CHAPTER XV.

“Too long a laggard, he hath stood,
Until the hearth was drenched in blood;
Until the tyrant grew
All reckless, in his bloody game;
The cities proud he wrapped in flame,
Their brave defenders, slew.”

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The young partisan, Frampton, to whom Singleton
had intrusted so leading a part in the enterprise, had
well fulfilled the duty assigned him. He had put himself
in readiness, with the first appearance of the
marauders; and, with a heart throbbing with anxiety
all the while, had witnessed impatiently the progress
of the preceding scene, until broken by the emphatic
utterance of the signal, and his own prompt obedience
to its dictates. Then, with an instinct, which, in that
moment, silenced and stilled the quick pulsation of his
breast, had he raised the deadly weapon to his shoulder;
and with a determined coolness that arose, as it
were, from a desire to convince himself, not less than
his commander, that he could be firm, he had twice
varied his aim, until perfectly assured, he had drawn
the trigger, and most opportunely singled out a different
victim from that which Gaskens had contemplated for
the fatal sisters, in the person of that foul murderer
himself.

There was a moment of dreadful pause after this
event. The rope fell from the hands of the executioner,
and his eyes, and the eyes of all, were turned in
doubt and astonishment upon the quarter from whence
the deadly messenger had proceeded. The condemned
man seized the opportunity to throw from his
body the lifeless carcass of the slain tory; and not

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doubting that farther aid was at hand, and looking for a
close struggle, he crawled along the hill for shelter to
the neighbouring tree. His effort was interrupted;
for, in the next moment, another and another shot selected
their victims; then came the full volley; and
then the loud voice of Singleton, as, plunging through
the copse, he led the way for his men, who charged the
confused and terrified tories on every side. They
scarcely showed sign of fight. One or two offered
resistance boldly, and with as much skill as resolution;
but they were soon overpowered, as they received
no support from their comrades, who were now
scampering in the bushes in every direction. The
surprise had been complete; not a man was seriously
hurt among the whigs, while every rifle, fired in the
first of the fray, had told fatally upon its victim.
Seven were slain outright, a few more sabred, and
some few were made prisoners—the rest took the back
track into the woods, and though pursued, contrived,
with few exceptions, to make their escape.

The boy, meanwhile, had well performed the other
duty which had been given to his charge. The conflict,
pellmell, had scarcely begun, when, slipping
noiselessly round to the hollow where the prisoners
were confined, so as not to arouse the notice of the two
sentinels having them in custody, and whose eyes were
now turned in surprise upon the unlooked-for contest,
he cut the cords which bound them; and, prompt as
himself, they were no sooner free, than they seized
upon their guards and disarmed them. The ropes
were transferred to other hands than their own. This
was all the work of an instant; so, indeed, was
the affray itself; and the first object that met the eyes
of Singleton as he returned from the charge to the
spot where it first began, was the person of the boy
bending over the man he had shot, and curiously inspecting
the bullet hole which he had made through
and through his forehead.

“Ha, boy!” said Singleton; “you have done well—
you have behaved like a man.”

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“Oh, sir, tell me,” cried the boy, “was this the
man that was swearing so, but a minute ago? and can
this be the bullet hole from my rifle?”

“It is; this is the wretch, and your bullet was in
the right time.”

“Oh, sir, he was cursing when I fired: and then the
poor man he was going to hang—I was so afraid that
you would not say, `now,' soon enough to save him.
But I feel so strange!”

“How, boy?”

“I have killed a man: what would my poor mother
say, if she was alive and knew it?”

“Go, go, boy, you have done well; you have shot
him in a good cause, and have saved innocent life
besides. You could not have done better—but don't
think of it.”

“I can't help thinking of it, sir,” said the boy, upon
whom a new experience was dawning rapidly, as he
moved back to the copse where he had been concealed,
to resume his jacket and rifle which he had there
thrown aside.

In another quarter of the field, the scene which met
the eye of Singleton was one of those which amply
compensate for the pain and the peril, the dread and
the anxiety, through which men must pass to witness
them:—the sudden emancipation of the prisoners to
life and freedom—the erect aspect of the beaten and
bound man—the body realizing, in the moment of its
rescue, the liberty for which the mind had been yearning,
and whose value can only be duly estimated by
its privation. A cry—a cheer of joy—was upon every
lip; as the bird, escaping from his cage, attests the
consciousness of his new condition of freedom, in
song, not less than flight.

Conspicuous among the prisoners, in their joy upon
this occasion, was the family of the brave but suffering
wretch who had so narrowly escaped the halter.
Revived by the noise, the rush, the firing, and confusion
of the fight, as much as by the earnest cares of her
daughter, his wife had been filled with a new anxiety,

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along with the new hope, when she found that, though
execution had not been done upon her husband, as so
nearly promised, her eyes could not trace out his person
in the midst of the fierce melée which followed the
first arrest of his doom. A moment after, and her
arms were about his neck: and though unused to the
melting mood, the tears forced themselves into the
eyes of Singleton, as he surveyed their meeting—the
sweetness of their sorrow—the joy which is tearful—
the pleasure which almost grows into pain, in the
depth of its pure intensity.

“Safe, oh safe, Walter Griffin! and there is no
more danger, my husband!”

“None, none! we are safe, we are all safe, Ellen!”

“And where is Gaskens?”

“The wretch is on his back. God bless the bullet
that came in time, and the true hand that sent it.”

“And we are free, my father, to go home again—to
our own home?” said the daughter, as she took the
hand of her father in both of her own.

“Home! where is it?” he exclaimed fiercely, and
with the same savage expression with which his eyes
had regarded Gaskens, even in the moment of his
greatest danger. “Where is it? Did you not see the
blaze through the trees, as we looked back? Did he
not throw the torch into the loft with his own accursed
hands? and yet you ask for our home. We have no
home, girl.”

