CHAPTER I. HISTORICAL SUMMARY. —THE SWAMP RETREAT.

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The colonies of North America, united in resistance to
the mother country, had now closed the fifth year of their
war of independence. The scene of conflict was now
almost wholly transferred from the northern to the southern
colonies. The former were permitted a partial repose,
while the latter, as if to compensate for a three years' respite,
were subjected to the worst aspects and usages of
war. Georgia and South Carolina were supposed by
the British commanders to be entirely recovered to the
sway of their master. They suffered, in consequence, the
usual fortune of the vanquished. But the very suffering
proved that they lived, and the struggle for freedom was
continued. Her battles,

“Once begun,
Bequeathed from bleeding sire to son,
Though often lost,”

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in a conflict with thrice their number, which, for fierce
encounter and determined resolution, has never been surpassed;—
while he, himself, a fugitive, covered with shame
and disappointment, vainly hung out his tattered banner in
the wilds of North Carolina—a colony sunk into an apathy
which as effectually paralysed her exertions, as did the
presence of superior power paralyse those of her more
suffering sisters. Conscious of indiscretion and a most
fatal presumption—the punishment of which had been as
sudden as it was severe—the defeated general suffered far
less from apprehension of his foes, than of his country.
He had madly risked her strength, at a perilous moment,
in a pitched battle, for which he had made no preparation—
in which he had shown neither resolution nor ability.
The laurels of his old renown withered in an instant—his
reputation was stained with doubt, if not with dishonour.
He stood, anxious and desponding, awaiting, with whatever
moral strength he could command, the summons to that
tribunal of his peers, upon which depended all the remaining
honours of his venerable head.

General Greene succeeded to the command of the miserable
remnant of the southern army. Cool, prudent and
resolute, this able soldier came to his task with a noble
determination to rescue South Carolina from the grasp of
the invader, or to perish in the attempt. Bold as was the
resolution which he entertained and expressed, it was yet
unaccompanied by any rashness of movement or design.
Greene was very soon made conscious that, with the mere
fragments of an army—and such an army!—naked men,
undrilled militia, few in number, disheartened by defeat,
unprovided with arms—he could hope for nothing but disaster,
unless through the exercise of that ever watchful
thought, and rigorous prudence, by which, almost wholly,
the great captain is distinguished. His wariness formed an
essential part of his resolution, and quite as much as his
valour, contributed to effect his object. If he did not always
beat, he at length succeeded in finally baffling, his opponents.
He avoided the conflict which the more presumptuous
Gates had too rashly invited. To baffle the invader,
he well knew, was the best policy by which to conquer
him. The fatigue of forced marches and frequent alarms
to the soldier, in an unknown and hostile country, is more

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discouraging than the actual fight with a superior foe.
Every hour of delay added to the army of Greene while it
diminished that of the British. The militia recovered
breath and courage, and once more rallied around the
continental standard. Small but select bodies of troops
came to her aid from the neighbouring states. North
Carolina began to arouse and shake herself free from her
slumbers. Her yeomen began to feel the shame of previous
flight and inaction. Virginia, though scarcely so active as
her own safety and sense of duty should have made her,
was not altogether indifferent to the earnest entreaties for
assistance of the general of the south;—and from Maryland
and Delaware came a band, few but fearless, and surpassed
by none of all the troops that were ever raised in
America. The tried and tough natives of the mountains
and the swamps emerged once more from their hiding
places under their ancient leaders; more resolute in the
cause of liberty, and more vigorous in their labours for its
attainment, from the shame and the sorrow which followed
their previous and frequent disappointments.

The countenance of the British commander became
troubled as he surveyed the gathering aspects of evil
in that horizon, from which he fondly fancied that he had
banished every cloud. His troops were summoned to
arms and to renewed activity; and Greene was no longer
in a condition to elude the arms of his adversary. Nor
did he now so much desire it. The accessions of force
which his army had received, and which drew upon him
the regards of Lord Cornwallis, had necessarily encouraged
the American general, and inspirited his purposes. His
policy, though still properly cautious, lost something of its
seeming timidity; and he boldly penetrated, in the face of
the foe, into the state which he came to deliver. A series
of small and indecisive, but briliant adventures, which followed
the dispersion of his light troops over the country,
contributed equally to enliven the hopes of the commander
and the courage of his men. The battle of King's Mountain
had been fought, in which the British force under
Ferguson was annihilated. Tarleton, hitherto invincible,
was beaten by Morgan at the Cowpens, with a vastly inferior
army; while Marion, smiting the tories, hip and
thigh, in the swamps below;—and Sumter, in a

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succession of brilliant and rapid actions, in the middle country;
had paralysed the activity and impaired seriously the
strength of those smaller parties of the British, which
were employed to overawe the inhabitants and secure the
conquests which had been already made. In an inconceivably
short space of time, the aspect of things in South
Carolina underwent a change. The panic which followed
the defeat of Gates, had worn off. Disaffection so effectually
showed itself in every section of the state, that the
British power was found active and operative only in those
portions where they held strong garrisons. Greene, however,
while these events were passing, was kept sufficiently
employed by the able captains who opposed him. Brought
to action at Guilford, he was forced, rather than beaten,
from the field; and a few days enabled him to turn upon
his pursuer, and to dog his flight from the state which he
could not keep, to that in which he became a captive.

But, in leaving Carolina, Cornwallis left the interests of
his master in the custody of no inferior representative.
Lord Rawdon, afterwards the Earl of Moira, succeeded
him in the command. He was unquestionably one of the
ablest general officers of the British army; and through a
protracted trial of strength with his opponent, he sustained
the duties of his trust with equal skill, vigilance and valour.
The descent of Greene into South Carolina, brought him
into that same neighbourhood which had proved so fatal to
Gates. His appearance was followed by the sharp action
of Hobkirk's Hill, in which Rawdon displayed many of
those essential qualities of conduct which entitle him to the
name of an able soldier. The field remained with the
British, but it yielded them none but barren fruits. It gave
them the triumph, but not the success. The victory was
only not with Greene. It must have been, but for a misapprehension
of his orders, on the part of one of his best
officers, having command of a favourite regiment.

Our story opens at this period. The battle of Hobkirk's
Hill was productive of effects upon both of the contending
parties, which brought about an equal crisis in their fortunes.
The losses of the two armies, on that occasion,
were nearly the same. But, in the case of Rawdon, the
country offered but few resources against any external
pressure, and immediate and utter ruin must have followed

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his defeat. He had exhausted the means, ravaged the
fields, trampled upon the feelings, and mocked the entreaties
of the surrounding inhabitants. Despair had taught
them a spirit of defiance, and the appearance of an American
army which was able to maintain its ground even
after defeat, encouraged them to give to that feeling its proper
utterance. Cornwallis had long before complained to
the British ministry that he was “surrounded by timid
friends and inveterate foes;” and the diminution of British
strength and courage which necessarily followed the flight
of that commander into Virginia, together with the defeats
sustained at Cowpens and King's Mountain, naturally
enough increased the timidity of the one, and the inveteracy
of the other party. That atrocious and reckless warfare
between the whigs and tories, which had deluged the
fair plains of Carolina with native blood, was now at its
height. The parties, in the language of General Greene,
pursued each other like wild beasts. Pity seemed utterly banished
from their bosoms. Neither sex nor age was secure.
Murder lurked upon the threshold, and conflagration lighted
up, with the blazing fires of ruin, the still, dark hours of
midnight. The reckless brutality of the invader furnished
a sufficient example and provocation to these atrocities:
and the experience of ages has shown that hate never yet
takes a form so hellish, as when it displays itself in the
strifes of kindred. It does not need that we should inquire,
at this late day, what were the causes that led to this division
among a people, in that hour so unseasonably chosen
for civil strife—the hour of foreign invasion. It is sufficient
for our present purpose that the fact, however lamentable,
is equally unquestionable and well known. Our narrative
seeks to illustrate some of the events which grew out of,
and characterized, this warfare. We shall be compelled to
display, along with its virtues of courage, patriotism and
endurance, some of its crimes and horrors! Yet vainly,
as unwisely, would we desire to depict, in human language,
its measureless atrocities. The heart would sicken, the
mind revolt with loathing, at those hideous details, in which
the actors seem to have studiously set themselves free from
all the restraints of humanity. To burn and slay were not
the simple performances of this reckless period and ravaged
country. To burn in wantonness, and to murder in cold

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blood, and by the cruellest tortures, were the familiar
achievements of the time;—and the criminal was too frequently
found to exult over his evil deeds, with the sanguinary
enthusiasm of the Mohawk warrior, even though
the avenging retribution stood beside him with warning
finger and uplifted knife. The face of the country was
overrun by outlaws. Detached bands of ruffians, formed
upon the frontiers of Georgia, and in the wilds of Florida,
availed themselves of the absence of civil authority, to
effect a lodgment in the swamps, the forests and the
mountains. These, mounted on fleet horses, traversed
the state with the wind; now here, now there; one moment
operating on the Savannah, the next on the Peedee.
Sometimes descending within sight of the smokes of the
metropolis; and anon, building their own fires on the lofty
summits of Apalachia and the Ridge. Harassed by the
predatory inroads of these outlawed squadrons, stung by
their insults, and maddened by their enormities, the more
civil and suffering inhabitants, gathered in little bands for
their overthrow; and South Carolina, at the period of our
narrative, presented the terrible spectacle of an entire people
in arms, and hourly engaging in the most sanguinary
conflicts. The district of country called “Ninety-Six,” in
the neighbourhood of which our story will chiefly lie, is estimated
to have had within its borders, at the close of the revolution,
no less than fifteen hundred widows and orphans,
made so during its progress. Despair seems to have
blinded the one party as effectually to the atrocity of their
deeds, as that drunkenness of heart, which follows upon
long continued success, had made insensible the other;—
and as that hour is said to be the darkest which more
immediately precedes the dawn, so was that the bloodiest
in the fortunes of Carolina which ushered in the bright
day of her deliverance. We now proceed with our narrative.

