University of Virginia Library

44. CHAPTER XLIV.
NELLY FLOYD GUIDES SINCLAIR.

Sinclair joined Hampton in his lonely bivouac on the field
of battle. Very mournful, indeed, was the spectacle, even as
beheld in the vague, imperfect starlight. There lay, all about,
scattered heaps — still — silent, unconscious — which, they well
knew, were all, but five hours ago, warm with life, eager with
hope, improvident with impulse. And now the wildcat will
troop over their bosoms, and not one of them will shudder.
There lay the horse, whose nostrils lately dilated with energy,
and snuffed the blood and the battle with a fiery passion. Rider
and chariot are overthrown. Death sits crouching in the midst
of all, with great grinning jaws, glaring about with phosphoric
eyes, from bloody sockets, drinking in the horrible odors, as if
they were so much wine, that already began to reek up from
that sad atmosphere of mortality.

Sinclair strode lonely over the field, hardly answering the
sentinels as he went by, his thoughts elsewhere, though the
cruel spectacle around him, might well have kept Thought fixed
to the spot, and busied in her intensest exercise.

“Ha! sir! Do you see that — you?”

And as the sentinel spoke he shivered.

“See! what!” answered Sinclair; scarcely comprehending
the other's emotions, and half indifferent to what he said. The
soldier pointed him to a group of dead — their armor gleaming,
above the heap — conspicuous enough in the starlight. Around
this group, a tall slight figure was seen to hover and circle, and
flit, appearing and disappearing. Occasionally it appeared to

stoop, and seemed to be busy in the examination of the slain.
In husky tones the sentinel continued:—

“I have seen it, colonel, moving all about, far as my eye
could reach; and it stooped jest so, as it does now, and felt
about, jest as it's adoing now, all among the dead bodies.”

The awe and horror expressed by the soldier, did not affect
Sinclair. At once the thought occurred to him —“Can it be
that we, too, have strippers of the slain, even as in the terrible
battle-fields of which we read, in Europe, where poverty becomes
desperate, and where crime is so numerous and reckless, that
no veneration remains among men — where they rob the dead,
and extinguish life in the wounded?”

“I will see!” said he to the soldier, who had plucked him by
the arm, “I will see.” And he was darting forward, when the
sentinel held him back.

“Better not, colonel.”

“Why not?”

“Perhaps, sir — I reckon it's — a ghost!”

“Perhaps!” said Sinclair quietly, as he shook off the soldier
and went forward. “Perhaps it is; I will see.” And, to the
consternation and admiration of the sentinel, he hurried toward
the object whose appearance seemed so unnatural, and whose
employments seemed so mysterious, among the slaughtered of
the field.

The supposed spectre was busied turning over the bodies
among a pile of British. Sinclair had approached so nigh that
he could distinguish the red color of their uniforms. He saw
that one of them was an officer. He saw the unknown object
of his curiosity turn the wan, blear face of this officer
up to the starlight. He heard her say — for the person
was a woman — in tones of relief — “He is not here! He
must be safe!” And it was only after this, that, raising her
form from the spot, she discovered the near approach of our
partisan colonel. In the same moment, Sinclair distinguished,
in the searcher of the slain, the strange wild girl, Nelly Floyd,
who, in some degree, held in her hands the clues to that mystery
which was then his anxiety. He uttered an ejaculation of
pleasure, and sprang forward.

“Is it you, my girl?”

“Yes, sir!” she answered meekly, and without surprise or
alarm — “Yes, sir, and as soon as I am done here, I meant to
come and seek you.”

“Ah! I am glad to hear that! But what can you be doing
here? What can a young girl like you have to do in such a
horrid scene as this, and at such a fearful hour?”

“Ah! sir, look over this battle-field, where so many noble
forms have perished on both sides, and think how many young
girls, and how many old men and women too, would be weeping
now, could they only know who sleep here among the slain!
The young and old who live, still have a mournful interest in
the dead. I have now no kindred of my own living, and yet I
feel that I could weep for some that are here. And I thought
of one dear lady, who had a son in this battle; and I saw him,
from the thicket, sir, as he led his little company into battle;
and I saw the shattered remnant of his company, as they were
scattered by the dragoons of Maham; and the young officer was
not with them then; and I have been looking for him over all
the field; but I do not find him; and even now, sir, he may be
groaning somewhere, for a single cup of water to quench his
thirst.”

“You are a brave and noble girl,” said Sinclair. “Tell me
the name of this officer, my girl; perhaps I can tell you something
about him.”

