Wild Nat, the Trooper

No man is so base as he who deliberately takes up arms against his own country. Such a one is fit for any deed, however mean, cowardly, or wicked. Unfortunately, traitors have been found in every country, in all times; nor were they wanting during the American Revolution. While there were a number of honorable men who, believing that the colonies were wrong in revolting from the king, did not take up arms against them, on the other hand there were numbers of base, sordid wretches, who were willing to cling to any side so that it was the strongest—to support any cause so that it was one which promised them booty. Such a one was Timothy Turner, who followed the fortunes of the British, who was devoted to their interests, who had, in short, sold to them his very soul and body for paltry gold.

Although the character of this young man was not fully known, yet suspicion rested upon him, and the Whigs had formed unfavorable conclusions which were not long wanting a justification. He lived in a small cabin, about half or three-quarters of a mile from Mr. Stoddart’s; and, though ostensibly he supported himself by tilling a small patch of ground, yet the dullest mind must have perceived that a support from such a spot was simply an impossibility.

On this night, Timothy Turner was wending his way home from a tavern which stood on the road about three-quarters of a mile from his house. As he turned from the door, he thought he heard the sounds of a rapidly approaching horseman. Pausing for a moment, to see whether his ears did not deceive him, he discovered the dusky figure of the rider. As he passed the tavern, and by the light which streamed from the door, Turner caught sight of the man. It was Nathaniel Ernshaw.

“Ha! curse him, what is he doing, riding about at this time of night? It’s no good Wild Nat is after; blast him, if I could but lay my hands on his carcass, I would show him a touch of my nature. If ever I get the chance, he shall pay dear for what he has done.”

The ruffian kept on his journey down the road, straining his eyes to follow the fast-flitting figure before him. When Ernshaw came to the lane which led in to Mr. Stoddart’s dwelling, he reined in his horse, and, dismounting, threw open the gate. Turner, who had followed as closely as possible, on seeing the direction of Nat’s errand, stealthily drew near to the spot.

Nathaniel drew up to the house, and knocked on the door. The knocking brought a middle-aged man to the door. Holding a candle above his head, he took a careful survey of the visitor.

“Why, Nat, is it you?” said the squire. “What brings you here at this time of night? Come in.”

“No, I thank you, squire. For once in my life I have business to attend to. I was over to see John Vale, but found that he was not home. If he is here I wish you would ask him to step to the door for a few minutes. I have something important to say to him.”

“Well, he’s here, sure enough; and if you won’t come in, why I will have to send him out—that is, if he is willing.”

The old squire then entered the house again, to make Nat’s requisition known to the son of his neighbor. Timothy Turner had, in the mean time, approached to within hearing distance, and now stood ready to note every word that was uttered. He scented gold and revenge in the issue of that interview.

John Vale soon made his appearance. The two young men shook each other cordially by the hand. The conversation which ensued it is unnecessary to detail. Every word of it was overheard by the spy. When, at length, John expressed his determination of joining the company which his friend was raising, Turner rubbed his hands in high glee, as he muttered to himself:

“You shall find out, Mr. John Vale, and you, Mr. Nathaniel Ernshaw, that Timothy Turner is not the proper man to slight. This intelligence is worth ten golden guineas to me, and the revenge besides.”

“As my mother approves of it, I’m with you, Nat. When and where do we meet? Let me know the rendezvous, and trust me but I’ll be there.”

“There was some talk,” replied Nat, “of meeting in the swamp, but that is too far for the most of us. So that is out of the question; but you know Clingman’s mills and the pine woods that run back from the creek. If you enter the woods by the path immediately opposite the mill, you will find a small clearing. That is the spot. Be on hand by ten o’clock to-morrow night, and I promise you that your eyes will be gladdened by the sight of thirty young men, all good, stout patriots—ready, if need be, to die for their country.”

“And I can assure you,” said Turner, to himself, “that you’ll see the greater part of them do so, unless something very unexpected prevents it.”

“You can depend on me, Nat,” said John. Again shaking hands, Ernshaw mounted his horse, and galloped away.

Turner waited until the clatter had died away, and then silently hastened in the direction of his dwelling. Arriving there, he sought the shed which covered his horse. Hurriedly saddling the beast, he rode off toward the city of Charleston, twenty miles distant.

Gen. Clinton, the military commander in Charleston, had scarcely arisen, on the following morning, when his servant announced a man waiting to speak with him.

“Who is he?” was the general’s inquiry.

“He says that his name is Turner—that he rode twenty miles last night to bring you an important piece of news.”

“Turner? Then I think I know the man. He is one of those tory hounds we find it necessary to use. I’ll vouch for it, he is planning some piece of rascality. Admit him.”

The servant retired and returned with Turner. Gen. Clinton surveyed the fellow for a moment, then addressed him rather sharply:

“How now, sir? What have you to say? It should be something of importance to cause you to journey so far and fast.”

“It is of importance,” rejoined Turner. “I heard at a late hour, last night, of a meeting of rebels which is to take place this night. There will be thirty or forty of them, and their purpose is to form a brigade to act with Marion, Sumpter and others. I know the names of but two; but, if the rest of the men are as good as they, the band may do much injury to the king’s cause.”

“What are the names of these two of whom you speak?”

“Nathaniel Ernshaw and John Vale—two most desperate men, and fit to do any thing against the followers of the king.”

“Ernshaw? I have heard that name before—where, I can not say. This thing shall be attended to. I will see that measures are taken to cut them off; but where is this meeting to be held?”

“About twenty miles from here there is a building called Clingman’s mill. In a wood immediately behind this the rebels are to assemble. I will lead any troops which you may send to the spot.”

“How many of them did you say that there would be?”

“Between thirty and forty. Whether they will be armed or not, I can not say, but I do not think they will be. Some of them may have their rifles, but I have no doubt fifty of your men could take the whole of them alive.”

“Be in readiness, then, to act as guide. Or stay; I will see you again this morning. Come an hour before noon. If your intelligence proves correct you shall receive a suitable reward.”

Gen. Clinton rang the bell for his servant to show the tory out. The man who performed this duty was a negro whom Gen. Clinton had received into his service since his arrival in Charleston. He was an intelligent-looking black, who had ingratiated himself into favor, and now seemed to be almost a necessity with the general.

As Sampson opened the door for the exit of Turner, he shrugged his shoulders in a manner which told that it was displeasing to him to be compelled to do any service for such a man. Hardly had the body of the tory crossed the threshold ere the door was violently closed behind him. The black returned to his master, and busied himself preparing for his master’s breakfast. Having partaken of this meal, Gen. Clinton left the house, turning his footsteps in the direction of a dwelling inhabited by a rich and influential tory.

Sampson passed quickly out by the back door, and, crossing the garden, emerged from it into the street. Walking rapidly along for some squares, he at length turned into a somewhat obscure alley. A few steps brought him to the front of an humble-looking dwelling, at whose door he gave a few taps. His summons was quickly answered, and a middle-aged woman threw open the door.

“Is it you, Sampson?” said she. “What brings you here at this time of day? Any thing important?”

“I guess mebbe it is. Whar is Simon? I got suthin’ to tell ’m.”

“Simon is here, if you would see him; so come in.”

The black entered the cabin, and found himself in the presence of the person he was seeking, an honest-looking mechanic, whose eye and bearing betokened the fearless man.

“Whatever brings you here must be of importance, Sampson; so tell us at once,” said the mechanic, or Simon Hunt, as was his name.

“Thar’ ar’ no one here who oughtn’t to har a secret, is thar’.”

“Trust me for not harboring any such about my house.”

“Listen, then. This mornin’ that Timothy Turner came to see the general, an’ tell him ’bout a meetin’ o’ whigs that was to be held to-night, and so the general ’l send down a lot o’ his sodgers and chop ’em all up. If you kin send ’em word you’ll be doin’ a good thing for de blessed cause.”

“All right, where is this meeting to be held, and who is to hold it? I must know who to send word to. Give me that, and they shall know the game before night.”

“He on’y knows two—they be Masser John Vale and Nat Ernshaw.”

“What? Nat Ernshaw turning whig trooper? That’s unexpected, but I always thought there was good in the fellow, if he only had a chance and would show it. I’ll send my boy straight off. If he puts the spurs to the old roan’s sides he ought to get to Ernshaw’s before dinner. Then they have the whole afternoon in which to warn the boys not to come to the meeting. The two that were mentioned, though, will have to keep dark, or they will find the country too hot for them.”

“Well, Nat kin take care on himself. Take smarter men dan de Britishers to ketch him asleep; and he take keer o’ Massa John, too; but I think I better go. It might ’pear s’picious if any one see me here. Good mornin!”

“Good morning,” answered Hunt. “There goes a noble fellow,” continued he, speaking to his wife. “This is the third time he has brought important intelligence of the movements of the British. Where is Simon? He must start directly.”

---

It was about one o’clock in the afternoon, when fifty British soldiers, under the guidance of Timothy Turner, set out for the rendezvous of the Whig partisans, going with the avowed intention of “driving them like sheep before them into Charleston, or else leave their mangled carcasses to rot on the spot where they fell.”

