University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
GAMES OF PEACE AND WAR.

Inglehardt made his way up to Orangeburg — made his
report to Rawdon — a very fair and specious report of course —
resumed the command of his mounted rifles — somewhat thinned
in numbers, and was permitted to go forth on a foraying expedition.

Meanwhile, Sumter, and his several lieutenants, had begun
that progress which was designed to root out all the garrisons of
the British between Orangeburg and Charleston; to cut off
small posts and parties, cut up forayers, cut off supplies to the
two garrisons, where the enemy were in strength too great to
be assailed, and to alarm Rawdon for his own safety. We need
to recapitulate, very briefly, the processes by which these results
were to be achieved. It is to be remembered that the
British were feeble in cavalry. Their real strength lay in their
light and heavy-armed infantry, and their artillery; their number
at this moment in the colony to be estimated at three thousand
men — all regulars. Add to this three thousand irregular
troops, loyal militia, rangers, and refugees from other colonies.
Their chief forces lay in Charleston and Orangeburg; their
minor posts, more or less strongly garrisoned, according to their
size, and the difficulties of the country which they were meant
to overawe, were now limited to Dorchester, Monck's Corner,
Wantoot, Watboo, Fairlawn, and Biggin. At the latter place,
the garrison numbered five hundred good troops; at Dorchester,
there may have been two hundred; the other posts were of inferior
importance, and held by detachments varying from fifty
to a hundred and fifty men. Small roving commands, employed

chiefly in foraging, plied between these several stations, and
thus contributed to their security. The British cavalry was
feeble, consisting of Coffin's, and a few other bodies, not well
equipped, badly manned, badly mounted; not capable of resisting
the American cavalry, an arm in which the latter was particularly
strong. The most efficient of the British mounted men
were the loyalists, who had descended from the region of Ninety-Six,
with Cruger, on the abandonment of that fortress. But the
larger number of these had pressed on to the city, as not equal
to the encounter with the troops of Marion and Sumter, and as
liable to something more than the penalties of the soldier, in the
event of defeat. Most of them were outlawed, and fought, they
well knew, with halters about their necks.

The regular army of Greene, jaded, sick, exhausted, like that
of Rawdon, had gone for respite, during the dog-days, into camp
upon the hills of Santee. It was to the cavalry of Sumter, and
of Marion, their mounted riflemen, and the several detachments
of the Colonels Lee, Maham, the Hamptons, Taylor and Horry,
Lacy, Singleton, and others, that the special duty was confided
of attempting these several garrisons of the British, while the
main bodies of the two armies were in summer quarters.

The duty was begun, though utterly unknown in the British
garrison at Orangeburg, when Rawdon took the trip to the Sinclair
barony, at the suggestion and entreaty of Fitzgerald. He
had scarcely done so when Sumter, and his several detachments,
began to swoop down by all the avenues which led to Charleston.
The course appointed for Sumter himself, with the main
body, was to pursue the Congaree road, leading down the southern
margin of that river, and the east of Cooper.

And had it not been for a timely fate that interposed for Rawdon's
safety, the Gamecock of the Santee would probably have
happened upon a conquest which he never hoped for at the beginning
of his march. But we must not anticipate. The several
parties were everywhere in motion, on the indicated routes,
while Rawdon was sipping Madeira with old Sinclair, and Fitzgerald
was drinking in delicious draughts of love from the
bright eyes of Carrie Sinclair, as they sat together over the
chess-board, or as she played for him upon the venerable harpsichord.

Lord Rawdon secured for him every opportunity for pressing
his attentions profitably. He soon engaged Colonel Sinclair in
the important topics of the country, the condition of the war, the
case of his rebel son, and the future prospects of the struggle.
Absorbed in subjects of this sort, the old loyalist colonel almost
forgot he had a daughter; and, while Rawdon kept his mind
busy on these matters, in the supper-room, long after the meal
was over — the Madeira taking the place of the tea and coffee
urns — the young lover was free to exhibit all his resources and
attractions, with no restraint except that which is inevitable
from the modesty of a bashful Irishman.