The dusky shadows of evening were approaching fast.
Clouds, black with storm, that threatened momently to discharge
their torrents, depended gloomily above the bosom
of the Wateree. A deathlike stillness overhung the scene.
The very breezes that had swayed the tops of the tall
cypresses, and sported capriciously with the purple berries
of the green vines that decorated them, had at length folded

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themselves up to slumber on the dark surface of the sluggish
swamps below. No voice of bird or beast, no word of
man, denoted, in that ghostlike region, the presence of any
form of life. Nothing in its aspects, certainly, could persuade
the casual wayfarer to suspect that a single human
heart beat within those wild and dark recesses. Gloomy, and
dense, and dim, at all seasons, the very tribute of the spring
in this—the generous gifts of flowers and fruitage—only
served to increase the depth of its shadow in the rank exuberance
of its vegetable life. The vines, and shrubs, and
briars, massed themselves together in an almost solid wall
upon its edge, and forbade to penetrate; and even where,
through temporary vistas, the eye obtained a passage beyond
this formidable barrier, the dismal lakes which it encountered—
still and black—filled with the decayed trunks
of past centuries, and surmounted by towering ranks yet
in the vigour of their growth, defied the examination of the
curious, and seemed to rebuke, with frowning and threatening
shadows, even the presumption of a search.

But in the perilous times of our history, these seeming
discouragements served the kindly purposes of security
and shelter. The swamps of Carolina furnished a place
of refuge to the patriot and fugitive, when the dwelling and
the temple yielded none. The more dense the wall of
briars upon the edge of the swamp, the more dismal the
avenues within, the more acceptable to those who, preferring
liberty over all things, could there build her altars and
tend her sacred fires, without being betrayed by their
smokes. The scene to which our eyes have been addressed,
still and deathlike as it appears, was full of life,—
of hearts that beat with hope, and spirits that burned with
animation; and sudden, even as we gaze, the sluggish
waters of the lake are rippling into tiny waves that betray
the onward motion of some unwonted burden. In the
moment of its deepest silence, a rustling is heard among
the green vines and crowding foliage. A gentle strife takes
place between the broken waters and the rude trunks of
the cypresses; and the prow of an Indian bark shoots
suddenly through the tangled masses, toward the unsuspicious
shore. A single person stands upright in the centre
of the little vessel and guides it in its forward progress
through the still lagunes. Yet no dip of oar, no stroke of

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paddle betrays his efforts, and impairs the solemn silence
of the scene. It speeds along as noiselessly and with as
little effort, as did that fairy bark of Phædria which carried
Sir Guyon over the Idle Lake to the Enchanted Island:—


“Withouten oare or pilot it to guide,
Or winged canvass with the wind to fly.”
The navigator of our little canoe is indebted for her progress
to no magical “pin,” such as impelled the vessel of
Phædria and obeyed the least touch of that laughing enchantress.
Still, the instrument which he employed, if less
magical in its origin, was quite as simple in its use. It
called for almost as little exertion of his arm. His wand
of power was an ordinary cane, nearly twenty feet in
length, the vigorous growth of the swamp around him, to
the slender extremity of which, a crotchet, cut from the
forked branches of some stubborn hickory, was tightly
fastened; one prong of the fork being left free, and presenting
the appearance of a curved finger. Grasping this
instrument at the base, he employed the hook at its extremity,
with equal dexterity and ease, to the overhanging
limbs of the trees, or the scattered links of the thousand
vines which swung above him in the air; and by this process
impelled his vessel in any direction. The yellow
waters of the swamp parted before his prow at the slightest
touch of this simple agent; and the obedient fabric which
it impelled with a corresponding flexibility, yielding itself
readily, shot from side to side, through the sinuous avenues
of the swamp;—as if endued with a consciousness and
impulse of its own, pressing along in silence and in shadow;
now darting freely forward where the stream widened into
little lakelets; now buried in masses of the thicket, so
dense and low, that the steersman was scarcely suffered
time to sink upon his knee, in seeking to pass beneath the
green umbrageous arches. In such a progress the scene
was not without its romance. Picturesque as was this
mode of journeying, it had its concomitants by which it
was rendered yet more so. The instrument which impelled
the vessel, drew down to the hand of the steersman the
massy vines of the thousand varieties of wild grape with
which the middle country of Carolina is literally covered.
These fling themselves with the wind in which they swing

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and sport, arching themselves from tree to tree, and interlacing
their green tresses until the earth below becomes a
stranger to the sun. Their blue clusters droop to the hand,
and hang around the brows of the fainting and feeble partisan,
returning from the conflict. He forgets the cruelties
of his fellow man, in solacing himself with the grateful
tributes which are yielded him by the bounteous nature.
Their fruits relieve his hunger and quench his thirst—their
green leaves refresh his eye—their shadows protect him
from the burning sun-beams, and conceal him from the
pursuit of the foe. Dark, wild, and unlovely as the entrance
of the swamp might seem, still, to the musing heart
and contemplative spirit it had its aspects of beauty, if not
of brightness; and, regarded through the moral medium as
a place of refuge to the virtuous and the good, when lovelier
spots afforded none, it rises at once before the mind,
into an object of sacred and serene delight. Its mysterious
outlets, its Druid-like nooks, its little islands of repose, its
solemn groves, and their adorning parasites, which clamber
up and cling to its slender columns an hundred feet in air,
flinging abroad their tendrils, laden with flaunting blossoms,
and purple berries; presented a picture of strange but harmonious
combination, to which the youthful steersman
who guides our little bark was evidently not insensible.
He paused at moments in favourite spots, and his large
blue eye seemed to dilate, as, looking upward, he caught,
at moments, far, foreign glimpses of the heavens through
the ragged tops of the forest. Were the features of the
face sure indices of the human character, his might well be
assumed to be one in which the passion for the picturesque
entered largely, without conflicting, however, with the
more necessary qualities of decision of mind, and directness
of aim and performance. It would not, indeed, be
altogether safe to say, that, when he paused in his progress
through the swamp, it was not because of some more
serious purpose than belonged to a desire to contemplate
the picturesque in its aspects. A just caution, the result of
that severe experience which the Carolinians had suffered
in the beginning of their conflict with the mother country,
may have prompted him to wait, and watch, and listen,
long before he approached the land. His movements were
all marked by the vigilance of one who was fully conscious

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of the near neighbourhood of danger. Before his vessel
could emerge from the covert, and when a single moment
would have thrust her against the shore, he grasped with
his hook a swinging vine which he had already left behind
him, and arrested her motion. His boat swung lightly upon
her centre, and remained stationary for a brief instant, while,
drawing from his vest a small instrument of cane, he uttered
a clear merry sound, which went, waking up an hundred
echoes, through the still recesses of the swamp. His
whistle, thrice repeated, brought him as many faint responses
from the foot of the hills to which he was approaching;
and with a single farther effort our steersman
threw himself flat in the bottom of his little vessel, which
passed under a mass of foliage that drooped down upon the
water, and in another moment her shallow prow darted upward
upon the shore. The youth, having fastened her
securely amidst the umbrage that grew upon the banks,
now made his way toward the hills, where stood one who
seemed to have been for some time, but not impatiently,
awaiting his approach.

CHAPTER II. THE FRIENDS. —A CONFERENCE.

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The stranger, as he leaped upon the solid earth, appeared
of a noble and commanding presence. In shape he was
symmetrically and vigorously made. Tall, erect and muscular,
his person was that of one who had been long
accustomed to hardy and active exercises. In his movements
there was a confident ease—the result equally of a
fearless spirit and a noble form—which tallied well with a
certain military exactness of carriage; commending his
well-finished limbs to the eye, while conveying to the
mind of the observer an impression, not less favourable, of
the noble and firm character of their proprietor. Nor
were the features of his countenance wanting in any thing
which might support this impression. His face was full
but not fleshy; the skin, a clear red and white, which the
summer sun had simply darkened into manliness. His
eye, of a lively and intelligent blue, might have denoted
a rather preponderating playfulness of temper, but for the
sterner expression of his mouth, the lines of which were
more angular than round, the lips being too thin for softness,
and when compressed, indicating a severe directness
of purpose, which the gentler expression of his other features
failed entirely to qualify. He had a lofty forehead,
broad, intellectual, and contemplative. His hair, which
was of a dark brown colour, was long, and, like his beard,
had been suffered to remain untrimmed, possibly as much
in compliance with the laws of necessity as of taste. We
have already intimated that the stranger was youthful. He
had probably beheld some twenty-five or thirty summers,
though it may be that premature toils and trials had anticipated
the work of time, and made him seem somewhat
older than he really was. He had, in the tout ensemble
of his face, the appearance of one who had just arrived at
the equal maturity of mind and body.

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His dress was simple, and characterized by as little pretension
as could possibly be found in one who was not
only young, but evidently in the military. In its material
and make, it corresponded with that of the ordinary woodmen
of the country. His pantaloons consisted of a dark
blue homespun, the legs being wrapped in leggings of a
somewhat coarser texture and darker hue. From these
the original dye had been obliterated in blotches, here and
there; or so obscured by stains from the yellow waters of
the swamp, with which the wearer had been so recently
familiar, that it would require a very discriminating eye to
determine at a glance of what colour they originally were.
A hunting-shirt of a deeper blue than that of his under
clothes, and perhaps of better material, which reached
midway between his hips and knees, completed the
essential parts of his costume. This portion of the dress
was evidently made with some regard to the shape,
and, possibly, the tastes of the wearer; a matter not so
certainly clear in the case of the pantaloons. It fitted
closely, without a wrinkle, and displayed the symmetry
and muscle of his form to the greatest possible advantage.
It had been ornamented, it would seem, in better days,
with a deep fringe of a complexion somewhat more showy
than that of the garment, but of this only a few occasional
traces now remained, to testify, much more effectually, to
the trials through which it had passed, than its own former
brightness and integrity. The little cape which surmounted
the coat, and fell back upon the shoulders, had fared
rather more fortunately than the rest of the garment, and
formed no unseemly finish to the general fitness of the
costume; particularly as the wearer, with a better taste
than prevailed then, or has prevailed since, had freed his
neck from all the buckram restraints of gorget, cravat, or
stock—bandagings which fetter the movements of the
head, without increasing its dignity or comfort. Enough
of the broad sun-burned bosom was revealed by the open
shirt before, to display that classic superiority of air
of which modern fashions almost wholly deprive the
noblest aspect. Upon his head, without shading his brow,
rested a cap of otter-skin, rude and ample in its make, the
work, most probably, of some favourite slave. A small
yellow crescent, serving the purpose of a button, looped

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up one of the sides in the centre, and might on occasion
have sustained a feather. Plain mocasins of buckskin, the
original yellow of which had been entirely lost in the more
doubtful colours acquired in the swamp, completed the externals
of his dress. It may be added that he wore no
visible armour; but once, as he stooped to fasten his skiff
beside the shore, the butt of a heavy pistol might have
been seen protruding from beneath the thick folds of his
hunting-shirt. From the unnatural fulness of the opposite
breast, it would not be rash to conjecture that this weapon
of war was not without its fellow.

