University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER XXX.
STRANDED ON THE KING'S HIGHWAY.

The morning brought with it little to alleviate the mortification
of such of our partisans as were especially ambitious of
performance. With the first inquiry it was found that Lee,
with his legion, horse and foot, had taken the route to join the
main army under Greene, without the knowledge or consent of
Sumter. But the force remaining with the latter general would
still have been quite sufficient to conquer Coates in his fortress,
could he — to use an Hibernicism — be dislodged from it. The
field-piece would have sufficed for this purpose, but, with abundance
of bullets, there was, as we have heard, no powder! It
was a mockery to sight and thought! Still, our partisans could
have starved Coates out, were sufficient time allowed them;
and, once forced out, every step that he took would be under the
surveillance and continued assault of our mounted men; and,
without cavalry, the British colonel must finally have succumbed
to them.

But time was not allowed for the indulgence of these interesting
exercises. The scouts brought in advices that Lord
Rawdon had already set out from Orangeburg, with five hundred
picked infantry, the flower of his command, and was
marching downward, with all despatch, for the relief of Coates.
This was a sufficient reason for abandoning the leaguer, which,
to be successful, would require at least three days. Rawdon
might be supposed to be already at Monck's Corner, which was
but seventeen miles from Shubrick's. Besides, Shubrick's was
but twenty miles from Charleston, on a point accessible by
tide-water; and a hostile force might be anticipated at any

moment from the city garrison. Under all circumstances,
Sumter was unwillingly compelled to forego his prey. He
secured his prisoners, his captured stores and baggage, and
sullenly deliberate, took his march Eastward and across the
Santee, where he was soon in safety.

We could add a great deal to the arguments to which we
have already listened, from the mouths of others, in the last
chapter, to show why the expedition had not realized all the
results anticipated from it — to show why it had failed at certain
points, and in what way it must have succeeded; — but our
purpose contemplates no such nice examination of the history.
We have only to add, that, could Coates have been captured,
the battle of Eutaw would probably never have taken place;
the whole British force must have been drawn down from
Orangeburg; and Charleston itself, as a British garrison, must
have been endangered. An order from New York required
the transfer, to that place, of two of the regiments lately received
from Ireland; and the rest of the British forces, within
the state, would have been absolutely required for the maintenance
of the garrison at the metropolis. Certainly, as we prefigure
to ourselves these results, we can appreciate the savage
criticisms of Captain Porgy, upon those blunders and wilfulnesses
— if such they were — which he conceived to be at the
bottom of their defeat.

But, while Sumter retires across the Santee, and Marion into
the haunt of his brigade; while a large number of their several
commands take advantage of the dog-day respite, to see their
farms and families; — what of our other parties, whom the
Fates still keep busy in spite of the season?

What does Willie Sinclair contemplate doing in respect to
Travis and his son, Bertha and her mother? As yet, he knows
nothing, can hear nothing, of either party. Jim Ballou has
made no recent report; and from this silence, Sinclair readily
conceives that Travis and his son still elude the search of the
scout. In respect to Bertha and her mother, though he holds
the probabilities to be strong, that they have crossed the Santee
in safety, and reached the dwelling of Mrs. Baynard, the
sister of Travis, yet, even this point is a subject of anxiety. A
long consultation with St. Julien determines his present route,

though it does not lessen his doubts and difficulties. He concludes
to accompany the march of Sumter up the Santee, and
ascertain, certainly, the facts in reference to Bertha and her
mother. His plan is, having quieted himself in respect to them,
to recross the Santee from above, and renew his search in and
about the Edisto, the Four-Holes, and the heads of Cooper
river — naturally supposing that the parties must be hidden
somewhere within those precincts, which constitute the foraying
ranges of Richard Inglehardt. To return, by way of Biggin
and Monck's Corner, would be not only to leave himself unsatisfied
as to Bertha's safety, but would be to endanger his own;
since Lord Rawdon, with his five hundred men, is supposed to
be in and about this very region.

