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David Ramsay's house was situated on a by-road, between five
and six miles from Musgrove's mill, and at about the distance of
one mile from the principal route of travel between Ninety-six and
Blackstock's. In passing from the military post that had been
established at the former place, towards the latter, Ramsay's lay off
to the left, with a piece of dense wood intervening. The by-way,
leading through the farm, diverged from the main road, and traversed
this wood until it reached the cultivated grounds immediately
around Ramsay's dwelling. In the journey from Musgrove's
mill to this point of divergence, the traveller was obliged to ride
some two or three miles upon the great road leading from the
British garrison, a road that, at the time of my story, was much
frequented by military parties, scouts, and patroles, that were concerned
in keeping up the communication between the several posts
which were established by the British authorities along that frontier.
Amongst the whig parties, also, there were various occasions
which brought them under the necessity of frequent passage
through this same district, and which, therefore, furnished opportunities
for collision and skirmish with the opposite forces.

It is a matter of historical notoriety, that immediately after the
fall of Charleston, and the rapid subjugation of South Carolina
that followed this event, there were three bold and skilful soldiers
who undertook to carry on the war of resistance to the established
authorities, upon a settled and digested plan of annoyance, under
the most discouraging state of destitution, as regarded all the
means of offence, that, perhaps, history records. It will not detract
from the fame of other patriots of similar enthusiasm and of

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equal bravery, to mention the names of Marion, Sumpter, and
Pickens, in connexion with this plan of keeping up an apparently
hopeless partisan warfare, which had the promise neither of men,
money, nor arms,—and yet which was so nobly sustained, amidst
accumulated discomfitures, as to lead eventually to the subversion
of the “Tory ascendency” and the expulsion of the British power.
According to the plan of operations concerted amongst these chieftains,
Marion took the lower country under his supervision;
Pickens the south-western districts, bordering upon the Savannah;
and to Sumpter was allotted all that tract of country lying between
the Broad and the Catawba rivers, from the angle of their
junction, below Camden, up to the mountain districts of North
Carolina. How faithfully these men made good their promise to
the country, is not only written in authentic history, but it is also
told in many a legend amongst the older inhabitants of the region
that was made the theatre of action. It only concerns my story
to refer to the fact, that the events which have occupied my last
five or six chapters, occurred in that range more peculiarly appropriated
to Sumpter, and that the high road from Blackstock's
towards Ninety-six was almost as necessary for communication between
Sumpter and Pickens, as between the several British garrisons.

On the morning that succeeded the night in which Horse Shoe
Robinson arrived at Musgrove's, the stout and honest sergeant
might have been seen, about eight o'clock, leaving the main road
from Ninety-six, at the point where that leading to David Ramsay's
separated from it, and cautiously urging his way into the
deep forest, by the more private path into which he had entered.
The knowledge that Innis was encamped along the Ennoree, within
a short distance of the mill, had compelled him to make an extensive
circuit to reach Ramsay's dwelling, whither he was now bent;
and he had experienced considerable delay in his morning journey,
by finding himself frequently in the neighborhood of small foraging
parties of Tories, whose motions he was obliged to watch for
fear of an encounter. He had once already been compelled to use
his horse's heels in what he called “fair flight;” and once to ensconce
himself, a full half hour, under cover of the thicket afforded
him by a swamp. He now, therefore, according to his own

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phrase, “dived into the little road that scrambled down through
the woods towards Ramsay's, with all his eyes about him, looking
out as sharply as a fox on a foggy morning:” and with this circumspection,
he was not long in arriving within view of Ramsay's
house. Like a practised soldier, whom frequent frays has taught
wisdom, he resolved to reconnoitre before he advanced upon a post
that might be in possession of an enemy. He therefore dismounted,
fastened his horse in a fence corner, where a field of corn concealed
him from notice, and then stealthily crept forward until he
came immediately behind one of the out-houses.

The barking of a house-dog brought out a negro boy, to whom
Robinson instantly addressed the query—

“Is your master at home?”—

“No, sir. He's got his horse, and gone off more than an hour
ago.”

“Where is your mistress?”

“Shelling beans, Sir.”

“I didn't ask you,” said the sergeant, “what she is doing, but
where she is.”

“In course, she is in the house, Sir,”—replied the negro with a
grin.

“Any strangers there?”

“There was plenty on 'em a little while ago, but they've been
gone a good bit.”

Robinson having thus satisfied himself as to the safety of his
visit, directed the boy to take his horse and lead him up to the
door. He then entered the dwelling.

“Mistress Ramsay,” said he, walking up to the dame, who was
occupied at a table, with a large trencher before her, in which she
was plying that household thrift which the negro described; “luck
to you, ma'am, and all your house! I hope you haven't none of
these clinking and clattering bullies about you, that are as thick
over this country as the frogs in the kneading troughs, that they
tell of.”

“Good lack, Mr. Horse Shoe Robinson,” exclaimed the matron,
offering the sergeant her hand. “What has brought you here?
What news? Who are with you? For patience sake, tell me!”

“I am alone,” said Robinson, “and a little wettish, mistress;”

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he added, as he took off his hat and shook the water from it:
“it has just sot up a rain, and looks as if it was going to give us
enough on't. You don't mind doing a little dinner-work of a
Sunday, I see—shelling of beans, I s'pose, is tantamount to dragging
a sheep out of a pond, as the preachers allow on the Sabbath—
ha, ha!—Where's Davy?”

“He's gone over to the meeting-house on Ennoree, hoping to
hear something of the army at Camden: perhaps you can tell us
the news from that quarter?”

“Faith, that's a mistake, Mistress Ramsay. Though I don't
doubt that they are hard upon the scratches, by this time. But,
at this present speaking, I command the flying artillery. We have
but one man in the corps—and that's myself; and all the guns
we have got is this piece of ordnance, that hangs in this old belt
by my side (pointing to his sword)—and that I captured from the
enemy at Blackstock's. I was hoping I mought find John Ramsay
at home—I have need of him as a recruit.”

“Ah, Mr. Robinson, John has a heavy life of it over there with
Sumpter. The boy is often without his natural rest, or a meal's
victuals; and the general thinks so much of him, that he can't
spare him to come home. I hav'n't the heart to complain, as long
as John's service is of any use, but it does seem, Mr. Robinson, like
needless tempting of the mercies of providence. We thought that
he might have been here to-day; yet I am glad he didn't come—
for he would have been certain to get into trouble. Who should
come in, this morning, just after my husband had cleverly got away
on his horse, but a young cock-a-whoop ensign, that belongs to
Ninety-Six, and four great Scotchmen with him, all in red coats;
they had been out thieving, I warrant, and were now going home
again. And who but they! Here they were, swaggering all
about my house—and calling for this—and calling for that—as if
they owned the fee-simple of everything on the plantation. And
it made my blood rise, Mr. Horse Shoe, to see them run out in the
yard, and catch up my chickens and ducks, and kill as many as
they could string about them—and I not daring to say a word:
though I did give them a piece of my mind, too.”

“Who is at home with you?” inquired the sergeant eagerly.

“Nobody but my youngest boy, Andrew,” answered the dame.

[figure description] Page 265.[end figure description]

“And then, the filthy, toping rioters—” she continued, exalting her
voice.

“What arms have you in the house?” asked Robinson, without
heeding the dame's rising anger.

“We have a rifle, and a horseman's pistol that belongs to John.—
They must call for drink, too, and turn my house, of a Sunday
morning, into a tavern.”

“They took the route towards Ninety-Six, you said, Mistress
Ramsay?”

“Yes,—they went straight forward upon the road. But, look
you, Mr. Horse Shoe, you're not thinking of going after them?”

“Isn't there an old field, about a mile from this, on that road?”
inquired the sergeant, still intent upon his own thoughts.

“There is,” replied the dame; “with the old school-house upon
it.”

“A lop-sided, rickety log-cabin in the middle of the field. Am
I right, good woman?”

“Yes.”

“And nobody lives in it? It has no door to it?”

“There ha'n't been anybody in it these seven years.”

“I know the place very well,” said the sergeant, thoughtfully;
“there is woods just on this side of it.”

“That's true,” replied the dame: “but what is it you are thinking
about, Mr. Robinson?”

“How long before this rain began was it that they quitted this
house?”

“Not above fifteen minutes.”

“Mistress Ramsay, bring me the rifle and pistol both—and the
powder-horn and bullets.”

“As you say, Mr. Horse Shoe,” answered the dame, as she turned
round to leave the room; “but I am sure I can't suspicion what
you mean to do.”

In a few moments the woman returned with the weapons, and
gave them to the sergeant.

“Where is Andy?” asked Horse Shoe.

The hostess went to the door and called her son, and, almost immediately
afterwards, a sturdy boy of about twelve or fourteen
years of age entered the apartment, his clothes dripping with rain.

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He modestly and shyly seated himself on a chair near the door,
with his soaked hat flapping down over a face full of freckles, and
not less rife with the expression of an open, dauntless hardihood of
character.

“How would you like a scrummage, Andy, with them Scotchmen
that stole your mother's chickens this morning?” asked Horse
Shoe.

“I'm agreed,” replied the boy, “if you will tell me what to do.”

“You are not going to take the boy out on any of your desperate
projects, Mr. Horse Shoe?” said the mother, with the tears
starting instantly into her eyes. “You wouldn't take such a child
as that into danger?”

“Bless your soul, Mrs. Ramsay, there ar'n't no danger about it!
Don't take on so. It's a thing that is either done at a blow, or not
done,—and there's an end of it. I want the lad only to bring
home the prisoners for me, after I have took them.”

“Ah, Mr. Robinson, I have one son already in these wars—God
protect him!—and you men don't know how a mother's heart
yearns for her children in these times. I cannot give another,” she
added, as she threw her arms over the shoulders of the youth and
drew him to her bosom.

“Oh! it aint nothing,” said Andrew, in a sprightly tone. “It's
only snapping of a pistol, mother,—pooh! If I'm not afraid, you
oughtn't to be.”

“I give you my honor, Mistress Ramsay,” said Robinson, “that
I will bring or send your son safe back in one hour; and that he
sha'n't be put in any sort of danger whatsomedever: come, that's a
good woman!”

“You are not deceiving me, Mr. Robinson?” asked the matron,
wiping away a tear. “You wouldn't mock the sufferings of a
weak woman in such a thing as this?”

“On the honesty of a sodger, ma'am,” replied Horse Shoe, “the
lad shall be in no danger, as I said before—whatsomedever.”

“Then I will say no more,” answered the mother. “But Andy,
my child, be sure to let Mr. Robinson keep before you.”

Horse Shoe now loaded the fire-arms, and having slung the
pouch across his body, he put the pistol into the hands of the boy;
then shouldering his rifle, he and his young ally left the room.

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Even on this occasion, serious as it might be deemed, the sergeant
did not depart without giving some manifestation of that light-heartedness
which no difficulties ever seemed to have the power
to conquer. He thrust his head back into the room, after he had
crossed the threshold, and said with an encouraging laugh, “Andy
and me will teach them, Mistress Ramsay, Pat's point of war—we
will surround the ragamuffins.”

“Now, Andy, my lad,” said Horse Shoe, after he had mounted
Captain Peter, “you must get up behind me. Turn the lock of
your pistol down,” he continued, as the boy sprang upon the horse's
rump, “and cover it with the flap of your jacket, to keep the rain
off. It won't do to hang fire at such a time as this.”

The lad did as he was directed, and Horse Shoe, having secured
his rifle in the same way, put his horse up to a gallop, and took the
road in the direction that had been pursued by the soldiers.

As soon as our adventurers had gained a wood, at the distance
of about half a mile, the sergeant relaxed his speed, and advanced
at a pace a little above a walk.

“Andy,” he said, “we have got rather a ticklish sort of a job
before us, so I must give you your lesson, which you will understand
better by knowing something of my plan. As soon as your
mother told me that these thieving villains had left her house
about fifteen minutes before the rain came on, and that they had
gone along upon this road, I remembered the old field up here, and
the little log hut in the middle of it; and it was natural to suppose
that they had just got about near that hut, when this rain
came up; and then, it was the most supposable case in the world,
that they would naturally go into it, as the driest place they could
find. So now, you see, it's my calculation that the whole batch is
there at this very point of time. We will go slowly along, until we
get to the other end of this wood, in sight of the old field, and
then, if there is no one on the look-out, we will open our first
trench; you know what that means, Andy?”

“It means, I s'pose, that we'll go right smack at them,” replied
Andrew.

“Pretty exactly,” said the sergeant. “But listen to me. Just
at the edge of the woods you will have to get down, and put yourself
behind a tree. I'll ride forward, as if I had a whole troop at

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my heels, and if I catch them, as I expect, they will have a little
fire kindled, and, as likely as not, they'll be cooking some of your
mother's fowls.”

“Yes, I understand,” said the boy eagerly—

“No, you don't,” replied Horse Shoe, “but you will when you
hear what I am going to say. If I get at them onawares, they'll
be mighty apt to think they are surrounded, and will bellow, like
fine fellows, for quarter. And, thereupon, Andy, I'll cry out
`stand fast,' as if I was speaking to my own men, and when you
hear that, you must come up full tilt, because it will be a signal to
you that the enemy has surrendered. Then it will be your business
to run into the house and bring out the muskets, as quick as a rat
runs through a kitchen: and when you have done that, why, all's
done. But if you should hear any popping of fire-arms—that is,
more than one shot, which I may chance to let off—do you take
that for a bad sign, and get away as fast as you can heel it. You
comprehend.”

“Oh! yes,” replied the lad, “and I'll do what you want, and more
too, may be, Mr. Robinson.”

“Captain Robinson,—remember, Andy, you must call me captain,
in the hearing of these Scotsmen.”

“I'll not forget that neither,” answered Andrew.

By the time that these instructions were fully impressed upon
the boy, our adventurous forlorn hope, as it may fitly be called,
had arrived at the place which Horse Shoe Robinson had designated
for the commencement of active operations. They had a
clear view of the old field, and it afforded them a strong assurance
that the enemy was exactly where they wished him to be, when
they discovered smoke arising from the chimney of the hovel.
Andrew was soon posted behind a tree, and Robinson only tarried
a moment to make the boy repeat the signals agreed on, in order
to ascertain that he had them correctly in his memory. Being
satisfied from this experiment that the intelligence of his young
companion might be depended upon, he galloped across the intervening
space, and, in a few seconds, abruptly reined up his steed,
in the very doorway of the hut. The party within was gathered
around a fire at the further end, and, in the corner near the door,
were four muskets thrown together against the wall. To spring

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from his saddle and thrust himself one pace inside of the door, was
a movement which the sergeant executed in an instant, shouting at
the same time—

“Halt! File off right and left to both sides of the house, and
wait orders. I demand the surrender of all here,” he said, as he
planted himself between the party and their weapons. “I will
shoot down the first man who budges a foot.”

“Leap to your arms,” cried the young officer who commanded
the little party inside of the house. “Why do you stand?”

“I don't want to do you or your men any harm, young man,”
said Robinson, as he brought his rifle to a level, “but, by my
father's son, I will not leave one of you to be put upon a muster-roll
if you raise a hand at this moment.”

Both parties now stood, for a brief space, eyeing each other in
a fearful suspense, during which there was an expression of doubt
and irresolution visible on the countenances of the soldiers, as
they surveyed the broad proportions, and met the stern glance of
the sergeant, whilst the delay, also, began to raise an apprehension
in the mind of Robinson that his stratagem would be discovered.

“Shall I let loose upon them, captain?” said Andrew Ramsay,
now appearing, most unexpectedly to Robinson, at the door of the
hut. “Come on, boys!” he shouted, as he turned his face towards
the field.

“Keep them outside of the door—stand fast,” cried the doughty
sergeant, with admirable promptitude, in the new and sudden posture
of his affairs caused by this opportune appearance of the
boy. “Sir, you see that it's not worth while fighting five to one;
and I should be sorry to be the death of any of your brave fellows;
so, take my advice, and surrender to the Continental Congress
and this scrap of its army which I command.”

During this appeal the sergeant was ably seconded by the lad
outside, who was calling out first on one name, and then on another,
as if in the presence of a troop. The device succeeded, and
the officer within, believing the forbearance of Robinson to be
real, at length said:—

“Lower your rifle, sir. In the presence of a superior force, taken
by surprise, and without arms, it is my duty to save bloodshed.

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With the promise of fair usage, and the rights of prisoners of war,
I surrender this little foraging party under my command.”

“I'll make the terms agreeable,” replied the sergeant. “Never
doubt me, sir. Right hand file, advance, and receive the arms of
the prisoners!”

“I'm here, captain,” said Andrew, in a conceited tone, as if it
were a mere occasion of merriment; and the lad quickly entered the
house and secured the weapons, retreating with them some paces
from the door.

“Now, sir,” said Horse Shoe to the Ensign, “your sword, and
whatever else you mought have about you of the ammunitions of
war!”

