University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.
TROUBLE IN THE CAMP.

“Oh! why, why are you here at this unlucky moment?”
was the astounding sort of welcome which the tongue of Fitzgerald
gave to the ears of our baron of Sinclair and his two
companions.

“And why not, Lord Edward?” was the query of Colonel
Sinclair in reply. “What's the cause of apprehension?”

“What! have you not heard of our situation. We are almost
surrounded by the enemy. They head us on every side, and
we shall have to cut our way through them, if we would effect
our escape.”

“Escape! Does a British soldier think of escape, when he
has an opportunity to fight! Do you, Lord Edward, talk only
of escape — of flight — from these rascally rebels?”

“They are troublesome customers just now, and have such a
force in cavalry that we have need to apprehend the worst.
But we do not talk of escape without fighting, colonel; far from
it. We expect to fight and are prepared for that necessity.
But that which we might not fear for ourselves, my dear colonel,
becomes a reasonable subject of alarm, when we contemplate
the perils of your daughters.”

“Ah! I did not think of that,” answered Sinclair, looking
gravely —“I did not think of that.”

“But let us find you a shelter, colonel. Let your coachman
follow me.”

Fitzgerald led the way to the rear, and the carriage, entering
a wagon-track rudely cut through the woods, and full of obstructions,
followed for a quarter of a mile, till a cluster of log-houses

were reached, in the rear of the church, which the British had
made their fortress. At one of these the party halted, and the
colonel was assisted carefully from the carriage and conducted
into the hovel. Carrie Sinclair and little Lottie followed; and
Fitzgerald, having seen to the disposition of the carriage, rejoined
the family at the hovel. The place was a mere shelter.
A table, a few chairs, a couple of truckle-beds, scantily clad in
drapery, constituted the only furniture. But the tables were
covered with glasses and bottles, significant of those creature
comforts and wassail combats which are so essential to the
Anglo-Norman tastes, if not to its valor.

“You are in rough soldier quarters, Miss Carrie,” said Fitzgerald,
while his servant busied himself in removing the bottles,
and re-adjusting the apartment. “We had no notion of such
fair visiters at this moment.”

“But did you not expect us?” demanded Sinclair. “I told
you!”

“Yes; up to a certain moment I did expect you. Three
days ago I expected you. But things have changed since
then.”

“Ah! how was I to know that?”

“From the commotion in the country. Did you not meet
with frequent bodies of the rebels? They have been pressing
down from above, as well as from east and west. They are all
around us.”

“I did meet with some few squads of awkward rangers and
riflemen—”

“But did you not pass through their leaguer within the last
three miles?”

“No! we saw no signs of an army whatever. The wonder
is, if they do surround you, that we should have been suffered
to pass within your lines.”

“Ah! they lie perdu. Had you been a body of horse, or
foot, coming to our help, you would have heard of them. But
they might have warned you off. There could be no reason
why they should suffer you to expose your daughters to the
chances of a savage conflict.”

“What! do you look for gallant, gentlemanly, chivalrous
things from these barbarous Yahoos?” exclaimed the old gentleman

bitterly — “No! no! They were not unwilling that
we should add to your consumers and embarrass your defences.
But, tell me, why should the presence of these banditti give
you any real concern? I am fully assured that the whole force
in this quarter is but a thousand men and one field-piece.”

“Yes; but this whole force consists of mounted men.”

“Well, they're only so much the worse off for infantry.”

“Ay, but these men are accustomed to do battle as infantry
when occasion needs.”

“After a fashion, and only when dealing with inferior troops.
They have not the weapons for infantry duty, and when they
dismount, it is only to serve as riflemen — and for flanking purposes.”

“But in thick forest countries such as these, the rifle and shot
gun become formidable even against the bayonet. Indeed, it is
difficult to make the bayonet tell in such regions.”

“Ay, the rascals melt away before it.”

“That is the worst feature of the business. They do not
wait for the charge — and I don't blame them — and they return
to the attack, the moment you cease to press them. These
infernal woods give them a fortress everywhere. Besides, my
dear colonel, these rebels about us now are all old soldiers,
trained up by Marion and Sumter; they are cool and hardy.
Now, ours are half of them new recruits, and whatever their superiority
in weapons, it is fully made up by the veteran character
of the rebel troops. One old soldier, of five years standing,
is equal to any five ordinary recruits.”

“My dear Lord Edward, you confound me, you speak so seriously
of your affairs. Why, have you not a full regiment, of
five hundred regular troops?”

“Regulars — so called — but mostly raw ones.”

