Title: Fighting King George
Author: McIntyre, John T. (John Thomas)
Language: English
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[Illustration: _TWO FIGURES BOUNDED UPON THE WALLS_]



  FIGHTING
  KING
  GEORGE

  _by_
  John T M^cIntyre

  Illustrated
  _by_
  J A Graeber

  THE PENN
  PUBLISHING
  COMPANY
  PHILADELPHIA
  M C M V



  COPYRIGHT 1905 BY THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY



Contents


      I HOW FORT JOHNSON FELL                                       7

     II HOW TOM DEERING MADE A NAME                                31

    III HOW THE BRITISH SHIPS RAN FROM CHARLESTON HARBOR           57

     IV HOW TWO MEN BURIED A CHEST OF GOLD                         84

      V HOW TOM JOINED MARION’S BRIGADE                           101

     VI HOW FRANCIS MARION HEARD GOOD NEWS FROM WILLIAMSBURG      123

    VII HOW TOM DEERING FOUGHT WITH GATES AT CAMDEN               140

   VIII HOW TOM BRAVED THE TORIES                                 148

     IX HOW TOM DEERING HELD THE STAIRCASE                        174

      X HOW MARION’S MEN LAY IN AMBUSH AND WHAT CAME OF IT        200

     XI HOW TOM MET WITH A BLINDFOLD ADVENTURE                    213

    XII HOW TOM TOOK PART IN A MYSTERIOUS CONSULTATION            245

   XIII HOW THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENED ON CHRISTMAS EVE              261

    XIV HOW THE BRITISH LOST SOME PRISONERS                       283

     XV HOW TOM DEERING FOUGHT HIS FIRST FIGHT UPON THE SEA       306

    XVI HOW TOM DEERING SERVED WITH GENERAL GREENE                322

   XVII HOW A TRAITOR TO HIS COUNTRY WAS TAKEN AND LOST           337

  XVIII HOW TOM DEERING RODE WITH WASHINGTON AT YORKTOWN          350



Illustrations


                                                                 PAGE

  TWO FIGURES BOUNDED UPON THE WALLS                   _Frontispiece_

  MARION TOOK THE PACKET                                           62

  “THEY ARE RARE GOOD LADS, ALL OF THEM,” SPOKE THE BURGESS       134

  STEP BY STEP HE WAS BEATEN BACK                                 194

  “THIS GENTLEMAN,” SAID CORNWALLIS, “WILL INTRODUCE YOU”         252

  “WELL AIMED,” PRAISED MR. JOHNSON                               316

  THE OFFICER SPRANG FORWARD                                      344



Fighting King George



CHAPTER I

HOW FORT JOHNSON FELL


“THE wind’s changing again, Cole,” said Tom Deering, as he threw his
rudder handle to leeward in order that the sheet might catch the full
benefit of the breeze.

The person to whom he spoke was a negro, young in years but of
colossal size; as he sat amidships in the skiff, with the sheet rope
in his hand, his sleeveless shirt showing his mighty arms bare to the
shoulder, he resembled a statue of Hercules, cut out of black marble.
Tom Deering was about sixteen, and the son of a rich planter, just
below Charleston; he was a tall, strongly built boy for his years,
but beside the giant negro slave he looked like an infant. Cole had
been born upon Tom’s father’s plantation and was about five years the
elder; the two were inseparable; where Tom went the huge black followed
him like a shadow.

When he had the sail drawing nicely, Tom continued:

“I wonder, Cole, how all this is going to end?”

Cole shook his woolly head and grinned; then suddenly his face changed
and he held up one hand as though bidding his young master to listen.

From across the bright stretch of water between them and the shore
came a drum beat; the evening sun slanted down upon the white crests
and upon the meadow-lands below the city. No one was in sight, but the
hollow rub-a-dub of the drum continued. Seeing his master had caught
the sound Cole turned and silently pointed out into the bay.

Two armed vessels, flying the British flag, were standing on and off
Sullivan’s Island. From where he sat in the stern of the skiff, Tom’s
keen eyes noticed that an unusual air of alertness hung about the
vessels; and the wind now and then carried toward them the sound of an
officer’s command sharply spoken through a trumpet.

“It’s the Tamar and the Cherokee,” said Tom. “They’ve been lying in
Rebellion Roads for the last couple of days. When I saw them up anchor
an hour ago I thought something was going to happen, and I was right.
Perhaps Colonel Moultrie is going to strike a blow for liberty and
South Carolina at last.”

It was the fourteenth of September, in the year 1775. Because of the
oppressive acts of the mother country, the British colonies in North
America had risen in protest. But their words had been mocked and
jeered at by King George and his counselors; and the heavy burdens
of the afflicted colonies were only added to. This was more than a
spirited people could stand; so from words the colonists proceeded to
deeds; in the April before the first shot of the Revolution had been
fired at Lexington; and now South Carolina was about to follow the
glorious example of her sister state in New England.

If the people of Boston had a “tea party” in Massachusetts Bay, so had
the residents of Charleston one in the Cooper river. The public armory
of the town was broken open during one dark night and eight hundred
stand of arms, two hundred cutlasses, besides cartouches, flints and
other material of war were seized by the patriots. Another party
possessed itself of the powder at a town near by; while still another
emptied Cochran’s magazine.

An army of two thousand infantry and four hundred horse had been raised
by the colony. This force was divided into three bodies; the second
regiment was placed under the command of Colonel Moultrie, a gallant
Indian fighter who had served with credit in the campaigns against the
Cherokee nation.

The tap of the drum from the town came to the boys’ ears every little
while; the wind was blowing freshly and the sail of the heavy skiff
bellied to it, causing her bow to cut through the water at a great rate.

“We’ll soon be on the ground, Cole,” said Tom, peering under the boom
to see how far they were away from their usual mooring-place when they
sailed up to Charleston. “If it’s Colonel Moultrie’s men being summoned
together for service perhaps the hour is at hand when you can settle
your account with those who treated you so inhumanly.”

The giant held up one great arm, its huge muscles standing out in
knots; the fist clinched and was shaken at Fort Johnson, on James
Island, whose guns grinned wickedly across the calm water and whose
sentries could be seen pacing backward and forward on the bastions.
There was an expression of hate in the face of the slave; he turned
to Tom, a strange sound coming from his throat, the forefinger of his
left hand pointing to his open mouth. Tom reached forward and pressed
Cole’s hand and his dark eyes glowed as he swept his glance toward the
British flag which flowed from the tall staff at Fort Johnson.

Cole, by a horrible act of brutality, had been rendered dumb!

A year before, during one of the spasmodic outbreaks of indignation
which had become so frequent, the authorities had occasion to suspect
Tom Deering’s father of some act against the government.

A party of dragoons were sent to his plantation to secure evidence
against him; the leader of this party was a young and arrogant
lieutenant, noted for his cruelty even to his own men. The colossal
size of Cole at once attracted the officer’s attention when the slaves
were summoned to testify against their master.

“We’ll have this fellow out,” cried he, pointing to Cole. “He’s the one
that will tell us what we want to hear. He knows; I can see it in his
face.”

In vain Cole protested his ignorance of anything his master had done.

“You know, you black hound,” thundered the dragoon. “Tie him up, men;
we’ll make him talk fast enough.”

Cole was bound to a cottonwood-tree in front of his master’s door;
he continued to protest that he knew nothing, but in vain. The elder
Deering and Tom were detained by a sergeant and a file of men inside
the house and consequently had no knowledge of what was going forward
without.

They heard the angry voice of the young lieutenant raised now and
then in a shower of horrible oaths, apparently urging his men to the
commission of something which they were reluctant to do. At length a
dreadful scream sounded--a sharp, agonizing cry that caused the planter
and his son to turn pale and stare at one another with eyes filled with
horror. Then the sergeant and his file were hurriedly called from the
house; as they were mounting in the yard, Tom and his father rushed
out; Cole hung limp against the ropes that bound him to the tree,
covered with blood. As the hoofs of the dragoons’ chargers grew faint
down the road, it was discovered what had occurred. Wild with rage
at what he considered Cole’s defiance the brutal officer had had the
slave’s jaws pried open, and had cut his tongue with the point of his
sabre.

The great strength of the giant negro and his superb condition carried
him through the effects of this barbarous act; in a remarkably short
time he had recovered; but he was deprived of speech forever; it was
only in gestures such as that which he had made against Fort Johnson
that he could convey the longing that filled him, to come to hand-grips
with those who had treated him so inhumanly.

They had reached the wharf and were running in alongside; Cole loosed
the halyard and lowered the sail. While he was furling it, he stopped
suddenly, and by his gestures, which Tom could read very plainly, he
called the attention of his companion to a strange stillness on the
river.

Tom gazed up and down the stream for a moment and his eyes snapped.

“All the shipping has dropped down the river,” cried he. “That can only
mean one thing! Colonel Moultrie is about to attack----”

“Belay there, nevvy,” growled a rough voice, almost in his ear. “Not
quite so slack with the jaw tackle.”

“Uncle Dick,” exclaimed Tom, in surprise.

“Yes, it’s the old sea-horse,” responded the owner of the voice, from
above them on the wharf.

“You frightened me,” laughed Tom, as he climbed up over the wharf log.

“My frightening you, nevvy,” said the other, “will be nothing to the
scare you’ll get if any of Governor Campbell’s spying swabs heard what
you were just now going to say.”

Uncle Dick, or as the world knew him, Capt. Richard Deering of the
schooner Defence, nodded in a friendly fashion to Cole, who grinned
back, from his seat in the bow of the skiff. The captain of the Defence
was a sturdy-looking man of about fifty, with his long, gray hair
gathered in a cue, sailor-fashion; his weather-tanned face was smoothly
shaven; he wore a round, glazed hat, a short pilot coat with metal
buttons and long leather boots.

“What is going on, Uncle Dick?” asked Tom, seating himself at the old
salt’s side. “I heard a drum beat while we were sailing in the shallows
below the town and noticed the Cherokee and the Tamar standing up and
down, with all hands ready.”

Captain Deering spat carefully over the wharf log into the water; and
then looked up and down the river.

“There is going to be something happen on this river to-night,” said
he, “that in the days to come they’ll write in their history books.
See all them boats pulled up on the sand, above there?”

There was a long line of galleys and barges and other heavy boats lying
half out of the water, under guard of some half dozen men.

“Behind them trees, further up,” continued Captain Deering, “is the
whole of Colonel Moultrie’s command--or, at least, all of them as can
be got together at short notice.”

“Then it is coming at last,” breathed Tom, his eyes aglow. “South
Carolina is to strike for her liberty as those in the north struck,
months ago.”

“She is,” cried Captain Deering, catching some of his nephew’s
enthusiasm. “Blow my tarry tops, lad, we can’t let those Lexington
fellows beat us in the cause. The first shot out of the locker is to
be the capture of Fort Johnson; I know, for I collected the boats up
there; the attacking party is going to cross the river in them. Those
chaps keeping watch are from the crew of the Defence.”

“When is the affair to begin?” asked Tom, hardly able to keep still,
so excited was he.

“As soon as it is dark enough to conceal the approach of the boats.
There don’t seem to be any unusual goings-on in the fort, so I don’t
think they suspect anything; but them two war craft, down in the roads,
look bad; they must have had news from somewhere.”

Scarcely had the old sailor ceased speaking when there came a sudden
rattle of hoofs; turning they saw a party of scarlet-coated dragoons
wheel around a corner and, at a sharp gallop, proceed up the river
road. A tall, burly man rode in the midst of them; his red face was
angry and fierce looking, and he carried one hand upon his sword in a
manner that told his thoughts as plainly as words.

“It’s Lord William Campbell, the new governor!” exclaimed Tom, with a
gasp, “and they are on their way to the place where Moultrie’s men are
assembled.”

The captain of the Defence arose to his feet.

“There is likely to be trouble,” remarked he. “You climb back into your
boat, nevvy, and make sail for the plantation.”

“Not I!” Tom Deering drew himself up proudly. “If there is anything to
be done, I am going to help.”

Uncle Dick looked at him sharply for a moment; then he uttered a short
laugh, that had a satisfied ring in it.

“Good lad!” cried he. “Blow my tarry old hulk, but there never was a
Deering yet that wasn’t always on hand when wanted.” He clapped the boy
proudly on the back as he spoke. “Well, come along; we’ve got no time
to lose; the breeze is fresh and straight up the river. What kind of a
sailer is that craft of yours?”

“There is not a better in these waters for the sort of wind that’s
blowing now.”

They clambered into the skiff; Cole shoved the boat clear of the wharf
and hauled up the sail. A few strokes of the paddle brought her out
into the stream, Uncle Dick threw her into the wind, and away she
raced up the river.

The dragoons could still be seen proceeding at their sharp pace along
the river road; the black, lowering figure still rode in the midst of
them, his hand still upon the hilt of his sword.

“It’s good,” said Tom, “that there is a ridge between the road and the
river, just above there; otherwise they’d see the boats, and maybe
would try to scatter them and so break up the attempt on the fort.”

Captain Deering smiled.

“Moultrie is nearer than you think for, nevvy,” said he. “A whistle
from one of my fellows there on shore would bring a hundred men to the
boats in five minutes.” The skiff turned a wooded headland at this
moment. “Look there; what did I tell you?”

Upon a smooth piece of ground, which the trees had hidden until they
rounded the headland, was gathered the slender force of South Carolina;
an awkward-looking body of men, poorly armed, and with a total lack of
soldierly appearance. They were mostly planters, woodsmen and artisans
who had volunteered for service to their country, without hope of
pay. They wore their ordinary dress, though here and there there was
an attempt at military smartness; their weapons were fowling-pieces,
cutlasses, axes and the plunder of the town arsenal. They were drawn up
in order and their officers were putting them through a drill.

The distance by water to this point was much shorter than by road; the
skiff had lowered its sail and run its nose up on the sand before the
dragoons reached the spot. Captain Deering was just about to hail the
militia when there was a flash of red from amidst the green of the
trees and Lord Campbell and his company came into view. So sudden was
their appearance that the untrained militia would have been thrown
into confusion at the bare sight of them had it not been for the sharp
commands of their officers. They dressed ranks at the word and wheeled
to face the dragoons. The latter had their weapons ready as they lined
up on the verge of the woods; Lord Campbell, his face still dark with
anger, rode forward toward a small group of officers who stood apart
within easy hearing distance of where Tom stood at the water’s edge.

“What body of men is this?” demanded the governor.

An officer of commanding appearance stepped forward.

“It is the authorized force of the colony of South Carolina,” said he.

“Authorized!” Lord Campbell’s eyes blazed. “Authorized by whom?”

“By the Provincial Congress,” returned the officer.

“There is no power in the colony to collect armed bodies of men save my
own--under the authority of the king. I command you all in the name of
King George to lay down your arms and disperse!”

His angry glance swept along the gathered patriots before him; his
burly frame was quivering with rage at the idea to their daring to
assemble in defiance of his power and that of his royal master. But
there was no movement to obey; he paused for a moment, and then in a
voice choking with passion he inquired of the officers:

“Which of you is Mr. Moultrie?”

The question was greeted with dead silence. The governor’s face lit up
with triumph; their leader was afraid to proclaim himself; it would be
an easy task to put them down.

“I have had information,” cried he fiercely, “that this insurrection is
under the leadership of a Mr. Moultrie. Let him stand forth.”

A small, dark officer of infantry stepped forward.

