Let us now retrace our steps and follow those of Richard
Coulter and his party. We have seen what has been the
progress of Elijah Fields. The route which he pursued was
considerably longer than that of his comrades; but the difference
of time was fully equalized by the superior and embarrassing
caution which they were compelled to exercise. The result
was to bring them to the common centre at nearly the same
moment, though the policy of Coulter required a different course
of conduct from that of Fields. Long before he reached the
neighborhood of old Sabb's farm, he had compelled his troopers
to dismount, and hide their horses in the forest. They then
made their way forward on foot. Richard Coulter was expert
in all the arts of the partisan. Though eager to grapple with
his enemy, and impatient to ascertain and arrest the dangers of

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

his lovely wife, he yet made his approaches with a proper caution.
The denseness of the forest route enabled him easily to
do so; and, making a considerable circuit, he drew nigh to the
upper part of the farmstead, in which stood the obscure outhouse,
which, when Dunbar had taken possession of the mansion,
he assigned to the aged couple. This he found deserted;
he little dreamed for what reason, — or in what particular emergency
the old Dutchman stood at that very moment. Making
another circuit, he came upon a copse, in which four of Dunbar's
troopers were grouped together in a state of fancied security.
Their horses were fastened in the woods, and they lay upon the
ground, greedily interested with a pack of greasy cards, which
had gone through the campaign.

The favorite game of that day was Old-Sledge, or All-Fours,
or Seven-Up; by all of which names it was indiscriminately known.
Poker, and Brag, and Loo, and Monte, and Vingt'un, were then
unknown in that region. These are all modern innovations, in
the substitution of which good morals have made few gains.
Dragoons, in all countries, are notoriously sad fellows, famous for
swearing and gaming. Those of Dunbar were no exception
to the rule. Our tory captain freely indulged them in the practice.
He himself played with them when the humor suited.
The four upon whom Coulter came were not on duty, though
they wore their swords. Their holsters lay with their saddles
across a neighboring log, not far off, but not immediately within
reach. Coulter saw his opportunity; the temptation was great;
but these were not exactly his prey — not yet, at all events. To
place one man, well armed with rifle and pair of pistols, in a
situation to cover the group at any moment, and between them
and the farmstead, was his plan; and this done, he proceeded
on his way.

His policy was to make his first blow at the head of the enemy—
his very citadel — trusting somewhat to the scattered condition
of the party, and the natural effect of such an alarm to scatter
them the more. All this was managed with great prudence; and,
with two more of his men set to watch over two other groups of
the dragoons, he pushed forward with the remaining four until
he reached the verge of the wood, just where it opened upon
the settlement. Here he had a full view of the spectacle — his

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own party unseen — and the prospect was such as to compel his
instant feeling of the necessity of early action. It was at the
moment which exhibited old Sabb in the hands of the provost,
his hands tied behind him, and the rope about his neck. Clymes,
the lieutenant of Dunbar, with drawn sword, was pacing between
the victim and the house. The old Dutchman stood between
two subordinates, waiting for the signal, while his wife, little
dreaming of the scene in progress, was kept out of sight at the
bottom of the garden. Clymes and the provost were at once
marked out for the doom of the rifle, and the beads of two select
shots were kept ready, and levelled at their heads. But Dunbar
must be the first victim — and where was he? Of the scene in
the house Coulter had not yet any inkling. But suddenly he
beheld Frederica at the window. He heard her shriek, and beheld
her, as he thought, drawn away from the spot. His excitement
growing almost to frenzy at this moment, he was about to
give the signal, and follow the first discharge of his rifles with
a rush, when suddenly he saw his associate, Elijah Fields, turn
the corner of the house, and enter it through the piazza. This
enabled him to pause, and prevented a premature development
of his game. He waited for those events which it is not denied
that we shall see. Let us then return to the interior.

We must not forget the startling words with which Elijah
Fields interrupted the forced marriage of Frederica with her
brutal persecutor.

“The girl is already married.”

Dunbar, still supporting her now quite lifeless in his arms,
looked up at the intruder in equal fury and surprise.

“Ha, villain!” was the exclamation of Dunbar, “you are
here?”

“No villain, Captain Dunbar, but a servant of the Most High
God!”

“Servant of the devil, rather! What brings you here — and
what is it you say?”

“I say that Frederica Sabb is already married, and her husband
living!”

“Liar, that you are, you shall swing for this insolence.”

“I am no liar. I say that the girl is married, and I witnessed
the ceremony.”

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“You did, did you?” was the speech of Dunbar, with a tremendous
effort of coolness, laying down the still lifeless form of
Frederica as he spoke; “and perhaps you performed the ceremony
also, oh, worthy servant of the Most High!”

“It was my lot to do so.”

“Grateful lot! And pray with whom did you unite the damsel?”

“With Richard Coulter, captain in the service of the State
of South Carolina.”