The stranger ascended from the banks and made his way
towards the foot of the heights, that, skirting the northern
edges of the Wateree, conduct the eye of the spectator to
tke lofty summits of the Santee hills beyond. Here he
was joined by another, who had evidently been for some
time expecting him. This was a man of middle size,
stout, well-made, coarse in feature, strong of limb, active
of movement, apparently without the refining influences
of society and education, and evidently from the lower
orders of the people. Let not this phrase, however, be
understood to signify any thing base or unbecoming.
Though a poor man, our new acquaintance was not the
work of one of nature's journeymen, fashioned when the
“master hand” was weary. With head and feet equally
bare, he carried the one with a virtuous erectness that
could not be well misunderstood; while the other were
set down with the freedom and fearlessness of a man conscious
that he walked the soil of his native land in the
full performance of the equal duties of the patriot and warrior.
In his hand he grasped a rifle of immoderate length,
the fractured stock of which, lashed together with buckskin
thongs, bore tokens of hard usage in more respects
than one. The unquestionable poverty of this man's condition—
which, indeed, was that of the whole American
army—did not seem to have any effect upon his deportment
or to give him any uneasiness. He seemed not to
know that his garments suffered from any peculiar deficiencies;
and never did the language of a light heart
declare itself with so little reservation from a blue eye and
a good-natured physiognomy. The slight cloud of anxiety

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which hung at moments above his brow, and which gathered
there in consequence of cares of no ordinary kind,
could not long, at any time, withstand the buoyant action
of the cheerful spirit within. This constantly shone out
from his face, and spoke aloud in the clear, ringing tones
of his manly yet not unmusical accents. Drawing nigh
to our first acquaintance, he grasped his hand with the
joyous look and warm manner of one who felt, in the
meeting with his comrade, something of a sentiment far
stronger than that which governs the ordinary friendships
among men. Nor was the manner of his comrade less
equivocal, though, perhaps, more quiet and subdued. The
behaviour of the twain was that of an intimacy unbroken
from boyhood, and made mutually confident by the exercise
of trusts which had been kept equally sacred by both
the parties.

“Well, Clarence, I'm glad you've come. I've been
waiting for you a'most two hours. And how goes it in
the swamp—and did you git the letters?”

“I did: all's well with us—pretty much as when you
left. But how with you, Jack? What news do you
bring? Is the coast clear—are the light troops gone in?”

“Well, I reckon I may say yes. Greene's drawed off
from Camden sence the brush at Hobkirk's, and there's no
telling jest now which way he's going. As for Marion,
you know its never easy to say where to look for him.
Lee's gone down on the s'arch somewhere below, and
we're all to be up and busy at short notice. I hear tell of
great things to do. Our ginral, Sumter, is in motion, and
picking up stragglers along the Catawba. I reckon he'll
soon be down, and then gallop's the word. Something
too I hear of Colonel Tom Taylor at Granby, and—”

“Enough, enough, Jack; but you say nothing of Butler
and his men? Are they out of the way—are they off? If
you know nothing about him—”

“Well, I reckon they're at Granby by this time.
They've given up the hunt as a bad job. I saw Joe
Clinch, one of his troop, only two days ago, and gin him
a sort of hint that the chap they were after was more like
to be found above the Congaree than in these parts. `For
what's to save him,' I said to Joe, `down here in this
neighbourhood, where we're all true blue, and he a

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firehot tory?' That was a good reason for Clinch and all
his troop, I reckon. They tuk it for one, and by peep of
dawn, they were streaking it along the river road. They've
got to `Ninety-Six,' by this time, and even if they ha'nt,
it's all the same to us. They're out of your way.”

“But you did wrong, John Bannister, in saying that
Edward Conway was a tory. He himself denies it.”

“Well, Clarence, that's true, but I don't see that his
denying it makes much difference. It's natural enough
that a man should say he's no tory when he's in a whig
camp. The vartue of a whole skin depends upon it.
There's a chance of broken bones if he says otherwise,
which Ned Conway aint a going to resk.”

“At least, for my sake, John Bannister, give Edward
Conway the benefit of your doubts,” replied the other,
with an expression of grave displeasure on his countenance.
“We do not know that he is a tory, and the best of men
have been the victims of unjust suspicion. I must repeat
that you did wrong, if you loved me, in calling him by
such a name.”

“Ah, Clarence, he's your half-brother, and that's the
reason you aint willing to believe any thing agin him; but
I'm dub'ous I said nothing worse than the truth when I
told Clinch he was a tory. I'm sure the proofs agin him
would have hung many a tall chap like himself.”

“No more, Bannister—no more,” said the other,
gloomily. “It is enough that he is my brother. I am
not willing to examine his demerits. I know, and acknowledge
to you, that many things in his conduct look
suspicious; still I prefer to believe his word—his solemn
oath—against all idle reports—reports, which are half the
time slanders, and which have destroyed, I verily believe,
many lives and characters as worthy as our own. You
know that I have no reason to love Edward Conway. We
have never been friends, and I have no partialities in his
favour. Still, he is the son of my father, and I am bound
to defend him while I remain unconvinced of his treachery.
I am only afraid that I am too willing to believe what is
said in his prejudice. But this I will not believe so long
as I can help it. He solemnly assures me he has never
joined the tories. He would scarcely swear to a falsehood.”

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

“Well, that's the same question, Clarence, only in another
language. The man that would act a lie, wouldn't
stop very long to swear to one. Now, if Edward Conway
didn't join the tories, who did he join? He didn't join
us, did he? Did he swear to that, Clarence?”

“No! no! Would to God he could!”

“Well, then, what is it that he does say? I'm a-thinking
that it's good doctrine to believe, in times like these,
that the man that aint with us is agin us. Let him show
what he did with himself sence the fall of Charlestown.
He warn't there. You don't see his name on the list of
prisoners—you don't hear of his parole, and you know
he's never been exchanged. It mought be that he went
in the British regiments to the West Indies, where they
carried a smart chance of our people, that wouldn't ha'
got any worse character by taking to the swamps as we
did. Does he say that he went there?”

“He does not—he declines giving any account of himself,
but still denies, most solemnly, that he ever joined
the tories.”

“I'm mightily afeard, Clarence—now, don't be angry
at what I'm going to say—but I'm mightily afeard Edward
Conway aint telling you the truth. I wouldn't let him
go free—I'd hold him as a sort of prisoner and keep
watch upon him. You've saved him when he didn't desarve
to be saved by any body, and least of all by you;—
and you have a sort of substantial right to do with him
jest as you think right and reasonable. I'm for your
keeping him, like any other prisoner, and counting him in
at the next exchange. He'll go for somebody that'll pull
trigger for his country.”

“Impossible! How can you give me such counsel?
No, no, Jack, let him be all that you think him, the tory
and the traitor, still he comes from my father's loins, and
though another mother gave us suck, yet I feel that I
should defend him as a brother, though he may not be
altogether one. He shall suffer no harm at hands of
mine.”

“Well, I'm sure I don't say he ought. To keep him
under a strong thumb and fore-finger—to keep him, as
I may say, out of mischief and out of danger till the
time of exchange comes round, won't be to do him

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

any harm. It's only one way of feeding a mouth that,
mought be, couldn't feed itself so well in these tough
times; and taking a little Jamaica from other mouths that
mought like it jest as well, and desarve it a great deal
better.”

“What, Jack, do you begrudge Edward Conway the
pitiful fare which we can give him in the swamp? You
are strangely altered, Jack, towards him. You were once
his playmate in boyhood as well as mine.”

“Yes, Clarence, and 'twas then, so far back as them
same days of our boyhood—and they were mighty sweet
days, I tell you—that I found him out, and l'arned to mistrust
him. God knows, Clarence, and you ought to know
too, that Jack Bannister would like, if he could, all the
flesh and blood in this world that was ever a kin of your'n.
I tried mighty hard to love Ned Conway as I loved you,
but it was like fighting agin natur'. I tried my best, but
couldn't make it out with all my trying; and when I
caught him in that business of the dock-tailed horse—”

“Do not remind me of these matters now, Jack; I am
afraid I remember them too well already.”

“You're only too good for him, Clarence. I somehow
almost think he aint naturally even a half-brother of your'n
any how. You don't look like him; neither eye nor
mouth, nor nose nor chin, nor hair nor forehead—all's different
as if you had come from any two families that lived
at opposite eends of the river, and never seed one another.
But, as you say, I won't 'mind you of any matters that
you don't want to hear about. Them days is over with
me and him, and so I'll shut up on that subject. As for
begrudging him the bread and bacon, and the drop of
Jamaica, such as we git in the swamp yonder,—well, I
won't say nothing, because, you see, I can't somehow
think you meant to say what you did. All that I do say,
Clarence, is, that I wish I had enough to give him that
would persuade him to show clean hands to his friends
and blood-kin, and come out for his country, like every
man that has a man's love for the airth that raised him.”

“I know you mean him no wrong, Jack, and me no
pain, when you advise me thus; but my word is pledged
to Edward Conway, and I will keep it, though I perish.”

“And don't I tell you to keep it, Clarence? You

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

promised to save him from Butler's men, that was a-hunting
him, and what better way than to keep him close from
sight; for, if he once gits a-going agin, and they find his
tracks, it won't be your boldness or my quickness that'll git
him into the swamp so easily. If Butler's men hadn't
been up-countrymen, that didn't onderstand swamp edication,
no how, he wouldn't have had such a quiet time of
it where we put him. Well, you've done what you promised,
and what, I reckon, every man was bound to do
by his blood-kin. You've saved him from his enemies;
but there's no need you should give him your best nag
that he may gallop full-speed into their pastures. Now,
that's what you're a-thinking to do. And why should
you? If he aint a tory, and hasn't been one, why
shouldn't he be a whig? Why shouldn't he do what he
ought to ha' done five years ago—join Sumter's men, or
Marion's men, or Pickens' men, or any men that's up for
the country—and run his bullets with a tory's name to
each. I don't think Ned Conway a coward, no how, and
when he won't come out for his country at a pushing time
like this, I can't help considering him a mighty suspicious
friend.”

