CHAPTER I. A TOPOGRAPHICAL DISCOURSE.

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The belt of mountains which traverses the state of Virginia
diagonally, from north-east to south-west, it will be seen by an
inspection of the map, is composed of a series of parallel ranges,
presenting a conformation somewhat similar to that which may be
observed in miniature on the sea-beach, amongst the minute lines of
sand hillocks left by the retreating tide. This belt may be said to
commence with the Blue Ridge, or more accurately speaking, with
that inferior chain of highlands that runs parallel to this mountain
almost immediately along its eastern base. From this region westward
the highlands increase in elevation, the valleys become narrower,
steeper and cooler, and the landscape progressively assumes the
wilder features which belong to what is distinctly meant by “the
mountain country.”

The loftiest heights in this series are found in the Alleghany,
nearly one hundred and fifty miles westward from the first thread
of the belt; and as the principal rivers which flow towards the
Chesapeake find their sources in this overtopping line of mountain,
it may be imagined that many scenes of surpassing beauty exist in
those abrupt solitudes where the rivers have had to contend with the
sturdy hills that nature had thrown across their passage to the sea.

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The multiplication of the facilities of travel which the spirit of
improvement has, of late years, afforded to this region; the healthfulness,
or,—to use a term more germain to its excellence,—the
voluptuousness of the climate, and the extraordinary abundance
of waters of the rarest virtue, both for bathing and drinking, have
all contributed, very recently, to render the mountains of Virginia
notorious and popular amongst that daintily observant crowd of
well-conditioned people who yearly migrate in quest of health, or
of a refuge from the heats of summer, or who, perchance, wander
in pursuit of those associations of hill and dale which are supposed
to repair a jaded imagination, and to render it romantic and fruitful.

The traveller of either of these descriptions, who holds his journey
westward, will find himself impelled to halt at Charlottesville, as a
pleasant resting-place in the lap of the first mountains, where he may
stop to reinforce his strength for the prosecution of the rugged task
that awaits him. His delay here will not be unprofitable. This
neat little village is not less recommended to notice by its position
in the midst of a cultivated and plentiful country, than by its contiguity
to the seats of three Presidents of the Union; and, especially,
by its immediate proximity to Monticello, whose burnished dome
twinkles through the crown of forest that adorns the very apex of
its mountain pyramid, and which, as it has now grown to be the
Mecca of many a pilgrim, will of itself furnish a sufficient inducement
for our traveller's tarrying. An equal attraction will be found in
the University of Virginia, which, at the distance of one mile, in the
opposite direction from that leading to Monticello, rears its gorgeous
and fantastic piles of massive and motley architecture—a lively and
faithful symbol (I speak it reverently) of the ambitious, parti-colored
and gallican taste of its illustrious founder.

From Charlottesville, proceeding southwardly, in the direction of
Nelson and Amherst, the road lies generally over an undulating
country, formed by the succession of hills constituting the subordinate
chain of mountains which I have described as first in the belt.
These hills derive a beautiful feature from the manner in which they
are commanded,—to use a military phrase,—by the Blue Ridge,
which, for the whole distance, rests against the western horizon, and
heaves up its frequent pinnacles amongst the clouds, clothed in all
the variegated tints that belong to the scale of vision, from the

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sombre green and purple of the nearer masses, to the light and
almost indistinguishable azure of its remotest summits.

The constant interruption of some gushing rivulet, which hurries
from the neighboring mountain into the close vales that intercept the
road, communicates a trait of peculiar interest to this journey,
affording that pleasant surprise of new and unexpected scenery,
which, more than any other concomitant of travel, wards off the
sense of fatigue. These streams have worn deep channels through
the hills, and constantly seem to solicit the road into narrow passes
and romantic dells, where fearful crags are seen toppling over the
head of the traveller, and sparkling waters tinkle at his feet; and
where the richest and rarest trees of the forest seem to have chosen
their several stations, on mossy bank or cloven rock, in obedience to
some master mind intent upon the most tasteful and striking combination
of these natural elements.

A part of the country embraced in this description, has obtained
the local designation of the South Garden, perhaps from its succession
of fertile fields and fragrant meadows, which are shut in by the
walls of mountain on either hand; whilst a still more remote but
adjacent district of more rugged features, bears the appellation of the
Cove, the name being suggested by the narrow and encompassing
character of the sharp and precipitous hills that hem in and overshadow
a rough and brattling mountain torrent, which is marked
on the map as the Cove creek.

At the period to which my story refers, the population of this
central district of Virginia, exhibited but few of the characteristics
which are found to distinguish the present race of inhabitants. A
rich soil, a pure atmosphere, and great abundance of wood and water,
to say nothing of the sylvan beauties of the mountain, possessed a
great attraction for the wealthy proprietors of the low country; and
the land was, therefore, generally parcelled out in large estates held
by opulent owners, whose husbandry did not fail, at least, to accumulate
in profusion the comforts of life, and afford full scope to that
prodigal hospitality, which, at that period even more than at present,
was the boast of the state. The laws of primogeniture exercised
their due influence on the national habits; and the odious division
of property amongst undeserving younger brothers, whom our modern
philosophy would fain persuade us have as much merit, and as

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little capacity to thrive in the world as their elders, had not yet
formed part of the household thoughts of these many-acred squires.
From Charlottesville, therefore, both north and south, from the
Potomac to the James river, there extended a chain of posts, occupied
by lordly and open-hearted gentlemen,—a kind of civil cordon
of bluff free-livers who were but little versed in the mystery of
“bringing the two ends of the year together.”

Since that period, well-a-day! the hand of the reaper has put in
his sickle upon divided fields; crowded progenies have grown up
under these paternal roof-trees; daughters have married and brought
in strange names; the subsistence of one has been spread into the
garner of ten; the villages have grown populous; the University
has lifted up its didactic head; and everywhere over this abode of
ancient wealth, the hum of industry is heard in the carol of the
ploughman, the echo of the wagoner's whip, the rude song of the
boatman, and in the clatter of the mill. Such are the mischievous
interpolations of the republican system!

My reader, after this topographical sketch and the political reflections
with which I have accompanied it, is doubtless well-prepared
for the introduction of the worthy personages with whom I am
about to make him acquainted.

CHAPTER II. WHEREIN THE READER IS INTRODUCED TO TWO WORTHIES WITH WHOM HE IS LIKELY TO FORM AN INTIMATE ACQUAINTANCE.

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It was about two o'clock in the afternoon of a day towards the
end of July, 1780, when Captain Arthur Butler, now holding a
brevet, some ten days old, of major in the continental army, and
Galbraith Robinson were seen descending the long hill which
separates the South Garden from the Cove. They had just left the
rich and mellow scenery of the former district, and were now
passing into the picturesque valley of the latter. It was evident
from the travel-worn appearance of their horses, as well as from their
equipments, that they had journeyed many a mile before they had
reached this spot; and it might also have been perceived that the
shifting beauties of the landscape were not totally disregarded by
Butler, at least,—as he was seen to halt on the summit of the hill,
turn and gaze back upon the wood-embowered fields that lay
beneath his eye, and by lively gestures to direct the notice of his
companion to the same quarter. Often, too, as they moved slowly
downward, he reined up his steed to contemplate more at leisure
the close, forest-shaded ravine before them, through which the Cove
creek held its noisy way. It was not so obvious that his companion
responded to the earnest emotions which this wild and beautiful
scenery excited in his mind.

Arthur Butler was now in the possession of the vigor of early
manhood, with apparently some eight and twenty years upon his
head. His frame was well proportioned, light and active. His
face, though distinguished by a smooth and almost beardless cheek,
still presented an outline of decided manly beauty. The sun and
wind had tanned his complexion, except where a rich volume of
black hair upon his brow had preserved the original fairness of a

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high, broad forehead. A hazel eye sparkled under the shade of a
dark lash, and indicated, by its alternate playfulness and decision,
an adventurous as well as a cheerful spirit. His whole bearing,
visage and figure, seemed to speak of one familiar with enterprise
and fond of danger:—they denoted gentle breeding predominating
over a life of toil and privation.

Notwithstanding his profession, which was seen in his erect and
peremptory carriage, his dress, at this time, was, with some slight
exceptions, merely civil. And here, touching this matter of dress,
I have a prefatory word to say to my reader. Although custom, or
the fashion of the story-telling craft, may require that I should
satisfy the antiquarian in this important circumstance of apparel of
the days gone by, yet, on the present occasion, I shall be somewhat
chary of my lore in that behalf;—seeing that any man who is
curious on the score of the costume of the revolution time, may be
fully satisfied by studying those most graphic “counterfeit presentments”
of sundry historical passages of that day, wherewith Colonel
Trumbull has furnished this age, for the edification of posterity, in
the great rotunda of the Capitol of the United States. And I
confess, too, I have another reason for my present reluctance,—as I
feel some faint misgiving lest my principal actor might run the risk
of making a sorry figure with the living generation, were I to
introduce him upon the stage in a coat, whose technical description,
after the manner of a botanical formula, might be comprised in the
following summary:—long-waisted—wide-skirted—narrow-collared—
broad-backed—big-buttoned—and large-lapelled;—and then to
add to this, what would be equally outlandish, yellow small-clothes,
and dark-topped boots, attached by a leather strap to the buttons at
the knee,—without which said boots, no gentleman in 1780
ventured to mount on horseback.

But when I say that Captain Butler travelled on his present
journey, habited in the civil costume of a gentleman of the time, I
do not mean to exclude a round hat pretty much of the fashion of
the present day—though then but little used except amongst
military men—with a white cockade to show his party; nor do I
wish to be considered as derogating from that peaceful character
when I add that his saddle-bow was fortified by a brace of
horseman's pistols, stowed away in large holsters, covered with bear

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skin;—for, in those days, when hostile banners were unfurled, and
men challenged each other upon the highways, these pistols were a
part of the countenance (to use an excellent old phrase) of a
gentleman.

Galbraith Robinson was a man of altogether rougher mould.
Nature had carved out, in his person, an athlete whom the sculptors
might have studied to improve the Hercules. Every lineament of
his body indicated strength. His stature was rather above six feet;
his chest broad; his limbs sinewy, and remarkable for their symmetry.
There seemed to be no useless flesh upon his frame to
soften the prominent surface of his muscles; and his ample thigh,
as he sat upon horseback, showed the working of its texture at each
step, as if part of the animal on which he rode. His was one of
those iron forms that might be imagined almost bullet proof. With
all these advantages of person, there was a radiant, broad, good
nature upon his face; and the glance of a large, clear, blue eye told
of arch thoughts, and of shrewd, homely wisdom. A ruddy
complexion accorded well with his sprightly, but massive features,
of which the prevailing expression was such as silently invited
friendship and trust. If to these traits be added an abundant
shock of yellow, curly hair, terminating in a luxuriant queue, confined
by a narrow strand of leather cord, my reader will have a tolerably
correct idea of the person I wish to describe.

Robinson had been a blacksmith at the breaking out of the
revolution, and, in truth, could hardly be said to have yet abandoned
the craft; although of late, he had been engaged in a course of
life which had but little to do with the anvil, except in that
metaphorical sense of hammering out and shaping the rough, iron
independence of his country. He was the owner of a little farm in
the Waxhaw settlement, on the Catawba, and having pitched his
habitation upon a promontory, around whose base the Waxhaw
creek swept with a regular but narrow circuit, this locality, taken in
connexion with his calling, gave rise to a common prefix to his
name throughout the neighborhood, and he was therefore almost
exclusively distinguished by the sobriquet of Horse Shoe Robinson.
This familiar appellative had followed him into the army.

The age of Horse Shoe was some seven or eight years in
advance of that of Butler—a circumstance which the worthy senior

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did not fail to use with some authority in their personal intercourse,
holding himself, on that account, to be like Cassius, an elder, if not
a better soldier. On the present occasion, his dress was of the
plainest and most rustic description: a spherical crowned hat with
a broad brim, a coarse grey coatee of mixed cotton and wool, dark
linsey-woolsey trowsers adhering closely to his leg, hob-nailed shoes,
and a red cotton handkerchief tied carelessly round his neck with a
knot upon his bosom. This costume, and a long rifle thrown into
the angle of the right arm, with the breech resting on his pommel,
and a pouch of deer-skin, with a powder horn attached to it,
suspended on his right side, might have warranted a spectator in
taking Robinson for a woodsman, or hunter from the neighboring
mountains.

Such were the two personages who now came “pricking o'er the
hill.” The period at which I have presented them to my reader
was, perhaps, the most anxious one of the whole struggle for
independence. Without falling into a long narrative of events which are
familiar, at least to every American, I may recall the fact that Gates
had just passed southward, to take command of the army destined
to act against Cornwallis. It was now within a few weeks of that
decisive battle which sent the hero of Saratoga “bootless home and
weather-beaten back,” to ponder over the mutations of fortune, and,
in the quiet shades of Virginia, to strike the balance of fame
between northern glory and southern discomfiture. It may be
imagined then, that our travellers were not without some share of
that intense interest for the events “upon the gale,” which everywhere
pervaded the nation. Still, as I have before hinted, Arthur
Butler did not journey through this beautiful region without a
lively perception of the charms which nature had spread around
him. The soil of this district is remarkable for its blood-red hue.
The side of every bank glowed in the sun with this bright
vermillion tint, and the new-made furrow, wherever the early
ploughman had scarred the soil, turned up to view the predominating
color. The contrast of this with the luxuriant grass and
the yellow stubble, with the grey and mossy rock, and with the
deep green shade of the surrounding forest, perpetually solicited
the notice of the lover of landscape; and from every height, the
eye rested with pleasure upon the rich meadows of the bottom

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land—upon the varied cornfields spread over the hills; upon the
adjacent mountains, with their bald crags peeping through the screen
of forest, and especially upon the broad lines of naked earth
that, here and there, lighted up and relieved, as a painter would
say, with its warm coloring, the heavy masses of shade.

The day was hot, and it was with a grateful sense of refreshment
that our wayfarers, no less than their horses, found themselves, as
they approached the lowland, gradually penetrating the deep and
tangled thicket and the high wood that hung over and darkened the
channel of the small stream which rippled through the valley. Their
road lay along this stream and frequently crossed it at narrow fords,
where the water fell from rock to rock in small cascades, presenting
natural basins of the limpid flood, embosomed in laurel and alder,
and gurgling that busy music which is one of the most welcome
sounds to the ear of a wearied and overheated traveller.

Butler said but little to his companion, except now and then to
express a passing emotion of admiration for the natural embellishments
of the region; until, at length, the road brought them to a
huge mass of rock, from whose base a fountain issued forth over a
bed of gravel, and soon lost itself in the brook hard by. A small
strip of bark, that some friend of the traveller had placed there,
caught the pure water as it was distilled from the rock, and threw it
off in a spout, some few inches above the surface of the ground. The
earth trodden around this spot showed it to be a customary halting
place for those who journeyed on the road.