As the dialogue between Rawdon and old Sinclair affects our
progress somewhat more seriously than that random chat in
which Fitzgerald engaged Carrie Sinclair, while they brood together
over the fate of red and white castles, bishops, knights,
and queens, we shall take leave to report the more important
portions of it:—

“But, seriously, my dear Lord Rawdon, there can be no possibility
of the rebels obtaining the insane freedom which they
hope for. The vast resources of the British empire, the vast
wealth of the kingdom, the superiority of its troops over all
others, the excellence of their officers—”

And he paused in his array of superlatives, but only to add:

“These `parley-vouz' — these Frenchmen — never yet could
stand before the regular troops of Britain; and, as for our own
raw militia-men, we know that a single taste of the bayonet is
enough for them.”

“Not too fast, my dear colonel,” said Rawdon. “It is one
thing to take a lofty tone in dealing with our enemies, but it is
very doubtful policy if, by doing so, we ever deceive ourselves.
I am not more willing to believe than you are that the rebel
Congress can ultimately succeed in their wild disloyalty. I
have no fear of their armies. My faith, like yours, leads me to
calculate confidently on British prowess and British resources;
and I have no doubt that our prospects will brighten as soon as
his majesty's government is prepared to make any extraordinary
effort to give us the means for crushing this combination
of our rebels with our natural enemies the French. But we err
grievously in disparaging their armies; and we commit as great

an error in thinking lightly of the native militia of the colonies.
The French are a valiant people, and the rebels are acquiring
the art of war at our hands.”

“By being beaten!”

“Yes, by being beaten! So long as beating does not demoralize
a people, it improves them. They are growing more circumspect
and more adventurous daily — acquiring fast the two
great qualities of soldiership, that of being at once bold and
prudent. We have given them frequent lessons of prudence,
and they have too much British blood in their veins to be wanting
in courage. They only need experience and good training
to be as admirable soldiers as any in the world.”

“That's what Willie says. But, they have not the numbers,
the means, the munitions—”

“No! and we owe some of our successes to this very deficiency
— still more to the want of capacity in militia-officers
generally. We have gained most of our successes by the incompetence
of the militia-officers; but these advantages necessarily
disappear in the continuance of the war. The imbeciles
are soon got rid of; and those who remain in service are those
only who approve themselves of qualities which conduct inevitably
to self-training, as they supply by experience the lessons
which can otherwise be only acquired in the regular service.
The success of Great Britain depends usually upon the shortness
of a war, since our system soon exhausts the supply of
good officers, and leaves none but routine-men in their places.
Besides, it gives less room for individual military genius. This
war has been too long for us, and our hope is that we shall be
able to end it soon by some crushing blow. Unless we can do
so, we shall lose the colonies; and we can only do so by an extraordinary
and immediate increase of our forces. This is our
great need and our great difficulty. Our finances are embarrassed,
and our own people weary of a war which cuts off trade
and increases taxation. There is a strong party at home, of
influential men, who are opposed to the continuance of the war,
have always been opposed to it, and are willing to make peace
even on the terms proposed by Congress.”

“What! independence?”

“I am afraid so.”

“But will this party succeed, my lord?”

“I think not. I think that the national pride will be aroused,
so as to make the necessary effort; and, in that case, I can confidently
predict the result, for Congress is exhausted also.”

“Certainly, my dear lord, I never expected to hear a British
general make such a case. Why, that is precisely the statement
which Willie makes.”

“It is possible, my dear colonel, that, rather than deceive
myself, I may put the case somewhat too strongly; but the
truth is, that I also feel it strongly. We have not been kept
supplied with anything like adequate forces from Great Britain.
To keep this one colony of South Carolina in proper subjection
— to subdue it in all sections — to carry the war into every fastness
— I should require at least ten thousand men. And a like
force is needed for Virginia. Yet, for some time past, we have
been fighting the rebels chiefly with the American loyalists.”

“Precisely what Willie says.”

“And they have made good soldiers; but — and this is the
worst feature in the case — they are getting lukewarm, and gradually
falling off from their allegiance.”

“The miserable traitors!”