And, so resolving, he took up the line of march with Sumter,
with whom he continued until the precincts of Fort Watson
were attained; when Sinclair separated, with his company under
St. Julien, from the main body, which, under instructions
from Greene, proceeded to ascend, along the Congaree, and
take post near Fridig's ferry. Briefly, to conclude the doubts
of our hero, and increase his anxieties and fears, he found, on
reaching Mrs. Baynard's plantation, that Mrs. Travis and her
daughter had not yet arrived. The good lady reported the
safe arrival of all her brother's negroes, under the escort of
'Bram, and the departure of that trustworthy emissary. But
she could report nothing more.

And here, poor Willie Sinclair was all at sea again; clouds
gathering, and no star, east or west, to indicate his future
course. For awhile, he was confounded — too much so to
think or to determine justly; and St. Julien quietly took the
direction of affairs into his own hands, and Sinclair submitting,
the troop proceeded to recross the Santee, by the nearest ferry,
and resume the search, once more, in those precincts, which it
had already so unprofitably traversed.

Leaving Sinclair to his toilsome labors, destined for awhile to
continued disappointment, let us take the route after his father
and sister, and see what has happened to them, in their homeward
progress. They had now to retrace their steps, over the
ground which they had compassed in the morning; and the
journey was a tedious one. The recent excitements subsiding,

left the whole party in a state of considerable prostration — depression,
in fact; for poor Carrie Sinclair could now reflect
upon the perils of her brother and her lover. She conjured up
a thousand images of terror — fancied both perishing on the
field; for she knew the audacity of her brother's temperament,
and the cool, determined bravery of her lover. We may imagine
her reflections, and conceive the gloominess of their present
aspects.

As for her father, he could never be done thinking, and talking,
of his desperate shot at his son.

“What an old fool! what an old fool!” he kept muttering;
and only varied the burden to utter thanks to God who had
spared him the murder of his first-born.

“For it would have been murder, Carrie,” said he solemnly.
“I was not in the army. I was not called upon to fight. It was
in very wantonness and madness, folly and stupidity, that I
lifted weapon this day; and why the d—l, girl, did you suffer
me to do it? It was all your fault. Had my wretched folly
slain your brother, the sin would have been upon your head!”

A booby of a girl, vain and worthless, would have reminded
her father, that she had striven to make him put up his weapons
— nay, had seen them put up — and would have been at
pains to convince the old man that nobody was to blame but
himself. But our Carrie was a noble, sensible woman, who
preferred that the old man should make out his case as he
would, and conjure up what consoling reflections he might, by
which to lessen the grievous burden upon his soul. Dear girl,
we will make a wife of her, if we can! She stifled her own
griefs, and submitted to the reproaches of his.

Before night his gout was very troublesome, and he grew
more and more peevish and querulous every moment. He was
impatient with old Sam, the driver, and wished a thousand
times he had brought Benny Bowlegs, who had smelt fire, and
did not fear it. He next charged upon Sam, as the real cause
of his shooting at his son.

“Had the scoundrel not stopped the horses, nothing of the
kind could have happened!”

And so the party travelled. The gout grew worse. The
night came down. It was ten o'clock before they got back to

Monck's Corner, where they found lodgings at the little old
hostel that was kept at the place. Here, after a hot supper (of
old bacon, fried eggs, and some disconsolate fish, of nondescript
class, which had been taken from the river, or some one of its
arms), which the gouty baron swore it was indispensable to his
peace that he should eat that night, the party retired to rest.

Two hours after, there was a great stir — a tramp — a commotion.
Lord Rawdon had arrived with his regiment of five
hundred men. He was told of Colonel Sinclair's recent arrival,
and of the flight of Coates. But of the result of the flight, the
landlord could tell him nothing. His lordship was too anxious
— the affair of too much serious importance for postponement
— and, with these apologies, Rawdon insisted on seeing our
baron; and, after first apprizing him of his purpose, he made
his way to his chamber. A long conference ensued between
them. Sinclair narrated, as well as he could, all the events of
which he knew anything, occurring that day. The narrative
threw my Lord Rawdon into great uneasiness. He dreaded
the catastrophe, which would, indeed, endanger his own safety.