Here Butler checked his horse, and announced to his comrade his
intention to suspend, for a while, the toil of travel.

“There is one thing, Galbraith,” said he, as he dismounted,
“wherein all philosophers agree—man must eat when he is hungry,
and rest when he is weary. We have now been some six hours on
horseback, and as this fountain seems to have been put here for our
use, it would be sinfully slighting the bounties of providence not to
do it the honor of a halt. Get down, man; rummage your havresac,
and let us see what you have there.”

Robinson was soon upon his feet, and taking the horses a little
distance off, he fastened their bridles to the impending branches of
a tree; then opening his saddle-bags, he produced a wallet with
which he approached the fountain, where Butler had thrown

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himself at full length upon the grass. Here, as he successively disclosed
his stores, he announced his bill of fare, with suitable deliberation
between each item, in the following terms:

“I don't march without provisions, you see, captain—or major, I
suppose I must call you now. Here's the rear division of a roast
pig, and along with it, by way of flankers, two spread eagles (holding
up two broiled fowls), and here are four slices from the best end
of a ham. Besides these, I can throw in two apple-jacks, a half
dozen of rolls, and—”

“Your wallet is as bountiful as a conjurer's bag, sergeant; it is a
perfect cornucopia. How did you come by all this provender?”

“It isn't so overmuch, major, when you come to consider,” said
Robinson. “The old landlady at Charlottesville is none of your
heap-up, shake-down, and running-over landladies, and when I signified
to her that we mought want a snack upon the road, she as
much as gave me to understand that there wa'n't nothing to be had.
But I took care to make fair weather with her daughter, as I always
do amongst the creatures, and she let me into the pantry, where I
made bold to stow away these few trifling articles, under the denomination
of pillage. If you are fond of Indian corn bread, I can
give you a pretty good slice of that.”

“Pillage, Galbraith! You forget you are not in an enemy's
country. I directed you scrupulously to pay for everything you got
upon the road. I hope you have not omitted it to-day?”

“Lord, sir! what do these women do for the cause of liberty but
cook, and wash, and mend!” exclaimed the sergeant. “I told the old
Jezebel to charge it all to the continental congress.”

“Out upon it, man! Would you bring us into discredit with
our best friends, by your villanous habits of free quarters?”

“I am not the only man, major, that has been spoiled in his religion
by these wars. I had both politeness and decency till we got
to squabbling over our chimney corners in Carolina. But when a
man's conscience begins to get hard, it does it faster than anything
in nature: it is, I may say, like the boiling of an egg—it is very
clear at first, but as soon as it gets cloudy, one minute more and you
may cut it with a knife.”

“Well, well! Let us fall to, sergeant; this is no time to argue
points of conscience.”

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“You seem to take no notice of this here bottle of peach brandy,
major,” said Robinson. “It's a bird that came out of the same
nest. To my thinking it's a sort of a file leader to an eatable, if it
ar'n't an eatable itself.”

“Peace, Galbraith! it is the vice of the army to set too much
store by this devil brandy.”

The sergeant was outwardly moved by an inward laugh that
shook his head and shoulders.

“Do you suppose, major, that Troy town was taken without
brandy? It's drilling and countermarching and charging with the
bagnet, all three, sir. But before we begin, I will just strip our
horses. A flurry of cool air on the saddle spot is the best thing in
nature for a tired horse.”

Robinson now performed this office for their jaded cattle; and
having given them a mouthful of water at the brook, returned to his
post, and soon began to despatch, with a laudable alacrity, the heaps
of provision before him. Butler partook with a keen appetite of
this sylvan repast, and was greatly amused to see with what relish
his companion caused slice after slice to vanish, until nothing was
left of this large supply but a few fragments.

“You have lost neither stomach nor strength by the troubles,
sergeant; the short commons of Charleston would have gone something
against the grain with you, if you had stayed for that course of
diet.”

“It is a little over two months,” said Robinson, “since I got away
from them devils; and if it hadn't been for these here wings of mine
(pointing to his legs), I might have been a caged bird to-day.”

“You have never told me the story of your escape,” said Butler.

“You were always too busy, or too full of your own thoughts,
major, for me to take up your time with such talk,” replied the
other. “But, if you would like me to tell you all about it, while
you are resting yourself here on the ground, and have got nothing
better to think about, why, I'll start like old Jack Carter of our mess,
by beginning, as he used to say when he had a tough story ahead,
right at the beginning.”

“Do so, sergeant, and do it discreetly; but first, swallow that
mouthful, for you don't speak very clear.”

“I'll wash down the gutter, major, according to camp fashion,

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and then my throat will be as clear as the morning gun after sun-rise.”

And saying this, the tall soldier helped himself to a hearty draught
of cool water mingled in fair proportion with a part of the contents
of his flask, and setting the cup down by his side, he commenced as
follows:—

“You was with us, major, when Prevost served us that trick in
Georgia, last year—kept us, you remember, on the look out for him
t'other side of the Savannah, whilst all the time he was whisking of
it down to Charleston.”

“You call this beginning at the beginning? Faith, you have
started a full year before your time. Do you think yourself a Polybius
or a Xenophon—who were two famous old fellows, just in
your line, sergeant—that you set out with a history of a whole
war.”

“I never knew any persons in our line—officers or men—of either
of them names,”—replied Robinson,—“they were nicknames, perhaps;—
but I do know, as well as another, when a thing turns up
that is worth notice, major; and this is one of 'em:—and that's the
reason why I make mention of it. What I was going to say was
this—that it was a sign fit for General Lincoln's consarnment, that
these here British should make a push at Charleston on the tenth
of May, 1779, and get beaten, and that exactly in one year and two
days afterwards, they should make another push and win the town.
Now, what was it a sign of, but that they and the tories was more
industrious that year than we were?”

“Granted,” said Butler, “now to your story, Mister Philosopher!”

“In what month was it you left us?” inquired the sergeant
gravely.

“In March,” answered Butler.

“General Lincoln sent you off, as we were told, on some business
with the continental congress: to get us more troops, if I am right.
It was a pity to throw away a good army on such a place—for it
wa'nt worth defending at last. From the time that you set out,
they began to shut us in, every day a little closer. First, they
closed a door on one side, and then on t'other: till, at last they sent
a sort of flash-o'-lightning fellow—this here Colonel Tarleton—up to
Monk's corner, which, you know, was our back door, and he shut

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that up and double bolted it, by giving Huger a most tremenjious
lathering. Now, when we were shut in, we had nothing to do but
look out. I'll tell you an observation I made, at that time.”

“Well.”

“Why, when a man has got to fight, it's a natural sort of thing
enough;—but when he has got nothing to eat, it's an onnatural
state. I have hearn of men who should have said they would rather
fight than eat:—if they told truth they would have made honest
fellows for our garrison at Charlestown. First, our vegetables—after
that devil took up his quarters at Monk's corner—began to give out:
then, our meat; and, finally, we had nothing left but rice, which I
consider neither fish, flesh, nor good salt herring”—

“You had good spirits, though, sergeant.”

“If you mean rum or brandy, major, we hadn't much of that;—
but if you mean jokes and laughs, it must be hard times that wlll
stop them in camp.—I'll tell you one of them, that made a great
hurra on both sides, where we got the better of a Scotch regiment
that was plaguing us from outside the town. They thought they
would make themselves merry with our starvation—so, they throwed
a bomb shell into our lines, that, as it came along through the air,
we saw had some devilment in it, from the streak it made in day-light;
and, sure enough, when we come to look at it on the ground,
we found it filled with rice and molasses—just to show that these
Scotchmen were laughing at us for having nothing to eat. Well,
what do we do but fill another shell with brimstone and hogslard,
and just drop it handsomely amongst the lads from the land o'cakes?
Gad, sir, it soon got to the hearing of the English regiment, and
such a shouting as they sot up from their lines against the Scotchmen!
That's what I call giving as good as they saunt, major—ha
ha ha!'

“It wasn't a bad repartee, Galbraith,” said Butler, joining in the
laugh. “But go on with your siege.”

“We got taken, at last,” proceeded Horse Shoe, “and surrendered
on the 12th of May. Do you know that they condescended to let
us go through the motions of marching outside the lines? Still it
was a sorry day to see our colors tied as fast to their sticks as if a
stocking had been drawn over them. After that, we were marched
to the barracks and put into close confinement.”

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“Yes, I have heard that; and with heavy hearts—and a dreary
prospect before you, sergeant.”

“I shouldn't have minded it much, Major Butler, it was the
fortune of war. But they insulted us as soon as they got our arms
from us. It was a blasted cowardly trick in them to endeavor to
wean us from our cause, which they tried every day; it was
seduction, I may say. First, they told us that Colonel Pinckney
and some other officers had gone over; but that was too
onprobable a piece of rascality,—we didn't believe one word on't.
So, one morning Colonel Pinckney axed that we mought be drawed
up in a line in front of the barracks; and there he made us a speech.
We were as silent as so many men on a surprise party. The
colonel said—yes, sir, and right in their very teeth—that it was an
infamious, audacious calamy: that whenever he desarted the cause
of liberty, he hoped they would take him, as they had done some
Roman officer or other—I think one Officious, as I understood the
colonel—you've hearn of him, may be—and tie his limbs to wild
horses, and set them adrift, at full speed, taking all his joints apart,
so that not one traitorious limb should be left to keep company with
another. It was a mighty severe punishment, whoever he mought'a
been. The British officers began to frown—and I saw one chap
put his hand upon his sword. It would have done you good to
witness the look the colonel gave him, as he put his own hand to
his thigh to feel if his sword was there—he so naturally forgot he
was a prisoner. They made him stop speaking howsever, because
they gave out that it was perditious language; and so, they dismissed
us—but we let them have three cheers to show that we were in
heart.”

“It was like Pinckney,” said Butler; “I'll warrant him a true
man, Galbraith.”

“I'll thribble that warrant,” replied Galbraith, “and afterwards
make it nine. I wish you could have hearn him. I always thought
a bugle horn the best music in the world, till that day. But that
day Colonel Charles Cotesworth Pinckney's voice was sweeter than
shawns and trumpets, as the preacher says, and bugles to boot. I
have hearn people tell of speeches working like a fiddle on a man's
nerves, major: but, for my part, I think they sometimes work like a
battery of field-pieces, or a whole regimental band on a parade day.

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Howsever, I was going on to tell you, Colonel Pinckney put a stop
to all this parleying with our poor fellows; and knowing, major,
that you was likely to be coming this way, he axed me if I thought
I could give the guard the slip, and make off with a letter to meet
you. Well, I studied over the thing for a while, and then told him
a neck was but a neck any how, and that I could try; and so, when
his letter was ready, he gave it to me, telling me to hide it so that,
if I was sarched, it couldn't be found on my person. Do you see
that foot?” added Horse Shoe, smiling, “it isn't so small but that I
could put a letter between the inside sole and the out, longways, or
even crossways, for the matter of that, and that, without so much as
turning down a corner. Correspondent and accordingly I stitched
it in. The colonel then told me to watch my chance and make off
to you in the Jarseys, as fast as I could. He told me, besides, that
I was to stay with you, because you was likely to have business for
me to do.”

“That's true, good sergeant.”

“There came on a darkish, drizzly evening; and a little before
roll call, at sun set, I borrowed an old forage cloak from Corporal
Green—you mought have remembered him—and out I went towards
the lines, and sauntered along the edge of the town, till I came to
one of your pipe-smoking, gin-drinking Hessians, keeping sentry
near the road that leads out towards Ashley ferry:—a fellow that
had no more watch in him—bless your soul!—as these Dutchmen
hav'n't—than a duck on a rainy day. So, said I, coming up boldly
to him, `Hans, wie gehet es'—`Geh zum Teufel,' says he, laughing—
for he knowed me. That was all the Dutch I could speak, except
I was able to say it was going to rain, so I told him—`Es will regnen'—
which he knowed as well as I did, for it was raining all the
time. I had a little more palaver with Hans, and, at last, he got
up on his feet and set to walking up and down. By this time the
drums beat for evening quarters, and I bid Hans good night; but,
instead of going away, I squatted behind the Dutchman's sentry
box;—and, presently, the rain came down by the bucket full; it
got very dark and Hans was snug under cover. The grand rounds
was coming; I could hear the tramp of feet, and as no time was to
be lost, I made a long step and a short story of it, by just slipping
over the lines and setting out to seek my fortune.”

[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]

“Well done, sergeant! You were ever good at these pranks.”

“But that wasn't all,” continued Robinson. “As the prime file
leader of mischief would have it, outside of the lines I meets a cart
with a man to drive it, and two soldiers on foot, by way of guard.

“The first I was aware of it, was a hallo, and then a bagnet to my
breast. I didn't ask for countersigns, for I didn't mean to trade in
words that night; but, just seizing hold of the muzzle of the piece,
I twisted it out of the fellow's hand, and made him a present of the
butt-end across his pate. I didn't want to hurt him, you see, for it
wa'n't his fault that he stopped me. A back-hander brought down
the other, and the third man drove off his cart, as if he had some
suspicion that his comrades were on their backs in the mud. I
didn't mean to trouble a peaceable man with my compliments, but
on the contrary, as the preacher says, I went on my way rejoicing.”

“You were very considerate, sergeant; I entirely approve of your
moderation. As you are a brave man, and have a natural liking for
danger, this was a night that, doubtless, afforded you great satisfaction.”

“When danger stares you in the face,” replied Horse Shoe, “the
best way is not to see it. It is only in not seeing of it, that a brave
man differs from a coward: that's my opinion. Well, after that I
had a hard time of it. I was afraid to keep up the Neck road, upon
account of the sodgers that was upon it; so I determined to cross
the Ashley, and make for the Orangeburg district. When I came
to the ferry, I was a little dubious about taking one of the skiffs that
was hauled up, for fear of making a noise; so I slipped off my shoe
that had your letter, and put it betwixt my teeth and swum the
river. I must have made some splashing in the water—although I
tried to muffle my oars, too, for first, I heard a challenge from the
ferry-house, and then the crack of a musket: but it was so dark
you couldn't see an egg on your own nose. There was a little flustering
of lights on the shore, and a turnout of the guard, may be;
but, I suppose, they thought it was a sturgeon, or some such beast,
and so made no more of it; and I got safe to the other bank.”

“Faithfully and bravely, sergeant!”

“For the first three or four days the chances were all against me.
The whole country was full of tories, and it wasn't safe to meet a
man on the road: you couldn't tell whether he was friend or enemy.

[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]

I durstn't show my face in day-time at all, but lay close in the
swamps; and when it began to grow dark, I stole out, like a wolf,
and travelled across the fields, and along the byways.”

