curious if not startling appearance
to the two ladies within. They remarked her singular
costume, almost approaching the Turkish — her short frock, and
loose trowsers, and the fantastic round hat—man fashion upon her
head. It did not escape them too, the poverty of the material
of which her dress was composed, and they were accordingly
wise enough to ascribe to necessity what a vulgar wit might
have referred to taste. Spite of all, the whole appearance of
the girl was picturesque and pleasing. Her wild, great, dilating
black eye, prominent in high degree, the wonderful spirit
and intelligence of her features, the sweetness of her mouth,
the grace of her movement sitting her horse, or managing
it — all these things, seen at a glance, struck the ladies as
equally curious and interesting. Her language was not less a
surprise.

“You here!” demanded old Rhodes — “what do you want
now?”

“I want to know if these ladies are free agents — are they
satisfied with your keeping?”

“What's that to you? Better be off, Nelly, and don't meddle
any more in our consarns. Remember last night.”

“I shall not forget it,” she answered, looking at him sternly.
“But nothing that you can do shall scare me from my purpose.
I must hear from better authority than yourself, whether these
ladies are satisfied.”

“Well, ef they ain't, what kin you do for them, Nelly?” demanded
her brother.

“God will tell me. He will answer you,” she replied —
“wait! and see what he says.”

“In her tantrums again!” said old Rhodes. The girl did not
notice him even with a look, but turning to the window of the
carriage she said:—

“I endeavored last night to serve you, ladies —”

“Was it you?” demanded Bertha, eagerly, her eyes already
betraying the singular interest which she had taken in the
girl.

“What makes you talk of that, Nelly?” said her brother
gruffly — “why kain't you be off now, and leave men's affairs
alone?”

“Devil's affairs, you mean. No! I will not leave alone
when I can balk the evil-doer. I can't. I spoke with you
last night,” she continued, addressing the ladies — “I would
have served you, but that old man seized me, and would have
murdered me—”

“Murdered you!” exclaimed Bertha.

“Yes!”

“No! I say,” cried Rhodes, “'twas only to skear her that I
showed the knife.”

“It matters not now,” said Nelly. “God knows who is true
or false in the world. What I wish to know of you, ladies,
is, whether you are willingly in the escort of this old man.”

“He has contracted to conduct us safely to Nelson's Ferry.”

“What do you fear, except from him and such as he? He
has extorted money from you, I know it. But he will never
live to use it. I see the judgment of God written in his face.”

“She's crazy, ma'am; mad as a wild-cat when the dogs are
a'ter her,” said old Rhodes.

“Tell me in what way I can serve you,” continued the girl,
never noticing the old ruffian.

“I know not how you can, my dear girl,” answered Mrs.
Travis somewhat bewildered.

“We are as ignorant as you are,” said Bertha, “of the means
of succor; but if you could meet with Major Sinclair, or any of
Marion's captains, especially Captain St. Julien—”

“Look here, ladies, I must put a stop to the talking with this
mad critter,” interposed old Rhodes, now very angry. “Hark

ye, Nelly Floyd, ef you ain't off from us now in a twink, I'll
lace your hide with a hickory, brother or no brother.”

“No you don't, Jeff Rhodes,” said Mat, “or you laces me
first. But be off, Nelly, you've no business here, I tell
you.”

The girl looked defiance only, her eye settling upon that of
Rhodes, till the old ruffian shrunk beneath the glance.

“You do not surely talk of whipping that young girl,” said
Bertha Travis.

“Whip her! Yes, she desarves it, if human ever did; and
jest you take hold of Mat, boys, and keep him quiet, while I
gives her a lesson in cowhide, which is jest as good as hickory.”

Meanwhile, Cato stopped the carriage.

“What the — do you stop for? Drive up,” said one of the
party.

“Beg you pardon, sah! I guine yeddy fus' what missis
say.”

