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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“It isn't that altogether;” replied the other—“but
the truth is that we English are not favourites here, even
among the most loyal of this people. There's a leaning
to their own folks, that always gets them the preference
when we oppose them; and old Muggs has never been
slow to show us that he has no love to spare for any
king's man across the water. I only wonder, knowing
their dislikes as I do, that there's a single loyalist in the
colony. These fellows that ride behind us, merciless as
they have ever shown themselves in a conflict with the
rebels, yet, there's not one of them, who, in a pitched
battle between one of us and one of them, wouldn't be
more apt to halloo for him than for us. Nothing, indeed,
has secured them to the king's side but the foolish violence
of the rebels, which wouldn't suffer the thing to
work its own way; and began tarring and feathering and
flogging at the beginning of the squabble. Had they left
it to time, there wouldn't have been one old Muggs from
Cape Fear to St. Catharine's. We shouldn't have had
such a troop as that which follows us now, nor would I,
this day, be hunting, as lieutenant of dragoons, after a
leader, who—”
“Whom we shall not find in a hurry, and whom we
no longer need,” said the subordinate, concluding the
sentence which the other had partly suppressed.
“Policy! policy!” exclaimed the lieutenant. “That
was Rawdon's pretext for refusing me the commission;—
and conferring it upon Morton. He belonged to some
great family on the Congaree, and must have it therefore—
but, now, he can scarcely refuse it, if it be as we
suspect. If Morton be laid by the heels, even as a prisoner,
he is dead to us. The rebels will never suffer
him to live if they have taken him: and of this there can
be little question. What follows if the men agree?”
“And they do agree, or what is pretty much the same
thing, the command naturally falls into your hands without
a word said. We'll see to that to-night at Muggs'.”
“Do so:—but take the lead, Darcy, and find out this
short cut. The storm thickens, and these drops grow
bigger every moment. I'll hurry the men forward at a
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canter; and even that will barely enable us to save our
distance.”
“It matters little for the wetting, lieutenant, to those
who gain.”
“Gain! yes! that's something!—but—” The sentence
was finished in low tones unheard by the subordinate,
who rode forward at a brisk pace and was shortly
out of sight. “True, the gain is something. Power is
always precious. But the prize is freedom. If Morton
is down, I lose that presence which I hated—which I
feared. Let me not deceive myself—though I may blind
these. Edward Morton was one in whose presence I
shrunk to less than my full proportions. That single
act—that act of shame and baseness—made me his slave.
He, alone, knows the guilt and the meanness of that
wretched moment of my life. God! what would I not
give to have that memory obliterated in him who did,
and him who beheld, the deed of that moment. I feel my
heart tremble at his approach—my muscles wither beneath
his glance; and I, who fear not the foe, and shrink
not from the danger, and whom men call brave—brave
to desperation—I dare not lift my eyes to the encounter
with those of another having limbs and a person neither
stronger nor nobler than my own. He down, and his
lips for ever closed, and I am free. I can then breathe
in confidence, and look around me without dreading the
glances of another eye.—But, even should he live—
should he have escaped this danger—why should I continue
to draw my breath in fear, when a single stroke
may make my safety certain—may rid me of every doubt—
every apprehension? It must be so. Edward Morton,
it is sworn. In your life my shame lives, and while
your lips have power of speech, I am no moment safe
from dishonour. Your doom is written, surely and soon,
if it be not already executed.”
These words were only so many indistinct mutterings,
inaudible to those who followed him. He commanded
them to approach, quickened their speed, and the whole
troop, following his example, set off on a smart canter
in the track which Darcy had taken. Meanwhile, the
storm which before had only threatened, began to pour
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down its torrents, and ere they reached the promised
shelter at Muggs'—a rude cabin of pine logs to which
all direct approach was impossible, and which none but
an initiate could have found, so closely was it buried
among the dense groves that skirted the river swamp,
and may have formed a portion of its primitive domain.