“Enough, Jack; the more you speak, and I think, of
this matter, the more unhappy it makes me,” replied the
other. “If I dared to think, I should probably come to
more serious conclusions than yourself on the subject of
my brother's conduct; which, I confess is altogether inscrutable.
I have only one course before me, and that is
to set him free, even as he desires, and let him choose his
own route henceforward. I have not spared argument to
persuade him to our ranks, and he holds out some hopes
to me, that when he has finished certain private business
he will do so.”

“Private business! Lord ha' mercy upon us! How
can a body talk of private business, when even throat-cutting
is so public?—when there's a sort of Injin bounty
for sculps, and it takes more than a man's two hands to
keep his own skin and teeth from going off, where they
are worth their weight in gold? Private business! Look
you, Clarence, did you think to ask him when he had last
seen Flora Middleton?”

“No, I did not,” returned the other, abruptly, and with

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

some impatience in his manner. “Why should I ask him
that? I had no reason to suppose that he had any particular
reason for seeing her at this, or at any other time.”

“Now, Clarence, you needn't be telling me that, when
I know so much better. I know that if he hasn't a reason
for seeing her, he's always had a mighty strong wish that
way; and as for your own feelings, Lord bless you,
Clarence, it's no fault of your'n, if every second man in
the regiment don't know the soft place in the colonel's
heart by this time, and can't put his finger on it whenever
he pleases. If you love Flora Middleton there's no harm
in it; and if Edward Conway loves her too—”

He paused, and looked at his companion with the air of
one who is doubtful of the effect of that which he has
already said.

“Well! What then?” demanded the other.

“Why, only, there's no harm, perhaps, in that either.”

“Ay, but there is, John Bannister, and you know it;”
cried the other, almost fiercely. “Edward Conway knew
that I loved Flora Middleton long before he had ever seen
her.”

“Very true; but that's no good reason why he shouldn't
love her when he did see her, Clarence.”

“But it is good reason why he should not seek her
with his love.”

“I reckon, Clarence, he don't much stand upon such a
reason. There's nothing brotherly in love matters, Clarence;
and even if there was, Ned Conway is about the last person
to make much count of it.”

“He does—he shall! Nay, on this point I have his
assurance. He tells me that he has not sought her—he
has not seen her for months.”

“And did Edward Conway really tell you so, Clarence?”

“He did—it was almost his last assurance when I left
him.”

“Then he told you a most crooked and abominable lie.
He has seen her within the last three weeks.”

“Ha! how know you?”

“From little Joe, the blacksmith, that was down by
Watson's before it was taken from the British. Little Joe
went with him to Briar Park, and saw him and Miss Flora
in the piazza together.”

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

The young man clutched the butt of the pistol in his
bosom with a convulsive grasp, but soon relaxed it. He
struck his forehead, the next moment, with his open palm,
then strode away from his companion, as if to conceal the
emotion which he could not so easily overcome.

“Well,” he exclaimed, returning, “I had a strange fear—
I know not why—that there was something insincere in
his assurance. He made it voluntarily,—we had not
named her,—and even as he spoke, there was a something
in his face which troubled me, and made me doubtful
of his truth. But he will go too far—he will try the
force of blood beyond its patience.”

“There's nothing, Clarence, in the shape of licking
that sich a person don't desarve. I followed out more of
his crooks than one, years ago, when there was no war;
and he had all the tricks of a tory even then.”

“That he should basely lie to me, and at such a moment!
When I had risked life to save him!—When!—
but let me not grow foolish. Enough, that I know him
and suspect him. He shall find that I know him. He
shall see that he cannot again cheat me with loving language
and a Judas kiss.”

“Ah, Clarence, but you can cheat yourself. He knows
how quick you are to believe; and when he puts on them
sweet looks, and talks so many smooth words, and makes
b'lieve he's all humility, and how sorry he is for what he's
done, and how willing he is to do better—and all he wants
is a little time—as if ever a man wanted time to get honest
in! Look you, Clarence, you're my colonel, and what's
more, I'm your friend—you know I love you, Clarence,
better than one man ever loved another, and jest as well as
Jonathan ever loved David, as we read in the good book;
but, with all my love for you, Clarence, d—n my splinters,
if you let Ned Conway cheat you any longer with his
sweet words and sugar promises, I'll cut loose from you
with a jerk that'll tear every j'int out of the socket. I
won't be the friend of no man that lets himself be cheated.
As for hating Ned Conway, as you sometimes say I do,
there, I say, you're clean mistaken. I don't hate him—I
mistrust him. I've tried mighty hard to love him, but he
wouldn't let me. You know how much I've done to save
him from Butler's men; but I saved him on your account,

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

and not because I think he desarves to be saved. I'm
dub'ous that he is a tory, and a rank tory too, if the truth
was known, jest as they charge it upon him. I'm dub'ous
he'll join the British as soon as he can git a chance; and
I'm more than dub'ous, that, if you don't git before him to
your mother's plantation, and run the niggers into the
swamp out of his reach, he'll not leave you the hair of one—
he'll have 'em off to Charlestown by some of his fellows,
and then to the West Indies, before you can say Jack
Robinson, or what's a'most as easy, Jack Bannister.
There's another person I think you ought to see about,
and that's Miss Flora. Either you love her or you don't
love her. Now, if you love her, up and at her at once,
with all your teeth set, as if you had said it with an oath;
for though I know this aint no time to be a-wiving and
a-courting, yet, when the varmints is a-prowling about the
poultry-yard, it's no more than sense to look after the
speckled hen. Take a fool's wisdom for once, and have
an eye to both eends of the road. Go over to the plantation,
and when you're there, you can steal a chance to
cross over to Middleton's. It's my notion you'll find Ned
Conway at one place or t'other.”

“I'll think of it,” said Conway, in subdued tones;
“meantime, do you take the canoe back to the island and
bring him out. The horses are in readiness?”

“Yes, behind the hill. I'll bring him out if you say
so, Clarence, but it's not too late to think better of it. He's
safe, for all parties, where he is.”

“No, no, Jack, I've promised him. I'll keep my promise.
Let him go. I fear that he has deceived me. I
fear that he will still deceive me. Still I will save him
from his enemies, and suppress my own suspicions. It
will be only the worse for him if he does me wrong hereafter.”

“Clarence, if he turns out to be a tory, what'll our men
say to hear you harboured him?”

“Say!—perhaps, that I am no better.”

“No, no! they can't say that—they shan't say it, when
Jack Bannister is nigh enough to hear, and to send his
hammer into the long jaws that talk such foolishness; but
they'll think it mighty strange, Clarence.”

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

“Hardly, Jack, when they recollect that he is my
father's son.”

“Ah, Lord, there's mighty few of us got brothers in
these times in Carolina. A man's best brother now-a-days
is the thing he fights with. His best friend is his rifle.
You may call his jackknife a first-cousin, and his two pistols
his eldest sons; and even then, there's no telling
which of them all is going to fail him first, or whether
any one among 'em will stick by him till the scratch is
over. Edward Conway, to my thinking, Clarence, was
never a brother of your'n, if `brother' has any meaning of
`friend' in it.”

“Enough, enough, Jack. Leave me now and bring
him forth. I will do what I promised, whatever may be
my doubts. I will guide him on his way, and with this
night's work acquit myself of all obligations to him.
When we next meet, it shall be on such terms as shall
for ever clear up the shadows that stand between us.
Away, now!—it will be dark in two hours, and we have
little time to waste. The storm which threatens us will
be favourable to his flight.”

CHAPTER III. THE RETROSPECT. —THE FUGITIVE.

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

The dialogue between the two friends, which has just
been given, will convey to the mind of the reader some
idea of the situation of the parties. We have not aimed to
describe the manner of this dialogue, preferring infinitely
that the interlocutors should speak entirely for themselves.
It may be stated in this place, however, that, throughout
the interview, the sturdy counsellor, whose honest character
and warm friendship constituted his perfect claim to
speak unreservedly to his superior, betrayed a dogged determination
not to be satisfied with the disposition which
the latter had resolved to make of one whom he was
pleased to consider in some sort a prisoner. On the other
hand, the younger of the two, whom we have known by
the name of Clarence Conway, and who held a colonel's
command over one of those roving bodies of whig militia,
which were to be found at this period in every district of
the state,—though resolute to release his brother from the
honourable custody in which circumstances had placed
him, still seemed to regret the necessity by which he was
prompted to this proceeding. There were various feelings
conflicting for mastery in his bosom. While he did not
believe in the charges of political treachery by which his
half-brother was stigmatized, he was yet any thing but
satisfied that his purposes were politically honest or honourable.
Equally dubious with his companion on the
subject of Edward Conway's principles, he was yet not
prepared to believe in the imputation which had been cast
upon his performances. He suspected him, not of fighting
for the enemy, but of the meaner and less daring employment,
of speculating in the necessities of the country;
and, in some way or other, of craftily availing himself of

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

its miseries and wants, to realize that wealth, the passion
for which constituted, he well knew, a leading and greedy
appetite in the character of his kinsman.

