University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
SHOWING HOW COLONEL SINCLAIR, SENIOR, CONFOUNDED TWO
VERY DIFFERENT KINDS OF FISH.

There was great blame somewhere. The affair had been
very much mismanaged. The game was certainly in the hands
of our partisans. The surprise of Coates, with the main body,
had been as complete as that of his rear-guard. Sumter, in his
official report of it, says: “If the whole party had charged across
the bridge, they would have come upon the enemy in such a
state of confusion, while extricating themselves from the lane,
that they must have laid down their arms.” And so we say.
But we have shown why the whole party did not charge across
the bridge; and will not stop to inquire, here, upon whom the
blame of this failure should fall. An inquiry might tend to
rob some favorite of a rose from his chaplet, but we have no
wish to do this discourtesy, at this late period in the history.
No censure, now, can change the results. Let us rather look
to some other parties to our drama, whom, not participants in
the action, we have left behind us in a very uncomfortable condition
of anxiety and apprehension.

Our baron and his two daughters were beginning to experience
all the troubles of their peculiar situation. As troop after
troop drew nigh, and dashed past his vehicle, the veteran began
to fidget at a most distressing rate. Mind and body began
to be equally sore and uneasy. The twinges of the gout became
more frequent, and, ready to scream half the time with
physical pain, he was equally in the mood to roar with mental
distemperature. He could no longer doubt that all these troopers

were rebels. He saw it in the ragged costume, the queer,
strange attempts at uniform, the sprigs of green cedar in the caps
of Marion's men; in a thousand little details which stripped the
matter of all uncertainty. The excitement of old Sinclair increased
duly every moment. He swore his most famous oaths.
He started up, till admonished by an extra twinge in foot or
ankle, when he laid himself back in the carriage with a groan.
Then he got down his sword, drew it from the scabbard, and
leaned it up in a corner of the vehicle. The next object were
his pistols. He fidgetted till he got these out of the holsters,
and examined their primings. At this, Carrie Sinclair thought
it necessary to interpose.

“Father, father! This will never do! What can you do
with these pistols? How can anything that you can do avail,
except to endanger our safety? Oh! father, remember your
children — see this poor child, and be prudent.” She had
drawn little Lottie into her lap and held her firmly back in
the carriage. “These people do not seem disposed to harm us.
See, they pass us without stopping to look or speak. If you
show your weapons you may provoke them to offence.”

“You are right!” answered the veteran with a groan, as he
thrust back his pistols into the pocket of the coach. “But, oh!
that I could mount a horse once more! Strike one more blow
for Britain before I die. The bloody remorseless rebels!
D—n their impudence! See how audaciously they ride, as if
the royal banner was not floating in their paths, and a thousand
brave British hearts rallying round for its defence. Would I
could lift an arm once more in the same glorious cause. Ha!
they are at it! It begins! Now we shall see! ha! ha! We
shall see how rebellion carries itself when the royal lion rouses
and roars in vengeance!”

The shots from the bridge were now audible.

“You shall see how the British lion will drive these runagate
rebels even as the dog drives the sheep!”

“Hush! hush! my father! There are other troops approaching.”

A deep voice was heard behind them.

“No bugles! on silently. Forward!” And a troop went
along at the gallop.

“Where the devil can Fitzgerald be all this time? He should
have let us known what was going on.”

“You are unreasonable, sir! How could he with this host
behind him?”

“Sheep! sheep! A gallant dash backward, of but one hundred
good British dragoons would demolish or scatter the whole
herd.”

“Hardly, sir; for the rear-guard, if you remember, consisted
of a hundred men and they appear to have been conquered and
captured.”

“What right have you to suppose such nonsense? They
have probably taken another path.”

At this moment a young officer approached, and pausing for
an instant, said to Sam, the driver — giving but a look as he
spoke to the inmates of the carriage:—

“Drive aside, old fellow, and clear the track. You are in
the way.” And he rode on.