“You had a good stomach to bear it, sergeant.”

“A good stomach enough, but not much in it. I'll tell you another
observation I made; when a man travels all night long on an
empty stomach, he ought either to fill it next morning or make it
smaller.”

“And how is that to be managed, friend Horse Shoe?”

“Indian fashion,” replied the sergeant. “Buckle your belt a little
tighter every two or three hours. A man may shrivel his guts up
to the size of a pipe stem. But I found a better way to get along
than by taking in my belt”—

“Now, for another stratagem!”

“I commonly, about dark, crept as near to a farm house as I
mought venture to go; and, putting on a poor mouth, told the folks
I had a touch of the small-pox, and was dying for a little food.
They were Christians enough to give me a dish of bread and
milk, or something of that sort, and cowards enough to keep so
much out of the way, as not to get a chance to look me in the face.
They laid provisions on the ground, and then walked away while I
came up to get them. Though I didn't think much of the fashion
I was waited on, and had sometimes to quarrel with a bull-dog for
my supper, I don't believe I ever ate with a better appetite in my
life. The first bread of freedom, no matter how coarse, a man eats
after his escape from prison, is the sweetest morsel in nature. And
I do think it is a little pleasanter when he eats it at the risk of his
life.”

Butler nodded his head.

“Well, after this,” continued Horse Shoe, “I had like to have lost
all by another mishap. My course was for the upper country,
because the nearer I got to my own home the better I was acquainted
with the people. That serummaging character, Tarleton, you may
have hearn, scampered off, as soon as ever Charlestown was taken,
after Colonel Abraham Buford, who was on his way down to the city
when the news was fotch him of our surrender. Buford accordingly
came to the right about, to get out of harm's way as fast as he could,
and Tarleton followed close on his heels. Think of that devil, major,

[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]

trying to catch a man a hundred miles away! It was a brazen
hearted thing! considering, besides, that Buford had a good regiment
with him. When nobody thought it anything more than a
brag, sure enough, he overhauls Buford yonder at the Waxhaws—
onawares, you may say—and there he tore him all to pieces. They
say it was a bloody cruel sight, to see how these English troopers
did mangle the poor fellows. I doubt there wasn't fair play. But,
major, that Tarleton rides well and is a proper soldier, take him man
to man. It so happened that as I was making along towards
Catawba, who should I come plump upon, but Tarleton and his lads,
with their prisoners, all halting beside a little run to get water!”

“Again in trouble, sergeant! Truly you have had full measure
of adventures!”

“I was pretty near nonplushed, major,” said Horse Shoe, with a
broad laugh, “but I thought of a stratagem. I let fall my under
jaw, and sot my eyes as wild as a madman, and twisted my whole
face out of joint—and began to clap my hands, and hurra for the
red coats, like a natural fool. So, when Tarleton and two or three
of his people came to take notice of me, they put me down for a
poor idiot that had been turned adrift.”

“Did they hold any discourse with you?”

“A good deal; and, just to try me, they flogged me with the flats
of their swords; but I laughed and made merry when they hurt me
worst, and told them I thanked them for their politeness. There
were some of our people amongst the prisoners, that I knew,
and I was mortally afeard they would let on, but they didn't.
Especially, there was Seth Cuthbert, from Tryon, who had both of
his hands chopped off in the fray at the Waxhaws; he was riding
double behind a trooper, and he held up the stumps just to let me
see how barbarously he was mangled. I was dubious they would
see that he knowed me, but he took care of that. Bless your soul,
major! he saw my drift in the first shot of his eye. Thinking that
they mought take it into their noddles to carry me along with them
back, I played the quarest trick that I suppose ever a man thought
of; it makes me laugh now to tell it. I made a spring that fetched
me right upon the crupper of Colonel Tarleton's horse, which sot him
to kicking and flirting at a merry rate; and, whilst the creature was
floundering as if a hornet had stung him, I took the colonel's cap

[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]

and put it upon my own head, and gave him mine. And after I had
vagaried in this sort of way for a little while, I let the horse fling
me on the ground. You would have thought the devils would have
died a laughing. And the colonel himself, although at first he was
very angry, couldn't help laughing likewise. He said that I was as
strange a fool as he ever saw, and that it would be a pity to hurt
me. So he threw me a shilling, and, whilst they were all in good
humor, I trudged away.”

“It was a bold experiment, and might be practised a thousand
times without success. If I did not know you, Robinson, to be a
man of truth, as well as courage, I should scarce believe this tale.
If any one, hereafter, should tell your story, he will be accounted a
fiction-monger.”

“I do not boast, Major Butler; and, as to my story, I care very
little who tells it. Every trick is good in war. I can change my
face and voice both, so that my best friends shouldn't know me:
and, in these times, I am willing to change every thing but my
coat, and even that, if I have a witness to my heart, and it will
serve a turn to help the country. Am I not right?”

“No man ever blames another for that, sergeant, and if ever you
should be put to the trial, you will find friends enough to vouch for
your honesty.”

“When I got away from Tarleton it wasn't long before I reached
my own cabin. There I mustered my horse and gun, and some
decent clothes; and after a good sleep, and a belly full of food, I
started for the north, as fast as I could, with my letter. I put it
into your own hands, and you know the rest.”

“This will be a good tale for a winter night,” said Butler, “to be
told hereafter, in a snug chimney corner, to your wife and children,
when peace, as I trust it may, will make you happy in the possession
of both. Your embassy has had marvellous good luck so far. I
hope it may prove a happy omen for our future enterprise. Now it
is my turn, Galbraith, to tell you something of our plans. Colonel
Pinckney has apprised me of the state of things in the upper
country. Our good friend Clarke there meditates an attempt to
regain Augusta and Ninety-six; and we have reason to believe that
some levies will be made by our confederates in Virginia and elsewhere.
My business is to co-operate in this undertaking; and as it

[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]

was essential I should have the guidance of some man acquainted
with that country—some good soldier, true and trusty—the colonel
has selected you to accompany me. These red coats have already
got possession of all the strongholds; and the tories, you know,
swarm in the country, like the locusts of Egypt. I stand in need,
sergeant, of a friend with a discreet head and a strong arm. I
could not have picked out of the army a better man than Sergeant
Galbraith Robinson. Besides, Horse Shoe,” he added, putting his
hand gently upon the sergeant's shoulder, “old acquaintance has
bred an affection between us.”

“I am a man that can eat my allowance, major,” said Robinson,
with an awkward diffidence at hearing the encomium just passed
upon him, “and that's a matter that doesn't turn to much profit
in an empty country. But I think I may make bold to promise,
that you are not like to suffer, if a word or a blow from me would
do you any good.”

“Your belt may be serviceable in two ways in this expedition,
Horse Shoe: it may be buckled closer in scant times, and will
carry a sword in dangerous ones.”

“May I ask, major,” inquired Horse Shoe, “since you have
got to talking of our business, what has brought us so high up the
country, along here? It seems to me that the lower road would
have been nearer.”

“Suppose I say, Galbraith,” replied Butler, with animation,
“that there is a bird nestles in these woods, I was fond of hearing
sing, would it be unsoldierlike, think you, to make a harder ride
and a larger circuit for that gratification?”

“Oh! I understand, major,” said Horse Shoe, laughing,
“whether it be peace or whether it be war, these women keep the
upper hand of us men. For my part, I think it's more natural to
think of them in war than in peace. For, you see, the creatures
are so helpless, that if a man don't take care of them, who
would? And then, when a woman's frightened, as she must be
in these times, she clings so naturally to a man! It stands to
reason!”

“You will keep my counsel, Galbraith,” interrupted Butler.
“I have a reason which, perhaps, you may know by and by, why
you should not speak of any thing you may see or hear. And now,

[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]

as we have spent a good hour in refreshment, sergeant, make our
horses ready. We'll take the road again.”

Robinson promised caution in all matters that might be committed
to his charge, and now set himself about saddling the horses for
the journey. Whilst he was engaged in this occupation, Butler was
startled to hear the sergeant abruptly cry out—“You devil, Captain
Peter Clinch! what are you about?” and, looking hastily around,
saw no one but the trusty squire himself, who was now sedately intent
upon thrusting the bit into his horse's mouth,—a liberty which the
animal seemed to resent by sundry manifestations of waywardness.

“To whom are you talking, Galbraith?”

“Only to this here contrary, obstropolous beast, major.”

“What name did you call him by?” inquired Butler.

“Ha, ha, ha! was it that you was listening too?” said Horse
Shoe. “I have christened him Captain Peter—sometimes Captain
Peter Clinch. I'll tell you why. I am a little malicious touching
the name of my horse. After the surrender of Charlestown, our
regiment was put in the charge of a provost marshal, by the name
of Captain Clinch, and his first name was Peter. He was a rough,
ugly, wiry-haired fellow, with no better bowels than a barrel of
vinegar. He gave us all sorts of ill usage, knowing that we wa'n't
allowed to give him the kind of payment that such an oncomfortable
fellow desarved to get. If ever I had met him again, major,
setters parbus—as Lieutenant Hopkins used to say—which is lingo,
I take it, for a fair field, I would'a cudgelled his pate for him, to the
satisfaction of all good fellows. Well, when I got home, I gave his
name to my beast, just for the pleasure of thinking of that hang-gallows
thief, every time I had occasion to give the creetur a dig in
the ribs, or lay a blow across his withers! And yet he is a most
an excellent horse, major, and a hundred times more of a gentleman
than his namesake,—though he is a little hard-headed too—but
that he larnt from me. It really seems to me that the dumb beast
thinks his name a disgrace, as he has good right, but has got used
to it. And, besides, I hear that the cross-grained, growling dog of
a captain has been killed in a scuffle since I left Charlestown, so
now I consider my horse a sort of tombstone with the ugly sinner's
name on it; and as I straddle it every day you see, that's another
satisfaction.”

[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]

“Well, sergeant, there are few men enjoy their revenge more
good-humoredly than you. So, come, straddle your tombstone
again, and make the bones beneath it jog.”

In good glee, our travellers now betook themselves once more to
the road.

CHAPTER III. AN INCIDENT THAT SAVORS OF ROMANCE.

[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]

By the time the sun had fallen to the level of the summits of the
Blue Ridge, Butler and Robinson had progressed so far in their
journey, as to find themselves in the vicinity of the Rockfish river—
a rapid mountain stream, that traverses the southern confine of
Albemarle, and which, at that period, separated this county from
Amherst. Their path had led them, by a short circuit, out of the
ravine of Cove creek, along upon the ridges of the neighboring
hills; and they were now descending from this elevation, into the
valley of the Rockfish, near to the point where the Cove creek forms
its junction with this river. The hill was covered with a stately
forest, and a broad, winding road had been cut down the steep side,
in such a manner as to present a high bank on one hand, and an
abrupt sheer descent on the other. From this road might be seen,
at intervals, glimmering through the screen of underwood, the
waters of the small river below; whilst, at the same time, the
circuitous course of the descending track left but few paces of its
length visible from any one point, except where, now and then, it
came boldly forth to the verge of some wild crag, from which
glimpses were to be obtained of its frequent traverses towards the
deep and romantic dell that received the mingled tribute of the two
streams.

Here, as our travellers journeyed downward, their attention was
awakened by the cry of hounds in pursuit of game. These sounds
came from the wood on the crest of the hill above them; and the
clamorous earnestness with which they assailed the ear, and roused
the far echo of the highlands, showed the object of chase to have
been suddenly surprised and hotly followed. The outcry was heard,
for some moments, pursuing a direction towards the river, when,

[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]

suddenly from the midst of the forest, the sharp twang of a rifle-shot
showed that some hunter was on the watch to profit by the discovery
of the dogs.

Robinson, as soon as he heard the report, urged his horse forward
with speed, to the first turn of the road below; dismounted, and,
throwing his rifle into the palm of his left hand, stood ready to give
his fire wherever he might find occasion. Butler followed, and
reined up close beside his companion.

“There is game afoot,” said Galbraith, “and if that shot has not
done its business, it may be my turn to try a hand.”

These words were hardly spoken, when a wounded buck rushed
to the brink of the bank, some twelve or fifteen feet above the heads
of the travellers, and regardless of the presence of enemies, made one
frantic bound forward into the air, and fell dead almost at Robinson's
feet. So effectually had the work of death been done upon the poor
animal, that he seemed to have expired, in the convulsion of this
last leap, before he reached the ground; his antlers were driven into
the clay; his eyes were fixed, and not a struggle followed.

“It was a home-shot that brought this poor fugitive to the earth,”
said Butler, as he stood gazing at the piteous spectacle before him,
“and sped by a practised hand.”

“I don't count him a good man, major,” said Galbraith, with
professional indifference, “who would mangle his meat by random
firing. Now, this buck was taken sideways, as he leaped above the
tops of the bushes, which is the ticklishest of all the ways of shooting
a deer. The man that plucked this fellow, I'll warrant, can
plant his ball just where he likes: right under the arm is the place
for certainty; and the thing couldn't have been prettier done if the
man had had a rest and a standing shot.”

During this short interval, the hounds had arrived on the spot
where the buck lay bleeding, and these, after a few minutes, were
followed by two hunters of very dissimilar appearance, who came
on foot, slowly leading their horses up the hill.

The first was a tall, gaunt woodman, of a sallow complexion, jet
black eyes, and round head of smooth black hair. His dress was
simply a coarse linen shirt and trowsers, the heat of the day being
such as to allow him to dispense with coat and waistcoat. He
carried, in one hand, a battered straw hat, and in the other, trailed

[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]

a long rifle. His feet were covered with a pair of moccasins of
brown leather, and the ordinary hunting equipments were suspended
about his person.

The second was a youth apparently about sixteen, dressed in a
suit of green summer-cloth, neatly and fancifully adapted to his
figure, which was graceful and boyish. The jacket was short, and
gathered into a small skirt behind; and both this and the pantaloons
were garnished with a profusion of black cord and small black
buttons. A highly polished leather belt was buckled around his
waist; a cap of green cloth rested, somewhat conceitedly, amongst
the rich locks of a head of light, curly hair that fell, with girlish
beauty, over a fair brow, and gave softness to a countenance of pure
white and red; and a neat foot showed to advantage in a laced
boot. The whole appearance of the youth was of one of an amiable
and docile bearing, and the small rifle or carbine which he bore in
his hand, as well as the dainty accoutrements that belonged to it,
amongst which was a diminutive bugle, looked more like the toys
of a pampered boy, than any apparatus of service.

No sooner had these two approached near enough to Butler and
his attendant for recognition, than the youth, quitting the hold of
his horse, sprang forward with a joyous alacrity and seized Butler
by the hand.

“Captain Butler,” he cried with great animation, “how glad I
am you have come! And how fortunate it is that I should meet
you! Get down from your horse, I have something to tell you.
Here, Stephen Foster, take this gentleman's horse.”