“But we are free, my husband, we are free. You
will go to work—we will soon have another in the old
place, and we can lodge in a shed till then.”

“Never, never! I do no such folly. What! to be
burnt down again by other tories?—no, no! I am
chopped already—I cannot be chopped much worse,
and live; and if I must suffer, let me suffer with those
who will help me to strike, too, and to revenge. I will
burn too; I will kill too. I will have blood for what I
have lost, and the sufferings of others shall pay me
for my own and yours.”

Singleton approached at this moment, and the

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prisoners, so lately freed, gathered around him. Each had
his own story of affliction to tell, and each more
mournful than the other.

“They chased me, it mought be a matter of three
miles, 'fore I gin up, captain, and they wore out a
bunch of hickories on my back, because I run—see to
the marks,” was the complaint of one. Another had
his tale of petty treachery: his neighbour who had
eaten a hundred times of his bacon and hoecake, had
come in the night time, shot down his cattle, and,
finally, led the tories to his door to slaughter him.
Another had his wife shot in her bed, in mistake
for himself, while he was traversing the swamp to
make his escape. And so on—one with simple cruelty,
one with burning, one with murder, and one with even
more atrocious crimes—each of the prisoners had his
own and his family's sufferings, at the hands of the
blood-thirsty tories, to narrate to their deliverer.

Singleton administered his consolations, and put
arms into their hands. The greater number of them
joined him; those who did not, receiving the upbraidings,
in no stinted measure, of those who did. The
lately doomed prisoner, Griffin, seized upon a broadsword—
a massive weapon, which had fallen from the
hands of a huge-limbed tory—and proffered himself the
first. His wife laid her hand upon his arm—

“Oh, husband, you are not a-going to join the troops?
you are not going a-fighting?”

He looked sternly upon her, and shook away the
grasp—

“Ay, but I am! you shan't keep me from my duty
now. I wanted to come out six months ago, but you
tried the same game over me, and I was fool enough
to mind you, and see how it's turned out. Our cattle
shot—the house burnt—the farm destroyed—and me
chopped up, and almost hung; and all owing to you.”

The woman sank back at the reproach. The girl
came between them—

“Oh, father, don't speak so to mother. Now,

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mother, he don't mean it; he's only fierce because of the
fighting.”

“I do mean it! I do mean it! She whined, and
begged, and cried, and kept me back, until the bloody
varmints overcrowed us at every turn. She shall
keep me back no longer. I say to you, captain, here's
an arm, and here's a sword: to be sure the arm's
chopped, and the owner is ragged with cuts and
scratches; but no matter, they're true blood, and, by
God, it's at your service, for old Carolina. Put me
down in your orderly book as one of your men, as
long as the troop holds together. Wat Griffin is one
of your men, and one of Marion's men, and one of all
men that are enemies to the tories.”

The man was resolved, and his wife spared all farther
speech. She knew how unavailing was the woman's
pleading against the resolute will of the man,
once determined upon. She clung to his arm, however;
and it could be seen, in that moment of affliction
and of peril, of trying adventure and long fatigue
rising up before them, that the firmness of her resolution
to share his fortunes was equal to that which had
determined him upon them.

An hour's labour buried the bodies of the men who
had fallen in the conflict. The recruits were well
armed from the hands of those who had perished and
become prisoners; and, with a troop now grown to a
respectable size, from the acquisitions of the morning,
Singleton prepared for his farther progress. The men
were soon mounted, some riding double, as the number
of horses was not equal to that of the partisans.
The prisoners were driven along before them, and,
rather more slowly than they otherwise would have
been, not thus embarrassed, our little corps of patriots
was soon in motion. Singleton led the march at a
gentle pace—the boy Frampton, as had latterly been
his usage, taking his place and keeping close alongside
of his commander.

CHAPTER XVI.

“And subtle the design, and deep the snare,
And various the employ of him who seeks
To spoil his fellow, and secure himself.”

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Certainly, man is never so legitimately satisfied,
as when in the realization of his own powers. The
exercise of those attributes which make his nature,
is the duty that follows his creation; and it is only
when he exceeds the prescribed limit, and runs into
excess, that he suffers and is criminal. How various
are these powers—how extensive their range—how
superior their empire! Creative, destructive, perceptive—
all co-operating for the same end—the elevation
of his own capacities and condition. They are those of
a God, and they prove his divinity. Balanced duly,
each in its place, and restrained, as well as promoted,
by its fellow, he deserves to be, and most probably
will be happy. But whether the balance be preserved
or not, the discovery, on his part, of any one of these
powers, must have the effect of elevating him in his
own thought, and giving him pleasure accordingly.
Sometimes, indeed, to such a degree does its realization
delight him, that he maddens and gluttonizes in its
enjoyment—he gloats upon it; and, from a natural attribute,
cherished for a beneficial purpose, and forming
a necessary endowment, it grows into a disease, and
preys upon its master.

Such is that love of enterprise which sometimes
leads to ungenerous conquest; such that stern desire of
justice which sometimes prompts us, in defence of our
own rights, not to scruple at unnecessary bloodshed.
In the pursuit of both, the original purpose is soon lost
sight of. We guage not our dooms in measure with
the wrongs we suffer; and the fierce excitements

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which grow out of their prosecution, become leading, if
not legitimate, objects of pursuit themselves. The conquest
of new countries, to this day, at whatever expense
of blood and treasure, is scarcely criminal in the eyes
of civilized and Christian man; and where conscience
does suggest a scruple, the doubt is soon set aside in
the gracious consideration of those vast benefits which
we assume to bring the people, whose possessions we
despise, and whose lands and lives we appropriate. Yet
is the enterprise itself legitimate, according to our nature;
and the sense of resistance to injustice and oppression,
a faculty that could not be dispensed with. They
form vital necessities of our condition, while subordinate.
The misfortune is that we pamper them, as we do favourite
children, till they rise at last into tyrants, and
change places with us.