The answer was given in hasty accents, as if the speaker
dreaded to hear her voice, or to trust it with the necessary
burden. She answered somewhat indirectly:—

“He was a lieutenant of rifles, sir, the company had a green
uniform. He, too, had a green uniform: and — and — sir, he is
the son of a dear good lady whom I loved very much — the
good lady Nelson — I owe her much, sir, very much — for she
protected and trained my childhood — and so I would have
found her son if I could, and, helped him if he were wounded;
or—”

Sinclair, finding her beginning to halt, now spoke.

“I am glad, my good girl, to relieve all your anxieties.
Lieutenant Nelson is safe — unhurt, though a prisoner. He fell
into my own hands to-day, and has been marched to the rear
of the army with the rest of the prisoners.”

“A prisoner!” and she clasped her hands together. “But,
there is nothing against him?”

“Nothing! He is in honorable captivity, with five hundred
other brave fellows, who will be well treated until honorably
exchanged. You shall see him to-morrow, if you will.”

“Oh! sir, I thank you, but—” quickly, “I do not wish now
to see him. You say he is unhurt, unwounded — and that is all,
sir. I do not care to see him.”

“Unwounded — a little bruised and sore perhaps, for he was
thrown down somewhat rudely; but otherwise he is quite safe
— wholly uninjured, and will not be long a prisoner.”

“Thanks, sir! Thanks, Colonel Sinclair! Oh, sir! if harm
had come to Sherrod Nelson, I think I should have died, sir;
for it would have been the death of his poor mother — the good
Lady Nelson. He is the very apple of her eye. And now,
Colonel Sinclair, since I have no other reason for searching in
this bloody field, and no reason, now, to refuse to do what your
scout would have forced me to do when I saw you before, let
us go at once, sir, to find the place where the boy and his father
are confined by the tories in the swamp.”

“Ah! my good girl, are you really willing? Shall we go
now? at night!”

“Yes, sir, the sooner the better. They are in the hands of a
very bad man, and he will be there to-night. He fled into the
woods, very near where I was hiding, when the battle was
going on; he, and such of his people as escaped. Several were
slain, I think, by your own troopers. There is one among
them — a cruel, bloodthirsty man, whom they call by a very
wicked name—”

“Hell-Fire Dick!”

“Ah! you know him, sir. He is a terribly cruel man. I
fear him, as I never feared another man. The sight of him
always makes me tremble.”

Sinclair watched the girl while she spoke. He could trace
her features distinctly by the starlight, she stood so near to
him. He saw that she was very pale and wan — haggard, in
fact — but this might be the effect of the starlight; or it might
be that her soul had been more keenly affected by the terrible
spectacle of that bloody field, than the tones of her voice betrayed.

He observed the extreme slightness of her frame,
which, in her half-boy garments, appeared to be very much
attenuated; and he said to her:—

“My good girl, though very anxious to set out upon the
journey for the recovery of my friends in the hands of this
tory, Inglehardt, yet I fear that you would suffer unless you
had rest to-night. It will require several hours of hard-riding
to bring us to the place.”

“Oh, sir! I am strong. I don't feel weariness. I am used
to travelling by night. It is the safest time in our country,
now. Then the outlaws lie close. Bad men are more apt to
travel by day than by night. They seem to fear God rather
than man. They fear the lonely woods, and the stars, and the
winds, and other things that speak by night. It is safer, sir,
and I do not fear; and I have not been travelling all day, sir —
and I am not fatigued. I have been waiting and watching in
the thickets all day, for I saw Sherrod Nelson when he first
went into the field, and I watched to see that he came out of it;
and since then — since the darkness, I have been looking about
the field; and that is the only toil I have suffered to-day. And
now that you tell me he is safe, I do not feel weak or unhappy.
I feel light and strong, and would rather ride to-night about the
woods than sleep. Indeed, I could not sleep to-night. My
mind is too lively for sleeping.”

And she said this in the saddest tones, with a voice nowhere
raised, and with a wan melancholy visage, and such sorrowful,
dewy, but dilating eyes.

“Well, my good girl, be it as you say. No one can be more
anxious to take the road, in the recovery of my friends, than
myself. But you speak only of the father and son — of Captain
Travis, and the boy, Henry Travis, as captives of this tory.
Did you hear nothing — see nothing — of another captive — a
lady — Bertha, daughter of this same Captian Travis? She is
also gone — no doubt a prisoner in the same swamp with her
father, and in the power, also, of Inglehardt!”