Here the party came to a full halt, but the object at which
they aimed appeared to be less their own than their
horses and equipments. These were conducted into yet
deeper recesses, where, in close woods and shrubbery,
in which art had slightly assisted nature, they were so
bestowed, as to suffer only slightly from the storm. The
greater portion of the troop took shelter in the cabin of
Muggs, while a small squad still kept in motion around
the neighbourhood, heedless of the weather, and quite as
watchful from long habit, as if totally unconscious of any
annoyances.
The establishment of Muggs was one, in fact, belonging
to the party. Muggs, himself, was a retired trooper,
whom a wound in the right arm had so disabled that
amputation became necessary. Useless to the troop in
actual conflict, he was yet not without his uses in the
position which he held, and the new duties he had
undertaken. He was a blunt, fearless old soldier, a
native of the neighbourhood, who, being maimed, was
tolerated by the whigs as no longer capable of harm;
and suffered to remain in a region in which it was
thought, even if disposed to do mischief, his opportunities
were too few to make his doings of very serious
importance. He sold good liquor also, and as he made
no distinction between his customers, and provided
whigs and tories at the same prices, there was no good
reason to expel him from his present position by way of
punishing him for a course of conduct to which so
heavy a penalty seemed already to have been attached.
He was prudent enough, though he did not withhold his
opinions, to express them without warmth or venom;
and, as it was well known to the patriots that he had
never been a savage or blood-thirsty enemy, there was a
very general disposition among them to grant him every
indulgence. Perhaps, however, all these reasons would
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have been unavailing in his behalf, at the sanguinary
period of which we write, but for the excellence of his
liquors, and the certainty of his supply. His relation
with the British enabled him always to provide himself
at Charleston, and every public convoy replenished his
private stores. It should be also understood that none
of the whigs, at any moment, suspected the worthy landlord
of a previous or present connexion with a band so
notoriously odious as that of the Black Riders. The
appearance of these desperadoes was only a signal to
Muggs to take additional precautions. As we have
already stated, a portion of the band were sent out to
patrol the surrounding country, and their number, on
the present occasion, was, by the earnest entreaty of
the host, made twice as large as their captain thought
there was any occasion for. But the former insisted
with characteristic stubbornness, and with a degree of
sullenness in his manner which was foreign to his usual
custom.
“I'm not over pleased to see you here at all, this
time, lieutenant, though I reckon you've a good reason
enough for coming. There's a bright stir among the
rebels all along the Wateree, and down on the Santee,
there's no telling you how far. As for the Congaree,
it's a swarm, in spite of all Bill Cunningham can do,
and he's twice as spry as ever. Here, only two days
ago, has been that creeping critter, Supple Jack; that
come in, as I may say, over my shoulder, like the old
Satan himself. At first I did think it was the old Satan,
till he laughed at my scare, and I then know'd him by
his laugh. Now it's not so easy to cheat Supple Jack,
and he knows all about your last coming. He's willing
to befriend me, though he give me fair warning, last time
he was here, that I was suspicioned for loving you too
well. Now, split my cedars, men, I've got mighty little
reason to love you—you know that—and I'm thinking,
for your sake and mine both, the sooner you draw spur
for the mountains, the smoother will be the skin you
keep. I don't want to see the ugly face of one of you
for a month of Sundays.”
“Why, Muggs—old Muggs—getting scared in the
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very beginning of the season? How's this—what's
come over you?” was the demand of half a dozen.
“I've reason to be scared, when I know that hemp's
growing for every man that keeps bad company. Such
rapscallions as you, if you come too often, would break
up the best `mug' in the country.”