“It is impossible to march now; my men are exhausted by
our forced march to-day!” he said. It was now one o'clock in
the morning, and he strode the chamber in great agitation.
Meanwhile, Sinclair was groaning upon his mattress. He had
been aroused from sleep just as he had fallen comfortably into
it; an offence — according to Captain Porgy — which merits
death in the offender. Aroused by his groans, to a sense of
the claims of the old invalid, Lord Rawdon undertook to condole
with him; but, when he talked of gout, old Sinclair cried
out:—

“My lord, I have this day tried to slay my own son! I shot
at him — shot him, I may say — the bullet grazing his forehead!
Can you conceive of a crime more horrible?”

“But you knew not that it was your son?”

“Oh, certainly, I knew not! I was in pain — in agony —
and under a most d—nable excitement! The exulting rebels
were in procession before my eyes! I saw the king's banner
trampled under foot — your d—d Irish, my lord, threw down
their arms without a struggle — and that miserable old scoundrel,
Sam, my driver — it was all his doings — he must needs

stop short in the road, just when the affair was going on at the
bridge! He was the cause of it all, and made me shoot my
son! I was so much goaded by all these things, that I played
the madman, which is next thing to playing the fool!”

“Scarcely, my dear colonel. The one rôle is infinitely more
dignified than the other. But what are now your purposes?
Whither do you go?”

“Home! home! home!”

“But you need not! Your course to Charleston is now clear.
You can go thither without impediment. I will guaranty your
safe progress. Whether by the routes, east or west, of Cooper
river. With the dawn, I shall march on Quinby, relieve
Coates, and disperse the rebels. A single day, by the western
route, will easily take you to Charleston from this place; and,
I suppose that there is hardly a scouting party of the rebels
now west of Cooper river. But, if you will take the road with
me, I will see you safe. My course is for the city, though I am
compelled to turn aside for awhile to beat off these hornets.”

“Thank you, my lord; but I left the matter to Willie. He
has said — home — and home I go! I go to die, perhaps; I
feel like it. I am very ill. Very ill. Such a day as I have
had. And this shooting of my son!”

“But he is not shot — not hurt — as I understand you!”

“To be sure not! God was merciful! I missed him; had I
slain him, my lord, be sure, I had not been here to answer you
to-night. I had kept one pistol for myself.”

“My dear colonel, dismiss these thoughts. I hope to drink
many a good glass of that old Madeira with you yet. But suffer
me to send my surgeon to you. He is an able man, and
may, no doubt, afford you some relief.”

“No, my lord, no! I thank you. My disease, you are aware,
is chronic. All the specifics are notorious. I have 'em all —
and he can only prescribe medicines which I am used to. Look
yonder, there is a medicine chest — my travelling companion.
If you could send me sleep, my lord, it were far better than the
surgeon!”

Rawdon had got from the veteran all that he could report.
His last hint was not to be mistaken; but old Sinclair would
have died, before saying, in so many words — “pray get you

gone, my lord, and let me sleep;” as the good common sense
of the present generation would be very apt to say it without
scruple. But the period of the Georges was of the old trick in
social policy — a thing on stilts and out of nature. We have
reformed all this.

His lordship, of course, expressed his regrets at having disturbed
the invalid, but pleaded anew the apologetic circumstances —
his great anxiety for the army — the royal cause, &c.; and the
baron roused himself up to answer courteously to all this, while
Rawdon was bowing himself out of the room.

With the sunrise Carrie Sinclair was at her father's door.
But Rawdon had set off before the dawn, on the route to
Quinby. It is only necessary to add, that before he reached
this spot, he was met by the messengers of Coates, who had
already been relieved by the departure of Sumter. His lordship
wheeled about, and made for the city by the western route.
There he did not remain long — only enough to sanction, if not
to command, the execution of Hayne, as a traitor — an unwarrantable
stretch of power — and to depart for England. On
the route he was captured by the French, and was brought
back, a prisoner-of-war, to Yorktown, the surrender of which
place to Washington, he was compelled to witness! But for
this last grateful event, and the near prospect of peace which it
afforded, Rawdon would undoubtedly have expiated on the
gallows, the wanton and profligate cruelty of Hayne's execution!