“In this command,” said he, “I will venture to say that there is no Mr.
Moultrie. But,” he paused and looked the wrathful governor in the eye
with great coolness, “there is, however, a Colonel Moultrie.”

“Ah!” Lord Campbell stared at the speaker with a bitter sneer. “Then
will Colonel Moultrie have the goodness to step forward?”

The officer who had answered him in the first instance, advanced, a
quiet smile upon his handsome face.

“Colonel Moultrie,” blazed forth the angry king’s man, not giving the
other a chance to speak, “do you or do you not intend to disperse this
gathering?”

“It is not in my power,” answered Colonel Moultrie.

“Do you not command them?”

“I do; under the Council of Safety.”

“Bah!” The governor’s teeth snapped in a fury of rage at this. “That
is all one hears these days--the Provincial Congress, the Committee
General, the Council of Safety. I know nothing and care nothing for
these rebels against the king and their usurped authority. I recognize
none but you in this matter. You are here at the head of an armed
force, in open rebellion; and I call upon you to lay down your arms and
unconditionally surrender yourself, in the king’s name. Refuse and you
must take the consequence of your folly.”

Tom Deering, with a thrill at his heart, saw the small, dark officer,
who had spoken so coolly to Lord Campbell, step back and give a command
to his company in a low voice. The line of the militia closed in a
resolved fashion and the ducking guns were held in instant readiness
for use. Lord Campbell saw it, also; and he saw the determined faces
of those before him; a glance at his own slender company showed him
that smart and soldier-like though they were, they were not a match for
the assembled patriots. He turned to Colonel Moultrie, who still stood
quietly watching him.

“You refuse?”

“Can you doubt it?”

Without a word the governor wheeled his horse and rode back to his men;
another moment and they were going down the river road at the same
sharp gallop with which they had arrived.

Dusk had thrown its shadows across the waters of the river; the lights
at Fort Johnson began to twinkle. Colonel Moultrie and his officers
consulted together. The sharp businesslike departure of Lord Campbell
and his men was not at all to their liking. In a few moments they had
summoned Captain Deering, of the Defence, and after a few questions the
latter turned and beckoned to Tom.

“Captain Deering,” said Colonel Moultrie, smilingly, “tells us that you
are a patriot and a native son of the colony.”

“I am both, sir,” answered Tom, gravely.

“Good! You saw the Cherokee and Tamar under sail in Rebellion Roads a
while ago, I understand.”

“I did, sir,” said the boy.

“Did they seem as though they intended to ascend the river?”

“No, sir.” Tom answered the question quickly enough; then the actions
of the two vessels came back to him, and he added, a light breaking
upon him: “But they seemed as though they’d like to; it was just as
though they were waiting for a signal.”

“And that,” cried Colonel Moultrie, “is just exactly what they
are waiting for. And Lord Campbell is now on his way to give it.
Gentlemen,” turning to his officers, “we must cross the river and make
the attempt upon the fort at once; otherwise we will have two war
vessels scattering cannon shot among us in our passage.”

The orders were quickly given; the patriot force was soon at the
water’s edge, embarking in the boats which Captain Deering had
collected. Small as their numbers were, the boats were too few to
accommodate them, and a good quarter were forced to remain behind. The
attacking party had pushed off and was already pulling toward the fort
through the quickly gathering darkness, when the small, dark officer
who had spoken so coolly to Lord Campbell, came hurrying along. He had
been making a disposition of the companies remaining behind and now
seemed destined to be left also. He dashed out waist deep in the river
in an effort to catch the last galley, but too late. At that moment Tom
Deering’s skiff passed slowly by; there was room for another, and Tom
called eagerly:

“Climb in, captain. We’re going, too; and we’ll land you there ahead of
any of them.”

With a hasty word of thanks the officer scrambled into the boat and
took up a position in the bow, from which point he could see all that
was going forward.

This was Tom Deering’s first meeting with Francis Marion, afterward to
become the great partisan chief of the Revolution and be known to the
world as the Swamp-Fox.

Within an hour the attacking party had arrived at James Island and
deployed in the darkness before the walls. Marion had sprung ashore as
soon as the prow of the skiff grated upon the sand; Tom and Cole were
left alone, for they had touched at a point slightly further down than
Colonel Moultrie’s men.

“I’m glad Uncle Dick did not cross in our skiff,” said Tom to Cole, as
they drew the boat up on the sand. “Now we can look into things on our
own account.”

While the militia was arranging, front and rear, for the attack, the
boy and his companion were stealing through the bush that grew thickly
about the walls of the fort, and wondering at the silence within. It
required a half hour for Moultrie to get everything in readiness; and
at last, just as he was about to give the word for the attack to begin,
two figures bounded upon the walls from inside the fort; one was a
handsome youth of seventeen; the other was a giant negro slave. Each
waved a blazing torch above his head exultantly.

“Colonel Moultrie,” cried Tom Deering, “the place belongs to you. The
British have fled to their ships.”

It was true; the creaking of blocks and the dark loom of a mainsail
showed them a vessel scudding down the river. Fort Johnson had fallen
without firing a shot.



CHAPTER II

HOW TOM DEERING MADE A NAME


TOM DEERING and Monsieur Victor St. Mar, late of the French army,
lowered the small swords and stood panting and smiling at each other,
in the orchard one afternoon, not long afterward.

“You grow proficient,” said St. Mar in very good English, considering
that he had been in the colonies but a few years, “your guard is
excellent and your thrust, monsieur, is growing formidable.”

Praise from the French soldier was praise indeed, for he had been a
master of the sword in the regiments of King Louis, among which were
the greatest swordsmen in the world. He had paused for a time at
Charleston on his way from New Orleans to Philadelphia; and during
his stay he taught the use of his favorite weapon to the young men
of the city. Tom was the youngest and most apt of his pupils; the
youth’s strength, length of arm and sureness of eye made him a natural
swordsman. At the French soldier’s praise he flushed with pleasure.

“I am glad, monsieur,” said he, as he wiped his brow, “that you think I
am progressing. I like the practice of sword play.”

“The rapier,” said the Frenchman, “is a grand weapon--a gentleman’s
weapon. I have taught many persons, and have studied the use of the
cutlass, the broadsword, the pike, bayonet and dagger; but the rapier
is the king of them all; with three feet of bright steel in his
hand the master of the sword should fear the attack of nothing that
breathes.”

He began buckling the long, slender weapons into their leather case,
but paused and looked up at Tom, seriously.

“Study--practice steadily--experiment. That is the way to become a
master. You have the material in you for a swordsman; but you must
see to the defence--the parry--the guard. You Americans, I find, think
the attack is everything. But it is not so. Study the guard. Some day
you may meet a foe who has a thrust which you have never seen before.
If you have not the parry to meet it your skill in attack will be like
that.”

He snapped his fingers and puffed out his cheeks; then he buckled up
his sword-case and took his leave with many bows.

Tom Deering had long been a good horseman, a dead-shot with rifle or
pistol; but sword-practice was new to him and he threw himself into
the art with all the ardor of his seventeen years. Trouble was brewing
between the king and his colonies, that was evident, and he was anxious
to prepare himself for the struggle, for he had firmly made up his mind
that, should the dark cloud of war that he saw gathering burst, he
would be one of the first to offer himself for service.

For the capture of Fort Johnson was not immediately followed by open
war, as all had expected. For some reason the British did not make
any movement. Lord Campbell, the governor, had fled to the Tamar,
which still lay in the harbor along with the Cherokee, but, except for
sending his secretary to protest he took no steps. The patriots still
had a lingering hope that all might yet be well; there were many that
clung to the belief that a reconciliation might yet be effected between
king and colonies. The proceedings of the people of Charleston still
wore, however loosely, a pacific aspect. Though actively preparing for
war, they still spoke the language of loyalty, still dealt in vague
assurances of devotion to the crown.

But Tom Deering was wide awake; he had a brain and he used it. The
hesitation of the colonists would not last long he felt confident; and
when they once cast it aside the storm would come in earnest--the sword
would be drawn to be sheathed no more until the struggle was lost or
won.

After St. Mar, the sword-master, had taken his departure, Tom took
his customary afternoon plunge into the river, after which he was
ready for a visit which he had planned. Cole brought his best horse, a
powerful, intelligent looking chestnut with strong lines of speed and
bottom, around to the front of the house and Tom vaulted lightly into
the saddle. Cole mounted another horse, a great bay, and followed his
youthful master, as was his custom. There were not many horses upon the
Deering plantation capable of supporting the great weight of the giant
slave for any length of time and still make speed. But the bay carried
him as though he were a feather, hour after hour, sometimes, and never
showed more than ordinary weariness.

Tom’s father, a tall, dignified gentleman, with the appearance more of
a scholar than a planter, and bearing scarcely any resemblance to his
brother, the skipper of the schooner Defence, met them on the road near
the house.

“Are you going up to the city?” asked he, drawing rein.

“No, sir,” replied his son. “I’m going over to the Harwood plantation.
I have not been there for some weeks.”

“You have not been there, I suppose, since the taking of Fort Johnson?”

“No, sir.”

Mr. Deering looked grave. Jasper Harwood, who owned the large
plantations some eight miles from them, was his half-brother, and he
knew his real character better than Tom.

“I will not forbid you to go,” said the father. “But it will be just as
well if you’d stay away.”

Tom looked surprised.

“Why, father, what do you mean?”

Mr. Deering laughed.

“After the part you took in the little affair of the night of the
fourteenth of September,” said he, “I don’t think your presence will be
very welcome upon the Harwood plantation. I hardly think Jasper Harwood
looks upon the matter from the same point of view as you, Tom.”

“Do you mean that he is a king’s man, sir,” exclaimed Tom.

“I’m sure of it,” answered his father.

“I can’t bring myself to believe it, father. He is, perhaps, like a
great many others just now, reluctant to prove disloyal, but when the
real time comes to act, I think you will find him as staunch for the
Provincial Congress as any of us.”

Mr. Deering laughed at his son’s earnestness.

“Well, my boy, I trust you’re right, but I don’t think so. Jasper
Harwood is a Tory, and will hardly take the trouble to hide it from
you. So, you will not be kept long in suspense, if you are going there.”

From the time he left his father and struck across the fields and
swamps toward the Harwood place, Tom was deep in thought. Perhaps his
father was right. He knew that Jasper Harwood was a harsh, arrogant
man, with a violent temper and a great respect for the crown; but that
he would let the latter blind him to the blessings of liberty, and
turn his hand and tongue against his neighbors and friends was more
than Tom, boy like, could realize.

“But even if the master of the plantation himself is a king’s man,
there are others there who are not,” mused the boy as he loped along,
followed by Cole on the big bay. “Mark will prove true to the colony,
I know. And then, there is Laura! Every throb of her heart is of
indignation against British oppression. I am confident of that.”

He was still deep in thought, and they were ascending a narrow road
that led to the Harwood house before Tom realized it. Suddenly Cole
uttered his strange cry and touched his horse with the spur. In a
moment he was beside Tom, one hand upon his shoulder, and the other
pointing to a small clump of trees by the roadside near the house. A
half dozen horses were tied there, and from their trappings Tom knew
them to be the mounts of the king’s dragoons. A like visit to their
own plantation was still vivid in his mind; its horrible result to Cole
caused all sorts of dreadful fears to crowd into his mind, and with
beating heart he urged his steed forward at a gallop and threw himself
from its back before the door. The sound of the galloping hoofs coming
up the graveled path caused a rush to the doors and windows; among a
group of red-coated dragoon officers, at the top of the high stone
steps leading to the door, Tom recognized the planter, Jasper Harwood.
Far from being in any peril, he seemed to be very well content, having
a long churchwarden pipe in his hand, and the jovial looks upon the
officers’ faces caused the boy to banish his fears for his half-uncle’s
safety, at least.

There seemed to be a perfect understanding between the planter and the
dragoons, but as he recognized Tom, Harwood’s flush deepened into one
of anger.

“Ha, Master Deering, is it?” cried he, loudly. “I thought it was a
troop of horse from the way you came charging up the path.”

Tom passed the bridle over his arm, and leaning against the chestnut’s
shoulder he stood looking up at the group upon the high steps of the
mansion.

“I am very sorry that I startled you,” he said.

At this the dragoons burst into a roar of laughter.

“He’s sorry he startled us,” bellowed one, his face purple with glee.
“By the Lord Harry, but that’s good! A snip of a boy startle a lot of
king’s officers.”

Once more the laughter rang out. Tom looked at them composedly enough
for a time; but suddenly his face paled, his mouth set, and an angry
light began to gather in his eyes. He looked about for Cole; but the
giant negro was not to be seen; and, after assuring himself of this
the lad breathed a sigh of relief. For, among the officers at Jasper
Harwood’s door, he recognized the lieutenant whose brutality had
deprived Cole of his speech. The sight of the ruffian filled him with
indignation; but he knew that it would hardly do to give vent to it at
this time, so he held his peace.

“This young blade is a friend of yours, Mr. Harwood, I suppose,” spoke
this officer, his voice thick and husky.

“He is from a neighboring plantation,” answered Harwood, scowling at
Tom, darkly.

“Let’s have him in,” cried another. “He seems to be an excellent
horseman; let’s see if he’s equally good at other things. Introduce us,
I beg of you, to the youth who is good enough to fear that he startled
us,” and once more they roared.

“That will, perhaps, follow in good time, gentlemen. Meanwhile, don’t
let the table be idle; keep your knives and forks. I’ll join you in a
few moments.”

At this hint the dragoons disappeared into the mansion, and Harwood was
left alone with Tom.

“So,” said the planter, after a pause, during which his eyes had been
searching Tom’s face, “you’ve come, have you?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the lad, wondering what the expression upon the
man’s face meant. “I thought I’d ride over and see you all.”

“I had not thought,” sneered the Tory, “that you would have the courage
to face me after what you have done.”

Tom drew himself up proudly.

“I have done nothing of which I am ashamed,” said he, quietly.

“Do you dare stand there and tell me that? Do you tell me to my face
that you are not ashamed?”

“Anything that I have done I would do again,” declared the boy, boldly.

“Oh, I see,” the planter’s sneer returned. “You are saturated with the
radical teachings of the mob yonder there in the city. And with your
head full of their accursed doctrines you have dared to raise your hand
against the king.”

“I have dared to raise my hand against a tyrant,” cried Tom, forgetting
caution in his ardor for the cause. “If King George does not know how
to govern a free people it’s high time he was learning.”

The Tory’s face grew dark with wrath; but before he could speak, a boy,
who seemed a few years Tom’s senior, stepped through the doorway.

“Just a moment, father,” said he. “Don’t speak while you are angry; it
will only create ill blood between relatives, and that should not be.”

This was Mark Harwood, the planter’s only son; he was a thick-set
youth with a far from prepossessing face, and a sly manner. His father
looked at him for a moment, in surprise; he must have seen something in
the glance which was directed secretly at him, for he held his peace,
though the anger did not die out of his face.

Mark Harwood descended the steps, with outstretched hand.

“Tom,” said he, with great cordiality in his voice, but a lurking look
of craft in his eyes that the other did not like, “I’m very glad to see
you.”

Tom took the offered hand.

“Thank you,” said he. “You are very good, Mark.”

“Not at all. But tie up your horse and come in; we must have you join
us; as you have seen, we are entertaining some friends, rare good
fellows who will be glad to meet you.”

“Thank you, Mark, but I think I had best be riding homeward.”

