University of Virginia Library

37. CHAPTER XXXVII.
NELLY FLOYD A CAPTIVE.

We scarcely need to add anything to the narrative of Carrie
Sinclair, detailing the adventure in which Bertha Travis had
been carried off. She, perhaps, did not dilate, as she might
have done, upon her own desperate efforts to resist the assailants,
and to rescue her companion. How, forced away, she yet
broke loose from the rude grasp which held her back; darted
upon the ruffians who were lifting Bertha upon horseback;
clung to her like a maniac; was beaten down; recovered;
renewed her efforts, and was finally torn away, and put under
the custody of one of the outlaws, to keep back, while the
abduction was completed, and the girl carried off. How, even
then, she strove, and with so much vigor, as to provoke the
fellow put in charge of her, to those brutal blows which, finally,
left her insensible. It was while she lay in this condition that
the ruffian left her, and made off after his associates. Of course,
there were no clues to the route which they had taken.

That night was one of a sleepless agony with all the little
group at the Widow Avinger's. Of the poor mother's wo, reft
first of her son and husband, and now of her daughter, who
shall make report? The blood of Carrie Sinclair was now
burning with fever. She was delirious! Of the vain fury of
the baron; his rage that had no object; his desperate purpose
of strife, which lacked all power of exercise; producing a mental
conflict which was almost as unendurable, and which only
served to bring back his physical sufferings, it is impossible to
give a portrait; so various and capricious were his moods, so
utterly bemocked by imbecility were all his rages.

It was in the moment of storm and agony, when caution was

forgotten in suffering, that our baron was suffered to know the
secret of Bertha Travis and her mother. It came to him as a
surprise, but brought with it no revulsion.

“What does she call her. Is she not Annie Smith?”

“No, sir — no!” cried the mother vehemently, as she heard.
“I am a Travis — no Smith. My daughter is Bertha Travis,
and the affianced of your own son!”

“Good Heavens! How is this? That dear little girl, my
son's affianced? Oh, Willie! Poor Willie! Why is he not
here, to pursue, recover, and avenge her? What the d—l is he
about that he is not here? And where is 'Bram? What can
that rascal be doing? pretending to scout, and keep guard and
watch, yet here the wolf boldly rushes into the fold, and carries
off the innocent flock. But I can still mount a horse! I will
make the effort. Sam shall help me! Once mounted, I shall
be able to keep my seat. I will try it. I will ride. Summon
Sam to me. He shall have my horse ready. Get me my
pistols. And my sword. They shall find, the bloody, blasted
wretches, that I am still strong enough to smite and slay!”

Of course, all this ended in exhaustion. The brave old
man was shattered in frame. His physique was inadequate to
the feeblest demonstration of his gallant spirit.

The absence of 'Bram happened to be commented upon in
his presence, by Mrs. Avinger.

“Ay! he is caught up too, by these rascals! He is in their
hands. They are, no doubt, bearing him away to the West
India plantations. The bullhead! blockhead! with his conceit,
to suffer himself to be taken prisoner by these wretches, and,
no doubt, without ever striking a blow — without blowing out a
single villain's brains, or cutting the throat of one gallows-bird
of all the gang! And yet, the scoundrel has pistols, and knife
— prides himself upon them — swears to do famous things with
'em, yet lets himself be kicked and cuffed, and hand-cuffed, and
driven off, like a sheep to the shambles, without ever striking a
blow!”

It was thus that the fancies of our furious baron furnished
him with his facts. Yet they were not very wide from the
truth. But he does not give 'Bram sufficient credit for resources,
as we shall perceive hereafter.

Thus, then, without a single clue to the route taken by the
outlaws, and reduced to utter despair, from a total deficiency of
resource, our little circle at the widow's house of refuge —
which has proved of so little security — must be left, for the present,
to the endurance, with whatever strength they may command,
of the evils and sorrows for which they can see no
remedy. Let us, leaving them for awhile, look after those persons
who have been vainly looking after our friends.