The boy Frampton had undergone a change which
did not escape the eye of Singleton as he rode beside
him. The lively laugh had left his countenance, the
gentle play of expression had departed from his rich,
red, and well-chiselled mouth, and in place of them
the eye was kindled with a deep glare of light, lowering
and strong, while the lips curled into a haughty
loftiness becoming the lord of highest station. A vein
that crossed his forehead was full almost to bursting,
and his brow lowered with an expression of battle that
indicated feelings, even then warmly active with the
brief scene of strife through which they had so recently
passed. The boy was a boy no longer; he had realized
one of the capacities of manhood; he had slain
his man; he had taken one step in revenging the murder
of his mother: he had destroyed one of the murderers;
but, more than all—he had taken human life.

Something of a higher feeling than this was at the
same time working in his bosom. Though previously
untaught, he had learned too much of the struggle going
on in the colonies, not to have acquired some knowledge
of the abstract question upon which it depended;
and though his thoughts were all vague and indistinct
on the subject, the rights of man, the freedom of the

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citizen, and the integrity of his country, he had learned
to feel should all be among the first considerations,
as their preservation was always the first care, of the
patriot. The furious popular declamation of the five
preceding years had not been unheard by the youthful
soldier; and its appeals were not lost upon one, who,
in his own family, had beheld such a bloody argument
as had long since taught him the necessity of regarding
them. His country entered into his thoughts, therefore,
in due connection with his feeling of the individual
wrong which he had sustained; and that personal
feeling which prompted the desire of revenge, was lifted
higher, and rendered holier, by the connection. It
became hallowed in his bosom, where it contemplated,
not only the punishment of the wrong-doer, but the protection
of the cottage-home—his own, and his people's—
from the injustice and the violence of the invader.
It grew into a solemn principle of action thus associated,
and the moral abstraction over which the unassailed
citizen might have dreamed through a long season of
years, without duly considering its force or application,
became purely practical in the eyes of Frampton—a feeling
of his heart, rather than a worked out problem of
his understanding. The thought grew active in following
out the feeling; and Singleton, as the boy rode
abstractedly beside him, revolving a thousand new and
strange sensations that were running through his mind,
regarded his countenance with a glance of melancholy
rather than approval. He saw that, in his glance, which
taught him the leading activity of his new emotions.
The boy had a new sentiment in his bosom, the contemplation
of which made it eminently more familiar.
He could destroy—and he could do so without his own
rebuke. He could take the life of his fellow—and
good men could approve. He had penetrated a new
world of thought, and he was duly enamoured of his
conquest; and even, as we all desire to renew the novelty,
and partake a second time of the strange pleasure,
so the heart of the boy panted for a repetition of that
indulgence which had lifted him into premature

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manhood. The passions grew active without the least
countenance of reason to uphold them, and this is the
dangerous point in their history. Crime was made
legitimate to him now, and the fruit once forbidden,
was forbidden no longer. He could now pluck with
impunity—so he began to think—and his mind was on
that narrow eminence which divides a duty from an indulgence—
which separates the close approach of a
principle to an appetite—which changes the means into
an end; and, identifying the excuse for violence, with
an impelling motive to its commission, converts a most
necessary agent of life into a powerful tyranny, which,
in the end, runs riot, and only conquers to destroy.

Singleton regarded his charge with a close attention,
as he surveyed the unsophisticated emotions of his
heart, plainly enough written upon his face. He read
there all that was going on within; and his own heart
smote him at the survey. He thought of Emily, of
her prayer for peace, her denunciation and her dread
of war; and though he knew not of her death, the
thought that she might, even now, be a silent watcher
from the heavens, was enough to persuade him to an
effort to quiet the fierce spirit at work within the bosom
of the boy. He spoke—and his voice, modulated by
grief into a tone as soft as that of a girl, struck strangely
upon the ear of his companion. It was so different
from the wild strain of thought with which his mind
was crowded. A note of the trumpet—the shriek and
shout of advancing foemen, had been far less discordant;
and the boy shivered as he heard the simple utterance
of his own name.

“Lance—Lance Frampton.”

For a moment he was incapable of all reply. The
eye of Singleton was fixed upon him; and when he
met, and felt the look, he seemed to understand. His
lips, which were rigidly compressed before, now separated—
though it was still with seeming difficulty that he
answered—

“Sir!”

“Your father is not with us, boy?”

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“No, sir—I have not seen him nor heard him. I
don't think he'll come out of the swamp, sir; he loves
the Cypress: though, I reckon, if he only knew we
should have had some fighting so soon—I'm sure, sir,
he would have been glad to come—he loves to fight
with the tories, sir. He always hated them, and more
since mother's death—them, and the dragoons.”

“And you too, boy, seem to have acquired something
more of fondness for the sport than you had before.
You have learned also to love fighting with the
tories.”

The words of Singleton were cold—rather stern, indeed;
and his glance was not calculated to encourage
the stern passion which was growing so active in the
breast of the boy. But the latter did not regard the
disapprobation which tone and look alike conveyed to
his senses. His eye flashed and lightened, his lip
quivered, closed firmly, then parted and quivered
again, and his arm twisted convulsively the bridle of
his steed.

“Oh, sir, I'm not afraid now. I know I shan't be
afraid. I didn't know at first how I should feel in
shooting at a man; but now, sir, I'm not afraid. I
wanted to run in, sir, when you told the men to charge,
but I had to go round and cut loose the prisoners; but I
watched you all the time, sir; and I clapped my hands,
sir—I couldn't help it—when I saw your sword go clean
down through the tory's hand and into his head, in
spite of all he could do. It was a great blow that, sir—
a great blow; but I couldn't handle a sword so
heavy.”