“I cannot permit that!” Mark took him by the shoulder in a very
friendly fashion and continued, earnestly: “If we were to allow you to
go now there would always be a feeling of estrangement between us; you
would feel that you were not welcome here, and we should feel that we
had, in an angry moment, offended you. Come, don’t let us have a mere
matter of politics step in between us.”

“I’ll not, Mark.” Tom gripped the other’s hand warmly. Then he turned
to the planter. “If in a moment of heat, Mr. Harwood,” he continued, “I
answered you unbecomingly, I beg your pardon.”

“Say nothing more about it,” said Harwood. Tom tied his horse under the
window, as he expected to remain but a few moments; he did not catch
the looks that passed between father and son as he did so; if he had
he would not, probably, have crossed their doorsill with so light a
heart. As he followed them through the wide hallway, which ran directly
through the middle of the house and contained an immense fireplace
capable of accommodating great back logs that would last for weeks in
the coldest winter, Tom happened to glance in at a partly open doorway.
He caught sight of a beckoning finger; without hesitation he stepped
aside, pushed open the door and entered. In a moment he was eagerly
pounced upon by a dark-eyed girl of about his own age, or perhaps a
year or so older.

“Oh, Tom,” she cried, “I am so glad to see you.”

“I thought I’d have to go away without catching a glimpse of you,
Laura,” he returned. “And it was to see you, more than anything else,
that I came.”

She laughed and looked pleased.

“I’m flattered, sir, I’m sure,” she said. Then her manner changed
suddenly. “I wanted you to come, Tom, ever so much, so you could tell
me the news of Colonel Moultrie’s taking of Fort Johnson. Uncle Jasper
heard that you were there; that you were the very first over the walls.”

“Yes, I was there,” said Tom, proudly, “but Cole was first over the
wall; I was second, because he reached down and pulled me over after
him.”

Laura Thornton clapped her hands delightedly.

“Oh, you’re so brave, Tom; I wish I was a boy, then I, too, could do
something for the cause. But they’re all Tories here--uncle, Cousin
Mark and all; I dare not say a word of what I think about that hateful
old King George!”

“I call that too bad,” said Tom, warmly. “A person should always be
allowed to say what he thinks.”

“That’s what I say, too, but I’m afraid of Uncle Jasper, Tom; he’s so
violent when he’s angry. Oh, if I could only break out on him as you
did awhile ago! I stood at the window and heard it all. You were so
splendid, Tom; you were not in the least bit afraid of him, were you?”

“Well, I should hope not,” said Tom.

“But don’t trust him, Tom,” she whispered, as though fearful of being
overheard. “Don’t trust him or Mark, either; they both hate you, and
just now I heard them talking to one of the officers whom they are
entertaining; they are going to----”

Here she was interrupted by her uncle’s harsh voice, calling:

“Tom! Tom Deering, I say, where have you gotten to!”

A heavy foot sounded upon the bare, polished floor of the hall, coming
toward the door of the room in which they were standing.

“He’s coming,” said Tom.

“I must tell you about the despatch,” said Laura, hurriedly, catching
Tom by the arm.

“The despatch?” said he, looking at her wonderingly.

“Lieutenant Cheyne is to ride with it after dark to a point below the
city; there will be a boat’s crew awaiting to carry him aboard one
of the king’s ships. Oh, Tom, they intend to-morrow night to bombard
Charleston!”

Tom’s face paled.

“Are you sure?” he demanded.

“I heard it from their own lips. Oh, Tom, Tom, what will the poor
people do if the despatch reaches Lord Campbell’s hands?”

“It shall not reach them,” said Tom, firmly. “I’ll give my life, if
need be, to prevent it.”

At this moment the door was pushed rudely open and Jasper Harwood
strode into the apartment.

“Ha!” said he, angrily. “I find you here, do I! I’ve been bawling all
over the place for you.”

“I saw Laura, sir,” said Tom, “and just paused for a moment to speak to
her.”

“Well,” growled he, not seeming to relish this explanation in the
least, “now that you have spoken with her, suppose you come into the
dining-hall and not keep my guests waiting for you.”

Tom pressed Laura’s hands in hurried thanks; his glowing eyes told her
how grateful he was for the information which she had just given him.
In it he saw a chance to serve his country and make a name for himself
at the same time.

The planter led him through the hall, into the room in which his
dragoon guests were assembled. The table contained some bottles; and,
as though by chance, the sword of each dragoon lay near him ready to
hand.

“Ah!” said Mark Harwood, as Tom entered, at the planter’s heels. “Here
you are at last!”

There was something like a sneer in his tone as he said this; the
officers seemed to see a hidden meaning in them, for they laughed
boisterously and hammered the table with their glasses. They made room,
however, for the boy at the head of the table, as though anxious to do
him honor. Cheyne, the lieutenant who had tortured Cole so barbarously,
slapped him familiarly upon the shoulder.

“Now, fall to, youngster. You’re a pretty sprout of a king’s man, and a
king’s man should never shirk.”

“In these times of rebellion,” said Mark Harwood reaching forward and
filling a goblet, which stood upon the table before Tom, “good, loyal
subjects are rare. So let us treat them well when they visit us.”

Tom Deering flashed the young Tory a rapid glance.

“Come, take your glass, my lad,” cried Cheyne.

“Yes, yes!” shouted the others, holding their own bumpers aloft, and
laughing expectantly.

“Pardon, gentlemen,” said the soft voice of Mark Harwood. “I was about
to propose a toast!”

“A toast! A toast!” The dragoons sprang to their feet as one
man, glasses in hand. Tom knew by the sudden malice of his Tory
cousin’s look that it was for this that he had been invited into the
dining-hall. Something was about to occur--something by which he was to
be humiliated before these British soldiers. But with flashing eyes he,
too, arose and faced the Tory. Mark raised his glass.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “I give you the king.”

“The king!” they shouted and were about to drain their goblets when
Cheyne stayed them.

“One moment,” requested he. “Our young friend here does not seem
disposed to honor the toast.”

Angry looks came from all sides. The sly, oily voice of Mark Harwood
reached Tom’s ears.

“You mistake, gentlemen,” said Mark. “Of course he will join us.”

By his look Mark was daring Tom to refuse; like a flash the latter
saw the plan and his cheeks flushed with resentment. The young Tory
thought he would be afraid to refuse. In the glance that Tom had darted
about the room a few moments before he saw Laura, unnoticed, standing
with frightened face in the doorway; come what may he would not be
humiliated before her, above all others.

“The toast!” cried the dragoons, eagerly, all their eyes fixed upon him
with threatening looks.

“Very well, gentlemen.” Tom quietly put down the glass and took up a
goblet of water. “I will drink a toast with you.”

“Of course he will,” laughed Jasper Harwood, his hard face glowing with
triumph at what he took to be an exhibition of cowardice.

“I never had the slightest doubt of it,” sneered Mark.

“Yes, gentlemen, I will give you a toast that any honest man can
drink.” He looked about at the expectant British officers and then at
the sneering Tories; his voice was steady, his hand never trembled.
“I give you the Provincial Congress!” Amid dead silence he lifted the
cool water to his lips and took a sip; then he threw the glass into
the middle of the table, where it smashed into a hundred pieces, as he
shouted, “Down with the king!”

The dragoons grasped their sabres, but he was through the door, out at
a window and upon his horse’s back before they could act. They crowded
through the front door and ran along the path toward the place where
their horses were; but Tom was already out upon the road waving his hat
at them defiantly. Wheeling his fleet steed he dashed down the narrow
road, then suddenly pulled up with a cry of delight. Almost directly in
his path was Cole, a wide grin upon his ebony face; upon a long rope he
had the dragoons’ horses, and at the word was ready to make off with
them. The British officers discovered their loss almost at the same
moment, and they ran down the rough road, brandishing their sabres and
shouting a volley of most dreadful threats.

“We’ll take them along with us, Cole,” said Tom, laughing. “Lord
Campbell can get another supply, but Colonel Moultrie would appreciate
them very much.”

So, despite the threats that rang in his ears, Tom Deering rode gaily
away behind his first capture from the enemy. Seeing that he had no
intention of surrendering their mounts, the dragoons soon gave up the
chase and returned in no very sweet tempers to the mansion of their
Tory host.

       *       *       *       *       *

Late that night, Lieutenant Gordon Cheyne, of Tarleton’s Dragoons,
rode slowly, upon a borrowed horse, along a deserted road in the
neighborhood of Charleston. Suddenly, as he turned a bend, and just
at a place where the woods grew thick upon each side of the road, a
horseman rode into his path and presented a pistol at his head.

“Stand!” ordered the newcomer.

“What do you want?” demanded the lieutenant, pulling up suddenly.

“Your despatches.”

Cheyne started, and his hand crept toward his holster.

“Make no movement toward a weapon,” said the horseman. “Give me the
despatches, and give me them quickly.”

With a cry Cheyne drew a packet from his breast and threw it at the
horseman. The latter caught it deftly and stuffed it into his boot leg.

“Now,” said he, “about face and return to those who sent you.” The
officer of dragoons wheeled and set off, in a fury, down the road.
“And tell them,” called the horseman after him, “that the Provincial
Congress has a thousand eyes.”



CHAPTER III

HOW THE BRITISH SHIPS RAN FROM CHARLESTON HARBOR


ON the 9th of November, which was but a few days previous to Tom
Deering’s adventure with the British, the Provincial Congress of South
Carolina resolved “by every military operation to oppose the passage
of any British armament”; and this order was issued to the commandant
at Fort Johnson, Colonel Moultrie. The fort itself was strengthened,
more men were enlisted, and bills of credit were issued. The blow for
which all had been waiting seemed now about to be struck; the redcoats
and patriots were about to grapple in that fierce struggle which was to
last eight long years and set a continent free.

Colonel Moultrie had taken up his headquarters at Haddrill’s Point,
which was being fortified; it was here that the training of his
men was going forward, and the place had the appearance of quite a
formidable camp.

The eastern sky was beginning to gray under the hand of approaching
morning, when the sentinel on guard at the upper road caught the sound
of flying hoofs rapidly approaching him. His musket quickly came around
and he stood ready to receive friend or foe.

“Halt!” he cried.

The galloping horse was pulled up so quickly as to almost throw him
back upon his haunches.

“Who goes there?” demanded the sentry.

“A friend,” came the voice of Tom Deering.

“Advance, friend, with the countersign.”

Tom walked his snorting horse forward.

“I have not received the countersign,” said he. “But I have urgent
business with Colonel Moultrie, and must see him at once.”

“Against orders,” said the sentry. “I’ll call out the sergeant of the
guard, though, and leave him to settle it with you.”

In a few moments the sergeant had presented himself. Tom was led
forward into the light of a camp-fire, where the sergeant carefully
questioned him.

“I can answer no questions,” said the boy, “unless asked by Colonel
Moultrie or----”

“Captain Marion, perhaps,” said a voice behind him.

Tom turned quickly; within a foot of him was the small, dark officer
with the aquiline nose and the burning black eyes, whom he had carried
across the river in his skiff on the night when Fort Johnson was taken.

Francis Marion was, at this time, past his fortieth year. He had been a
planter, his only previous military experience having been in the war
with the Cherokees some years before; in this he had gained some fame
as a leader of a “forlorn hope” at the battle of Etchoee, in which the
Carolinians had defeated the French and Indians. Then he had been a
lieutenant in the regiment of Middleton. Colonel Moultrie, who was in
command of the patriot forces, had been captain of the company in which
Marion served at that time.

“So,” said Marion, “you would like to see Colonel Moultrie, would you,
my lad?”

Tom, holding the bridle of his horse with one hand, raised the other in
salute.

“Yes, captain,” answered he promptly.

“Well,” said Marion, “I owe you something for your service that night
on the river.” He laughed lightly. “You see, I have not forgotten
it; nor have I forgotten the fact that you, single handed and alone,
captured a fortified position.”

Captain Marion was pleased to regard Tom’s errand lightly, it seemed;
a boy must always prove that his doings are worth the consideration of
his elders. In spite of the fact that he recognized in Tom Deering no
ordinary lad, Marion could not accept his word that his business with
Colonel Moultrie was not some hair brained freak. Tom saw all this in
the dark, smiling face of the soldier before him; and he recognized
the fact that he must come down to plain dealing and take him into the
matter before he could hope to see the colonel.

“Captain Marion,” said Tom, with a glance at the sergeant and his file
of listening men, “can I have a word in private with you?”

Still smiling, Marion led the boy a little way apart, but well out of
earshot.

“Now,” said he, “tell me all about it.”

“Would you consider it a serious matter,” asked Tom, looking him
candidly in the eye, “if the British ships came up and bombarded the
city in the night?”

Marion’s face grew grave, and he glanced keenly at the boy’s intent
face, an alert look stealing into his eyes.

“I would consider it very serious,” said he, in reply, his voice sober
and low.

“There is to be such an attack to-night,” said Tom. He drew the
captured despatches from his boot leg, and held them out. “This packet
I took from an officer of Tarleton’s dragoons two hours ago, some
distance below here.”

“Have you examined them?”

“I have, in order to make sure that I was not at fault. I did not wish
to come here with nothing to substantiate my statement.”

Marion took the packet and glanced hurriedly through the papers. After
a moment’s examination he said, quietly:

“Come with me.”

Within a quarter of an hour a dozen officers were gathered in Colonel
Moultrie’s cabin in the center of the encampment. The captured papers
were before them; Tom Deering stood at the table answering the
questions with which they plied him.

“This attempt seems mere madness,” said Colonel Moultrie, at length.
“How do they hope to get their vessels past the fortified points
without danger of being destroyed?”

[Illustration: _MARION TOOK THE PACKET_]

This seemed to be the general opinion of the council; but Marion,
who happened to glance at Tom at that moment, saw an eager light in his
eyes.

“Speak out, lad,” said he, kindly. “If you have anything to say upon
this question I have no doubt but that Colonel Moultrie will be glad to
hear it.”

“Of course,” said the colonel. “You have done us too great a service
already, my boy, for us to refuse to listen to you.”

“I just wanted to say, sir,” exclaimed Tom, eagerly, “that the British
ships can get up to the city, and without the slightest danger to
themselves.”

The colonel looked startled.

“You are sure of what you say?” he demanded.

“I am positive. They can come up by way of Hog-Island channel.”

“But that is not deep enough for their heavy vessels,” cried an officer.

“At high water,” said Tom Deering, calmly, “there is water enough to
float the largest ship in their fleet, providing they have a man at
the wheel who knows the course. I have come through the channel many a
time with my uncle, Captain Deering, of the schooner Defence.”

This information set the council in a state of great excitement; Tom
was thanked over and over for what he had done.

“You have, without doubt,” said Colonel Moultrie, “saved us from making
a fatal mistake.”

Before the sun was three hours high a plan of action had been
formulated and was in progress of execution. Captain Deering was
summoned in hot haste from his schooner, which lay in the river, and
ordered to cover and protect a party detailed to sink a number of
stone-laden hulks in the narrow Hog-Island channel. The Defence, some
weeks before, had been fitted up with carronades and a long thirty
pounder cannon, and she was just the ready, quick-sailing craft for the
work.