After breakfast, feeling something easier, Colonel Sinclair
and family resumed their journey. And his gout resumed its
attacks, and the cloud resumed its progress before them, and
hung all the way along their route. How gloomy was the
prospect as they travelled, and how tedious all the way, to all
the parties; what doubts oppressed their souls; what fears
chilled their hearts, we shall not attempt to describe, nor enter
into unnecessary details of any kind. Enough, briefly, to mention
that our baron's gout grew worse and worse — his feet
were very much swollen — his bad temper fearfully increased;
and it required all the patience of Carrie, and the exercise of
all her resources for amusement, to the suppression of her own
griefs and anxieties, to keep her father in any endurable humor.

We must suppose all the désagrémens of a day of travel in very
hot weather, under these circumstances.

But they were not to escape with these annoyances only.
The progress had been made without interruption, till the afternoon.
The party had finally got a few miles above Eutaw
Springs, and the old man was drowsing upon the shoulder of
Carrie, in one of the pauses of his gout, when, all of a sudden,
an ejaculation from Sam, the driver, and a cry from Lottie,
roused Carrie from her sorrowful reveries, and the old man
from his snatch of sleep. In the same moment, a burst of
hoarse, harsh voices was heard, and half a dozen or more, wild,
half-savage looking persons, darting out of the woods, arrested
the horses by their heads and surrounded the carriage. Two
of them presented themselves at the carriage windows, the most
decently apparelled of the party. Most of them were ragged
and squalid of appearance; some without jackets, one or two
without covering for the head, but all armed with guns, two of
them with bright new English muskets, and, from their voices,
they were readily distinguished to be Irishman.

“Deserters! by Heavens!” murmured old Sinclair to his
daughter. It is wonderful that his prudence was sufficiently
active to keep him from roaring it aloud. But gout is a wonderful
subduer of the spirit. Our veteran was now rather
querulous than quarrelsome. His daughter squeezed his hand
to counsel forbearance and caution. They were completely at
the mercy of the outlaws.

“Be aisy now,” said one of the party at the window of the
carriage, “and no harm will come to yer!”

“But why do you stop my carriage?”

“It's for your own good, and the king's sarvice,” said another
of the party, looking in at the window; “a purty pair of gals
ye've got, old gentleman, that we'd like to git better known to
ef we had the time; but the sun's pushing for quarters, and we
must see after doing the same thing. Hourrah! there, boys,
git on!”

“Maussa!” cried old Sam, “dey's a-taking out de hosses!”

“Taking out the horses! What the devil, my good fellows,
do you mean by taking out my horses?”

“It's in the king's name! We're a wanting 'em for public
sarvice!”

“My horses for the public service? By whose orders? Show
me your orders.”

“They lies here!” cried one of the outlaws, showing his rifle.
The baron roared aloud, and, seizing his sword, drew it, and thrust
it through the windows at the fellow. He only laughed, though
he receded. Sinclair writhed, and groaned, and swore, and
thrust out his weapon again and again, in mere threatening, as
well as he could, on both sides of the carriage, and through the
windows, his daughter vainly striving to disarm him. The banditti
too well perceived his imbecility to be made angry with
his efforts. They seemed to be rather in a jovial than a truculent
humor.

“Why don't you drive on, and over these rascals, you miserable
skunk!” shouted the veteran, to Sam. “Oh! that I had
brought Benny Bowlegs!”

“He hab de hoss head down, maussa!”

“Drive on! I say!”

Sam made the motion, but the moment he did so, one of the
ruffians admonished him of the impropriety of all such demonstrations
by a prompt and rather rude application of the butt of
his musket to the negro's head.

“What do you poke about, boys, stopping to unharness?”
said another. “Cut loose, I say — cut 'em out! We've no
time to lose. We'll have that d—d Lieutenant Nelson after
us, and then we'll catch it!”