“We are in the king's highway!” roared the veteran within,
as he caught up his sword, and thrust the point toward the window.
Fortunately, the action was not seen.

“Father! father!” cried Carrie, as she grasped the arm that
held the sword, and gently took the weapon from his clutch.

“I am truly an old fool!” said the old man meekly, while
the big tears gathered in his eyes. “My son! my son! Oh!
Willie Sinclair, you have brought me to my knees — to my
knees.”

We may see what was the associated idea in the mind of the
old man from this speech. His loyalty was a thing of doubt
while his son was a leader among the rebels.

The commotion increased. The steady tread of infantry was
heard behind them, with an occasional dash of steeds. At this
moment the horses of Sinclair began to share the excitement
of their master. The clash of arms, the rush of steeds, the
shouts of men, the sharp shot in front, all tended to make them
restiff and uneasy; and old Sam, the driver, was himself quite
too much confounded by the scene, to be master either of himself
or the horses. Without the baron's being conscious of what
his driver or his beasts were doing, the carriage had been
stopped. Sam had drawn up as closely as possible to the roadside,

leaving as much space clear to the troopers as he could
well afford; and this arrest of their motion seemed to increase
their disquiet. It was only while the animals began to bound
and curvet, snort and rear, that our baron was apprized of the
fact that the carriage was no longer in motion.

“What the d—l do you stop for, you old rascal? Drive up,
I say, and let's see what's going on. Better be in the thick of
it, than remain in this terrible doubt and uncertainty.”

“Oh, no! Do not, dear father, go any nearer. Let us rather
turn aside into the woods and escape from it.”

“Do, papa, that's a dear papa!” and the little Lottie, quite
scared at the scene, added her entreaties to those of her sister.

“What! are you a coward too? Pooh! pooh! There
would be no danger, once under the king's banner.”

“But there's no getting under that, father: there are thousands
of men in the path.”

“Pooh! pooh! not five hundred! We are only a mile from
the bridge. So Fitzgerald told us. Drive on, you rascal.”

But Sam did not obey.

“Look yer, maussa, 'tis no use. Der's no gitting along t'rough
dese armies and de hosses is no longer altogedder sensible of
what's to be doing. Ef I could break t'rough de woods now!”

“The cowardly old rascal! He's afraid of a bullet through
his worthless old carcass. I should have brought Benny Bowlegs.
He's afraid neither of man nor beast, neither shot nor
devil. Oh! for Benny Bowlegs. To have to deal with a scamp
that's afraid of his shadow! Drive on, you sooty son of Satan
— on, sirrah, till I tell you when to stop.”

“Why, look yer, maussa—”

“Do not seek to master me, you rascal!”

“Nay, dear father, Sam is right.”

“Right! Everybody's right but me, I suppose! I'm always
wrong. Of all Lear's daughters, there was but one—”

“And her father would not understand her!” added Carrie.

The old man looked at her, silenced for a moment — but recovered
himself and said sarcastically: “Oh! you are my Cordelia,
then.” He turned from her in the next moment, and
roared out to Sam — “Drive on, rascal, though you run your
wheels over the necks of a thousand rebels.”

Sam moodily bobbed his head to one side, and shook out his
reins. One of his horses began again to plunge.

“You see, maussa,” cried the fellow.

“Give him the whip, you skunk! Don't be afraid of him,
or we're gone.”

But Sam hesitated, and was for a moment saved from personal
responsibility by the interposition of another.

“Back with your horses, fellow!” cried one of Marion's troopers,
dashing along, and speaking as he passed — “back, into the
woods with you — anywhere — but get out of the way!”

The words were distinctly heard, and the veteran shouted —
he knew not what — in defiance.

“Oh, father, be quiet! They will hear you.”

“Let 'em hear, d—n 'em! I want 'em to hear, that I loathe
'em, and curse 'em, and defy 'em.”