Clarence Conway was the younger son of a gentleman
who came from the West Indies, bringing with him an
only child—then an infant—the fruit of a first marriage
with a lady of Barbadoes, who died in bringing it into the
world. The graceful form, pleasing manners, and varied
intelligence of this gentleman, gained him the favour of a
young lady of the Congaree, who became his wife. One
son, our hero, was born to this union; and his eyes had
scarcely opened upon the light, when his father fell a victim
to fever, which he caught in consequence of some rash
exposure among the swamps of the low country. The infant,
Clarence, became the favourite of his grandparents, by
whom he was finally adopted. He thus became the heir of
possessions of a vastness and value infinitely beyond those
which by the laws of primogeniture, necessarily accrued
to his half-brother. The anxiety of Edward Conway to
be the actual possessor of his rights, became so obvious to
all eyes, that Mrs. Conway yielded him early possession,
soon after her husband's death, and retired to one of the
plantations which had descended from her father to her
son. Edward Conway did not long retain the estate left
him by his father. He was sagacious or fortunate enough
to sell it, and realize its value in money, before the strifes
of the Revolution became inevitable. With the conquest
of Carolina by the British, he almost disappeared from
sight; but not until himself and half-brother had already
come into conflict on grounds which did not involve any
reference to the politics of the country. This collision
between them was of such a nature—already hinted at in
the previous chapter—as to bring into active exercise
the anger of the one, and the dissimulation of the other.
To Clarence Conway, therefore, the unfrequent appearance
of Edward afforded but little discontent. The late
return of the latter, under circumstances of suspicion—
under imputations of political treachery, and accusations
of crime,—now bewildered the more frank and passionate
youth, who lamented nothing half so much as to be compelled
to call him kinsman. He knew the wilfulness of
heart which characterized him, and dreaded lest he should

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

abuse, in a respect purely personal, the freedom which he
was about to confer upon him. His own ability to follow,
and to watch the object of his suspicions, was very limited
at this period. His movements were governed by his
military position, by prudence, and certain other relations
of a more private nature, which shall be considered as we
proceed. With no such restraints as these, and once more
safe from the dangers which had compelled him to seek
shelter at the hands of his brother in the swamp, the future
conduct of Edward Conway filled the mind of Clarence
with many apprehensions; the more strongly felt, since
his falsehood in a particular respect, had been revealed by
his companion. There was, as the latter had phrased it,
a weak or tender spot in the bosom of Clarence Conway,
which led him to apprehend every thing of evil should
Edward prove false to certain pledges which he had voluntarily
made, and proceed to a dishonourable use of his
liberty. But it was a point of honour with him not to recede
from his own pledges, nor to forbear, because of a
revival of old suspicions, the performances to which they
had bound him. Yet, in the brief hour that followed the
departure of Jack Bannister, how much would his young
commander have given, could he have taken his counsel—
could he have kept, as a prisoner, that person whose passions
he well knew, and whose dissimulation he feared.
He thus nearly argued himself into the conviction—not a
difficult one at that period—that it was his public duty to
arrest and arraign, as a criminal to his country, the person
against whom the proofs were so strikingly presumptive.

As he reflected upon this subject, it seemed to astonish
even himself at the degree of criminality which he was
now willing to attach to his kinsman's conduct. How was
it that he had become so generally suspected? How easy,
if he were able, to prove his fidelity! Why was he absent
from the field? Where had he been? Though proof was
wanting to show that he had been active in the British
cause, yet none was necessary to show that he had been
wholly inactive for the American. More than once, in the
interval which followed from the first futile, to the final
and successful invasion of the enemy, had Clarence sought
him, to stimulate his patriotism, and urge him to the field.
All their conferences were devoted to this object; the

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

younger brother sometimes assuming a language in the
controversy, which nothing but the purity of his patriotism
and his own obvious disinterestedness, could have justified
from the lips of a younger brother. But his exhortations
fell upon unheeding ears—his arguments in barren places.
There were no fruits. Edward Conway contrived with
no small degree of art to conceal his real sentiments, at a
time when the great body of the people were only too
glad to declare themselves, either on one side or the other.
Subsequently, when the metropolis had fallen, the same
adroitness was exercised to enable him to escape from the
consequences of committal to either. How this was done—
by what evasions, or in what manner—Clarence Conway
was at a loss to understand. As the war proceeded,
and the invasion of the colony became general, the active
events of the conflict, the disorders of the country, the necessity
of rapid flight, from point to point, of all persons
needing concealment, served to prevent the frequent meeting
of the kinsmen;—and circumstances, to which we have
already adverted, not to speak of the equivocal political
position of the elder brother, contributed to take from such
meetings what little gratification they might have possessed
for either party. Whenever they did meet, the efforts of
Clarence were invariably made, not to find out the mode
of life which the other pursued, but simply to assure himself
that it was right and honourable. To this general
object all his counsels were addressed; but he was still
compelled to be content with a general but vague assurance
from the other, that it was so. Still there was one
charge which Edward Conway could not escape. This
was the omission of that duty to his country, which, in a
season of invasion, cannot be withheld without dishonouring
either the manhood or the fidelity of the citizen. Clarence
was not willing to ascribe to treachery this inaction;
yet he could not, whenever he gave any thought to the
subject, attribute it to any other cause. He knew that
Edward was no phlegmatic; he knew that he was possessed
of courage—nor courage merely; he knew that a
large portion of audacity and impulse entered into his character.
That he was active in some cause, and constantly
engaged in some business, Edward Conway did not himself
seek to deny. What that business was, however,

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

neither the prayers nor the exhortations of Clarence and
his friends could persuade him to declare; while the discovery
of a circumstance, by the latter, which led him to
apprehend the interference of the former in another field
than that of war, contributed still farther to estrange them
from each other. Enough now has been said to render
the future narrative easy of comprehension.

While, with vexing and bitter thoughts, Clarence Conway
awaited the progress of his companion, with the
fugitive whom he had given into his charge, Supple Jack
(for that was the nom de guerre conferred by his comrades
upon the worthy woodman, in compliment to certain
qualities of muscle which made his feats sometimes remarkable
in the course of their forest adventures) penetrated
into the recesses of the swamp, with a degree of
diligence which by no means betokened his own disposition
of mind in regard to the particular business upon
which he went. But Supple Jack was superior to all that
sullenness which goes frowardly to the task, because it
happens to disapprove it. As a friend, he counselled without
fear; as a soldier, he obeyed without reluctance. He
soon reached the little island on the edge of the Wateree
river, where Clarence Conway had concealed his kinsman
from the hot hunt which had pursued him to that neighbourhood.
So suddenly and silently did he send his canoe
forward, that her prow struck the roots of the tree, at
whose base the fugitive reclined, before he was conscious
of her approach. The latter started hastily to his feet, and
the suspicious mood of Supple Jack was by no means lessened,
when he beheld him thrust into his bosom a paper
upon which he had evidently been writing. To the passing
spectator Edward Conway might have seemed to resemble
his half-brother. They were not unlike in general
height, in muscle, and in size. The air of Clarence may
have been more lofty; but that of Edward was equally
firm. But the close observer would have concurred with
the woodman, that they were, as kinsmen, utterly unlike in
almost every other respect. The aspect of Clarence Conway
was bright and open, like that of an unclouded sky;
that of Edward was dark, reserved, and lowering. There
was a shyness and a suspiciousness of manner in his
glance and movement; and, while he spoke, the sentences

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

were prolonged, as if to permit as much premeditation as
possible between every syllable. His smile had in it a
something sinister, which failed to invite or soothe the
spectator. It was not the unforced expression of a mind
at ease,—of good-humour,—of a heart showing its clear
depths to the glances of the sun. It was rather the insidious
lure of the enchanter, who aims to dazzle and beguile.

As such only did our woodman seem to understand it.
The strained and excessive cordiality of Edward Conway,
as he bounded up at his approach,—the hearty grasp of
the hand which he extended,—met with little answering
warmth on the part of the former. His eye encountered
the glance of the fugitive without fear, but with cold reserve;
his hand was quickly withdrawn from the close
clutch which received it; and the words with which he
acknowledged and answered the other's salutation were as
few, and such only, as were unavoidable. The fugitive
saw the suspicion, and felt the coldness with which he
was encountered. Without seeming offended, he made it
the subject of immediate remark.

“Ha, Jack, how is this? Friends—old friends—should
not meet after such a fashion. Wherefore are you so cold?
Do you forget me? Have you forgotten that we were boys
together, Jack,—playmates for so many happy years?”

“No, no! I hain't forgotten any thing, Edward Conway,
that a plain man ought to remember;” replied the
woodman, taking literally the reproach of his companion.
“But we ain't boys and playmates any longer, Edward
Conway. We are men now, and these are no times for
play of any sort; and there's a precious few among us
that know with whom we can play safely, nowadays,
without finding our fingers in the cat's mouth.”

“True enough, Jack; but what's true of other people
needn't be true of us. Times change; but they shouldn't
change friends. We are the same, I trust, that we have
ever been to one another.”

This was said with an eager insinuating manner, and
the hand of Conway was a second time extended to take
that of the other. But without regarding the movement,
Supple Jack replied with a blunt resoluteness of

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

demeanour, which would most effectually have rebuffed any less
flexible spirit:

“I reckon we aint, Edward Conway, and it's of no use
to beat about the bush to find out what to say. Times
change and we change, and it's onnatural to expect to keep
the same in all weathers. I know there's a mighty great
change in me, and I'm thinking there's the same sort of
change going on in a'most every body. I used to be a
quiet peaceable sort of person, that wouldn't hurt a kitten;
and now I'm wolfish more than once a week, and mighty
apt to do mischief when I feel so. I used to believe that
whatever a pair of smooth lips said to me was true, and
now I suspicions every smooth speaker I meet, as if he
was no better than a snake in the grass. 'Taint in my
natur to keep the same always any more than the weather,
and I tell you plainly I'm quite another sort of person from
the boy that used to play with you, and Clarence Conway,
long time ago.”

“Ah, Jack, but you hav'n't changed to him—you are
the same to Clarence Conway as ever.”

“Yes, bless God for all his marcies, that made me love
the boy when he was a boy, and kept the same heart in
me after he came to be a man. I aint ashamed to say that
I love Clarence the same as ever, since he never once, in
all my dealings with him, boy and man, ever gave me
reason to mistrust him. He's mighty like an oak in two
ways—he's got the heart of one, and there's no more bend
in him than in an oak.”

The cheek of the fugitive was flushed as he listened to
this simple and direct language. He was indiscreet enough
to press the matter farther.

“But why should you distrust me, Jack Bannister.
You have known me quite as long as you have known
Clarence, we have played as much together—”

“Ay!” exclaimed the other abruptly, and with a startling
energy. “But we hav'n't fou't together, and bled together,
and slept together, and starved together, Edward Conway.
You hav'nt been so ready as Clarence to come out for your
country. Now I've starved in his company, and run, and
fou't, and been with him in all sorts of danger, and he's
never been the first to run, and he's always been the last
to feel that he was afraid, and to show that he was hungry.