Plenty of time was before them, for the troop was well-mounted and could get over the distance in a few hours; but there was danger of getting to the spot too soon. Well acquainted with the roads thereabouts, the tory determined to lead the men by a circuitous and rather unfrequented route, which, though it was some miles further, afforded this advantage—none of the whigs would thus see the body of horse, and consequently, could not give the alarm which should prevent the patriot muster from taking place. By it, too, he could penetrate through the pines and station the whole force so as to surround his unsuspecting countrymen.

Having settled his mind on this point, Timothy took the lead, mounted on a fine horse furnished him for the occasion,—his own being too fatigued by his morning’s journey to permit him to take the field with it.

John Vale was just sitting down to his dinner when the boy Simon reached his house, bearing the important message with which he was intrusted. John immediately recognized the lad, for he had often seen him before. Judging that he had some very special news to tell, he rose from his seat and followed the lad into the yard.

“If you have any thing to tell, speak out, Simon.”

“Father sent me here to tell you to warn every one not to go to the meeting in the pines back of Clingman’s mill.”

“Indeed,” responded John, with an accent of astonishment. “Can you tell me how your father learned a meeting was to be held there? I did not know of it myself until late last night.”

“Timothy Turner found out about it, and rode over to Charleston last night. He had a talk with General Clinton, and the general is going to send forty or fifty soldiers to take you all. Sampson, the servant of the general, heard Turner telling General Clinton about it; so he told father, and father sent me down here to tell you and Nat Ernshaw. You are to tell the rest, so the Britishers will have their ride for their pains.”

“Your father has done well, and you’re a patriotic fellow to take so long a ride to warn us of our danger. Come into the house and get some dinner, then we’ll go over to Ernshaw’s together.”

Simon was tired, and a good hearty meal was most acceptable. When he had done, the young man took down his rifle and powder-horn from the hooks, and swung them over his shoulder, then, turning to his mother, he remarked:—

“Perhaps you will not see me again to-day, perhaps not for weeks. From what I hear, there is a good chance for us to begin the campaign, and when we once take to the field, there is no telling how long we shall be compelled to keep it. Remember, though, that I am fighting, as is my duty, for my country, and if I die, that I die in a good cause.”

“You know, John, that I love you and would do any thing to shield you from harm or danger; but I rejoice to see you going. The nation has need of such as you—those with strong arms and brave hearts. Go, and may our Heavenly Father guard and bless you.”

John kissed her and his sister, then left the house, turning to the stable. He soon led out his gallant steed. Mounting, he led the way to Nat Ernshaw’s. Nat was at home, and catching sight of the two at a distance, surmised that they had important business with him.

“What’s in the wind now, John?” inquired Nat. “Simon Filby, there, looks as though he had been riding all morning, and, I guess, if the truth be told, he was—”

“Matter enough. He has ridden from Charleston this morning for the express purpose of saving us all from capture or slaughter. Relate to Nathaniel the message which your father instructed you to deliver.”

The boy proceeded to repeat his story and message. Nathaniel was astonished; it seemed to him incomprehensible how Turner had obtained his intelligence concerning the contemplated meeting.

“There is something strange about this,” said he. “There can hardly be a traitor among us, and how else the secret could have leaked out I am unable to say. I particularly cautioned them not to speak of it even among themselves. But stay! I think I have it now. You say that Turner arrived this morning?”

“Yes, sir!” answered Simon.

“Now that I think of it, I have the impression that I caught a glimpse of him coming out of the Royal Arms, last night, as I passed on my way to Squire Stoddart’s. He may have followed, and by sneaking up, may have heard the conversation that look place between you and I. We have no time to lose. There is much for us to do.”

“I agree with you,” responded Vale. “It would be well for us to hold a consultation. I think that, if rightly managed, we can turn this to advantage. Our troop can be, at the best, but poorly armed and mounted. To be of any great service, both of these defects must be remedied. Here is the opportunity!”

“By heavens! you are right. If we could capture or disperse this force that is to be sent against us, we could secure what we most need, horses and arms. Besides, it would give the men confidence. Here is a list of names,” continued Ernshaw, drawing a paper from his pocket; “do you hurry and see the fifteen whose names are first on that paper. Tell them the particulars, let them know the force that is coming, and then fix a rendezvous at the Black Rock, a mile this side of the mill. They must be there at sundown, armed. Leave your rifle here, for you will be back again before night. You are well mounted, don’t spare your horse. As for Simon, here, he had better stay until his nag is rested, then get back to Charleston as soon as possible. He might be missed.”

It was by no means a light task to accomplish, this visiting thirty persons at as many different houses; leaving it undone might prove fatal. With their patriotic enthusiasm kindled, they bent themselves to their duty. Every one with whom the young patriots spoke felt as they did. An opportunity was now offered to strike for their country, and they were willing to seize it.

Such was the expedition used, that John Vale had returned to Nat’s, and was conversing with old Mr. Ernshaw by five o’clock; half an hour later Nat himself returned.

In answer to Vale’s question—“how did you succeed?” he answered:—

“Oh, admirably. Not one has shown any signs of backing out. If your success has been equal to mine, thirty as resolute fellows as ever looked through the sights of a rifle, or wielded a broadsword, will be assembled at Black Rock by sundown.”

---

Near the hour of sunset, an observer, had he been stationed near the Black Rock—a spot so called from a huge black rock which lifted its head from the waters of Cedar Creek—might have noted the approach of a number of young men, all hurrying in one direction. Some were mounted, and others were on foot; all bore weapons of one kind or another—rifles, muskets, fowling-pieces, and a few swords.

They came, too, from every direction, by twos and threes, talking together, and apparently discussing some important question. When the sun had finally disappeared and the twilight had settled over all like a friendly cloak, thirty-two men were gathered on the banks of Cedar Creek: among the number were Nathaniel Ernshaw and John Vale. The majority of the company were young men, none of them over thirty,—all broad-shouldered, deep-chested, bronzed with exposure to the weather, and as spirited as the winds which played over their hills and valleys.

Ernshaw addressed his companions—stating that they were well acquainted with the object which brought them there;—were they willing to enter into a conflict with a body of men larger in number, better armed, more used to such scenes of blood and carnage? If they were willing let them say so. A low but distinct “We are!” passed around. Nat continued:—

“The soldiers were to start from Charleston at an early hour this afternoon, before this time they should have accomplished the distance. There is another road which they must have taken. Timothy Turner,”—at the mention of this name a shout of execration burst from the lips of all—“I say, Turner knows the other road, and that it leads near by the spot where we would have held our meeting. I think I know the exact spot where the dragoons are this moment stationed. By going three-quarters of a mile out of our way, we may, by a third path, come upon them unawares. Shall we venture?”

No one raised a dissentient voice; all seemed anxious for the fray. One, however, a hardy-looking six-footer, begged leave to say a word before they started.

“You see we’re formin’ into a troop that’s goin’ to give thunder and brimstone to every bloody, stealin’, cut-throat of a Britisher that we come across. You know who started this here idea, and got it into motion, an’ all that ’ar; but thar’s one thing that ain’t settled yet, an’ that is, who’s captain? It’s purty generally understood that Nat Ernshaw is goin’ to lead us, but we hain’t actooally given him the legal authority yit; so I move that he be constitooted our captin’, an’ we all agree to be under and obey his orders, regular soger fashion. Whoever’s in favor of this let him speak out and tell it.”

A simultaneous and unanimous “ay!” announced that Nat Ernshaw was the accepted and willing chosen commander of the patriotic brigade.

“Three cheers for Ernshaw’s brigade!” shouted one whose patriotism had overcome his prudence, and the three cheers were accordingly given with a will. Then the whole band took up its line of march, the men handling their weapons with eager impatience.

Nat was busy in laying out his plans for attack. The principal difficulty which presented itself seemed to be, how to open the battle. He might, he felt assured, steal upon the dragoons and shoot down a score or more of them before they could rightly tell from whence their danger came; but there was almost an insuperable objection to this plan—it seemed too much like murder. After due deliberation he settled on the course which he intended to take, and which seemed to be most safe as well as most honorable. What it was, the reader will hereafter learn.

When the Americans reached the path which led through the woods, the captain addressed a few last words to his men. Then they pressed on with noiseless steps. When Ernshaw found they were within a few rods of the spot designated, he left the troop and went forward to reconnoiter. Carefully peering through an opening between the pines, he looked out. It was a clear, moonlight night—so light that he could easily distinguish the forms of some forty or fifty horsemen, who occupied the area before him. Wishing to draw closer to them to mark their disposal, a cracking stick betrayed his presence. Every one of the waiting enemies were startled—the captain of the troop calling out, “Here comes one of them at last. Into the woods after him, half a dozen of you, but don’t use fire-arms unless it is absolutely necessary. It will give the alarm.”

Instantly seven of the privates threw themselves from their steeds for the pursuit; but they had scarcely touched the ground when a command, given in a quick, clear-ringing voice, riveted them to their places. “Hold! Not one step or you are dead men. Surrender to Nat Ernshaw’s Carolina Brigade, or your lives shall be the forfeit!”

For a time a panic seemed to thrill the hearts of the Britons—this command so unexpectedly, so sternly given.

“It’s but a ruse my men,” shouted the captain. “First rank fire a volley, then charge into the woods.”

“Fire away. We will return volley for volley, and the man who stirs from his tracks dies,” responded Nat. Then turning to his men, who had ranged themselves in solid rank behind him, he gave the command:—“Make ready, advance, take aim, and be ready.”