There was something of a desponding earnestness
in his tones as this last regret was uttered, and Singleton
surveyed, as some curious study, the face, so full
of transitions, of the boy beside him. After the pause
of a moment, in a calm, subdued voice, he said to him—

“You shall have a sword, Lance— a small one to
suit your hand. But remember, boy, war is not a sport,
but a duty, and we should not love it. It is a cruel necessity,
and only to be resorted to as it protects from

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cruelty; and must be a tyranny, even though it shields
us from a greater. It is to be excused, not to be justified;
and we should not spill blood, but as the spilling
of blood is always apt to discourage the wrong-doer in
those practices by which all men must suffer, and
through which blood must be spilt in far greater quantity.”

The boy looked on the speaker with an expression
of astonishment which he did not seek to conceal.
Singleton noticed the expression, and continued with
his lesson. But it is not the youthful mind, full of
spirit, and resolute in adventure, which will draw such
nice distinctions as the partisan insisted on. The duty
would be performed, doubtless, while it continued a
pleasure; but when the pleasure to the mind survives
the duty, it is not often that the unregulated impulse
can be persuaded to forbear. The boy replied accordingly—

“Ah, sir, and yet I watched your face when you
were fighting, and you seemed glad to cut down your
enemy, and your eye was bright, and flashing with joy,
and your lip even laughed, sir—I saw it laugh, sir, as
plainly as I see it now.”

“That may be, boy, but still war is a duty only, and
should not be made a pleasure. It has its pleasures,
as every duty must have; but they are dangerous pleasures,
and not the less so because we can smile when
indulging in them. It is a sad reflection, boy, that we
can laugh when taking the life of a fellow-creature,
and taking the life, too, that we can never return.”

“Yet, sir, where can be the harm of killing a tory?
They don't mind killing our people, and burning their
houses, and driving off their cattle. I wish I could
kill a thousand of them.”

Singleton looked again on the boy, and saw that
he was never more in earnest. He thought once more
of his sister's pleadings, and her fine eloquence in defence
of humanity, while considering this very subject.
What a contrast! But the one was on the verge of the
grave and of heaven, and her spirit was attuned to the

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divine and gentle influence of the abodes of bliss.
The other was on the verge of life—its storms yet to
go through, and by them to be purified, or never. No
wonder that the mood was sanguinary: the trial and
the path before him seemed to call for it.

“Alight, boy,” said he, “and bring me a gourd of
that water, while the troop is coming up.”

A branch ran across their path, and an opportunity
was suggested to the partisan for a useful lesson to his
charge. With alacrity, the youth alighted from his
horse, and went to gather the water, while Singleton
waited the coming up of the long cavalcade of troop,
and prisoners, women and children, behind. The boy
stooped over the clear streamlet which trickled without
a murmur over the road: it gave back his features from
its untroubled mirror, and he started back from their
contemplation. He had never before seen that expression—
the expression of triumph in war, and a sanguinary
desire for a renewal of its fierce and feverish
joys. The blood-shot eye, the corded vein, the wild
and eager expression, were all new to him, who had been
the favourite of a mother, gentle to weakness, and fostering
him with a degree of sensibility almost hostile
to manhood. He dashed the gourd into the water, and
hurried away with the draught to his commander. Singleton
barely looked upon him, and the eye of the boy
was turned instinctively from his gaze—but for a moment,
however. His firmness was soon restored, the
strong fire again filled it, and once more it met that of
his superior unshrinkingly. Singleton gave him back
the vessel, and from that moment felt assured of his nature.
He saw that courage to desperation, and a love
of the fight, the adventure, and the risk of war, were
all in his soul, to a degree which no immaturity of
strength, no inexperience, could keep down or diminish.
He waited till he was again mounted, and at his
side; and he himself felt, in despite of his own exhortations,
a feverish sort of pleasure at seeing so
clearly depicted as they were upon the face of the boy,
the emotions of so bold and promising a spirit.

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The long procession was now at hand, and Humphries,
who had given his attention hitherto chiefly to
the prisoners and the rear, now rode up to his commander.
They conferred upon the subject of their
next proceeding, and as the evening was at hand, and
there could be little prospect of their reaching the Santee
that night in time to cross it, burdened as they
were with baggage and prisoners, they had almost resolved
to lie by with the coming darkness; but while
they spoke, Davis, who had been sent on ahead with
the scouts, rode in with intelligence which partially
altered their determination.

“There are outriders, sir, that hang on our skirts,
all well mounted. We have had a glimpse at them
through the bush, but not to overhaul them. Once or
twice, sir, we saw eyes peeping out from the woods,
sir, but though we pushed hard, they got shot of us
mighty quick, and we lost 'em. I only rode up to put
you on your guard, for I reckon there's more of 'em,
that we don't see.”

“'Tis well: put out again, Davis, and do not let them
escape you now if you can help it. We shall see to
the troop.”

Davis rode away, and Singleton proceeded to arrange
his men for all circumstances.

“Close up, Humphries, and bring your prisoners
into the centre: see that they do not straggle, and let
your men look to their arms. Put them in good preparation
for any chance.”

Then calling to the front a squad of the better armed
and mounted, the partisan extended his line on the advance,
so as to throw a few troopers, on either hand,
into the woods that skirted the road. It was not long
after this that Davis, with the scouts, who had more
than once detected a pair of keen eyes watching them
from the distant bush, now came suddenly upon a countryman
who sat mending a bridle upon a log at the
road-side. He did not seem much startled at their appearance,
and his whole features wore an expression

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of the most approved simplicity and sang froid. He
made no movement until the scouts had actually surrounded
him, then blurted out his astonishment with
the coolest composure.