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

For nine months we had but one blanket between us, and
that was half burnt up from sleeping too close to the ashes
one cold night last Christmas. It's these things that made
us friends from the beginning, and it's these things that
keep us friends till now. You don't seem altogether to
remember, that you and me were never friends, Edward
Conway, even when we were playmates; and the reason
was I always mistrusted you. Don't think I mean to hurt
your feelings by telling you the truth. You're a sort of
prisoner, you see, and it would be mighty ongenteel for me
to say any thing that mought give offence, and I ax pardon
if I does; but as I tell you, I mistrusted you from the beginning,
and I can't help telling you that I mistrust you to
the end. You ha'n't got the sort o' ways I like, and when
that's the case, it's no use to strain one's natur' to make a
liking between feelings that don't seem to fit. Besides,
you have a bad standing in the country. These men of
Butler's swear agin you by another name, and it looks
mighty suspicious when we come to consider that none of
the whigs have any thing to say in your behalf.”

“One thing is certain, John Bannister,” replied the
fugitive composedly; “you at least preserve your ancient
bluntness. You speak out your mind as plainly as ever.”

“I reckon its always best,” was the answer.

“Perhaps so, though you do me injustice, and your
suspicions are ungenerous. It is unfortunate for me that,
for some little time longer I must submit to be distrusted.
The time will come, however, and I hope very soon, when
you will cease to regard me with doubt or suspicion.”

“Well, I j'in my hope to your'n in that matter; but till
that time comes round, Edward Conway, I mought as well
say to you that we are not friends, and I don't think it 'ill
make us any nearer even if you was to prove that you're
no tory. For why,—I know that you're no friend to Clarence,
for all he's done for you.”

“Ha, Bannister—how—what know you?”

“Enough to make me say what I'm saying. Now, you
hear me, jest once, for the first and last time that I may
ever have a chance of letting you see my mind. I know
enough to know that you've been a-working agin Clarence,
and I suspicions you ha'n't done working agin him. Now,
this is to let you onderstand that Jack Bannister has ne'er

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

an eye in his head that do'n't watch for his friend and agin
his enemy: and I tell you, all in good natur', and without
meaning any malice, that, whatever harm you do to him,
that same harm I'll double and treble to you, though I wait
'till the worst weather, and walk on bloody stumps, to do
it. I suspicions you, Edward Conway, and I give you fair
warning, I'll be at your heels, like a dog that never barks
to let the world know which way he's running.”

“A fair warning enough, Bannister,” replied the fugitive
with recovered composure, and a moderate show of dignity.
“To resent your language, at this time, would be almost
as foolish as to endeavour to prove that your suspicions
of me are groundless. I shall not feel myself less manly
or less innocent by forbearing to do either.”

“Well, that's jest as you think proper, Edward Conway;
I must ax your pardon ag'in for saying rough things
to a man that's a sort of prisoner, but I'm thinking it's
always the cleanest play to speak the truth when you're
forced to it. You've been talking at me ever since the
time I helped Clarence to git you into the swamp, as
if I had been some old friend of your'n, and it went
agin me to stand quiet and hear you all the time, and
not set you right on that matter. Now, as the thing's
done, with your leave we'll say no more about it. My
orders from the colonel are to carry you out of the swamp,
so you'll make ready as soon as you can, for there's precious
little of daylight left for a mighty dark sort of navigation.”

“And where is he—where do you take me?” demanded
the fugitive.

“Well, it's not in my orders to let you know any more
than I've told you: only I may say you don't go out exactly
where you came in.”

“Enough, sir. I presume that my brother's commands
will ensure me a safe guidance? I am ready to go with
you.”

This was said with that air of resentment which amply
proved to the woodman that his blunt freedoms had been
sensibly felt. He smiled only at the distrust which the
words of the fugitive seemed to betray, and the haughtiness
of his manner appeared rather to awaken in the woodman
a pleasurable emotion.

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

“Well,” he muttered half aloud as he prepared to throw
the boat off from her fastenings; “well, it's not onreasonable
that he should be angry. I don't know but I should
like him the better if he would throw off his coat and
back all his sly doings at the muzzle of the pistol. But
I have no patience with any thing that looks like a sneak.
It's bad enough to be dodging with an enemy, but to
dodge when a friend's looking after you, is a sort of
sport I consider mighty onbecoming in a white man.
It's nigger natur', and don't shame a black skin, but—
well, you're ready, Mr. Edward? Jest take your seat in
the bottom, and keep steady. It's a ticklish sort of navigation
we've got before us, and our dug-out aint much more
heavier than a good sized calabash. She'll swim if we're
steady, but if you dodge about we'll sp'il our leggins, and
mought be, have to swim for it. Steady, so. Are you
right, sir?”

“Steady—all right!” was the calm, low response of the
fugitive, as the canoe darted through the lagune.

CHAPTER IV. THE KINSMEN.

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

The boat, under the adroit management of Supple Jack,
soon reached the shore where Clarence Conway awaited
them. Standing side by side, there was little obvious difference
between the persons of the kinsmen. They were
both equally tall, strongly made, and symmetrical—each
had the same general cast of countenance—the hair was
not unlike; the complexion of Edward was darker than
that of Clarence. The difference between them, physically,
if not so obvious, was yet singularly marked and
substantial. There was that in the expression of their
several faces, which, to the nice physiognomical critic,
did not inaptly illustrate the vital differences in the two
characters as they will be found to display themselves in
the progress of this narrative. The forehead and chin of
the former were much smaller than those of the younger.
The cheek-bones were higher; the lips, which in Clarence
Conway were usually compressed, giving an air of
decision to his mouth which approached severity, were, in
the case of Edward, parted into smiles, which were only
too readily and too easily evoked, not, sometimes, to
awaken doubts of their sincerity in the mind of the spectator.
Some well-defined lines about the upper lip and
corners of the mouth, which signified cares and anxieties,
tended still more to make doubtful the prompt smile of the
wearer. The difference of five years—for that period of
time lay between their several ages—had added a few
wrinkles to the cheeks and brow of the elder, which no
where appeared upon the face of the younger. A conscience
free from reproach, had probably saved him from
tokens which are quite as frequently the proofs of an

[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

illordered life as of age and suffering. Some other leading
differences between the two might be traced out by a close
observer, and not the least prominent of these, exhibited
itself at the moment of their present meeting in the over-acted
kindness and extreme courtesy of the fugitive kinsman.
His sweet soft tones of conciliation, his studied gentleness
of accent, and the extreme humility of his gesture—
all appeared in large contrast with the simple, unaffected
demeanour of the younger. His feelings were all too
earnest for mannerism of any sort; and motioning Jack
Bannister aside, he met his half-brother with an air full of
direct purpose, and a keenly awakened consciousness of
the dark doubts renewed in his mind upon that mystery
which rose up like a wall between them. It was difficult
to say, while Edward Conway was approaching him,
whether sorrow or anger predominated in his countenance.
The face of the fugitive beamed with smiles, and his hand
was extended. His hand remained untaken, however, and
his eye shrunk from the encounter with that searching
glance which awaited him in the eye of Clarence. A
slight suffusion passed over his cheek, and there was a
tremor in his voice as he spoke, which might be natural to
the resentment which he must have felt, but which he
showed no other disposition to declare.

“So cold to me, Clarence? What now should awaken
your displeasure? You have behaved nobly in this business—
do not send me from you in anger!”

“I have behaved only as a brother, Edward Conway.
Would that you could feel like one! You have again deceived
me!” was the stern, accusing answer.

“Deceived you!” was the reply, and the eye of the
speaker wandered from the strong glance of his kinsman,
and his lips whitened as he spoke; “how, Clarence—how
have I deceived you?”

“But this day you assured me, on your honour, that
you had not sought Flora Middleton since my last conference
with you on the subject. I now know that you
have been at Briar Park within the last three weeks.”

The practised cunning of the worldling came to the
relief of the accused, and Edward Conway availed himself
of one of those petty evasions to which none but the mean
spirit is ever willing to resort.

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

“Very true, Clarence, but I did not seek Flora in going
there. I happened to be in the neighbourhood at nightfall,
and saw no good reason for avoiding a good supper and a
comfortable bed, which I knew the hospitalities of Briar
Park would always afford me. I did go there—that is
true—saw Flora and all the family—but it is nevertheless
equally true, that in going there I did not seek her.”

“But you withheld the fact of your being there, Edward
Conway, and left the impression on my mind that you had
not seen her.”

“I did not seek to convey such an impression, Clarence;
I simply spoke to the point, and spoke with literal exactitude.”

“You have a legal proficiency in language;” was the
sarcastic comment. “But for this I should probably have
heard the whole truth. What good reason was there why
you should be so partial in your revelations? Why did
you not tell me all?”

“To answer you frankly, Clarence,” replied the other
with the air of a man unbuttoning his bosom to the examination
of the world—“I found you jealous and suspicious
on this subject—in just the mood to convert the least important
circumstance into a cause of doubt and dissatisfaction;
and, therefore, I withheld from you a fact which,
however innocent in itself, and unworthy of consideration,
I was yet well aware, in your tone of mind, would assume
an importance and character which justly it could not
merit. Besides, Clarence, there were so many subjects of
far more interest to my mind, of which we had no speech,
that I did not care to dwell upon the matter longer than
was necessary. You forget, Clarence, that I had not seen
you for months before this meeting.”

The suspicions of the younger were in no respect disarmed
or lessened by this explanation. Edward Conway
had somewhat overshot his mark when he spoke so slightingly
of a subject to which Clarence attached so high an
importance. The latter could not believe in the indifference
which the other expressed in reference to one so
dear to himself as Flora Middleton; and, in due degree as
he felt the probability that so much merit as he esteemed
that maiden to possess, could not fail to awaken the tender
passion in all who beheld her, so was he now inclined to

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

consider the declaration of his kinsman as an hypocrisy
equally gross and shallow. He resolved, internally, that
he should neither deceive his judgment nor disarm his
watchfulness; that, while he himself forbore reproaches
of every sort, which, indeed, at that moment would have
seemed ungenerous and ungracious, he would endeavour
to maintain a surveillance over his rival's movements,
which would at least defeat such of his machinations as
might otherwise tend to beguile from himself the affections
of the beloved object. The closing words of Edward
Conway suggested a natural change of the subject, of
which Clarence quickly availed himself.