The officer delivered up his sword and a pair of pocket pistols.

As Horse Shoe received these tokens of victory, he asked, with a
lambent smile, and what he intended to be an elegant and condescending
composure, “Your name, sir, if I mought take the freedom?”

“Ensign St. Jermyn, of his Majesty's seventy-first regiment of
light infantry.”

“Ensign, your sarvent,” added Horse Shoe, still preserving this
unusual exhibition of politeness. “You have defended your post
like an old sodger, although you ha'n't much beard on your chin;
but, seeing you have given up, you shall be treated like a man
who has done his duty. You will walk out, now, and form yourselves
in line at the door. I'll engage my men shall do you no
harm; they are of a marciful breed.”

When the little squad of prisoners submitted to this command,
and came to the door, they were stricken with equal astonishment
and mortification to find, in place of the detachment of cavalry
which they expected to see, nothing but a man, a boy, and a horse.
Their first emotions were expressed in curses, which were even succeeded
by laughter from one or two of the number. There seemed
to be a disposition on the part of some to resist the authority that
now controlled them; and sundry glances were exchanged, which
indicated a purpose to turn upon their captors. The sergeant no
sooner perceived this, than he halted, raised his rifle to his breast,
and, at the same instant, gave Andrew Ramsay an order to retire
a few paces, and to fire one of the captured pieces at the first man
who opened his lips.

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“By my hand,” he said, “if I find any trouble in taking you,
all five, safe away from this here house, I will thin your numbers
with your own muskets! And that's as good as if I had sworn
to it.”

“You have my word, sir,” said the Ensign. “Lead on.”

“By your leave, my pretty gentleman, you will lead, and I'll
follow,” replied Horse Shoe. “It may be a new piece of drill to
you; but the custom is to give the prisoners the post of honor.”

“As you please, sir,” answered the Ensign. “Where do you take
us to?”

“You will march back by the road you came,” said the sergeant.

Finding the conqueror determined to execute summary martial
law upon the first who should mutiny, the prisoners submitted, and
marched in double file from the hut back towards Ramsay's—
Horse Shoe, with Captain Peter's bridle dangling over his arm,
and his gallant young auxiliary Andrew, laden with double the
burden of Robinson Crusoe (having all the fire-arms packed upon
his shoulders), bringing up the rear. In this order victors and
vanquished returned to David Ramsay's.

“Well, I have brought you your ducks and chickens back, mistress,”
said the sergeant, as he halted the prisoners at the door;
“and, what's more, I have brought home a young sodger that's
worth his weight in gold.”

“Heaven bless my child! my brave boy!” cried the mother,
seizing the lad in her arms, and unheeding anything else in the
present perturbation of her feelings. “I feared ill would come of
it; but Heaven has preserved him. Did he behave handsomely,
Mr. Robinson? But I am sure he did.”

“A little more venturesome, ma'am, than I wanted him to be,”
replied Horse Shoe; “but he did excellent service. These are his
prisoners, Mistress Ramsay; I should never have got them if it
hadn't been for Andy. In these drumming and fifing times the
babies suck in quarrel with their mother's milk. Show me another
boy in America that's made more prisoners than there was men to
fight them with, that's all!”

CHAPTER XXIII. SHOWING HOW A GOOD SOLDIER WILL TURN THE ACCIDENTS OF WAR TO THE BEST ACCOUNT. ENSIGN ST. JERMYN IN A DISAGREEABLE DILEMMA.

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Robinson having thus succeeded in his enterprise, now found
himself in circumstances of peculiar perplexity in regard to the
disposal of his prisoners. Here he was, in the neighborhood of
the British posts—in a district of country of which the enemy
might be said to have, at this moment, complete possession—(for
Horse Shoe himself was almost the only belligerent in the field
against them)—and, more than that, he was but a few miles' distant
from a camp whose scouts had chased him almost to his present
place of refuge. It was scarcely probable, therefore, that he
could hope to retain his captives long under his control, or prevent
the enemy from receiving intelligence of the capture. He was,
however, notwithstanding these embarrassments, as usual, cheerful,
confident, and self-possessed. He had no wish or motive to detain
the private soldiers as prisoners of war, and would at once have
dismissed them, if he could have assured himself that they would
not make the earliest use of their liberty to convey information of
their misadventure to the first corps of loyalists they should meet,
and thus get up a hot pursuit of him through the whole district.
But he had cogent and most important reasons for holding the
ensign, St. Jermyn, in close custody. It occurred to him, that this
officer might be used to control the procedure that should be
adopted by those who meditated injury to Arthur Butler; and he,
therefore, at once formed the resolution of communicating with the
nearest British authorities, in order to assure them that he would
retaliate upon the Ensign any pain that might be inflicted npon
his late comrade. His plan was speedily formed—it was to keep
his prisoners until night-fall, move off under cover of the darkness,

[figure description] Page 273.[end figure description]

to some remote and concealed spot with St. Jermyn, and release
the others, on their parole or pledge not to take up arms until
regularly exchanged.

Whilst the sergeant was deliberating over these arrangements,
the prisoners were allowed to shelter themselves from the rain
under a shed near the door of the dwelling, where Andrew, with
all the pride and importance of his new station, marched to and
fro, before them, like a trained sentinel. There was a small log
building in the yard of Ramsay's mansion, which had been recently
erected as a store-house, and which being well secured at the door
by a padlock, Robinson determined to convert for the nonce into
a prison. It contained but one room, not above twelve feet square,
with an earthen floor, and received no light except such as was
admitted under the door, and through a few crannies about the
roof. Into this narrow apartment the soldiers were now marched;
a bundle of straw was thrown upon the floor; sundry flitches of
bacon, that hung upon the walls, were removed; and a few comforts,
in the way of food and drink, were supplied to render the
accommodation as tolerable to the inmates as was compatible with
their safe custody. This being done, our friend Andrew was posted
in the passage-way of the dwelling, in full view of the door of the
store-house, which was carefully locked, with a musket in his hand,
and with orders to make a circuit every five minutes round the
little building, to guard against any attempts at escape by undermining
the foundation.

As noon approached the weather began to clear up, and with
the first breaking forth of the sun came David Ramsay, the proprietor
of the farm which was the scene of the present operations.
His recognition of Horse Shoe Robinson was accompanied by a
hearty greeting, and with an expression of wonder that he should
have ventured, in hostile guise, through a country so beset as this
was by the forces of the enemy; but when he heard the narrative
of the exploit of the morning, and saw the trophies of its success
in the weapons piled against the wall, and, more especially, when
he received from the lips of his wife a circumstantial account of
the part which had been performed in this adventure by his son
Andrew, his delight seemed almost to be absorbed by his astonishment
and incredulity. The proofs, however, were all around him;

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and after assuring himself, by an actual inspection of the prisoners
through one of the chinks of the store-house, he came into his own
parlour, sat down, and laughed out-right.

Ramsay was a staunch friend of the independence of his country;
and although he had not been up in arms in the cause, he gave it
all the aid he could by the free expression of opinion, and by a
resolute refusal to comply with the requisitions of the royalists.
His eldest son had joined Sumpter, and had already been active
in the field; and he himself looked, with an almost certain expectation,
to see visited upon himself that proscription under which
thousands were already suffering, and which he had only escaped
as yet by the temporizing delays of his opponents, or by their neglect,
arising out of the incessant hurry and pressure of their military
operations in the organization of the new dominion which the
royal forces had but lately acquired. He was a man of sturdy
frame—now only in the prime of life—brave, thoughtful, and intelligent,
and firmly resolved to stand by his principles through
whatever adverse chances. The present aspect of affairs was, to
his mind, almost decisive of his fate: the capture of these prisoners,
made from information derived from his own family, and in which
his own son had been a principal agent; their confinement, too, in
his own house, were facts of so unequivocal a character as inevitably
to draw upon him the prompt ire of the Tories, and compel
him to assume the attitude and abide by the issues of a partisan.
As he had faith in the justice of his quarrel, and a strong devotion
to the principles upon which it was sustained, he did not hesitate
in the crisis before him, but heroically determined to meet the
worst that might befal. He, therefore, in the present emergency,
became a useful and efficient ally to Robinson, who opened to him
the full history of Butler, and the course of measures he was about
to pursue for the relief of that unfortunate officer.

We must now leave the sergeant holding watch and ward over
his vanquished foes, and shift our scene to Musgrove's Mill.

The family of Allen Musgrove were in a state of great disquietude.
Horse Shoe Robinson had disappeared before day-light; and
when the miller and his nephew left their beds, a little after the
dawn, the only intelligence they had of the departure of their guest
was inferred from finding the stable door open and the sergeant's

[figure description] Page 275.[end figure description]

horse absent. This fact was explained when Mary met them at
breakfast. Horse Shoe had set out for Ramsay's to learn some
tidings of John, and to enlist him in an effort to liberate Butler.
He had departed under cover of darkness to avoid molestation
from Innis's scouts, and she, Mary Musgrove, had placed the key
of the stable, the night before, in a place where Horse Shoe might
find it. Such was the extent of the maiden's information. The
day passed wearily upon her hand: she was anxious to hear something
of Butler—something of Horse Shoe—and something, we
suppose, of John Ramsay. Frequently during the morning she
and Christopher Shaw held secret conferences: they spoke in
whispers: suspense, care, and doubt were pictured upon her face;
and as the rain pattered against the windows she oftentimes stood
before them, and looked out upon the distant road, and across the
wide fields, and then upwards to the clouded sky. The sun at
length appeared, and his rays seemed to shoot a glimpse of joy
into the breast of the maiden, as she walked forth to note the drying
of the roads, and to see the clear blue, which, in that climate,
outvies the mellow and rich tints of a Tuscan heaven.

The day waxed, and the birds sang, and nature was gay, but the
maiden was restless and unquiet: the day waned, and the sun rode
downwards on the western slope in gorgeous beauty; but Mary
was ill at ease, and thought little of the grand and glorious firmament.
Her communings with Christopher Shaw, meantime, became
more eager: she and her cousin were seen to wander towards
the mill; then Christopher left her, and, presently, he might be
discovered leading two horses, one bearing a side-saddle, down to
the margin of the stream. There was a short visit to the house by
the young man—a word whispered in the ear of the mother—a
shake of her head, an expression of doubt, a final nod of assent,—
and, in the next moment, Mary and Christopher were seen trotting
off on horseback, on the road that led towards Ramsay's.

When they had ridden some two or three miles, and had entered
upon the high-road between Ninety-Six and Blackstock's—somewhere
near to that piece of haunted ground, where, on the morning
of this very day, a goblin had struck down James Curry from his
steed—they descried a military party of horse and foot slowly advancing
from the direction to which they were travelling. In a

[figure description] Page 276.[end figure description]

few moments they met the first platoon of the cavalry, headed by
a trumpeter and the unsightly captain Hugh Habershaw. They
were detained at the head of this column, whilst some questions
were asked respecting the object of their journey, the troops in their
neighborhood, and other matters connected with the affairs of the
times. Christopher's answers were prompt and satisfactory: he
was only riding with his kinswoman on a visit to a neighbor;
Innis's camp was not above two miles and a half away, and the
country in general was quiet, as far as he had the means of knowing.
The travellers were now suffered to pass on. In succession,
they left behind them each platoon of threes, and then encountered
the small column of march of the infantry. Mary grew pale as
her eyes fell upon the form of Arthur Butler, posted in the centre
of a guard. Her feeling lest he might not recognise her features,
and guess something of her errand, almost overpowered her. She
reined up her horse, as if to gratify an idle curiosity to see the
soldiers passing, and halted in a position which compelled the ranks
to file off, in order to obtain a free passage round her. Every look
seemed to be turned upon her as the escort marched near her
horse's head, and it was impossible to make the slightest sign to
Butler without being observed. She saw him, however, lift his
eyes to hers, and she distinctly perceived the flash of surprise with
which it was kindled as he became aware of her features. A faint
and transient smile, which had in it nothing but pain, was the only
return she dared to make. An order from the van quickened the
march; and the detachment moved rapidly by. As Mary still
occupied the ground on which she had halted, and was gazing
after the retreating corps, she saw Butler turn his face back towards
her; she seized the moment to nod to him and to make a quick sign
with her hand, which she intended should indicate the fact that she
was now engaged in his service. She thought she perceived a
response in a slight motion of Butler's head, and now resumed her
journey, greatly excited by the satisfaction of having, in this accidental
rencounter, obtained even this brief insight into the condition
of the prisoner.

The sun was set, when Mary with her convoy, Christopher
Shaw, arrived at Ramsay's. Always an acceptable guest at this
house, she was now more than ever welcome. There was business

[figure description] Page 277.[end figure description]

to be done in which she could discharge a most important part,
and the service of Christopher Shaw in reinforcing the garrison
was of the greatest moment. When the intelligence regarding the
movement of Butler to Innis's camp was communicated to the
sergeant, it suggested a new device to his mind, which he determined
instantly to adopt. Butler was at this moment, he concluded,
in the hands of those who had engaged the ruffians to set
upon him at Grindall's ford, and it was not improbable that he
would be summarily dealt with: there was no time, therefore, to
be lost. The sergeant's plan, in this new juncture, was, to compel
the young ensign to address a letter to the British commandant, to
inform that officer of his present imprisonment, and to add to this
information the determination of his captors to put him to death,
in the event of any outrage being inflicted upon Butler. This
scheme was communicated to Ramsay, Shaw, and Mary. The
letter was to be immediately written; Mary was to return with it
to the mill, and was to contrive to have it secretly delivered, in the
morning, at Innis's head-quarters; and David Ramsay himself was
to escort the maiden back to her father's house, whilst Shaw was
to attend the sergeant and assist him to transport the young ensign
to some fit place of concealment. The private soldiers were to
remain prisoners, under the guard of Andrew, until his father's
return, when they were to be released on parole, as prisoners
of war.

The plan being thus matured, Robinson went forthwith to the
prison-house, and directed Ensign St. Jermyn to follow him into
the dwelling. When the young officer arrived in the family
parlor, he was ordered to take a chair near a table, upon which
was placed a light, some paper, pen, and ink.

“Young man,” said Robinson, “take up that pen and write as I
bid you.”

“To what end am I to write? I must know the purpose you
design to answer, before I can put my hand to paper.”

“To the end,” replied Horse Shoe firmly, and with unwonted
gravity, “of the settlement of your worldly affairs, if the consarns
of to-morrow should bring ill luck to a friend of mine.”

“I do not understand you, sir. If my life is threatened to
accomplish an unrighteous purpose, it is my duty to tell you at

[figure description] Page 278.[end figure description]

once, that that life belongs to my king; and if his interests are to
suffer by any forced act of mine, I am willing to resign it at once.”

“Never was purpose more righteous, sir, in the view of God and
man, than ours,” said David Ramsay.

“I have a friend,” added Horse Shoe, greatly excited as he
spoke, “who has been foully dealt by. Some of your enlisted
gangs have laid an ambuscade to trap him: villany has been
used, by them that ought to be ashamed to see it thriving under
their colors, to catch a gentleman who was only doing the common
duties of a good sodger; and by mean bush-fighting, not by fair
fields and honest blows—they have seized him and carried him to
the camp of that blood-sucking Tory, Colonel Innis. I doubt more
harm is meant him than falls to the share of a common prisoner
of war.”

“I know nothing of the person, nor of the circumstances you
speak about,” said the ensign.

“So much the better for you,” replied the sergeant. “If your
people are brave sodgers or honest men, you will not have much
occasion to be afeard for yourself; but, by my right hand! if so
much as one hair of Major Arthur Butler's head be hurt by Colonel
Innis, or by any other man among your pillaging and brandishing
bullies, I myself will drive a bullet through from one of
your ears to the other. This game of war is a stiff game, young
man, but we will play it out.”

“Major Arthur Butler!” exclaimed the officer, with astonishment,
“is he taken?”

“Ha! you've hearn of him, and know something, mayhap, of
them that were on the look-out for him?”

“I cannot write,” said the officer sullenly.

“No words, sir,” interrupted Horse Shoe, “but obey my orders;
write what I tell you, or take your choice. I will bind you hand
and foot to a tree on yonder mountain, to starve till you write
that letter; or to feed the wild vermin with your body, if you
refuse.”

The ensign looked in Robinson's face, where a frown of stern
resolution brooded upon his brow, and a kindling tempest of anger
showed that this was not a moment to hazard the trial of his clemency.

[figure description] Page 279.[end figure description]

“What would you have the purport of my letter?” asked the
officer, in a subdued voice.

“That you have got into the hands of the Whigs,” replied the
sergeant; “and that if so be any mischief should fall upon Major
Butler, by the contrivings of your friends, you die the first minute
that we hear of it.”

“I have had no hand in the taking of Major Butler,” said the
young St. Jermyn.