And the knife was applied, the horses cut out of the traces,
and, in a moment, each was mounted by one or more of the
deserters — such they were! In his rage and pain, the veteran
colonel sank back fainting in the carriage, while, with a wild
whoop and halloo, the outlaws dashed off into the woods on the
right, and were lost to sight and hearing in a few minutes.

Old Sam was, for awhile, the only person fully conscious of
the extent of their misfortune. The old fellow actually blubbered
like a baby.

“My hosses gone; tek out; tief 'way; my own hosses;
Nero and Nimrod; and Clarence and Nabob; and wha' is for
be done now? De Lawd hab massy 'pon we! Wha' for do?”

Carrie and Lottie were both too anxious about the old man,
too busy in the application of restoratives, to think of their loss,
or even to comprehend it at present. After awhile the father
opened his eyes.

“My children! My poor children! You are safe — safe!
Thank God, you are safe! But,” looking around him, “where
are those wretches?”

“Gone, sir, I believe!”

“He gone!” cried Sam, “but oh, Lawd! maussa, wha' we
for do? Dem wild men carry off all de hosses!”

“Carried off the horses! Carried off the horses, do you
say?” the colonel yelled out. “And why did you suffer it, you
spiritless old scoundrel? Why did you not whip up, and run
over the rascals? Why did you sneak along so slow, that a
terrapin could have walked over you? Good Heavens! what
is to be done? We must be several miles from any habitation.
None, that I know of, nearer than Eutaw; and it is impossible
for me to walk. What a situation, and we have hardly three
hours to sunset!”

“Der's some houses in de woods, maussa, 'bout seben, or fibe,
or six miles fudder on, I t'ink.”

“They might as well be in the mountains of the moon, rascal,
for any good they can be to me!”

The gout grew worse, with the mental annoyance. Half an
hour was consumed in cries and groans, and ravings, and conjectures,
and suggestions! But the situation of the party was
one admitting of no feasible plans, relying as they had to do
upon their own resources only. Thought was resourceless.

In the midst of their tribulation, the sound of horses' feet
were heard at a smart trot. In a few moments, a squad of
twenty mounted men rode up, dressed in a rich green uniform.
At their head came a handsome young lieutenant, scarcely
twenty-five, of fine face and figure, uniformed like the rest,
with a thick bunch of ostrich plumes, dyed green like the uniform,
trailing over his cap, which was of a soft beautiful fur.

The troop stopped naturally at the carriage; the officer rode
up and addressed the inmates, announcing himself as Lieutenant
Nelson, of his majesty's loyal Carolina rifles. He was soon
made to understand the condition of the party, and told all the

particulars of their recent misadventure. When the outlaws
were described, Nelson said:—

“These are the very rascals of whom I am in pursuit. They
are deserters from Lord Rawdon's command; have evidently
thrown off their uniforms; exchanged them, probably, with the
backwoodsmen by whom they have been seduced from their
ranks. I must pursue them!”

He was told, by Sam, in what direction the deserters fled.

“But you will not leave us, lieutenant, in this situation. I
am a loyal subject of his majesty. My name is Sinclair, of
Sinclair barony, well known to Lord Rawdon, with whom I
have the honor to be intimate — with whom I had a long interview
last night, at Monck's Corner. Can you not succor me in
this strait? His lordship would.”

“His lordship can do, Colonel Sinclair, what I can not. I
was not with his lordship last night — have not yet reached
Monck's Corner; but was despatched yesterday morning on
this very service. It is an important one. His lordship feels
it necessary to enforce severely the penalties against desertion,
and has given me instructions so urgent, that I am not permitted
to turn to the right or the left, unless in carrying them out.
I feel deeply for your situation; and if I can send you any
assistance, or find it possible to return here to your relief, I
shall be most happy to do so. Believe me, my dear sir, nothing
would afford me greater pleasure than to be of service to
you and to these young ladies.”

The baron could only groan, when the lieutenant had disappeared,
which he did some few moments after; the old man
d——d all polite speakers; all fellows capable of an apology,
or excuse, on all occasions — all professions that never mean
performance. Poor Carrie could only weep secretly. She
thought that the young lieutenant had shown, along with most
courteous manners, a real desire to be of service, and an honest,
genuine sympathy: but she said nothing.