“You are a fine fellow, Harry,” said Butler, dismounting. “That
smiling face of yours is full of pleasant news; it assures me that all
are well at the Dove Cote.” Then having given his horse in charge
to Robinson, and walked a few paces apart with his young friend,
he enquired, in a low and anxious tone, “Mildred, my dear Henry,
what of your sister Mildred? Has she received my letter? Does
she expect me? Is your father—”

“Now, captain,” interrupted the other—“but heigh! don't the
newspapers say you are brevetted? I am a pretty fellow to forget
that! Well then, Major Butler, let me answer one question at a
time. In the first place, sister Mildred is as well as any girl can be,
that has a whole bushel of crosses to keep her out of spirits. Poor

[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

thing, she frets so, about you and my father. In the second place,
she received your letter a week ago, and has had me patrolling this
ridge every day since, just to keep a look-out for you; and, for the
sake of company, I have had Stephen Foster hunting here all the
time—more for an excuse than anything else, because on this side
of the river the drives are not the best for deer—a man might be
here a fortnight and not get a shot. Sister Mildred wanted me, if
I should see you first, just to whisper to you that it is impossible to
do anything with my father, especially at this time, for he has one
of these English officers staying at the Dove Cote now, who, I am
afraid, and so is sister Mildred, has come to do some mischief.
Mildred says I must make some appointment with you to see her
privately. I thought of Mrs. Dimock's, but this Englishman has a
servant staying over there, and may be it wouldn't do. So, major,
you will have to ride down to the big chestnut, on the bank of the
river, just under the rock that we call the Fawn's Tower—you know
where that is? it isn't more than two miles from here.”

“I know it well, Henry, I will wait there patiently,” replied
Butler, as he now returned to his horse.

“Haven't we been in luck,” said Henry, “to get so fine a buck
at last? This fellow has eight branches. It is Stephen's rifle that
has done it.”

The woodman, during this conversation, had taken possession of
his spoil, and was now busily engaged with his knife in cutting open
and preparing the animal for transportation, according to the usages
of woodcraft, whilst Robinson stood by, admiring the dexterity with
which this office was performed. When the buck was, at last,
thrown by Stephen across his horse, Henry gave him orders to ride
forward.

“You will carry our game to your own house, Stephen; and
don't forget, to-morrow, to let us have the saddle at the Dove Cote.
And Stephen, you need not say that we have found any acquaintances
upon the road, you understand!”

The man bowed his head, in token of obedience, and getting upon
his long-backed steed, behind the buck, was soon lost to view in the
windings of the hill.

“Sister Mildred is sometimes downright melancholy,” said the
young hunter, after he had remounted, and now rode beside Butler.

[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

“She is troubled about you, and is always telling me of some
unpleasant dream. I almost think she is over-fanciful; and then she
reads everything about the army, and talks almost like a man about
soldiering. Do you know she is making a soldier of me? I am
constantly reading military books, and practising drill, and laying
out fortifications, just as if I was going into camp. My father
doesn't know a word of it; his time is taken up with these English
officers, writing to them, and every now and then there are some
of them at our house. Mildred knows them—a famous spy she
would make! Isn't she an excellent girl, Major Butler?”

“You and I should guard her, Henry, with more care than we
guard our lives,” replied Butler, with a serious emphasis.

“I hope,” returned Henry, “she will be in better spirits after she
sees you.”

“I would to heaven,” said Butler, “that we all had more reason
to be of good cheer, than we are likely to have. It is as cloudy a
day, Henry, as you may ever behold again, should you live, as I
pray you may, to the ripest old age.”

Henry looked up towards the west.

“There are clouds upon the sky,” he said, “and the sun has
dropped below them; but there is a streak of yellow light, near
to the line of the mountain, that our wise people say is a sign that
the sun will rise in beauty to-morrow.”

“There is a light beyond the mountain,” replied Butler, half
speaking to himself, “and it is the best, the only sign I see of a
clear to-morrow. I wish, Henry, it were a brighter beam.”

“Don't you know Gates has passed South?” said Henry, “and
has some pretty fellows with him, they say. And ar'n't we all
mustering here—every man most? Ask Stephen Foster what
I am?”

“And what will he tell me?”

“Why, that I am his deputy-corporal in the mounted riflemen;
Stephen is the lieutenant.”

“Oh, I crave your favor, brother officer, good master deputy-corporal,
Henry Lindsay! and does your father allow you to ride
in the ranks of the friends of liberty?”

“Sister Mildred persuaded him that as I am a mere lad, as she
says,—look at me, major,—a pretty well grown lad, I take it, there

[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

is no harm in my playing soldier. So I ride always with Stephen
Foster, and Mildred got me this light rifle-carbine. Now, major, I
fancy I am pretty nearly as good a marksman as rides in the corps.
Who is this with you?” asked Henry, looking back at Robinson,
who loitered some distance in the rear purposely to avoid what
might be deemed an intrusion upon the private conference of the
two friends.

“That is a famous soldier, Henry; he was at the siege of
Charleston, and last year at Savannah. He has had some hard
blows, and can tell you more of war than you have ever read in all
your studies.”

“He wears a curious uniform,” said Henry, “for a regular
soldier. What is his name?”

“Galbraith Robinson—or Horse Shoe Robinson—to give him his
most popular distinction. But it would be well to keep his name
secret.”

“I have heard of Horse Shoe,” said Henry, with an expression
of great interest. “So, this is the man himself? From all reports
he is as brave as”—

“As who?” asked Butler, smiling at the tone of wonder with
which Henry spoke.

“As Caius Marcius Coriolanus, who, I make no doubt, major, was
about the bravest man in the books.”

Butler laughed, and applauded the young martialist for his discrimination.

The road from the foot of the hill pursued the left, or northern,
bank of the Rockfish, which shot along, with a rapid flood, over the
rocks that lay scattered in its bed; and the gush of whose flight fell
upon the ear like the loud tones of the wind. From either margin
it was shaded by huge sycamores, whose tops, at this twilight hour,
were marked in broad lines upon the fading sky, and whose wide
spreading boughs met, from side to side, over the middle of the
stream, throwing a deeper night upon the clear and transparent
waters. The valley was closely bound by high precipitous hills,
whose steep crags and narrow passes seemed to echo and prolong
the gush of the stream, that was now mingled with the occasional
lowing of cattle, the shriek of the owl, and the frequent hoarse scream
of the whip-poor-will.

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When our party had advanced about a mile along this road,
Henry Lindsay took his bugle and blew a blast which seemed to
dance in its reverberations from one side of the river to the other.

“Mildred knows my signal,” said he; “that is the scout's warning:
cavalry approaches: dress your line: prepare to receive a
general officer.”

“Henry, pray drop your military phrase, and tell me what this
means?” said Butler.

“Ride on till you arrive beneath the Fawn's Tower. Wait for
me there. I will give you a signal when I approach: and trust me
for a faithful messenger. The river is deep at the rock, but you will
find a boat fastened to this bank. When you hear my signal come
across. Mr. Dimock's is only another mile; and, I'll warrant, the
old lady will make you comfortable. Love, they say, major,” added
Henry, sportively, “is meat and drink, and a blanket to boot; but
for all that, Mrs. Dimock's will not be amiss—especially for Horse
Shoe, who, I take it, will have the roughest time of the party. If
love is a blanket, Mr. Robinson,” Henry continued, addressing himself
to that worthy, “it doesn't cover two, you know.”

“To my thinking, young sir,” replied Horse Shoe, with a laugh,
“it wouldn't fold so cleverly in a knapsack.”

“Now that I have given my orders,” said Henry, “and done my
duty, I must leave you, for my road lies across the ford here.
Where are my hounds? Hylas, Bell, Blanche, you puppies, where
are you?”

Here Henry blew another note, which was immediately responded
to by the hounds; and, plunging into the rapid and narrow stream,
followed by the dogs, who swam close behind him, he was seen, the
next moment, through the twilight, galloping up the opposite hill,
as he called out his “good night” to his friends.

As soon as Henry had disappeared, the other two pricked their
steeds forward at a faster pace. The rapid flow of the river, as they
advanced along its bank, began to change into a more quiet current,
as if some obstruction below had dammed up the water, rendering it
deep and still. Upon this tranquil mirror the pale crescent of the
moon and the faintly peeping stars were reflected; and the flight of
the fire-fly was traced, by his own light and its redoubled image,
upon the same surface.

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The high toppling cliff of the Fawn's Tower, that jutted forth like
a parapet above the road, soon arrested the attention of Butler; and
at its base the great chestnut flung abroad his “vast magnificence of
leaves,” almost in emulation of the aspiring crag.

“We have reached our appointed ground,” said Butler. “I shall
want my cloak, Galbraith; the dews begin to chill my limbs.”

They dismounted, and Butler threw his cloak around his shoulders.
Then, in a thoughtful, musing state of mind, he strolled slowly along
the bank of the river, till he was temporarily lost to view in the
thick shades and sombre scenery around him. Robinson, having
secured the horses, sat himself down at the foot of the chestnut,
unwilling to interrupt, by conversation, the anxious state of feeling
which he had the shrewdness to perceive predominated in Butler's
mind.

CHAPTER IV. A MEETING OF LOVERS—SOME INSIGHT INTO THE FUTURE.

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

The twilight had subsided and given place to a beautiful night.
The moon had risen above the tree tops, and now threw her level
rays upon the broad face of the massive pile of rocks forming the
Fawn's Tower, and lit up with a silvery splendor, the foliage that
clothed the steep cliff and the almost perpendicular hill in its neighborhood.
On the opposite side of the river, a line of beech and sycamore
trees, that grew almost at the water's edge, threw a dark
shadow upon the bank. Through these, at intervals, the bright
moonlight fell upon the earth, and upon the quiet and deep stream.
The woods were vocal with the whispering noises that give discord
to the nights of summer; yet, was there a stillness in the scene
which invited grave thoughts, and recalled to Butler's mind some
painful emotions that belonged to his present condition.

“How complicated and severe are those trials”—such was the
current of his meditations—“which mingle private grief with public
misfortune: that double current of ill which runs, on one side, to the
overthrow of a nation's happiness, and, on the other, to the prostration
of the individual who labors in the cause! What a struggle
have I to encounter between my duty to my country and my regard
for those tender relations that still more engross my affections, nor
less earnestly appeal to my manhood for defence! Upon the common
quarrel I have already staked my life and fortune, and find
myself wrapt up in its most perilous obligations. That cause has
enough in it to employ and perplex the strongest mind, and to
invoke the full devotion of a head and heart that are exempt from
all other solicitude: yet am I embarrassed with personal cares that
are woven into the very web of my existence; that have planted
themselves beside the fountain of my affections, and which, if they

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

be rudely torn from me, would leave behind—but a miserable and
hopeless wreck. My own Mildred! to what sad trials have I brought
your affection; and how nobly hast thou met them!

“Man lives in the contentious crowd; he struggles for the palm
that thousands may award, and far-speeding renown may rend the
air with the loud huzza of praise. His is the strife of the theatre
where the world are spectators; and multitudes shall glorify his
success, or lament his fall, or cheer him in the pangs of death. But
woman, gentle, silent, sequestered—thy triumphs are only for the
heart that loves thee—thy deepest griefs have no comforter but the
secret communion of thine own pillow!”

Whilst Butler, who had now returned beneath the cliff of the
Fawn's Tower, was absorbed in this silent musing, his comrade was
no less occupied with his own cares. The sergeant had acquired
much of that forecast, in regard to small comforts, which becomes,
in some degree, an instinct in those whose profession exposes them
to the assaults of wind and weather. Tobacco, in his reckoning,
was one of the most indispensable muniments of war; and he was,
accordingly, seldom without a good stock of this commodity. A
corn cob, at any time, furnished him the means of carving the bowl
of a pipe; whilst, in his pocket, he carried a slender tube of reed
which, being united to the bowl, formed a smoking apparatus, still
familiar to the people of this country, and which, to use the sergeant's
own phrase, “couldn't be touched for sweetness by the best pipe the
very Queen of the Dutch herself ever smoked; and that”—he was
in the habit of adding—“must be, as I take it, about the tenderest
thing for a whiff that the Dutchman knowed how to make.”

A flint and steel—part also of his gear—now served to ignite his
tobacco, and he had been, for some time past, sedately scanning the
length and breadth of his own fancies, which were, doubtless,
rendered the more sublime by the mistiness which a rich volume of
smoke had shed across his vision and infused into the atmosphere
around his brain.

“Twelve shillings and nine pence,” were the first words which
became audible to Butler in the depth of his revery. “That, major,”
said the sergeant, who had been rummaging his pocket, and counting
over a handful of coin, “is exactly the amount I have spent
since this time last night. I paid it to the old lady of the Swan,

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

at Charlottesville, taking a sixpence for mending your bridle rein.
Since you must make me paymaster for our march, I am obliged to
square accounts every night. My noddle wont hold two days'
reckoning. It gets scrimped and flustered with so many numberings,
that I lose the count clean out.”

“It is of little consequence, Galbraith,” replied Butler, seeking to
avoid his companion's interruption.

“Squaring up, and smoothing off, and bringing out this and that
shilling straight to a penny, don't come natural to me,” continued
Robinson, too intent upon his reckoning to observe the disinclination
of Butler to a parley, “money matters are not in my line. I take
to them as disunderstandingly as Gill Bentley did to the company's
books, when they made him Orderly on the Waccamaw picquet.
For Gill, in the first place, couldn't write, and, in the next place, if
he could'a done that, he never larnt to read, so you may suppose
what a beautiful puzzleification he had of it to keep the guard roster
straight.”

“Sergeant, look if yonder boat is loose; I shall want it presently,”
said Butler, still giving no ear to his comrade's gossip.

“It is tied by an easy knot to the root of the tree,” said Robinson,
as he returned from the examination.

“Thank you,” added Butler with more than usual abstractedness.

“Something, major, seems to press upon your spirits to-night,”
said the sergeant, in the kindest tones of inquiry. “If I could lend
a hand to put any thing, that mought happen to have got crooked,
into its right place again, you kn ow, Major Butler, I wouldn't be
slow to do it, when you say the word.”

“I would trust my life to you, Galbraith, sooner than to any
man living,” replied the other, with an affectionate emphasis:—“But
you mistake me, I am not heavy at heart, though a little anxious,
sergeant, at what has brought me here, comrade,” he added as he
approached the sergeant, upon whose broad shoulder he familiarly
laid his hand, with a smile; “you will keep a fellow soldier's
counsel?”

“As I keep my heart in my body,” interrupted Galbraith.

“I am sure of it; even as you keep your faith to your country,
my true and worthy brother,” added Butler with animation, “and
that is with no less honesty than a good man serves his God.