“Why, holla! now; but you block a fellow in,
mighty like as if you wanted to look at his teeth.
What mought your wish be, stranger?”

Thus addressing Davis, the countryman rose, and
with an air half of doubt and half of defiance, confronted
the new-comers. The Goose Creeker looked
on his big bones with admiration, for the man was
huge of limb, though uncomely; and the contrast between
him and Davis was calculated at once to command
attention. The lieutenant, however, did not
long delay his answer.

“Well, now, friend, our wish aint mighty hard to
come at; and the first question I have to ax you, is after
yourself. What may your name be, and what's
your business?”

The man chuckled incontinently for a moment, then
recovering, and looking grave, he replied—

“Look you, stranger, I never let a man poke fun at
me twice on the same day; so I give you fair warning.
I'm old hell for a varmint, and no tree your eyes ever
looked on will come at all nigh to hide you,if I once
sartainly set out to hunt you up. So, now you'll see
it's a mighty ridiculous notion you have if you think
to poke fun at Thumbscrew without paying for it.”

“Well, Mr. Thumbscrew, if so be that's your true
name, I'm much obligated to you for your civility in
warning me about your ways. I've no doubt you're
thought a big man in your part of the country; but
I'm thinking they'd look at you for a mighty small one
in mine. But that's not the business now. Big or little,
Mr. Thumbscrew, there's too many upon you now
to give you much chance, so the best way before you
is to bear a dry scrape kindly, and that'll save you
from two.”

“What! won't you give fair play? Well, that's not

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so genteel, stranger. Fair play's a jewel, all the world
over; and, man for man, or if so be you mought like
it better, I'm not scrupulous to take two of you for a
bout or so on the soft airth; but more than that'll be a
leetle oncomfortable.”

“We haint got time for that, friend,” was the careless
reply of Davis; “and all that we wants from you
in the way of civility, is just to answer a few questions
that we shall ax you.”

“Well, ax away,” was the half-surly reply—“ax
away; but it wouldn't take too much time for a lift or
two on the soft grass, I'm thinking.”

“You say your name is Thumbscrew?”

“Yes, my boy-name; but at the christening they gin
me another, that aint so easy to mention. The true name
is John Wetherspoon, at your sarvice; but Thumbscrew
comes more handy, you see, and them that knows
me thinks it suits me better.”

“Very well, Mr. Thumbscrew, or Wetherspoon—
now, will you say what you're doing here in these parts
at this time of day?”

“Well, that's jest as easy to larn now, sence you
see I'm mending my bridle, and looking arter my critter
that's been stolen, I reckon, by some thieving soldiers—
saving your presence, and axing your pardon.”

“What soldiers?”

“Why, how do I know? Sometimes they're one
thing, sometimes another; now they're whigs, and
now they're tories. One time they're Gainey's, another
time they're Marion's men, just as the notion
suits 'em.”

“And what are you? Are you a whig or tory?”

“Neither, thank God, for all his civilities and marcies.
I'm a gentleman, and not a soldier, no how, I'll
have you to know.”

“And where do you live when you are at home?”

“In the Big Bend, by Red Stone Hollow, close to
the Clay Church, and right side of Black Heifer
Swamp. My farm is called Hickory Head Place; and
the parson who does our preaching is named

[figure description] Page 153.[end figure description]

Broadcast—he preaches through his nose, and has a Way with
him.”

“What way?”

“Margery Way, what does his mending: all the
parish knows her.”

“Well, but I don't know any of these places or
people you've been telling me of,” said Davis.

“I reckoned as much. They say, though I've never
been in them parts, that you folks, from low down by
the sea, are most unmarcifully stupid.”

“Humph! and how far are we here from the river?”

“A small chance of a run, if so be you mean the Santee.
This morning, when I left it, it was ten miles off,
but it's been running ever since; and God knows, stranger,
I can't tell how far it's got to by this time.”

“I'm dubious, Mr. Thumbscrew, that you're playing
your tantrums upon me, after all; and if so be I find
you at that work, I'll hang you, d—n my buttons, if I
don't, by your own bridle, and no two ways about it,
old fellow—how far is the Santee?”

“Well now, you're mighty like getting in a passion,
and that'll be quite too rediculous. The Santee, now,
if it stands still, you see, is jest about ten miles away to
the right. It may be more, and it may be less, but it's
thereabouts, if it stands where it ought; but I tell you
it runs mighty fast, for a thing that you look for to be
quiet in one place.”

“Ten miles—and what have you seen in the shape
of men and soldiers about here? Have you seen any
tories or any whigs? Marion's men, they say, are thick
along the swamp.”

“It's a bad business that, stranger, hunting after sodgers.
I knows nothing about them. If I could only
find Nimrod now, stranger, you can't count up how
little I'd care about all you big sword men, tories or
whigs, red coats or blue—all the same to Thumby.
They've stolen the nag, and may he ride to the ugly
place with the rapscallion that straddles him, drop him
fairly inside the door, and come back a minute after to
Red Stone Hollow.”

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In this way, until Singleton's approach, did Davis
seek, in vain, to obtain his information from the stranger.
He communicated his ill success to his superior,
and the incorrigible Thumbscrew was brought before
him. The partisan surveyed him closely, and saw at a
glance that the fellow, in southern phrase, was “playing
possum,” and knew much more than he delivered. But
the key was at hand, and the first words of Singleton
unsealed the mystery.

“How are the owls, Thumbscrew?”

“At roost, and ready for the moon,” was the instant
reply; and every feature was full of awakening intelligence.
Singleton ordered his men back, and conferred
with him alone.

“The Swamp Fox is at hand—not moving?”

“He waits for Major Singleton, and prepares for the
continentals; but must be close, for the tories under
Pyles, Huck, Tynes, and Harrison, are all around him.”

