5. CHAPTER V.
The little party of Richard Coulter consisted of four persons
besides himself. It was, perhaps, an hour before this that he sat
apart from the rest conversing with one of his companions. This
was no other than Elijah Fields, the methodist preacher. He
had become a volunteer chaplain among the patriots of his own
precinct, and one who, like the bishop of Beauvais, did not scruple
to wield the weapons of mortal warfare as well as those of
the church. It is true he was not ostentatious in the manner of
the performance; and this, perhaps, somewhat increases its merit.
He was the man for an emergency, forgetting his prayers
when the necessity for blows was pressing, and duly remembering
his prayers when the struggle was no longer doubtful. Yet
Elijah Fields was no hypocrite. He was a true, strong-souled
man, with blood, will, energies and courage, as well as devotion,
and a strong passion for the soil which gave him birth. In plain
terms, he was the patriot as well as the preacher, and his manhood
was required for both vocations.
To him, Richard Coulter, now a captain among the partisans
of Sumter, had unfolded the narrative of his escape from Dunbar.
They had taken their evening meal; their three companions
were busy with their arms and horses, grouped together in
the centre of the camp. Our two principal persons occupied a
little headland on the edge of the river, looking up the stream.
They were engaged in certain estimates with regard to the number
of recruits expected daily, by means of which Coulter was
in hopes to turn the tables on his rival; becoming the hunter
instead of the fugitive. We need not go over the grounds of
their discussion, and refer to the general progress of events
throughout the state. Enough to say that the Continental army,
defeated under Gates, was in course of reorganization, and reapproaching
under Greene; that Marion had been recently active
and successful below; and that Sumter, defeated by Tarleton
at Fishing creek, was rapidly recruiting his force at the foot
of the mountains. Richard Coulter had not been utterly unsuccessful
in the same business along the Eidsto. A rendezvous of
his recruits was appointed to take place on the ensuing Saturday;
and, at this rendezvous, it was hoped that he would find
at least thirty stout fellows in attendance. But we anticipate.
It was while in the discussion of these subjects that the eyes of
Coulter, still looking in the direction of his heart, were attracted
by the sudden blaze which swept the forests, and dyed in lurid
splendor the very face of heaven. It had been the purpose of
Frederica Sabb, in setting fire to the undergrowth, not only to
shelter her own progress, but in this way to warn her lover of
his danger. But the effect was to alarm him for
her safety rather
than his own.
“That fire is at Sabb's place,” was his first remark.
“It looks like it,” was the reply of the preacher.
“Can it be that Dunbar has burnt the old man's dwelling?”
“Hardly!”
“He is not too good for it, or for anything monstrous.
He has burnt others — old Rumph's — Ferguson's, and many
more.”
“Yes! but he prefers to own, and not destroy old Sabb's. As
long as he has a hope of getting Frederica, he will scarcely commit
such an outrage.”
“But if she has refused him — if she answers him as she feels,
scornfully —”
“Even then he will prefer to punish in a different way. He
will rather choose to take the place by confiscation than burn it.
He has never put that fire, or it is not at Sabb's, but this side
of it, or beyond it.”
“It may be the act of some drunken trooper. At all events,
it requires that we should be on the look-out. I will scout it for
a while and see what the mischief is. Do you, meanwhile, keep
everything ready for a start.”
“That fire will never reach us.”
“Not with this wind, perhaps; but the enemy may. He evidently
beat the woods after my heels this evening, and may be
here to-morrow, on my track. We must be prepared. Keep
the horses saddled and bitted, and your ears open for any summons.
Ha! by heavens, that is Brough's signal now.”
“Is it Brough's? If so, it is scarcely from Brough in a healthy
state. The old fellow must have caught cold going to and fro
at all hours in the service of Cupid.”
Our preacher was disposed to be merry at the expense of our
lover.
“Yes, it is Brough's signal, but feeble, as if the old fellow
was really sick. He has probably passed through this fire,
and has been choked with the smoke. But he must have an
answer.”
And, eager to hear from his beloved one, our hero gave his
whistle in reply, and moved forward in the direction of the isthmus.
The preacher, meanwhile, went toward the camp, quite
prompt in the performance of the duties assigned him.