A murmur ran along the ranks. The clicking of thirty rifles sounded out on the still air. The British troops had quickly formed, and, at the word of command, they sent a volley from the carbines with which the dragoons were armed, into the patriot ranks.

“Fire!” shouted Nat. The combined crack of the thirty rifles rang out with a fearfully startling sound. The hail of lead was deadly in the extreme, though its effect was not as severe as it might have been had it gone hurtling forth in the daytime. Many a bullet proved a messenger of death to the mercenaries of the foreigner.

Sixteen of the troopers dropped from their saddles, dead. The captain received a ball through his shoulder. Eight others were severely wounded. With that marvelous celerity gained by practice, the Americans had reloaded their rifles. “First division, fire!” commanded Ernshaw. Another volley sped on its mission of blood, and half the remaining troopers tumbled from their saddles, while their maddened and frightened horses flew wildly away into the woods.

“Fly,” screamed a Briton. “We cannot remain longer here and live!”

“Hold!” cried the leader of the Americans. “Throw down your arms and surrender and your lives are safe; attempt to flee and we give you another volley.”

Hardly had the summons to surrender been given, when the few of the soldiers who still grasped their arms threw them down, and the captain, faint from the loss of blood, answered:—“We agree. Come forward and receive our surrender.”

The Americans stepped from the shade of the woods and stood in a line, waiting for the commands of their captain. As Ernshaw appeared, the crack of a pistol was heard, and a bullet whistled by close to his head.

“Missed! by the infernal!” shouted a voice, easily recognized as that of the tory Turner. He plunged into the gloom of the woods, unappalled by the dozen bullets that followed.

“The tory, Turner!” remarked one of the men; “let us pursue him. His capture is of more importance than all else we have done.”

“Not so,” replied Ernshaw; “let no man go in pursuit. It would be impossible to come up with him, and our force would only be separated, which must not be.”

A little murmuring followed, but all soon saw the wisdom of obeying the captain, and, accordingly, quietly acquiesced.

---

General Clinton was sitting in his chamber, busily engaged in examining a number of parchments which lay exposed on the table before him. It was now well on toward noon. Though apparently intent on his work, his mind evidently was not at ease. “It is strange,” he muttered to himself, “that nothing has been heard concerning Captain Morgan and his troop, whom I sent out to capture those rebels. I told him to endeavor to take the young man, Vale, alive, if possible, and send me word immediately. One of his men would have arrived, ere this, had he chosen to obey my commands. I will see, though; perhaps there is some news stirring without.”

He advanced to the door for the purpose of calling his servant, when a loud knocking arrested him. He stood for a moment listening, and then sank back in his chair, remarking, “There is some one at last.”

The door was flung open to admit the tory spy, Timothy Turner. With a pale face spattered with blood, and his left arm supported in a sling, he strode across the floor, and stood confronting the general. For a moment Sir Henry looked at him with a countenance indicative of surprise and apprehension; then he burst forth:

“How now, sir? What brings you before me in such plight? Speak, man!”

“It is easy to tell the whole story. We went out to shear, and come home shorn—or, rather, I do, for I am the only one who escaped. All the rest are dead, or prisoners!”

“Then you deceived me, and I shall see that you receive your reward for so doing. Without there, Sampson!”

“You needn’t put such a sorry face on the matter, general, for the information I gave you was correct enough. The trouble was, that the rebels got wind of our intended attack, hid themselves in the woods, and, when the moon arose, came down on us as they would on a covey of partridges. If I had wished to deceive you, I should have taken better care of myself, and this left arm would not have had a rifle-ball through it. I remained till every thing was lost, fired the last shot, and then cleared out, with half-a-score of balls flying around my head. If that looks like treachery, then call in your men and do as you like with me.”

“Probably it is as you say, and I was overhasty. The king can not afford to lose such friends as you. There is gold to heal your wounds. Leave me, now, for I have important business to attend to.”

Turner pocketed the purse which Sir Henry threw upon the table, and, making a low bow, left the apartment.

Ten minutes later, Sampson, the black servant, entered, bearing a card, with the name, “Captain Reginald Preston,” written thereon. Receiving the command to admit him, the gentleman soon made his appearance. He was still a young man, not over thirty, and, by some, would doubtless be called good-looking; but a close inspection would tend to dissipate any favorable opinion which might be hastily formed. Though well dressed, with all the appearance of being a gentleman, his features wore the stamp of a life of profligacy, the effects of which, the strength of a good constitution was unable to ward off. Of good family, though a younger son, he had once been possessed of quite a fortune, which he squandered away amidst the splendid gayeties of London life, and was now recruiting his health and fortune in the service of the king. Such in appearance was Reginald Preston, the visitor of Sir Henry Clinton.

He approached the general in a careless manner. Shaking hands with the superior officer, he took a seat.

“I received your note,” remarked Preston, after a silence of some minutes, which he spent in curiously eyeing the papers on the table. “I could not quite understand the drift of it, but here I am to receive the explanation, which you promised when we should meet. I send out my application for exchange by the next ship, and have a fair prospect of leaving this miserable country; so don’t send me where I will be killed off before I get a chance to enjoy this fortune of mine.”

“Perhaps it may be as well to stay here. You never could live in London without money, and your pockets are not particularly replete with that article.”

“I know they haven’t been; but this little fortune I was speaking about is sufficient to keep me floating until I can carry off a rich wife. Three thousand a year is not such an insignificant sum.”

“It is concerning that ‘small fortune’ that I wish to speak. If you will take the trouble to recall the words of your letter from Thompson & Smith, you will remember that they stated the fact in nearly these words: ‘Although, at the present time we can scarce speak with absolute certainty, yet, we have the pleasure of announcing, in all probability you are heir to an estate of three thousand a year. We would not advise you to announce this as a fact, until we discover whether there be any nearer relatives to the deceased than yourself. At present, we know of none.’ Are not these the words?”

“I must confess that you are better posted in the matter of the letter than I am. If you ask my opinion, I should say they are the precise words.”

“Well, then, listen. By these papers which you see upon the table, it is announced that a nearer relative to the gentleman who left the property has been discovered, and that your chances of again shining in London life are decidedly slim—for the present, at least.”

The careless expression which had been resting on Preston’s face, suddenly vanished under this, to him, remarkably unpleasing intelligence.

“Good heavens, general! You do not mean to say that all my plans are to be disarranged, and hopes blasted in this shockingly disagreeable manner. Those Thompsons and Smiths must be a set of thorough-faced rascals. As to my uncle’s leaving any relatives outside of our family, and nearer than myself, I am sure it’s a mistake, or else a trumped-up claim. His wife died forty years ago, and his only son was killed among the Indians, nearly as long since.”

“You have hit the right nail on the head, to use a vulgar expression. That son is the person to whom I refer. It seems that he was not killed by the Indians, and lived long enough to raise a family. He is dead now, but there remains a son and daughter, not to speak of his wife. Your uncle took it into his head to turn this only son out of doors; that was what caused him to come to America; but, as he left no will, the estate naturally enough reverts to his grand children.”

“And who are these grandchildren?”

“The grandson is John Vale, one of the rebels whom we endeavored to capture yesterday night.”

---

“So, he is nothing but one of these cursed rebels, after all. If that is the case, my chances are not so desperate as you seem to think. If Captain Morgan succeeded in doing his duty, he is doubtless in custody now, if not dead. Of course I speak of the young man; I have no fears of the old woman and her daughter.”

“Captain Morgan did his duty to the best of his ability; but I am sorry to say that John Vale is not only not in custody, but that, on the contrary, it is Morgan and his command—that is, those of them that are still alive—who are the prisoners.”

“You can not mean to say that a troop of dragoons has been defeated by a squad of these half-mounted, half-armed rebels?”

“I mean to say just that; and I now order you to take your troop and proceed to the spot to bury our dead. No doubt the Americans will be in such haste to leave, after their victory, that they will have left the corpses still exposed.”

“And after that, what remains to be done?”

“You will leave the spot and return some miles. There are two whigs, whose houses are close together; their names are Phillips and Tappan. Take up your quarters with them until I send you further orders. It will be necessary to have a force in that vicinity, and your work will soon be ready for you.”

“Then I must hold myself ready to begin the extermination of the rebels. I go; but I have misgivings that it will be no child’s mission.”

“Good-morning, then.”

“Au revoir! ” and, with a graceful wave of his hand, Reginald Preston departed.

Hastening to his quarters, he found that the news of the defeat of Captain Morgan had preceded him. On leaving the presence of Sir Henry, Turner had been active in spreading the story of the defeat. He found the men now anxious for a brush with the “rebel dogs,” as they styled the patriot brigade.

When the duty detailed was confided to the soldiers, they were enthusiastic enough, and set up a shout. In an hour from the time Preston bade adieu to General Clinton, he was on the road, having Turner with him as guide.

The arm of the tory was not, by any means, seriously injured; and the prospect of more gold made him ready to encounter danger again, although he had but lately so narrowly escaped death. They had not ridden far, when Preston expressed a wish to have some conversation with him, and the two rode on some distance ahead.