“I am glad of it,” answered Robinson, “for your sake. You will
die with a better conscience. If you had a hand in it, young man,
I wouldn't ask you to write a line to any breathing man: your
brains would spatter that door-post. Take up the pen and write, or
stand by the consequences.”

The officer took up the pen, then, hesitating a moment, flung it
down, saying:

“I will not write; do with me as you choose.”

“The young man drives me to it, against my own nature,” said
Robinson, speaking under strong excitement. “If he will not pen
that letter, then, David Ramsay, you will write to Innis, in my
name, and say Galbraith Robinson has got the Ensign where no
Tory foot will ever follow him, and holds him to answer the first
mischief that is done to Arthur Butler. But, I swear to this sulky
boy, that if that letter goes to Innis for want of a better, as I am
a man and a sodger, he will never taste food or water till I hear
that Major Butler is free. He shall starve in the mountain.”

“Oh, God! oh, God!” ejaculated the young soldier, in bitterness
of heart; and covering his face with his hands, he threw his
head upon the table, where he wept tears of agony. At length, looking
in the countenance of Robinson, he said: “I am young, sir—
not above twenty years. I have a mother and sisters in England.”

“We have no time to spare,” interrupted Robinson, “much less
to talk about kinsfolk. Major Butler has them that love his life
better than e'er an Englishwoman loves her son. If they are
brought to grief by this onnatural rascality, it matters nothing to
me if every daughter and sister in England pines away of heart-sickness,
for the loss of them that they love best. Take my
advice, my lack-beard,” added Robinson, patting him on the

[figure description] Page 280.[end figure description]

shoulder, “and write the letter. You have the chances of war in
your favor, and may save your neck.”

“I will do your bidding, sir,” said the ensign, after a pause.
“Under the compulsion of force, I agree to write,” and he once
more took up the pen.

“You speak now like a reasonable gentleman,” said Horse Shoe.
“I pity you, friend, and will preserve you against harm, so far as
it can be done in the circumstances of the case.”

The ensign then wrote a few lines, in which he communicated
to Colonel Innis, or to whatever officer his letter might be delivered,
the straits in which he found himself, and the resolution of his
captors to hold his life forfeit upon the event of any rigors, beyond
those of an ordinary prisoner of war, imposed upon Major Butler.
When he had finished, he gave the paper to Robinson.

“Read it aloud, Mr. Ramsay,” said Horse Shoe, delivering the
scrawl to his friend.

Ramsay read what was written.

“It must be wrote over again,” said Horse Shoe, after he had
heard the contents. “First, it must make no mention of his being
only a few miles off; that must be left out. Secondly, my name
needn't be told; though if the runagates knowed he was in my
hands, they wouldn't think his chance any better on that account.
Let him say that the Whigs have got him—that's enough. And,
lastly, he must write his own name in full at the bottom. And,
look you, young man, don't be scrawling out the lines in such a
way that your own hand-write moughtn't be known. That must
speak for itself, because upon this letter depends your life. You
understand?”

“Give it me,” said the ensign; “I will write it as you desire.”

And again the unfortunate officer applied himself to the task
that was imposed upon him; and in a short time produced a letter,
which, being subjected to the criticism of the bystanders, was pronounced
satisfactory.

As soon as this was done, St. Jermyn was conducted into another
apartment, and there confided to the guardianship of Christopher
Shaw. Horse Shoe now took a light and the writing materials
from the table, and repaired with David Ramsay—both of them
well armed—to the store-house, where the other prisoners were

[figure description] Page 281.[end figure description]

confined. After they had entered and closed the door, posting
Andrew with his musket on the outside, Horse Shoe addressed the
men in a gay and cheerful tone:

“Come, my lads, as you are good, honest fellows, that can have
no great love for these little country cabins, judging by your bad
luck and oncomfortable circumstances in that one where I found
you this morning, I have come to set you free. By the laws of
war, you have the right, if I choose to take it, to give me your
parole. So now, if you have a mind to promise me, on the honor
of sodgers, not to sarve again until you are fairly exchanged, you
shall all leave this before day-break. What do you say to the
terms?”

“We are all agreed,” replied the men, with one accord.

“Then write out something to that effect,” said the sergeant to
Ramsay. “You that can't scratch like scholards, stick your marks
to the paper—d'ye hear?”

The parole was written out by Ramsay, and duly signed or
marked by each of the four men. This being done, the sergeant
informed them that, exactly at three in the morning, the door
would be opened, and they would be at liberty to go where they
pleased, provided they pledged themselves to visit no post of the
enemy within twenty miles, nor communicate any particulars relating
to their capture or detention to any British or Tory officer or
soldier, within seven days. This pledge was cheerfully given, and
after a few words of jocular good-nature were exchanged on both
sides, Horse Shoe and his companion retired.

David Ramsay now ordered out his own and Mary Musgrove's
horses, with an intention to set out immediately for the mill.

“Does Major Butler know that you are in his neighborhood?”
inqired Ramsay of the sergeant, before the horses were brought to
the door.

“Oh, bless you, yes,” replied Horse Shoe. “I left word for him
yesterday at Blackstock's, by giving the babblers there something
to talk about, which I knew he would hear.” And the sergeant
went on to relate the particulars of his stop at that post: “And I
sent him a message,” continued he, “this morning, by James Curry,
in the same sort of fashion. A little before daylight, I heard the
devil singing one of his staves upon the road back here, so loud

[figure description] Page 282.[end figure description]

that he seemed to be frightened by ghosts or sperits; so I rode up
fast behind him, and cuffed him out of his saddle, and then away
I went like a leather-winged bat. I knowed the curmudgeon's
voice, and I expect he knowed my hand, for he has felt it before.
I'll be bound, he made a good story out of it; and, as such things
fly, I make no doubt it wasn't long reaching the ear of the major,
who would naturally think it was me, whether James told my
name or not, because he knows my way. It was as good as writing
a letter to the major, to signify that I was lurking about, close
at hand. I never went to school, Mr. Ramsay, so I write my letters
by making my mark. I can make a blow go further than a word
upon occasion, and that's an old-fashioned way of telling your
thoughts, that was found out before pen and ink.”

“Well, Horse Shoe, you are a man after your own sort,” replied
Ramsay, laughing. “Come, Mary, take the letter; our horses are
at the door.”

“Good bye t'ye, David,” said Horse Shoe, shaking Ramsay's
hand; “it may be some days before we see each other again. Kit
and me will be off with this young ensign before you get back.
Don't forget the prisoners at three o'clock. And, a word, David—
where had we best take this young sparrow, the ensign, to keep
him out of the way of these fellows that are scouring the country?”

“Leave that to Christopher Shaw,” replied Ramsay; “he knows
every nook in the country. So, now, friend Robinson, good night,
and luck go with you!”

It was a clear star-lit night, and every tree and pool sent forth a
thousand notes from the busy insects and reptiles that animate the
summer hours of darkness, when David Ramsay set out with Mary
Musgrove for her father's house.

CHAPTER XXIV. NEW DIFFICULTIES OPEN UPON BUTLER.

[figure description] Page 283.[end figure description]

With the last notes of the reveillée everything was stirring in
Innis's camp. It was a beautiful, fresh morning; a cool breeze
swept across the plain, and each spray and every blade of grass
sparkled with the dew; whilst above, an unclouded firmament
gave promise of a rich and brilliant mid-summer's day. The
surrounding forest was alive with the twittering of birds; and the
neighing of horses showed that this portion of the animal creation
partook of the hilarity of the season. From every little shed or
woodland lair, crept forth parties of soldiers, who betook themselves
to their several posts to answer at the roll-call; and by the
time the sun had risen, officers, on horseback and on foot, were
seen moving hurriedly across the open plain, to join the groups of
infantry and cavalry, which were now forming in various quarters
for the purposes of the morning drill. Companies were seen in
motion, passing through the rapid evolutions of the march, the
retreat, and the many exercises of service. Drums were beating,
and fifes were piercing the air with their high notes, and, ever and
anon, the trumpet brayed from the further extremities of the field.
Picquet-guards were seen mustering on the edge of the camp—
wearied and night-worn: salutes were exchanged by the small
detachments on service; and, here and there, sentinels might be
descried, stationed at the several outlets of the plain, and presenting
their arms as an officer passed their lines.

The troops that occupied this space were mostly of the irregular
kind. Some were distinguished by ill-fitted and homely uniforms;
others were clad in the common dress of the country, distinguished
as soldiers only by their arms and accoutrements; but amongst
them was also a considerable party of British regulars, clad in the
national livery of scarlet. Amongst the officers, who were in

[figure description] Page 284.[end figure description]

command of the subordinate departments of this mixed and parti-colored
little army, were several who, from their costume, might
be recognised as belonging to the regiments that had come from
the other side of the Atlantic.

Colonel Innis himself was seen upon the parade, directing the
movements of divisions that, under their proper officers, were
practising the customary lessons of discipline. He was a tall,
thin man, of an emaciated complexion, with a countenance of
thoughtful severity. A keen black eye seemed almost to burn
within its orb, and to give an expression of petulant and peevish
excitability, like the querulousness of a sick man. A rather
awkward and ungainly person, arrayed in a scarlet uniform that
did but little credit to the tailor-craft employed in its fabrication,
conveyed to the spectator the idea of a man unused to the pride
of appearance that belongs to a soldier by profession; and would
have suggested the conclusion, which the fact itself sustained, that
the individual before him had but recently left the walks of civil
life to assume a military office. His demeanour, however, showed
him to be a zealous if not a skilful officer. He gave close attention
to the duties of his command, and busied himself with
scrupulous exactitude in enforcing the observances necessary to a
rigorous system of tactics.

This officer, as we have before hinted, had been an active participator
in the proceedings of the new court of sequestrations at
Charleston; and had rendered himself conspicuous by the fierce
and unsparing industry with which he had brought to the judgment
of that tribunal, the imputed delinquencies of some of the most
opulent and patriotic citizens of the province.

Amongst the cases upon which he had been called into consultation
was that of Arthur Butler, whose possessions being ample,
and whose position, as a rebellious belligerent, being one of
“flagrant delict,” there was but little repugnance, on the part of
the judges and their adviser, to subject him to the severest law of
confiscation. The proceedings, however, had been delayed, not
from any tenderness to the proprietor, but, as it was whispered in
the scandal of the day, on account of certain dissensions, amongst
a few prominent servants of the British crown, as to which of them
the privilege of a cheap purchase should be extended. The matter

[figure description] Page 285.[end figure description]

was still in suspense, with a view (as that busybody, common
rumor, alleged) to reward a particular favorite of the higher
powers with the rich guerdon of these good lands, in compensation
for private and valuable secret services, rendered in a matter of
great delicacy and hazard—no less a service than that of seducing
into the arena of politics and intrigue, an opulent and authoritative
gentleman of Virginia, Mr. Philip Lindsay.

In consequence of the odious nature of the duty which Colonel
Innis had assumed to perform, he became peculiarly hateful to the
Whigs; and this sentiment was in no degree abated when, relinquishing
his occupation as a counsellor to the court at Charleston,
he accepted a commission to command a partisan corps of royalists
in the upper country. He was, at the juncture in which I have
exhibited him to my reader, new in his command, and had not yet
“fleshed his maiden sword:” the day, however, was near at hand
when his prowess was to be put to the proof.

Such was the person into whose hands Arthur Butler had now
fallen.

After the morning exercises of the camp were finished, and the
men were dismissed to prepare their first repast, the principal
officers returned to the colonel's head-quarters in the farm-house,
where, it will be remembered, Butler had been delivered by the
escort that had conducted him from Blackstock's. The prisoner
had slept soundly during the whole night; and now, as the breakfast
hour drew nigh, he had scarcely awaked and put on his
clothes, before he heard an inquiry, made by some one below, of
the orderly on duty, whether the Whig officer was yet in a condition
to be visited; and, in the next moment, the noise of footsteps,
ascending the stair towards his chamber, prepared him to expect
the entrance of the person who had asked the question.

A British officer, in full uniform, of a graceful and easy carriage,
neat figure, and of a countenance that bespoke an intelligent and
cultivated mind, made his appearance at the door. He was
apparently of five or six and thirty years of age; and whilst he
paused a moment, as with a purpose to apologize for the seeming
intrusion, Butler was struck with the air of refined breeding of the
individual before him.

“Major Butler, I understand, of the Continental army?” said

[figure description] Page 286.[end figure description]

the stranger. “The unpleasant nature of the circumstances in
which you are placed, I hope will excuse the trespass I have committed
upon your privacy. Captain St. Jermyn, of his Majesty's
army, and lately an aide-de-camp of Lord Rawdon.”

Butler bowed coldly, as he replied:

“To meet a gentleman, as your rank and name both import, is
a privilege that has not been allowed me of late. Without
knowing wherefore, I have been waylaid and outraged by bravoes
and ruffians. You, perhaps, sir, may be able to afford me some
insight into the causes of this maltreatment.”

“Even if it were proper for me to hold discourse with you on
such a subject, I could only speak from common report,” replied
the officer. “I know nothing of your seizure, except that, by the
common chances of war, you have fallen into the hands of the
ruling authorities of the province, and you will, doubtless, as a
soldier, appreciate my motives for declining any reference to the
circumstances in which you have been found. My visit is stimulated
by other considerations, amongst which is foremost a desire
to mitigate the peculiarly uncomfortable captivity to which I am
sorry to learn you have been subjected.”

“I thank you,” replied Butler, “for the intention with which
your good offices are proffered; but you can render me no service
that I should value so much as that of informing me why I have
been brought hither, at whose suggestion, and for what purpose.”

“I will be plain with you, Major Butler. Your situation demands
sympathy, however inexorably the present posture of our
affairs may require the decrees of stern justice, in respect to
yourself, to be executed. I feel for you, and would gladly aid you
to any extent which my duty might allow, in averting the possible
calamity that may hang over you. You are known as a gentleman
of consideration and influence in the colonies. I may further add,
as a brave and venturesome soldier. You are believed to have,
more boldly than wisely, enterprised the accomplishment of certain
schemes against the safety of his majesty's acknowledged government
in this province; besides having committed other acts in
violation of a faith plighted for you by those who had full
authority to bind you, thus bringing yourself within the penalties

[figure description] Page 287.[end figure description]

appropriate to the violation of a military parole, if not within
those of treason itself.”

“He lies in his throat,” cried Butler, “who charges me with
forfeiture of plighted word or honor, in any action of my life.
That I have arrayed myself against what you are pleased to term
his majesty's acknowledged government in this province, I am
proud to confess, here in the midst of your bands, and will confess
it again at your judgment seat; but if aught be said against me
that shall be intended to attaint my honor as a gentleman, I will, in
the same presence and before God, throw the lie in the teeth of
my accuser. Aye, and make good my word, now or hereafter,
wheresoever it may be allowed me to meet the slanderer.”

“I do not condemn your warmth,” said St. Jermyn, calmly, “in
a matter that so deeply stirs your self-esteem; and only desire
now to second it in all things wherein an honorable enemy may
claim the support of those who themselves value a good name.
The authorities of this post have considerately resolved to give
you the benefit of a court of inquiry. And I hope you will take
it as it was meant, in all kindness to you, that I have come, before
the communication of an official order, to apprise you that charges
will be duly exhibited against you, and a trial be instantly had.
If you will accept of my services, feeble and inadequate as they
may be, I would gladly tender them to afford you such facilities as
the pressure of the present emergency may allow.”

“To be tried! when, and for what? If the charge is that I
carry on open war against those who are in the habit of calling
me and my compatriots rebels—I am ready to confess the charge.
What need of court or trial?”

“There are graver and more serious offences than that imputed
to you,” said St. Jermyn.

“When am I to be informed of them, and to what do they
tend?”

“You will hear them this morning; when, I am sorry to add,
the nature of our military operations also enforces the necessity of
your trial.”

“You can be of little service, if that be true,” returned Butler,
thoughtfully. “My cause can only be defended by my country,
long after I am made the victim of this unrighteous procedure.”

[figure description] Page 288.[end figure description]

“There is one alternative,” said St. Jermyn, with some hesitation
in his manner, “which a mature deliberation upon your relations
as a subject,—pardon me, for I do not deem this ill-timed rebellion
to have obliterated them—may present to your mind.”

“Speak it,” said Butler, vehemently; “speak out the base
thought that is rising to your lip, if you dare. Prisoner as I am,
I will avenge the insult on the spot with the certainty of loss of
life. The alternative you suggest, is to dishonor me and all who
are dear to me by the foul opprobrium of treason to my country.
You would have me, I suppose, renounce the cause to which I have
dedicated my life, and take shelter with the recreants that have
crowded under the banner of St. George?”