By early afternoon the hulks were being floated into the channel,
the Defence hovering about them like a great bird watching over its
young. The work had scarcely begun, however, when the British lookouts
discovered it, and the Tamar bore down upon the hulks, firing from her
bow guns as she came. The Cherokee was only a little behind her sister
craft in promptness of action, and opened with her lighter guns, also.
The Defence answered with her carronades, but their range was not great
enough, and she did but little damage; the guns from Fort Johnson
opened; a few shots were effective; but the firing was discontinued as
soon as the British war-ships showed signs of hesitation. Meanwhile the
alarm was beat at Charleston, where the troops stood to their arms. But
the time was not yet; the Tamar and Cherokee, seeing that they could
not frighten the blockading party off, went about and retreated beyond
range.

From this time on the local patriots began to proceed vigorously.
Ships were impressed and armed like the Defence, and they were badly
needed, for the British in the harbor became more and more troublesome.
Captain Thornborough, the officer in command of them, began to seize
all vessels within his reach, entering or coming out of the port.

Of the newly-gathered fleet of the Americans Captain Deering was placed
in charge. Heavy artillery was mounted on Haddrill’s Point and the work
of fortification at the same place was hurriedly completed. A new fort
was raised on Jones’ Island and another one begun on Sullivan’s Island,
some distance below the city; the volunteers were constantly coming
in, swelling the ranks of the patriots both ashore and afloat. Among
these latter was Tom Deering’s father; the planter armed a small sloop
and manned it with a crew of slaves, who gladly offered to follow him
against the British.

But Tom, to his father’s surprise, refused to join him.

“Is it possible, Tom,” demanded he, sternly, on the morning upon which
he formally took charge of the sloop as an officer of the colony, “that
you have suddenly grown faint-hearted?”

“Faint-hearted! I!” Tom looked at his father reproachfully. “You don’t
think that, father, surely! Have I not done some service, already, for
the cause of liberty?--not much, of course, but still, enough to prove
that I am ready to go to any length against oppression.”

“You have done some things,” said Mr. Deering, his eyes alight with
pride, “that have made me thank the good God who had given me such a
son. But,” and his face grew grave once more, “it seems strange that
you will not enter the service of the colony, now that she needs you.”

“I have thought the matter over very carefully,” answered Tom, “and
have concluded that I shall be better as I am.”

“Tom!” his father’s face grew white. “What do you mean?”

“If I enlist,” returned Tom, “I shall be forced to march in the ranks
and obey orders. If I remain free, I can do as I will; and by so doing
I can render much more effective service. Those despatches which
I captured are not the only ones that will be carried through the
outlying districts under the cover of night; there is information to be
gained of the enemy’s movements and plans, by one who knows the roads,
the cane-brakes and swamps, and has the courage to dare the British
dragoons. This is the work that I have laid out for myself, father, in
this fight. And this is the work, I think, that I can best do.”

“Tom!” The planter clasped his hand and threw one arm about him;
“forgive me for what I have said. I might have known, my lad--I might
have known.”

The whole of the long winter and spring passed; the British had all
retreated to their ships; while the colonists were deeply absorbed
in preparations for the defence of the city. Inland, parties of
loyalists, or Tories, had risen and were slaying and burning, but their
ravages were confined to a small district as yet. Jasper Harwood, Tom’s
half-uncle, and his son Mark, were at the head of a band of these
partisans, and they were carrying terror wherever they went. Moultrie
sent small parties in pursuit, now and then; but these only served to
check the outrages for a space; when the patriots once more returned to
the city the slaying and burnings were at once renewed.

Tom did splendid service against these desperate bands. In company
with Cole, his giant servant, he penetrated very frequently into their
districts, and often gained information that saved both lives and
property. During this time, Marion, now a major, was in command of the
depot of supplies at Dorchester and it was with his small force that
Tom was most frequently in touch. In this way he came to realize the
genius and resolution of this small, kindly man with the burning,
deep-set, black eyes; for at no time was he unready to spring into the
saddle and dash at the head of his men to the rescue of some imperiled
section; at no time was his invention at fault for a plan of onset or
ambush.

But the constant rumors of the coming of a strong fleet to reinforce
the Cherokee and Tamar caused Marion to ask for a change of post
to Charleston, where he would be more actively engaged. This was
granted him; he was once more appointed to the Second Regiment under
Colonel Moultrie and stationed at Fort Sullivan, on the island of that
name which stands at the entrance to Charleston harbor and within
point-blank shot of the channel. Tom, during the long months at
Dorchester had become devoted to Marion and this, together with the
expectation of a battle, caused him to follow him to Fort Sullivan--or
Fort Moultrie as it was then called, in honor of its commandant.

Tom helped to build the fort; for when he arrived there it was scarcely
more than an outline. It was constructed of palmetto logs, a simple
square, with a bastion at each angle, sufficient to cover a thousand
men. The logs were laid one upon another in parallel rows, at a
distance of sixteen feet, bound together with heavier timbers which
were dovetailed and bolted into the logs. The work of constructing
this fort was a good preparatory lesson for the great conflict that
was to follow. Tom grew brown and tough and sinewy with the long days
of labor in the sun; the wonderful strength of Cole, the dumb-slave,
was a constant source of astonishment to both officers and men; to the
amazement of all he would lift, unaided, a great piece of massy timber
to crown an embrasure and set it in place, or, when horses were scarce,
go down on the beach and drag the ponderous tree trunks from the water.
At sight of the open-eyed astonishment of those about him he would
throw back his head, his white teeth shining in two even rows, and
laugh with the perfect glee of a child.

In spite of the incessant labor of the soldiers the fort was still
unfinished when the recently arrived and powerful British fleet
appeared before its walls. Colonel Moultrie’s force consisted of four
hundred and thirty-five men, rank and file, comprising four hundred
and thirteen of the Second Regiment, and twenty-two of the Fourth
Artillery. The fort at this time mounted thirty-one guns; nine were
French twenty-sixes; six, English eighteens; the remainder were twelve
and nine pounders.

The day before the British hove in sight, Tom Deering was witness to an
exciting scene which took place between General Charles Lee, whom the
Continental Congress at Philadelphia had recently sent to take command
of the Army of the South, and Colonel Moultrie. The two officers were
standing upon a bastion, looking seaward; Tom and Cole were bolting
some timbers together, near at hand.

“It is madness to attempt a defence of this point,” said General Lee.
“The fleet is even now in the roadstead and the works, here, are far
from being finished.”

“I disagree with you, general,” returned Colonel Moultrie.

“But, Colonel Moultrie,” cried General Lee, not seeming to relish
having his opinion so candidly opposed, “how are you going to defend
yourself?”

“With the guns of the fort,” said the colonel; “and the brave men who
will be behind them.”

“All very well, my dear sir, if it were Frenchmen or Spaniards who
manned the attacking fleet; but they are British ships, sir! British
ships, and sailed by British tars!”

General Charles Lee had been trained in the English army, and he had,
perhaps, naturally enough, an overweening respect for the prowess of an
English fleet. It is fortunate that this feeling of awe was not shared
by Colonel Moultrie and his men.

“Let them once get within range of my heavy guns,” said the colonel,
“and it will make no difference as to what nation they belong. We shall
make them run from Charleston harbor, just the same.”

“Your fort presents, at present, little more than a front to the
sea,” protested General Lee. “Once let them get into the position for
enfilading and you cannot maintain your position.”

“I will risk it,” said Colonel Moultrie. His officers were with him
in this; and Lee’s authority was not great enough to force them to
evacuate their position against their will.

On the 20th day of June, 1776, the British ships of war, nine
in number, and consisting of two vessels of fifty guns, five of
twenty-eight, one of twenty-six, and a small bomb-vessel, sailed up the
harbor under the able command of Sir Peter Parker. They drew abreast
of the fort, let go their anchors with springs upon their cables, and
began a terrible bombardment. They strove, after a time, to gain a
position for the destructive enfilading fire which General Lee so
feared; but the Defence, the Tartar sloop, commanded by Tom’s father,
and several other small vessels, came down boldly and maintained such a
stubborn resistance, that Sir Peter quickly displayed signals ordering
the attempt to be abandoned.

Fort Moultrie at the beginning of the fight had but five thousand
pounds of powder; this small supply had to be used with great care.

“Not a shot must be wasted,” cried Colonel Moultrie; “every one must do
execution. Let each officer in command of a gun aim it in person.”

This command was obeyed, and its results were frightfully fatal to
the British and their ships. In the battle the Bristol, Sir Peter’s
flag-ship, lost forty killed and wounded; Sir Peter himself lost one of
his arms; the Experiment, another fifty gun vessel, lost about twice
as many. The fire of the fort was directed mainly at the heavy craft.
Tom Deering, as he toiled with rammer and sponge at one of the French
twenty-six pounders, of which Marion had charge, heard that little
officer constantly call to his brother gunners:

“Look to the Commodore--look to the heavy ships; they can do us most
damage!”

In the heat of the action the Acteon, one of the smaller of the enemy’s
ships, being hard pressed by the Defence and Tartar, ran aground and
immediately took fire. At this point the British Commodore would have
been forced to strike his colors, or be destroyed, but suddenly the
powder ran out and the fire of the fort slackened and finally ceased
altogether.

Struck with astonishment at this the British also ceased their fire,
thinking the fort had been abandoned.

“We must secure ammunition,” cried Colonel Moultrie, his face ashen.
Here was victory all but in his grasp, and to have to give it up would
be almost fatal in its effect upon his men.

“The schooner Defence has a large supply,” said Marion, to his
commander, as he wiped the black powder stains from his face.

“But she is nowhere in sight,” said Moultrie, sweeping the harbor with
his glass.

Tom stepped forward, his hand at the salute.

“Well,” demanded the colonel.

“I saw the Defence chased into Stone Gap Creek awhile ago,” stated the
lad eagerly. “She is safe, though, for see,” and he pointed shoreward,
“there are her topmasts above the trees.”

“Good,” exclaimed Marion, his face lighting up.

“But how can we reach her? The enemy’s vessels will not allow her to
come out,” said the colonel.

“We can go to her,” ventured Tom, hesitatingly, for it seemed
presumptuous for him to offer a suggestion to his commander. “The
Tartar is lying under the guns of the fort. We could reach the Defence
in her. The British could not follow us up the creek; they draw too
much water.”

The ammunition that remained on board the Tartar, save a few rounds,
Tom’s father gladly gave up to Colonel Moultrie, and a few guns resumed
service from the fort, but firing slowly. Under mainsail and jib the
gallant little sloop then stood out, in the teeth of the British,
heading for the creek where the Defence was lying. Major Marion, Tom
Deering and Cole stood upon her deck, watching a brig-of-war which had
just started to head them off.

“She’s a fast sailer,” said Mr. Deering, a shade passing over his face,
after he had watched the quality of their pursuer for a few moments.

“Do you think she can overhaul us?” asked Major Marion.

“There is no question about it,” returned the planter, “if she is given
time enough. But the distance to the creek is short; we may reach
there. Then, with the help of the Defence, we can fight her off on the
return run.”

The Tartar had arrived within hailing distance of the mouth of the
creek, when the brig suddenly discharged a lucky shot from a long bow
gun that splintered the sloop’s mast and left her lying a helpless hulk
upon the waters.

“It’s all over,” said Marion, quietly.

“The boat remains,” said Mr. Deering. “Quick. You have still time to
gain the Defence.”

“And you, father?” said Tom.

“I remain with the sloop,” answered the planter.

“But you will be taken prisoner!”

“I will not leave my crew,” said his father, firmly. “There is not room
for us all in the single yawl.”

“Then I will remain, also,” said Tom.

“You will join Major Marion in the boat,” commanded the planter,
evenly. “Carolina has need of all her youth. It would be a needless
sacrifice for you to throw yourself into the hands of her enemies.”

Despite the boy’s protests, his father remained firm; so with a heavy
heart Tom climbed into the boat with Marion. Cole would have remained
behind with his master; but the planter, who recognized the great
attachment of the giant black to his son, and saw how valuable he would
be during these dangerous times, promptly ordered him, also, into the
yawl.

They were just pulling into Stone Gap when a small boat with an armed
crew left the British brig and pulled for the wrecked Tartar. So it
happened that Roger Deering was one of the first prisoners of war taken
in Carolina.

Apparently the British skipper did not realize the significance of the
sloop’s errand; for after taking her crew from her she set fire to the
hull and sailed back to rejoin the other vessels in the line of battle.

An hour later the Defence crept out of Stone Gap Creek and headed for
Fort Moultrie. She was a swift sailer, and the old salt who commanded
her knew how to make her do her best. So, in spite of pursuit and
flying shot, she anchored under the guns of the fort and quickly
transferred her powder. The British, during the protracted lull in the
fort’s fire, had drawn closer; but now, under the brisk and accurate
cannonade they withdrew again to their first position. The fight then
continued, hotter than ever; shortly afterward the fort received
another supply of powder from the city, which did much to encourage the
defenders.

The cheers, however, that greeted the arrival of the ammunition had
scarcely died away when a distant roar of voices raised in exultation
came from the British fleet.

“Look; the flag,” cried some one.

A solid shot from one of the flag-ship’s heavy guns had carried away
the flag and it fell, fluttering like a wounded bird, outside the walls
of the fort. In an instant Tom Deering, who was once more helping to
serve the gun, threw his rammer to Cole and leaped upon the wall. A
storm of canister swept about him and a hundred voices shouted for him
to return; but, without hesitation he leaped to the sandy beach below,
between the ramparts and the enemy, seized the fallen colors, stuffed
them into his bosom and then with the help of the mighty, outstretched
arm of Cole, scrambled back inside.

Again the flag was run up to the top of the staff, by means of fresh
halyards; the sight of it seemed to give the colonists renewed
courage, for they turned to the conflict with a resolution that was
unconquerable. The British ships were fast becoming mere wrecks, so
seeing that a continuation of the combat would be mere folly, the
signal flags were flown at the masthead of Commodore Parker’s vessel
to cease firing. Ten minutes afterward a fleet of ships, with sails
hanging from the rigging in shot-rent rags, and with hulls battered,
leaking and torn with canister, ran out of Charleston harbor in
disorder.

“They carry your father with them, a prisoner,” said Major Marion, to
Tom Deering, as they leaned, watching, upon a hot gun.

“But they shall not keep him,” cried the lad, “to die in their prison
hulks! He shall be free! I am only a boy; but the whole British navy
shall not keep me from him. It may be a month, a year, or even more,
but he shall be free in spite of all the fleets and armies they can
send!”



CHAPTER IV

HOW TWO MEN BURIED A CHEST OF GOLD


THE battle of Fort Moultrie was of immense importance to all the
confederated states. It happened before the Declaration of Independence
was passed at Philadelphia. Because of the slowness of travel in those
days the news did not become known in the capital city and other points
of the north for a month or more afterward; but it served to strengthen
the patriots in their cause, and that went for much in that dark hour
of doubt.

For three years the British made no further attempt to invade Carolina.

During this time Tom Deering saw service against the Cherokees and
Tories; but the greater part of his time was devoted to trying to find
his father. He and Cole used every means in their power to find where
the planter had been taken; more than once they assumed the characters
of loyalists, when they saw a British ship standing in near shore, and
with a boat-load of fresh vegetables they would pull or sail out to
her under pretence of desiring to sell the things to the officers. But
all their questioning upon these and other occasions went for nothing;
no trace was to be had of his father. But Tom was not disheartened;
the finding of his father was to be his task, and he persisted in it
day after day, week after week; wherever there promised to be a shred
of information, there he rode, sailed or walked. But not once in the
entire three years did he gain a single clue.