We have seen the scout, Ballou, chased out of sight, by some
of the best troopers of Inglehardt's squad. They drove him
across the Edisto, into the Fork. His escape was a narrow one.
Pushing upward, and resolved to make his way even across the
Congaree and Wateree, till he should find Sinclair, or procure
a force sufficient to penetrate and thoroughly search the swamp
intricacies of Muddicoat Castle, he sped on, and, to his great
relief, found his superior very soon after his passage of the
river. He made his report, and the whole party proceeded
downward. A sharp skirmish with a mounted squad of the
British, in which the latter were dispersed, did not lead Sinclair
to anticipate what, in four hours after, he found to be the case;
that Colonel Stewart, with the whole British army, was then
actually on the march toward him, making rapid progress on
the route to M`Cord's ferry. What could this argue, but the
determination of the British commander to seek out Greene,
and force him to the final issue of battle.

Believing Greene to be unprepared for this, and supposing it
possible, from the rapidity and secrecy of Stewart's movements,
that he might succeed in surprising the American general in
very disadvantageous circumstances, Sinclair, with a groan, was
compelled, for the moment, to forego his personal objects, throw
himself in the path of the enemy, and, keeping in advance of
him, harass and retard his movements, while he took occasion
to report them fully at the American camp. This was done
until Stewart had taken post at M`Cord's, on the south side,
where, though with two rivers between, the two armies lay
almost in sight of each other's fires. Sinclair, meanwhile, sped
across, and made his report to Greene. Here he received
orders to go below, and join Marion with all haste; that partisan
being about to undertake one of those secret expeditions,

in which his celerity and skill were usually so famous and so
productive of profitable results.

This expedition of Marion was to Pon-pon river, at the southward,
where Colonel Harden, to whom the military charge of
this precinct was confided, was hardly pressed by a British force
of five hundred men, chiefly loyalists from Charleston. These
were some of the people driven from the Ninety-Six district.
Their active services were now compelled, somewhat reluctantly,
by the necessities of their starving families, from whom the
British commandant had threatened to withdraw their rations,
unless the men should instantly take the field. The royal
exigency was such, that the British generals could be no longer
tolerant. This detachment was led by Major Frazer.

By a forced march Marion crossed the country from St.
Stephen's to the Edisto, a distance of a hundred miles, passing
secretly between both lines of British posts, which kept up their
intercourse with Charleston, and succeeded in joining Harden
before his presence could be suspected by the enemy, for whom
he planted an ambush along the swamps near Parker's ferry,
sent out our squad of St. Julien's, as a decoying body, beguiled
Frazer into his snares, and gave him a severe handling, cutting
up his horse completely. But that his ammunition gave out,
he would have annihilated the whole detachment.

This work was thus effectually done, and our Swamp Fox
had reached his old position on the Santee, in the short space
of six days.

But these six days were lost to Sinclair in his search after his
friends, who still lay in seemingly hopeless captivity. And he
was doomed to a still longer denial of his objects.

We return to the operations of the main armies. It is probable
that Sinclair had mistaken Stewart's intentions, in moving
toward the Congaree in the face of the Americans. Though
his army had recruited somewhat, and had been strengthened in
numbers, and by supplies, it was yet in no condition to be audacious
or enterprising. It still labored under a woful deficiency
of cavalry.

Stewart had one good reason for leaving Orangeburg,
and seeking a more favorable camp-ground. He was, in fact,
starved out. His foragers, even such wily strategists as our

Captain Inglehardt, failed to provide the adequate rations.
The American partisans were either in the way all the time, or
they had swept the fields in advance of the British foragers.
The Congaree country was supposed to promise something better,
and it was hoped that a bold face put upon his fortunes,
would tend somewhat to discourage Greene, who would naturally
suppose him to be governed, in his demonstration, by a
perfect confidence in his strength. Something of the venerable
British games of brag and bully, were, no doubt, contemplated
by the British general.

But the Congaree country had been reaped already by the
sharp sickles of Sumter's and Marion's partisans. Stewart
found as little good feeding there as upon the Edisto; while
Greene, not willing to be bullied, struck his tents, flung out his
colors, and put his army in motion for the passage of the rivers
which kept him from his foe. Ordering his scattered detachments
to join him at Howell's ferry, he took up the march for
that place.

This movement soon prompted our British general to a
change of front and purpose. By forced marches, he fell back
upon his convoys and reinforcements, taking post fully forty
miles below, at the Eutaw springs. This brings the British
encampment within a few miles of the widow Avinger's — not a
greater number from Muddicoat Castle, and so, accordingly,
within the immediate sphere of our dramatis personæ.