Whatever it was that Reginald wanted, it seemed as though he found some difficulty in getting at it. After some questions of no moment, he began to speak of the Vales. If he was desirous of knowing the history of the family, from the very moment when the head of it first put foot within the State, he could have found no more fitting person to inquire of. Turner had made them a study, it would seem; and the questioner soon learned a great deal more than it was pleasing for him to know. There was no doubt, now, in his mind, but that John Vale was his uncle’s grandson, and fully entitled to the possession of the property which he had fondly hoped was to become his own. Although the young man was a rebel to the crown, he was afraid that it would not invalidate his title to the estate. Although John Vale and the rest of the family might be attainted, yet he well knew that a large proportion of the money was in the hands of Americans, and probably they were whigs.

What thoughts passed through his brain in the course of that ride, it is hard to state; but, long ere the journey’s end was reached, his mind was settled as to the course to be pursued. The fortune he would have, and Turner should be the tool through which he should reach it. Riding side by side the now deliberate villain and his tool occasionally spoke together, but Preston was too much engaged in perfecting his plans to ask more than an occasional question; while Turner, cunning, and quick of divination, had a partial clue to what was in the mind of the British partisan.

When the British reached the spot on which the conflict of the preceding night had taken place, they found all traces of the struggle removed. Four or five newly-made mounds testified that the rebels were too brave and generous to let the corpses of their foes remain festering in the sun. Here and there, among the short grass, deep red stains and pools of coagulated blood marked the spot where the men had fallen; a broken plume, a glove, or a torn epaulet—these were the only signs of the slaughter. Horses, men, arms—all had disappeared, and the Britons had the consolation of knowing that when they should meet this brigade of rebels, they would find them armed with tried weapons of Great Britain’s own furnishing. The men looked mournfully around; for soldiers have hearts, and are capable of warm attachments; and here many a comrade, with whom they had spent many happy hours, had bit the dust.

Preston marked the direction which Ernshaw had taken, for his trail was plainly visible; but, as his orders were to retire toward Charleston as soon as he had performed the last sad offices for the fallen, he dared not go in pursuit although his men were eager enough for a fray. Disappointment was plainly visible on more than one face, when the order came for a return, but no murmurs were raised. Slowly the procession emerged from the woods, and crossed Cedar Creek, taking the road which led toward the farm-houses, where Captain Preston was to take up his headquarters.

Mrs. Vale had, long ere this, heard the result of the conflict, for her son had returned at early dawn. It was to stay but for a moment, however, for he knew that now home would be no place for him. A company would be sent to revenge the defeat of Captain Morgan as soon as intelligence would be received by the commander at Charleston; and, as his house lay on the road, it would be dangerous to be near it.

When the troop had arrived opposite the door, Reginald gave the command to halt, and ordered half-a-dozen of his men to dismount, and search the house. Though it was improbable, it still was not impossible that some of the rebels might be found within it. Catherine and her mother were sitting sewing, when the door was rudely flung open, disclosing the red-coated soldiers who stood at the threshold.

With calmness Mrs. Vale arose, and advanced a step toward them, saying, as she did, “What do you want, sirs?”

The men replied by entering the room first; then, one of them said: “To search the house to see if there be any rebels laid away within it.”

“One of you will be sufficient, then; you will find nothing within its walls which it is not right that an honest woman should have.”

“And your son—is he within?”

“He is not; but if he were, it perhaps were as well for you to defer the search, for he is not one who willingly permits liberties to be taken with himself or his house.”

The answer that was given to this rather fiery speech of the good woman, was a fierce scowl, and then the men spread themselves over the house. It was soon evident that those whom they sought were not within, and they passed out. Reaching the yard, a large-sized dog was standing in the pathway, regarding them with a look which might well pass for one of intense astonishment. The foremost soldier, not liking the looks of the animal, and having a deep hatred for any thing American, drew his sabre and made a stroke at the unflinching dog as he neared him. The sudden attack, and the pain of a slight wound, caused the dog to bound aside with a sharp cry; but, almost immediately he turned, and, with lips drawn back over his teeth, was about to spring upon the offender.

Catherine, who had hitherto remained seated, hearing the cry rushed to the door. In a moment she detected the true condition of affairs. At the sound of her call Lion forgot his purpose, and, with a quick bound, leaping by his would-be slayer, stood by the side of Miss Vale.

Captain Preston saw what had transpired, and called to the man to relinquish his purpose—for he had turned as if to follow the creature. With a surly obedience the fellow obeyed. With a low bow to the fair young girl, who still stood in the doorway, the captain struck spurs into his charger’s sides, and galloped away, his men following at the same rate of speed. Catherine and her mother gazed after them, and, as the maiden caressed the shaggy head of Lion, she gave vent to her feelings, by saying to her mother in a low, half musing tone: “Notwithstanding all the cruel deeds that have been committed by these foreign soldiers, there seems to be a little good in some of them. So they would kill you, my brave Lion, for trying to defend your home? You must be more careful next time, or you may get yourself into an unpleasant difficulty, from which you can not come with a whole skin.”

The dog shook his head gravely, and looked up into the face of his mistress, as though he understood the advice given him, but was rather uncertain, whether or no he should take it. He gave a low bark and wagging his tail threw himself on the floor, while Catherine resumed her sewing.

---

Great was the consternation of the good old whigs, Phillips and Tappan, when a troop of British cavalry came dashing along the road, and drew up in front of the dwelling of the former. In answer to a heavy knock, the old man himself came to the door. Reginald Preston related to him the orders of General Clinton. Where he could find accommodations for thirty or thirty-five men, was a question that puzzled the good old man for a time, but he consoled himself with the thought that he would be no worse off than his neighbor Mr. Tappan—toward whose house the remainder of the troops were being led by their captain.

As there was no possible good to be gained by demurring, Mr. Tappan, like Mr. Phillips, obeyed the order of his uninvited guests with seeming alacrity, and did his best to ingratiate himself with those who had the power to resent any fancied ill-treatment.

Captain Reginald had a room set apart for his use in Mr. Tappan’s house, but, as the two whigs were near neighbors, he was not separated from the rest of his command, by more than two hundred yards.

As he retired for the night, he murmured to himself: “I must really find some way of becoming more intimate with that pretty cousin of mine, for, though not beautiful, she pleases my fancy most mightily. I have half an idea that it would pay to marry her, and settle down in this cursed country! With her share of the fortune, I could become quite a respectable farmer. How it would look! The honorable Reginald Preston driving a couple of plough horses.”

---

Nat Ernshaw had not a very definite idea of what was to be done when he organized his brigade. His intention was patriotic,—to assist his country in retaining her independence,—but, how it was to be done was not particularly clear at the outset. To wage war against the bands of armed tories, which were constantly being formed; to take as prisoners any straggling British, and to attack and cut to pieces all troops, hostile to the great cause, whom he should chance to meet; these were the objects contemplated when working to form the brigade. His signal success in the outset had been inspiriting to his men as well as to himself, and they were now willing to obey his orders, with a confidence which an untried leader never inspires.

One of the great objects sought for was accomplished in the defeat of the dragoons; his men were able to mount and arm themselves well. Feeling not the least compunction in spoiling those who had come to spoil them, the arms and equipments of the conquered foe were quickly appropriated by the conquerors; and, having buried the fallen, the whole party held a consultation. It was decided to be unsafe to disband, and that it would be better to fall back to Cedar Swamp. From thence, the troop could send out scouts, who might learn whatever was going on, and bring intelligence of any place where their services would be of use.

Although the prisoners were a burden, still, there was a disinclination to let them go. Accordingly, it was decided that they also should be carried to the Swamp, as they might be at some future time, serviceable for exchange. By morning the troop was plunging into the hidden recesses of Cedar Swamp.

One might search in vain for a better place of rendezvous, surrounded on the outside by a swamp which it was almost impossible for a footman to pass, much less a horseman. There was, within, a cordon of thickly interwoven bushes and stunted trees; then another ring of swamp, and, finally, in the center, a spot of solid ground, some fifteen acres in extent, studded here and there with tall trees. One track there was, winding and intricate, along which the Americans found their way under the careful guidanceship of John Vale. It differed not in its appearance from the adjoining swamp; but, under the wet, miry earth, at the depth of six or eight inches, there was solid footing.

As it was uncertain how long they would remain in this place, and as the swamp would always be their place of refuge, on which to fall back, it had been determined to construct a few huts, sufficient for the accommodation of the whole brigade and their prisoners. Brawny arms were bent to the task; and, long before nightfall eight small cabins were to be seen, lifting their humble roofs which were rendered quite impervious to inclement weather. Several of the men had been dispatched to their homes to procure provisions, and make arrangements with their families, by which supplies could be obtained during their stay in the Swamp.

---

Five days have passed. During that time Captain Preston has been quartered at the house of Mr. Tappan. It was a heavy thing for the old patriot to bear this, being compelled to furnish food and drink to the enemies of his country, but, no murmur was allowed to escape his lips; he knew too well what might be the consequences of an unguarded expression, to allow himself or family to give vent to the feelings which were struggling for utterance.

Understanding his restless disposition, one would suppose that Preston’s hours would hang heavily on his mind, yet, that was far from being the case. The tory, Turner, all concealment as to his principles, having been thrown aside, was frequently with the captain holding secret conferences. To what these conferences referred, the reader will learn by a further perusal of our story. The last two days, also, the captain had been absent during the afternoon—had his steps been marked, it would have been found that he rode in the direction of Mrs. Vale’s. Reginald seemed to have taken a sudden fancy for his cousin.