“Hold! remember, sir, that you are a prisoner,” said St. Jermyn,
with great coolness; and then after a pause, he added with a sigh:
“I will not wound, by further converse, the exaggerated and delusive
sense of honor which is too fatally predominant in your breast,
and, as I have found it, in the breasts of many of your misguided
countrymen. I came to serve you, not to excite your feelings; and
I will now, even in your displeasure, serve you as far as the occasion
may afford me means: I pray you, call on me without reserve.
For the present, believe me, in pain and sorrow I take my leave.”

With these words, the officer retired.

Butler paced to and fro through his narrow chamber for some
minutes, as his mind revolved the extraordinary and unexpected
disclosures which had been made to him in this short visit. A
thousand conjectures rose into his thoughts as to the nature of the
supposed charges that were to be brought against him. He
minutely retraced all the incidents of his late adventures, to ascertain
how it was possible to found upon them an accusation of
violated faith, or to pervert them into an imputation of treason
against the present doubtful and disputed authority of the selfstyled
conquerors of Carolina. If his attempt to join Clarke was
treason, it could be no less treason in the followers of Gates to
array themselves against the royal army; and, that every prisoner
hereafter taken in battle was to be deemed a traitor to the contested
power of Cornwallis, seemed to be a pretension too absurd
for the most inveterate partisans to assert. There was nothing in
this review of his actions that the most ingenious malice could

[figure description] Page 289.[end figure description]

pervert into an offence punishable by the laws of war, by other rigor
than such as might be inflicted upon an ordinary prisoner taken in
arms. Still, there were unhappy doubts of some secret treachery
that rose to his reflections; the perfidy of Adair, manifestly the
effect of a bribe; the ambuscade promoted and managed by James
Curry; the bloody purpose of the brutal gang who captured him,
frustrated only by the accidental fray in which Blake was wounded.
Then the “doubtful givings out” which fell from the lips of some
of the soldiers at Blackstock's, of his case still being one of life and
death; the insinuation of the savage Habershaw, at the same place,
conveyed in the threat of twisted hemp; the knowledge which his
present keepers affected to have of his rank and consequence, of his
past life and present aims; and, above all, his being brought for
immediate trial, in a matter affecting his life, before the very man,
now in the capacity of a military commander, who had heretofore
been active in promoting the design of confiscating his estate. All
these considerations, although unconnected with any circumstance
of specific offence within his knowledge, led him into the most
anxious and melancholy forebodings as to the result of this day's
proceedings.

“I am doomed to fall,” he said, “under some secret stroke of
vengeance, and my country is to have in my case another stirring
appeal against the enormity of that iron rule that seeks to bow
her head into the dust. So be it! The issue is in the hand of
God, and my fate may turn to the account of the establishment of
a nation's liberty. Oh, Mildred, I tremble to think of thee!
Heaven grant, my girl, that thy fortitude may triumph over the
martyrdom of him that loves thee better than his life!”

CHAPTER XXV.

A TRIAL.—A GRAVE ACCUSATION THAT STILL FURTHER CONFIRMS
BUTLER IN HIS BELIEF OF A SECRET ENEMY.—A SUDDEN RESPITE.

[figure description] Page 290.[end figure description]

Butler's baggage, ever since he left Robinson's habitation on the
Catawba, had been divided into two parcels, one of which he
carried in a portmanteau on his own horse, and the other had been
stowed away in a pair of black leather saddle-bags that were flung
across Captain Peter. These latter sufficed, also, to inclose, in
addition to the sergeant's own wardrobe, sundry stores of provender,
which the careful appetite and soldier-like foresight of the
trusty squire had, from time to time, accumulated for their comfort
upon the road-side. After the escape of the sergeant, this baggage
had been kept with more scrupulousness than might have been
expected from the character of the freebooters into whose possession
it had fallen; and now, when Butler had been surrendered up to
the custody of Colonel Innis, it was restored to the prisoner without
the loss of any article of value. On this morning, therefore, Butler
had thrown aside the rustic dress in which he had heretofore
travelled, and appeared habited as we have described him when first
introduced to the reader.

After a very slight meal, which had been administered with more
personal attention and consideration for his rank and condition than
he was prepared to expect, an officer entered his apartment and communicated
an order to him to repair to the yard in front of the
quarters. Here he found a sergeant's guard mustered to receive
him, and he was directed to march with them to the place that
had been selected for his trial. The spot pitched upon for this
purpose, was at the foot of a large mulberry that stood on the border
of the plain, at a short distance from the house.

When the guard arrived with the prisoner, Colonel Innis was
already seated at the head of a table, around which were placed

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several officers, both of the regular and militia forces. Writing
materials were also arranged upon the board, and at the lower end,
a few paces removed from it, stood a vacant chair. Behind this
was erected a pile of drums, with one or two colours laid transversely
across them. Sentinels were stationed at different points
near this group, and within their lines were collected the principal
officers of Innis's command. Somewhat more remote, a number
of idle spectators were assembled, amongst whom might have been
discerned Habershaw, Curry, and many of the heroes who had
figured at Grindall's ford. Captain St. Jermyn had taken a station
a little to the left of the presiding officer at the table, and in the
rear of those who appeared to have the management of the
approaching procedure, and now stood, with his hands folded,
apparently an anxious and interested looker-on.

There was a thoughtful and even stern expression upon every
face when Butler appeared—and a silence that was scarce broken
by the occasional whispers in which the several individuals present
communicated with each other. The guard marched the prisoner
around the circle, and inducted him into the vacant chair, where
he was received by a quiet and cold inclination of the head from
each member of the court.

For a few moments he looked around him with a scornful gaze
upon the assemblage that were to sit in judgment upon him, and
bit his lip, as his frame seemed to be agitated with deep emotion:
at length, when every look was bent upon him, and no one
breathed a word, he rose upon his feet and addressed the company.

“I understand that I am in the presence of a military court,
which has been summoned for the purpose of inquiring into certain
offences, of the nature of which I have not yet had the good fortune
to be informed, except in so far as I am given to infer that
they purport of treason. I ask if this be true.”

The presiding officer bowed his head in token of assent, and then
presented a paper, which he described as containing the specification
of charges.

“As an officer of the American army, and the citizen of an independent
republic,” continued Butler, “I protest against any accountability
to this tribunal; and, with this protest, I publish my wrongs

[figure description] Page 292.[end figure description]

in the face of these witnesses, and declare them to arise out of facts
disgraceful to the character of an honorable nation. I have been
drawn by treachery into an ambuscade, overpowered by numbers,
insulted and abused by ruffians. I wish I could say that these
outrages were practised at the mere motion of the coarse banditti
themselves who assailed me; but their manifest subserviency to a
plan, the object of which was to take my life, leaves me no room
to doubt that they have been in the employ and have acted under
the orders of a more responsible head”—

“Keep your temper,” interrupted Innis, calmly. “Something is
to be allowed to the excited feelings of one suddenly arrested in
the height of a bold adventure, and the court would, therefore,
treat your expression of such feelings at this moment with lenity.
You will, however, consult your own welfare, by giving your
thoughts to the charges against you, and sparing yourself the
labor of this useless vituperation. Read that paper, and speak to
its contents. We will hear you patiently and impartially.”

“Sir, it can avail me nothing to read it. Let it allege what it
may, the trial, under present circumstances, will be but a mockery.
By the chances of war, my life is in your hands; it is an idle
ceremony and waste of time to call in aid the forms of justice, to
do that which you have the power to do, without insulting Heaven
by affecting to assume one of its attributes.”

“That we pause to inquire,” replied Innis, “is a boon of mercy
to you. The offence of rank rebellion which you and all your fellow-madmen
have confessed, by taking up arms against your king,
carries with it the last degree of punishment. If, waiving our
right to inflict summary pain for this transgression, we stay to hear
what you can say against other and even weightier charges, you
should thank us for our clemency. But this is misspending time.
Read the paper to the prisoner,” he added, addressing one of the
officers at the table.

The paper was read aloud. It first presented a charge against
the prisoner for violating the terms of the parole given at the capitulation
of Charleston. The specification to support this charge
was that, by the terms of the surrender, General Lincoln had
engaged that the whole garrison should be surrendered as prisoners
of war, and that they should not serve again until exchanged.

[figure description] Page 293.[end figure description]

The prisoner was described as an officer of that garrison, included
in the surrender, and lately taken in the act of making war upon
his majesty's subjects.

The second charge was, that the prisoner had insinuated himself,
by false representations, into the territory conquered by the
royal army; and that, in the quality of a spy, he had visited the
family of a certain Walter Adair, with a view to obtain a knowledge
of the forces, plans, movements, and designs of the various
detachments engaged in his majesty's service in the neighborhood
of Broad River.

And, third and last, that he, together with certain confederates,
had contrived and partially attempted to execute a plan to seize
upon and carry away a subject of his majesty's government, of
great consideration and esteem—Mr. Philip Lindsay, namely, of
the Dove Cote, in the province of Virginia. That the object of
this enterprise was to possess himself of the papers as well as
of the person of the said Philip Lindsay, and, by surrendering
him up to the leaders of the rebel army, to bring upon him the
vengeance of the rebel government, thus exposing him to confiscation
of property, and even to peril of life.

Such was the general import and bearing of the accusations
against the prisoner, expressed with the usual abundance of verbiage
and minuteness of detail. Butler listened to them, at first,
with indifference, and with a determination to meet them with
inflexible silence; but, as the enunciation of them proceeded, and
the extraordinary misrepresentations they contained were successively
disclosed, he found his indignation rising to a height that
almost mastered his discretion, and he was on the point of interrupting
the court with the lie direct, and of involving himself in
an act of contumacy which would have been instantly decisive of
his fate. His better genius, however, prevailed, and, smothering
his anger by a strong effort of self-control, he merely folded his
arms and abided until the end, with a contemptuous and proud
glance at his accusers.

“You have heard the allegations against you, sir,” said Colonel
Innis; “what say you to them?”

“What should an honorable man,” replied Butler, “say to such
foul aspersions? The first and second charges, sir, I pronounce to

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be frivolous and false. As to the last, sir, there are imputations in
it that mark the agency of a concealed enemy, lost to every impulse
of honor—a base and wicked liar. Confront me with that
man, and let the issue stand on this—if I do not prove him to be,
in the judgment of every true gentleman of your army, an atrocious
and depraved slanderer, who has contrived against my life
for selfish purposes, I will submit myself to whatever penalty the
most exasperated of my enemies may invent. It was my purpose,
sir, to remain silent, and to refuse, by any act of mine, to acknowledge
the violation of the rights of war by which I have been
dragged hither. Nothing could have swayed me from that determination,
but the iniquitous falsehood conveyed in the last accusation.”

“We cannot bandy words with one in your condition,” interrupted
the president of the court. “I must remind you again,
that our purpose is to give you a fair trial, not to listen to ebullitions
of anger. Your honor is concerned in these charges, and you
will best consult your interest by a patient demeanor in your present
difficulties.”

“I am silent,” said Butler, indignantly, taking his seat.

“Let the trial proceed,” continued the president. “You will
not deny,” he said, after an interval of reflection, “that you are a
native of Carolina?”

“I can scarcely deny that before you,” replied Butler, “who, in
my absence, as report says, have been busy in the investigation of
my affairs.”

“There are bounds, sir, to the forbearance of a court,” said Innis,
sternly. “I understand the taunt. Your estates have been the
subject of consideration before another tribunal; and if my advice
were listened to, the process relating to them would be a short one.”

“You are answered,” returned Butler.

“Nor can you deny that you were an officer belonging to the
army under the command of General Lincoln.”

Butler was silent.

“You were at Charleston during the siege?” inquired one of the
court.

“In part,” replied Butler. “I left it in March, the bearer of
despatches to Congress.”

[figure description] Page 295.[end figure description]

“And you were in arms on the night of the thirteenth, at Grindall's
Ford?” continued the same questioner.

“I confess it, sir.”

“That's enough,” interrupted Innis. “In the ninth article of
the capitulation of Charleston we read: `all civil officers, and the
citizens who have borne arms during the siege, must be prisoners
on parole.”'

“I should say,” interposed St. Jermyn, who now, for the first
time, opened his lips, “that the prisoner scarcely falls within that
description. The words `during teh siege' would seem to point to
a service which lasted to the end. They are, at least, equivocal;
and I doubt Lord Cornwallis would be loath to sanction a judgment
on such a ground.”

Upon this ensued a consultation amongst the officers at the table,
during which Butler was withdrawn to a short distance in the rear
of the assemblage. Several of the unoccupied soldiers of the
camp, at this stage of the trial, had crowded into the neighborhood
of the court; and the sentinels, yielding to the eagerness of
the common curiosity, had relaxed their guard so far as to allow
the spectators to encroach beyond the lines. Among those who
had thrust themselves almost up to the trial-table were a few children,
male and female, bearing on their arms baskets of fruit and
vegetables, which had been brought within the camp for sale. A
smart-looking girl, somewhat older than the rest, seemed to have
gained more favor from the crowd than her competitors, by the
temptation which she presented of a rich collection of mellow
apples; and perhaps her popularity was in some degree increased
by the soft and pleasant-toned voice in which she recommended
her wares, no less than by the ruddy, wholesome hue of her cheek,
and an agreeable, laughing, blue eye, that shone forth from the shade
of a deep and narrow sun-bonnet, the curtain of which fell upon
her shoulders and down her back.

“Buy my apples, gentlemen,” said the pretty fruit-merchant,
coming up fearlessly to Colonel Innis, in the midst of the consultation.

“Three for a penny; they are very ripe and mellow, sir.”

The colonel cast his eye upon the treasures of the basket, and
began to select a few of the choicest fruit. Thus encouraged, the

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girl set her load upon the table, in the midst of the hats and
swords with which it was encumbered, and very soon every other
member of the court followed the example of the presiding officer
and became purchasers of the greater part of the store before
them. When this traffic was concluded, the little huckster took
up her burden and retired towards the group of spectators. See
ing the prisoner in this quarter, she walked up to him, curtsied,
and presented him an apple, which was gratefully accepted, and the
proffered return, from him, in money, refused.

When about a quarter of an hour had elapsed, Butler was
resummoned to his seat, and the court again proceeded to business.
The inquiry now related to the second charge—that, namely,
which imputed to the prisoner the character of a spy in his visit
at Adair's. To this accusation, Captain Hugh Habershaw and
several of his troop were called as witnesses. The amount of testimony
given by them was, that, on the eleventh of the month, they
had received information that a Continental officer, whose real
name and title was Major Butler, but who was travelling in disguise
and under an assumed name, from the Catawba towards the
Broad River, in company with a well known, stark Whig—a certain
Horse Shoe Robinson—was expected in a few days to arrive
at Wat Adair's. That Habershaw, hoping to intercept them, had
scoured the country between the two rivers; but that the travellers
had eluded the search, by taking a very circuitous and unfrequented
route towards the upper part of Blair's Range and Fishing Creek.
That, on the night of the twelfth, the two men arrived at Adair's,
unmolested; and, on the morning of the thirteenth, some of the
woodman's family had met Habershaw and apprised him of this
fact; adding, further, that the prisoner had offered a bribe to
Adair, to induce him to give information in regard to the loyalist
troops in the neighborhood, with a view to communicate it to a
certain Colonel Clarke, who had appointed to meet Butler and his
companion somewhere on the upper border of the province. That,
in consequence of this attempt, Adair had directed the prisoner
towards Grindall's Ford; and, this intelligence being communicated
to the witness, he had conducted his troop to that place, where he
succeeded in arresting the prisoner and his comrade, with the loss
of two men in the struggle. The narrative then went on to give

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the particulars of Horse Shoe's escape, and the other facts with
which the reader is acquainted. This account was corroborated by
several witnesses, and, amongst the rest, by Curry.

Butler heard the testimony with the most painful sensations.
There was just enough of truth in it to make the tale plausible,
and the falsehood related to points which, as they were affirmed
upon hearsay, he could not repel by proof. There was a common
expression of opinion amongst the bystanders—who in general
were inclined to take the side of the prisoner in reference to the
charge which was supposed to affect his life—that this accusation
of Butler's acting the part of a spy was sustained by the proof.
In vain did he protest against the injustice of being condemned on
what was alleged to have been said by some of Adair's family; in
vain did he deny that he had offered a bribe to Adair for information
respecting the Tories; and equally in vain did he affirm that
he had asked of Adair nothing more than the common hospitality
due to a traveller, and for which he had made him a moderate
requital—the only money the woodman had received from him.
The current was now setting violently against him, and it seemed
impossible to stem it.

“It is but due,” said Captain St. Jermyn, a second time interposing
in behalf of the prisoner, “to the rank and character of
Major Butler, since a portion of this testimony is second-hand, to
take his own examination on these alleged facts. With permission,
therefore, I would ask him a few questions.”

“The court will not object,” said Innis, who throughout affected
the air of an impartial judge.

“It is true, Major Butler, that you were at Adair's on the night
of the twelfth?” said the volunteer advocate of the prisoner.

“I was, sir.”

“And you made no concealment of your name or rank?”

“I will not say that,” replied Butler.