And he got hold of his pistols as he roared out thus imprudently.
The trooper, meanwhile, who had given Sam his order
to betake himself to the woods, sped forward without stopping
to see whether he was obeyed or not. Others followed. The
horse snorted with increasing terror. His companions began to
give signs of sympathy. They were catching the panic contagion.
The rush of another squadron from the rear increased
their terrors, and, wheeling and plunging, they had brought the
carriage nearly across the road, almost closing up the passage.
An officer dashed up at full speed, halted so suddenly as to
throw his own steed upon his haunches, and, catching the rein
of the restiff beast short at the head, wheeled him rapidly out
of the track.

“Into the woods, blockhead,” cried the stranger, “before you
are torn to pieces!”

In the same moment, the officer wheeled about, and showed
himself at the carriage-window. He was about to speak — was
speaking — when, quick as lightning, old Sinclair, who had
again caught up his pistols, thrust one full at his head, and
pulled the trigger. The explosion followed; the officer reeled
under it, his cap fell off, and, as he cried —

“Good God! my father!—”

Carrie Sinclair recognised her brother.

“Oh, father, it is Willie! You have slain him — you have
slain my brother!”

“Willie! Willie Sinclair! — my son Willie!”

It was all the old man could speak. He was seized with a
shivering-fit, dropped the other pistol, which he probably would
have used also, and, covering his face with his hands, shrieked
his agony of soul! The voice of Willie, the next moment,
reassured the party.

“Be not alarmed,” he said; “I am unhurt!” and he passed
his hands over his forehead, which seemed to have been simply
scorched and blackened by the flame, or wadding from the pistol.
An inch higher, the bullet had gone through his cap!

“On, Colonel Sinclair!” said Marion, riding up. “You
should be with your command. Who are these?”

“It is my father and sisters, general,” replied Willie.

“Your father and sisters! What are they doing here? But,
get them into the woods, out of the track, or they may taste the
grape from the enemy's howitzer. Back them out, as soon as
possible; we must have a clear track. Spur onward, as soon
as you have done this duty, and rejoin your command. Every
moment now is worth a score of lives.”

And Marion rode forward.

“Oh, my son! oh, Willie! have I been mad enough to attempt
your life?”

Such was the piteous appeal of the old man, who was covered
with a cold sweat, and trembled like a leaf.

“No, sir. You knew not whom you shot at, or what you
did!”

“That's true! I'm a madman! This girl is wiser by far.
She got me to put down the accursed pistols, and I really knew
not that I had again taken them out, until I had fired. Oh,
my son, had I slain you with the one, I had surely slain myself
with the other!”

“Thank God that no harm's done! But we must get you
hence. — Wheel into the woods, Sam. There is room enough
for you, if you manage well. Don't heed those saplings. There,
drive ahead!”

He was obeyed. The vehicle was got into the woods, and,
making a difficult circuit, was carried out of the press, and some

small distance into the rear of the moving parties. The horses
seemed to know the voice of Willie, who rode his own blooded
charger beside them, and thus timed their paces, and soothed
their disquiet.

“What am I to do, my son?” asked the old man feebly —
“where am I to go, Willie? Say — order!”

“Home, sir, home! and remain quiet, till you hear from me.
I will send a friend to see you out of the camp; but I must
leave you now — and you, dear Carrie — and you, little Lottie
— and I do so very sorrowfully. I would you were safe at
home! You are not safe here. Your most secure route, just
now, is homeward. Go thither! Do not turn aside, on any
pretence, or at any suggestion. God bless and protect you,
father — sisters! God be with us all!”

And he darted away, trusting himself to no further speech.
The sisters wept — the father groaned in agony and self-reproach.

“Oh, my God, what a narrow escape I have had! To think
that my hand should have aimed at the life of my own son!”

“But, father, you did not mean it.”