“Not only this; but just as our foreign troops are withdrawn
from a precinct, do the rebels embody anew, even those who
had accepted parole and taken British protection. We shall
need to make some very severe examples, in order to discourage
this propensity.”

“And they will deserve it!”

“Nothing that could occur, my dear colonel, tells more unfavorably
for the British cause than these two facts — the defection
of old friends, and the rising of those, at this moment, who
have hitherto been content to remain in quiet under our protection.
It argues, in both cases, a growing conviction of our declining
power. And, unhappily, in addition to the want of sufficient
forces, there is another upon which I should not utter a
word, except thus confidentially in the ear of one upon whose
private friendship and loyalty I feel that I may rely. You
spoke of our officers in terms of eulogy. Believe me, no eulogium
could have been more misapplied. Our generalship has
been bad from the beginning, our plans mostly absurd, our

aims misdirected. Few of our chief officers have any just claim
to their position; and it is curious to remark that, just now,
there is really no good generalship anywhere. Neither France,
nor Britain, nor America, possesses any great soldiers. Perhaps
the rebels really have the best, since they have been able
to keep their ground in spite of their poverty and feebleness.
The age seems not a military age. Our best officers are
younger men, and in subordinate situations. They promise
well for the future. It is so with the French — so also with the
Americans. We want not only sufficient forces, but an entire
change in the chief officers of the army.”

“Really, my dear lord, you confound me! You have given
me subjects for a month's reflection. Nay, more, you have reminded
me of so much that Willie Sinclair has said — that
unfortunate rebel of my family — oh, that son of mine should
ever have raised parricidal arm against his sovereign! — that I
feel constrained to ask your opinion on another subject. Willie
was here, as I told you, and at a lucky moment for my life.
He told me very much all that has taken place recently, as of
things that must certainly take place, and reviewed the condition
of affairs with very much the same arguments that you
have done.”

“Ah, indeed! How much I sympathize with you, my dear
colonel, and regret that the unfortunate young man had not
chosen more wisely! Had he done in the right cause what he
has done for the rebels, his services and your claims would have
secured him the baton of a brigadier at least.”

“Alas! my lord, I told him all that. I was sure of it. I
swore it to him, but in vain. This rebellion was a madness with
him, my lord — a madness. But I will not dwell upon his error,
and the grief which it has occasioned me. It is the cause of
most of these infernal attacks — pardon me, my lord — but these
twinges!” — and the old man writhed upon his cushions, while
a big tear rolled down his cheeks.

“Let me beg you to fill, my lord. I must drink his majesty's
health, and the success of his arms.”

And they drank. The brief interruption over, old Sinclair
proceeded:—

“Willie Sinclair, my dear lord, bating this monomania of

liberty which has made him a rebel, is yet no fool, sir — but a
cool, shrewd, thoughtful, long-headed young fellow — and as
brave, sir, as Julius Cæsar.”

“I know his character, my dear colonel. I have heard the
same report of him from far less partial sources. In these respects,
at least, he proves his legitimacy.”

“Ah! my lord, I could have been, I was proud of this likeness
to myself, until he became a rebel. But, no more of that
— no more of that.”

And unconsciously the old man refilled and swallowed another
glass of his favorite Madeira, while Rawdon beheld another
and bigger tear crawling down his cheek.

“Well, my lord” — recovering himself, as it were — “well,
my lord, when Willie was here, he said that you had abandoned
`Ninety-Six,' but I wouldn't believe him; and he went on to
say, that you would be gradually compelled to confine yourself
between the waters of the Santee and Edisto — that you would
make a stand either at Orangeburg or here — and that all this
region would soon become the scene of active warfare.”

“Ah! said he that?”