“You were under a feigned name then, sir?” inquired Innis, as
St. Jermyn seemed a little confounded by the answer he had
received.

“I was called Mr. Butler, sir; my rank or station was not communicated.”

“Your dress?”

[figure description] Page 298.[end figure description]

“Was an assumed one, to avoid inquiry.”

“This man, Horse Shoe Robinson,” said St. Jermyn, “was
known to Adair as a whig soldier?”

“Well known,” replied Butler; “and I was also represented as
belonging to that party. Adair himself led us to believe that he
was friendly to our cause.”

Here several members of the court smiled.

“Had you met any parties of loyalists,” inquired Innis, “in your
journey between Catawba and Broad?”

“We had—more than one.”

“How did you escape them?”

“By assuming feigned characters and names.”

“Your purpose was to join Clarke?”

“I am not at liberty to answer that question,” replied the prisoner.
“Suffice it, sir, I was travelling through this region on a
mission of duty. My purpose was to act against the enemy. So
far the charge is true, and only to this extent. I came with no
design to pry into the condition of the royal troops; I sought only
a successful passage through a contested, though sadly overpowered
country.”

“You offered no money to Adair,” said St. Jermyn again, as if
insisting on this point of exculpation, “but what you have already
called a moderate requital for his entertainment?”

“None,” replied the prisoner—“except,” he added, “a guinea,
to induce him to release, from some wicked torture, a wolf he had
entrapped.”

“It will not do,” said Colonel Innis, shaking his head at St.
Jermyn; and the same opinion was indicated in the looks of
several of the court.

“I was at Walter Adair's that night, and saw the gentleman
there, and heard all that was said by him; and I am sure that he
offered Watty no money,” said our little apple-girl, who had been
listening with breathless anxiety to the whole of this examination,
and who had now advanced to the table as she spoke the words.
“And I can tell more about it, if I am asked.”

“And who are you, my pretty maid?” inquired Colonel Innis,
as he lifted the bonnet from her head and let loose a volume of
flaxen curls down upon her neck.

[figure description] Page 299.[end figure description]

“I am Mary Musgrove, the miller's daughter,” said the damsel,
with great earnestness of manner, “and Watty Adair is my uncle,
by my mother's side—he married my aunt Peggy; and I was at
his house when Major Butler and Mr. Horse Shoe Robinson came
there.”

“And what in the devil brought you here?” said Habershaw,
gruffly.

“Silence!” cried Innis, impatient at the obtrusive interruption
of the gross captain. “What authority have you to ask questions?
Begone, sir.”

The heavy bulk of Hugh Habershaw, at this order, sneaked back
into the crowd.

“I came only to sell a few apples,” said Mary.

“Heaven has sent that girl to the rescue of my life,” said Butler,
under the impulse of a feeling which he could not refrain from
giving vent to in words. “Pray allow me, sir, to ask her some
questions.”

“It is your privilege,” was the answer from two or three of the
court; and the spectators pressed forward to hear the examination.

Butler carefully interrogated the maiden as to all the particulars
of his visit, and she, with the most scrupulous fidelity, recounted
the scenes to which she had been a witness. When she came to
detail the conversation which she had overheard between Adair
and Lynch, and the events that followed it, the interest of the bystanders
was wound up to the highest pitch. There was a simplicity
in her recital of this strange and eventful story, that gave it a
force to which the most skilful eloquence might in vain aspire;
and when she concluded, the court itself, prejudiced as the members
were against the prisoner, could not help manifesting an emotion
of satisfaction at the clear and unequivocal refutation which
this plain tale inferred against the testimony of Habershaw and
his confederates. Innis alone affected to treat it lightly, and
endeavored in some degree to abate its edge, by suggesting doubts
as to the capacity of a young girl, in circumstance so likely to confuse
her, to give an exact narrative of such a complicated train of
events. Every cross-examination, however, which was directed to
the accuracy of the maiden's story, only resulted in producing a

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stronger conviction of its entire truth. This concluded the examination
on the second charge.

The court now proceeded to the third and last accusation against
the prisoner.

To this there was but one witness called—James Curry. In the
course of the examination this man showed great address and
knowledge of the world. He gave some short account of himself.
He had been a man born to a better condition of life than he now
enjoyed. His education had been liberal, and his associations in
life extremely various. It was to be inferred from his own relation,
that he had fallen into some early indiscretion which had thrown
him into the lowest stations of society, and that his original delinquency
had prevented him from ever rising above them. He had
served for many years in the army, and was present at the surrender
of Charleston, being at that period a confidential servant, or
man of business, to the young Earl of Caithness, the aide-de-camp
of Sir Henry Clinton. Upon the departure of that young nobleman
with the rest of Sir Henry's military family, for New York, he
had remained behind, and had taken a similar service to that which
he had left, with another officer of some repute. “There were
state reasons,” he said, “why this gentleman's name could not now
be communicated to the court.” That, in the month of July, he
had attended his master on a visit to Mr. Philip Lindsay, in Virginia;
and whilst in the immediate vicinity of that gentleman's
residence, at a small country tavern, he had accidentally become
privy to the design of the prisoner, and the same Horse Shoe Robinson
who had been mentioned before, to seize upon the person
and papers of Mr. Lindsay: that these two persons had actually
arrived at the tavern he spoke of to commence operations. That
he had overheard them discussing the whole plan; and he had no
doubt they had allies at hand to assist in the scheme, and would
have proceeded that same night to put it in execution, if he had
not frustrated their design at the risk of his life. That, with the
view of interrupting this enterprise, he had lured Robinson, the
companion of the prisoner, to walk with him at night to the margin
of a small river near the tavern, where he accused him of the
treacherous design which he and his comrade had in view: that,
in consequence of this, Robinson had endeavored to take his life,

[figure description] Page 301.[end figure description]

which was only saved by a severe struggle; and that, being thus
discovered in their purpose, this man, Robinson, and the prisoner
had made a hasty retreat towards Gates's head-quarters.

Such was in effect the narrative of James Curry, which was
solemnly given upon oath. Butler was for some moments confounded
with astonishment at the audacity of this falsehood. He
urged to the court the improbability of the whole story. “It
would have been easy,” he said, “if I had been hostile to Mr.
Philip Lindsay—which, God knows, there are most cogent reasons
to disprove—it would have been easy to procure his arrest without
an attempt at a violent seizure by me. I had only to speak, and
the whole country around him would have united in treating him
as an object of suspicion, on account of his politics.” He admitted
that he was at Mrs. Dimock's at the time spoken of—that Robinson
attended him there; but all else that had been said relating
to the visit, he affirmed to be utterly false. He gave the particulars
of the meeting between Horse Shoe and the witness, as he
had it from Robinson; and spoke also of his knowledge of the
visit of Tyrrel at the Dove Cote—“which person,” he said, “he
had reason to believe, came under a name not his own.”

“How do you happen to be so familiar,” inquired Innis, “with
the affairs of Mr. Lindsay?”

“That question,” replied Butler, “as it refers to matters entirely
private and personal, I must decline to answer.”

Curry, upon a second examination, re-affirmed all he had said
before, and commented with a great deal of dexterity upon Butler's
statement, particularly in reference to such parts of it as the
prisoner's repeated refusal to answer had left in doubt. After a
protracted examination upon this point, the trial was at length
closed, and Butler was ordered back to his apartment in the farm-house.

Here he remained for the space of half an hour, an interval that
was passed by him in the most distressing doubt and anxiety. The
whole proceeding of the court boded ill to him. The haste of his
trial, the extraordinary nature of the charges, and the general unsympathizing
demeanor of the court itself, only spoke to his mind
as evidences of a concealed hostility, which sought to find a plausible
pretext for making him a sacrifice to some private malevolence.

[figure description] Page 302.[end figure description]

He was therefore prepared to expect the worst when, at the close
of the half hour, St. Jermyn entered his chamber.

“I come, sir,” said the officer, “to perform a melancholy duty.
The court have just concluded their deliberations.”

“And I am to be a sacrifice to their vengeance. Well, so be it!
There was little need of deliberation in my case, and they have
soon despatched it,” said Butler, with a bitter spirit, as he paced
up and down his narrow chamber. “What favor have these, my
impartial judges, vouchsafed to me in my last moment? Shall I
die as a common felon, on a gibbet, or am I to meet a soldier's
doom?”

“That has been thought of,” said St. Jermyn. “The commanding
officer has no disposition to add unnecessary severity to your
unhappy fate.”

“Thank God for that! and that the files detailed for this service
are to be drawn from the ranks of my enemies! I will face
them as proudly as I have ever done on the field of battle. Leave
me sir; I have matters in my thought that require I should be
alone.”

“Your time, I fear, is brief,” said St. Jermyn. “The guard is
already at hand to conduct you to the court, who only stay to pass
sentence. I came before to break the unhappy news to you.”

“It is no news to me,” interrupted Butler. “I could expect no
other issue to the wicked designs by which I have been seized. This
solemn show of a trial was only got up to give color to a murderous
act which has been long predetermined.”

At this moment, the heavy and regular tap of the drum, struck
at equal intervals, and a mournful note from a fife, reached the
prisoner's ear.

“I come!” exclaimed Butler. “These fellows are practising their
manual for an occasion in which they appear impatient to act.
One would think, Captain St. Jermyn,” he added, with a smile of
scorn, “that they needed but little practice to accomplish them for
a ceremony which has of late, since his majesty has extended his
merciful arm over this province, grown to be a familiar piece of
military punctilio.”'

St. Jermyn hastily fled from the room, and rushing out upon the
grass-plot where the guard was collected, cried out:

[figure description] Page 303.[end figure description]

“Silence, you base and worthless knaves! Is it thus you would
insult the sufferings of an unfortunate enemy, by drumming, under
his very ear, your cursed death-notes? Strike but one note upon
that drum again, and I will have you up to the halberds.”

“The music did but try a flourish of the dead march,” replied
the sergeant of the guard; “they are a little rusty, and seeing that
the Whig officer”—

“Another word, sir, and you shall be sent to the provost-marshal.
Attend the prisoner.”

“I am here,” said Butler, who had overheard this conversation,
and had already descended to the door.

With a mournful and heavy heart, though with a countenance
that concealed his emotions under an air of proud defiance, he took
his place in the ranks, and marched to the spot where the court
were yet assembled.

“A chair for the prisoner,” said some of the individuals present,
with an officious alacrity to serve him.

“I would rather stand,” replied Butler. “It is my pleasure to
hear the behests of my enemies in the attitude a soldier would
choose to meet his foe in the field.”

“Mine is a painful duty, Major Butler,” said Innis, rising, as he
addressed the prisoner. “It is to announce to you that, after a
full and most impartial trial, in which you have had the advantage
of the freest examination of witnesses, and every favor accorded to
you which the usages and customs of war allow, you have been
found guilty of two of the charges imputed to you in the list with
which you were furnished this morning. Notwithstanding the
satisfactory testimony which was given in your behalf by the girl
Mary Musgrove, in relation to your conduct at the house of Adair,
and however disposed the court were to abandon an accusation
which thus seemed to be refuted, it has occurred to them, upon
subsequent reflection, that, by your own confession—given, sir,
permit me to say, with the frankness of a soldier—you came into
this district in disguise and under false names, and thus enabled
yourself to collect information relative to the condition of the royal
forces, which it was doubtless your purpose to use to our detriment.
The court, for a moment, might have led you to entertain hope
that they were satisfied that in this charge you had been wronged.

[figure description] Page 304.[end figure description]

The simple, affecting, and, no doubt, true narrative made by the
miller's daughter produced a momentary sensation that was too
powerful to be combated. That narrative, however, does not
relieve you from the effect of your own confessions, since both
may be true, and the charge still remain unimpaired against
you.

“The offence of breaking your parole and infringing the terms
of the capitulation of Charleston, is open to a legal doubt, and,
therefore, in tenderness to you, has not been pressed; although
the court think, that the very circumstance of its doubtful character
should have inculcated upon you the necessity of the most
scrupulous avoidance of service in the conquered province.

“The last charge against you is fully proved. Not a word of
counter evidence has been offered. Strictly speaking, by the usages
of war, this would not be an offence for the notice of a military
tribunal. The perpetrators of it would be liable to such vindictive
measures as the policy of the conqueror might choose to adopt.
That we have given you, therefore, the benefit of an inquiry, you
must regard as an act of grace, springing out of our sincere desire
to do you ample justice. The nature of the offence imputed and
proved is such as, at this moment, every consideration of expediency
demands should be visited with exemplary punishment. The
friends of the royal cause, wherever they may reside, shall be protected
from the wrath of the rebel government; and we have,
therefore, no scruple in saying, that the attempt upon the
person of Mr. Philip Lindsay requires a signal retribution. But
for this last act, the court might have been induced to overlook
all your other trespasses. Upon this, however, there is no hesitation.

“Such being the state of the facts ascertained by this tribunal,
its function ceases with its certificate of the truth of what has been
proved before it. The rest remains to me. Without the form of
an investigation, I might, as the commanding officer of a corps on
detached service, and by virtue of special power conferred upon me,
have made up a private judgment in the case. I have forborne to do
that, until, by the sanction of a verdict of my comrades, I might
assure myself that I acted on the clearest proofs. These have been
rendered.

[figure description] Page 305.[end figure description]

“My order, therefore, is, in accordance with the clear decision of
the court,—and, speaking to a soldier, I use no unnecessary phrase
of condolence,—that you be shot to death. Time presses on us and
forbids delay. You will be conducted to immediate execution.
Major Frazer,” he said, turning to one of his officers, “to your
discretion I commit this unpleasant duty.” Then, in a tone of
private direction, he added, “Let it be done without delay; pomp
and ceremony are out of place in such a matter. I wish to have
it despatched at once.”

“I would speak,” said Butler, repressing the agitation of his
feelings, and addressing Innis with a stern solemnity, “not to
implore your mercy, nor to deprecate your sentence: even if I could
stoop to such an act of submission, I know my appeal would reach
your ears like the idle wind: but I have private affairs to
speak of.”

“They were better untold, sir,” interrupted Innis with an affected
air of indifference. “I can listen to nothing now. We have other
business to think of. These last requests and settlements of private
affairs are always troublesome,” he muttered in a tone just audible
to the officers standing near him; “they conjure up useless sympathies.”

“I pray you, sir,” interposed St. Jermyn.

“It is in vain, I cannot hear it,” exclaimed the commander, evidently
struggling to shake from his mind an uncomfortable weight.
“These are woman's requests! God's mercy! How does this
differ from death upon the field of battle? a soldier is always
ready. Ha! What have we here?” he exclaimed, as a trooper
rode up to the group. “Where are you from? What news?”

“A vidette from Rocky Mount,” answered the horseman. “I am
sent to inform you that, yesterday, Sumpter defeated three hundred
of our people on the Catawba, and has made all that were ahve,
prisoners, besides capturing fifty or sixty wagons of stores which
the detachment had under convoy for Camden.”

The first inquiries that followed this communication related to
Sumpter's position, and especially whether he was advancing
towards this camp.

“He is still upon Catawba, tending northwards,” replied the
vidette.

[figure description] Page 306.[end figure description]

“Then we are free from danger,” interrupted Innis. “I am
stripping the feathers from a bird to-day that is worth half of Sumpter's
prize,” he added, with a revengeful smile, to an officer who
stood by him.

During this interval, in which the commander of the post was engaged
with the vidette, the guard had conducted the prisoner back to
the house, and Innis, freed from the restraint of Butler's presence,
now gave way to the expression of a savage exultation at the
power which the events of the morning had given him, to inflict
punishment upon one that he termed an audacious rebel. “The
chances jump well with us,” he said, “when they enable us to
season the joy of these ragged traitors, by so notable a deed as the
execution of one of their shrewdest emissaries. This fellow Butler
has consideration amongst them, and fortune too: at least he had
it, but that has gone into better hands; and, to say truth, he has a
bold and mischievous spirit. The devil has instigated him to cross
our path; he shall have the devil's comfort for it. The whole party
taken did you say?”—

“Every man, sir,” replied the vidette.

“How many men had this skulking fellow, Sumpter, at his back?”

“They say about seven hundred.”

“And did the cowards strike to seven hundred rebels?”

“They were tangled with the wagons,” said the soldier, “and
were set on unawares, on the bank of the river, at the lower ferry.”

“Aye, that's the way! An ambuscade, no doubt,—a piece of
cowardly bush-fighting. Fresh men against poor devils worn
down by long marching! Well, well, I have a good requital for
the rascally trick. Major Butler's blood will weigh heavy in the
scale, or I am mistaken! Come, gentlemen, let us to quarters—we
must hold a council.”

“Here is a letter,” said one of the officers of the court, “which
I have this moment found on the table, under my sword belt; it
seems, from its address, to contain matter of moment. How it came
here does not appear.”