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

Then, Galbraith, bear it in mind, I have come here for the sake of a
short meeting with one that I love, as you would have a good soldier
love the lady of his soul. You will hereafter speak of nothing that
may fall within your notice. It concerns me deeply that this
meeting should be secret.”

“Major, I will have neither eyes nor ears, if it consarns you to keep
any thing that mought chance to come to my knowledge, private.”

“It is not for myself, sergeant, I bespeak this caution; I have
nothing to conceal from you; but there is a lady who is much
interested in our circumspection. I have given you a long and
solitary ride on her account, and may hereafter ask other service
from you. You shall not find it more irksome, Galbraith, to stand
by a comrade in love, than you have ever found it in war, and that,
I know, you think not much.”

“The war comes naturally enough to my hand,” replied Galbraith,
“but as for the love part, major, excepting so far as carrying
a message, or, in case of a runaway, keeping off a gang of pestifarious
intermeddlers, or watching, for a night or so, under a tree,
or any thing, indeed, in the riding and running, or watching, or
scrimmaging line—I say, excepting these, my sarvice moughtn't turn
to much account. I can't even play a fiddle at a wedding, and I've
not the best tongue for making headway amongst the women.
Howsomdever, major, you may set me down for a volunteer on the
first forlorn hope you may have occasion for.”

“Mr. Lindsay lives on the hill across the river. There are reasons
why I cannot go to his house; and his daughter, Galbraith, is an
especial friend to us and to our cause.”

“I begin to see into it,” interrupted the sergeant, laughing, “you
have a notion of showing the old gentleman the same trick you
played off upon Lord Howe's provost marshal, when you was lieutenant
at Valley Forge, touching your stealing away his prisoner,
Captain Roberts. That was a night affair, too. Well, the best wife
a man can have, major, is the woman that takes to him through
fire and water. There was Colonel Gardiner, that stole his wife just
in that way, against all opposition of both father and mother, and a
better woman never stitched up a seam, to my knowledge and
belief.”

[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

“I have no thought of such an enterprise, sergeant,” said Butler;
“our purpose, for the present, must be confined to a short visit.
We are houseless adventurers, Galbraith, and have little to offer to
sweetheart or wife that might please a woman's fancy.”

“When a woman loves a man, especially a sodger,” replied the
sergeant, “she sets as little store by house and home as the best of
us. Still, it is a wise thing to give the creatures the chance of
peace, before you get to tangling them with families. Hark, I hear
something like footsteps on t'other side of the river! Mister Henry
must be on his march.”

After an interval, a low whistle issued from the opposite bank, and,
in a moment, Butler was in the skiff, pushing his way through the
sparkling waters.

As the small boat, in which he stood upright, shot from the
bright moonlight into the shade of the opposite side, he could
obscurely discern Mildred Lindsay leaning on her brother's arm, as
they both stood under the thick foliage of a large beech. And
scarcely had the bow struck upon the pebbly margin, before he
bounded from it up the bank, and was, in the next instant, locked
in the embrace of one whose affection he valued above all earthly
possessions.

When that short interval had passed away, in which neither Mildred
nor Arthur could utter speech; during which the lady leant
her head upon her lover's bosom, in that fond familiarity which
plighted faith is allowed to justify in the most modest maiden, sobbing
the while in the intensity of her emotions, she then at last, as
she slowly regained her self-possession, said, in a soft and melancholy
voice, in which there was nevertheless a tone of playfulness:

“I am a foolish girl, Arthur. I can boast like a blustering
coward, when there is nothing to fear; and yet I weep, like a true
woman, at the first trial of my courage.”

“Ah, my dear Mildred, you are a brave girl,” replied Butler, as
he held both of her hands and looked fondly into her face, “and a
true and a tried girl. You have come kindly to me, and ever, like a
blessed and gentle spirit of good, are prompt to attend me through
every mischance. It is a long and weary time, love, since last we
met.”

“It is very, very long, Arthur.”

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

“And we are still as far off, Mildred, from our wishes as at first
we were.”

“Even so,” said Mildred sorrowfully. “A year of pain drags
heavily by, and brings no hope. Oh, Arthur, what have I suffered
in the thought that your life is so beset with dangers! I muse upon
them with a childish fear, that was not so before our last meeting.
They rise to disturb my daily fancies, and night finds them inhabiting
my pillow. I was so thankful, that you escaped that dreary
siege of Charleston!”

“Many a poor and gallant fellow soldier there bit his lip with a
chafed and peevish temper,” said Butler; “but the day will come,
Mildred, when we may yet carry a prouder head to the field of our
country's honor.”

“And your share,” interrupted Mildred, “will ever be to march
in the front rank. In spite of all your perils past, your hard service,
which has known no holiday, your fatigues, that I have sometimes
feared would break down your health, and in spite too, of the
claims, Arthur, that your poor Mildred has upon you, you are even
now again bound upon some bold adventure, that must separate us,
ah, perhaps, for ever! Our fate has malice in it. Ever beginning
some fresh exploit!”

“You would not have your soldier bear himself otherwise than as
a true knight, who would win and wear his lady-love by good set
blows when there was need for them?”

“If I were the genius that conjured up this war, I would give
my own true knight a breathing space. He should pipe and dance
between whiles,” replied Mildred sportively.

“He that puts his sickle into this field amongst the reapers,” said
Butler, with a thoughtful earnestness, “should not look back from
his work.”

“No, no, though my heart break while I say it—for, in truth, I
am very melancholy, notwithstanding I force a beggar's smile upon
my cheek; no, I would not have you stay or stand, Arthur, until
you have seen this wretched quarrel at an end. I praised your first
resolve—loved you for it—applauded and cheered you; I will not
selfishly now, for the sake of my weak, womanish apprehension, say
one word to withhold your arm.”

“And you are still,” said Butler, “that same resolute enthusiast

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

that I found in the young and eloquent beauty who captivated my
worthless heart, when the war first drew the wild spirits of the
country together under our free banner?”

“The same foolish, conceited, heady, prattling traunt, Arthur, that
first took a silly liking to your pompous strut, and made a hero to
her imagination out of a boasting ensign—the same in all my follies,
and in all my faults—only altered in one quality.”

“And pray, what is that one quality?”

“I will not tell you,” said Mildred carelessly. “'Twould make
you vainer than you are.”

“It is not well to hide a kind thought from me, Mildred.”

“Indeed it is not, Arthur. And so, I will muster courage to
speak it,” said the confiding girl with vivacity, after a short pause
during which she hung fondly upon her lover's arm; and then
suddenly changing her mood, she proceeded in a tone of deep and
serious enthusiasm, “it is, that since that short, eventful and most
solemn meeting, I have loved you, Arthur, with feelings that I did
not know until then were mine. My busy fancy has followed you
in all your wanderings—painted with stronger hues than nature
gives to any real scene the difficulties and disasters that might cross
your path—noted the seasons with a nervous acuteness of remark,
from very faint-heartedness at the thought that they might blight
your health or bring you some discomfort. I have pored over the
accounts of battles, the march of armies, the tales of prisoners
relating the secrets of their prisons; studied the plans of generals
and statesmen, as the newspapers or common rumor brought them
to my knowledge, with an interest that has made those around me
say I was sadly changed. It was all because I had grown cowardly
and feared even my own shadow. Oh, Arthur, I am not indeed
what I was.”

The solemnity, force and feeling with which Mildred gave utterance
to these words, strangely contrasted with the light and gay
tone in which she had commenced; but her thoughts had now
fallen into a current that bore her forward into one of those bursts
of excited emotion, which were characteristic of her temper, and
which threw a peculiar energy and eloquence into her manner.
Butler, struck by the rising warmth of her enunciation, and
swayed in part by the painful reflections to which her topic

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gave rise, replied, in a state of feeling scarcely less solemn than
her own—

“Ah, Mildred,” and as he spoke, he parted her hair upon her
pale forehead and kissed it, “dearest girl, the unknown time to
come has no cup of suffering for me that I would not hold a cheap
purchase for one moment like this. Even a year of painful absence
past, and a still more solicitous one to come, may be gallantly and
cheerfully borne when blessed with the fleeting interval of this night.
To hear your faith, which though I never dwelt upon it but with a
confidence that I have held it most profane to doubt, still, to hear
it avowed from your own lips, now again and again, repeating what
you have often breathed before, and in letter after letter, written
down, it falls upon my heart, Mildred, like some good gift from
heaven, specially sent to revive and quicken my resolution in all the
toils and labors that yet await me. There must be good in store
for such a heart as thine; and, trusting to this faith, I will look to
the future with a buoyant temper.”

“The future,” said Mildred, as she lifted her eyes to the pale
moon that now sheeted with its light her whole figure, as she and
her lover strayed beyond the shade of the beech, “I almost shudder
when I hear that word. We live but in the present; that, Arthur,
is, at least, our own, poor as we are in almost all beside. That
future is a perplexed and tangled riddle—a dreadful uncertainty, in
the contemplation of which I grow superstitious. Such ill omens
are about us! My father's inexorable will, so headstrong, so
unconscious of the pain it gives me; his rooted, yes, his fatal
aversion to you; my thraldom here, where, like a poor bird checked
by a cord, I chafe myself by fluttering on the verge of my prison
bounds; and then, the awful perils that continually impend over
your head—all these are more than weak imaginings; they are the
realities of my daily life, and give me, what I am almost ashamed
to confess, a sad and boding spirit.”

“Nay, nay, dearest Mildred! Away with all these unreasonable
reckonings!” replied Butler, with a manner that too plainly betrayed
the counterfeit of mirth. “Seclusion has dealt unworthily
with you. It has almost turned thee into a downright sentimental
woman. I will have none of this stepping to the verge of melancholy.
You were accustomed to cheer me with sunny and warm

[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]

counsel; and you must not forget it was yourself who taught me to
strike aside the waves of fortune with a glad temper. The fates
can have no spite against one so good as thou art! Time may bear
us along like a rough trotting horse; and our journey may have its
dark night, its quagmires, and its jack-o'lanterns, but there will come
a ruddy morning at last—a smoother road, and an easier gait;
and thou, my girl, shalt again instruct me how to win a triumph
over the ills of life.”

“And we will be happy, Arthur, because all around us will be
so,” added Mildred, catching the current of Butler's thoughts, with
that ready versatility which eminently showed the earnestness and
devotion of her feelings—“Ah, may heaven grant this boon, and
bring these dreams to life! I think, Arthur, I should be happier
now, if I could but be near you in your wanderings. Gladly would
I follow you through all the dangers of the war.”

“That were indeed, love, a trial past your faculty to endure.
No, no, Mildred, she who would be a soldier's wife, should learn
the soldier's philosophy—to look with a resigned submission on the
present events, and trust to heaven for the future. Your share in
this struggle is to commune with your own heart in solitude, and
teach it patience. Right nobly have you thus far borne that
grievous burden! The sacrifice that you have made—its ever
present and unmitigated weight, silently and sleeplessly inflicting
its slow pains upon your free and generous spirit; that, Mildred, is
the chief and most galling of my cares.”

“This weary war, this weary war,” breathed Mildred, in a pensive
under key, “when will it be done!”

“The longest troubles have their end,” replied Butler, “and men,
at last, spent with the vexations of their own mischief, fly, by a
selfish instinct, into the bosom of peace. God will prosper our
enterprise, and bring our battered ship into a fortunate haven.”

“How little like it seems it now!” returned Mildred. “The
general sorrow, alone, might well weigh down the stoutest heart.
That cause which you have made mine, Arthur, to which you have
bestowed your life, and which, for your sake,” she added proudly,
“should have this feeble arm of mine, could it avail, is it not even
now trembling on the verge of ruin? Have not your letters, one
after another, told me of the sad train in which misfortunes have

[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]

thickened upon the whole people? of defeat, both north and south,
and, at this very time, of disgraceful mutiny of whole regiments
under the very eye of Washington—that Washington who loves his
country and her soldiers as a husband loves his bride, and a father
his children. Have not those, to whom we all looked for champions,
turned into mere laggards in the war for freedom? Oh,
Arthur, do you not remember that these are the thoughts, the very
words, which were penned by your own hand, for my especial
meditation? How can I but fear that the good end is still far off?
How can I but feel some weight upon my heart?”

“You have grown overwise, Mildred, in these ruminations. I am
to blame for this, that in my peevish humor, vexed with the crosses
of the day, I should have written on such topics to one so sensitive
as yourself.”

“Still it is true, Arthur, all report confirms it.”

“These things do not become your entertainment, Mildred. Leave
the public care to us. There are bold hearts, love, and strong arms
yet to spare for this quarrel. We have not yet so exhausted our
mines of strength, but that much rough ore still lies unturned to the
sun, and many an uncouth lump of metal remains to be fashioned
for serviceable use. History tells of many a rebound from despondency,
so sudden and unreckoned, that the wisest men could see in it
no other spring than the decree of God. He will fight the battle of
the weak, and set the right upon a sure foundation.”

“The country rings,” said Mildred, again taking the more cheerful
hue of her lover's hopes, and following out, with an affectionate
sympathy, his tone of thought, “with anticipation of victory from
Gates's southern march.”

“That may turn out to be a broken reed,” interrupted Butler,
as if thinking aloud, and struck by Mildred's reference to a subject
that had already engrossed his thoughts; “they may be deceived.
Washington would have put a different man upon that service. I
would have a leader in such a war, wary, watchful, humble—diffident
as well as brave. I fear Gates is not so.”

“Then, I trust, Arthur,” exclaimed Mildred, with anxious alacrity,
“that your present expedition does not connect you with his fortunes!”

“I neither follow his colors nor partake of his counsels,” replied

[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]

Butler. “Still my motions may not be exempt from the influence
of his failure or success. The enemy, you are aware, has possessed
himself of every post of value in South Carolina and Georgia. I go
commissioned to advise with discreet and prudent men upon the
means to shake off this odious domination. So far only, and
remotely, too, I am a fellow-laborer with Gates. There are gallant
spirits now afoot, Mildred, to strip these masters of their power. My
office is to aid their enterprise.”

“If you needs must go, Arthur, I have no word to say. You will
leave behind you an aching heart, that morning, noon, and night,
wearies heaven with its prayers for your safety. Alas, I have no
other aid to give! How soon—how soon,” she said, with a voice
that faltered with the question, “does your duty compel you to
leave me?”

“To-morrow's sunrise, love, must find me forth upon my way.”

“To-morrow, Arthur? so quickly to part!”

“I dare not linger; not even for the rich blessing of thy presence.”

“And the utmost length of your journey?”

“Indeed, I know not. At present my farthest aim is Ninety-six
and Augusta. It much depends upon the pleasure of our proud and
wilful masters.”

Mildred stood for some moments looking upon the ground in profound
silence. Her bosom heaved with a sad emotion.