Though undoubtedly anticipating this very answer, Dunbar
echoed the annunciation with a fearful shriek, as, drawing his
sword at the same moment, he rushed upon the speaker. But
his rage blinded him; and Elijah Fields was one of the coolest
of all mortals, particularly when greatly excited. He met the
assault of Dunbar with a fearful buffet of his fist, which at once
felled the assailant; but he rose in a moment, and with a yell
of fury he grappled with the preacher. They fell together, the
latter uppermost, and rolling his antagonist into the fireplace,
where he was at once half buried among the embers, and in a
cloud of ashes. In the struggle, however, Dunbar contrived to
extricate a pistol from his belt, and to fire it. Fields struggled
up from his embrace, but a torrent of blood poured from his side
as he did so. He rushed toward the window, grasped the sill in
his hands, then yielded his hold, and sunk down upon the floor,
losing his consciousness in an uproar of shots and shouts from
without. In the next moment the swords of Coulter and Dunbar
were crossed over his prostrate body. The struggle was
short and fierce. It had nearly terminated fatally to Coulter,
on his discovering the still insensible form of Frederica in his
way. In the endeavor to avoid trampling upon her, he afforded
an advantage to his enemy, which nothing prevented him from
employing to the utmost but the ashes with which his eyes were
still half blinded. As it was, he inflicted a severe cut upon the
shoulder of the partisan, which rendered his left arm temporarily
useless. But the latter recovered himself instantly. His blood
was in fearful violence. He raged like a Bïrserker of the Northmen—
absolutely mocked the danger of his antagonist's weapon—
thrust him back against the side of the house, and hewing him
almost down with one terrible blow upon the shoulder, with a

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mighty thrust immediately after, he absolutely speared him
against the wall, the weapon passing through his body, and into
the logs behind. For a moment the eyes of the two glared
deathfully upon each other. The sword of Dunbar was still uplifted,
and he seemed about to strike, when suddenly the arm
sunk powerless — the weapon fell from the nerveless grasp —
the eyes became fixed and glassy, even while gazing with tiger
appetite into those of the enemy — and, with a hoarse and stifling
cry, the captain of loyalists fell forward upon his conqueror,
snapping, like a wand of glass, the sword that was still fastened
in his body.

We must briefly retrace our steps. We left Richard Coulter
in ambush, having so placed his little detachments as to cover
most of the groups of dragoons — at least such as might be immediately
troublesome. It was with the greatest difficulty that
he could restrain himself during the interval which followed the
entry of Elijah Fields into the house. Nothing but his great
confidence in the courage and fidelity of the preacher could have
reconciled him to forbearance, particularly as, at the point which
he occupied, he could know nothing of what was going on within.
Meanwhile, his eyes could not fail to see all the indignities
to which the poor old Dutchman was subjected. He heard his
groans and entreaties.

“I am a goot friend to King Tshorge! I was never wid de
rebels. Why would you do me so? Where is de captaine? I
have said dat my darter shall be his wife. Go bring him to me,
and let him make me loose from de rope. I'm a goot friend to
King Tshorge!”

“Good friend or not,” said the brutal lieutenant, “you have
to hang for it, I reckon. We are better friends to King George
than you. We fight for him, and we want grants of land as well
as other people.”

“Oh, mine Gott!”

Just then, faint sounds of the scuffle within the house, reached
the ears of those without. Clymes betrayed some uneasiness;
and when the sound of the pistol-shot was heard, he rushed forward
to the dwelling. But that signal of the strife was the

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signal for Coulter. He naturally feared that his comrade had been
shot down, and, in the same instant his rifle gave the signal to
his followers, wherever they had been placed in ambush. Almost
simultaneously the sharp cracks of the fatal weapon were heard
from four or five several quarters, followed by two or three scattering
pistol-shots. Coulter's rifle dropped Clymes, just as he
was about to ascend the steps of the piazza. A second shot
from one of his companions tumbled the provost, having in charge
old Sabb. His remaining keeper let fall the rope and fled in
terror, while the old Dutchman, sinking to his knees, crawled
rapidly to the opposite side of the tree which had been chosen
for his gallows, where he crouched closely, covering his ears
with his hands, as if, by shutting out the sounds, he could shut
out all danger from the shot. Here he was soon joined by
Brough, the African. The faithful slave bounded toward his
master the moment he was released, and hugging him first with
a most rugged embrace, he proceeded to undo the degrading
halter from about his neck. This done, he got the old man on
his feet, placed him still further among the shelter of the trees,
and then hurried away to partake in the struggle, for which he
had provided himself with a grubbing-hoe and pistol. It is no
part of our object to follow and watch his exploits; nor do we
need to report the several results of each ambush which had
been set. In that where we left the four gamblers busy at Old-Sledge,
the proceeding had been most murderous. One of Coulter's
men had been an old scout. Job Fisher was notorious for
his stern deliberation and method. He had not been content to
pick his man, but continued to revolve around the gamblers until
he could range a couple of them, both of whom fell under his
first fire. Of the two others, one was shot down by the companion
of Fisher. The fourth took to his heels, but was overtaken,
and brained with the butt of the rifle. The scouts then
hurried to other parts of the farmstead, agreeable to previous
arrangement, where they gave assistance to their fellows. The
history, in short, was one of complete surprise and route — the
dragoons were not allowed to rally; nine of them were slain
outright — not including the captain; and the rest dispersed, to
be picked up at a time of greater leisure. At the moment when
Coulter's party were assembling at the dwelling, Brough had

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succeeded in bringing the old couple together. Very pitiful and
touching was the spectacle of these two, embracing with groans,
tears, and ejaculations — scarcely yet assured of their escape
from the hands of their hateful tyrant.