“`To Colonel Innis, or any other officer commanding a corps in
his majesty's service,”' said Innis, reading the superscription;
“besides, here is something significant, `for life or death, with
speed.' What can this mean?” he added, as he broke open the

[figure description] Page 307.[end figure description]

paper and ran his eyes hastily over the contents. St. George!
here is something strange, gentlemen. Listen!—

“`By ill luck I have fallen into the possession of the Whigs. They have
received intelligence of the capture of Major Butler, and, apprehending that
some mischief might befal him, have constrained me to inform you that my
life will be made answerable for any harsh treatment that he may receive
at the hands of our friends. They are resolute men, and will certainly
make me the victim of their retaliation.

“Treason and forgery, paltry forgery!” exclaimed Innis, with a
smile of derision, as he finished reading the letter. “What ho!
tell Frazer to lead out the prisoner, and despatch him without a
moment's delay. So much for this shallow artifice!”

“A base forgery,” said one of the officers in attendance, “and
doubtless the work of the rebel major himself. He will die with
this silly lie upon his conscience. St. Jermyn, here!” cried out
the same officer to the captain, who was now at some distance,
“here is an attempt to put a trick upon us by a counterfeit of your
brother's hand, telling a most doleful and improbable falsehood.
Look at it.”

St. Jermyn read the letter, and suddenly turning pale, exclaimed:
“Sir, this is no trick. It is my brother's own writing. He is in
the custody of the Whigs! How came this here? Who brought
it? When was it written? Can nobody tell me?”

“Tut, St. Jermyn!” interrupted the officer, smiling, “you surely
cannot be imposed upon by such a device. Look at the scrawl
again. In truth, are you sure of it, man?” he inquired with great
surprise, as he perceived the increasing paleness of St. Jermyn's
brow.

“My brother's life is in imminent danger,” replied St. Jermyn,
with intense earnestness. “Colonel Innis, as you value my happiness,
I entreat you, countermand the order for the prisoner's execution.
I implore you, respect this letter; it is genuine, and I dread
the consequences. My poor brother, the youngest of my family,

[figure description] Page 308.[end figure description]

and the special darling of his parents! For heaven's sake, good
colonel, pause until we learn something more of this mysterious
business.”

“For your sake, my friend, and until we can investigate this
matter,” said Innis, “let the execution be suspended.”

St. Jermyn instantly hurried to the guard, to communicate the
new order.

“Whence comes this missive?” demanded Innis. “It has
neither date nor place described. Who brought it? Did any one
see the bearer?” he asked aloud of the bystanders.

No one answered except the officer who had first discovered
the paper. “I know nothing more than what you see. It was
here upon the table. How long it had been there I cannot tell.”

“It is strange,” continued Innis. “Can this young St. Jermyn
have fallen in with Sumpter? Or, after all, is it not an ingenious
forgery which has deceived our friend the captain? Still, who
could have brought it here?”

The letter was again examined by every individual present.

“It must be genuine,” said one of the officers, shaking his head.
“Captain St. Jermyn was very much in earnest, and it is not likely
he could be deceived. It has been mysteriously deposited here by
some agent of the Whigs. The person should be found, and compelled
to give us more specific information. This matter must be
looked to; the ensign, I doubt not, is in perilous circumstances.”

“Let the prisoner be strictly guarded, and held to wait our future
pleasure,” said Innis. “I would not put in jeopardy the young
ensign's life. A reward of twenty guineas shall be given to any
one who brings me the bearer of this letter. And you, Lieutenant
Connelly, take thirty troopers, and scour the country round to gain
intelligence of this capture of Edgar St. Jermyn. Be careful to
examine every man you meet, as to the presence of Whig parties in
this district. Away instantly, and do not return without tidings
of this singular event.”

The camp, by these occurrences, was thrown into great bustle.
The prisoner was securely lodged in his former quarters, and placed
under a double guard; consultations were held amongst the
officers; and Butler himself was strictly interrogated in regard to
the appearance of this mysterious letter, of the contents of which

[figure description] Page 309.[end figure description]

he was yet ignorant. The examination threw no light on the
affair; and, very soon afterwards, a troop of horse were seen sallying
beyond the limits of the camp, under Lieutenant Connelly, to
seek information of the fate of Ensign St. Jermyn.

CHAPTER XXVI. THE SERGEANT AND HIS COMRADE PROJECT AN EXPEDITION WHICH FURNISHES THE ENSIGN AN OPPORTUNITY OF ENJOYING THE PICTURESQUE.

[figure description] Page 310.[end figure description]

As soon as David Ramsay had departed with the maiden for
Musgrove's mill, Robinson ordered his own and Christopher Shaw's
horse to be saddled, and another to be made ready for St. Jermyn.
His next care was to determine upon a secure place of retreat—
reflecting that the news of the capture of the ensign must soon
reach the British posts, and that the country would be industriously
explored with a view to his rescue. A spot known to the
woodsmen of this region by the name of the Devil's Ladder,
which was situated in the defile of a mountain brook that emptied
into the Ennoree, occurred to Christopher Shaw as the most secret
fastness within their reach. This spot lay some twenty miles
westward of Ramsay's, accessible by roads but little known, and
surrounded by a district which grew more wild and rugged the
nearer it approached the defile.

Here it was supposed the party might arrive by daylight the
next morning, and remain for a few days at small risk of discovery;
and thither, accordingly, it was resolved they should repair.

This being settled, Horse Shoe now procured a supply of provisions
from Mistress Ramsay, and then proceeded to arm himself
with the sword and pistols of the ensign, whilst Christopher
suspended across his body the sword of Goliath, as the sergeant
called the brand he had snatched up at Blackstock's, and also took
possession of one of the captured muskets.

“If it don't go against your conscience, Mistress Ramsay,” said
Horse Shoe, when the preparations for the journey were completed,
“I would take it as a favor, in case any interlopers mought happen
to pop in upon you, if you would just drop a hint that you have

[figure description] Page 311.[end figure description]

hearn that Sumpter's people had been seen about these parts. It
would have an amazing good bearing on the Tories. Besides
making them wary how they strayed about the woods it would be
sure to put the bloodhounds on a wrong scent, if they should
chance to be sarching for the young ensign. I know you women
are a little ticklish about a fib, but then it's an honest trick of the war
sometimes. And, to make you easy about it, it will be no more
than the truth to say you did hear it—for, you obsarve, I tell you
so now.”

“But,” replied the scrupulous matron, “if they should ask me
who told me, what should I answer?”

“Why,” said the sergeant, hesitating, “just out with it—tell 'em
you heard it from one Horse Shoe Robinson; that'll not make the
news the worse in point of credit. And be sure, good woman,
above all things, to remind David, when he gets back to night,
that the rank and file, in our prison yonder, are not to be turned
loose before three o'clock in the morning.”

This last caution was repeated to Andy, who still performed the
duty of a sentinel at the door of the out-house. All things being
now arranged for their departure, Ensign St. Jermyn was brought
from the chamber where he had been confined, and was invited to
join the sergeant and Christopher at supper before they set out.
This meal was ably and rapidly discussed by the stout yeomen, and
scarcely less honored by the prisoner, whom the toils and privations
of the day had brought to enjoyment of a good appetite.

With many cheering and kind expressions of encouragement
from the sergeant, the young officer prepared to comply with the
demands of his captors, and was soon in readiness to attend them.
Robinson lifted him into his saddle with a grasp as light as if he
was dealing with a boy, and then bound him by a surcingle to the
horse's back, whilst he offered a good-humored apology for the
rigor of this treatment.

“It is not the most comfortable way of riding, Mr. Ensign,” he
said, with a chuckle; “but fast bind, fast find, is a'most an
excellent good rule for a traveller in the dark. I hope you don't
think I take any pleasure in oncommoding you, but it is my
intention to lead your horse by the rein to-night, and this friend of
mine will keep in the rear. So, by way of a caution, I would just

[figure description] Page 312.[end figure description]

signify to you that if you should think of playing a prank you
will certainly bring some trouble upon your head—as one or
another of us would in that case be obliged to fire. It is nothing
more than military punctilium to give you a friendly warning of
this.”

“You might dispense with this severity, I should think,” replied
the prisoner, “upon my pledge of honor that I will make no effort
to escape.”

“I can take no pledge in the dark,” returned Horse Shoe;
“daylight mought make a difference. If we should happen to fall
in with any of your gangs I'm thinking a pledge wouldn't come to
much more than a cobweb when I should ax you to gallop out of
the way of your own people. Flesh is weak, as the preacher says,
and, to my mind, it's a little the weaker when the arm is strong or
the foot swift. Temptation is at the bottom of all backsliding.
No, no, Mr. Ensign, you may get away, if you can; we'll take care
of you whilst we're able—that's a simple understanding.”

Without further speech the party proceeded on their journey.
They travelled as rapidly as was consistent with the ease of
the prisoner and the nature of the ground over which they had
to move. For the first eight or ten miles, their route lay across
a country with but few impediments, except such as arose
from the unseasonable hour of the ride. After this they found the
toil and hazard of travel continually increasing. They had been
retreating from the settled country towards a rough wilderness,
which was penetrated only by an obscure road, so little beaten as
to be scarcely discernible in the faint starlight, and which it
required all Christopher's skill in woodcraft to follow. Our
travellers, consequently, often lost their way, and were obliged to
get down from their horses and grope about to ascertain the path.
The stars had shone all night through a cloudless firmament, but
the deep shade of the forest thickened around the wanderers, and
it was frequently with difficulty, even, that they could discern each
other's figures.

They reached at length the small stream upon whose banks,
some miles above, was situated the place to which their steps were
directed; and they were thus rendered more sure of their road, as
they had only to follow the ascending course of the brook. The

[figure description] Page 313.[end figure description]

delays and impediments of the journey had nearly outrun the
night, and whilst our travellers were yet some two or three miles
from their destination, the first traces of morning began to appear
in the east. The increasing light disclosed to them the nature of
the scenery around. A limpid rivulet tumbled over a rocky
channel, girt with a profusion of brush and briar, amongst which
were scattered a thousand wild-flowers, that, renovated by the dew,
threw forth a delicious perfume. A succession of abrupt hills,
covered with the varied foliage of a rich forest growth, bounded
the brook on either side. Occasional rocks jutted above the heads
of the travellers as they wound along the paths, worn by the wild
cattle in the bottom of the dell.

Both Robinson and Shaw had dismounted when they entered
this defile, and whilst the former led the horse of the prisoner his
companion preceded him to explore the doubtful traces of the
road, which frequently became so obscure as to render it necessary
to seek a passage in the bed of the stream. During all this
progress Horse Shoe's good nature and light-heartedness were
unabated. He conversed with the prisoner in the same terms of
friendly familiarity that he did with Shaw, and neglected no
attention that might in any degree relieve the irksomeness of
St. Jermyn's necessary thraldom.

That peculiar conformation of country which had given rise to
the name of the place to which they were conducting the prisoner,
was now to be discerned at some little distance ahead. It
presented a series of bold crags of granite intermixed with slate,
in which rock piled upon rock presented a succession of shelves,
each beetling over its base, and thus furnishing a shelter against
the weather. Some of these were situated near the bank of the
stream, projecting over the water, whilst others towered at different
heights, in such a manner as to bear a resemblance to a flight
of huge steps cut in the slope of the mountain, and by this likeness,
doubtless, suggesting the imaginative name by which the
spot was known to the few hunters to whom it was familiar. The
cavern-like structure of these ledges abundantly supplied the
means of concealment to both men and horses, from the casual
notice of such persons as accident might have brought into this
sequestered defile.

[figure description] Page 314.[end figure description]

When the party arrived at the foot of the Devil's Ladder, it was
with great satisfaction to all that they now made a halt. A short
time was spent in selecting a spot, amongst the impending cliffs,
of such a character as might afford the advantage of shelter, as
well as the means of ready look-out and escape in case of discovery
or pursuit. The place chosen was about half way up the hill,
where the ridge of a promontory enabled the occupants to see
some distance up and down the valley; whilst the crag itself contained
within its recesses a chamber sufficiently large for the purpose
to which it was to be applied. A natural platform, near this
point, allowed sufficient space for the horses, which might be conducted
there by a sideling path up the slope; at the same time,
the means of retreat were furnished by the nature of the ground
towards the top of the hill.

To this place of security the ensign was ordered by his guard,
and, being released from his bonds, he dismounted and threw
himself at length upon the mossy surface of the rock, where he
lay wearied in body and dejected in mind. The horses were taken
in charge by Shaw; provisions were produced, and all arrangements
of caution and comfort were made for passing the next two
or three days in this wild sojourn.

Here, for the present, we must leave our adventurers, to tell of
other matters that are proper to be made known to the reader of
this history.

In due time David Ramsay returned from Musgrove's. Precisely
at three o'clock in the morning, the soldiers were released
according to the terms of the parole; and my reader will, no
doubt, be pleased to hear that Andy, being discharged from duty,
went to bed as drowsy as e'er a man of mould after a feat of
glory, and slept with a sleep altogether worthy of his heroic
achievement.

The next day passed by, at Ramsay's dwelling, with a varied
and fearful interest to his family. They had received intelligence,
before night, of the event of Butler's trial, and had reason to
rejoice that Mary Musgrove had so played her part in the delivery
of the letter. They were apprised also of the reward that had
been offered for the discovery of the bearer of this letter, and were
informed that detachments of horse were out to scour the country

[figure description] Page 315.[end figure description]

in quest of the ensign. These tidings filled them with apprehension.
It occurred to Ramsay that if, perchance, the released prisoners
should fall in with any of the parties of the loyalists, they
would of course relate their story, and thus bring down the full
rancor of the Tory wrath upon his household: this would also
lead with more certainty to the pursuit of Horse Shoe. There
was still good reason to hope that the liberated men might not so
soon be able to give the alarm; inasmuch as they were more likely
to shape their course towards Fort Ninety-Six than to repair to
Innis's camp, where they might be forced to do duty, as much
against their inclinations as against their parole. They might
even, from a natural aversion to labor, prefer loitering about the
country rather than put themselves voluntarily in the way of
military operations.

“Come what will of it,” said Ramsay, summing up the chances
for and against him; “I will be ready for the worst. Many better
men have given all they had to the cause of independence, and I
will not flinch from giving my share. They may burn and break
down; but, thank God, I have a country—aye, and a heart and
an arm to stand by it!”

On the same evening, towards sun-down, a horseman drew up
his rein at Ramsay's door. He was young—in the prime of early
manhood, his dress was that of a rustic, his equipment showed
him to be a traveller—a weary one, from the plight of his horse,
and, like most travellers of the time, well armed. He did not
stand to summon any one to the door, but put his hand upon the
latch with eager haste, and entered with the familiarity of one
acquainted with the place. Mistress Ramsay was seated at her
spinning-wheel, anxiously brooding over the tales of the day.
Her husband reclined in his chair, silently and thoughtfully smoking
his pipe. They both sprang up at once, as the visitor crossed
the threshold, and with fervent joy greeted their son John Ramsay.
The household was clamorous with the affectionate salutations
of the parents, of the brothers and sisters, and of the domestics.
John was the eldest of Ramsay's children, and had just reached his
paternal roof after an absence of some months, during which he had
been in service with Sumpter. The gathering in of the members
of a family around the domestic board, in times of peril and

[figure description] Page 316.[end figure description]

distress, is one of the luxuries of the heart that in peace we cannot
know. The arrival of John Ramsay at the present moment was
a source of the liveliest happiness to his parents. They needed a
cheerful as well as a resolute comforter. John had, only twenty-four
hours previous, left Sumpter near Rocky Mount—immediately
after the battle with the British convoy was won. He was sent
with despatches to Colonel Williams, a Whig partisan of note,
who was now supposed to be in the neighborhood of the Saluda.
These had some reference to the military movements of the parties;
and John Ramsay was permitted by Sumpter to make a
short halt at his father's house.

In the first hour after his arrival, he had given to the family
the history of his homeward ride. He had discovered that hostile
forces—of which, until his journey was nearly finished, he heard
nothing—were encamped in the neighborhood; that a court-martial
had been sitting for the trial of an American officer, as a spy, and
had condemned him to be shot. He had been apprised, moreover,
that small parties were out, riding into every corner of the country.
He himself had nearly been surprised by one of these, as he
endeavored to make his way to the house of Allen Musgrove,
where he had proposed to himself a visit, even before he came to
his father's, but, fearing something wrong, he had fled from them,
and baffled their pursuit, although they had chased him more than
a mile; he had, in consequence, been deprived of the opportunity
of visiting the miller.

“Although it is four months since we have seen you, John,” said
the dame, with a tone of affectionate chiding, “yet, you would
turn aside to get under Allen Musgrove's roof, before you thought
of the arms of your mother.”

John's sun-burnt cheek blushed crimson red as he replied, “It
was but a step out of the way, mother, and I should not have
stayed long. Mr. Musgrove and his folks are safe and well, I hope,
and Christopher?”