“He answers,” muttered the tory captain; “the rebels are
delivered to our hands!” And his preparations were sternly
prosecuted to make a satisfactory finish to the adventure of the
night. He, too, it must be remarked, though somewhat wondering
at the blazing forest behind him, never for a moment divined
the real origin of the conflagration. He ascribed it to accident,
and, possibly, to the carelessness of one of the troopers
whom he left as sentinels. With an internal resolution to make
the fellow, if offending, familiar with the halberds, he pushed
forward, as we have seen, till reaching the swamp; while the
fire, obeying the course of the wind, swept away to the right of
the path kept by the pursuing party, leaving them entirely without
cause of apprehension from this quarter.
The plans of Dunbar, for penetrating the place of Coulter's
refuge, were as judicious as they could be made under the circumstances.
Having brought the troopers to the verge of the
encampment, the negro was fastened to a tree by the same rope
which had so frequently threatened his neck. The tories pushed
forward, each with pistol cocked and ready in the grasp. They
had scattered themselves abroad, so as to form a front sufficient
to cover, at moderate intervals, the space across the isthumus.
But, with the withdrawal of the immediate danger, Brough's
courage returned to him, and, to the furious rage and discomfiture
of Dunbar, the old negro set up on a sudden a most boisterous
African howl — such a song as the Ebo cheers himself
with when in the doubtful neighborhood of a jungle which may
hide the lion or the tiger. The sound re-echoed through the
swamp, and startled, with a keen suspicion, not only our captain
of patriots, but the preacher and his associates. Brough's voice
was well known to them all; but that Brough should use it after
such a fashion was quite as unexpected to them as to Dunbar
and his tories. One of the latter immediately dropped back, intending
to knock the negro regularly on the head; and, doubtless,
such would have been the fate of the fellow, had it not been
for the progress of events which called him elsewhere. Richard
Coulter had pressed forward at double quick time as he heard
the wild chant of the African, and, being familiar with the region,
it occupied but little space to enable him to reach the line
across which the party of Dunbar was slowly making its way.
Hearing but a single footfall, and obtaining a glimpse of a single
figure only, Coulter repeated his whistle. He was answered
with a pistol shot — another and another followed; and he had
time only to wind his bugle, giving the signal of flight to his
comrades, when he felt a sudden sickness at his heart, and a
faintness which only did not affect his judgment. He could still
feel his danger, and his strength sufficed to enable him to roll
himself close beside the massive trunk of the cypress, upon which
he had unhappily been perched when his whistle drew the fire
upon him of several of the approaching party. Scarcely had
he thus covered himself from a random search when he sunk into
insensibility.
Meanwhile, “Bear Castle,” rang with the signals of alarm and
assault. At the first sound of danger, Elijah Fields dashed forward
in the direction which Coulter had taken. But the private
signal which he sounded for the other was unanswered, and
the assailants were now breaking through the swamp, and were
to be heard on every hand. To retreat, to rally his comrades,
to mount their steeds, dash into the river and take the stream,
was all the work of an instant. From the middle of the sweeping
current the shouts of hate and defiance came to the ears of
the tories as they broke from the copse and appeared on the
banks of the river. A momentary glimpse of the dark bulk of
one or more steeds as they whirled round an interposing headland,
drew from them the remaining bullets in their pistols, but
without success; and, ignorant of the effect of a random bullet
upon the very person whom, of all, he most desired to destroy,
Mat Dunbar felt himself once more foiled in a pursuit which he
had this time undertaken with every earnest of success.
“That d—d African!” was his exclamation. “But he shall
hang for it now, though he never hung before.”
With this pious resolution, having, with torches, made such
an exploration of Bear Castle as left him in no doubt that all
the fugitives had escaped, our tory captain called his squad
together, and commenced the return. The fatigue of passing
through the dry swamp on their backward route was much
greater than when they entered it. They were then full of
excitement — full of that rapture of the strife which needs not
even the feeling of hate and revenge to make it grateful to an
eager and impulsive temper. Now, they were baffled; the excitement
was at an end; and, with the feeling of perfect disappointment
came the full appreciation of all the toils and exertions
they had undergone. They had but one immediate consolation
in reserve, and that was the hanging of Brough, which Dunbar
promised them. The howl of the African had defeated their
enterprise. The African must howl no longer. Bent on murder,
they hastened to the tree where they had left him bound,
only to meet with a new disappointment. The African was
there no longer.