The sun, meanwhile, seemed to be travelling west with monstrous
rapidity. Old Sam shook his head, as if to say, “It's all
up with us.” In the road, far from human habitation, night approaching,
no food for supper — what a prospect! Fortunately,

the season was such that a night in the open air was no disaster,
though the loss of supper may be very distasteful.

But the dove of promise appears, breaking through the cloud.
While the little family were beginning fully to appreciate all
the désagrémens of their situation, a horseman and another carriage
hove in sight, coming from above.

How things work together under providential laws! This
carriage was that of Mrs. Travis, containing that lady and her
daughter, and escorted by our old acquaintance, 'Bram. They
had been kept back a day, in consequence of Lord Rawdon's
progress, and were now following slowly in his wake. Their
purpose was to get to Nelson's ferry by night. They discovered,
or rather were apprized of the appearance of Colonel Sinclair's
carriage, long before their own vehicle was perceived by
the other party. 'Bram being their vanguard, and riding a
quarter of a mile ahead, saw and recognised the vehicle of his
old master, in season to ride back and inform the party. That
it was without horses was a subject of surprise and apprehension,
which left the trusty negro in a shivering fit. Why were
the horses gone? He could perceive no signs of life from the
distance at which he beheld the carriage, and a thousand fears
— such as the condition of the time was apt to occasion —
rushed into his thoughts. The party might have been robbed
— must have been — and, if robbed, why not murdered? He
dashed back to the carriage of Mrs. Travis, with all speed, to
report his intelligence. Their horses were drawn up, while a
brief consultation ensued among the travellers. It was, at
length, decided to go forward. Whether living or dead, it
would seem that Colonel Sinclair's family were in trouble.
But, before moving, Mrs. Travis was careful to insist upon certain
precautions. She called 'Bram up.

“Remember,” said she, “'Bram, we are on no account to be
made known to Colonel Sinclair, or his family. We insist upon
this, as much on your master's account as on our own.”

“I comperhends,” answered 'Bram, with a knowing look,
and significant shake of the head. The negro, in fact, well
understood the delicacy of his young master's situation, and his
father's prejudices.

“You must call us by some other name; any name but that
of Travis,” said the lady.

“I call you Smit'— Miss Smit'. Da's easy name for 'member.
Der's a heap o' people in the worl', I know, wha's name Smit'.”

“As you please, 'Bram; only do not forget yourself. You
may tell what story you think proper to account for being with
us. You are in search of your young master, and we happened
to be travelling the same route.”

The story thus far was true, though evasive. It was agreed
upon — one of those white lies, harming nobody, which everybody
legitimates in good society and times of war. The pompous
Cato had his instructions also, and the servant-girl; and,
thus prepared, with all precautions taken, 'Bram was permitted
to canter ahead again, and open the negotiations. Cato, at the
same time, as if eager to have his share in them, hemmed audibly,
lifted his hat on his forehead, pulled up his shirt-collar, and
gave his horses the whip, following, as fast as possible, in the
tracks of 'Bram, the vanguard.

'Bram was soon up with the wrecked carriage, and expressing
his mixed delight and dismay in unmeasured language.

“Da you, ole maussa? Da you, young missis? and you too,
little Lottie? Lawd bress my soul! I so grad for see you! and
wha' you da do yer, and all de hoss gone?”

“Do! But what carriage is that behind you, 'Bram?”

“Dat! Oh, dat day Miss Smit' carriage — Miss Smit' an' he
da'ter.”

“And who the d—l is Miss Smith? Where did you come up
with these people?”

“I pick 'em up on de road. I day look for young maussa,
and dis Miss Smit' guine de same road down for Nelson ferry,
where I yerry young maussa is for be by dis time. Da's de
way I come for pick 'em up.”

“You know nothing about them then?”

“How me for know? I jis pick 'em up, I tell you, trab'ling
de high road. Da's de how ob it.”