“Tut, boy! speak it out, and don't blush about it,” interrupted
the father briskly: “she is a good girl, and you needn't be ashamed
to name her, as you ought to have done, first and before all the
rest. Mary is well, John, and has just proved herself to be the
best girl in the country.”

[figure description] Page 317.[end figure description]

This little passage of mirth between the parents and their son,
led to a full narrative by David Ramsay of the events which had
occurred in the last two or three days, concluding with the capture
of the ensign, and the retreat of Horse Shoe and Christopher
Shaw to the Devil's Ladder. The communication wrought a grave
and thoughtful mood on the young soldier. It presented a crisis
to him for immediate action. He was wearied with a long ride,
but it seemed to him to be no time for rest.

“Father,” he said, after turning over in his thoughts the intelligence
he had just received, “it was a brave and beautiful thing
for so young a lad as Andy to do; and the taking of the ensign
has served a useful purpose, but it brings this house and family
into danger. And I fear for poor Mary. Christopher Shaw must
get back to the mill, and quickly too. His absence will bring his
uncle's family into trouble. I will take Christopher's place, and
go to Horse Shoe's assistance this night. We may take the prisoner
with us to Williams.”

“To-night!” said the mother anxiously, “you would not leave
us to-night, John?”

“Aye, to-night, wife,” answered David Ramsay, “the boy is
right, there is no time to spare.”

“Have mercy upon us,” exclaimed the dame; “to ride so far
to-night, after so heavy a journey, John!—you have not strength.”

“Dear mother,” said John, “think that you are all in danger,
and that Mary, who has behaved so well, might be suspected, and
brought to harm. I must hurry forward to Colonel Williams, and
this road by the Devil's Ladder is far out of my way. No, I am
not so much fatigued, mother, as you suppose. I will rest for a
few hours, and then try the woods. Daybreak, I warrant, shall
not find me far from Horse Shoe.”

John Ramsay was not above six-and-twenty. He was endued
with a stout and manly frame, well adapted to hard service; and
this was associated with a bold and intelligent countenance, which,
notwithstanding the dint of wind and weather, was handsome.
He had for a year or two past been actively engaged in the war,
and his manners had, in consequence, acquired that maturity and
decision which are generally found in those whose habits of life
render them familiar with perils. On the present occasion he

[figure description] Page 318.[end figure description]

regarded the necessity of co-operation with Robinson as so urgent,
that no other thought crossed his mind but that which belonged
to the care of putting himself in condition to make his services
effectual.

With this view he now directed his horse to be carefully tended;
then, having taken a hearty meal, he retired to rest, desiring that
he might be waked up at midnight, when he proposed to follow
the path of Horse Shoe and his comrade.

CHAPTER XXVII. A RETREAT AFTER THE MANNER OF XENOPHON.

[figure description] Page 319.[end figure description]

The next morning, a little after sunrise, as Robinson was holding
the watch on the outer ledge of the rock, in a position that enabled
him to survey the approaches to the spot through the valley, as
well as to keep his eye upon the ensign and Christopher Shaw,
who were both asleep under cover of the crag, he was startled by a
distant noise of something breaking through the bushes on the
margin of the brook. At first it struck him that this was caused
by deer stalking up the stream; but he soon afterwards descried the
head and shoulders of a man, whose motions showed him to be
struggling through the thicket towards the base of the hill. This
person at length reached a space of open ground, where he halted
and looked anxiously around him, thus revealing his figure, as he
sat on horseback, to the observation of the sergeant, who, in the
meantime, had taken advantage of a low pine tree and a jutting
angle of a rock to screen himself from the eager eye of the traveller—
at least until he should be satisfied as to the other's character
and purpose.

A loud and cheerful halloo, several times repeated by the
stranger, seemed to indicate his quest of a lost companion; and
this gradually drew the sergeant, with a weary motion, from his
hiding-place, until assuring himself that the comer was alone, he
stept out to the edge of the shelf of rock, and presenting his musket,
peremptorily gave the common challenge of “Who goes there?”

“A friend to Horse Robinson,” was the reply of the visitor, in
whom my reader recognises John Ramsay.

Before further question might be asked and answered, John had
dismounted from his horse and clambered to the platform, where
he greeted the sergeant and the hastily-awakened Christopher
Shaw, with a hearty shake of the hand; and then proceeded to

[figure description] Page 320.[end figure description]

communicate the pressing objects of his visit, and to relate all that
he had learned of the recent events during his short stay at his
father's house.

In the consultation that followed these disclosures, Ramsay earnestly
urged his comrades to make instant preparation to quit their
present retirement, and to attempt the enterprise of conducting the
prisoner to Williams, who was supposed to be advancing into the
neighborhood of a well known block-house, or frontier fortification,
on the Saluda, about forty miles from their present position.

The message with which Ramsay was charged from Sumpter to
Williams, made it necessary that he should endeavor to reach that
officer as soon as possible; and the sergeant, rejoicing in the
thought of being so near a strong body of allies who might render
the most essential aid to the great object of his expedition, readily
concurred in the propriety of the young trooper's proposal. This
enterprise was also recommended by the necessity of taking some
immediate steps to preserve the custody of the ensign, whose capture
had already been so serviceable to the cause of Arthur Butler.
In accordance, moreover, with John Ramsay's anxious entreaty,
Christopher Shaw, it was determined, should hasten back to the
mill at the earliest moment.

A speedy departure was, therefore, resolved on, and accordingly
all things were made ready, in the course of an hour, to commence
the march. At the appointed time the ensign was directed to
descend into the valley, where he was once more bound to his
horse. The conferences between the sergeant and his two comrades
had been held out of the hearing of the prisoner; but it was
now thought advisable to make him acquainted with the late proceedings
that had transpired with regard to Butler, and especially
with the respite that had been given to that officer by Innis. This
communication was accompanied by an intimation that he would
best consult his own comfort and safety by a patient submission to
the restrictions that were put upon him: inasmuch as his captors
had no disposition to vex him with any other precautions than
were necessary for his safe detention during the present season of
peril to Butler.

With this admonition the party began their journey. The first
two or three hours were occupied in returning, by the route of the

[figure description] Page 321.[end figure description]

valley, to the Ennoree. When they reached the river they found
themselves relieved from the toils of the narrow and rugged path
by which they had threaded the wild mountain dell, and introduced
into an undulating country covered with forest, and intersected
by an occasional but unfrequented road leading from one
settlement to another. Here Christopher Shaw was to take leave of
his companions, his path lying along the bank of the Ennoree, whilst
the route to be pursued by the others crossed the river and extended
thence southwards to the Saluda. The young miller turned his horse's
head homewards, with some reluctance at parting with his friends
in a moment of such interest, and bore with him many messages
of comfort and courage to those whom he was about to rejoin—and
more particularly from the sergeant to Butler, in case Christopher
should have the good fortune to be able to deliver them. At the
same time, Horse Shoe and John Ramsay, with the prisoner, forded
the Ennoree, and plunged into the deep forest that lay upon its
further bank.

For several hours they travelled with the greatest circumspection,
avoiding the frequented roads and the chance of meeting such wayfarers
as might be abroad on their route. It was a time of great
anxiety and suspense, but the habitual indifference of military life
gave an air of unconcern to the conduct of the soldiers, and
scarcely affected, in any visible degree, the cheerfulness of their
demeanor.

They reached, at length, the confines of a cultivated country—
a region which was known to be inhabited by several Tory families.
To avoid the risk of exposure to persons who might be unfriendly
to their purpose, they thought it prudent to delay entering upon
this open district until after sunset, that they might continue their
journey through the night. The difficulty of ascertaining their
road in the dark, and the danger of seeking information from the
few families whose habitations occurred to their view, necessarily
rendered their progress slow. The time was, therefore, passed in
weary silence and persevering labor, in the anxious contemplation
of the probability of encountering some of the enemy's scouts.

At the break of day they stopped to refresh themselves; and the
contents of Horse Shoe's wallet, unhappily reduced to a slender
supply of provisions, were distributed amongst the party. During

[figure description] Page 322.[end figure description]

this halt, John Ramsay commanded the ensign to exchange his
dress with him; and our faithful ally was converted, by this traffic,
for the nonce, into a spruce, well-looking, and gay young officer
of the enemy's line.

The most hazardous portion of their journey now lay before
them. They were within a few miles of the Saluda, from whence,
at its nearest point, it was some six or seven more down the stream
to the Block-house—the appointed rendezvous, where it was yet a
matter of uncertainty whether Williams had arrived. The space
between the travellers and the river was a fertile and comparatively
thickly-peopled region, of which the inhabitants were almost
entirely in the Tory interest. The broad day-light having over-taken
them on the confines of this tract, exposed them to the
greatest risk of being questioned. They had nothing left but to
make a bold effort to attain the river by the shortest path; and
thence to pursue the bank towards the rendezvous.

“Courage, John,” said Horse Shoe, smiling at the new garb of
his comrade; “you may show your pretty feathers to-day to them
that are fond of looking at them. And you, my young clodpole,
ride like an honest Whig, or I mought find occasion to do a discomfortable
thing, by putting a bullet through and through you.
Excuse the liberty, sir, for these are ticklish times; but I shall
ondoubtedly be as good as my word.”

Our adventurers soon resumed their journey. They had come
within a mile of the Saluda without interruption, and began to
exchange congratulations that the worst was passed, when they
found themselves descending a sharp hill which jutted down upon
an extensive piece of pasture ground. One boundary of this was
watered by a brook, along whose margin a fringe of willows, intermixed
with wild shrubbery of various kinds, formed a screen some
ten or fifteen feet in height. As soon as this range of meadow was
observed, our cautious soldiers halted upon the brow of the hill to
reconnoitre; and perceiving nothing to excite their apprehension,
they ventured down, upon the track of an ill-defined road, which
took a direction immediately over the broadest portion of the field.

They had scarcely crossed the brook at the bottom of the hill,
before they heard the remote voices of men in conversation, and
the tones of a careless laugh. On looking towards the upper

[figure description] Page 323.[end figure description]

section of the stream, they were aware of a squad of loyalist cavalry,
who came riding, in the shade of the willows, directly towards the
spot where the travellers had entered upon the meadow. The
party consisted of seven or eight men, who were, at this instant, not
more than one hundred paces distant.

“They are upon us, sergeant!” exclaimed John Ramsay.
“Make sure of the prisoner: retreat as rapidly as you can. Leave
me to myself. Make for the Block-house—I will meet you there.”

With these hasty intimations, he pricked his courser up to full
speed, and shaped his flight directly across the open field, in full
view of the enemy.

Horse Shoe, at the same moment, drew a pistol, cocked it, and
throwing the rein of St. Jermyn's horse into the hands of the rider,
he cried out:—

“Back across the branch and into the woods! Push for it, or
you are a dead man! On, on!” he added, as he rode at high
speed immediately beside the ensign; “a stumble, or a whisper
above your breath, and you get the bullet. Fly—your life is in
your horse's heels!”

The resolute tone of the sergeant had its effect upon his prisoner,
who yielded a ready obedience to the pressing orders, and bounded
into the thicket with as much alacrity as if flying from an enemy.

Meanwhile, the troopers, struck with the earnest haste of one
whose dress bespoke a British officer, speeding across the field, did
not doubt that they had afforded this timely opportunity for the
escape of a prisoner from the hands of the Whigs.

“Wheel up, lads,” shouted the leader of the squad, “it is the
ensign! Wheel up and form a platoon to cut off the pursuit. We
have him safe out of their clutches!”

Impressed with the conviction that a considerable force of Whig
cavalry were at hand, the troopers directed all their efforts to cover
what they believed Ensign St. Jermyn's retreat, and were now seen
formed into a platoon, and moving towards the middle of the plain,
in such a manner as to place themselves between the fugitive and
his supposed pursuers. Here they delayed a few minutes, as if expecting
an attack; until finding that the object of their solicitude
had safely crossed the field and plunged into the distant woods,
they rode away at a rapid pace in the same direction. When they

[figure description] Page 324.[end figure description]

reached the further extremity of the open ground, they halted for
an instant, turned their eyes back towards the spot of their first
discovery, and, finding that no attempt was made to follow, gave a
hearty huzza, and rode onward in search of their prize.

The stratagem had completely succeeded; Ramsay had escaped,
and Horse Shoe had withdrawn his prisoner into the neighboring
wood upon the hill, where he was able to observe the whole scene.
After a brief interval, the sergeant resumed his journey, and, with
all necessary circumspection, bent his steps towards the river, where
he arrived without molestation, and thence he continued his march
in the direction of the rendezvous.

John Ramsay did not stop until he had crossed the Saluda and
advanced a considerable distance on the opposite bank, where, to
his great joy, he was encountered by a look-out party of Williams's
regiment. Our fugitive had some difficulty in making himself
known to his friends, and escaping the salutation which an enemy
was likely to obtain at their hands; but when he surrendered to
them, and made them acquainted with the cause of his disguise,
the party instantly turned about with him, and proceeded in quest
of the sergeant and his prisoner.

It was not long before they fell in with the small detachment of
Connelly's troopers,—as the late masters of the meadow turned out
to be—who were leisurely returning from their recent exploit.
These, finding themselves in the presence of superior numbers,
turned to flight. Not far behind them Ramsay and his new companions
encountered Horse Shoe; and the whole party proceeded
without delay to Williams's camp.

Colonel Williams had reached the Block-house on the preceding
evening with a force of two hundred cavalry. Clarke and Shelby
happened, at this juncture, to be with him; and these three gallant
partisans were now anxiously employed in arranging measures for
that organized resistance to the Tory Dominion which fills so striking
a chapter in the history of the Southern war, and which it had
been the special object of Butler's mission to promote. Horse
Shoe was enabled to communicate to Williams and his confederates
the general purpose of this mission, and the disasters which had
befallen Butler in his attempt to reach those with whom he was to
co-operate. This intelligence created a lively interest in behalf of

[figure description] Page 325.[end figure description]

the captive, and it was instantly determined to make some strenuous
effort for his deliverance. Whilst these matters were brought
into consultation by the leaders, Horse Shoe and John Ramsay
mingled amongst the soldiers, in the enjoyment of that fellowship
which forms the most agreeable feature in the associations of the
camp.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

BUTLER'S DIFFICULTIES INCREASE.—INNIS FINDS OCCASION TO THINK
OF THE ADAGE—“THERE'S MANY A SLIP BETWIXT THE CUP AND
THE LIP.”

[figure description] Page 326.[end figure description]

When Arthur Butler was conducted back to his place of confinement,
after his trial, orders were given that no one should be allowed
to approach him, except the officer to whom was intrusted his safe
custody. The intercourse of this person with him was short; and
concerned only with the scant accommodation which his condition
required. He was, therefore, deprived of all chance of becoming
acquainted with the extraordinary events that had led to his present
respite from death. In the interrogations that had, during the
first moments of excitement, been put to him, in regard to the letter,
he was not told its import; from what quarter it had come;
nor how it affected his fate. He only knew, by the result, that it
had suspended the purpose of his immediate execution; and he
saw that it had produced great agitation at head-quarters. He
found, moreover, that this, or some other cause, had engendered a
degree of exasperation against him, that showed itself in the retrenchment
of his comforts, and in the augmented rigor of his
confinement.

Agitated with a thousand doubts, his mind was too busy to permit
him to close his eyes during the night that followed; and in
this wakeful suspense he could sometimes hear, amongst the occasional
ramblers who passed under his window, an allusion, in their
conversation, to a victory gained over the royal troops. Coupling
this with the name of Sumpter, which was now and then uttered
with some adjective of disparagement, he conjectured that Horse
Shoe had probably fallen in with that partisan, and was, peradventure,
leading him to this vicinity. But this conclusion was

[figure description] Page 327.[end figure description]

combated by the fact that there seemed to be no alarm in the camp,
nor any preparations on foot either for instant battle or retreat.
Then the letter—that was a mystery altogether impenetrable.
There was only one point upon which his mind could rest with satisfaction:
of that he was sure—Horse Shoe was certainly at the
bottom of the scheme, and was active in his behalf.

The whole of the next day passed over in the same state of uncertainty.
It was observed by Butler, with some stress upon the
circumstance, that Captain St. Jermyn, who had heretofore evinced
a disposition to make himself busy in his behalf, had absented himself
ever since the trial; and he thus felt himself cut off from the
slightest exhibition of sympathy on the part of a single individual
in the multitude of fellow beings near him. Indeed, there were
various indications of a general personal ill-will against him. The
house, in which he was confined, was so constructed that he could
frequently hear such expressions, in the conferences of those who
inhabited the rooms below stairs, as were uttered above the lower
key of conversation, and these boded him no good. Once, during
the day, Colonel Innis visited him. This officer's countenance was
severe, and indicated anger. His purpose was to extort something
from the prisoner in reference to his supposed knowledge of the
course of operations of Sumpter, from whose camp Innis did not
doubt this letter regarding St. Jermyn had come. He spoke in a
short, quick, and peremptory tone:

“It may be well for you,” he said, “that your friends do not too
rashly brave my authority. Let me advise you to warn them that
others may fall into our hands; and that if the ensign be not
delivered up, there may be a dreadful retaliation.”