But we must not anticipate. There are events ripening, yet
to mature, in this very precinct, before Stewart's arrival. Let
us consider these, in due order, and with due brevity.

Marion, as we have seen, has got back to the Santee. His
immediate duties are suspended. Sinclair procures renewed
leave of absence, on the special performances for the prosecution
of which he has so long enjoyed the peculiar license of
Rutledge. He has incidental military commissions grafted upon
his personal objects, thus securing for them a military sanction.
He is to feel the strength of the British posts at Pooshee and
Wantoot. These, with Monck's Corner, Biggin, Fairlawn, and
Mulberry Castle, constitute a line of mutually-depending British
posts, connecting the main army under Stewart directly with
the garrison at Charleston. But these posts may be isolated,

and conquered in detail; and for this duty, in respect to Pooshee
and Wantoot, Sinclair has his commission.

We find him, with St. Julien's troop, one fine day in August,
bright and not too hot, in the shady pine-forests, some four miles
from Eutaw. His squad is “nooning.” Suddenly there is a
stir. But it is the return of a scouting-party, led by Jim Ballou.
He brings with him a prisoner, taken not a mile from
camp. He brings with him also an old acquaintance, just escaped
the clutches of the land-pirates.

The prisoner is Nelly Floyd. The escaped fugitive is the
negro 'Bram.

We need not say that 'Bram was delighted to regain his master,
but his story we must reserve to another opportunity. At
present, we owe all our regards to the strange girl who, hitherto,
has been so successful in eluding captivity. We see that,
seer as she is, dexterous and light of foot, swift on horseback,
and a marvellous woodman, she is caught at last! In the end,
the Fates show themselves to have few real favorites.

She had been caught, emerging from the woods, Ballou having
absolutely run down her little pony — literally, by running
upon him with his big-limbed Virginia turfite. The poor little
pony had actually been thrust to the ground. Nelly would not
have been taken — would have seen the approaching party —
but for a strange stupor which seemed to possess her senses,
making her, for the time, oblivious of all external objects. We
shall see hereafter why she was thus seized with this unwonted
stupor.

Her appearance compelled the wonder and admiration of
Sinclair. Where had he seen her before? Somewhere; but,
certainly, wearing no such expression — in no such attitude —
as she now exhibited before him. She looked now, for all the
world, like the mad girl — the “Harricane Nell” — whom they
sometimes called her. She was pale, haggard, her eyes dilating
wildly, more than ever; her movements unnaturally eager,
nervous, spasmodic, and totally uninfluenced by surrounding
objects and occurring events. She had not listened to Ballou's
statements without frequent interruptions and ejaculations.

“If you be a man and a gentleman,” she exclaimed to Sinclair,
seeing him in command, “release me! What business is

this, which employs an army to seize and bear away a woman?
What have I done to deserve this?”

“A mighty wild sort of woman!” said Ballou with a chuckle.
The girl gave him but a glance, and turned from him to Sinclair.

“What girl is this?” demanded Sinclair, “and why have you
brought her here?”

“She is one of Inglehardt's gang of outlaws, that have Captain
Travis and his son in keeping. She knows the secret passage
to their hiding-place.”

“It is false! I am connected with no gang of outlaws —
with no gang of any sort. I am neither an outlaw myself, nor
do I give help or countenance to those who are so. I do nobody
any harm. I help the suffering wherever I can. If you
be Colonel Sinclair, as I believe, I have risked my life to help,
and rescue from outlaws, two ladies in whom, I am told, you
have an interest.”

“Ha! two ladies, in the hands of outlaws? Where? when?
what ladies?”

“Mrs. Travis and her daughter!”

“And they are in the hands of outlaws?”

“Not now! I helped to rescue them. I was wounded in
the attempt to do so. We were all saved by Lord Rawdon
with a British escort, and carried to your father's barony.”

“What! Bertha at the barony?”

“Yes, and her mother, and myself. I was, for several days,
nursed kindly, and my wound dressed, by your sister Carrie.”

“Wonder upon wonder! And my father saw Bertha Travis!
And where, my good girl, are they now? — not at the barony?”

Here 'Bram interposed. He could supply the defects in Nelly's
testimony.