“And how far are we now from Nelson's?”

“Just nine miles, and the road clear, all but our
scouts. Horry with twenty men scours to the left, and
ten of us skirt the track to Nelson's, partly on the look
out for you, sir, and partly for the tories.”

“'Tis well—you have a horse?”

“Ay, sir, close in the wood.”

“Shall we be able to reach the Santee before dark?”

“Impossible, sir, with all your men; but a detachment
may, and had better ride on to prepare for the rest.
Colonel Marion is fast transferring the boats to the
other side, and as the road is clear, sir, you would find
it best to spur forward with a few, while the lieutenant
brings up the remainder.”

Desirous of securing the passage, Singleton adopted
the counsel, and singling out a dozen of his best horse,
he led the way with his new guide, and left Humphries
to bring up the cavalcade.

CHAPTER XVII.

“I love the wild adventure—the thick woods,
Strange aspects, and the crowding things that rove,
Peopling their deep recesses.”

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The little force led by Singleton in advance of his
main body continued to make acquisitions at every
step of its progress. The scouts of Marion, lining the
woods at convenient intervals from each other, were
soon notified of the approach of friends by the peculiar
whistle which Thumbscrew employed; a whistle
shrill in itself, and singularly modulated, which Marion's
men were all taught to understand. They came out,
one by one, from the bush; brought out their hidden
horses, and each, answering to his nom de guerre, as it
was called out by Thumbscrew, took his place along
with the advancing party. There were Supple Jack
and Crabstick, Red Possum and Fox Squirrel, Slickfoot
and Old Ben; all men of make and mettle, trusty
and true, and all of them, in after years, winning a
goodly reputation in the land, which the venerable tradition,
in sundry places, will “not willingly let die.”

The river was now at hand, and Thumbscrew was
required to give the signal to the scouts who were at
watch along its banks. He did so, and the effect was
admirable. From one bush to another, cover to cover,
they all gave back the emulous sounds. The old cypress
had a voice from its hollow, the green bush from
its shade, and the shrill echoes rollingly arose from the
crowding leaves of the thick tree that overhung the
river, reverberating far away along its bosom. The
signal was but once repeated, and all was still for
a moment. Suddenly, the approaching troop heard
the plash of paddles, the plunge of a horse in
the water, and a quick, lively blast from the common

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horn, the sounds seeming to arise from the swamp on
the opposite shore. Pushing his steed forward, and
followed by his men, Singleton rode up to the bluff of
the river, just as the last gay glimpses of the setting
sun hung like so many rose-streaks upon its bosom,
trembling to and fro like so much gossamer on the
green edges of the gathering foliage.

And what a sight, in addition, was before their eyes!
The surface of the river was strown with boats of all
sorts and sizes. A dozen or more, filled with the men
of Marion, were in progress from one side of the stream
to the other, while they towed behind them as many
more, laden with live-stock and provisions—a large assessment
having just been made upon the farmsteads
of the neighbouring tories. They had reached the centre
of the stream, when the signal of the scouts struck
their ears; and the quick command of their leader,
the renowned partisan—for it was Marion himself who
led them—arrested their farther progress. He stood
erect when the troopers rode up to the bank; and
the eye of Singleton soon distinguished him from the
rest. Yet there was little in his appearance, to the
casual spectator, to mark him out from his compatriots.
His habiliments were not superior to theirs. They
had borne the brunt of strife, and needed, quite as much
as many of the rest, the friendly hand of repair and restoration.
His person was small, even below the middle
stature, and exceedingly lean and slender. His body
was well-set, however, with the exception of his knees
and ankles, which were thick, incompact, and badly
formed. At the time, he rested almost entirely upon
one leg—the other being at ease upon the gunwale of
the boat. He still suffered pain in one of his limbs
from a recent hurt; and in walking, an unpleasant limping
movement was readily perceptible. His dress, as
Singleton now beheld him, was one rather unusual for a
commanding officer from whom so much was expected.
It consisted of a close-bodied jacket, of a deep crimson
colour, but of coarse texture. His smallclothes, of
the fashion of the day, were badly conceived for such

[figure description] Page 157.[end figure description]

a figure as his. The free Turkish trowsers might
have concealed those defects which the closely fitting
fashions of the time rendered unnecessarily conspicuous.
His were of a blue stuff, coarse, like the jacket,
and made with exceeding plainness, without stripe or
ornament of any description, beyond the frog of his
sword, the small cut-and-thrust which hung rather low
at his side. A white handkerchief about his neck,
wound loosely, accorded strangely with the rest of
his dress, and did not seem, in its disposition, to have
tasked much of the care, in arrangement, of the wearer.
His uniform, if so it may be styled, was completed by
the round leathern cap, forming a part of the dress
which he wore when an officer in the second South
Carolina regiment, and bore in front a silver crescent,
with the words, “Liberty or Death,” inscribed beneath.
He wore no plume, but in its place a white cockade,
which was worn by all his men, in order that they
might be more readily distinguished in their night actions
with the tories. Such was the garb of the famous
guerilla—the Swamp Fox—of Carolina. The features
of his face did not ill accord with the style of his garments.
His skin was dark and swarthy; his eyes, black, piercing,
and quick; his forehead, high, full, and commanding;
his nose was aquiline; his chin bold and projecting,
though not sharp; and his cheek sunken, and deeply
touched with the lines of thought. He was now forty-eight
years of age—in the very vigour of his manhood—
hardened by toil and privation, and capable of
enduring every sort of fatigue. Cool and steady, inflexible,
unshrinking; never surprised; never moving
without his object, and always with the best design for
effecting it—Marion, perhaps, of all the brave men engaged
in the war of American liberty, was the one
best calculated for the warfare of the partisan. His
patriotism, wisdom, and fearlessness moved always together,
and were alike conspicuous. Never despairing
of his cause, he was always cheerful in vicissitude,
and elastic under defeat. His mind rose, with renewed
vigour, from the press of necessity; and every new form

[figure description] Page 158.[end figure description]

of trial only stimulated him to newer and more successful
efforts. His moral and military character, alike,
form the most perfect models for the young, that can be
furnished by the history of any individual of any nation.