“I know not, sir, of what or whom you speak,” replied Butler;
“and it is due to my honor to say, that I will not be induced, for
the sake of saving my life, to interfere with any operations which
the soldiers of Congress may have undertaken in the cause of the
country. In this sentiment I admonish Colonel Innis that I desire
to be put in possession of no facts from him that may be communicated
under such an expectation. And having made this determination
known to you, I will add to it that, from the same motives,
I will answer no questions you can propose to me. You may
spare yourself, therefore, the useless labor of this visit. My life is

[figure description] Page 328.[end figure description]

in your hands, and I have already experienced with what justice
and clemency you will use your power when you dare.”

“A more humble tone,” said Innis, with a bitter smile, “I think
would better suit your circumstances.” And with this remark the
commandant haughtily walked out of the apartment.

The next morning, whilst Butler was taking his breakfast, which
had been brought to him by one of the soldiers of the guard, he
heard a loud cheering from the troops that at that hour were on
parade in the plain. This was followed by the discharge of a
feu de joie from the whole line, and a flourish of drums and
trumpets.

“What is that?” he inquired eagerly of the soldier, who, forgetful,
in the excitement of the moment, of the order to restrain his
intercourse with the prisoner, answered—

“They have just got the news from Camden: two days ago
Cornwallis defeated Gates, and cut his army to pieces. The troops
are rejoicing for the victory, and have just had the despatches read.”

Butler heaved a deep sigh, as he said, “Then all is lost, and
liberty is but a name! I feared it; God knows, I feared it.”

The soldier was recalled to his duty by the sentinel at the door,
and Butler was again left alone.

This was a day of crowding events. The tidings of the battle
of Camden, gained on the sixteenth, and which had early this
morning reached Innis, threw a spirit of the highest exultation
into the camp. The event was considered decisive of the fate of
the rebel power; and the most extravagant anticipations were
indulged by the loyalists, in regard to the complete subjugation
of the Whigs of the southern provinces. The work of confiscation
was to be carried out to the most bitter extreme, and the
adherents of the royal government were to grow rich upon the
spoils of victory. The soldiers of Innis were permitted to give
way to uncontrolled revelry; and, from the first promulgation of
the news, this became a day devoted to rejoicings. Innis himself
looked upon the victory at Camden with more satisfaction, as it
gave him reason to believe that the sentence pronounced against
Butler might be executed, without fear of vengeance threatened
against the Ensign St. Jermyn. He was, however, exceedingly
anxious to see this young officer released from the hands of the

[figure description] Page 329.[end figure description]

enemy; and had determined to respect the threat as long as
there was any doubt that it might be performed. The personal
consideration of Captain St. Jermyn, his station as an officer of
importance, and, above all, the great influence of his family, in
the esteem of the royal leaders, made it an object of deep concern
to Innis to save the ensign, by the most serupulous regard to his
present difficulties. His power to do so seemed to be much
increased by the late victory.

In the afternoon of the same day, further rumors were brought
to Innis's camp, importing that Sumpter had been attacked on
that morning upon the Catawba, by Tarleton, and completely
routed. The prisoners and baggage, taken on the fifteenth, had
been regained, and Sumpter was flying with the scattered remnant
of his troops towards North Carolina. At the same time an order
was brought to Innis to break up his camp and move northwards.
This only added to the shouts and rejoicings of the troops, and
drove them into deeper excesses. The war, they thought, was
coming rapidly to an end, and they already anticipated this conclusion,
by throwing off the irksomeness of military restraint.
The officers were gathered into gossiping and convivial circles;
and laughed, in unrestrained feelings of triumph, at the posture
of affairs. The private soldiers, on their part, imitated their
leaders, and formed themselves into knots and groups, where
they caroused over their cups, danced, and sang. All was frolic
and merriment.

In the midst of this festivity, a portion of Connelly's troopers,
who had now been absent forty-eight hours, arrived, and made an
immediate report to Innis. The purport of this was, that they
had found Ensign St. Jermyn in the possession of a detachment of
Whig cavalry near the Saluda: as soon as they descried him,
which they did, some three hundred paces distant, knowing him
by his scarlet uniform, they prepared to attack this party of
Whigs; but the ensign perceiving his friends at hand, had already,
by a brave effort, disentangled himself from his keepers, and taken
off into the open field. The scouts, therefore, instead of attacking
the Whigs, directed all their attention to secure the ensign's retreat,
by holding themselves ready to check the pursuit: their manœuvre
had been successful, and the prisoner was free.

[figure description] Page 330.[end figure description]

“And is now with you in the camp, my brave fellows?” said
Innis, with great exultation.

“Not yet,” replied the sergeant of the squad. “He is upon
the road, and will, no doubt, soon be here. We have not seen
him since his escape. Whilst we hung back, with a view to favor
his retreat, we fell in with a party that we took to be the escort
that had made him prisoner; and as they outnumbered us, we
thought it prudent to decline a skirmish with them. So we filed
off and made our way back to head-quarters. The ensign must
have been a good mile ahead of us, and as the road is hard to
find, he may have lost his way. But this is certain, we saw him
clear of the Whigs, with his horse's head turned towards this
camp.”

“Thank you, good friends,” said Innis; “you have performed
your duty handsomely. Go to your comrades; they have news
for you, and an extra allowance to-day. Faith, Ker, this is a day
for settling old accounts,” he continued, as he turned and addressed
an officer by his side. “Gates beaten, Sumpter beaten, and
Ensign St. Jermyn delivered from captivity! That looks well!
And now I have another account, which shall be settled on the
nail. Stirring times, Captain St. Jermyn. I congratulate you,
my friend, on your brother's safety, and mean to signalize the
event as it deserves. Major Frazer, bring out your prisoner, and
let him die the death punctually at sun-down—at sun-down, to
the minute, major. We must get that job off our hands. To-morrow,
my friends, we shall move towards Catawba, and thence
to Hanging Rock. Meantime, we must sweep up our rubbish.
So, major, look to your duty! It might as well have been done
at first,” he added, speaking to himself, as he walked away from
the group of officers to look after other affairs.

The execution of Butler was now regarded as a mere matter of
business, and to be despatched as one item of duty amongst the
thousand others that were to be looked after in the hurry of
breaking up the post. The interest of the trial had faded away
by the lapse of time, and in the more predominating excitements
which the absorbing character of the late events had afforded.
The preparations for this ceremony were, therefore, attended with
no display, and scarcely seemed to arouse inquiry amongst the

[figure description] Page 331.[end figure description]

soldiers of the camp. It was treated in all respects as a subordinate
point of police. Ten files were detailed; one drum and fife
put in requisition; and this party, attended by Frazer, and two or
three officers who happened to be near at the moment, marched
with a careless step to head-quarters.

The first announcement of this sudden resolve was made to the
prisoner by a subaltern; who, without prelude or apology, or the
least effort to mitigate the harshness of the order he bore, walked
abruptly into the chamber and delivered the message of his
superior.

“It is a sudden proceeding,” said Butler, calmly; “but your
pleasure must be obeyed.”

“You have had two days to think of it,” replied the officer;
“it is not often so much time is allowed. Ensign St. Jermyn, sir,
is safe, and that is all we waited for. We march to-morrow, and
therefore have no time to lose. You are waited for below.”

Butler stood a moment with his hand pressed upon his brow,
and then muttered,

“It is even so; our unhappy country is lost, and the reign of
blood is but begun. I would ask the poor favor of a moment's
delay, and the privilege of pen, ink, and paper, whilst I write but
a line to a friend.”

“Impossible, sir,” said the man. “Time is precious, and our
orders are positive.”

“This is like the rest,” answered Butler; “I submit.” Then
buttoning his coat across his breast, he left the room with a firm
and composed step.

When he reached the door the first person who met his eye was
Captain St. Jermyn. There was an expression of formal gravity
in the manner of this officer, as he accosted the prisoner, and
lamented the rigor of the fate that awaited him. And it was
somewhat with a cold and polite civility that he communicated his
readiness to attend to any request which Butler, in his last
moments, might wish to have performed.

Butler thanked him for his solicitude, and then said, “I asked
permission to write to a friend; that has been denied. I feel
reluetant to expose myself to another refusal. You have taken a
slight interest in my sufferings, and I will, therefore, confide to you

[figure description] Page 332.[end figure description]

a simple wish, which it will not cost my persecutors much to
gratify. It is that I may be taken to my grave, dressed as you
see me now. I would not have my person stripped or plundered.”

“If you have valuables about you, sir, trust them to my keeping;
I promise you they shall be faithfully delivered according to
your wish.”

“What money there is about my person,” replied Butler, “may
be given to the soldiers who are compelled to execute this harsh
and unjust sentence on my person; but I have a trinket,” he said,
drawing from his bosom a miniature, which was suspended by a ribbon,
“it is the gift of one,”—here, for the first time, a tear started
into Butler's eye, and his power of utterance failed him.

“I understand, sir,” said St. Jermyn, eagerly reaching out his hand
to take the picture, “I will seek the lady, at whatever hazard”—

“No,” answered the unfortunate officer, “it must be buried with
me. It has dwelt here,” he added with emotion, as he placed his
hand upon his heart, “and here it must sleep in death.”

“On the honor of a soldier,” said St. Jermyn, “I promise you
its rest shall not be violated.”

“You will attend me?”

“I will.”

“Lead on,” said the prisoner, stepping to the place assigned him
in the ranks. “I seek no further delay.”

“March down the river, half a mile below the camp,” said Innis,
who now came up, as the escort had begun its progress towards
the place of execution. And the soldiers moved slowly, with the
customary funeral observances, in a direction that led across the
whole extent of the plain.

When this little detachment had disappeared on the further side
of the field, a sudden commotion arose at head-quarters by the
hasty arrival of a mounted patrol—

“We are followed!” cried the leading horseman, in great perturbation.
“They will be here in an instant! We have been
pressed by them for the last two miles.”

“Of whom do you speak?” inquired Innis, eagerly.

“The enemy! the enemy!” vociferated several voices.

At the same moment a cloud of dust was seen rising above the
trees, in the direction of the road leading up the Ennoree.

[figure description] Page 333.[end figure description]

“To arms—to arms!” ejaculated the commander. “Gentlemen,
spring to your horses, and sound the alarm through the
camp—we are set upon by Sumpter—it can be no other. Curry,
take a few dragoons—follow the prisoner—mount him behind one
of your men, and retreat with him instantly to Blackstock's!”

Having given these hasty orders, Innis, with the several officers
who happened to be at hand, ran to their horses, mounted, and
pushed forward to the camp. They had scarcely left their quarters
before two dragoons, in advance of a party of twenty or thirty
men, rushed up to the door.

“Sarch the house!” shouted the leading soldier. “Three or
four of you dismount and sarch the house! Make sure of Major
Butler, if he is there! The rest of you forward with me!”

The delay before head-quarters scarcely occupied a moment, and
in the meantime the number of the assailants was increased by the
squadrons that poured in from the rear. These were led by a
young officer of great activity and courage, who, seeing the disordered
condition of the royalists, waved his sword in the air as he
beckoned his men to follow him in a charge upon the camp.

The advanced party, with the two dragoons, were already on the
field charging the first body that they found assembled; and, close
behind them, followed Colonel Williams—the officer of whom I
have spoken—with a large division of cavalry. At the same
moment that Williams entered upon the plain from this quarter,
a second and third corps, led respectively by Shelby and Clarke,
were seen galloping upon the two flanks of the encampment.

The plain was now occupied by about two hundred Whig cavalry.
The royalists, taken by surprise, over their cups it may be said, and
in the midst of a riotous festival, were everywhere thrown into the
wildest confusion. Such of them as succeeded in gaining their
arms, took post behind the trees, and kept up an irregular fire
upon the assailants. Colonel Innis had succeeded in getting
together about a hundred men at a remote corner of his camp,
and had now formed them into a solid column to resist the attack
of the cavalry, whilst from this body he poured forth a few desultory
volleys of musketry, hoping to gain time to collect the scattered
forces that were in various points endeavoring to find their
proper station. Horse Shoe Robinson and John Ramsay—the two

[figure description] Page 334.[end figure description]

foremost in the advance—were to be discovered pushing through
the sundered groups of the enemy with a restless and desperate
valor that nothing could withstand.

“Cut them down,” cried Horse Shoe, “without marcy! remember
the Waxhaws!” And he accompanied his exhortation with
the most vehement and decisive action, striking down, with a huge
sabre, all who opposed his way.

Meantime, Colonel Williams and his comrades charged the
column formed by Innis, and, in a few moments, succeeded in
riding through the array and compelling them to a total rout.
Robinson and Ramsay, side by side, mingled in this charge, and
were seen in the thickest of the fight. Innis, finding all efforts to
maintain his ground ineffectual, turned his horse towards Musgrove's
mill, and fled as fast as spur and sword could urge the
animal forward. The sergeant, however, had marked him for his
prize, and following as fleetly as the trusty Captain Peter was able
to carry him, soon came up with the fugitive officer, and, with one
broad sweep of his sword, dislodged him from his saddle and left
him bleeding on the ground. Turning again towards the field, his
quick eye discerned the unwieldy bulk of Hugh Habershaw. The
gross captain had, in the hurry of the assault, been unable to reach
his horse; and, in the first moments of danger, had taken refuge
in one of the little sheds which had been constructed for the accommodation
of the soldiers. As the battle waxed hot in the neighborhood
of his retreat, he had crept forth from his den and was
making the best of his way to an adjoining cornfield. He was
bare-headed, and his bald crown, as the slanting rays of the evening
sun fell upon it, glistened like a gilded globe. The well known
figure no sooner occurred to the sergeant's view than he rode off in
pursuit. The cornfield was bounded by a fence, and the burly
braggart had just succeeded in reaching it when his enemy overtook
him.

“Have mercy, good Mr. Horse Shoe, have mercy on a defenceless
man!” screamed the runaway, in a voice discordant with
terror, as he stopped at the fence, which he was unable to mount,
and looked back upon his pursuer. “Remember the good-will I
showed you when you was a prisoner! Quarter, quarter—for
God's sake, quarter!”

[figure description] Page 335.[end figure description]

“You get no quarter from me, you cursed blood-lapper!”
exclaimed Horse Shoe, excited to a rage that seldom visited his
breast; “think of Grindall's Ford!” and at the same instant he
struck a heavy downward blow, with such sheer descent, that it
clove the skull of the perfidious freebooter clean through to the
spine. “I have sworn your death,” said the sergeant, “even if I
cotch you asleep in your bed, and right fairly have you earned it.”

The body fell into a bed of mire, which had been the resort of
the neighboring swine; and, leaving it in this foul plight, Horse
Shoe hastened back to rejoin his comrades.

The battle now ended in the complete route of the enemy.
Williams's first care, after the day was won, was to collect his men
and to secure his prisoners. Many of the Tories had escaped;
many were killed and wounded; but of Butler no tidings could be
gained; he had disappeared from the field before the fight began,
and all the information that the prisoners could give was that
orders had been sent to remove him from the neighborhood.
Colonel Innis was badly wounded, and in no condition to speak
with his conquerors; he was sent, with several other disabled
officers, to head-quarters. Captain St. Jermyn had fled, with most
of those who had mounted their horses before the arrival of
Williams.

The day was already at its close, and order was taken to spend
the night upon the field. Guards were posted, and every precaution
adopted to avoid a surprise in turn from the enemy, who, it
was feared, might soon rally a strong party and assail the
conquerors.

The disturbed condition of the country, and the almost unanimous
sentiment of the people against the Whigs, now strengthened
by the late victories, prevented Williams from improving his present
advantage, or even from bearing off his prisoners. Robinson and
Ramsay volunteered to head a party to scour the country in quest
of Butler, but the commanding officer could give no encouragement
to the enterprise; it was, in his judgment, a hopeless endeavor,
when the forces of the enemy were everywhere so strong. His
determination, therefore, was to retreat, as soon as his men were in
condition, back to his fastnesses. His few killed were buried; the
wounded, of which there were not more than fifteen or twenty

[figure description] Page 336.[end figure description]

were taken care of, and the jaded troops were dismissed to seek
refreshment amongst the abundant stores captured from the enemy.
Ensign St. Jermyn was still a prisoner; and, for the sake of adding
to Butler's security, Williams selected two or three other officers
that had fallen into his hands to accompany him in his retreat.
These arrangements all being made, the colonel and his officers
retired to repose. The next morning at daylight there were no
traces of the Whigs to be seen upon the plain. It was abandoned
to the loyalist prisoners and their wounded comrades.