“Nebber, sah! Day leff de barony de same day. Day's yer,
not tree, fibe, seben mile off, at de widow Abinger's. I leff 'em
day, all safe, when I bin go out 'pon a scout, and bin catch by
Hell-fire Dick. I hope Hell hab twenty-seben fire and blazes
for de 'tarnal varmint!”

Do not suppose that 'Bram stopped here. But we abridge
his long speech to our dimensions. It had the effect of relieving

Sinclair's worst apprehensions, and of deceiving him, too;
for, as 'Bram knew nothing of the subsequent abduction of Bertha
Travis, so he confidently assured his master that she was in
safety still at the widow's.

But Nelly Floyd had not listened to 'Bram's harangue with
the degree of patience which his other hearers manifested. She
broke out into occasional exclamations, and exhibited paroxysms
of distress, which, to most of the party, seemed unaccountable.

“What is all this to me? Why am I kept? What have I
to do with it? Pray, sir — pray, let me depart. I am no offender;
but a poor girl, troubling nobody, and seeking only to
save others from trouble! Will you not let me go?”

Such were the speeches with which she frequently broke in
upon the tedious and self-complacent narratives of the negro —
her restiffness momently increasing, until it rose into such an
expression of real agony as necessarily to compel the attention
of her auditors. It was not fear for herself. She seemed to
entertain no feeling of the sort. Her tones were as bold, free,
unembarrassed, almost masculine, even when the language was
that of entreaty, as if she possessed the will to decree and execute.
In the meanwhile, Sinclair and St. Julien were both
observing her closely.

“My good girl,” said Sinclair, “who are you?”

“I am a girl, and that should save me from insult among
men; a woman, and that should protect me from the perils of a
soldiery! I am peaceful, and do not, of right, incur any of the
penalties of war. I am neither ashamed nor afraid to tell who
I am; but I know not any right, of colonel or general, to seize
upon me, simply riding the highway, divert me from my duties
— no matter what the loss or peril to myself — for the mere
purpose of questioning me about such unimportant matters.
My name is Ellen Floyd, and I am an orphan — another consideration
which should secure me the protection and not subject
me to the ill-usage of men wearing the word and epaulettes
of soldiers and gentlemen, and professing to fight for the
liberties of the citizen.”

“You are sharp, my good girl; but you do us injustice. We
have no disposition to detain you, but it is charged that you
are connected with a band of outlaws, who have been guilty of

great outrages upon the country, and have, even now, some of
our free citizens in a grievous bondage.”

“I have already answered you on this point. The man lies!
I am connected with no band of outlaws. Prove it, and slay
me! But do not take the mere guessings of a scout for evidence.”

“What say you, Ballou?”

“Well, I found her among the outlaws.”

“False! you did not!”

“You was harboring about them.”

“So were you!”

“Well, that's true; but I was harboring to find out the
hiding-place of the rascals, and to get out a person from their
clutches.”

“So was I!”

“Well, that's a pretty story! And what could you, a woman
— and a little one at that — what could you do toward getting
out a prisoner from the clutches of Inglehardt and Hell-fire
Dick?”

“I could risk my life — nay, have done it — have crept into
their hiding-places, which your stupidity failed to find, or your
cowardice dared not penetrate! — Sir, do not confront me any
longer with this man! You hear the extent of his charge. He
found me in a like position with himself, hovering around a
camp of outlaws. He had his object, I mine! I was no more
in concert with them than he himself! Nay, I was striving
against them. He laughs at my efforts and powers. What
more has he done? Nay, if I could tell all, he has done far
less. You, as gentlemen, however, are better able to tell him
what even a woman may do, when resolved by justice, and
strengthened by faith, purposing nothing but good, and made
earnest in her cause by love! The mouse gnawed through the
nets of the lion. If Mrs. Travis and her daughter were here,
they would tell you that I have had the knife of the outlaw at
my throat, in the effort to rescue them! It was while engaged
in a similar effort, in behalf of these same ladies, that I had a
bullet shot into this arm! Sirs — gentlemen — let me go in
peace! Believe me, I am not connected with these, or any
outlaws; and oh, believe me, further, that every moment which

I now lose is an agony, and may be a death! Life and death
depend upon my speed and freedom at this moment.”