But of Bertha Travis, Nelly Floyd could say nothing. She
had, in fact, not been within the precincts of Muddicoat Castle,
from the moment when her luckless brother had left them last;

and the abduction of Bertha had taken place after that last
departure.

Sinclair, finding the girl willing, and even eager, lost no time
in preliminaries. He was making his way back from the field
toward the encampment of the partisans, when Nelly proposed
to leave him, in order to get her pony which she had hidden
away in a dense thicket on the right. For a moment, Sinclair
became dubious of her honesty, and hesitated to reply; but she
seemed to conjecture what was passing in his mind and said:—

“You must not doubt me. Why will men prefer to suspect
sooner than believe. And yet faith seems so easy, and is so
sweet — to woman!”

The last two words were said after a small pause. Sinclair
felt rebuked. He put his hand on her shoulder: “Go, my girl,
your school is the wisest one. I believe you. I will wait for
you, at the camp.”

“You will not need to wait long. Aggy is a fast goer.”

And she disappeared in the next moment among the trees.
Sinclair moved as rapidly to his quarters, and routed up St.
Julien and his squad. Everything was related in few words,
and, before the troop was quite ready for departure, Nelly
Floyd, perched on Aggy, was waiting in the foreground.

No unnecessary delay was suffered, and very soon the party
was moving off, and upward, under the guidance of the wild girl
of Edisto. We need not accompany their progress. Enough
that they rode as fast as they well might, in the darkness of the
night, and for most of the time in woodland paths known only
to deer and hunter. Our scout, Ballou, who was one of the
party, would have kept on the right hand, or the left, of the
girl; but she avoided him, and suffered him to see that he had
displeased her. He little dreamed how much. He little conjectured
that, in her secret soul, she ascribed her failure to save
her brother from the gallows, to his violent arrest of her, and
her subsequent detention, in the camp of the partisans. Once
when Ballou, as well acquainted with the precincts as herself,
though ignorant of the recesses of Muddicoat Castle, was for
going ahead, she stopped short and said to him: “If you will
lead, you do not need my services;” — upon which Sinclair ordered
the scout to fall behind. And thus, for two hours or

more, the party rode, sometimes at a canter, but most commonly
at a smart trot. A considerable distance was overcome, when
Nelly came to a halt. In a moment, Sinclair was beside her.

“We must turn aside here. To the left.”

Ballou interposed.

“Why, girl,” said he, “we're three miles off from the place,
at the least — three miles off.”

“Choose between us!” said the girl to Sinclair. “If he will
guide you, well. You need not me.”

“Back, Ballou!” said Sinclair sternly. “Do not interfere.”

The girl proceeded:—

“Three miles off is the encampment where the tory keeps his
troop. But they do not enter the swamp at all; have never
done so, since I have been watching them. The path upon
which I propose to take you is remote from the camp. It is
the safest path to pursue, and will bring us to the best place
for entering the swamp. There are two routes for this. I do
not wish you to carry your whole troop in this direction. Half
a dozen men, your best men, will probably answer, to penetrate
in this quarter. I do not think that the tory has ever more
than three or four men in the swamp. He keeps it secret from
his people. But, while half a dozen men take this route, and
penetrate the swamp, the rest of the force can compass the tory
camp. If you would fight them, and capture them, he can lead
your men” — and she pointed to Ballou. “He knows the way
as well as I do. But I would not see the fighting. It is perhaps
best that you should throw your main force between the
camp and the swamp; whether you attack them or not, it is important,
perhaps, that you should have your own people between
the greater force of the tories and the place you seek. So shall
you be able to penetrate without interruption, and be secure
that no enemy comes behind you. If that bad man, whom they
call `Hell-fire Dick,' be in the camp, it is well to have a force
ready to meet him; for he knows both the routes leading to the
swamp, and the noise of strife, the sound of a bugle in alarm, or
a shot, in that quarter, can reach the ears of those who keep the
camp. The distance from the hammocks of the swamp, and the
camp, is something under a mile; though, by the route we take,
it is fully two miles. I tell you what I think to be the best

plan. It is for you to say whether you will carry your whole
troop into the swamp, where such numbers might make an
alarm, or will only select a few who are quiet enough, if the
tory-captain continues the practice which he pursued before, of
encamping his squad on the outside.”