Then, suddenly, came the surprise of General Howe at Savannah; the
Americans were dispersed and the city fell into the hands of the
British. Ten thousand picked troops under Sir Henry Clinton sailed from
New York upon Charleston, bringing a train of heavy artillery. Six
weeks after the city was invested it fell, and four thousand men were
taken prisoners; the command of the British then was given to Lord
Cornwallis, and at once the entire colony began to feel the gross abuse
of power and wanton tyrannies with which that officer soiled his name.

Tom Deering, between his marches in the Cherokee and Tory countries had
found much time to attend to the plantation. Nothing had been heard of
his father since the day the boat’s crew of the brig-of-war took him
from the wrecked sloop, so the whole care of the extensive estate now
fell upon the boy.

Tom’s mother had died when he was but a child, and he had no brothers
or sisters. The only relatives he knew of, in the wide world, other
than Captain Deering were the Harwoods, and these, of course, he never
saw, as they had not ventured into the neighborhood of Charleston
since once taking arms against their neighbors. Tom was now a
stalwart, bronzed youth of about nineteen; hard riding had developed
him wonderfully in body and constant danger had given him that calm,
steady, tried courage that is a soldier’s best gift.

The Deering mansion was crowded with many objects of value in the way
of plate, pictures and antique carvings, of which his father had been
a tireless collector. Upon looking over the books of the plantation
one day, Tom discovered that there was also about four thousand pounds
in gold in the house, his father having drawn all his money out of
the banks at the first sign of trouble between the colony and Great
Britain. This was a very large sum and its possession troubled the boy
not a little. The money was locked up in a heavy oaken chest in his
father’s private room; and when the news reached him that Sir Henry
Clinton was in the outer roadstead, he set about finding a hiding-place
for it, his judgment telling him that the city was in danger.

He and Cole opened the chest one night; the broad gold pieces, mostly
Spanish, were tied up in stout bags.

“If the enemy storm and demolish Fort Moultrie,” said Tom, as he looked
reflectively at the bags, “they will be very keen after hard money to
pay off their men and obtain fresh supplies. So they would not hesitate
a moment in seizing upon this if they chanced upon it.”

The hiding-place must be a secret known only to themselves; the slaves
upon the plantation could be trusted to the last one; but if the
dragoons of Tarleton suspected the presence of treasure upon the place,
they would terrorize the negroes by threats of torture and compel them
to tell where it was hidden.

Some distance from the house, in the middle of an orchard, was an old
well, the waters of which were used in dry weather to keep the young
trees in good condition. As a small boy Tom had often lowered himself
into its dark depths in a spirit of exploration; and now, as he cast
his mind about for a safe place to conceal the gold, the well occurred
to him.

“I have it, Cole,” exclaimed he, cheerfully. “The old well in the
orchard is the place; about half-way down, a large stone fell out a
long time ago, and behind the bed where the stone lay we can dig out a
hole large enough to contain all the money.”

Cole nodded delightedly; in his opinion it was just the thing. So out
they went, at a side door at the upper end of the house to prepare the
hiding-place. Cole carried a long rope, for Tom decided not to trust
his weight to the well rope, which was old and very likely rotten; they
also had a masked lantern, a short iron bar and a small spade.

“We must be careful and not be seen,” said Tom, as they picked their
way through the garden. “The Tories are drawing in close, at the
expectation of a British victory; and if one of them saw us prowling
about in the darkness he would suspect something at once.”

They reached the well in a very few minutes, and he at once set to work
to descend. Cole formed a sling at one end of the rope and passed
it about Tom’s body. The boy had the masked lantern fastened to his
belt; the spade and bar were lying upon the low curb of the well; he
was just about to swing himself down into the black hole when suddenly
there came a low, sullen shock as of distant thunder, followed by
another and another. The eyes of the boy and the giant went instantly
in the direction of the harbor; a flare of light ran along the sky, and
immediately vanished.

“The British!” said Tom. “That was their big guns that spoke; and they
are firing rockets, too. They mean to attack the fort in the darkness.
We are none too soon, Cole; for there is no knowing what will happen
now.”

Cole’s strong arms lowered him slowly into the well, and he soon found
the place he sought. A large and almost square stone had fallen out and
behind where it had lain in the lining of the shaft the earth could be
seen. Tom carefully pried out some few other and smaller stones with
the bar; these he passed up to Cole, after which he set to work with
the spade to dig an aperture sufficiently large to hold the sacks of
gold.

As he worked he could hear the steady growl of the distant guns; above
his head he could see but a small, round spot in the sky through the
shaft of the well; and every little while this small, round spot would
be lit up by a sudden glare of rockets sent hissing into the heavens as
signals to the captains of the attacking fleet.

In about half an hour Tom’s task was completed. Cole was signaled and
hauled him out of the well.

“Now,” said Tom, “let’s get the bags down. It will be daybreak, almost,
when we finish with this matter; and we want to be done with it before
any of the hands are stirring.”

When they reached Mr. Deering’s office, Tom was about to open the chest
once more and take the bags out for transportation to the orchard.
But a gesture from Cole stopped him. With an ease that made even Tom’s
eyes open in wonder, and the lad was accustomed to Cole’s exhibitions
of tremendous strength, the giant slave hoisted the chest upon his
back, and motioned to his master to go before him and open the doors.
It was a dead weight and sufficient to crush an ordinary man; but Cole
carried it downstairs, through the wide hall, out into the garden, and
thence to the orchard, where he lowered it to the ground with scarcely
a labored breath.

“Cole,” said Tom Deering in astonishment, “I believe you are a second
cousin to an elephant! You’re growing stronger every day!”

The great slave grinned; he took a childish pleasure in his enormous
power, and it made him happy when notice was taken of it by Tom, or
his father. The sacks were now taken out of the chest, and once more
the lad was swung down into the well, carrying several of them in his
arms. Quite a number of trips were necessary before the gold was all
stored in the hollow behind the stones.

“Now,” said Tom, “we must block up the opening. It will not do to allow
it to remain as it is.”

Some lime was procured from a barrel in the negro quarters, slacked and
quickly mixed with sand and water.

“It’s not very good mortar,” remarked Tom, “but it will have to answer,
as it’s the best we can do.”

The stones that had been removed were replaced in the side of the well,
and another was procured to replace the one that had fallen out; then
all were cemented firmly in place, and all trace of the work destroyed.
After they had finished, Tom breathed a sigh of relief.

“Good,” said he. “It will take a sharp eye to discover that, I fancy.
It is secure there until the times grow settled and father is released
on parole or exchanged.”

They had reached the side door, at the upper end of the house, carrying
the chest between them, and were just about to go in, when Tom suddenly
laid his hand warningly upon the big slave’s shoulder.

“Don’t move,” whispered he. “Listen!”

They stood as silent as graven images. The soft “pit-pat” of cautious
footsteps was approaching, down a narrow path between two high screens
of hedge. The shadows by the doorway lay deep and black, but the path
leading to it was flooded by moonlight. A night bird flew by, overhead,
crying harshly and sharply in the stillness. The footfalls had now
ceased, but there immediately followed a rustling in the hedge. The
next moment the stiff growth parted and a face was thrust through--a
pale, sly looking face with narrow eyes and a crafty expression. It was
that of Mark Harwood!

The shadow was too deep about the doorway for the prowling Tory to
see our friends, however; he remained glancing here and there for a
moment, then his head was withdrawn and his soft footfalls once more
fell upon the listener’s ears.

For a moment Tom had been startled; he had thought that the Tory had
been watching their labors, and that the whereabouts of the treasure
was known. But a moment’s reflection convinced him that this could
not be so. Mark had approached the house from an entirely different
direction, and was apparently endeavoring to find out if any one was
astir.

Assured that the hiding-place of his father’s money was not known to
Mark, Tom at once conceived the notion of playing the Tory a trick.

“Cole,” he whispered, “did you hear any other footsteps than his?”

Cole shook his head.

“He must be alone,” said Tom. “Perhaps he has come out ahead of his
father’s band of thieving loyalists to look the ground over. They
always did envy my father his prosperity, Cole, and now they think
they’ll have a chance to rob him, seeing that the British are near at
hand.”

While he spoke, Tom was thinking of another matter; suddenly he clapped
the negro on the back and laughed low and gleefully.

“I have a plan,” said he, eagerly. “We’ll fool them; we’ll let them
think they have the matter in their own hands. Now, do just what I tell
you, and don’t hesitate.”

Mark had stolen off around a corner of the house, and his footsteps had
died away. Tom unlocked the door at which they were standing, opened it
wide and suddenly clapped it shut with a resounding slam. Cole started
in surprise, but Tom reassured him.

“Take hold of the handle of the chest,” whispered the lad, “and act as
though it were very heavy. We’ll lug it to the maize field just below
the quarters.”

Cole took hold of the chest, and they bore it along through the garden,
around the house, over a low wall and through the silent street of
the negro quarters. As they went, Tom glanced over his shoulder now
and then, while they passed through a deep shadow, and at last he
was rewarded by seeing the skulking figure of Mark Harwood, creeping
along in the shadow of a fence, behind them. As Tom had expected, the
loud closing of the door had attracted him; and when he saw the young
patriot and his servant carrying a chest in a secretive fashion, and in
the dark of the very early morning, he eagerly followed them.

When Tom and Cole reached the maize field they put the chest down at
a fence corner. The crown of Mark Harwood’s wide wool hat was plainly
visible to Tom’s watchful eyes, sticking above a bush behind which he
was crouching. Tom was careful not to let the spying Tory know that he
was observed; and in a voice that he knew would reach the listener, he
said to Cole:

“This will be a good place to bury it. It won’t do to let all this gold
lie around now when there is danger of the enemy coming. We’ll bury it
here and make a note of the spot; when everything is quiet again, and
the Tories gone, we can dig it up once more.”

Cole greeted these words with a long stare of surprise; Tom was afraid
that he did not understand his words; but, no, it was the situation
that puzzled Cole. But he had heard the skulking footsteps behind them
as they had lugged the empty chest down to the maize field, and putting
one thing and another together, the whole thing suddenly dawned upon
him; and he burst into a ringing laugh that split the silence like a
knife.

Tom grasped his arm in pretended alarm, and covered his mouth with his
hand.

“Hush!” warned he, for the benefit of the crouching Tory. “Somebody may
hear you. And it won’t do to have what we are about to do, overseen.
Keep quiet, now, and go to work.”

Cole took up the spade which they had brought with them, and set to
work in the fence corner, turning up the ground. Tom found a mattock
which a careless hand had left in the field overnight, and proceeded to
lend vigorous aid. The Tory crouched behind the bush, eagerly watching;
Cole, as he worked, was so convulsed that his great shoulders shook,
and his eyes gleamed with enjoyment in the moonlight.

At length they had the hole sufficiently large; with much burlesque
effort they dragged the chest into it, and proceeded to throw back and
stamp down the earth. Tom wiped his brow after the job was finished,
and Cole followed suit.

“There we are,” said the boy. “Nobody will ever know that is there. The
maize will soon grow over the spot, and it will never be noticed.”

They took up spade and mattock, and silently set off for the house;
behind them still crouched Mark Harwood, an expression of malignant
triumph upon his cold, sly face.

“It’s safe, is it, Tom Deering?” he muttered, below his breath.
“That’s all you know about it. Sir Henry Clinton will soon be master
of all about here, and father and I will be masters of the Deering
plantation. Then we shall see if your chest of gold is safe, or no.”
And with a low laugh, he shook his fist after the two retreating forms;
then he turned and cut swiftly across the fields, for day was coming
fast and it would not do for him to be observed.



CHAPTER V

HOW TOM JOINED MARION’S BRIGADE


WITHIN a week after Tom had hidden his father’s four thousand
pounds in the old well Charleston had capitulated, and the army of
General Lincoln was in the hands of the British. The dragoons of
Lieutenant-Colonel Tarleton overran the whole district between the city
and the Cooper River; the patriot bands were broken up and scattered in
every direction.

In spite of the peril Tom could scarcely bring himself to leave the
city and its neighborhood. It seemed like deserting his task, like
seeking safety for himself and leaving his father to his fate. “He may
be on board one of those war-ships, Cole,” said he to the slave, as
they sat in their saddles prepared to leave the plantation. “It cuts
me to the heart to go; but to remain means certain capture, and as a
prisoner I could, of course, do nothing. I’ll go,” and he held up his
clinched hand as though making a vow, “but I’ll return again. I’ll
never rest content till my father breathes free air again.”

For a time South Carolina seemed doomed; defeat followed defeat so
rapidly that the hopes of the colonists were paralyzed, their spirits
subdued. Moultrie, who might have led them, was a prisoner of war;
Governor Rutledge had withdrawn to the North State to stir up the
people, and win over recruits to the cause of liberty; even Sumpter,
Horry and like bold spirits had to fly for their lives.

During the siege of Charleston, Francis Marion had lain with a broken
leg in a little cabin far back in the swamps of the Santee district.
Before the arrival of Clinton and his army, the little Huguenot had
met with an accident which prevented his taking part in the defence of
the city. Now, when Tarleton and his men, and the harsh troopers of
Cornwallis, were scouring the country all about, he was still confined
to his couch. He was too conspicuous a person, his military talents had
been too well proven, for the enemy to have forgotten him. So his only
safety was in hiding and watching and waiting for his hour to strike.

It was just the luck of Tom Deering and Cole, after escaping from
Charleston, to be pushing through a cane-brake on their way north one
afternoon when dusk was about to creep out of the east. The section
was well known to the boy and his servant, for they had ridden over it
many times in pursuit of Tories during the period after the victory at
Sullivan’s Island. Suddenly a series of shots rang out, followed by
a woman’s scream; with one accord our friends spurred forward, their
powerful animals crashing through the growth in long, swift bounds. In
a few moments they had gained a clearing, in the middle of which stood
a small cabin. The figure of a man lay before the door and a sobbing
woman bent over him. A riderless horse was cropping the grass near at
hand and a British soldier, desperately wounded, sat propped against a
stump. Two other troopers and a huge, red-faced officer--of high rank,
judging from his uniform--sat their horses at the edge of the clearing.
The troopers were loading their pieces; the officer was waving an empty
holster pistol and shouting madly; two young men, hardly more than
boys, were stationed behind trees, rapidly loading their long ducking
guns, and facing the soldiers.

It required but a glance for Tom Deering to realize the situation;
it was a patriot family attacked by a party of British. Instantly he
called to Cole, and, without pausing, they rode at the dragoons. Each
had a heavy cavalry sabre and a pair of large holster pistols; the
sabres were drawn as they charged; their heavy, curved blades rose in
the air, flashing in the waning light of day. They were upon the three
Englishmen before the latter realized their presence; Cole’s great bay
horse, in full career, struck against the lighter animal of one of the
troopers and sent horse and man to the ground in a struggling heap. At
the same instant one of the youths behind the trees near the cabin,
having finished reloading his piece, fired; the other dragoon fell from
his horse with a shattered shoulder. This left but the burly, red-faced
officer still in the saddle, and without a moment’s hesitation Tom
dashed at him, his sabre swinging for a cut.

The officer saw his danger; with a sudden jerk of his arm he threw the
heavy pistol at the boy’s head. But Tom avoided the flying weapon by
swiftly leaning to one side.

“Surrender!” he commanded, his sabre flashing about the officer’s head.

With a roar of anger like that of an infuriated bear the Englishman
drew his sword from its scabbard, and the blades crossed with a sharp,
angry ring.