The paddles of the rowers were lifted as Singleton
appeared in sight. The boats rested in the centre of
the river, and, shading his eye with his hand, Marion
closely noted the troop as its several members wound
out of the woods and gathered along the bank. He
did not need much time in the survey, before his keen
eye singled out the persons of such of the new-comers
as he had before known. His voice, strong, regular,
and even in its utterance, though at the same time subdued
and musical, was heard immediately after.

“Ah, Major Singleton, you are as prompt as ever.
I rejoice to see you. You come in good season, though
you come but poorly accompanied.”

A few words from Singleton explained the cause of
his apparent weakness, and the orders of Marion were
promptly given.

“Lieutenant Conyers, throw off the empty boats and
put back after me in your own, leaving the spare ones.
Take the whole of them, for the squad of Major Singleton
will doubtless fill them all. McDonald, convey
the rest to the camp, and let Oscar[3] bring Ball†
with him. It may be difficult otherwise to get the
strange horses over, and there is no flat.”

With these, and a few other instructions, Marion led
the way back to where Singleton with his troop
awaited him; and a few minutes only had elapsed
when they stood once more together in close conference.
The brief history of past events was soon
given, and the major was delighted to meet with the
unqualified approval of his superior. He learned from
Marion that his uncle had gone on to join with Gates
only a few hours before his arrival, having been anxious
to find active service at as early a time as

[figure description] Page 159.[end figure description]

possible. He had not endeavoured to dissuade him, as his
was an independent commission; though the determination
of Marion himself, was to proceed with the same
object in the same direction. His force, with the recruits
brought by Singleton, was now something more
respectable in form if not in equipment. In arms and
ammunition, not to speak of clothes and the usual
equipages of camp and horse, they were miserably deficient;
but with the hope that the continentals were
provided well, and with a surplus, this matter gave the
partisan but little concern. A small supply of shot and
powder which Humphries had contrived to procure in
Dorchester, came seasonably to his assistance; and
with a new hope from this seasonable arrival of his
men, Marion determined earnestly to press his advance
to a union with the commanding force supposed to be
coming on with Gates.

To Singleton he partially unfolded his determination,
though he entered into no particulars. He had not yet
determined as to the time and route of his purposed
movement. It was necessary that he should first ascertain
the precise position of Gates; and, again, he
had the duty yet to perform, in part, which he had voluntarily
undertaken, of destroying all the boats upon
the river at the various crossing places, which might
otherwise be employed to facilitate the progress of
Lord Cornwallis to the assistance of Rawdon at Camden,
upon which place it was now understood the first
effort of the approaching southern army would be
made. There was little doubt that Cornwallis would
soon be apprised, if, indeed, he was not already, of the
necessity for his presence at Camden; for though Singleton
had arrested one courier, and Marion himself
another, it was not to be expected that others would
not succeed in passing with intelligence where the
line of country to be watched was so extensive as
to call for ten times the active force of Marion, with
the hope of doing so with any thing like reasonable
certainty. To retard the movements of the commander
at Charlestown—to keep him back until Gates

[figure description] Page 160.[end figure description]

should be able to strike his first blow, was an object
quite too important to be foregone or given up but with
great effort; and, an understanding between Sumter
and Marion, had assigned one of the two leading
routes to the designated ground of battle to each of the
partisans. Marion had done much already towards his
object. He had destroyed more than two hundred boats
on both sides of the river, sparing neither canoe nor
periagua. All within reach had been broken up, save
the few which he still employed for his own purposes
in the swamp, gathering provisions, and for the facilitation
of his own progress. Another day, and Singleton
would not have found it so easy to

“Swim the Esk river, where ford there was none.”

That night, as soon as the whole party had come
up, the passage was effected, and without any great difficulty.
The horses swam beside the boats, secured by
ropes and bridles, while their riders, for the time, occupied
a more secure seat within them than they might
have done upon their saddles. Ball, the famous horse
of Marion, led the way for the rest, and he went
through the water as freely and fearlessly as a native
born to the element. The rest followed with some
little shivering and restiveness, but, with the boats,
soon reached their depth, and were then mounted and
ridden through the river-sedge, over the fallen tree, and
safely, at length, into the island thicket which formed
the hiding-place of the Swamp Fox on the Santee.
The boats, filled with the women, children, and prisoners,
under a small guard, had a more tedious, though
more secure and easy passage to the same spot. Soon
as they left the current of the river and got within the
foliage, the swamp-suckers, with an old experience,
seized upon their long canes, twenty feet in length, to
the end of each of which a prong of the deer's antlers,
and sometimes a crotch stick of some hard wood, had
been tightly fastened. With these, catching the overhanging
limbs and branches that fenced in a crooked
creek that led to the island, they drew themselves

[figure description] Page 161.[end figure description]

along. Without dip of oar, or plash of paddle, silently
and still, as if endued with a life of its own, the boat
swept through its natural abode, a familiar tenant of its
depths. Torches flashed along at intervals upon the
banks to guide them, but they were perfectly unnecessary
to the frequent dwellers in the swamp. They
who steered and led the way could have travelled by
night and day, unfearing, and unswerving from their
designated path, with the ease of a citizen along the
high road. The rapidity of their movements through
scenes only distinguishable when the torch flashed
over them, delighted and astonished the men from the
low country, who now traversed them for the first time.
Porgy was absolutely overcome with anticipations.
He could not refrain—such was the good humour which
the novelty of their progress inspired—from addressing
Doctor Oakenburg, who sat beside him in the boat, on
the subject of his musings.