The landlord's pun was innocent enough, and seemed
an old one. It awakened no more smile on his lips than
upon those of his guests. It was spoken in serious
earnest. He continued to belabour them with half playful
abuse, mingled with not a few well-intended reproaches,
while providing, with true landlord consideration,
for their several demands. The Jamaica rum was
put in frequent requisition—a choice supply of lemons
was produced from a box beneath the floor, and the band
was soon broken up into little groups that huddled about,
each after its own fashion, in the several corners of the
wigwam. The rain meanwhile beat upon, and, in some
places, through the roof—the rush of the wind, the
weight of the torrent, and the general darkness of the
scene, led naturally to a considerable relaxation even of
that small degree of discipline which usually existed
among the troop. Deep draughts were swallowed, loud
talking ensued, frequent oaths, and occasionally a sharp
dispute, qualified by an equally sharp snatch of song
from an opposite quarter, proved all parties to be at ease,
and each busy to his own satisfaction.
The lieutenant of the troop, whom we have just seen
acting in command, was perhaps the least satisfied of
any of the party. Not that he had less in possession,
but that he had more in hope. He suffered the jibe and
the song to pass; the oath roused him not, nor did he
seem to hear the thousand and one petty disputes that
gave excitement to the scene. He seemed disposed—
and this may have been a part of his policy—to release
his men from all the restraints, few though they were,
which belonged to his command. But his policy was
incomplete. It was not enough that he should confer
licentious privileges upon his followers—to secure their
sympathies, he should have made himself one of them.
He should have given himself a portion of that license
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which he had accorded to them. But the was too much
of the Englishman for that. He could not divest himself
of that haughty bearing which was so habitual in the
carriage of the Englishman in all his dealings with the
provincial, and which, we suspect, was, though unde
clared, one of the most active influences to provoke the
high-spirited people of the south to that violent severing
of their connexion with the mother country, which was
scarcely so necessary in their case as in that of the
northern colonies. The lieutenant, whose name was
Stockton, made sundry, but not very successful efforts,
to blend himself with his comrades. He shared their
draughts, he sometimes yielded his ears where the
dialogue seemed earnest—sometimes he spoke, and his
words were sufficiently indulgent; but he lacked utterly
that ease of carriage, that simplicity of manner, which
alone could prove that his condescension was not the result
of effort, and against the desires of his mind. His
agent, Darcy, was more supple as he was more subile.
He was not deficient in those arts which, among the
ignorant, will aways secure the low. He drank with
them, as if he could not well have drunk without them—threw himself among their ranks, as if he could not have
disposed his limbs easily any where else; and did for
his superior, what the latter could never have done for
himself. He operated sufficinetly on the minds of several
to secure a faction in his favour, and thus strengthened,
he availed himself of the moment when the Jamaica
had proved some portion of its potency, to broach openly
the subject which had hitherto been only discussed in
private.
Of the entreaties, the arguments, or the promises made
by Ensign Darcy to persuade the troop into his way of
thinking, we shall nothing. It will be sufficient for
our purpose that we show the condition of things at this
particular juncture. Considerable progress had now
been made with the subject. It had, in fact, become the
one subject of discussion. The person whom it more
immediately concerned, had, prudentlyu, if not modestly,
withdrawn himself from the apartment, though in doing
so, he necessarily exposed himself to some encounter
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with the pitiless storn. The various groups had mingled
themselves into one. The different smaller topies
which before excited them, had given way before the
magnitude of this, and each trooper began to feel his
increased importances as his voice seemed necessary in
the creation of so great a person as his captain. So far,
Darcy had no reason to be dissatisfied with his performances.
Assisted by the Jamaica, his arguments had
sunk deep into their souls. One after another had become
a convert to his view, and he was just about to
flatter himself with the conviction that he should soon
be rejoiced by the unanimous shout which should declare
the nominaion of their new captain, when another
party, who before had said not a single word, now joined
in the discussion after a manner of his own. This was
no less important a personage than Muggs, the landlord.
“Counting scupls before you take 'em! I wonder
where the dickens you was brought up, Ensign Darcy.
Here now you're for making a new cappin, afore you
know what's come of the old. You reckon Ned Mbrton's
dead, do you? I reckon he's alive and kicking.
I don't say so, mind me. I wouldn't wear sich a thing
on Scripture book, but I'm so night sure of it, that I'd be
willinhg to swear never agen to touch a drop of the stuff
if so be he is not alive.”