Take care, Tom Deering, take care! Your boldness has led you into great
danger; you have proved a worthy pupil of Victor St. Mar, late of King
Louis’ army, but, as yet, you are not a match for Lieutenant-Colonel
Tarleton, at once a man of lion-like strength and ferocity and a master
of the sabre.

Yes, it was the terrible Tarleton, himself; he had been making a short
cut through the swamp in order that he might rejoin a detachment of his
dragoons, when they had come upon this lonely cabin.

“Surrender, you jackanapes!” he roared, in a fury at Tom’s bold demand.
“I’ll teach you something that you will not forget in a hurry!”

And with that he began a furious attack upon the boy, aiming sweeping
cuts at his head and downward slashes at his sword-arm with marvelous
rapidity; but Tom, managing his chestnut mount with his left hand,
guarded himself carefully, allowing no opening in his defence. But in
a few moments the superior skill and experience of Tarleton, together
with his greater weight, began to tell; step by step, the boy was
driven back, dazzled by the flashing sabre darting so swiftly here
and there before his eyes. A fierce grin of triumph came into the
Englishman’s face; victory was in his hands; this presumptuous youth
who had dared to face him was about to learn a lesson which he would
never forget.

But Lieutenant-Colonel Tarleton had not counted upon Cole. In the very
moment of his triumph, when his heavy blade was lifted for a last and
finishing stroke, a pair of huge, black arms, as strong as bands of
steel, were thrown about him; his sabre was dashed to the ground and
he, burly man though he was, found himself plucked from his saddle and
gazing up into the grinning, ebony face of the giant slave.

Tom looked down, panting from his exertions, but smiling at the British
officer’s discomfiture.

“Hold him fast, Cole,” said he, as the officer began a desperate
struggle to break away from the bear-like hug which held him. “No use
in struggling, colonel”--the boy perceived the captive’s rank by a
glance at his uniform coat. “You are in the hands of the strongest man
in South Carolina.”

“You black dog,” fumed Tarleton, making a prolonged and desperate
struggle to break free, “let go, or I’ll be the death of you.”

Cole grinned widely; he coolly pinned the fuming colonel to the ground
by the simple process of kneeling upon his chest; his splendid white
teeth flashed his entire enjoyment of the whole affair.

“Take care,” said Tom, a note of sternness now in his voice, “that this
affair, here at the cabin, does not end in your own death. Let us see
what damage you have done.”

The two boys who had been stationed behind the trees defending their
home when Tom and Cole came up, had approached and were looking with
some astonishment at the herculean black and at the wondrous ease with
which he mastered the powerful king’s officer.

“Has any one been hurt?” asked Tom.

“Father has been wounded slightly,” said one of the youths. “But it’s
not much, for he’s on his feet again, as you can see.”

The man who had lain upon the ground at the cabin door was limping
painfully, with the aid of the woman, to a spring near at hand. The
trooper whom Cole had unhorsed was attending to the wants of his
wounded comrades.

“They must have surprised you,” said Tom. “How comes it that soldiers
attack the homes of citizens?”

“British soldiers,” said one of the young men, bitterly, “do anything
these times. They kill, burn and destroy; it does not matter much to
them who their victims are so long as they refuse to take up arms for
King George.”

“They are hanging and burning the homes of all who will not help them,”
spoke the other youth. “If a man wants to save his life or his property
he must turn traitor to his friends--he must betray his neighbor and
take up arms for a false old madman who calls himself king!”

“I’ll see you swinging at a tree limb for those words, you traitorous
rebel!” cried Tarleton, whose arms were now bound behind him by his
belt, and who, under guard of the watchful Cole, had stood listening to
the young man’s words.

“Take care, you red-coated scoundrel!” exclaimed the other, wheeling
upon him fiercely; “take care that you don’t swing from yonder
cottonwood yourself before the hour is up. In these times each man in
the swamp-lands of Carolina is a law unto himself. You have attacked us
without cause, and in strict justice we should treat you as you would
have treated us had you taken us prisoners.”

“You don’t mean to say,” cried Tom in horror, “that regular troops are
hanging prisoners! I thought that only the Tories would be guilty of
such deadly and cowardly work.”

“Colonel Tarleton, here,” and the young man pointed one accusing
finger at the British officer, “has given orders to spare no one whom
they suspect. And as they suspect all who will not help them, the
cane-brakes are full of fugitives, the clearings show nothing but
burned homes.”

“Colonel Tarleton!” exclaimed Tom, looking in surprise at the burly
form before him, and into the red, strongly-marked face. “Is this
Colonel Tarleton?”

The Englishman laughed harshly. “Ah, I see you have heard of me,” said
he, sneeringly. “There are not many in the Santee district that have
not; and there will be many more, I promise you, before this uprising
is done with. There is only one way to deal with rebels, and that is to
crush them utterly--to have no mercy.”

“And from what I have just heard, and just seen, too, for that matter,
you are acting upon your theory,” said Tom Deering, looking Colonel
Tarleton angrily in the eye. “You are a soldier--serving under the
flag of what should be an enlightened nation; and do you not know that
there is no excuse for such measures--that warfare does not sanction
them?”

“I plan my own actions and in my own way,” returned Tarleton. “And when
I want advice upon the subject, my forward young friend, depend upon
it, I shall not come to you.”

The two young men, as Tom now found, were Nat and David Collins;
they and their father were wood-cutters in the swamps. Tom noticed
something furtive in their glances, from time to time, toward the
cabin, which stood some little distance away from the scene of the
fight. Several times he had made as though to approach it, but they had
always prevented this by calling his attention elsewhere. But now they
were engaged in attending to their father, who had a painful wound in
the calf of the leg, and Tom advanced to the cabin door. At another
time he would not have dreamed of prying into their affairs, but
those were dangerous days, and a patriot’s safety rested solely upon
his alertness--upon his being constantly upon the outlook for peril.
The people seemed to be friends of Congress, but Tom had grown so
accustomed to assuring himself of everything that he did not trust them
until he had discovered that which they seemed so anxious to hide.

The interior of the cabin was dark to one just coming into it; so Tom
stood in the doorway, his sabre still in his hand, peering about, and
waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. Suddenly he
was startled by a quiet voice saying:

“Stand as you are. A movement will be dangerous, my friend, and a sound
equally so.”

Tom was surprised; for the moment he could see nothing; then he began
to make out, but dimly, a couch of furs and pine boughs in a corner;
a man lay upon this--a man who had lifted himself up upon one elbow
and held a pistol in his hand. The gray of twilight had deepened in
the swamp and the dim light that came through the open doorway was not
sufficient to enable the man upon the couch to see Tom’s face clearly;
then, too, the latter was standing with his back to the light.

“You have succeeded in ferreting me out, I see,” said the man upon the
couch. “But you have not taken me yet, remember that.”

“Who are you?” demanded Tom, his hand clutching, instinctively, the
tighter upon the hilt of his sabre.

“Don’t pretend ignorance,” said the man. “You have set a price upon my
head--or at least your masters have--the butcher Tarleton and Sir Henry
Clinton.”

At this Tom pressed forward a step; but the voice rang warningly
through the room, causing him to halt instantly.

“As you are!” said the man, sharply. “It is not wise to approach a
cornered man.”

“Whoever you are,” said Tom, eagerly, “if you are an enemy of the
British you are a friend of mine.”

There came an exclamation from the man upon the couch.

“Have I made a mistake,” said he. “Surely I heard the sounds of
fighting outside. If you are one of us that means that----”

“The British have been beaten,” said Tom, finishing the sentence for
him. “There were only four of them; two troopers have been wounded,
another and Colonel Tarleton are prisoners.”

“Tarleton!” The man upon the couch, in his excitement attempted
to spring out upon the floor, but sank back with a groan. “I had
forgotten; you see my leg is broken.”

Just then Nat Collins, the elder of the two brothers, entered; he
seemed angry at Tom for having entered the cabin, and there was an
anxious look about him, as he stood gazing from one to the other, not
knowing just how to act.

“Light a candle, Nat,” said the man upon the couch. “And why,” he
proceeded, “did you not tell me that friends had arrived.”

“They did not come until the fight had started,” said Nat, lighting a
candle in a brass sconce from a dim fire that burned on the hearth. The
flickering light fell upon Tom’s face as the young wood-cutter arose,
and the man on the couch uttered an exclamation of surprise.

“Tom Deering!” cried he.

Tom gave him one quick look and then springing forward, he seized his
hand.

“Major Marion,” he burst out joyfully. “Who would ever have thought of
seeing you here.”

“I wouldn’t, myself, some little time ago,” said the soldier. “How is
it with you, my lad?”

Tom had been of great service to Major Marion in his expeditions
against the Tories after the defeat of Sir Peter Parker’s fleet at
Sullivan’s Island; the two had gradually come to admire and trust one
another greatly.

“I have my good horse,” answered the boy, “and I have a brace of
pistols and a sabre; and, yes, there’s Cole, too; but that’s all; the
British have all the rest,” sadly--“house, slaves, plantation and all.”

“So, I have been told, is the case with all the men in Charleston who
had the courage to brave the king,” said Marion. “But I can say nothing
from my own observation, Tom, for I broke my leg about the time Clinton
arrived in the roadstead; and since the fort fell I’ve been hiding in
the cane-brakes like a fox; yes, and listening to the hounds in full
cry all around me. But don’t despair, my boy; Carolina is not yet
beaten; she has only begun to fight.”

As they talked there in the dimly-lighted room, the elder Collins
limped in. Marion’s quick eye at once noticed that he had been wounded.

“You’ve been hit,” said he, anxiously.

“Nothing to speak of, major,” said the man. “It bled pretty freely and
it pains a great deal, but it won’t last long.”

Here Mrs. Collins followed her husband into the room. “What are you
going to do with that British officer?” inquired she. “He’s going on
something dreadful out there.”

“Have him brought in,” said Marion to Tom. “I want to see this ruthless
king’s officer before we let him go.”

“Let him go!” ejaculated the Collinses in a breath. “You are not going
to do that.”

“We are hardly in a position to take prisoners of war,” said Major
Marion with a smile. “We cannot resort to his own measures and use the
rope, either. But bring him in.”

In a few moments Lieutenant-Colonel Tarleton stood within the cabin,
and his wounded troopers were lying groaning upon the floor near by.
He looked with lowering brow upon Major Marion, his harsh, brutal face
made all the more ruffianly by the rage which distorted it. Marion
lay stretched upon his couch of furs and pine boughs, his deep-set,
brilliant black eyes seeming to search into the very soul of his enemy.
Tarleton bore the look for a time, then burst out in a voice thick with
the rage that consumed him.

“So you are that skulking fox, Marion, for whom we have been looking!”

“And you,” returned the little man, “are that hound, Tarleton, whom I
have been trying to avoid.”

“Take care,” burst out Tarleton, who like a great many others of his
sort, did not like to be paid in his own coin.

“Thank you; I shall endeavor to,” returned Marion, coolly. “It was my
desire to see you; for, Colonel Tarleton, I think the day is coming
when we shall meet quite often in the persons of our followers; and it
is as well for me to know you by sight.”

“I’ll teach you all to know me,” swore the fiery Tarleton. “I’ll make
the Carolinas dread my very name.”

“If that is your ambition, it is realized already. The mothers along
the Santee frighten their children into quiet by telling them that the
bloody Tarleton is coming. The reputation, my dear colonel, is not a
very noble one; but such as it is you have realized it; and as you seem
to like it I wish you great enjoyment of it.”

The quiet, biting words of Marion made the burly colonel writhe;
he answered in his loud, harsh fashion, but it was like matching a
bludgeon against a rapier, and he got all the worst of the contest of
tongues. And while they talked Tom Deering and Cole, assisted by the
two Collins boys, were not idle. The mounts of the three dragoons were
led up; a rude sling was quickly constructed and placed between two of
them for Marion. After the attacks of Tarleton, the little partisan
would not be safe in this place when the defeated troopers and their
colonel reached their own camp. It was Marion himself who had told Tom
what to do, for none knew the danger better than he.

When all was ready Cole took the slight form of the major in his mighty
arms and bore him out to where the sling was awaiting him. There were
horses enough to mount all, Mrs. Collins included. They were brought up
to the door; Mr. Collins and his wife were assisted to their saddles,
and then the three youths and Cole closed and fastened the cabin
securely, with Tarleton and his men still inside. The language of the
British officer startled Tom; but Marion had dealt with such people
before.

“I bid you good-night, Colonel Tarleton,” he called as he rested his
injured leg in the easy depths of the sling. “And you may save your
compliments; for when I extend you mine it will be on a sword blade or
the barrel of a rifle. Now then,” turning to Tom, “if we are ready,
forward.”

And away they went, along the narrow paths of the swamp, amidst the
darkness of the southern night, under the cottonwoods and palmettos;
and this little party was the nucleus of Marion’s Brigade, that band of
patriots which was a constant thorn in the side of Lord Rawdon; that
shadowy, evasive, swift striking brigade whose glory shall live while
there is a true heart that remembers.

The toil of the march and the dangers were as nothing to Tom Deering;
but his spirit was heavy within him, and as they penetrated further
and further into the interior it grew heavier still. For each step was
taking him further away from his father--the good, kind father whom,
sleeping or waking, he never forgot, and who was now lying with heavy
irons upon his limbs in some noisome prison pen.



CHAPTER VI

HOW FRANCIS MARION HEARD GOOD NEWS FROM WILLIAMSBURG


FOR weeks the little band pressed on through swamps and over stony
roads. The Baron De Kalb, with a force of Continentals from Virginia,
was marching south, and it was upon falling in with this army that
Marion based his hope of safety. For it had not been long before the
alarm was out; the swift, merciless dragoons of Tarleton and the
skulking loyalists were after them night and day. How they escaped,
they themselves could not afterward remember; the bay of dogs, upon
their trail at night, would often startle them into renewed flight; the
warning of a friend, or perhaps a slave, would cause them frequently to
change their course by day.

Marion’s injured limb grew slowly better; at last he was able to
dispense with the sling and ride in the usual fashion. After this they
made much better progress and pushed northward rapidly. Mrs. Collins
was left at a small town with some relatives; the band was augmented
from time to time during this flight until at last it numbered some
twenty hardened, bronzed men and boys, well-mounted, but poorly armed
and clothed.

Tom and Cole were scouting one afternoon; it was dark when they
rejoined their comrades, who had encamped on the banks of a small
stream. Marion, almost entirely well now, sat by the camp-fire cleaning
his pistols when Tom threw himself from his tired horse and approached
him.

“What news on the scout, lad?” asked the commander.

“A change has been made in the force which we are anxious to meet,”
replied the boy. “General Gates has superseded De Kalb and is pushing
south by forced marches. It is his intention, I hear, to carry the war
to the enemy instead of waiting for him to attack.”

Marion received the intelligence with moody brow.

“Gates,” said he, slowly. “I’ve heard of him. A hot-blooded, impetuous
officer. Brave, but rash; and not at all the man for the work.”

“You, too, think he should avoid a meeting until compelled to fight, do
you, major?”

“He should avoid a meeting until he knows his ground and is acquainted
with the force before him. There is nothing to be gained by venturesome
enterprises such as, I dare say, General Gates will attempt. It will
but weaken him and unnerve his rank and file. De Kalb would have
been a better man; he is accustomed to the warfare of petty European
principalities, which is conducted with caution and no waste of men
or supplies. I am sorry to hear this; the appointment of Gates was a
mistake.”