“He did. I'm not sure that I ought to have told you, for it
may be a betrayal of some of his secrets—”

“Not a bit! not a bit! It was only what I feared — expected
I should say. I inferred that such would be Greene's policy.
And—”

“He counselled me accordingly, to leave this place and go to
the Santee, or Charleston. Now, if I am compelled to go
anywhere, I shall go to the city; but I wish to take your counsel,
touching the propriety of this counsel. It is a serious matter
to me just now. Travel is no easy work in my case.
Besides, the crop is made. As it is, we have been compelled
to hide the indigo in troughs, in the thickets, to save it from
marauders, and—”

“The counsel is good. Go, by all means, though you abandon
everything that you can not carry. I have no doubt that
all this region will be traversed by war. Your presence here
would only expose yourself and daughters to insult, robbery,
and murder; for all the vigilance of a general, unless he be
very strong, in himself and in his forces, can give only an imperfect

sort of protection to a country so exposed, and so
sparsely settled as this. Go, by all means. I am about to
leave the country.”

“You — you — my lord! Then all is lost!”

“Not so! you ascribe to me too much. I did not mean to
convey this idea, but only to say, that, about to leave the country
myself, I can promise nothing from myself. The government
will be in other hands. Go, by all means. It will be
some time, in any event, before our army, under any generalship,
will be able to give you protection. Better risk your possessions,
than your life and the security of your daughters.”

Old Sinclair seemed overwhelmed.

“Is it so? Is it come to this? The arms of Britain can no
longer give me protection on my own grounds.” And he sighed
from the bottom of his heart.

“Oh, Willie Sinclair! Willie Sinclair! you have helped to
bring this dishonor on your country's flag!”

And the baron hastily gulped down another stoup of Madeira,
thrusting the decanter to his lordship, who followed his example
without a word. Rawdon then resumed the dialogue.

“I must leave the country, colonel; you see my condition.
I am worn out — exhausted. Another campaign will kill me.
My whole system is out of tone. I have no energies. I only
remain to see the army put in order — to adjust the affairs of my
military government with the civil authorities; do what I can,
by some severe examples, to discourage treason and desertion,
and then leave the future administration in hands that will, I
trust, prove more efficient than mine.”

“Impossible! That is impossible, my lord.”

In the last remarks he had uttered, Rawdon had foreshadowed
that policy which resulted in the military trial and execution
of Hayne. The policy was a doubtful one; but that
the measure was prompted by notions of policy and discipline,
rather than by any malignant feeling, we have no sort of question.
Hayne was simply a sacrifice to the changed and changing
condition of parties in the country. His fate was designed
to be an example to a host of other offenders, whose treason
was still in an incipient state only, but was reasonably a
subject of suspicion. Rawdon was a man who could be cruel

from policy, but not from impulse. If Hayne was a sacrifice
to the manes of Andre, it was so decreed from mere policy.

Leaving the two still engaged in subjects that sufficiently
occupied their thoughts, let us look in upon our two younger
parties, as they pursue the mimic game of war upon the chess-board.
Fitzgerald is speaking as we enter.

“There are several reasons, Miss Sinclair, why I should not
suffer you to beat me.”

This was said after the loss of an unlucky castle by the
cavalier.

“Pray, what are they, my lord?”

“First, I am a man, and it will discredit me as such, if I am
beaten by a woman.”

Positively, he did say woman and not lady. We know that
our codfish aristocracy will vote such speaking as excessively
vulgar in anybody, especially in a lord; but they will be consoled
by remembering that Fitzgerald is only an Irish lord, and
we doubt if England even, to this day, recognises Irish or
Scotch lords, as altogether of the genuine “blue blood.”

“Well, for the second reason?”

“Secondly, I am a soldier, and to be defeated by a woman in
a military game, would be doubly discreditable.”

“Really, these would seem to be good reasons for your sturdy
resolution. Are there any more?”

“Thirdly, if beaten by a woman, I am bound to surrender to
her, à discretion — a sworn slave and subject — the mere creature
of her will.”

This was the nearest approach which our bashful Irishman
had yet made toward love-making. Carrie Sinclair replied,
coolly:—

“On that last score, my lord, I will relieve you of all uneasiness
— I give you your freedom in anticipation of the event.”

“Ah! but suppose, I prefer the bonds.”

“That as you please; but that involves no necessity with me,
to be your custodian.”