“Say!” cried Bertha — “I say, old man, that if you lay a
hand in anger upon that young woman, you shall not receive
one copper from us.”

“Does you say so, young mistress,” cried old Rhodes, now
thoroughly furious, “then, by the etarnal hokies, I drives you
back to your captivation. Turn about, nigger.”

“D—n ef I does!” cried Cato.

“Knock the nigger off, Nat, and jump into the seat. We'll
see to your nag. And as he gave the order, old Rhodes darted
round to the side of the carriage where Nelly was. Mat Floyd
dashed at him and passed between. The girl remained unmoved.
There was a moment of hesitation in old Rhodes's
countenance; he seemed to be considering the question of odds
between himself and young Floyd, who, while resolute to protect
his sister, yet appeared to be very angry at her appearance
and interference. While the parties were thus grouped, and uncertain,
a shout behind them drew their attention up the road;
and old Rhodes cried:—

“Great Gimini, it's an army, I reckon.”

It was Rawdon and Fitzgerald with a mounted escort of a
hundred men.

“Overhaul those people,” was the command of Rawdon, and

a score or two of his escort put their horses to a canter and came
charging down the road.

“Sauve qui peut!” was the cry; or rendered into Jeff Rhodes's
English — “Heel it, boys, hyar's old h—l upon us. As for you,
d—n you,” roared the old ruffian to Nelly, as he wheeled to fly
with the rest, “you shall have your pay for the mischief you've
done;” and even as he fled, before his purpose could be conceived,
he discharged his pistol full at the head of Nelly Floyd,
and at a distance of less than eight paces. She was seen to
shudder, then fling herself from the pony. She stood a moment,
then stepped to the roadside, and quietly let herself down by
the bushes.

“O God! they have killed her,” cried Bertha, as she saw the
girl sink down at length among the bushes. “Open the door,
Cato, and let us get out.”

But the horses, alarmed by the pistol-shot just over their
heads, became unmanageable, took the bits between their teeth,
and dashed down the road.

Meanwhile Rawdon had seen the proceeding.

“Scatter over the woods, fellows, and cut off these wretches,”
was his prompt command, and fifty troopers dashed off in pursuit.
Soon pistol-shots were heard, then shouts, and for a time
silence. The outlaws were all well mounted. This was always
a leading object, to be attained at any sacrifice. Generally
speaking, the British troopers, at this period of the war, were
ill-provided with beasts. What they rode were small and feeble.
The stables had been picked everywhere. But the escort of
Rawdon had been selected with care, and several of the men
rode good horses. An hour was consumed while Rawdon, with
the half of his escort kept the road. Fitzgerald was gone, like
a flash, the moment the outlaws were seen to fly. The pursuit
was hot. Nat Rhodes, goading his beast with headlong fury,
was suddenly seen whirled out of his saddle. His brains were
dashed out against a tree, and his back was broken. As Nelly
had promised him, he had equally escaped rope and bullet.
Old Rhodes was brought down by a pistol-shot at long range,
when the troopers came up with him he was dying. The bullet
had passed through his body. His mouth, however, was full of

execrations. He was intelligible. To the first trooper who
came up, he said:—

“You got the wind of me. I'm done for; but that b—
lied. She set me up for the gallows. But she lied.”

“It's not too late,” said the trooper. “Here, boys, let's fulfil
a prophecy;” and in a moment, a cord was adjusted about the
throat of the gasping wretch, and he was haled up to the limb
of the tree that swung above them. He was conscious to the
last — horribly conscious — for he howled curses until the gurgling
breath could no longer be resolved into any articulate
sounds.

Mat Floyd, and the two younger scamps, his associates, succeeded
in making their escape. Meanwhile, old Cato had
managed to bring up his horses' heads, and turn them about,
and when the pursuing party emerged from the woods, they
found Lord Rawdon, and the ladies alighted from horse and
carriage, and busied in the work of restoring the strange wild
girl to consciousness.