The fears for the reckless courage of Gates expressed by Marion were
only too well founded. That hot-tempered officer came plunging through
North Carolina, full-tilt, with the ambition, seemingly, like Cæsar to
write a dispatch announcing in the same breath the sight of and the
conquest of the enemy.

The army commanded by General Gates, though small, was the
best-equipped that the south had yet seen; they were well-clad in smart
uniforms; their musket-barrels shone in the sun; their camp had all the
neatness of a camp of trained soldiery; their artillery was heavy and
capable of excellent service. Despite his rapid marches, Gates had the
knack of keeping his men in good condition, and on the evening when
Marion, with Tom Deering and Cole riding upon either side of him, and
his nondescript band of woodsmen and fugitive militia at his heels,
rode into it, the Continental camp was at its neatest and trimmest. The
coonskin caps and wretched rags of the newcomers excited the jeers of
the smart regular troops as their owners went down the road, between
the line of camp-fires, toward the general’s tent.

“If this is the sort of reinforcement South Carolina has to offer us,”
cried a big sergeant of Virginia foot, “we’ll have to do their share of
the fighting, too.”

Tom Deering could not stand the laugh of contempt that greeted this,
but reined up beside a company of the jeering infantry and allowed his
comrades to trot by behind the unruffled Marion.

“If you men of Virginia go as far as we of Carolina for the cause,”
said he, “you’ll go to the mouth of the British cannon, and a little
further.”

“Well crowed, my bantam-cock,” laughed the big sergeant. “And how long
have you been soldiering, may I ask?”

Tom’s eyes flashed as he faced the circle of laughing infantrymen who
had gathered about him at the prospect of sport; their laughter angered
him, for he felt that it was uncalled-for and unjust. So he swept the
big sergeant scornfully with his eye.

“I was soldiering,” said he, “before you had pulled on that nice, clean
uniform for the first time. I had served a gun at Fort Moultrie and
been under fire in a score of other places, sergeant, while you were
still driving bullocks in the Virginia hay-fields.”

It was a fact well known to his comrades that the sergeant had, up to
this time, never smelled gun-powder in actual battle; and when Tom
finished speaking a roar of laughter went, directed at the big man; and
he reddened angrily, and bit at his huge mustache.

“Never judge a dog by the color of his fur,” said Tom, delighted to
have turned the laugh upon the other. “And never judge a man by the
coat upon his back. When you, sergeant, have raced through an enemy’s
country--a country, too, full of swamps, thickets and almost impassable
roads, for months, with bloodhounds upon your track by night and
Tories with ropes ready in their hands searching for you by day, you
will not look so trim and natty as you do now, and you will not be so
ready to laugh.”

The troops of General Gates were a rough, good-humored lot; it required
but a moment for them to catch the truth of the boy’s remarks; and with
one accord, the sergeant included, they burst into a cheer for the
sincerity and heartiness of which there could be no doubt. Tom’s eyes
gleamed with satisfaction as he waved his cap in response, wheeled his
horse and dashed after his comrades.

“There is good stuff in them, for all their readiness to jeer,” he
muttered to himself. “And they are big, strong, willing looking
fellows, too; and should render an excellent account of themselves.”

Marion’s men were halted in the road not far from the headquarters
of General Gates. The latter and Marion were standing at the flap of
the tent conversing earnestly. Beside the stalwart general of the
Continentals Marion looked insignificant; and Gates, like his men,
seemed to regard the partisan’s command as a rabble, the like of which
clings to the skirts of every army. His face wore an amused smile,
not unmixed with contempt. It is a fact that this officer was a vain
man, of ostentatious habit and one whose judgment was very apt to be
affected by parade and the external show of things.

“I am very thankful to you, Major Marion, for coming to put your
company at my service,” said General Gates, patronizingly. “But, the
fact is, I have no very great opinion of cavalry, and think I have but
little need of it.”

Marion flushed with resentment at this; but controlled himself.

“This is a very thinly settled country, general,” returned he. “I
should think that an active troop of horse would be very useful both in
securing intelligence and in procuring supplies.”

Gates seemed somewhat impressed by this, and after some further
conversation, invited Marion into his tent. The troop of swamp-riders
dismounted and picketed their horses outside the camp, preparing to
settle for the night. The very rags and poverty of this little band
which was afterward to become so famous were but proofs of their
integrity, could Gates but have seen it in that light. It was in
defiance of the temptations and the power of the British that these
men had taken the field, and had the leader of the Continentals been a
wise man, he would have seen, even through their rags and destitution,
the steady glow of patriotism; which enkindled throughout the state by
this little, dark, unassuming officer, and Sumpter, and a few others
of equal daring, was to blaze out, at last, in that perfect brightness
which was to cause the invader to slink away, confounded.

That night and the two following Marion and his men spent in the camp
of General Gates. In spite of the bad impression which his tattered
command had made upon the general, Marion’s undoubted knowledge of the
surrounding country was noted and made use of. But Tom could not bear
the camp or its people and spent but little time there; for he and Cole
were constantly scouting over the flats and through the woods, at his
leader’s orders, in the hope of catching a view of the foe.

The town of Williamsburg was not a great many miles away, and upon the
evening of the first day Tom and his faithful follower rode into the
town to see what news there was to be had. The town was a hotbed of
patriotism; the very name of King George was execrated there, and the
boy was sure to be welcomed and to receive what tidings of the British
the townspeople possessed. As it happened, a few weeks before this, a
party of British and Tories had entered the place and plundered right
and left; a few who resisted, and some others whom the Tories pointed
out as rebels, were shot; then the marauders rode off with the warning
to Williamsburg to improve in her loyalty to king and parliament or she
would receive another visit.

The citizens gathered in angry crowds. “If,” said they, “we are to be
set upon when we have not struck a blow against the crown, what worse
can happen to us if we take up arms and fight like men should against
tyranny.”

There was no answer to this argument, so the Williamsburgers proceeded
to arm themselves with whatever they could find in the way of weapons,
and set about drilling upon the village green. It was in the midst of
the drill that Tom and Cole found them that evening when they rode down
the main street, and very proud the townsfolk seemed to be of it.

“Tell General Gates,” said the stout old burgess to Tom, after finding
out where he was from, “that the freemen of Williamsburg are preparing.
Let the British make another of their ruffian raids upon the town, and
it shall not be like the last. This time, instead of cautious words,
they will be greeted by a sleet of lead.”

“Hurrah!” rang lustily from the ranks of the militia. “That they will!”

“Let them show so much as their noses in the town limits again and
we’ll send them back to Cornwallis as soundly beaten as ever a pack of
prowling curs were yet.”

The speaker was a brawny, sooty man, in a blacksmith’s apron; he
carried a great sledge over his shoulder instead of a musket, and
seemed in every way capable of doing his part in carrying out the
promise. His words were greeted by much laughter and cheers by his
comrades, and under cover of this Tom was drawn aside by the stout
burgess.

“They are rare good lads, all of them,” spoke the burgess. “They will
fight for their rights and their firesides to the last, but they have
no one to lead them in whom they have confidence; it is a great pity,
but it is so.”

[Illustration: _“THEY ARE RARE GOOD LADS, ALL OF THEM,”
                 SPOKE THE BURGESS_]

He shook his head despondently as he said this, and as his eyes
traveled along the not very trim ranks of the volunteers, he shook his
gray head sadly.

“Is there no man of experience among them?” asked Tom.

“Not one, not one,” answered the burgess, “and it’s a great pity, for
they are a fine body of men.”

He shook his head once more and sighed regretfully. Then turning to Tom
he continued:

“I sent a messenger to Governor Rutledge asking him to select a leader
for this company.”

“What was his answer?”

“He said that there was but one man in the entire South whom he would
name as an ideal leader of irregular troops.”

“And that man was----?”

“One Francis Marion.”

Tom started in surprise and then laughed with pleasure.

“Well,” said he to the stout old burgess, “why do you not secure him?”

“He is not to be found. The governor has no idea if he be living or
dead. Men die suddenly in these times, you know.”

“But suppose,” said the boy, “that I could tell you where to find him?”

The old man grasped him eagerly by the arm.

“You are not jesting?”

“Not in the least. I am of Major Marion’s command. He is now in the
camp of General Gates.”

The burgess was overjoyed at this intelligence; he wrung Tom’s hand
warmly. “Good news,” he cackled, hardly able to restrain himself. “I
will go to him in the morning--I will offer him the command.” Then he
paused suddenly and continued in a more sober tone. “Do you think, my
lad, that he will be inclined to accept?”

Tom thought of his commander’s cold reception at the hands of General
Gates, and answered promptly:

“I rather think he will, sir.”

“Good--good!” The old fellow went off, at this point, into a rapture of
chuckling. “Come, you will lodge with me to-night; I will not accept
a refusal. Wait until I give word to dismiss the company for the day;
then you shall have as fine a supper and as soft a bed as you have ever
had in your life.”

At the burgess’ command the drill-sergeant dismissed the militia; then
Tom and Cole were led away to the comfortable stone house of the town
official; their horses were put up in the stable and baited with corn;
Cole was taken in hand by some of the negro servants, while his young
master was borne off to be introduced to the family of the burgess. In
spite of his worn clothes and unkempt appearance, the boy was kindly
welcomed by his hostess and her blooming daughters. To be sure he
noticed, now and then, that the girls would giggle together, aside,
over his deerskin hunting-shirt or his leather leggings; but they made
up for this by their many little kindnesses; and the sly looks of
admiration which they stole at his handsome, sun-browned face and tall,
sinewy form often made his cheeks burn.

The burgess was as good as his word; the supper which Tom sat down to
was the best he had eaten for many a long week; and the bed upon which
he stretched his tired length afterward, being the first he had slept
in since leaving home, felt fully up to specifications.

Early in the morning the household was astir; and when Tom and the
master of the house had breakfasted they bid the ladies good-bye. The
chestnut and the bay were ready saddled at the door; and beside them
stood a fat, white horse which was to bear the weight of the worthy
burgess.

“He is not very speedy,” admitted the official, “but he is strong and
safe. And that last quality, young sir, is not a thing to be overlooked
when one comes to my age, and attains my girth.”

The ladies waved their kerchiefs from the windows; the burgess and the
young swamp-rider took off their caps and bowed in return, while Cole
grinned like an amiable Goliath. Then they shook their reins, and set
off for the Continental camp, to bear the good tidings to Marion.



CHAPTER VII

HOW TOM DEERING FOUGHT WITH GATES AT CAMDEN


NEEDLESS to say, Marion received the news of Williamsburg’s offer with
great satisfaction; it was a relief to him to secure a command of his
own, and he made ready to set off with his tattered horsemen, to assume
control. With this new body came the commission of colonel, after a few
days, from Governor Rutledge.

When his small company were ready to leave the camp of Gates, that
officer gave Marion strict instructions as to the best means of
rendering him service. The fancy of Gates already beheld the squadrons
of Cornwallis in full flight; and it is a fact that his greatest
solicitude at this time seems to have been how to secure his captives.

“As you march south, colonel,” said he to Marion, “I want you to make
it your special duty to destroy all the scows, boats, ferry-flats
and barges on your route. The enemy must be deprived of the means of
escaping.”

“Very well,” returned Marion, “I will do all I can in this or any other
line, general, to aid you.”

But afterward he remarked to Tom, who was his trusted confidant:

“He never seems to have heard of the barnyard proverb, ‘Don’t count
your chickens before they are hatched.’ In his fancy he has met the
British and routed them on every hand. It promises badly for the army,
my lad.”

“Can we do nothing, sir?”

“I fear not. General Gates is not the man to tolerate interference. If
he were more open to advice he would be a much safer leader.”

With the departure of Marion the better genius of Gates left him.
The British, under Lords Rawdon and Cornwallis, were in possession
of Camden, a small town upon the east bank of the Wateree; and Gates
conceived the idea of surprising them. On the night of the 15th of
August he left his camp at Rugely’s Mills and advanced toward Camden.
Upon the same night the British made a move to surprise Gates; so,
almost before they knew it, the vanguards of the two armies met in the
darkness near a small stream of water known as Sanders Creek.

Before breaking his camp Gates had sent to Marion for a few horsemen
who knew the country; and Marion had sent Tom and Cole to lend what
aid they could. These two were in the advance guard of the American
army when it encountered that of the British. Tom’s big chestnut horse
Sultan, up to his knees in the waters of Sanders Creek, was the first
to note the approach of the enemy; he cocked his ears, threw up his
head and snorted.

“What is it, boy?” said Tom, his eyes running over the ground before
him as well as the darkness would permit. As though in answer there
came a scattering of rifle-shots and a “pinging” of the leaden
messengers about his ears.

He wheeled and rode back to the banks. Saluting the captain in command,
he reported:

“The enemy, sir, seem to be on the other side of the creek.”

The captain was inexperienced and very nervous.

“What force is there?” asked he.

“Could not make out, sir, because of the darkness. Shall I cross and
try to find out?”

“If you think it safe,” said the captain.

“That it is necessary is enough for me,” returned Tom, proudly.

He spurred Sultan into the water once more, and under cover of the
night crossed the stream. A long line of British cavalry was stretched
directly in front; they had, undoubtedly, sent word back to their
main body and were now waiting for orders. Tom dismounted and took a
long observation of the foe’s position; when at last he remounted and
crossed the creek once more, he found that General Gates himself had
ridden forward and was anxiously awaiting his report.

“Their advance is stretched all along the stream, sir,” said the lad,
saluting. “And from indications their main body is coming up rapidly.”

A hasty inspection of the ground caused Gates to order his force to
fall back upon some plantations in their rear; the British, not at all
sure of what was awaiting them, did not cross the creek; and thus the
two armies lay upon their weapons waiting for daybreak. At the first
graying of the eastern heavens the British were forming to advance, and
the Americans were rapidly making ready to receive them. If there was
any advantage it was in favor of Cornwallis. His force was composed of
veterans, who would be cool under most exigencies, while Gates’ army
was, for the greater part, made up of raw volunteers.

The First Maryland division, including the Delawares under De Kalb,
were posted on the right; the Virginia militia were on the left; the
North Carolinians, led by the gallant Caswell were in the center, while
the artillery, in battery, was in the road. Such was the formation of
the American line; both wings rested upon morasses; the Second Maryland
brigade was posted as a reserve a few hundred yards in the rear of the
first.

The battle began with the advance of the American left--the Virginians,
under Stevens. A galling rifle fire was suddenly poured into them;
struck by sudden panic they turned and fled, many of them not having
even discharged their pieces. This wretched example was followed by
the North Carolina division in the centre, with the exception of a
single corps commanded by Major Dixon. The small body of cavalry, under
Armond, a foreign adventurer, broke at the same moment.

Tom Deering had been detained by the commander to carry messages and
orders to different parts of the field; he saw the rout, and with
sinking heart he strove to rally the fleeing militia, riding among
them, waving his sabre and shouting desperately for them to stand and
reform.

“Are you cowards to run at the first fire?” he shouted. “Rally, men;
strike a blow for freedom and your native state.”

For very shame some of the fugitives halted, and Tom began rapidly
reforming them. But, just then, the British cavalry plunged forward,
and the hope of staying the panic was gone forever. The devoted
Continentals--Maryland and Delaware troops, all trained soldiers--bore
the brunt of the action. De Kalb was at their head, for Gates had
ridden away to the rear in the desperate hope of rallying the militia;
the artillery was in the hands of the enemy, and the regulars who
continued to stand fast numbered but nine hundred, as opposed to two
thousand of the best troops in the British service.