This relationship had not thus far been referred to. On the part of Mrs. Vale and her daughter it was never suspected—how could it be, when the name of Preston was totally unfamiliar to her ears? The visits of the captain had been a source of uneasiness to the two. For, although he seemed to have stopped by accident, yet a mother’s heart is not the thing to be deceived by a smooth speech, and a well-coined lie. She trembled as she thought of the dangers which the presence of the unwelcome visitor foreboded.

With an unusually warm smile upon his face, Reginald rode up to the house this afternoon. He stated, that, being in want of something to occupy his time, he thought he would ride over and inquire how Miss Catherine’s pet was progressing.

The cut which Lion, the dog, had received was severe, and the noble animal was consequently an object on which he might exercise his commiseration.

Captain Preston was received with a cool welcome. Mrs. Vale was polite—freezingly so; and Catherine, while she did not manifest decided displeasure, did not seem to be overjoyed at his presence. The gallant captain had not created a very good impression in his three visits.

With a pertinacity, by no means pleasant to the uninvited guest, the widow kept her seat, nor once offered to leave the room, while Kate seemed deaf to the hints which were thrown out concerning the state of the garden, the agreeableness of the weather, and the propriety of exercise. The nimble fingers plied the needle most rapidly, while answering the numerous questions of Reginald. As he did not think it best to commence an offensive warfare upon women, the chances of any private conference with his fair cousin, seemed, to Preston, to be small indeed; so small, that the thought of incontinently beating a retreat, more than once crossed the Briton’s mind, but was as often dismissed; he could not—he would not give it up so!

At length, insensibly as it were, Mrs. Vale was drawn into conversation. The young man had an insinuating manner that was hard to resist, and he taxed his conversational powers to entertain these, to him, simple folk, quite as much as he had ever done to rivet the attention of some wealthy belle, in the days when he flirted in the London salons, and was an honored guest at the table of the richest and most distingué families of the aristocracy. So much did the widow forget herself, that she actually asked the visitor to remain for tea, when she saw him preparing to leave about half an hour before the regular time for that meal. Gratifying as it would, no doubt, have been to the young man, he was, nevertheless, compelled to decline—he had an engagement which it was necessary for him to meet; he did not, however, state this as an excuse, but simply declared his inability to remain.

When Preston had departed, the impression he left behind was rather favorable than otherwise. Kate’s heart told her he was one to be feared rather than respected, and that these visits boded no good. On the contrary, the mother’s first suspicions seemed allayed, and she expressed a fear that she had hastily formed a bad opinion of the honest young man, as Captain Preston appeared to be. He promised her dwelling protection from all foraging parties belonging to their line.

As a general rule, it is wisest not hastily to change first-formed opinions. Mrs. Vale saw into the true character of Reginald almost the moment he crossed her threshold, but suffered her vision to be obscured by the curtain of plausible conversation and insinuating manners, of the shrewd man of the world. She was not the first mother who had been flattered into silence in the same manner!

---

Turner, anxious to get matters in train for securing the reward promised him by Captain Preston, did not suffer grass to grow under the feet of his horse while he journeyed to Charleston.

Although he was not one of those who are desirous of having a partner in their wicked deeds, yet this abduction was a business which he could not well accomplish without help. For this reason he was well satisfied to follow Preston’s advice, and search out Tom Blanchard.

Jim Fagan’s tavern, was a building well known to Timothy, who had, more than once, passed through its portals. Though frequented by a “pretty hard crowd,” the peace was but seldom broken in the building—Fagan, a tall, broad-shouldered Irishman, having made up his mind that he alone was privileged to do all the fighting which took place upon his premises. More than once had Turner passed the portals of Fagan’s dwelling, and he had, also, often noted the very Tom Blanchard whom Preston had recommended as an assistant. They were “drinking acquaintances,” for, though the traitor was not a man to indulge in drinking to excess, he nevertheless was fond of an occasional glass; “it sharpened his wits and braced his nerves amazingly,” he averred.

In the course of the evening, the day on which he reached Charleston, the tory sauntered into the bar-room, and, with a careless nod, asked Fagan where Tom Blanchard might be found.

Fagan answered that he could be found in the back room—he had just gone in, and was probably engaged with Joe Lawson in a game of cards.

He found the soldier sitting at a small table with a young man of good appearance. A few silver pieces, lying on the table, told that they were betting.

Tom started, when Turner laid his hand on his shoulder, for he, the dragoon, had not seen him enter, the look of alarm was exchanged for one of inquiry, when Turner made a peculiar sign with the fore-finger of his left hand.

“From the captain?” inquired Blanchard.

“Yes!” said Timothy—at the same time placing his finger on his lip to indicate silence.

“Is it right haway?” continued Tom, casting a glance full of regret upon the cards and silver.

“Immediately.”

“Then, Joe, I’ll ’ave to leave you till some hother time. Hi ’ate to do hit, but duty says hi must.”

“Can’t your friend, there, wait a while? Or, perhaps, he would have no objection to take a hand himself?”

Joe Lawson was a professional gambler, although still young, and having an air of respectability about him. Turner, who was an adept at cards, and really longed to finger the greasy trumps, abruptly wheeled about, saying:

“It’s impossible, I cannot spare the time.”

Turner asked for a private room, and, with the dragoon accompanying him, was shown up-stairs. Blanchard turned the key upon the inside of the door, but his companion very quietly unlocked it, saying: “In case you want to make a sudden sally, a locked door is very unhandy.”

“’Ave it yer hown way. Now what’s the go? Yer from the captain, hand must ’ave somethin’ to tell.”

“I am from Preston; and, as we two are to work together, you will have a chance to find out ‘what the go is,’ and fill your pocket with the shiners.”

“If there’s hany thing to be made, hi’m hin. The Cap’s good pay. Tell hus what’s to be done.”

When Tom heard what was expected of them, he merely gave a long whistle, remarking with a savage chuckle, that Preston would have to pay well. Every thing, with this soldier, resolved itself into a question of pay. The morality of an action was unquestioned if it was to be rewarded with a full purse.

“It seems,” continued Turner, “that the captain has had you to assist him in several jobs of this kind before. Does it pay well?”

“Twict. In Lunnon. First rate—drive ha long,” answered Blanchard, whose answers were rather terse, though sufficiently expressive.

“Where are we to take her? That is about all that is to be settled upon.”

“Find ha place. Get ha hempty ’ouse somewhere, hand fix hup ha room to receive ’er.”

“Well, I’ll look up the house, and to-morrow evening meet me here about this time to arrange our plans in a definite manner. There must be no bungling work; the girl is to disappear in such a manner that we leave behind no trace by which we may be followed.”

“Trust hus for that.”

“Then you can return to your cards and I will try to get a little sleep. This riding about is enough to wear out a man made of any thing less durable than cast-iron.”

Tom left the room, when the door was locked from within. For some time, Turner stood looking musingly out the window. Not until the clock, striking nine, had aroused him from his reverie, did he throw himself upon the bed for the needed rest and sleep.

When the tory arose the next morning, he passed half an hour in private conference with Jim Fagan; and, though he did not betray any of the secrets intrusted to his keeping, he nevertheless, for a consideration, received—or rather was to receive—valuable assistance. Fagan undertook to provide the room in which the young girl was to be imprisoned, although he abstained from mentioning that it would be in an unrented building which belonged to him.

In the afternoon, Fagan took Preston’s agent to see the house.

It was a little stone structure, which looked as though it might have been a hundred years old. Standing almost alone, near the edge of town—massive, strong, its walls impenetrable to sound—a more desirable place could not be found. The windows were closed with shutters, and the building appeared deserted; but when the Irishman knocked at the door, it was opened by a grim-looking old negress, who surlily surveyed the party, and seemed more inclined to slam the door in their faces than to ask them to enter.

Fagan requested her to show the furnished room up-stairs. The negress seemed scarcely to understand what was wanted of her, but at length led them up the stairway. The room chosen charmed the eye of Turner. The windows were secured with thick, oaken shutters, guarded on the inside by padlocks, the door was strongly made, and the strength of the lock precluded the possibility of a future inmate’s forcing it. The furniture was simple. A table, a dressing-stand, half a dozen chairs and a bedstead. There were no clothes on the bed, but Fagan expressed himself willing to furnish these.

Perfectly satisfied with every thing, Turner withdrew, and, after some conversation with the negress, Fagan followed. Thus the preliminaries were settled, and that evening, when Tom Blanchard and Timothy Turner met, it was agreed that in the second succeeding night the attempt should be made.

---

Young Vale was a man of strong will. Sorrow and rage at his sister’s disappearance did not blind his reason. Knowing that he must take care of his own safety, if he would do aught for her’s, all his actions were governed with the utmost prudence.

As there were numerous tories, well acquainted with him, residing in the city, he did not deem it prudent to venture in without a disguise sufficiently impenetrable to deceive all prying eyes. The disguise was effected in a satisfactory manner: his own mother would have looked twice before she recognized in the clodhopper, wending his way along the road, her own good-looking son.