“This, Doctor Oakenburg,” said he, “this is a region—
so Major Singleton tells me—which, in the language
of Scripture, may be said to flow with milk and
honey.”

The doctor, terrified before into silence, was now
astounded into speech.

“Milk and honey!” he exclaimed, with wondering.

“Ay, doctor, milk and honey! that is to say, with
fish and terrapin, which I take to mean the same
thing, since nobody would desire any land in which
there was no meat. The land of milk and honey simply
means to convey the idea of a land full of all
things that men of taste can relish; or we may even
go farther in this respect, and consider it a land teeming
with all things for all tastes. Thus, yours, Doctor
Oakenburg—even your vile taste for snakes and eels has
been consulted here not less than mine for terrapin.
Along the same tussock on which the bullet-head reposes,
you will see the moccasin crawling confidently.
In the same luxurious wallow with the hog, you will
behold the sly alligator watching him. The summer
duck, with its glorious plumage, skims along the same

[figure description] Page 162.[end figure description]

muddy lake, on the edge of which the d—d bodiless
crane screams and crouches; and there are no possible
extremes in nature to which a swamp, like this, will not
give shelter, and furnish something to arouse and satisfy
the appetite. It is a world in itself, and, as I said before,
with a figurative signification of course, it is indeed a
land of milk and honey.”

“Land indeed!” said one of the troopers; “I don't
see much of that yet. Here's nothing but rotten trees
and mud-holes, that I can make out when the lightwood
blazes.”

“Never mind, my lark,” said one of the conductors
in a chuckling reply; “wait a bit, and you'll see the
blessedest land you ever laid eyes on. It's the very
land, as the big-bellied gentleman says, that's full of
milk and honey; for, you see, we've got a fine range,
and the cattle's plenty, and when the sun's warm you'll
hear the bee trees at midday—and such a music as
they'll give you! Don't be afeard now, and we'll soon
come to it.”

“I doubt not, my good friend, I doubt not, and I rejoice
that your evidence so fully supports my opinion.
Your modes of speech are scarcely respectful enough,
however; for though a man's teeth are prime agents and
work resolutely enough for his belly, yet it is scarcely
the part of good manners to throw one's belly continually
into one's teeth,” Porgy responded gravely.

“Oh, that's it,” said the other; “well, now don't be
skittish, mister, for though I am Roaring Dick, I never
roars at any of our own boys, and I likes always to be
civil to strangers. But it's always the way with us,
when we don't know a man's name, to call him after
that part that looks the best about him. There's
Tom Hazard now, we calls him by no other name
than Nosey; 'cause, you see, his nose is the most rumbunctious
part that he's got, and its almost the only part
you see when you first look on him. Then there's
Bill Bronson—as stout a lark as you've seed for
many a day—now, as he's blind of one eye and can
hardly see out o' t'other, we calls him Blinky Bill, and he

[figure description] Page 163.[end figure description]

never gets his back up, though he's a main quick hand
if you poke fun at him. So, stranger, you must not
mind when we happen to call you after the most respectable
part.”

“Respectable part! I forgive you, my friend—you're
a man of taste. Dr. Oakenburg, your d—d hatchet
hip is digging into my side; can't you move a jot
farther? There, that will do; I am not desirous of
suffering martyrdom by hip and thigh.”

“Now we're most home,” said Master Roaring
Dick to his little crew. “One more twirl in the creek,
and you'll see the lights and the island; there, there it
is. Look, now, stranger, look for yourself, where the
Swamp Fox hides in the daylight, to travel abroad
with old blear-eye—the owl, that is—when the round
moon gets out of her roost.”

And grand and imposing, indeed, was the scene that
now opened upon Porgy and the rest, as they swept
round the little bend in the waters of the creek, and
the deeply imbowered camp of the partisan lay before
them. Twenty different fires, blazing in all quarters
of the island, illuminated it with a splendour which no
palace pomp could emulate. The thick forest walls
that girdled them in, were unpierced by the rays; they
were too impenetrably dense even for their splendours,
and like so many huge and blazing pillars, the larger
trees seemed to crowd forward into the light with a
solitary stare that made solemn the entire and wonderful
picturesqueness of the scene. Group after group of
persons, each with its own vocation, gathered around the
distinct fires, while horses neighed under convenient
trees; saddles and bridles, sabres and blankets, hung
from their branches, and the cheery song from little
parties the more remote, made lively the deep seclusion
of that warlike abiding-place. The little boat floated
fairly up to one of the fires; a dozen busy hands at
once assisted the new-comers to alight, and a merry
greeting hailed the acquisition of countrymen and
comrades. Boat after boat, in the same way, pressed
up to the landing, and all in turn were assisted by

[figure description] Page 164.[end figure description]

friendly hands and saluted with cheering words and
encouragement. It was not long before the strangers,
with the readiness which belongs to a life like theirs,
chose their companions in mess and adventure, and
began to adapt themselves to one another. Lively chat,
the hearty glee, the uncouth but pleasant jest, not forgetting
the plentiful supper, enlivened the first three
hours after the arrival of Singleton's recruits, and
fitted them generally for those slumbers to which
they now prepared to hasten.

“Well, Tom,” said Porgy to his old retainer, as he
hurried to his tree, from a log, around which his evening's
meal had been eaten in company with Roaring
Dick, Oakenburg, and one or two others—“well, Tom,
considering how d—d badly those perch were fried, I
must confess I enjoyed them. But I was too hungry
to discriminate; and I should have tolerated much
worse stuff than that. But we must take care of this,
Tom, in future. It is not always that hunger helps us to
sauce, and such spice is a d—d bad dish for us when
lacking cayenne.”