Sinclair hardly hesitated to consult with St. Julien. It was
arranged that the latter should conduct the main body of the
troop, under the guidance of Ballou, so as to occupy a position
between the camp and the swamp. No movement was to be
made by St. Julien against the tories until the bugles of Sinclair
from the swamp should apprize him of the success of the small
party under the latter; unless, indeed, the conflict was forced
upon him by a premature discovery of his presence or approach
by the scouts of the tory squadron.

Ballou avowed his ability to conduct St. Julien to the required
position; but the old scout hankered to see the mode of
entrance into the swamp, and, still jealous of the girl, would
have offered objections to the arrangement. Nelly, who seemed
to entertain quite as much dislike for the professional scout as
he for the amateur, had her answer ready:—

“If he will undertake your guidance, you need not me.”

And it was surprising with what masculine resolve and will
that slight girl declared her decision. Sinclair did not hesitate
a moment. “Go,” said he to Ballou. “Do as I tell you.”

St. Julien, cool as an iceberg, and as steady, with a single
word sent the scout forward, and the parties separated. At
parting, Nelly Floyd said:—

“We must have an hour and a half, at least, sir. We must
move slowly and cautiously here, and we shall, in less than a
mile, have to leave our horses, and pursue the rest of the way
on foot.”

All was rendered clear, of the plan, to both parties, before
the division of the troop was made. This done, both went forward
as silently as possible on their separate courses. Ballou,
somewhat sullen, yet did his duty. Nelly pushed on ahead of
the little squad of six sure troopers, led by Sinclair in person,
all well armed with sword and pistol. When they had gone a
mile or more, Nelly stopped. They began to feel the swamp.
The woods had grown thicker; the water-courses and ponds

more numerous; the obstructions such, in fact, that the horses
were worse than useless.

“Fasten your horses in that thicket,” said Nelly. “If they
whinney, they are too far from the swamp-refuge of the tories
to be heard. They are of no more use in our farther progress.
See to your pistols. If that bad man Dick be here, he will be
watchful, and he loves fighting and murder. I fear him. I fear
him very much. He is the only man I fear.”

Sinclair commanded an examination of all the pistols of his
party. Flints were picked — the pans supplied with fresh priming.
This done, they set forward.

It was fully an hour, working through the tangled wilderness
in which they went, before Nelly brought them to the margin
of the deeper swamp — the barrier of bush, and bog, and brier,
which formed the outer wall of Muddicoat Castle. She found
an avenue through this, and the whole party emerged from its
massed intricacies only to find themselves on the edge of a
pretty wide and tolerably deep creek. In what direction then
to proceed — how to cross the creek, unless by wading, waistdeep
— was the question that had puzzled Ballou. Where then
to go? There were bits of highland, covered with pine, that
could be seen, here and there, in the distance. There were
small hammocks matted over with saw-palmettoes and scragged
bushes, wild, thorny thickets, and scattered clumps of shrub,
and slender shafts of cypress and other trees, mostly stunted,
growing between and among the palmettoes; but the eye settled
nowhere upon any definite route which might by possibility
conduct to an occupied region — humanly occupied — of this
domain. Immediately in front was an islet — we should say,
hammock — a strip of mud and sand, covered with a luxuriant
undergrowth that was green in winter, and black in its excess
of foliage during the summer period. But the creek swept between,
and it could only be reached, apparently, by wading;
and, when reached, it promised to conduct no farther, for the
watery empire seemed to spread away interminably beyond it.
Nelly appeared to understand Sinclair's bewilderment as he
surveyed, and said quietly:—

“Your scout got as far as this, but could see his way no farther.”

“I don't wonder at that, my good girl. I am no more able
to see my way than Ballou.”

“It puzzled me for a while, too, but I know that the simple
is always the greatest mystery, when we are looking out for a
mystery; and this place, and the way for getting into it, is simple
enough when you have once been shown.”

“True,” said Sinclair. “Columbus's egg upon the table
could be planted by anybody, the moment that it was once done
by Columbus.”