'Bram could lie with any dragoon, whether in the regular or
ranger service, and do the thing unctuously, and win the reputation
of great sanctity from the grace of his execution. Of
course, many more things were said, especially between 'Bram

and Sam, who were cousins in the fourth degree, and had no
love for each other in any degree; 'Bram holding Sam to be a
drone, and a sneak; and Sam regarding 'Bram as quite too
loose in his morals for good society; a looseness which he
ascribed to his army connections entirely.

Meanwhile, the carriage of “Miss Smit'” drew nigh, drew
up, and Carrie Sinclair was pleased and surprised to discover in
Mrs. and Miss Smith the two ladies that had so briefly challenged
the hospitality of the barony, when poor Nelly Floyd
was brought in wounded. It did not require many words to
explain the condition of the Sinclair family — their predicament
— or what Dick of Tophet would call “their fix!” The
affair was one to render the Smith family exceedingly anxious
for themselves; their own horses; their own safety — particularly
when they understood that the opposing forces were then
actually in conflict along the route below — heaving to and fro,
with their foragers and scouts, on every road, and their skirmishing
parties prowling through every covert. Mrs. Travis,
alias Smith, at once determined what to do. She said to her
daughter:—

“We must go back to Mrs. Avinger's, my dear. It is but
seven miles back, and we can gain its friendly shelter, I trust,
without difficulty.”

The daughter assented in silence.

Then, Mrs. Travis, turning to Colonel Sinclair, said:—

“I see but one way to serve you and your daughters, Colonel
Sinclair, and that is, to give you what room we can in my
carriage. My servant-maid and your own can walk, in two
hours, the distance we shall have to go in order to reach a house
to-night. There is one at that distance owned by Mrs. Avinger,
who has entertained us ever since I left your house. She
has room enough, and is so good a Christian — so truly kind
and hospitable — that I venture to say, that she will as cheerfully
shelter you, as she sheltered us.”

This proposition was a great relief to our stranded party. It
was gratefully welcomed by the baron; and the tearful smiles
of Carrie, and her deeply-toned, “Oh, thank you! thank you!”
were full of heart, and at once satisfied Bertha Travis of the
justice of Willie Sinclair's description of his sister.

The friendly offer of Mrs. Travis, we need not say, was
gratefully accepted; and, as no time was to be lost, the parties
proceeded promptly to the necessary arrangements. Bertha,
taking little Lottie in her lap, placed herself at once on the
front seat, with Cato, the driver. Mrs. Travis and Carrie
found seats opposite each other within, while a back seat, with
one vacant in front, was assigned to the veteran and his game
leg. The worst task was to lift him out of the one, and into the
other vehicle, so as to avoid inflicting pain. He could not put
his feet to the ground. In a soldierly attempt to do so, without
due heed to the helping arms of 'Bram and Cato, the old man
came down in the sands, and screamed out with the suffering.
The performance was finally affected, but not without much
trouble and to him great torture. He tried to bear it, with (at
most) a grin, being in the presence of strange ladies; but he
could not hold out stoically long; and accustomed always to
declare his feelings loudly, whatever they were, his groans
were soon audible enough, to the shame, as he felt it, of his
manhood.

At length, the whole party was comfortably crowded into the
one vehicle, cushions, luggage, and all, the servant-maids being
crowded out. To these the gallant 'Bram gave up his own
horse, and they rode him double. 'Bram and Cato then, with
vigorous shoulders, succeeded in wheeling the wreck out of the
road, and into the woods, where they hoped to recover it —
after certain days. With this trouble, the perils of the day
were over. The carriage reached the widow Avinger's after
night, but in safety; and that good Samaritan confirmed all the
assurances of Mrs. Travis, by a frank and unaffected welcome
to all her unexpected visiters. Mrs. Travis, by the way, took
an early opportunity to admonish her hostess, that she must be
known only as Mrs. Smith. To justify herself in this change of
name, she felt it necessary to put the widow in possession of the
peculiar relations in which her daughter stood to the Sinclair
family — a revelation which she made frankly, having the utmost
confidence in the prudence and sympathy of her auditor.
And thus, having safely disposed of the two families, let us
leave them for the night.