But our attention is required within the dwelling. Rapidly
extricating himself from the body of the loyalist captain, Coulter
naturally turned to look for Frederica. She was just recovering
from her swoon. She had fortunately been spared the sight
of the conflict, although she continued long afterward to assert
that she had been conscious of it all, though she had not been
able to move a limb, or give utterance to a single cry. Her
eyes opened with a wild stare upon her husband, who stooped
fondly to her embrace. She knew him instantly — called his
name but once, but that with joyful accents, and again fainted.
Her faculties had received a terrible shock. Coulter himself
felt like fainting. The pain of his wounded arm was great, and
he had lost a good deal of blood. He felt that he could not long
be certain of himself, and putting the bugle to his lips, he sounded
three times with all his vigor. As he did so, he became conscious
of a movement in the corner of the room. Turning in
this direction, he beheld, crouching into the smallest possible
compass, the preacher, Veitch. The miserable wretch was in a
state of complete stupor from his fright.

“Bring water!” said Coulter. But the fellow neither stirred
nor spoke. He clearly did not comprehend. In the next moment,
however, the faithful Brough made his appearance. His
cries were those of joy and exultation, dampened, however, as
he beheld the condition of his young mistress.

“Fear nothing, Brough, she is not hurt — she has only fainted.
But run for your old mistress. Run, old boy, and bring water
while you're about it. Run!”

“But you' arm, Mass Dick — he da bleed! You hu't?”

“Yes, a little — away!”

Brough was gone; and, with a strange sickness of fear, Coulter
turned to the spot where Elijah Fields lay, to all appearance,
dead. But he still lived. Coulter tore away his clothes, which
were saturated and already stiff with blood, and discovered the
bullet-wound in his left side, well-directed, and ranging clear
through the body. It needed no second glance to see that the

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shot was mortal; and while Coulter was examining it, the good
preacher opened his eyes. They were full of intelligence, and
a pleasant smile was upon his lips.

“You have seen, Richard; the wound is fatal. I had a presentiment,
when we parted this morning, that such was to be
the case. But I complain not. Some victim perhaps was necessary,
and I am not unwilling. But Frederica?”

“She lives! She is here: unhurt but suffering.”

“Ah! that monster!”

By this time the old couple made their appearance, and Frederica
was at once removed to her own chamber. A few moments
tendance sufficed to revive her, and then, as if fearing that she
had not heard the truth in regard to Coulter, she insisted on
going where he was. Meantime, Elijah Fields had been removed
to an adjoining apartment. He did not seem to suffer.
In the mortal nature of his hurt, his sensibilities seemed to be
greatly lessened. But his mind was calm and firm. He knew
all around him. His gaze was fondly shared between the young
couple whom he had so lately united.

“Love each other,” he said to them; “love each other — and
forget not me. I am leaving you — leaving you fast. It is presumption,
perhaps, to say that one does not fear to die — but I
am resigned. I have taken life — always in self-defence — still
I have taken life! I would that I had never done so. That
makes me doubt. I feel the blood upon my head. My hope is
in the Lord Jesus. May his blood atone for that which I have
shed!”

His eyes closed. His lips moved, as it were, in silent prayer.
Again he looked out upon the two, who hung with streaming
eyes above him. “Kiss me, Richard — and you, Frederica —
dear children — I have loved you always. God be with you—
and — me!” He was silent.

Our story here is ended. We need not follow Richard Coulter
through the remaining vicissitudes of the war. Enough that
he continued to distinguish himself, rising to the rank of major
in the service of the state. With the return of peace, he removed
to the farmhouse of his wife's parents. But for him, in
all probability, the estate would have been forfeited; and the
great love which the good old Dutchman professed for King

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George might have led to the transfer of his grant to some one
less devoted to the house of Hanover. It happened, only a few
months after the evacuation of Charleston by the British, that
Felix Long, one of the commissioners, was again on a visit to
Orangeburg. It was at the village, and a considerable number
of persons had collected. Among them was old Frederick Sabb
and Major Coulter. Long approached the old man, and, after
the first salutation, said to him — “Well, Frederick, have we
any late news from goot King Tshorge?” The old Dutchman
started as if he had trodden upon an adder — gave a hasty
glance of indignation to the interrogator, and turned away exclaiming—
“D—n King Tshorge! I don't care dough I nebber
more hears de name agen!”

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