“Oh, Carrie, how would that lessen my agony had he fallen?
I am an old fool! What had I to do with pistols? what could
I do with them? It was all owing to that rascal Sam. Why
did he stop the horses?”

“Could he do better, my dear father? Would you have had
him carry us into the thick of the fight? Do not be unjust.”

“How do you know that there has been any fight? These
rascally Irish have run, the besotted villains! And poor Fitzgerald!
he has probably fallen a victim to their treachery and
cowardice.”

“Nay, dear father, this is not likely. It is evident that there
has been little fighting as yet. You see that the main body of
the Americans have not yet gone forward. You may see a
squad of them now, through the woods; and look — there is an
officer riding toward us.”

“Where? who?”

“Here, sir, on the right.”

“What! that big fellow? Why, he's a mountain on horseback!”

“But his horse seems big enough for the mountain.”

“Yes, indeed! It is the largest horse, I think, I ever saw.
But what a huge man to be a dragoon! and what a belly for
an officer to carry! — and yet, see what a monstrous girth he
wears! And, what a uniform!”

“Hush, sir! he approaches.”

The officer rode up, and, bowing politely, said, in musical
tones —

“Colonel Sinclair, I believe.”

“At your service. And who the devil are you, sir?”

This rude speech was prompted — we must say apologetically
— by a sudden and sharp twinge of the gout at this moment.
But the stranger was prompt to reply in the same spirit.

“The devil himself, sir, at your service: but — you will
please remember, my dear young lady,” addressing himself to
Carrie — “that, whatever his other demerits, the devil has the
reputation of being a gentleman.”

“An assurance,” answered Carrie, with a smile, “which should
surely reconcile us to his representative.”

“You are a woman of sense, madam — a rarity among your
sex. You may rest assured that I shall do nothing to forfeit
the social reputation of my principal.”

“Well, sir,” said our baron, whom the gout was troubling at
this moment especially, and who, as an old aristocrat, was exceedingly
impatient of the familiar tone which the stranger
employed when speaking with his daughter — angry, indeed,
with Carrie herself for the civil speech with which she had simply
designed to do away with any ill effects that might have
arisen from the rude apostrophe of her father — “well, sir, to
what do I owe the honor of this interruption to my peaceful
progress?”

“Peaceful progress,” quoth the stranger coolly. “My venerable
friend,” he continued, “I do not come hither to retard
or prevent your very peaceful progress, but if possible to render
it more so. I promised your son to see you safe beyond
our lines.”

“Pardon me, sir; you are the gentleman that he promised to
send me. I thank you, sir — I thank you very much. Forgive
me, if I have seemed to you peevish and uncivil, but I am a

victim to the gout, sir, and am besides in a devilish bad
humor.”

“No apologies, my dear sir, further. Both of these are gentlemanly
privileges. I respect them. I am glad to believe,
my dear young lady, that you are not troubled with the
gout also.”

“And why should you suppose her free from it?” growled
the baron.

“Simply, because, as a lady, she ought to enjoy neither of
these gentlemanly privileges. I can answer for it, sir, that she
gladly yields the monopoly to you of the other gentlemanly
privilege.”

The baron growled good-humoredly — “Do not dwell, sir,
upon my rudeness. You are a wit, I see, and must suffer yourself
to be opposed by other weapons than your own. Few persons
practise well at the foils with this class of person. It is
fortunate for his majesty's cause, I fancy, that you are not
allowed to lead in this attack.”

“Your sagacity, Colonel Sinclair, or your instincts, it matters
not which, has conducted you to a truth which revelation would
hardly suffer the American Congress to receive. It is fortunate
for his majesty's cause that I was not the leader in this expedition,
or that I was not permitted to select the leader. The
results, I promise you, would have been very different. We
should not have allowed the British army to slip through our
fingers.”

This was said with a sort of savage gravity, as if the speaker
solemnly felt it all, and felt, besides, that not only a great wrong
had been done to himself, but that a serious mischief had resulted
also to the country.