“But British, my dear lord — British; men with whom fighting
is a sort of natural exercise; grateful as beef and rum;
natural as sin; proper and becoming as prayer on the sabbath,
and grace at a feast.”

“Irish — not British.”

“And where's the difference? Won't the Irish fight?”

“Like devils, when they're in the humor for it, and when
their sympathies go with their colors. But — a word in your

ear, my dear colonel — we half distrust our Irish regiments, and
this is one source of our seeming timidity. Their hearts do not
go with us. They do not feel the cause. They fight best as
new men, and when they do not know the enemy; but, contact
with the rebels wins them to rebellion. Rebellion is so grateful
to an Irishman's stomach that he naturally inclines to all its arguments.
We have had some proofs lately, of a sort, to make
us very dubious of the result where the numbers are so nearly
equal.”

“It is terrible to think this of the troops you have to lead
into action.”

“Terrible! The doubt half the time is, whether the men
you are leading to the charge may not thrust their bayonets
into your own back!”

“But you have a smart auxiliary force of loyalists, my lord.
They will fight. They fight with halters about their necks.”

“Not so now! Even these we can rely upon no longer. The
rebels have found out the way to tamper with their fidelity.
They threaten only those with the halter who refuse to
unite with them in the bonds of love. They receive the prodigals
back, if they are repentant, and at once employ the rascals
against us; and it is found that they thus fight better for them,
than they ever did when serving with us.”

“Ay, for it is now your halter that they fear! But what vile
faithless rascals! Not even keeping up the show of principle!”

“Principle, indeed! The file of an army, my dear colonel,
is always mercenary. The word should be vile: I have no
doubt it was originally written thus — probably from vilain;
and vile is naturally the antithesis of rank. We can depend
upon none of them; neither regulars nor rangers; and our horse
numbers scarce a hundred and fifty. Thus, with a force nearly
numbering that of our assailants, and much more efficiently
armed, we take our steps in fear and trembling, not assured of
our troops for a single hour.”

“Good Heavens! what a condition! And here I am, at this
juncture, under these circumstances, with these two children.”

“I would not even seem inhospitable, my dear colonel,” said
Fitzgerald; “but, if you will take my advice, you will order
your carriage this very moment, and take the track homeward.

I have no doubt that the rebels will suffer you to pass their
cordon without obstruction.”

“D—n their charities! what is it that sacred writ tells us
about the charities of the wicked? Ah! if I could mount a
horse! But it is no use to growl! Go back — back! retreat
— no, no! I can't do that. I must go on.”

“Father!” said Carrie — “you forget that you are not alone.
Better listen to what Lord Edward counsels.”

“Not alone! do you say? Well, what of that? You would
tell me that you are girls, not able to fight. The more's the
pity. How I should like to transform you both now into able-bodied
vigorous young fellows, ready to fight for king and constitution.”

“God forbid!” quoth Fitzgerald, sotto voce.

“And if you could, and did, father,” said Carrie aloud, “you
might find us rebels too, and fighting against you.”

“Ha! are you there, Miss Pert? But you are right. Children,
now-a-days, seem to take a pleasure in thwarting the
wishes of their parents, flying in the face of authority, and making
a mock at wisdom and propriety.”

This, by-the-way, is the complaint of all periods. Man is for
ever reproached with the disposition to throw off his shackles.
Our own notion is, that the great body of men prefer them. It
is surprising how long a people will submit to the rule of imbecility.

“I wouldn't be a rebel, father,” said little Lottie; “I would
fight for you and Lord Edward, if I were a man!”

“Beautiful little sinner!” cried old Sinclair. “Come and
kiss me, you pretty politician. What would old Lear have
given for such a daughter! Come, kiss your papa, Lottie; take
care of my foot, you vixen! Would you crush me to death
with those great hoofs of yours?”

Some twinges of the gout, which had duly increased with
his anxieties, had made the old despot timorous as well as
wrathful.

Carrie returned to the siege.

“Father,” said she, “you can be of no use here. We are
not only in the way of danger, but we are in the way of our
friends. We trouble and embarrass them only. Why not return>

Why remain here, to endure all the horrors of a struggle
in which you can not share, and where we can only suffer?
I have no doubt the Americans will let us pass without difficulty,
and treat us with as much civility as any soldiers.”

“D—n their indulgences! Americans! — and are not we
Americans — we who are fighting for king and constitution in
America? Am I less an American, because I refuse to be a
rebel? I tell you, Carrie Sinclair, we will not go back! It
would disgrace the whole past of my life. No, girl, we will see
it out. We will go with the army. I do not fear but that we
shall make our way, in spite of, and triumphant over, this mob
of rebel rapscallions.”