“Checkmated at the beginning. Scholar's mate!” said Fitzgerald
sotto voce. He added aloud:—

“Ah! you disdain the very victories you win. You send
your captives off to execution.”

“Oh, by no means! But, like all magnanimous conquerors,
my lord, I fight for the honors, and not the spoils of war.”

“And the honors are the best spoils of war. And the captive
becomes the trophy.”

“But the truly magnanimous is content with the victory, and
not with its display.”

“You are resolved on victory, then, like all your sex. You
will queen it while you can. Well, there's check to your queen.
Her royal highness is in danger.”

“Not so, my lord, it is the knight as you will see;” and by a
simple move, advancing a pawn, she unmasked a bishop, which
bore right and left upon the knight and king of the assailant.

“Check, my lord!”

“St. Patrick be my safety. You have put it in great peril.
But—”

The interposition of the opposite bishop did not help the
fortunes of the game. The white queen descended upon it with
the swoop of an eagle.

“Check! — and check-mate, my lord!”

“It is written. I am a dishonored knight. Overthrown by
a woman. Lady, I am your captive.”

“Be free, my lord! The conqueror delights in conquest, not
in victims.”

“You are too generous, Miss Sinclair. I could freely be
beaten thus always.”

“I have half a doubt, my lord, whether you have not purposely
allowed me the victory. But I will not question fortune
at least. I prefer, for the credit of my play, to believe that, in
some way, the Fates have helped me to victory, in spite of your
superior skill. You are not in the mood, perhaps — out of
practice — more occupied with the game of war. Now, I am in
practice, and papa and myself daily meet as enemies in this
sanguinary battle-field, where pale Faith confronts with sanguinary
Valor.”

“Your personification reminds me of poetry and music. Will
you do me the honor to sing for me, Miss Sinclair?”

“Oh, certainly, my lord. I am so fond of singing and playing
that I am glad whenever anybody asks me. Nay, for that matter,
I sing without being asked, as the birds do, I suppose.”

And she got up from the chess-table, and went at once to the
harpsichord, and while he stood over her, sang as follows:—

Carrie sang very sweetly, with a great deal of taste, and with
that frankness — that overflow and abundance of heart — which
made her seem always equally natural and earnest. Her songs
seemed neither more nor less than the overflow of her own simple
emotions — the absolute sunny outbreak of her own warm
heart.

Fitzgerald was too much of a gentleman, though an Irishman,
to use any absurd commonplace blarney on the occasion. But
he looked his pleasure — and, for a moment felt it — but a single
instant after he became grave. It struck him that there was
some significance in the song, which might be quite individual.
He said to himself — nay, had almost spoken out:—

“The d—l! does she speak of that fellow St. Julien, in the
character of the ranger, and am I her vulture?”

The next moment he said aloud, and somewhat abruptly, as
he took his seat beside her:—

“Pray, Miss Sinclair — pardon my impertinence, but, do suffer
me — do you ever write verses? in other words — don't you
make your own songs? Now that very sweet little ballad I
have never had the good fortune to have heard before; and I
have heard songs, English, Scotch, Irish, ever since I was knee
high. It sounds like an impromptu.”

The lady blushed a little — why?

“No! my lord, the song is entirely American; but not of my
fashioning. It is from the pen of one George Dennison, a native
of our region, who is quite a ballad-monger, like Glendower,
and almost speaks in music. It was taught me, music and all,
by my brother, Willie.”

What more might have been said by our gallant, on this subject,
or was said, was prevented, or interrupted, by a sudden
clamor from without; hoarse cries — the rush of horses, pistol-shots,
and finally the shrill blast of a score of bugles, waking
up suddenly the whole still atmosphere.

“Ha!” cried Fitzgerald, starting to his feet. “A surprise!”
and he dashed out without stopping to make his parting obeisance.
Rawdon, similarly aroused, in the opposite room, hastily
gathered up his sword and chapeau bras, and dashed out
also. Carrie Sinclair, not less excited, darted into the supper-room
to her father; and to the surprise of both, Nelly Floyd, in
her night-dress, made her appearance among them, descending
from her chamber! She had heard the sounds of battle before
either.