“But, Muggs—if he's alive where is he?”
“Gog's wounds! that's easier asked than answered: but if we go to count for dead every chap that's missing,
I'd have to go in mourning mighty often for the whole
troop of you, my chickens. It's more reasonable that
he's alive jist because we don't hear of him. We'd ha' hearn of him soon enough if the rebels had a got him.
We'd ha' seen his hide upon a drum-head, and his own
head upon a stump, and there wouldn't ha' been a dark
corner on the Wateree that wouldn't ha' been ringing
with the uproar about it. I tell you, my lads, that day
that sees the death of New Morton, won't be a quiet day
in these parts. There'll be more of a storm in these
woods than is galloping through 'em now. If you don't
cry that day, the rebets will; and let them lose what
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they may in the skrimmage, they'll have a gain when they flatten him on his back!”
“Ah, Muggs!” exclaimed Darcy, “I'm afraid you let
your wishes blind you to the truth. I suppose you
don't know that we got the captain's horse, and he all
bloody?”
“Don't I know, and don't I think, for that very reason
too, that he's safe and sound, and will soon be among
you. You found his horse, but not him. The horse
was bloody. Well! If the blood had been his and vital blood, don't you think you'd ha' found the rider as
well as the horse? But, perhaps, you didn't stay long
enough for the hunt. Folks say you all rode well
enough that day. But if the cappin was mortal hurt and
you didn't find him, the rebels would, and then what a
`halloo-balloo' we should have had. No, to my thinking,
the cappin lost the horse a-purpose when he found
he couldn't lose the rebels. The whole troop of Butler
was upon him, swearing death again him at every jump.
Be sure now, Ned Morton left the critter to answer for
him, and tuk to the swamp like a brown bear in September.
I can't feel as if he was dead; and, if he was,
Ensign Darcy, I, for one, wouldn't help in making a
cappin out of any butr one that comes out of the airth.
I'm for country born, if any.”
“Well, Muggs, what objection do you find to the
lieutenant?”
“He's not country born, I tell you.”
“But he's a good officer—there's not a better in the
country than Lieutenant Stockton.”
“That mout be, and then, agin, it moutn't. I'm
a-thinking Ben Williams is about as good a man as you
could choose for your cappin, if so be Ned Morton's
slipped hiss wind for sartin. I don't see Ben here to-night—at this present—but look at him when he comes
in, and you'll say that's the man to be a cappin. He's a
dragoon, now, amog a thousand, and then, agin, he's
country born.”
“But Muggs, I don't see that your argument goes for
much. An American born is a king's man, and a British
born is the same, and its natural, when they're fighting
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on the same side, that a Brish born should have command
just the same as the American.”
“I don't see that it's natural, and I don't believe it.
There's a mightly difference between 'em to my thinking.
As for your king's men and British men. I'm one
that wishes you had let us alone to fight it out among
ourselves, rebel and loyal, jist as we stand. It was a
sort of family quarred, and would he' been soon over, if you hadn't dipped a long spoon into our dish. They'd
ha' licked us or we'd ha' licked them, and which ever
way it went, we'd all ha' been quiet long afore this.
But here you come, with your Irishmen, and your
Yagers, your Scotchmen and your Jarmans, and you've
made the matter worse without helping yourselves. For,
where are you? As you what? No, by the powers!
You say Rawdon's licked Greene. It's well enough to
say so. But where's Greene and where's Rawdon?
IF you aint hearn, I can tell you.”
“Well?” from half a dozen. “Let's heat! The
news! The news!”
“Well! It's not well—not well for you, at least;
and the sooner you're gone from these parts the better.