“It is a dangerous duty,” said she, at last. “I cannot speak my
apprehension at the thought of your risks amongst the fierce and
treacherous men that overrun the country to which you travel.”

“These perils are exaggerated by distance,” returned Butler. “A
thousand expedients of protection and defence occur when present,
which the absent cannot fancy. It is a light service, Mildred, and
may more securely be performed with a gay heart than with a sad
one. I pray you, do not suffer that active imagination of yours to
invest the every day adventures of your poor soldier with a romantic
interest of which they are not worthy. I neither slay giants, nor
disenchant ladies, nor yoke captive griffins together. No, no, I shall
outrun some over-fed clown, and outwit some simple boobies; and,
perhaps, soil my boots in a great slough, and then hasten back, love,
to boast of my marvels to the credulous ear of my own sweet girl,
who, I warrant, will think me a most preposterous hero.”

[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

“How can you laugh, Arthur? And yet I would not have you
catch my foolish sadness, either.”

“I have with me, besides, Mildred, a friend good at need; one
Galbraith Robinson, a practised and valiant soldier, who sits on
yonder bank. He is to be the companion of my journey; he is
shrewd, vigilant and cautious, an inhabitant, moreover, of the district
to which I am bound; his wisdom can do much for my success.
Then I travel, too, in peaceful guise. My business is more concerned
with negotiation than with battle.”

“It is a waylaid path, Arthur,” said Mildred, in the same faint
voice with which she had spoken before.

“Never take it so heavily, my love!” exclaimed Butler, familiarly
seizing her hand, whose trembling now betrayed her agitation,—“it
is the mere sport of the war to be upon a running service, where a
light stratagem or so will baffle a set of dull-pated clodpoles! I
scarcely deem it a venture, to dodge through a forest, where every
man flies from his neighbor out of mutual distrust. These fellows
have brought themselves upon such bad terms with their own consciences,
that they start like thieves at the waving of a bulrush.”

“They would be the more cruel,” replied Mildred, “if some ill
luck should throw you into their power. If that should happen,”
she added, and for a while she hesitated to speak, as a tear fell upon
Butler's hand—“If that should happen, I cannot bear the thought.”

“They dare offer me no wrong, Mildred. The chances of battle
are sufficiently various to compel even the victors to pursue the policy
of humanity to prisoners. The conqueror of to-day may himself
be a captive to-morrow, and a bloody reprisal would await his barbarity.
Again, let me remind you, these are not fit topics for your
meditation.”

“They are topics for my heart, Arthur, and will not be driven
from it. If your lot should put you in the power of the enemy, the
name of Mildred Lindsay, and the relation you bear her, whispered
in their ears, may, perhaps, unlock their charity. My father has
many friends in those ranks, and it may be that I am not unknown
to some of them: oh, remember that!”

“You have little need to teach me to think or speak of Mildred
Lindsay,” said Butler, eagerly. “I cannot forget that name. But
I may well doubt its charm upon the savage bulldogs who are now

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

baiting our citizens in Carolina; those ruthless partizans who are
poisoning the fountains of contentment at every fire-side. It is not
a name to conjure evil spirits with.”

“Major Butler,” said Henry, who during this long interval had
been strolling backward and forward, like a sentinel, at some distance
from his sister and her lover, and who, with the military punctilio
of a soldier on duty, forbore even to listen to what he could not
have helped overhearing, if it had not been for humming a tune—
“Major, I don't like to make or meddle with things that don't belong
to me—but you and Mildred have been talking long enough to
settle the course of a whole campaign. And as my father thinks he
can't be too careful of Mildred, and doesn't like her walking about
after night-fall, I shouldn't be surprised if a messenger were
despatched for us—only I think that man Tyrrel is hatching some
plot with him to-night, and may keep him longer in talk than
usual.”

“Who is Tyrrel?” inquired Butler.

“One that I wish had been in his grave before he had ever seen
my father,” answered Mildred with a bitter vehemence. “He is a
wicked emissary of the royal party sent here to entrap my dear father
into their toils. Such as it has ever been his fate to be cursed with
from the beginning of the war; but this Tyrrel, the most hateful of
them all.”

“Alas, alas, your poor father! Mildred, what deep sorrow do I
feel that he and I should be so estranged. I could love him, counsel
with him, honor him, with a devotion that should outrun your
fondest wish. His generous nature has been played upon, cheated,
abused; and I, in whom fortune and inclination should have raised
him a friend, have been made the victim of his perverted passion.”

“True, true,” exclaimed Mildred, bursting into tears, and resting
her head against her lover's breast, “I can find courage to bear all
but this—I am most unhappy;” and for some moments she sobbed
audibly.

“The thought has sometimes crossed me,” said Butler, “that I
would go to your father and tell him all. It offends my self-respect
to be obliged to practise concealment towards one who should have
a right to know all that concerns a daughter so dear to him. Even
now, if I may persuade you to it, I will go hand in hand with you,

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

and, with humble reverence, place myself before him and divulge all
that has passed between us.”

“No, no, Arthur, no,” ejaculated Mildred with the most earnest
determination. “It will not come to good. You do not understand
my father's feelings. The very sight of you would rouse him into
frenzy; there is no name which might fall upon his ear with
deeper offence than yours. Not yet, Arthur, the time has not yet
come.”

“I have been patient,” said Butler, “patient, Mildred, for your
sake.”

“To try him now,” continued Mildred, whose feelings still ran,
with a heady impetuosity, upon this newly-awakened and engrossing
topic; “now, in the very depth of his bitterest aversion to what he
terms an impious rebellion, and whilst his heart is yet moved with
an almost preternatural hate against all who uphold the cause, and
to you, especially, above whose head there hovers, in his belief,
some horrid impending curse that shall bring desolation upon him
and all who claim an interest in his blood—no, no, it must not be!”

“Another year of pent-up vexation, self-reproach and anxious
concealment must then glide by, and perhaps another,” said Butler.
“Well, I must be content to bear it, though, in the mean time, my
heart bleeds for you, Mildred; it is a painful trial.”

“For good or for evil our vow is now registered in heaven,”
replied Mildred, “and we must abide the end.”

“I would not have it other than it is, dearest girl, except this
stern resolve of your father—not for the world's wealth,” said
Butler warmly. “But you spoke of this Tyrrel—what manner of
man is he? How might I know him?”

“To know him would answer no good end, Arthur. His soul is
absorbed in stratagem, and my dear father is its prey. I too am
grievously tormented by him; but it is no matter, I need not vex
your ear with the tale of his annoyance.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Butler with a sudden expression of resentment.

“All that concerns my father, concerns me,” said Mildred. “It
is my evil destiny, Arthur, to be compelled to endure the associations
of men, whose principles, habits, purposes, are all at war with
my own. Alas, such are now my father's constant companions!

[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]

This man Tyrrel, whose very name is a cheat put on, I doubt not,
to conceal him from observation—goes farther than the rest in the
boldness of his practice. I have some misgiving that he is better
acquainted with the interest you take in me, than we might suspect
possible to a stranger. I fear him. And then, Arthur, it is my
peculiar misery that he has lately set up a disgusting pretension to
my regard. Oh! I could give him, if my sex had strength to
strike, the dagger, sooner than squander upon him one kind word.
Yet am I obliged by circumstance to observe a strained courtesy
towards him, which, frugal as it is, makes me an unwilling hypocrite
to my own heart.”

“Tyrrel,” ejaculated Butler, “Tyrrel! I have heard no such name
abroad!” then, muttering a deep curse, as he bit his lip with
passion, he added, “Oh, that I could face this man, or penetrate his
foul purpose! How is it likely I might meet him?”

“You shall have no temptation to a quarrel,” said Mildred;
“your quick resentment would but give activity to his venom.
For the sake of my peace, Arthur, and of your own, inquire no
further. Time may disclose more than rash pursuit.”

“Leave that to sister Mildred and myself, major,” said Henry,
who listened with great interest to this conversation, “I have my
eye upon him—let that satisfy you; and when sister Mildred puts
up the game, depend upon it, I will bring him down.”

“Thanks, thanks, dear Henry! I can trust you for a ready friend,
and will even follow your good advice. A more favorable season
for this concern may soon arrive; meantime, I will bear this hint in
mind.”

Again Henry made an appeal to the lovers to bring their conference
to an end. It was a sorrowful moment, the events of which
were brief, earnest and impassioned, and such as a dull scribbler,
like myself, might easily mar in the telling; yet they were such as
zealous and eager natures, who have loved with an intense and
absorbing love, and who have parted in times of awful danger and
uncertainty, may perchance be able to picture to themselves, when
they recall the most impressive incident of their lives to memory. I
will only say, that, in that dark shade where the beech tree spread
his canopy of leaves over the cool bank, and marked his shadow's
profile on the green sward—that grassy sward, on which “the

[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]

constant moon” lit up the dewy lamps, hung by the spider on
blade and leaf; and in that silent time, when the distant water-fall
came far-sounding on the ear, when sleepless insects chirped in the
thicket, and dogs, at some remote homestead, howled bugle-like to
the moon; and in that chill hour, when Mildred drew her kerchief
close around her dew-besprinkled shoulders, whilst Arthur, fondly
and affectionately, half enveloped her in the folds of a military cloak,
as he whispered words of tender parting in her ear, and imprinted a
kiss upon her cheek; and when, moreover, Henry's teeth chattered
like a frozen warder's, then it was, and there, that this enthusiastic
girl again pledged her unalterable devotion to the man of her
waking thoughts and nightly dreams, come weal, come woe, whatever
might betide; and the soldier paid back the pledge with new
ardor and endearment, in the strong language that came unstudied
from the heart, meaning all that he said, and rife with a feeling
beyond the reach of words. And, after “mony a locked and fond
embrace,” full tearfully, and lingeringly, and, in phrase oft repeated,
the two bade “farewell,” and invoked God's blessing each upon the
other, and then, not without looking back, and breathing a fresh
prayer of blessings, they separated on their dreary way, Mildred
retiring, as she had come, on the arm of her brother, and Butler,
springing hurriedly into the skiff and directing its swift passage to
the middle of the stream, where, after a pause to enable him to
discern the last footsteps of his mistress, as her form glided into the
obscure distance, he sighed a low “God bless her,” then resumed
his oar, and sturdily drove his boat against the “opponent bank.”

CHAPTER V. A COMFORTABLE INN, AND A GOOD LANDLADY—THE MISFORTUNES OF HEROES DO NOT ALWAYS DESTROY THE APPETITE.

[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]

As soon as Butler landed from the skiff, he threw his cloak into
the hands of the sergeant; then, with a disturbed haste, sprang
upon his horse, and, commanding Robinson to follow, galloped
along the road down the river as fast as the nature of the ground
and the obscurity of the hour would allow. A brief space brought
them to the spot where the road crossed the stream, immediately in
the vicinity of the widow Dimock's little inn, which might here be
discerned ensconced beneath the cover of the opposite hill. The
low-browed wooden building, quietly stationed some thirty paces off
the road, was so adumbrated in the shelter of a huge willow, that
the journeyer, at such an hour as this, might perchance pass the
spot unconsciously by, were it not for an insulated and somewhat
haggard sign-post that, like a hospitable seeker of strangers, stood
hard by the road side, and there displayed a shattered emblem in
the guise of a large blue ball, a little decayed by wind and weather,
which said Blue Ball, without superscription or device, was universally
interpreted to mean “entertainment for man and horse, by the
widow Dimock.” The moonlight fell with a broad lustre upon the
sign post and its pendent globe; and our travellers, besides, could
descry, through the drapery of the willow, a window, of some rear
building of the inn, richly illuminated by what, from the redness of
the light, might be conjectured to be a bundle of blazing faggots.

As the horses had, immediately upon entering the ford, compelled
their masters to a halt, whilst they thrust their noses into the water
and drank with the greediness of a long and neglected thirst, it was
with no equivocal self-gratulation that Robinson directed his eye to
the presignifications of good cheer which were now before him.

[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]

Butler had spoken “never a word,” and the sergeant's habits of
subordination, as well as an honest sympathy in what he guessed
to be the griefs of his superior officer, had constrained him to a
respectful silence. The sergeant, however, was full of thoughts
which, more than once during the gallop from the Fawn's Tower,
he was on the point of uttering by way of consolation to Butler, and
which nothing prevented but that real delicacy of mind that lies at
the bottom of a kind nature, and inhabits the shaggy breast of the
rustic, at least full as often as it lodges in the heart of the trim
worldling. The present halt seemed, in Horse Shoe's reckoning,
not only to furnish a pretext to speak, but, in some degree, to render
it a duty; and, in truth, an additional very stimulating subject
presented itself to our good squire, in his instantaneous conviction
that the glare from the tavern window had its origin in some active
operation which, at this late hour, might be going on at the kitchen
chimney; to understand the full pungency of which consideration,
it is necessary to inform my reader, that Robinson had, for some
time past, been yielding himself to certain doubts, whether his
friend and himself might not arrive at the inn at too late an hour
to hope for much despatch in the preparation for supper. In this
state of feeling, partly bent to cheer the spirits of Butler, and partly
to express his satisfaction at the prospect of his own comfort, he
broke forth in the following terms—

“God bless all widows that set themselves down by the roadside,
is my worst wish! and, in particular, I pray for good luck to the
widow Dimock, for an orderly sort of body, which I have no doubt
she is; and keeps good hours—to judge by the shine of the kitchen
fire which is blazing yonder in the rear—and which, to tell truth,
major, I began to be afeard would be as dead, by this time o' night,
as the day the hearth-stone was first laid. She desarves to be
spoken of as a praiseworthy woman. And, moreover, I should say
she has popped her house down in a most legible situation, touching
our day's march, by which I mean it isn't one step too near a reasonable
bed hour. I count it lucky, major, on your account; and
although it isn't for me to give advice in woman affairs—for I know
the creatures do try the grit and edge of a man amazingly sometimes—
yet, if I mought say what was running in my head fit for a
gentleman and an officer like you to do in such a tribulation, it

[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]

would be this: drop thinking and chawing over your troubles, and
take them with a light heart, as things that's not to be mended by
a solemncolly long-facedness. A good victual's meal and a fair
night's rest would make another man of you. That's my observation;
and I remember once to hear you say the same yourself, upon
occasion of your losing the baggage wagons last fall on the Beaufort
convoy. You ha'n't forgot it, major?”

“Thank you, thank you, sergeant. Your counsel is kindly offered
and wisely said, and I will follow it. But it is a little hard, fellow
soldier,” added Butler, with something like an approach to jocularity,
“it's a little hard to have one's misfortunes cast in his teeth
by a comrade.”

“I thought it would make you laugh, major!” replied Robinson,
with a good-natured solicitude, “for it wan't in the possibilities of a
mortal earthly man to save the baggage; and, I remember, you
laughed then, as well as the rest of us, when them pestifarious,
filching sheep stealers made off with our dinners: nobody ever
blamed you for it.”