It was sundown when the queer-looking figure of the patriot might have been seen wending its way along a rather deserted-looking street, looking to the right and left in a staring, half-silly sort of manner, so natural to those who, totally uneducated either in heart or mind, look upon some strange scene for the first time.

Three or four soldiers, in red uniforms, came staggering down the street, evidently just from a visit to a tippling-house. These the youth carefully avoided by giving them the sidewalk and himself taking the street. A loud laugh was raised as they passed, for there was something truly ludicrous about the countryman; and he joined in the laugh as though not perceiving it was against himself. After having passed the soldiers, the sidewalk was regained and the lonely march continued.

A stop was finally made before a small building which our readers will hardly be surprised to learn was inhabited by the family of Simon Hunt, the blacksmith, who had, on two occasions, sent to Ernshaw and his men most important intelligence. It being so near dark, the blacksmith himself was at home, and answered the knock which came thundering against his door. The person whom he perceived to be standing on the steps was perfectly unknown to him; nevertheless he bid him enter.

When the two entered the room, Simon turned, and, by the light of a candle, surveyed the other with a long and scrutinizing look. The countenance somehow seemed familiar, but it was only after hearing him speak that the worthy smith was able to say, “Your name is Vale, is it not?”

“Right, sir—my name is Vale; and yours, I believe, is Simon Hunt?”

“It is.”

“Then allow me, before proceeding any further, to thank you for the services you have done to Ernshaw and his men, as well as to the holy cause of liberty.”

“Never mind about them; I have done nothing which I wouldn’t wish to do again; and you had better thank another one whose name I can not tell you, but who was the person that furnished me with all the information that I have had.”

“Well, Mr. Hunt, to whoever the thanks are due, to him or them, let them be earnestly given. It was not for this I came here, disguised in this dress; and, though any assistance which you can render me will be but small, still, little as it may be, I shall feel thankful for it.”

“I am with you,” said Hunt, decisively.

Vale told the story of the outrage briefly. It stirred the soul of the blacksmith deeply, and his lips were not slow in uttering his sentiments. He asked to share John’s search, and to be permitted the privilege of avenging her wrongs. The only service which was now required was to endeavor to find some traces of Catherine; and, in case any thing went wrong with Vale, to send immediate intelligence of it to Nat Ernshaw.

“Now that we understand each other,” finally interposed Hunt, “I suppose that you will stop at my house, for the present, at least.”

“Under other circumstances, I would be happy to do so,” responded Vale; “but, at present, it would not be prudent. If any thing evil should chance to befall me, you might be placed in a bad predicament.”

“Pooh! never mind that. If any one should inquire about you, why, we will call you my wife’s cousin; and I defy any one to recognize you under that disguise.”

“There is another reason why I should not accept your hospitality, and that is this: I have already engaged lodging at a rather obscure-looking inn, and, having paid a week in advance, for the landlord did not seem inclined to trust me with lodging before seeing the color of my money. If I should not make my reappearance, it might excite suspicion and cause inquiry to be made. Of course, that is the last thing I would have to happen.”

“Perhaps it will be better; but remember that you are welcome to count on me for any assistance, or to use my house as your home during your stay in the city. We are fellow-workers for freedom and the right, and that gives you a full claim to my sympathy.”

“You will, doubtless, soon see me; meanwhile be on the alert to catch any loose information which may be within reach. If, at any time, you wish to communicate with me, you will find me at the ‘Traveler’s Home,’ kept by Jim Fagan.”

These were John Vale’s last words; and half an hour later found him sitting in the front room at Fagan’s.

Notwithstanding the smallness of his hotel, Fagan seemed to do a good business, and it kept the red-headed boy at the bar busily engaged to satisfy the wants of the numerous applicants for his villainous beverages. Vale, still in disguise, sat in a corner, never speaking, but carefully noting all that was said or done around him. Some of those who were sitting by cast a glance of inquiry at the queer-looking figure, but they evidently had no suspicion of his real character, only wondering what brought him into Fagan’s place. The “Traveler’s Home” was a quiet enough house in the daytime, and even at night a stranger was in no danger of being insulted or maltreated within its precincts; but the men who frequented it after nightfall were of rather doubtful, if not of desperate character, and it was not without the repute of being no better than a gambling-den. Vale knew nothing of the character of the place when he first secured lodgings there.

He was destined to learn much of the place and its “patrons” before he again entered the confines of Cedar Swamp.

The crowd kept growing larger and larger, until the space in front of the bar was quite filled with men, young and old—all drinking, talking, and smoking. Fagan stood at one end of the bar, occasionally assisting his red-haired and masculine Hebe, but keeping a watchful eye in his head to see that his property was neither injured nor improperly confiscated. As he had, several times, subjected Vale to a close scrutiny, the rebel had thought it best to endeavor to allay any lurking suspicion which the tavern-keeper might have, and so he staggered up to the bar and called for a glass of beer.

This being finished, the young man lit a pipe and vigorously puffed away at it. Whatever Fagan might have thought before, after seeing this performance of Vale’s, all suspicion was allayed, and his grim countenance relaxed with a smile.

Hardly had Vale taken his seat, when, from among the crowd, a man elbowed his way to the bar where Jim stood. Leaning over, he addressed the landlord in a tone too low for John to hear the question, but the answer, incautiously given in a rather loud tone, sent a thrill to the heart of the honest patriot.

“You know, Harry,” said Fagan, “that Turner has hired the place for a couple of weeks, and I guess it would be better to let any thing of the kind alone for the present.”

“All right!” responded Harry. “Some of the boys were speaking about it, and I gave ’em the same answer you gave me, without mentioning Turner’s name; but, to make the thing sure, I thought I’d speak with you about the matter.”

“There’s no harm done by your speaking; but, if it’s necessary, we can enter by the garden-way without troubling the other part of the house. Have you heard from Bob yet, about how he’s getting along?”

“Nary word.”

After this laconic answer, “Harry” disappeared in the crowd, leaving Jim to attend to his customers. John Vale was strongly excited by what he had just overheard. That Captain Preston had used Turner as an instrument with which to abduct Catherine, was not doubted—the conversation between Fagan and “Harry” had set him on the trail; and the point now was to find out of what house they had been speaking. He did not anticipate much difficulty in doing that; and when once he lit upon the spot, Vale thought it would go hard with him if he could not, by hook or crook, manage to discover if Catherine was there hidden, and to rescue her from the clutches of the ruffians who had abducted her.

The hours passed slowly, until it came to ten o’clock. John was earnestly considering about the best means of leaving his corner, crossing the room, and making his exit from the opposite door without running against any one who might chance to take advantage of his seeming simplicity to annoy him. Though in a good humor, the crowd seemed to be well primed with liquor, and it would take but little to involve the whole roomful in a general row. After half rising to his feet, he sank back again into his seat. Words of altercation attracted his attention. A big, rough-looking man was saying something in an angry tone to some one concealed from the eyes of Vale by the crowd. Curiosity impelled the young man to take his stand upon a bench in order that he might get a glimpse of the man who was being berated. What was his surprise to recognize the cat-like countenance of Timothy Turner. That worthy did not seem in the least troubled by the invectives hurled against him, but waited quietly until the large man had concluded. Then raising his hand and making a peculiar sign with his forefinger, he remarked:

“Keep cool, Bob Wynstay. If I shoved against your sore arm, you ought to be thankful I don’t tell how it got hurt.”

The sign which the tory made seemed to have a remarkably sedative effect upon the big man, and he only answered:

“What the—— do you run against a fellow that way for? Aren’t it bad enough to have a broken arm, without having it punched by every one that chooses to elbow me about?”

“A man with a broken arm ought to keep out of a crowd, and then he wouldn’t get it hurt,” responded Turner.

The crowd made way for him—he seemed to be well known to those around him—and Turner passed on, casting a quick glance around him. For an instant his eye rested on John Vale’s face, and the gaze, quick and keen, filled the heart of the disguised patriot with apprehension. Whether or not he was recognized, Vale could scarce tell; but he felt that it would be well to make his exit as soon as possible. Turner, though a traitor, and, at heart, a coward, was a man of great caution and was possessed of extraordinary perception. Knowing the hatred the fellow felt for him, John could but think that his destruction would be certain, surrounded as he was by enemies, if the tory should recognize him.

Fagan and the new-comer had a few words of conversation, and the landlord left the room, but almost immediately returned, followed by Tom Blanchard and several soldiers who had been playing cards in a back room. Pointing at Vale, Turner said, in a loud voice: “Secure your man! I accuse him of being a rebel, and of entering this place as a spy.”

The three soldiers made a rush forward. Vale drew a brace of pistols.

“He is a dead man who attempts to lay hands on me!”

“Take him, I say!” shouted Tim.

“Dastard! I defy you!” now shouted John, who rose to his utmost height and looked as if one word more would precipitate him upon the treacherous scoundrel.

“Yes! because I am unarmed, I suppose,” the tory whispered.

“A coward and traitor always seeks for some excuse for his baseness!” said Vale.

“He is a spy, for he calls me traitor. Soldiers, you are armed—will you take him, or shall he be allowed to escape? I have reason to fear he is not alone on these premises. Off to the guard-house with him, quick!” said Tim, white with rage and fear.

Two soldiers stepped forward to seize him. Two pistols flashed in their faces, and the men fell back, wounded and stunned.