Rawdon that licked Greene is about to run from Greene
that he licked. I have it from Scrub Heriot—little Scrub,
you know—that they've had secret council in Camden,
and all's in a mist there—the people half scared to death,
for they say that they can't get becon or beans, and
Rawdon's going to vackyate, and swearns, if he had to do
so, he'll make Camden such a blaze that it'll light his
way all down to Charlestown. I'm looking out for the
burst every night. That's not all. There's as fresh a
gathering of the rebels along the Santee and Pedee under
Marion, as if every fellow you had ever killed had got
his sculp back again, and was jest as ready to kick as ever.
Well, Tom Taylor's brushing like a little breeze about
Granby, and who but Sumter rides the road now from
Ninety-Six to Augusta? Who but he? Cunningham
darsn't show his teeth along the track for fear they'll be
drawed through the back of his head. Well, if this is
enough to make you feel scarey, aint it enough to make
Ned Morton keep close and hold in his breath till he
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finds a clean country before him. Don't you think of
making a new cappin till you're sartin what's come of
the old; and if it's all over with him, then I say look
out for another man among you that comes out of the
airth. Ben Williams for me, lads, before any other.”
“Hurrah for Ben Williams!” was the maudlin ery of
half a dozen. The lieutenant at this moment reappeared.
His glance was frowningly fixed upon the landlord, in a
way to convince Muggs that he had not remained uninformed
as to the particular course which the latter had
taken. But it was clearly not his policy to show his
anger in any more decided manner, and the cudgels were
taken up for him by Darcy, who, during the various long
speeches of the landlord had contrived to maintain a running
fire among the men. He plied punch and persuasion—
strong argument and strong drink—with equal
indusry; and the generous tendencies of the party began
every where to overflow. He felt his increasing
strength, and proceecded to carry the attack into the enemy's
country.
“The truthy is, Muggs, you have a grude at the
lieutenant ever since you had that brush together. You
can't so readily forget that ugly mark on your muzzle.”
“Look you, Ensign Darcy, there's something in that
you say that a leetle turns upon my stomach; for you
see it's not the truth. I have no more grudge again
Lieutenant Stockton than I have again you. As for the
mark you speak of, I do say, it did him nho great credit
to make such a mark on a one-armed man; though I'd
ha' paid him off with a side-wipe that would he' made
him 'spectful enough to the one I had left, if so be that
Ben Williams hadn't put in to save him. That was the
only onfriendly thing that Ben ever done to me to my
knowing. No! I han't no grudges, thank God for all
his blessings, but that's no reason why I shouldn't say
what I do say, that Cappin Ned Morton'ss the man for
my money; and, thouhg I can't have much to say in the
business, seeing I aint no longer of the troop, yet if'twas
the last word I had to reticulate, I'd cry it for him.
Here's to Ned Morton, boys, living or dead.”
-- 071 --
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
“And here's to Lieutenant Stockton, boys, and may
he soon be Captain of the Black Riders.”
“Hurrah for Stockton! Hurrah!” was the now
almost unanimous cry, and Stockton, advancing, was
about the speak, when the faint sounds of a whistle broke
upon the night, imparting a drearier accent to the melancholy
soughing of the wind without. The note, again
repeated, brought every trooper to his feet. The cups
were set down hastily—swords buckled on—caps donned,
and pistols examinds.
“To horse,” was the command of Stockton, and his
cool promptitude, shown on this occation, was perhaps
quite enough to justify the choice which the troop had
been about to make of a new captain. “To hourse,” he
cried, leading the way to the entrance, but ere he reached
it, the door was thrown wide, and the ambitious lieutenant
recoiled in consternation, as he encountered in the
face of the new comer the stern visage of that very man,
supposed to be dead, whom he equally feared and hated,
and whose post he was so well disposed to fill. The chief
of the Black Riders stood suddenly among his followers,
and the shouts for the new commandard were almost forgotten
in those which welcomed the old. But let us
retrace our steps for a few moments, and bring our
readers once more within hearing of the kinsmen.
-- 072 --
Simms, William Gilmore, 1806-1870 [1841], The kinsmen, or, The black riders of Congaree, volume 1 (Lea & Blanchard, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf366v1].