“You remind me, Edward Conway, that though we
have spoken of various and interesting subjects, you have
not yet given me the information which I sought, on any.
The one most important to both of us, Edward Conway—
to our father's family, to the name we bear, and the position
we should equally sustain, as well to the past as to the
future, in the eye of our country—is that of your present
public course. On that subject you have told me nothing.
Of your position in this conflict I know nothing; and
what little reaches my ears from the lips of others, is
painfully unfavourable. Nay, more, Edward Conway, I
am constrained to think, and I say it in bitterness and sadness,
that what you have said, in reply to my frequent and
earnest inquiries, on this point, has seemed to me intended
rather to evade than to answer my demands. I cannot
divest myself of the conviction that you have spoken on
this subject with as careful a suppression of the whole
truth, as this morning when you gave me the assurance
with regard to Flora Middleton.”

A heavy cloud darkened, though for a moment only, the
face of the elder Conway.

“There are some very strong prejudices against me
in your mind, Clarence, or it would not be difficult for
you to understand, how I might very naturally have secrets
which should not be revealed, and yet be engaged
in no practices which would either hurt my own, or the
honour of my family.”

“This I do not deny, Edward, however suspicious it
may seem that such secrets should be withheld from an
only brother, whose faith you have never yet found reason

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

to suspect; whose prudence you have never found occasion
to distrust. But I do not ask for any of your
secrets. I should scorn myself for ever did I feel a
single desire to know that which you have any good
reason to withhold from me. It is only that I may
defend you from injustice—from slander—from the suspicions
of the true and the worthy,—that I would be
fortified by a just knowledge of your objects and pursuits.
Surely, there can be no good reason to withhold
this knowledge, if what you do is sanctioned by propriety
and the cause for which we are all in arms.”

“It is sanctioned by the cause for which we are in
arms;” replied the other, hastily. “Have I not assured
you that I am no traitor—that my fidelity to my country
is not less pure and perfect than your own? The slanderer
will defame and the credulous will believe, let us
labour as we may. I take no heed of these—I waste no
thought on such profitless matters; and you, Clarence,
will save yourself much pain, and me much annoying
conjecture, if you will resolve to scorn their consideration
with myself, and cast them from your mind. Give
them no concern. Believe me to be strangely and
awkwardly placed; but not criminal—not wilfully and
perversely bent on evil. Is not this enough? What
more shall I say? Would you have me—your elder
brother—bearing the same name with yourself—declare
to you, in words, that I am not the black-hearted, blood-thirsty,
reckless monster, which these wide-mouthed
creatures, these blind mouths and bitter enemies, proclaim
me?”

“But why are these men of Butler your enemies?
They are not the enemies of your country.”

“I know not that,” said the other hastily.

“Your doubt does them gross injustice;” replied
Clarence Conway, with increased earnestness; “they
are known men—tried and true—and whatever may be
their excesses and violence, these are owing entirely to
the monstrous provocation they have received. How
can it be, Edward, that you have roused these men to
such a degree of hostility against yourself. They bear

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

to you no ordinary hate—they speak of you in no ordinary
language of denunciation—”

“My dear Clarence,” said the other, “you seem to
forget all the while, that they never spoke of me at all—
certainly not by name. They know me not—they have
most assuredly confounded me with another. Even if I
were indeed the person whom they hate, to answer your
questions would be no easy matter. As well might I
undertake to show why there are crime and injustice in
the world, as why there are slander and suspicion.
These are plants that will grow, like joint-grass, in every
soil, weed and work at them as you may.”

“It is nevertheless exceedingly strange, Edward,” was
the musing answer of the still unsatisfied Clarence; “it
is strange how any set of men should make such a mistake.”

“The strangest thing of all is, that my own brother
should think it so. Why should you?”

“Should I not?”

“Wherefore?—You cannot believe that I am, indeed,
what they allege me to be—the chief of the Black
Riders—that dreaded monster—half man, half dragon—
who slays the men, swallows the children, and flies off
with the damsels. Ha! ha! ha! Really, Clarence, I
am afraid you are as credulous now at twenty-five as
you were at five.”

“It is not that I believe, Edward Conway. If I did,
the name of my father, which you bear, had not saved
your life. But, why, again, are you suspected? Suspicion
follows no actions that are not doubtful—it dogs
no footsteps which are straightforward—it haunts no
character, the course of which has been direct and unequivocal?
My unhappiness is that you have made
yourself liable to be confounded with the criminal,
because you have not been seen with the innocent.
You are not with us, and the natural presumption is that
you are with our enemies.”

“I should not care much for the idle gabble of these
country geese, Clarence, but that you should echo their
slanders—that you should join in the hiss.”

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

“I do not—all I demand of you is that confidence
which would enable me to silence it.”

“As well attempt to silence the storm. The attempt
would be idle; and, if made, where should we begin?
What suspicion must I first dissipate? Whose poisonous
breath must I first encounter? This story of the
Black Riders, for example—do you really believe,
Clarence, in the alleged existence of this banditti?”

“I do!—I cannot believe otherwise.”

“Impossible! I doubt it wholly. These dastardly
fellows of Butler, have fancied half the terrors they describe.
Their fears have magnified their foes, and I
make no question they have slandered as civil a set of
enemies as ever had a professional sanction for throat-cutting.
Really, Clarence, the very extravagance of
these stories should save you from belief; and I must
say, if you do believe, that a little more of the brotherly
love which you profess, should keep you from supposing
me to be the savage monster of whom they give such
horrid traits in the chief of this Black banditti. My very
appearance—in our youth, Clarence, considered not very
much unlike your own—should save me from these suspicions.
See!—my skin is rather fair than dark; and as
for the mass of hair which is said to decorate the chin,
and the black shock which surrounds the face of the
formidable outlaw—none who looks at my visage will
fancy that Esau could ever claim me for his kinsman.
My vanity, indeed, is somewhat touched, Clarence, that
my smooth visage should suffer such cruel misrepresentation.”

And as the speaker concluded this rhapsody, his eye
suddenly wandered from that of the person he addressed,
and rested upon the belt which encircled his own body—
a belt of plain black leather, secured by an ordinary iron
buckle, painted of the same colour, and freshly varnished.
An uneasy upward glance, at this moment, encountered
that of his kinsman, whose eyes had evidently followed
his own, to the examination of the same object. In this
single glance and instant, it seemed that the moral chasm
which had always existed between their souls, had

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

yawed wider and spread farther than before. There was a
mutual instinct where there was no mutual sympathy.
The disquiet of the one, and the doubts of the other, were
re-awakened; and though neither spoke, yet both understood
the sudden difficulties of farther speech between
them. Another voice, at this moment, broke the silence,
which it did not however relieve of any of that painful
pressure which the interview possessed over both the
interested parties. The impatience of the worthy woodman
had brought him sufficiently nigh to hear some of
the last words of the elder kinsman.

“Well,” said he, bluntly, “if long talking can make
any case cl'ar, then it's pretty sartin, Edward Conway,
that they've mightily belied you. What you say is very
true about skin, and face, and complexion, and all that.
Naterally, you han't no great deal of beard, and your
shock, as it stands, wouldn't be a sarcumstance alongside
of the colonel's or my own. But I've hearn of contrivances
to help natur in sich a matter. I've hearn of
livin' men, and livin' women too, that dressed themselves
up in the sculps of dead persons, and made a mighty
pretty figure of hair for themselves, when, naterally, they
had none. Now, they do say, that the Black Riders
does the same thing. Nobody that I've ever hearn speak
of them, ever said that the sculps was nateral that they
had on; and the beards, too, would come and go, jist
according to the company they want to keep. It's only
a matter of ten days ago—the time you may remember
by a mighty ugly run you had of it from these same boys
of Butler—that I was a-going over the same ground,
when, what should I happen to see in the broad track
but one of these same movable sculps—the sculp for
the head and the sculp for the chin, and another sculp
that don't look altogether so nateral, that must ha' gone
somewhere about the mouth, though it must ha' been
mighty onpleasant a-tickling of the nostrils; for you see,
if I knows any thing of human natur, or beast natur, this
sculp come, at first, from the upper side of a five year old
fox-squirrel, one of the rankest in all the Santee country.
I know by the feel somewhat, and a little more by the

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

smell. Now, Mr. Edward Conway, if you'll jist look at
these here fixin's, you won't find it so hard to believe
that a fair skinned man mout wear a black sculp and a
mighty dark complexion underneath, if so be the notion
takes him. Seein's believing. I used to think, before
we went out, that it was all an old woman's story, but as
sure as a gun, I found these sarcumstances, jist as you
see 'em, on the broad path down to the Wateree; and I
reckon that's a strong sarcumstance in itself, to make me
think they was made for something, and for somebody
to wear. But that's only my notion. I reckon it's easy
enough, in these times, for every man to find a different
way of thinking when he likes to.”

The articles described by the woodman were drawn
from his bosom as he spoke, and displayed before the
kinsmen. The keen eyes of Clarence, now doubly
sharpened by suspicion, seemed disposed to pierce into
the very soul of Edward Conway. He, however, withstood
the analysis with all the calm fortitude of a martyr.
He examined the several articles with the manner of
one to whom they were entirely new and strange; and
when he had done, he quietly remarked to the deliberate
woodman, that he had certainly produced sufficient evidence
to satisfy him, if indeed he were not satisfied
before, “that a man, disposed to adopt a plan of concealment
and disguise, could readily find, or make, the materials
to do so.”

“But this, Clarence,” said he, turning to his kinsman,
“this has nothing to do with what I was saying of myself.
It does not impair the assurance which I made
you—”

Clarence Conway, who had been closely examining
the articles, without heeding his brother, demanded of
the woodman why he had not shown them to him
before.

“Well, colonel, you see I didn't find them ontil the
second day after the chase, when you sent me on the
scout along the hills.”

“Enough!—Bring up the horses.”

“Both?” asked the woodman, with some anxiety.

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

“Yes! I will ride a little way with my brother.”

The horses were brought in a few moments from the
mouth of a gorge which ran between the hills at the foot
of which they stood. The promptness of the woodman's
movements prevented any conversation, meanwhile,
between the kinsmen; nor did either of them
appear to desire it. The soul of Clarence was full of a
new source of disquiet and dread; while the apprehensions
of Edward Conway, if entirely of another sort,
were yet too active to permit of his very ready speech.
As the kinsmen were preparing to mount, Supple Jack
interposed, and drew his superior aside.