In an instant a half-dozen men were on the patriot, and, bearing him to the floor, secured him after a struggle which proved how great was the strength and will of the young boy.

In the melee, Turner escaped; and when John arose to his feet, with his arms bound behind him, his eyes sought in vain for the traitor.

“Your friend ’as concluded to ’elp hus,” remarked Blanchard, rather humorously inclined, “by making tracks for the lines. The ’ole garrison will soon be here; so come along young chap, hand we’ll show you the hinterior of has good a bake-hoven as you hever grinned hover.”

And amid the laughs and jeers of the crowd, John was forced away to the guard cells.

---

Two days have passed since Catherine was made a prisoner. She has seen no one but the old negress. Her room was only lighted by a lamp, every ray of the sun having been carefully shut out. Several times she had thought of attempting to overpower the negress, but, though old, that personage promised no easy victory; and then, though no other person had entered the room, yet the steps of some one were always heard accompanying the colored woman on her journey up the stairs. If Kate should even be successful in the attempt to overpower the negress, she knew not whom she might meet in her flight from the room. Environed by guards, her only resource was to place herself in the hands of Providence and await the end.

Seated by the table, her head resting upon her arms, her mind absorbed in its own misery, Kate scarce heard the noise made by the opening of her door. The sharp click of the bolt as it was shot back to its place by the turning of the key, however, startled her; and when her eyes, all red and swollen from weeping, were raised, they fell upon the form of a man, standing by the door with the key in his hand. At the first glance she did not recognize him, for he was clad in a long cloak, while his hat was drawn down over his eyes; but, when he threw back his cloak, and removed his hat, she exclaimed, in the agony of her surprise, “Captain Preston!”

“Yes, I am he,” said Reginald, taking a seat. “Reginald Preston, at your service, Miss Vale; one who has loved you does now, and always will.”

Perhaps there was something of mockery in his tone as the officer spoke of love; for, at his words, Catherine grew pale, and visibly trembled—her courage, for the moment, gone.

“Do you then guess,” said Preston, seeing that Catherine would not or could not speak, “who it is that has shown himself so solicitous for your welfare? Foolish girl! you reject my offers and think you can toss me off as a child’s plaything; but you shall find me one not to be thwarted.”

A sob was the only answer. Such a sob! It went to the heart even of that unfeeling profligate. Tears sometimes effect what a world in arms could never accomplish. The heart of the British captain was moved—he had not expected tears. But it was only for a moment; then the old flood of passion rushed over him again, and the good angel of pity was driven scornfully away. He grew haughty and bade her be silent. Then burst forth: “Girl, better for you to have died than to have done as you have. Wantoning in beauty as you are, you have led me on till I made a fool of myself—till I was mad enough to actually dream of allying myself to one so far beneath me in rank; then, curses on it, you tell me to leave you, that I can never be beloved, casting me aside with as little ceremony as if I had been an old garment. Now hear me! Mine you are, body and soul. Mine till, tired of you, I throw you aside as recklessly as a worn-out coat. Weep over it. Shed bitter tears; but so it is, and no spark of pity shall show itself. As you had no pity on me, thus it shall be returned; and that tenfold, my country beauty.”

In the man hissing out these sentences, it would have been difficult to recognize the one who had whispered so many soft words in woman’s ear—who seemed, to the casual observer, to be the true gentleman, well-bred and courteous at the heart. He had spoken too much, however. All the trepidation in the heart of the girl was now gone; the true woman had come back to her, and she was now daring enough to encounter a dozen such wretches.

“You tell, sir, what is untrue, when you insinuate that I ever did ought to inspire you with a passion for me. From the first moment I saw you, I feared you, and my forebodings have only proved too true. Urged on by your own perverse passion, you have sought to bend me to your will; but, being foiled when you used fair means, you have descended to foul. But here, as before, you shall not succeed. If needs be, I can die; but, sir, dread the avenging of that death! Whether I go from here alive or not, I tell you I hate and defy you!”

Maddened with anger, Reginald strode forward as though about to strike her. With a quick spring Kate reached the table, and seizing a heavy pitcher, she collectedly waited for him to attempt his worst. This action served to restrain Preston. His arm had not yet recovered from the wound received at the hands of John Vale, and was supported in a sling.

“That proud spirit of yours shall bend, and the fire that sparkles in your eye shall dim, ere many days have flown. For the present rest undisturbed, and while you have time, think whether it be not better to conciliate than to defy.”

He turned away, unlocked the door, and removed his hateful presence from Catherine’s sight.

“By heavens!” he muttered, as he gained the passage; “it were better for me not to attempt a passage-at-arms till this arm of mine gets stronger. I believe she would as soon scatter my brains with that pitcher as wring the neck of a young chicken. Chicken! bah! I’m more than half one, myself, to let her rant on as she did, and then run away for fear of doing something worthy of future repentance! When I should be cool I get into the very white-heat of passion; and if there was any thing to be gained in becoming so, I would be cold as an iceberg! A man has to study hard before he can become a match for a woman’s tongue and fingers.”

A walk of some distance brought the gallant captain to the quarters of the commander-in-chief. Although it was late for a visit, yet as Sir Henry had expressed a desire for an interview, Preston thought it best not to stand on ceremony. Accordingly he knocked at the door, and was admitted by Sir Henry’s black servant, Sampson. He found the general engaged in reading and answering a number of letters.

After salutations and the captain had taken a seat, General Clinton remarked, at the same time picking up a letter, “Well, Captain Preston, I am afraid that your return to England is indeed indefinitely postponed.”

“Then our fears are realized?”

“Do not say our fears, for, to tell the truth, I had not much doubt when I received the first intelligence. Of course, under your present circumstances, you will hardly think of leaving the army, and by letters that I received yesterday, the question as to who are the heirs is completely settled. I have interested myself in this matter as feeling an interest in you, on account of the friendship I bore your father. I did not wish to speak too confidently at first, but, well acquainted as I was with your genealogy, I felt assured that in case any of the Vales were living, they were the heirs.”

“It is bad enough, but the reverse of fortune must be as bravely borne as a defeat. I shall beat a retreat in good order, sir. One thing is certain, though, and that is that Smith, Jones, and the rest of the firm, will have to wait for the repayment of the little loan of a hundred-pound note which they were so kind as to offer me—and which, of course, I accepted. Perhaps next time they will not be quite so eager after clients.”

“They should have been more careful how they excited hopes which were not to be gratified. But something may turn up in your favor before the close of the war. Read that letter, and you will have a clearer view of the case, perhaps.”

Reginald seized the letter that was tossed to him, and gave it an attentive perusal. After he had finished he did not speak for some time; what he had read gave him much food for meditation. His moral sense having been blunted by the life which he had for years been leading, crimes which, even a few months ago, would have appeared most black, now suggested themselves most naturally to his mind; and great as was the wrong which he had perpetrated upon the family of his relations, the Vales, he was laying the plot for another every way as foul. Could Sir Henry have looked into the soul of the man who sat beside him, he would have loathed his very sight. Perhaps it is for some wise purpose that villains stalk through the world, unpublished and unpunished. Divinity uses strange means to work its ends, and the mystery of sin is the mystery of Him who made us. As, from the principle of sin arose the need of redemption for man, mayhap from the success which sometimes waits on evil thinkers and doers, some principle as vastly grand and important is about to be established.

“I see,” said Preston, at length, “no hopes left for me to hang on, after perusing that letter. No doubt but that the money goes to the Vales. The fact of the young man being engaged in rebellion can make no difference; this is a case in which, for the present at least, confiscation would be of no avail. Such has always been my fortune: hopes raised to be dashed down, anticipations indulged which can never be realized.”

What answer the general would have made must be surmised, for he was interrupted by the announcement of Sampson, that Timothy Turner demanded audience.

As the tory entered, he made a low bow to the commander, and then, noticing with a start and a smile the presence of Captain Preston, he bowed to that worthy.

“For what, Mr. Turner, are we indebted to your presence at this rather unseasonable hour?” queried Sir Henry in a tone which implied severity of feeling.

“Why, to come to the point without waste of words, a young man by the name of Vale, a deep-dyed rebel, has been apprehended within the limits of the city, dressed in disguise, and there being some difficulty to decide what should be done with him, I made bold to come to you to state the case, and ask your commands with regard to him.”

A smile of satisfaction played upon the captain’s face as he heard this. The sister he had in his hands, the brother was as good as dead, and all that was requisite now was to prosecute vigorously the attack; the fortune which seemed to have oozed from his fingers would again soon be within his grasp!

General Clinton’s countenance, on the contrary, betrayed an emotion of pain. But he continued his interrogatories: “Are you certain that he is a rebel?”

“No doubt concerning that. He drew a brace of pistols and dangerously wounded two men before we could manage to effect his capture. He is safe enough now, but had he held a sword in his hand, I believe he would have defeated our whole party.”

“Well, I will send an officer to attend to the matter, and meanwhile receive the thanks of the king for having so assiduously aided his cause.”

To stay longer would have been useless; so Turner departed, revolving the pleasing thought in his mind that the harvest of revenge was about to be reaped, and the family of the rebel made to feel the enmity which he had so long cherished against them.