“Well, sir, I'm not sure but that you might have done as
well, or better, than those who do lead your troops; but you
will permit me to hint that it is hardly possible that any leader
could have secured you success against the troops of Britain. I
infer, you perceive, from your words, that you are in a difficult
situation — what the vulgar call `a tight place' — that, in short,
you are about to receive a drubbing.”

The corpulent captain lifted his eyebrows. Then he laughed
merrily.

“My venerable friend, you never, I fancy, heard of Ike Massey's
bulldog?”

“You are right in your fancy.”

“Well, sir, Ike had a bulldog — a famous bulldog — that
whipped all other dogs, and whipped all bulls, and Ike honestly
believed that he could whip all beasts that ever roared in the
valley of Bashan. On one occasion, he pitted him against a
young bull, whom he expected to see him pull down at the first
jerk, muzzle and throttle in a jiffey. But it so happened that
Towser — the name of his dog — had, in process of time, lost
some of his teeth. He did take the bull by the nose, but the
young animal shook the old one off, and with one stamp of his
hoof he crushed all the life out of Towser. But Ike, to the day
of his death, still believed in Towser, and swore that the dog
had no fair play; that the bull had improperly used his hoofs
on the occasion; and that, in fact, having honestly taken his
enemy by the nose, according to bulldog science, the victory
must still be conceded to him. Now, your faith in British science
is not unlike that of Ike Massey in his dogs; but the bull
may safely concede the science, so long as he can stamp his
enemy to pieces. We are working just in this fashion in our
fighting with the British. They have the science, but they are
losing the teeth; while we are young and vigorous, lack the
science, and have the strength. Scientifically, the British whip
us in all our contests; but we do an immense deal of very interesting
bull-stamping all the while; and it is surprising how
much dog-life we are crushing out of the British carcass. As
for the present affair, you are quite out if you suppose that we
are in any tight place. Our difficulty is that the place is rather
a loose one. You err equally in supposing that we are about to
be lathered. Our difficulty is that the British are running, and
we can't get at them, on account of a paltry creek with a paltry
bridge over it that is not passable. It is all owing, I am afraid,
to a poor apish trick of emulating British science, that we haven't
stamped the dog to pieces this very day. We have done a little,
however, toward taking the life out of the animal. We have
captured the rear-guard of a hundred men, and taken all the
baggage and the money-chest.”

“Captured, without a fight! Captured a pack of cowards!”

“No, no! my venerable friend. The fellows are no cowards,
not a man of 'em; but they had no such love for British rule
that you entertain, and gave themselves up to better society.”

“You should be grateful for their civility, I think.”

“I am. Do you remember how the fat knight of Eastcheap
conquered Sir Coleville of the Dale. We felt on taking our
raw Irishman as Falstaff did in that conquest, and said to them
— almost in his language — `Like kind fellows ye gave yourselves
away, and I thank ye for yourselves.” We did not have
to sweat for them any more than Sir John, for his prisoner.
But your driver will please to quicken his pace. The woods
are open enough here for trotting. I must hurry you discourteously,
for my company has these liberal Irishmen in charge,
and all the baggage; and the treasure is too precious to neglect.
There are some casks of rum, too, among our stores; and such
is the mortal antipathy of the Irish to this American liquor, that
they would waste it even on themselves, sooner than not get
rid of it.”

“One question, sir. Are you not Captain Porpoise?”

The eye of our captain was sternly fastened for an instant,
upon the face of the speaker, but there was no sinister expression
in the baron's countenance leading him to suppose that
any offence was meant. Before he could speak, however, Carrie
Sinclair corrected him.

“Oh, father, it is Captain Porgy!”

“Bless my soul, so it is! What have I said! Pray forgive
me, Captain Porgy, it was in pain and some bewilderment, that
I committed the mistake. I asked the name, sir, only through
most grateful motives, and as, from my son's very favorable account
of you, at his last visit to the barony, I was anxious to
know you.”