“Well, what's the matter now?” demanded Clarence
impatiently. “Speak quickly, Jack—the storm is at
hand—the rain is already falling.”

“Yes, and that's another reason for your taking to
the swamp ag'in. In three hours the hills will tell a
story of every step that your horse is taking.”

“Well, what of that?”

“Why, matter enough, if the tories are on the look
out for us, which I'm dub'ous is pretty much the case.
I didn't altogether like the signs I fell in with on the
last scout, and if so be that Edward Conway is one of
these Black Riders, then it's good reason to believe
they'll be looking after him where they lost him.”

“Pshaw, no more of this;” said the other angrily.

“Well, Clarence, you may `pshaw' it to me as much
as you please, only I'm mighty sartain, in your secret
heart, you don't `pshaw' it to yourself. It's a strange
business enough, and it's not onreasonable in me to
think so—seeing what I have seen, and knowing what
I know. Now that Butler's boys are gone upwards,
these fellows will swarm thick as grasshoppers in all
this country; and it's my notion, if you will go, that
you should keep a sharp eye in your head, and let your
dogs bark at the first wink of danger. I'm dub'ous
you're running a mighty great risk on this side of the
Wateree. There's no telling where Marion is jist at
this time; and there's a rumour that Watson's on the
road to j'in Rawdon. Some say that Rawdon's going

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

to leave Camden, and call in his people from Ninety-Six
and Augusta; and if so, this is the very part of the
country where there's the best chance of meeting him
and all of them. I wouldn't ride far, Clarence; and I'd
ride fast; and I'd git back as soon as horseflesh could
bring me. Sorrel is in full blood now, and he'll show
the cleanest heels in the country, at the civillest axing of
the spur.”

“You are getting as timid, Jack, as you are suspicious,”
said the youth kindly, and with an effort at
composure, which was not successful. “Age is coming
upon you, and I fear, before the campaign is over, you'll
be expecting to be counted among the non-combatants.
Don't fear for me, Jack; I will return before midnight.
Keep up your scout, and get a stouter heart at work—
you couldn't have a better one.”

“That's to say, Clarry, that I'm a darn'd good-natered
fool for my pains. I understand you—” The rest was
lost to the ears of Clarence Conway, in the rush of his
own and the steed of his companion. “But, fool or not,
I'll look after you, as many a fool before has looked
after a wiser man, and been in time to save him
when he couldn't save himself. As for you, Ned Conway,”
he continued in brief soliloquy, and with a lifted
finger, “you may draw your skirts over the eyes of
Clarence, but it'll take thicker skirts than yourn to blind
Jack Bannister. You couldn't do it altogether when I
was a boy—it'll be a mighty onbecoming thing to me,
now that I'm a man, if I should let you be any more
successful. Well, here we stand. The thing's to be
done; the game's to be played out; and the stakes.
Ned Conway, must be my head agin yourn. The
game's a fair one enough, and the head desarves to lose
it, that can't keep its place on the shoulders where God
put it.”

With this conclusive philosophy, the scout tightened
his belt about his waist, threw up his rifle, the flint and
priming of which he carefully examined, then, disappearing
among the stunted bushes that grew beside the
swamp thicket, he soon after emerged, leading a stout

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Choctaw pony, which had been contentedly ruminating
among the cane-tops. Mounting this animal, which was
active and sure-footed, he set off in a smart canter in the
track pursued by his late companions, just as the rainstorm,
which had been for some time threatening, began
to discharge the hoarded torrents of several weeks upon
the parched and thirsting earth.

CHAPTER V. THE BLACK RIDERS.

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While the kinsmen were about to leave the banks of
the Wateree, for the Santee hills beyond, there were
other parties among those hills, but a few miles distant,
preparing to move down, on the same road, towards the
Wateree. The eye of the skulking woodman may have
seen, towards nightfall, a motley and strange group of
horsemen, some sixty or seventy in number, winding
slowly adown the narrow gorges, with a degree of cautious
watchfulness, sufficient to make them objects of suspicion,
even if the times were not of themselves enough
to render all things so. The unwonted costume of these
horsemen was equally strange and discouraging. They
were dressed in complete black—each carried broadsword
and pistols, and all the usual equipments of the
well-mounted dragoon. The belt around the waist, the
cap which hung loosely upon the brow; the gloves, the
sash—all were distinguished by the same gloomy aspect.
Their horses alone, various in size and colour, impaired
the effect of this otherwise general uniformity. Silently
they kept upon their way, like the shadows of some
devoted band of the olden time, destined to reappear, and
to reoccupy, at certain periods of the night, the scenes
in which they fought and suffered. Their dark, bronzed
visages, at a nearer approach, in no wise served to diminish
the general severity of their appearance. Huge,
bushy beards, hung from every chin, in masses almost
weighty enough to rival the dense forests which are seen
at the present day, in the same region, by a more pacific
people. The moustache ran luxuriant above the mouth,

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while a tuft below, like that which decorates the turkey,
emulated the thickness, if not the extent, of this imperial
treasure, in that pompous bird. Some of these decorations
were, doubtlessly, like those which became the spoil
of our worthy woodman in a previous chapter, of artificial
origin; but an equal number were due to the bounteous
indulgence of Dame Nature herself. Of the troop
in question, and their aspects, something more might be
said. They had evidently, most of them, seen service
in the “imminent deadly breach.” Ugly scars were
conspicuous on sundry faces, in spite of the extensive
foliage of beard, which storve vainly to conceal them;
and the practised ease of their horsemanship, the veteran
coolness which marked their deliberate and watchful
movements, sufficiently declared the habitual and well-appointed
soldier.

Still, there was not so much of that air of military
subordination among them which denotes the regular
school of warlike exercises. They seemed to be men,
to whom something of discipline was relaxed in consideration
of other more valuable qualities of valour and
forward enterprise, for which they might be esteemed.
Though duly observant not to do any thing which might
yield advantage to an enemy, prowling in the neighbourhood,
still, this caution was not so much the result of
respect for their leader, as the natural consequence of
their own experience, and the individual conviction of
each of what was due to the general safety. They were
not altogether silent as they rode, and when they addressed
their superiors, there was none of that nice and
blind deference upon which military etiquette, among all
well-ordered bodies of men, so imperatively insists. The
quip and crack were freely indulged in—the ribald jest
was spoken; and, if the ribald song remained unsung, it
was simply because of a becoming apprehension that its
melodies might reach other ears than their own.

Their leader, if he might be so considered, to whom
they turned for the small amount of guidance which they
seemed to need, was scarcely one of the most attractive
among their number. He was a short, thick set, darklooking
person, whose stern and inflexible features were

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never lightened unless by gleams of anger and ferocity.
He rode at their head, heard in silence the most that was
said by those immediately about him, and if he gave any
reply, it was uttered usually in a cold, conclusive monosyllable.
His dark eye was turned as frequently upward
to the lowering skies as along the path he travelled.
Sometimes he looked back upon his troop—and occasionally
halted at the foot of the hill till the last of his
band had appeared in sight above. His disposition to
taciturnity was not offensive to those to whom he permitted
a free use of that speech in which he did not himself
indulge; and without heeding his phlegm, his free
companions went on without any other restraint than
arose from their own sense of what was due to caution
in an enemy's country. Beside the leader, at moments,
rode one who seemed to be something of a favourite with
him, and who did not scruple, at all times, to challenge
the punctual attention of his superior. He was one—
perhaps, the very youngest of the party—whose quick,
active movements, keen eyes, and glib utterance, declared
him to belong to the class of subtler spirits who
delight to manage the more direct, plodding, and less
ready of their race. It is not improbable that he possessed
some such influence over the person whom we
have briefly described, of which the latter was himself
totally unconscious. Nothing in the deportment of the
former would have challenged a suspicion of this sort.
Though he spoke freely and familiarly, yet his manner,
if any thing, was much more respectful than that generally
of his companions. A close observer, the unquiet
glances of his superior, had not escaped his observation.
He rode up, carefully restraining his steed a quarter in
the rear, and with a short broken cough, obviously intended
to preface the comment which he meant to offer,
he thus remarked on the unfailing topic.

“We are like to have the storm on our backs, lieutenant,
before we can get to a place of shelter; and I'm
thinking if we don't look out for quarters before it comes
down in real earnest, there'll be small chance of our
finding our way afterward. The night will be here in two
hours, and a mighty dark one it will be, I'm thinking.”

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The lieutenant looked forward, and upward, and around
him, and a slight grunt, which was half a sigh, seemed
to acknowledge the truth of the other's observations.

“I doubt,” continued the first speaker, “if our drive
to-day will be any more lucky than before. I'm afraid
it's all over with the captain.”

Another grunt in the affirmative; and the subordinate
proceeded with something more of confidence.

“But there's no need that we should keep up the hunt
in such a storm as is coming on. Indeed, there's but
little chance of finding any body abroad but ourselves in
such weather. I'm thinking, lieutenant, that it wouldn't
be a bad notion to turn our heads and canter off to old
Muggs' at once.”

“Old Muggs! why how far d'ye think he's off?”

“Not three miles, as I reckon. We've gone about
seven from Cantey's, he's only eight to the right, and if
we take a short cut that lies somewhere in this quarter—
I reckon I can find it soon—we'll be there in a short half
hour.”

“Well! you're right—we'll ride to Muggs'. There's
no use keeping up this cursed hunt and no fun in it.”

“Yes, and I reckon we can soon make up our minds
to get another captain.”

A smirk of the lips, which accompanied this sentence,
was intended to convey no unpleasant signification to the
ears of his superior.

“How, Darcy—how is it—have you sounded them?
What do they say now?” demanded the latter with sudden
earnestness.

“Well, lieutenant, I reckon we can manage it pretty
much as we please. That's my notion.”

“You think so? Some of them have a strange liking
for Morton.”

“Yes, but not many, and they can be cured of that.”

“Enough, then, till we get to Muggs'. Then we can
talk it over. But beware of what you say to him. Muggs
is no friend of mine, you know.”

“Nor is he likely to be, so long as he wears that scar
on his face in token that your hand is as heavy as your
temper is passionate. He remembers that blow!”

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