“Amen! I hope so!” said Fitzgerald. “Still, I could wish,
my dear colonel, that your daughters were safe — safe, at least,
from exposure to the scene — to the terrible spectacle of war in
all its horrors — safe from exposure to its caprices. We are
strong, and will make good fight; but war is a game of great
uncertainty. Panics are, of all things, the most sudden and
unaccountable. Now, it strikes me, colonel, that there is no
humiliation in your retiring from the scene. Your daughters
furnish the apology, with the necessity. You are an invalid,
and, at your age, none but a fool would expect you to exhibit
unnecessary daring. I repeat my counsel — leave our camp
this very evening. You can ride five miles with ease, and in
two hours put yourself entirely without the enemy's alignement.
Do so, let me entreat you; for, whether we succeed or fail —
whether we keep our position, retreat in safety, or beat the
rebels — the scene will be such as no lady would endure to
witness.”

“Defeat the rebels, my dear lord, and my daughters will endure
the sight! I am not much cursed with the disease of
fear; and a loyal stomach is nowise delicate, when the spectacle
is that of royalty triumphant. As for flying from these rabble
rascals, I won't do it! I don't believe in these apprehensions.
I have such a faith in British bayonets, that I shall feel
secure — confident of a safe progress — under their protection.
Don't talk to me of retreat: I have not left home to be scared
back again at the first show of danger. There is no danger if
we face it.”

The twinges of the gout had been increasing. They made
the baron dogged and querulous. A roar of pain concluded his
speech fittingly, and silenced all attempts to answer it. Just
then, a young lieutenant appeared at the entrance, and, lifting
his cap, communicated to Fitzgerald the desire of Colonel Coates
to see him at a conference.

“Ay, go, my lord, and see if you can get better tidings for
us. See what your colonel says. Tell him, from me, to fight
— fight, if there were five to one! Let him put a bold face
upon it, and all will go well.”

It was with some reluctance that Fitzgerald disappeared. He
would have much preferred to have lingered with Carrie Sinclair,
though there was but little prospect of engaging her in a
tête-à-tête under the circumstances; and the temper of our baron
was not favorable to smooth sailing on any sea. His gout was
becoming more tenacious of its hold. The twinges were more
frequent, and his moods were governed accordingly. The hour
that followed, in which Fitzgerald was absent, was passed in
fretful, impatient, peevish, and sometimes raging humors, in
which Carrie Sinclair was permitted to exercise but the one
virtue of patience.

At length, Fitzgerald returned, looking graver than ever.

“Well, my lord, well?” demanded Sinclair. “What is determined
on?”

“What you will hardly approve. To escape a fight, if possible!
Our colonel is confirmed in his previous convictions of
this policy. We have been amusing the rebels for one third
of the day, with promise of battle. We have succeeded in impressing
them with the notion that our purpose is to hold our
ground. They have retired to the woods for the night, though
ready for position and battle in the morning. We are not to
wait for the morning. The orders are circulated already to get
in readiness the column of march for midnight. If, therefore,
you resolve to go with us, and share our fate, you must be
ready to set out by twelve o'clock. I shall arrange for your
progress after the passage of the main body. If the advance
is obstructed, you will have timely notice of it, and a strong
rear-guard will equally secure you in that quarter.”

“Retreat! Oh, monstrous! And why retreat? With the

church as a redoubt, with log-houses scattered about, and with
a force of infantry superior to that of our enemy, a fieldpiece
like themselves, and almost the same numbers, why the d—l
should you retreat? You can much better make yourselves secure
here, than on the march, where you perpetually run the
risk of ambush, with sharp-shooters and hungry horsemen
harassing you at every step. What suicide, what folly, what
madness, infidelity, and sin! Oh, that I could mount a
horse!”

“My dear colonel, the decision is that of a majority. I opposed
it. But there are arguments in behalf of the movement
of which you have not heard. We are short of provisions.
The cavalry of the enemy covers all the approaches to our
camp, and cuts off communication and supply. Besides, their
numbers are increasing; and if we stay much longer, even if
we beat them off in pitched battle, we must still succumb
through starvation. This necessity would involve the surrender,
as prisoners-of-war, of the whole command. By a timely
retreat, supposing we can effect it safely, or with small loss, we
save the army from such a catastrophe — a catastrophe which,
in the present state of our forces, would involve the loss of that
at Orangeburg, and lead almost certainly to the abandonment
of Charleston.”