After Turner, at intervals, followed two others. The first Preston, who turned his footsteps toward his lodgings, seeking quiet that he might think over the various events which had occurred that day. The second, Sampson, the patriotic servant of the commander, who played the spy at the risk of his life. His footsteps were turned toward the dwelling of Simon Hunt, and his mission to inform that honest-hearted man of the danger to which John Vale was exposed. Through the darkness of the night, through dark and unfrequented streets, he glided as silently as a shadow, until, at length, he reached the house of the blacksmith.

Although Simon was buried in sleep, the signal of Sampson awakened him, and without hesitation the negro was admitted. When he heard of the capture of the young man who but a few hours before had stood under that very roof, he did not seem surprised, but replied: “A great pity. I was afraid it would turn out so, though he was so well disguised. According to his request I will have to send word some way or other to Nat Ernshaw.”

“Dey keep him berry tight, an’ I ’fraid Masser Vale be done gone dis time,” said Sampson.

“Not if firm friends, stout hearts, and strong arms can get him away. But I must get word to Ernshaw before to-morrow noon, or he may come too late.”

“Now I got somethin’ else to tell you,” responded the negro: and for half an hour the two continued the conversation. At the end of that time they parted, one to hasten home, the other to hasten the news of John’s capture to Ernshaw.

---

When Ernshaw returned from the pursuit of Preston and the tory, he found several of the men standing over John Vale, anxiously feeling his breast to see if the breath of life was still left within him. His heart very faintly fluttered, though he lay in a state of utter unconsciousness.

That night Mrs. Vale found beneath her roof, once again, her children; Catherine safe, John dangerously, though not necessarily mortally wounded. For a time his life was held by a feeble thread; but, through a strong constitution and good care, he slowly regained his health and strength.

How in the Carolinas a partisan warfare was waged; how Marion and Sumpter and many other brave-hearted commanders made themselves a terror to the British and tories, how the spirit of freedom could never be quenched, but continued to be made manifest in the midst of the most trying circumstances and the most perilous positions—all this is well-known to the student of American history. For the year following the events just described, Nat Ernshaw’s brigade did noble service in its country’s cause. Sometimes by themselves, again in conjunction with other patriot bands, they swooped down upon a tory gathering, or cut off a detachment of British soldiers. Now here, now there, they but seldom remained long in one place; but Cedar Swamp was ever a rendezvous to which they retired. Here they would take up their quarters at intervals of some weeks, and lie perfectly quiet until intelligence reached them of some occasion where a blow could be struck; then from this spot, like lightning from a thunder cloud, the fires of freedom flashed forth.

Through all the hand-to-hand conflicts, Wild Nat passed safely. A sword stroke on the brow had left a scar, but the wound was not dangerous, for his own blade had carried death to his enemy, and thus paralyzed his well-aimed blow. John Vale, too, was fortunate. While more than one brave comrade fell beside him, he remained untouched. His first wound was his last. As being the best fitted to devise and carry out the campaign, the men placed most implicit confidence in these two. That confidence was never abused.

From the time when Catherine Vale re-entered the walls of her mother’s house, that house was never disturbed. Though houses might blaze around them, and the homesteads of others be desolated, yet was the dwelling of Mrs. Vale unmolested.

At length came an event which filled every true American’s heart with joy. The dark pall which had so long been stretched over the State was lifted. On the 19th of October, 1781, Lord Cornwallis with seven thousand men, surrendered to the American army under General Washington. No event in the history of any nation was ever hailed with more grateful joy than was this. Though the British were still masters of Charleston and Savannah, yet it had the effect of doing away with the necessity of partisan warfare; and marauding bands of tories, and pillaging troops of soldiers were no longer to be met wandering through the States.

The tories, seeing that the war must soon end—and end in the success of the colonies—ceased to rant of the divine right of kings, and began to consider that perhaps it would be best to keep their fingers from off the property of their whig neighbors. They therefore became a source of no further anxiety to the patriots.

Though willing to meet together at any time for the defense of their country, the men of Nat Ernshaw’s brigade disbanded, each one returning to his home.

---

Winter passed and summer came again. The war was virtually at an end, and though the city was still retained by the British, yet no blood had been shed for some time.

It was a moonlight evening in July, and a pleasant breeze swept softly through the branches of the old pear-tree which stood near the dwelling of Mrs. Vale.

On a seat under the tree sat Nat Ernshaw and Catherine Vale; at their feet an old friend, the dog Lion, who appeared to regard the two with a look of grave curiosity. Sitting under the tree there, with the pale light of the moon shining down upon them, the three made a picture. Nat Ernshaw, with his fine, manly countenance, weather-beaten and marked with a single scar upon his brow, and that more than half-hidden by his hair; Catherine Vale, with her fair face, golden hair, and loving eyes; Lion, huge as he was, looking pleasant as he gazed up into the face of his mistress.

Tenderly taking the hand of his companion, Ernshaw, after a momentary silence, said:

“There is something, Kate, of which I have long wished to speak, but the distracted state of the country prevented my doing so. For years—almost from the hour of our first acquaintance—no true man could say that his head sat firmly upon his shoulders. Life has been, at the most, held on slender tenure, and hearthstones have been desecrated on short notice. Now it is, I think, otherwise. The struggle for freedom is all but ended; independence is placed within our grasp, and with an assurance which I could not otherwise feel, I can speak my feelings and wishes. I love you, Kate. Not with a fierce passion, but with a hopeful, manly, lasting love. We have known each other long and, I think, well. Such as I am you see me. I profess not to be free from faults, nor to be wholly made up of virtues. From the fullness of an unchecked spirit I have done things which to others might seem wrong; but they were sins of the head, not of the heart. I can offer you a hand, a home, and a heart. Knowing me as you do, having tried my affection as you have, will you be mine?”

For some moments Catherine did not reply, but sat gazing on the ground. Though she had often done so before, she wished again to analyze her heart, and scrutinize closely, calmly, the feelings which she felt she entertained for Nathaniel.

Under this very tree, two years ago, had Reginald Preston pleaded his love. What an issue that profession brought forth! She recalled her abduction—her solitary confinement—the horrid threats of the British captain—Ernshaw’s daring—his striking down of the wretch, and his rescue of her—the dying declaration of Turner; all these incidents came up again before her, and though they touched her heart with a sense of sadness, how they all pleaded for the man at her side!

“I have been thinking,” she at length calmly said, “as I have, I acknowledge, thought before, of you and your claim upon me. We have known each other long, and have reason to believe that we know each other truly. I have looked into my heart, and find that it fully and entirely responds to your own in its hopes, wishes, love, and confidence. I say then, in all the truth of my own soul, that I love you as a woman should love the man she would claim as her husband, and that, as far as my consent goes, my hand and heart are yours. I will be your wife, Nathaniel.”

Catherine’s manner was deliberate, unimpassioned; but her whole being stood looking from her eyes, and her sweet face lit up like a morning in June. Ernshaw’s strong nature had met its entire response.

When the patriot captain that night took his leave, he printed, for the first time, upon the lips of Catherine the holy kiss of plighted troth.

The next evening Nat Ernshaw came to the cottage, and told his love to Mrs. Vale in a straight-forward, manly way. Catherine had told her all, during the day, and received her parent’s blessing upon her love. For Nathaniel she now entertained a real, undisguised affection, and answered his petition for the hand of Catherine in a cordial consent.

“Take her, Nathaniel; she is a precious treasure. Keep her sacredly,” was all she could say.

---

Mrs. Vale’s house is all astir. Lights flash all over it, and glad sounds issue from within. That night will see both son and daughter of the respected widow enter into the bonds of wedlock; a double wedding is to occur at the house.

To describe the ceremony, to tell how the brides were dressed, and who were the bridemaids—to recapitulate all the songs that were sung, all the speeches that were made, all the toasts that were drunk, would quite exceed the limits of this little story. Let it suffice to aver that two handsomer couples had never been united since Carolina became a State, and that a happier evening was never known, even to that mythic person, the “oldest inhabitant.”

About a week after the wedding, John Vale’s mother received a letter, the contents of which rather surprised her. The communication read as follows:

Though Messrs. Thompson, Smith & Co., were sharp to ferret out business, they were also faithful when that business demanded a severe discharge of duty. Through their exertions, the fortune of the “recently deceased Charles Vale” was secured to its rightful owners.

Justice will not be defeated. Though Reginald put his shoulder to the wheel of fate, and strove to push it backward, yet for all his boldness and sagacity he was crushed. That for which he toiled, and made himself a villain, the gold of his relative, passed into worthier hands, and his very name became synonym of whatever was bad.

For years, annually did Nat Ernshaw gather around him, in a grand reunion, the former members of the brigade; and to these reunions always came Simon Hunt. No longer Simon the blacksmith. A self-educated man, he was at once true citizen, an upright man, a clear-headed adviser. The States, just escaped from the despotism of foreign and reckless rulers, needed just such men to assist in their counsels. Was it any wonder then, that at one of their reunions Nat Ernshaw introduced the once plain blacksmith as “the Hon. Simon Hunt?”

---

Under the green turf of Carolina now rest the brave men who once composed Wild Nat’s brigade. Truer hearts never beat, more patriotic bosoms never swelled with the inspiration of liberty. Long in the memories of descendants shall they live, these veritable heroes of the Revolution. Over their graves let us give them our benedictions, and with Percival say:—

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