“Ah, Galbraith, you are a good friend, and you shall say what
you please to me,” said Butler, with a returning cheerfulness;
“sorrow is a dull companion to him who feeds it, and an impertinent
one to everybody beside. So, ride forward, and we will endeavor
to console ourselves with the good cheer of the widow. And,
hark, Galbraith, this Mistress Dimock is an especial friend of mine:
pray you, let her see, by your considerateness towards her, that you
are aware of that—for my sake, good Horse Shoe.”

The two soldiers soon reached the inn, and, having dismounted,
Butler aroused the attention of the inmates by a few strokes upon
the door with his riding rod.

The reply to this summons was a shrill invitation, in a feminine
voice, to “walk in;” and no sooner had Butler thrown open
the door and advanced a few paces into the passage, than the
head of an elderly female was seen thrust through the partially
expanded doorway of the adjoining room. Another instant, and
the dusky figure of Mistress Dimock herself was visible to our
travellers.

“What would you be pleased to have, sir?” inquired the dame,
with evident distrust at this untimely approach of strangers.

[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

“Accommodation for the night, and whatever you have good to
offer a friend, Mistress Dimock.”

“Who are you that ride so late?” again interrogated the hostess;
“I am cowardly, sir, and cautious, and have reason to be careful who
comes into my house; a poor unprotected woman, good man.”

“A light, mother,” said Butler, “and you shall know us better.
We are travellers and want food and rest, and would have both with
as little trouble to you as possible; a light will show you an old
friend.”

“Wait a moment,” returned the dame; and then added, as she
observed Butler walk into a room on the left, “Take care, sir, it is
risking a fall to grope in the dark in a strange house.”

“The house is not so strange to me as you suppose. Unless you
have moved your furniture I can find the green settee beyond the
cupboard,” said Butler, familiarly striding across the room, and
throwing himself into the old commodity he had named.

The landlady, without heeding this evidence of the conversancy
of her visitor with the localities of the little parlor, had hastily
retreated, and, in a moment afterwards, returned with a light, which,
as she held it above her head, while she peered through a pair of
spectacles, threw its full effulgence upon the face of her
guest.

“Dear me, good lack!” she exclaimed, after a moment's gazing;
“Arthur Butler, o' my conscience! And is it you, Mr. Butler?”
Then, putting the candle upon the table, she seized both of his hands
and gave them a long and hearty shake. “That Nancy Dimock
shouldn't know your voice, of all others! Where have you been,
and where are you going? Mercy on me! what makes you so late?
And why didn't you let me know you were coming? I could have
made you so much more comfortable. You are chilled with the
night air; and hungry, no doubt. And you look pale, poor fellow!
You surely couldn't have been at the Dove Cote?” which last interrogatory
was expressed with a look of earnest and anxious inquiry.

“No, not there,” replied Butler, almost in a whisper; “alas, my
kind dame, not there,” he added, with a melancholy smile, as he
held the hand of the hostess and shook his head; “my fortune has
in no jot improved since I left you almost a year ago. I broke from
you hastily then to resume my share in the war, and I have had

[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]

nothing but hard blows ever since. The tide, Mistress Dimock, sets
sadly against us.”

“Never let your heart fail you,” exclaimed the landlady; “it
isn't in the nature of things for the luck to be for ever on the shady
side. Besides, take the good and bad together, you have not been
so hardly dealt by, Captain Butler.”

“Major Butler, madam, of the second Carolina continental reg'lar
infantry,” interrupted Robinson, who had stood by all this time
unnoticed, “Major Butler; the captain has been promoted, by
occasion of the wiping out of a few friends from the upper side of
the adjutant's roll, in the scrimmage of Fort Moultrie. He is what
we call, in common parley, brevetted.”

This annunciation was made by the sergeant with due solemnity,
accompanied by an attempt at a bow, which was abundantly stiff
and ungraceful.

“My friend Sergeant Robinson,” said Butler; “I commend him,
Mistress Dimock, to your especial favor, both for a trusty comrade,
and a most satisfactory and sufficient trencher man.”

“You are welcome and free to the best that's in the house,
sergeant,” said the landlady, courtesying; “and I wish, for your
sake, it was as good as your appetite, which ought to be of the best.
Mr. Arthur Butler's word is all in all under this roof; and, whether
he be captain or major, I promise you, makes no difference with me.
Bless me! when I first saw you, major, you was only an ensign;
then, whisk and away! and back you come a pretty lieutenant,
about my house: and then a captain, forsooth! and now, on the
track of that, a major. It is up-up-up-the ladder, till you will come,
one of these days, to be a general; and too proud, I misdoubt, to look
at such a little old woman as me! hegh, hegh, hegh! a pinch of
snuff, Mr. Arthur.” And here the good dame prolonged her
phthisicky laugh for some moments, as she presented a box of Scotch
snuff to her guest. “But I'll engage promotion never yet made
the appetite of a travelling man smaller than before; so, gentlemen,
you will excuse me while I look after your supper.”

“The sooner the better, ma'am,” said Robinson; “your night air
is a sort of a whetstone to the stomach: but first, ma'am, I would
be obligated to you, if you would let me see the ostler.”

“Hut, tut! and have I been drivelling here all this time,”

[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

exclaimed the dame, “without once spending a thought upon your
cattle! Tony, Tony, To-ny, I say,” almost shrieked the hostess, as
she retreated along the passage towards the region of the kitchen,
and then back again to the front door. “Are you asleep? Look
to the gentlemen's horses; lead them to the stable, and don't spare
to rub them down; and give them as much as they can eat.
Where are you, old man?”

“What's the use of all this fuss, Missus Dimck? Arn't I here on
the spot, with the cretur's in my hand?” grumbled out an old, stunted
negro, who answered to the appellation of ostler: “Arn't I getting
the baggage off, as fast as I can onbuckle the straps?—I don't want
nobody to tell me when I ought to step out. If a hos could talk,
he ain't got nothing new to say to me. Get out, you varmints,” he
shouted, with a sudden vivacity of utterance, at three or four dogs
that were barking around him: “Consarn you! What you making
such a conbobberation about? You all throat when you see gentmen
coming to the house; better wait tell you see a thief; bound,
you silent enough then, with your tail twixt your legs! Blossom,
ya sacy slut, keep quiet, I tell you!”

In the course of this din and objurgation, the old negro succeeded
in disburdening the horses of their furniture, and was about to lead
them to the stable, when Robinson came to give him some directions.

“Mind what you are after with them there cattle. Give them
not a mouthful for a good hour, and plenty of fodder about their
feet; I'll look at them myself before you shut up. Throw a handful
of salt into the trough, Tony, and above all things, don't let me catch
you splashing water over their backs; none of that; do you
hear?”

“Haw, haw, haw!” chuckled Tony; “think I don't know how to
take care of a hos, mass! Been too use to creturs, ever sense so
high. Bless the gentman! one of the best things on arth, when
you're feared your hos is too much blowed, is to put a sprinkling of
salt in a bucket o'water, and just stir a leetle Indian meal in with it;
it sort of freshes the cretur up like, and is onaccountable good in
hot weather, when you ain't got no time to feed. But cold water
across the lines! oh, oh, I too cute in hos larning for that! Look
at the top of my head—gray as a fox!”

“Skip then, or I'll open upon you like a pack of hounds,” said

[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]

Robinson, as he turned on his heel to re-enter the house, “I'll
look in after supper.”

“Never mind me,” replied Tony, as he led the horses off, “I have
tended Captain Butler's hos afore this, and he wan't never onsatisfied
with me.”

These cares being disposed of, Horse Shoe returned to the parlor.
The tidy display of some plain furniture, and the scrupulous
attention to cleanliness in every part of the room, afforded an intelligent
commentary upon the exact, orderly and decent character of
the Widow Dimock. The dame herself was a pattern of useful thrift.
Her short figure, as she now bustled to and fro, through the apartment,
was arrayed in that respectable, motherly costume which
befitted her years; and which was proper to the period of my story,
when the luxury of dress was more expensive than at present, and
when a correspondent degree of care was used to preserve it in repair.
Evidences of this laudable economy were seen in the neatness with
which a ruffle was darned, or a weak point fortified by a nicely
adjusted patch, presenting, in some respect, a token both of the
commendable pride of the wearer, and of the straitness of the
national means, since the prevalence of war for five years had not
only reduced the wealth of individuals and rendered frugality indispensable,
but had, also, literally deprived the country of its necessary
supply of commodities; thus putting the opulent and the needy,
to a certain extent, upon the same footing. On the present occasion,
our good landlady was arrayed in a gown of sober-colored chintz, gathered
into plaits in the skirt, whilst the body fitted closely over a pair
of long-waisted stays, having tight sleeves that reached to the elbow.
The stature of the dame was increased a full inch by a pair of highheeled,
parti-colored shoes, remarkable for their sharp toes; and a
frilled muslin cap, with lappets that reached under the chin, towered
sufficiently high to contribute, also, something considerable to the
elevation of the tripping little figure of its wearer.

In such guise did Mistress Dimock appear, as she busied herself in
preparing needful refreshment for the travellers; and for some time
the house exhibited all that stir which belongs to this important care
when despatched in a retired country inn.

By degrees, the table began to show the bounfies of the kitchen.
A savory dish of fried bacon, the fumes of which had been, for a

[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]

quarter of an hour, gently stimulating the appetite of the guests,
now made its appearance, in company with a pair of broiled pullets;
and these were followed by a detachment of brown-crested hoecakes—
the peculiar favorite of the province; an abundance of rich
milk, eggs, butter, and other rural knicknackeries, such as no hungry
man ever surveys with indifference. These were successively deposited
upon a homespun table cloth, whose whiteness rivalled the new
snow, with an accuracy of adjustment that, by its delay, produced
the most visible effects upon the sergeant, who, during the spreading
of the board, sat silently by, watching, with an eager and gloating
earnestness, the slow process, ever and anon uttering a short hem,
and turning about restlessly on his chair.

I may pause here, after the fashion of our worthy friend Horse
Shoe, to make an observation. There is nothing that works so
kindly upon the imagination of a traveller, if he be in any doubt as
to his appetite, as the display of such a table. My particularity of
detail, on the present occasion, will, therefore, be excused by my
reader, when I inform him that Butler had arrived at the inn in that
depressed tone of spirits which seemed to defy refreshment; and
that, notwithstanding this impediment, he played no insignificant
part afterwards at supper; a circumstance mainly attributable to that
gentle but irresistible solicitation, which the actual sight and fragrance
of the board addressed to his dormant physical susceptibility.
I might, indeed, have pretermitted the supper altogether, were there
not a philosophical truth at the bottom of the matter, worthy of the
notice of the speculative and curious reader; namely, that where a
man's heart is a little teased with love, and his temper fretted by
crossings, and his body jolted by travel; especially, when he has
been wandering through the night air, with owls hooting in his ears;
and a thin drapery of melancholy has been flung, like cobwebs, across
his spirits, then it is my doctrine, that a clean table, a good-humored
landlady and an odorous steaming-up of good things, in a snug,
cheerful little parlor, are certain to beget in him a complete change
of mood, and to give him, instead, a happy train of thoughts and a
hearty relish for his food. Such was precisely Butler's condition.

He and the sergeant now sat down at the table, and each drew
the attention of the other by the unexpected vigor of their assaults
upon the dainties before them; Robinson surprised to find the major

[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]

so suddenly revived, and Butler no less unprepared to see a man,
who had achieved such wonders at dinner, now successively demolish
what might be deemed a stout allowance for a well fed lion.

“It almost seems to go against the credit of my house,” said the
hostess, “to set gentlefolks down at my table without a cup of tea;
but so it is; we must get used to be stripped of all the old-fashioned
comforts. It is almost treason for an honest woman to have such an
article in her house now, even if it could be fairly come by. Still,
I'll engage I am tory enough yet to like the smell of hyson. They
have no mercy upon us old women, major; they should have a care,
or they will drive us into the arms of the enemy.”

“Faith then, ma'am,” interrupted Horse Shoe bluntly, as he threw
his eye over his shoulder at the landlady, who had broken into a
laugh at her own sally of humor, “it would be no wonder if you
were soon driven back again.”

“Shame on you, Mr. Sergeant Robinson,” retorted the dame,
laughing again, “I didn't expect to hear such a speech from you;
that's a very sorry compliment to a poor country woman. If the
men on our side think so little of us as you do, it would be no
wonder if we all desert to King George: but Major Arthur Butler, I
am sure, will tell you that we old bodies can sometimes make ourselves
very useful—gainsay it who will.”

“You seem to be rather hard, Galbraith,” said Butler, “on my
good friend Mistress Dimock. I am sure, madam, the sergeant has
only been unlucky in making himself understood; for I know him
to be a man of gallantry to your sex, and to cherish an especial liking
for the female friends of our cause, amongst whom, Mistress Dimock,
I can certify he is prepared to set a high value upon yourself. The
sergeant was only endeavoring to provoke your good humor. Try
this honey, Galbraith; Mistress Dimock is famous for her beehives;
and perhaps it will give a sweeter edge to your tongue.”

“I spoke, major,” replied Robinson, awkwardly endeavoring to
extricate himself under this joint rebuke, and, at the same time,
plunging a spoon into the dish to which Butler had invited his
notice, “consarning the difficulty of having ladies—whether old or
young makes no difference, it wan't respecting the age of Mistress
Dimock, nor her beauty, by no means, that I said what I did say;
but it was consarning of the difficulty of having the women with

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them in their marches and their counter-marches. What could such
tender creatures have done at such a place as the sieging of Charlestown?
Certain, this is most elegant honey!” he added, by way of
parenthesis, as he devoured a large slice of bread, well covered with
a fragment of honeycomb, as if anxious to gain time to collect his
ideas; for, with all Horse Shoe's bluntness, he was essentially a diffident
man. “It is my opinion, ma'am, the best thing the women
can do, in these here wars, is to knit; and leave the fighting of it
out, to us who hav'n't faces to be spoiled by bad weather and tough
times.”

“I don't want to have art nor part in these quarrels,” replied the
widow. “The saints above are witnesses, I think it unnatural enough
to see a peaceable country, and a quiet honest people, vexed and
harried, and run down with all this trooping of horses, and parading
of armies, and clattering of drums, amongst the hills that never
heard any thing worse than the lowing of a heifer before. But still,
I wish well to liberty; and if it must be fought for, why, I am even
content to take my share of the suffering, in my own lonesome way;
and they that bear the heat of the day, and their friends, shall
always be served in my house with the best that's in it, and at the
most reasonable rates. Even if they come without money, I am not
the woman to turn them off with an empty stomach; I mean them
of the right side.”