“And why shouldn't my Lord Rawdon rather abandon Orangeburg,
and come down to your relief? He can return if he
wishes it.”

“He scarcely knows our condition. We have reason to believe
that all our despatches have been intercepted. Even if
he did know, it would be impossible for him to do anything for
our relief in season. We have only to rely upon ourselves.”

“And a very good reliance too, if you could only believe it.
Fight, sir, fight is the great remedy! Do not be driven from
your position. Hold it for three days, and your enemies will
melt away as frost beneath the sun.”

“The subject is beyond discussion now, my dear colonel. I
have my orders! It is for you now to say whether you will wait
events, share our fortunes, or quietly return homeward while
the opportunity is left you.”

“I go on, at all hazards! I have not set out, to be turned

back at the first show of difficulty. I have no fears. I can
not persuade myself — I will not believe — that eight hundred
regular troops, wearing his majesty's colors, are to be beaten
and dispersed by an ill-ordered, ill-conducted, ill-equipped
gang of rapscallion rebels.”

Fitzgerald, looking only to Carrie Sinclair and her sister, and
sympathizing with their situation, would have argued the case
with the baron. But his pride, and vanity, and gout, were
sadly at variance with all his reasoning powers, and he was insensible
to argument. When the young Irishman found this to
be the case, and that expostulation was hopeless, he said:—

“Well, sir, as you resolve, so be in readiness. I will instruct
your coachman. My servant will await you, and obey all your
commands. The night promises to be pleasant. The mere difficulties
of travel will be nothing, even to the ladies, if we are
not compelled to fight our way. I shall be with the ladies when
it is necessary that you should remove.”

The duties of his post called him away. He had given to
the party all the time that was possible. He had shown a degree
of concern, and respectful regard, which merited the acknowledgments
of all, and, at his departure, Carrie Sinclair
gave him her hand, and said:—

“We are very grateful, Lord Edward. You have served
and advised us as a true friend, and shall always command my
gratitude.”

“Ah, Miss Sinclair, if I could only hope for more.”

This was all that he ventured, at that moment, to say in reference
to the subject which was uppermost in his heart; and
to this she returned no answer.

At midnight the party was roused; the carriage was in readiness.
Fitzgerald had made all provisions, and Colonel Sinclair,
his gout a shade more troublesome, was lifted into his carriage
with the succor of two stout dragoons. The British army
was already under march. A dead silence prevailed throughout
the encampment and over the great forests by which it was
sheltered. Not a drum was heard, not a trumpet note, as the
British retreat was hurried; not a soldier discharged a random
shot; and not even the damsels were flurried.

And, thus silently, the whole cavalcade of foot and horse was

set in motion, taking their way eastward, having reason to suppose
that the larger body of Sumter's troops were in their rear,
and anticipating their retreat by the western routes to the city,
if, indeed, they anticipated their retreat at all. But this was
not their notion.

And for awhile, the British pursued their route without disturbance,
and would have secured two more hours for undisturbed
retreat than they did, but for the exercise of a piece of
vandalism, of which the British generals were too commonly
guilty during the warfare of the Revolution. Colonel Coates,
compelled to abandon large supplies of store, munitions, &c.,
which he could not carry off, had accumulated them, for this
purpose, within the church which he had lately made his headquarters.
The historian remarks, gratuitously, that he might
as well have gathered and fired them without the church, sparing
the sacred building to its consecrated uses. But the good
historian makes no proper allowance for the piety of a British
colonel, in that period. Coates probably contemplated a notable
burnt-offering to the gods, upon their own shrines, as a
proof of his gratitude; and necessarily regarded such a valuable
sacrifice, as he then made, of his goods and chattels, as establishing
a claim to the favor of the Deity in his future progresses!
It is possible that he only esteemed it as a tribute of
acknowledgment to the Deity for the shelter he had found in
his temple for a season. But here, within the church, a venerable
square structure of brick, an episcopal church besides,
built under royal government, he gathered his goods, decreed to
the sacrifice, and lighted the train which was destined to consume
them. The train was rather premature. The gods too
readily accepted the burnt-offerings. The flames, bursting
through the roof of the church, at three o'clock in the morning,
illuminated the forest, announced to the Americans the flight of
the enemy, and roused them up to the pursuit! Of course
Sumter and his host were instantly in the saddle to recover the
ground which had been lost, by overtaking the fleeing enemy.
But they had already near four hours start of their pursuers!