And the action was throughout admirably suited to the high-spirited,
logical, fearless, ingenuous speech; her eye kindling
and dilating; her lips quivering with emotion; her arms, hands,
the whole frame, seeming to speak as well as the tongue: and
when she spoke her scorn, looking at Ballou, her expanding
nostril, uplifted head, and the mixed indignation and contempt
which she expressed, were clearly discernible in every gesture,
as she turned away from his to the other faces in the group.
You should have seen her! We have said, elsewhere, that she
was not pretty; and, for this reason, that the word would have
been a disparagement of the noble, the lofty, the high-souled,
all-speaking, and all-animated, in every feature of her face.
Sinclair looked on her with admiration — St. Julien with an
intense, searching eye, which seemed to be riveted because satisfied.
But Ballou was unmoved. He had been stung by her
speech of him; mortified at her escape from him on a former
occasion; vexed with the reproach which she had uttered, of
his incompetence at the very craft in which he had acquired a
local fame second to that of no other scout; and, though a very
good fellow as the world goes, such as the world is very full of,
particularly in good society, was not capable of a very magnanimous
emotion, at his own expense, and which would involve
the necessity of a tacit admission of fault as well as failure.

“All mighty fine,” quoth he, “but all pretty much pretence,
I'm thinking! If you let her off, colonel, before she shows you
the way to that den of thieves, you'll deserve to lose your
chances. She's among 'em, I tell you! Make her confess before
she goes, and keep her fast till she does so!”

“Be merciful, gentlemen, and let me go, even if you do not
believe me. I could easily disprove all that this bad man tells
you — for he lies; but time is my object. Time, now, is as
precious to me as life. Life depends upon it. There is one
whom I love in a dreadful danger. Let me go! Every hour
now is needful to my purpose — and to his safety!”

“But, my girl, you know the route by which we may reach
the hiding-place of these outlaws,” said Sinclair.

“I know nothing! — I can know nothing — will know nothing,

now! I tell you that a precious life depends upon these
minutes, and you talk to me of your affairs. What are your
affairs to me? What claim have they, or you, upon me, that
you arrest me, to do your work, and keep me from the duties
in which I may save a life which is precious to my own! I
can not think of anything now, but the one cry which sounds
through the forests in my ears! a cry of agony — which bids
me speed — speed — and save from a cruel death the life of a
beloved one!”

And she wrung her hands bitterly, and threw them up to
Heaven wildly.

“But who is this who is so precious to you, and whom you
are to succor?”

“O God! this is the wisdom and the magnanimity of man!
At a moment like this, he would keep me back to know whether
it is mother, father, brother, sister, who is perishing for a cup
of water, and shrieking to me for help! My house is on fire,
and he would keep me from putting out the blaze, till he knows
whether the fire caught from the chimney or the cellar! God
be merciful to me! Sir — do I look like a liar? Suppose that
I speak the truth, and what sort of heart can you have, that can
so trifle with a human being's griefs and agonies! Here, before
God, I swear that your scout speaks falsely! I do not harbor
with outlaws. I have no connection with these you seek. I
have harbored about them, it is true, as he has done, seeking to
rescue one victim from their talons! The eye of God is upon
us now. Do you believe that? Then believe me when I appeal
to him. I swear,” — and she dropped upon her knees —
“God of the bright world, and the dark, attest my truth! — Oh!
how can you, officers and gentlemen, as you are, or claim to be,
require this of a young girl like me, as if I had no faith, no
truth, no heart to suffer like your own!”

“For God's sake, Willie, let her go! She is as truthful as
an angel!” so spoke St. Julien, sotto voce, even in the moment
when Sinclair cried out, aloud:—

“My good girl, you are free to depart! God forbid that I
should keep you, for a moment, to your own hurt, or to the
suffering of another! It must be my plea, for having detained
you so long, that my own most precious ones are in danger,

also, and you are thought to be able to help me to discover
them. But go! go! — I am sorry that you were arrested. I
shall feel deeply if you are too late!”

“Oh! thanks! thanks!” cried the girl, the tears now for the
first time gushing from her eyes; and she darted to her horse,
and at a bound was upon his back; then, as she bent to the
saddle, and gave her steed the reins, she waved her hand to the
two officers — “Thanks, gentlemen, thanks! I shall not forget
you. I will try and help you, hereafter — but now! now! It
is impossible! I am called! It is life or death! I must
go! go!”

She was off in another moment like the wind — out of sight
like a sudden arrow from the Egyptian bow.