“His description seems to have been a close one, Colonel
Sinclair,” answered Porgy, with a grim smile. “Colonel Sinclair,
your son, is a friend whom I very much honor.”

“And he honors you too, Captain Porgy,” interposed Carrie,
eagerly, anxious to do away with any annoyance that her
father's blunder may have occasioned. She continued — “And
my father, sir, and we all, will be pleased to welcome you,
should you ever do us the kindness to visit the barony.”

“To be sure, Captain Porgy, to be sure. Come and see us.
Though you are a rebel, sir, like my son, you are a gentleman,
I believe, and a man of honor; and all that I have ever heard
of you is grateful. Nothing, I assure you, will give me more
pleasure, in a social way, than to have you at my board; and I
promise you, if you will come, to put some old Madeira before
you, of the vintage of 1758, such as is seldom broached now-a-days
in Carolina. I pray you, sir, to believe that I am sincere,
and forgive that stupid blunder of mine in taking your name in
vain.”

All this was said very heartily, and in just the tone and strain
to make its way to Porgy's heart.

“To be sure, you are sincere, Colonel Sinclair. A man with
the taste to keep Madeira twenty years in his house must be an
honest man; and to broach it freely to his guest, proves him a
gentleman. You may look to see me, should occasion ever offer.
As for your mistake in my name, sir, let it never trouble you.
I never take offence where I am assured it is unmeant; and,
when we look at the facts, you really conveyed a compliment.
In respect to relative dignity, the porpoise must take precedence
of the porgy. Let the matter never trouble you, my dear young
lady. I can see that you felt your father's mistake much more
than I did. You are a true woman, which means, that you possess
the exquisite sensibility, which fears to inflict pain, much
more than it fears suffering. I would I were a young fellow,
for your sake. But we are friends, are we not?” He offered
her his hand. She gave hers readily.

Oh! yes, sir, my brother's friends are all mine.”

“Would they were friends only,” muttered the baron, sotto
voce, remembering Peyre St. Julien.

“Yes, yes,” said Porgy, “but we must be friends on our own
account, not on your brother's.”

“Well, as you please. I am sure that you will do me honor.”

“I'll try. And now, my dear old gentleman,” said Porgy,
“we have reached the end of our tether. You are here on the
edge of the road. Yonder is the king's highway — where the
king dare not wag a finger, or cut a pigeon-wing. You can
find your way home without trouble, and I hope without interruption.
We can do no more for you just now. Hurry home

as fast as you can, for the woods will be in a blaze for some time
to come. We are smoking out the `varmints.' God bless you
now, and good-by. It is time for me to see if I can't find a
chance to stick a finger in this business. Good-by!”

And, thus separating, our baron pushed into the main road,
while Captain Porgy dashed off to join his command at full
speed, as if neither himself nor his gigantic steed had any
weight to carry.

“How he rides for so large a man,” was Carrie's remark.

“His face is positively handsome,” said the father.

“But his figure, father.”

“Ah! no more of that, or I shall be sure to call him porpoise
again when next I meet him. But what do you stop for, Sam?”

“Whay for go now, maussa?”

“Home, rascal! didn't Willie Sinclair tell you? Ah, Willie!
Willie! That I should have lifted pistol at my son's head.
Oh, Carrie! if it were possible, I should like to kneel, here
where I am, and give thanks to God for his mercies, that interposed
and saved me from my son's murder.”

“The heart may kneel, father, as well as the limbs. The
soul that feels, and the mind that thinks, its obligations to God,
are already busy in prayer.”

The carriage was soon out of reach of bullet from the scene
of war, and Porgy was equally soon at the head of his company,
condemned to the dreary task, while battle was impending,
of keeping watch over captured men and wagons. Let us
leave both parties, and resume our progress with the active
combatants.