“Well, that's as sensible a speech, Mistress Dimock,” said Horse
Shoe, quickly seizing the occasion to make amends to the landlady
for his former bluntness, “and as much to the purpose, and spoken
with as much wisdom and circumscription, as mought come out of
the mouth of e'er a lady in the land—high born or low born—I don't
care where the other comes from. And it does a man's heart good
to hear the womankind holding out such presentments. It's encouraging
on the face of it.”

During this conversation the supper was finished, and Mrs. Dimock
had now seated herself, with her elbows upon the table, so
placed as to allow her to prop her chin upon her hands, in which
position she fell into an earnest but quiet, under-toned confabulation
with Butler, who partook of it with the more interest, as it related to
the concerns of the family at the Dove Cote.

“Mr. Lindsay, poor man,” said the dame, in the course of this

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conference, “is wofully beset. It almost looks as if he was haunted
by an evil spirit, sure enough, which folks used to say of him after
his wife's death—and which, to tell you the truth, our young lady
Mildred has sometimes more than half hinted to me; he is so run
at, and perplexed, and misguided by strangers that can have no
good intention in coming to see him. There is Mr. Tyrrel, over at
the Dove Cote at this very time, on his third visit, major, in less
now than two months past; yes, let me see, he brought the news
here of the recapitulation—I think you military call it—though,
heaven knows, I have but a poor head for these bloodthirsty words—
I mean the taking of Charleston; three times has he been here,
counting from that day. Where he comes from, and who are his
kith and kin, I am sure I don't know.”

“Tyrrel, ha! yes, I have heard of him to-night, for the first
time,” said Butler.

“He must be a rich man,” continued the hostess, “for he travels
with two white servants, and always pays his way in gold. One of
his men is now in the house; and, between you and me, major, this
man is a very inquisitive sort of person, and would hardly be taken
for a serving man; and he is a cautious fellow too, although there
is a good deal of swagger and bullying about him, which might
deceive one at first sight.”

“Here, in the house to-night?” inquired Butler.

“Speak low, major, the man is now walking the porch before our
windows.”

“What does Mildred say of this Tyrrel?” asked Butler.

“Has she been here lately?”

“The good lady never stirs from home whilst Tyrrel is at the
Dove Cote; for fear, I believe, that he will follow her, for they do
whisper about in the neighborhood—though I don't say it to alarm
you, Mr. Arthur, that this man is of the high quality, a nobleman,
some say, and that he has come here a-courting. Only think of the
assurance of the man! But if he was a prince, and every hair of
his head strung with diamonds, and Miss Mildred was as free as the
day you first saw her, I can say with safety he would find but cold
comfort in that game; for she despises him, major, both for himself
and for his tory principles. She does hate him with a good will.
No, no, her heart and soul are both where they ought to be, for all

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her father, poor man, and this rich gentleman! Oh, it is a cruel
thing that you and our pretty lady cannot live quietly together; but
Mr. Lindsay is past talking to about it. I declare I think his mind
is touched: I positively believe it would kill him if he know all that
has passed in this house; but he is, in the main, a good man, and a
kind father, and is very much to be pitied. I see you are sad and
sorrowful, Mr. Arthur: I didn't mean to distress you with my prating.
You tell me, you think you may travel as far as Georgie.”

“Even so far, good dame, if some accident should not shorten my
career. These are doubtful times, and my path is as uncertain as
the chances of war. It may be long before I return.

“I grieve night and day, and my heart bleeds for Miss Mildred,
for she is so good, so constant, so brave, too, for a woman,” said the
widow with unaffected emotion. “Well-a-day! what woes these
wars have brought upon us! You told her your plans, Mr. Arthur?”

“Our interview was short and painful,” replied Butler. “I
scarcely know what I said to her. But, one thing I entreat of you:
my letters will be directed to your charge; you will contrive to have
them promptly and secretly delivered: oblige me still in that, good
mother. Henry will often visit you.”

“And a brave and considerate young man he is, major; I'll be
surety for his making of an honorable and a real gentleman. Do
you join the army in Carolina?”

“Perhaps not. My route lies into the mountains, our troops
struggle for a footing in the low country.”

“If I may make bold, Major Butler, to drop a word of advice into
your ear, which, seeing that I'm an older man than you,” interrupted
the sergeant, in an admonitory whisper, “I think I have got
good right to do, why I would just say that there may be no great
disconvenience in talking before friends; but sometimes silence brings
more profit than words. So, I vote that we leave off telling the
course of our march till such time as it is done, and all is safe.
There will be briers enough in our way, without taking the trouble
to sow them by the roadside. The man that stands a little aside
from that window, out on the porch, throws his shadow across the
sill oftener than is honest, according to my reckoning. You said,
ma'am,” continued Horse Shoe, addressing the widow, “that the
fellow in the porch you is Mr. Tyrrel's man.”

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“He walks later than usual to-night,” replied Mrs. Dimock, “for
though he can't be called a man of regular hours, yet, unless he can
find an idler to keep him company, he is accustomed to be in his
bed before this.”

“He is after no good, depend upon that,” said Horse Shoe. “I
have twice seen the light upon his face behind the shutter: so,
true man or spy, it's my admonishment not to speak above the
purring of a cat.”

“You are right, Galbraith,” said Butler. “We have many
reasons to distrust him; and it is at least safest to keep our affairs
private.”

“If I thought he was prying,” continued Galbraith, “which I do
measurably insinuate and believe, I would take the freedom to give
him the benefit of a drilling on good manners. Ha, major! as I
have a hand, he is reconnoitring us now at this identical time!
Didn't you see him pass up and down before the door, and look in
as greedily as if our faces were picture-books for him to read? I
will have a word with him, and, wise or simple, I will get his
calibre before I am done with him. Never let on, major; stay
where you are. I promised to look after our horses.”

The hostess and her guest now continued their communion; in
which we leave them, whilst we follow Horse Shoe towards the
stable.

CHAPTER VI.

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When Horse Shoe left the apartment, he discovered the person,
whose demeanor had excited his suspicion, leaning against a post of
the porch, in front of the house. The moonlight, as it partially fell
upon this man's figure, disclosed a frame of sufficient mould to raise
a surmise, that, in whatever form of communication the sergeant
might accost him, he was not likely to find a very tractable subject
to his hand. Robinson, however, without troubling himself with the
contemplation of such a contingency, determined to delay his visit to
the stable long enough to allow himself the expression of a word of
warning or rebuke, to indicate to the stranger the necessity for
restraining his curiosity in regard to the guests of the inn. With
this view he halted upon the porch, while he scanned the person
before him, and directed an earnest gaze into his face. The stranger,
slightly discomfited by this eager scrutiny, turned his back upon his
visitor, and, with an air of idle musing, threw his eyes towards the
heavens, in which position he remained until summoned by the
familiar accost of Horse Shoe.

“Well! and what do you make of the moon? As sharp an eye
as you have in your head, neighbor, I'm thinking it will do you no
great sarvice there. You're good at your spying trade; but you
will get nothing out of her; she keeps her secrets.”

Startled by this abrupt greeting, which was made in a tone half-way
between jest and earnest, the stranger quickly confronted his
challenger, and bestowed upon him a keen and inquiring inspection;
then breaking into a laugh, he replied with a free and impudent
swagger—

[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]

“You are mistaken, Master Jack Pudding. What says the proverb?
Wit's in the wane when the moon's at full. Now, our
mistress has let me into a secret. She tells me that you will not
lose your wits, when she comes to her growth. The reason why?
first, because she never troubles herself with so small a stock as yours,
and second, because your thick skull is moon-proof; so, you're safe,
friend.”

“A word in your ear,” said Horse Shoe; “you are not safe,
friend, if you are cotched again peeping through the chinks of the
window, or sneaking upon the dark side of the doorway, to pick up
a crumb of talk from people that are not axing your company.
Keep that in your memory.”

“It's a base lie, Mr. Bumpkin, if you mean to insinuate that I
did either.”

“Oh, quiet and easy, good man! No flusterifications here! I
am civil and peaceable. Take my advice, and chaw your cud in
silence, and go to bed at a reasonable hour, without minding what
folks have to say who come to the widow Dimock's. It only run in
my head to give you a polite sort of a warning. So, good night; I
have got business at the stable.”

Before the other could reply, Robinson strode away to look after
the accommodations of the horses.

“The devil take this impertinent ox-driver!” muttered the man
to himself, after the sergeant had left him; “I have half a mind to
take his carcase in hand, just to give it the benefit of a good, wholesome
manipulation. A queer fellow, too—a joker! A civil, peaceable
man!—the hyperbolical rogue! Well, I'll see him out, and,
laugh or fight, he shan't want a man to stand up to him!”

Having by this train of reflection brought himself into a mood
which might be said to hover upon the isthmus between anger and
mirth, ready to fall to either side as the provocation might serve,
the stranger sauntered slowly towards the stable, with a hundred
odd fancies as to the character of the man he sought running
through his mind. Upon his arrival there he found that Horse
Shoe was occupied in the interior of the building, and being still in
a state of uncertainty as to the manner in which it was proper he
should greet our redoubtable friend, he took a seat on a small bench
at the door, resolved to wait for that worthy's reappearance. This

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delay had a soothing effect upon his temper, for as he debated the
subject over in his mind, certain considerations of policy seemed to
indicate to him the necessity of making himself better acquainted
with the business and quality of the individual whom he came to
meet.

After a few moments, Horse Shoe was seen with old Tony at the
stable door, where, notwithstanding the unexpected presence of the
man to whom he had so lately offered his unwelcome advice, and
upon whom he now conferred not the slightest notice, he continued
uninterruptedly, and with deliberate composure, to give his orders
upon what, at that moment, doubtless, he deemed matter of much
graver importance than any concern he might have in the visit of
his new acquaintance.

“Do what I tell you, Tony; get a piece of linen, rub it well over
with tallow, and bring it here along with a cup of vinegar. The
beast's back is cut with the saddle, and you must wash the sore first
with the vinegar, and then lay on the patch. Go, old fellow, and
Mrs. Dimock, may be, can give you a strip of woollen cloth to sarve
as a pad.”

With these instructions the negro retired towards the house.

“I see you understand your business,” said the stranger. “You
look to your horse's back at the end of a day's journey, and you
know how to manage a sore spot. Vinegar is the thing! You
have had a long ride?”

“How do you know that?” inquired Horse Shoe.

“Know it! any man might guess as much by the way you shovelled
down your supper. I happened by chance to pass your window,
and seeing you at it, faith! for the soul of me I couldn't help
taking a few turns more, just to watch the end of it. Ha! ha! ha!
give me the fellow that does honor to his stomach! And your dolt
head must be taking offence at my looking at you! Why, man,
your appetite was a most beautiful rarity; I wouldn't have lost the
sport of it for the pleasure of the best supper I ever ate myself.”

“Indeed!” said Robinson, drily.

“Pease upon the trencher!” exclaimed the other, with the air of
a pot companion; “that's the true music for good fellows of your
kidney! But it isn't every where that you will find such bountiful
quarters as you get here at the Blue Ball; in that cursed southern

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country a man like you would breed a famine, if you even do not
find one ready made to your hand when you get there.”

“Where mought you be from?” asked the sergeant, with great
gravity, without responding to the merriment of his visitor, and
purposely refraining from the answer which he saw it was the
other's drift to obtain relative to the course of his travel.

“It was natural enough that you should have mistaken my
object,” continued the stranger, heedless of Horse Shoe's abrupt
question, “and have suspected me for wanting to hear some of your
rigmarole; but there you did me wrong. I forgive you for that,
and, to tell you the truth, I hate your —”

“That's not to the purpose,” said Horse Shoe; “I axed you a
civil question, and maybe, that's more than you have a right to.
You can answer it or let it alone. I want to know where mought
you be from?”

“Since you are bent upon it, then,” replied the other, suddenly
changing his tone, and speaking with a saucy emphasis, “I'll
answer your question, when you tell me what mought be your
right to know.”

“It's the custom of our country,” rejoined Horse Shoe, “I don't
know what it may be in yourn, to larn a little about the business
of every man we meet; but we do it by fair, out-and-out question
and answer—all above board, and we hold in despise all sorts of
contwistifications, either by laying of tongue-traps, or listening under
caves of houses.”

“Well, most wise and shrewd master, what do you call my
country? Ha! ha! ha! I would be sworn you think you have
found some mare's nest! If it were not that your clown pate is
somewhat addled by over feeding, I would hold your speech to
be impertinent. My country, I'd have your sagacity to understand—”

“Tut, man, it arn't worth the trouble of talking about it! I
never saw one of your people that I didn't know him by the first
word that came out of his lips. You are an Englishman, and a red
coat into the bargain, as we call them in these parts. You have
been a sodger. Now, never bounce at that, man! There's no great
harm in belonging to that craft. They listed you, as likely as not,
when you was flusticated with liquor, and you took your pay;

[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]

there was a bargain, and it was your business to stand to it. But
I have got a piece of wisdom to whisper to you, insomuch as you
are not in the most agreeablest part of the world to men of your
colors, it would be best to be a little more shy against giving offence.
You said some saucy things to me just now, but I don't grudge
your talking, because you see, I am an onaccountable hard sort of
person to be instigated by speeching.”

“Verily, you are a most comical piece of dulness,” said the other,
in a spirit of raillery. “In what school did you learn your philosophy,
friend? You have been brought up to the wholesome tail of
the plough, I should say—an ancient and reputable occupation.”

“When I obsarved, just now,” replied Robinson, somewhat sternly,
“that I couldn't be instigated, I meant to be comprehended as laying
down a kind of general doctrine that I was a man not given to
quarrels; but still, if I suspicioned a bamboozlement, which I am
not far from at this present speaking, if it but come up to the conflagrating
of only the tenth part of the wink of an eye, in a project to
play me off, fore God, I confess myself to be as weak in the flesh as
e'er a rumbunctious fellow you mought meet on the road.”

“Friend,” said the other, “I do not understand thy lingo. It
has a most clodpolish smack. It is neither grammar, English, nor
sense.”

“Then, you are a damned, onmannerly rascal,” said Horse-Shoe,
“and that's grammar, English, and sense, all three.”

“Ha, you are at that! Now, my lubberly booby, I understand
you,” returned the other, springing to his feet. “Do you know to
whom you are speaking?”

“Better than you think for,” replied the sergeant, placing himself
in an erect position to receive what he had a right to expect, the
threatened assault of his adversary, “I know you, and guess your
arrand here.”

“You do?” returned the other sharply. “You have been juggling
with me, sir. You are not the gudgeon I took you for. It has
suited your purpose to play the clown, eh? Well, sir, and pray,
what do you guess?”

“Nothing good of you, considering how things go here. Suppose
I was to say you was, at this self-same identical time, a sodger of
the king's? I have you there!”

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