“Yes, sir, yes — I remember the story,” said the girl quietly.
“And, so, this is just as easy. Now, sir, you see yonder hammock.
There is a cypress-log resting upon another, stretching
out into the creek. In the daylight, you would see that that
cypress-leg has worked all the bark off of the one upon which
it rests, and even worked a little hollow into the body of the
log itself. That first led me to think that it might be made use
of in crossing this place. So, I looked closely, and discovered
that the other end of the cypress comes nearly across the creek,
though it mostly lies buried in the water. In daylight, you
might see it nearly all the way across. But it would take a
great spring to get upon the log, where it is out of the water,
from the bank where we stand; and, even if you did get upon
it, it would turn over with you. Your scout tried it, and he fell
in, over head and ears, and so he gave it up. Now, in the daylight,
you might discover on this very bank where we stand,
just above you, where the end of a log had been rubbing in the
mud. That I found, and I could see no other log about which
could make the mark but this. This led me to look farther,
and, thinking more earnestly about it, I soon found a long
grapevine, hanging over the trees — here it is, sir, you see — and
trailing down, there, into the creek itself; and I followed it till
I found that it ran under and twisted round one end of the cypress
that worked loosely below the water. Well, I tried it
with all my strength, and found that, by pulling on the grapevine,
I could bring up the end of the cypress — which is nicely
balanced on the log over there — and make it rest on the bank,
in the very place where you see the mark which it made.
When I did that, I had a bridge over the creek; and when I
got on the other side, by bearing on the opposite end of the

cypress, as it rests upon the log like a pivot, I could work this
end back into the creek, carrying the grapevine with it. You
see how easy it is to make the bridge, and unmake it — the
balance being so well adjusted.”

Certainly, it was very easy, very simple; yet, nevertheless,
no ordinary difficulty to ordinary men. And this girl had discovered
the process which had baffled such a scout as Ballou.
Sinclair began to regard her with that instinctive deference
which we show to genius; which is, in brief, neither more nor
less than the spirit of Discovery, winged by Imagination. The
grapevine was worked upon, the cypress swung up to the bank,
as a sawyer works to and fro in the western waters, and the
party crossed over.

“The rest is easier,” said the girl, as she conducted Sinclair
to the other side of the island which they had reached, where
other avenues of approach to Muddicoat Castle opened, gradually
and almost without search to the seeker. Still the guidance of
the girl was necessary; but having shown her first processes,
we must leave the rest to the conjectures of the reader. We
need not detail the several steps of progress; how they passed
bog and creek; stagnant and running waters; through canebrake
and “palmetto flats;” and the thousand varieties of embarrassment,
which are characteristics of such a region. At
length, Nelly laid her hand on Sinclair's wrist.

“We must now be more careful than ever. When we cross
that log we get upon the island where the tory-captain harbors.
Hidden in that thicket is one of their houses. They have several.
But, in that one, there are two or three men, that sleep.
They could see us through the bushes if we were to cross in
daylight. That bad man, Dick, he lies all about; but he frequently
lies, and sleeps, under that great tree which you see
rising over all the thicket. It is a sycamore. There, he can
see if anybody crosses to the island; and when we are crossing,
we are within pistol-shot. We must now work cautiously —
not a whisper, not a word; and, above all, we must not stumble.
A plash in the water, from a heavy body, might bring us
a bullet.

“If that be the case, my good girl,” said Sinclair, taking her
by the arm, “you might let me go first. It is now my turn to

take the lead. I see the log; I see the way before me. You
have told me all that I need to know. Do you, now, remain
behind. You must incur no danger.”

The girl hesitated. Sinclair, grasping her arm, could perceive
that she trembled — shuddered, perhaps, would be the
more appropriate word. But she said, though in faltering accents
— she had not seemed to fear or falter before:—

“You will need me after you get across, for the houses are
scattered, and sometimes concealed by bits of wood, which are
very thick; and you ought to know the right way at once, or
you may stumble upon an ambush.”

“Well,” said he, “you can follow me; but it is now my turn
to lead;” and so speaking, and putting Nelly behind him, he
stepped firmly, and noiselessly, upon the fallen tree, which
spanned the creek, and led from the little boggy hammock which
they had reached to the island — the obscure fastness of Muddicoat
— which stretched away in shadowy woods, though under
the dim light of stars, before their eyes. Noiselessly drawing
his sabre, at the same moment, Sinclair prepared for any struggle
— better satisfied, feeling this weapon in his grasp, of the certainty
of his aim, than he could be of any pistol practice in the
vague and hazy light which the night and the forests permitted.
He went forward, thus prepared, Nelly immediately behind
him, while his half-a-dozen dragoons followed in Indian
file, as silently along the cypress. Conld Sinclair have looked
behind at that moment, he would have been surprised to see the
pallid and wild aspect of the girl — her eyes were more than
ever dilated — they looked up to heaven — her lips were parted
— was it in prayer? — and her hands nervously clasped together.
She was again the seer — the vision was upon her!