But these stout hearts, undismayed by the flight of their comrades, not
only resisted the attack of the enemy, but actually carried the bayonet
into their ranks. The combatants rushed and reeled with locked weapons;
but the struggle could not last, for when the British cavalry returned
from pursuing the fugitives their sabres gave the finishing stroke to
the affair. The heroic De Kalb fell, pierced by fourteen wounds, and
at the fall of their leader the rank and file broke and fled from the
field, leaving everything behind them.

When darkness closed in once more it found General Gates, with a
shattered remnant of his once formidable force, flying along the roads
toward North Carolina. As for Tom Deering, he was on his way through
the swamps to rejoin Marion, his eyes full of unshed tears and his
heart full of the bitterness that comes with defeat.



CHAPTER VIII

HOW TOM BRAVED THE TORIES


“COLE!”

A movement of the giant slave’s eyes showed that he heard. He and his
young master had dismounted upon the edge of a clump of woods and were
carefully surveying a large brick mansion that stood in the midst of a
well-kept park.

“I don’t like the looks of things,” said the young swamp-rider. “There
are strangers in Mr. Foster’s mansion, Cole, and we had better be sure
of who they are before we venture into the open.”

Cole signified his entire approval of this course; so they tied their
horses well among the trees and then crawled back to the verge of the
wood once more.

Some months had passed since the defeat of Gates; Colonel Marion
had now begun to make himself felt in the struggle, and his sudden
ambuscades and unlooked-for onslaughts had made his name a terror to
British soldier and Tory alike. Not a little of the credit of all this
was due to the devotion to duty shown by Tom Deering and his faithful
slave. The hoof-marks of Sultan and Cole’s bay charger, Dando, were
imprinted upon every mile of territory between the North Edisto River
and the Little Peedee. The courses of the Congaree and the Wateree were
as familiar to them as though there were not a fresh danger lurking in
every turn they made.

They had the hardihood to even penetrate the region about Orangeburg
and Ninety-Six in search of information as to the enemy’s movements;
and the news which they gathered frequently led to disaster for the
British in the shape of a severe loss of supplies, or the destruction
of a flying column proceeding upon a raid.

While Tom Deering was willing to take any risks and dare any peril
to serve his country, still it is doubtful if he would have been so
eager, so tireless in his efforts if it had not been that the thought
of his father goaded him on. He knew that until the Americans retook
Charleston there would be little chance of his being able to rescue the
prisoner; and so he was willing to take his life in his hands at any
hour of the day or night in the hope that by so doing he might hasten
the hour.

In his excursions Tom had discovered many things of a surprising
nature. One of these was the fact that there were still some of the
partisans of congress who were, as yet, in possession of their estates.
As a rule these were very rich and very cautious men; and one of them
was Mr. Foster, who owned and cultivated great stretches of land
between the Congaree and Columbia. This rich planter had from time
to time provided the young scout with valuable information. It was a
search for this very desirable requisite of intelligent warfare that
brought our two friends upon the edge of the Foster plantation to-day.

“From the appearance of the horses,” said Tom, “the visitors are not
soldiers. It may be some of our own brigade, Cole.”

But the black gestured his doubt of this. Through long practice he had
become master of a sort of sign language, and could readily communicate
his thoughts to his young master.

“Tories,” signaled Cole.

“No, no,” said Tom, “they would not dare disturb Mr. Foster. Why,
Cornwallis himself has not deemed it wise to do that.”

“Tories,” signaled Cole, once more, and this time very positively.
“Tories will do anything!”

Tom laughed.

“You are right in one way, Cole,” said he. “There is not much of a
blackguardly or bloody nature that they have left undone, in this
section at least. But, all the same, in this case I think you’re
wrong.”

But Cole remained obdurate; he seemed most unwilling to change his
views. They were still discussing the situation, Tom in low, guarded
tones and Cole in his not very deft sign language, when suddenly there
came a strange, smothered sound from overhead, followed by a crashing
of a heavy body through the boughs of a tree, and a man, with a cry of
fear upon his lips, tumbled to the ground at their feet.

Like a flash Cole had produced his heavy pistol and presented it at the
man’s head; but Tom pushed it quickly aside.

“It is Dogberry,” said he, quietly. “Put up your weapon, Cole.”

Cole glanced at the newcomer, and then a broad grin of recognition
spread across his face. It was a negro slave belonging to the Foster
place, and he lay flat upon his back, staring at them with great, round
eyes, while an expression of mingled fear, amazement and doubt rested
upon his ebony countenance.

“Well, Dogberry,” said Tom, laughing at the negro’s remarkable
entrance on the scene. “Suppose you tell us all about this.”

“Mars Tom,” said Dogberry, sitting up, “is dis you, sah?”

“Of course it is. And here’s Cole, too.”

“Lawsee! I done gone ’most broke my black head!” Dogberry stared up
into the tree. “Just look how far I fall, Mars Tom. Just you look up
there, sah.”

“How came you up in the tree?”

“Mars Foster put me there, sah.”

“Mr. Foster. Impossible.”

“’Deed he did, Mars Tom. I’se telling you de plain truth. He put me up
there when de Tory white men comes along to-day.”

“Tories!” exclaimed Tom. “Where?”

“They am up at de house, sah, at dis moment. And they am carrying on
scand’lus with de fambly.”

“But what were you sent into the tree for?”

“To watch for you, sah. Mars Foster sort of thought you’d be along
dis way to-day, Mars Tom; and I was told to climb up in de tree and
watch for you, and not let you go up to de house, and get cotched by de
Tories.”

“Thank you, Mr. Foster.” Tom waved one hand in the direction of the
planter’s mansion. “I’ll remember that of you, and will return the
favor some day.”

Cole began to make rapid passes and signs to Dogberry; the latter,
at the best, was much in dread of the giant dumb-slave, but just now
Cole’s earnestness made him very terrible in the other’s eyes, indeed.
Cole was asking how Dogberry, if he was watching in the tree, failed to
note their approach and neglected to make his presence known to them.
Very much frightened at Cole’s gestures, Dogberry clung to Tom.

“Don’t let dat nigger harm me, Mars Tom. Look at dar! He’s making a
sign dat he’ll frow me over de fence!”

At this Cole burst into a gale of laughter; and then Tom explained.

“He wants to know why I was in de tree and didn’t make no sound?”
Dogberry looked exceedingly foolish, and then continued: “De plain
truth, Mars Tom, is dat dis nigger done gone went to sleep, and didn’t
wake till a great big yaller-tailed hornet come along and stung him on
de nose.”

“That accounts for your sudden arrival, then,” smiled the young
partisan. “But, tell me, Dogberry, how many Tories are at your master’s
place?”

Dogberry’s knowledge of numbers was exceedingly limited; so he slowly
and laboriously counted nine upon his fingers and held them up.

“Just dis many, sah, and dey am having dreadful carryings on. De ladies
of de fambly is most frightened out of dey wits.”

“Nine, eh!” Tom looked reflectively at Cole and the giant held out his
great arms and smiled. There were none too many in his estimation. But
his master was doubtful. Tom had partaken of Marion’s caution; he had
seen so much of the Swamp-Fox’s success based upon mere carefulness,
that he began to give caution a place beside courage in the list of
qualities necessary to a soldier.

“How are they armed?” he asked the negro.

“Dey have swords, sah, like yours; and dey have guns--one apiece, for I
counted dem. I see dem standing on de lawn under de apple tree.”

“On the lawn under the apple tree!” repeated Tom, his eyes lighting.
“Are you sure of that, Dogberry?”

“Yes, sah. Dat’s where I saw ’em put dere guns. And I s’pose dey’s
there still.”

“The lawn has no windows overlooking it from the ground floor, Cole,”
said Tom slowly. “If we could get those guns we might make an important
capture.”

Instantly Cole began to signal to be allowed to try to secure them.

“No, no,” said Tom, “we must be sure that things are as stated.
Dogberry may be mistaken, or he may have forgotten something.”

At this Dogberry’s eyes grew large and bright with sudden recollection.
“Dar, now!” ejaculated he, “I did forgot something, sah. When dem
Tories come up to de place dey have some prisoners wif dem.”

“Prisoners!”

“Yes, sah. And dey’s locked up in de barn at this minute.”

“Very well, Dogberry, you may return to the house. Try and get word
to Mr. Foster that you have seen us; but be careful and don’t let the
Tories hear you.”

“No, sah; ’deed I won’t. I’ll be careful, sah.” Dogberry slowly made
his way through the woods until he reached the main road; then he
approached the house carelessly as though, possibly, just coming back
from his work on some distant part of the plantation.

Cole and Tom formed their plans instantly. They must release the
prisoners, and if possible they must secure what ammunition the Tories
possessed, for Marion was so badly in need of it that even a few rounds
would be welcome. It was well known that the Tories were always well
supplied with powder and shot; the king furnished it to them, not
grudgingly as he did to his regular troops, but freely; and they used
it in a corresponding fashion.

“I’ll manage to get the rifles out of their reach,” said Tom to Cole.
“You slip around to the barn and see if you can liberate the men. If
there is a guard over them, which most likely there will be, dispose of
him quietly. I need not tell you to avoid unnecessary bloodshed, for I
know that you will do that, anyway.”

Cole nodded his understanding of his master’s instructions and moved
softly away; but in a moment he turned and came back.

“What’s the matter?” asked Tom, in surprise.

Cole held out his hand; the gesture was more eloquent than any words
could have been; it spoke of the friendship and love that existed
between master and man, of the affection that began in childhood and
would only end in death. Tom’s eyes filled with tears; he grasped the
outstretched hand tightly.

“Forgive me, Cole,” said he, “for not thinking of it first. We are
going into danger, and either of us, or both, may not come out of it
alive. If this should prove the case: good-bye.”

Then they separated; Cole stole away toward the back of the house,
keeping his huge frame well concealed behind the tree trunks and thick
bush. The barn was a large structure, not a great distance from the
house, and as he came in view of the big doors Cole saw a man standing,
leaning upon the muzzle of a rifle and staring toward the mansion.

Tom set about his work as cautiously as the slave; he crept along
behind the bush and a stone fence until he reached a spot almost
directly in line with the old apple tree which Dogberry had mentioned.
It stood almost in the centre of the lawn; a few rustic seats were
at the foot, for it formed a delightful place for a rest upon a hot
afternoon.

“And there are the Tories’ rifles, sure enough,” muttered the lad. “No
one seems left to watch over them; so I’d best make the move quickly,
for there will hardly be a better opportunity.”

After a long, last look about to see that no one was observing him,
Tom broke from cover and boldly stepped out across the lawn toward the
tree where the guns were standing. He deemed it best to attempt the
thing boldly; for as it was broad day cunning would be thrown away. The
rifles were of the variety provided by the king to his loyal subjects
in North America, and were rather heavy. Tom took up the entire nine,
however, having left his own light fowling-piece behind in the bush;
it was rather a heavy load, but the lad was strong and toughened by
constant outdoor exercise, so he managed to carry them off back along
the track by which he had approached, and concealed them in a safe
place.

Not a sound was to be heard anywhere save the low, moaning chant of
some slaves at work in a far-off field, and an occasional outburst of
rude laughter from the mansion. There was no sign of Cole; Tom stole to
a position from which he could view the barn. He, too, saw the man with
a rifle, on guard before the big door.

“A man on the watch, as I supposed there would be,” muttered the
boy. “I don’t think Cole will be able to approach him unseen. But, I
wonder----”

He paused suddenly, for the guard at the barn door had moved slightly
and afforded a clearer view of his face.

“It’s Cole!” breathed Tom, excitedly. “Good for him!”

He watched for a few moments; but the colossal negro did not move;
he might have been asleep on his feet, so quietly did he stand. A
renewed burst of laughter just then came from the house and drew Tom’s
attention from him for a moment. When his gaze returned once more, Cole
had vanished!

Tom could not believe his eyes for a moment; but a second glance proved
to him that the first had been right. There did not seem to be any
place near at hand behind which Cole could conceal himself; and Tom was
greatly puzzled.

“However,” he muttered, after a time spent in waiting for the great
negro to reappear, “wherever Cole is he’ll render a good account of
himself; so I need not worry about it.”

He made his way back to the front of the Foster house. The lawn was
still deserted; no one was in sight, but the boisterous laughter of
the Tories within showed that they were still carrying through their,
apparently, fixed plan of revelry.

“I’d like to get a view of what’s going on,” said the lad to himself.
“Mr. Foster has done me many favors and been of great assistance to
General Marion and the cause; so I’d risk a great deal to help him in
any way that I could.”

The more he pondered the matter the more he felt inclined to approach
the house; it was a daring thing to do, but a scout for the Swamp-Fox
must become accustomed to daring deeds, and Tom had had his share of
them.

“If only Cole were here,” thought he, “I would not hesitate a minute.
But here goes anyhow; I’ll trust to luck, for this once, though the
colonel would be against that sort of thing if he were here. He says
always be sure of your aim and of what you are about to strike, before
dealing the blow.”

He had started for the house while he was still speaking; as noticed
before, there were no windows overlooking the lawn from the first
floor; so there was no danger of being overseen in this way; but,
still, there was a wide doorway leading out upon a long veranda; some
one might come out and discover him at any moment.

He did not breathe freely until he reached the shelter of the walls,
against which clung and climbed a thick growth of honeysuckle. This, at
least, would afford a slight concealment; and he worked his way slowly
along until he was in position to see any one who came out of the house
by the front door.

“It’s good that the vine is thick and rather loose at the bottom,” said
Tom, drawing the tendrils about him. “It would be a ticklish thing to
stand here without any cover at all.”

He stood there for some little time, debating as to what his next move
should be. He had concluded that a venture around the corner of the
house would be about the best thing he could do, when suddenly there
came a sharp metallic click, followed by the sound of a closing door.
Tom’s heart beat loudly against his ribs; he peeped through the screen
of vine leaves toward the veranda.

A tall young girl stood there; she was attired in white, and her dark
eyes were flashing with resentment; there was a hot flush upon her
cheeks, as she threw out her arms, in a gesture of anger, and exclaimed:

“Oh, how long is this to last! how long is it to last! They are brutes
to treat my father so; to be taken prisoner by the enemy would not be
near so bad.”

“It’s Lucy,” said Tom to himself, as he recognized Mr. Foster’s
daughter. “And something unpleasant is happening, just as I thought.”

“If I were only a man!” whispered the girl passionately. “If I only had
brothers, we should see how long these cowards would infest my father’s
house.”

There was a short, clear whistle by which Tom attracted the attention
of the Foster household before he ventured into the open upon his
visits. It was a signal well known to Mr. Foster, Lucy and the more
trustworthy of the slaves; and Tom now placed his fingers to his lips
and whistled the notes softly.

Lucy started as the sound struck her ear; with quick steps she came
forward to the rail of the veranda and leaned forward eagerly. Tom was
just about to step from his place of concealment behind the vines, when
the door opened and closed swiftly, and Mark Harwood stood upon the
veranda at Lucy Foster’s side.

The girl went pale and caught her breath; Tom shrank back among the
vines, clutching the pistol which he had taken the precaution to bring
with him.

“Miss Lucy,” spoke Mark Harwood.

Anger sparkled in the girl’s eye as he addressed her; it was clear
that she held him in great aversion. Mark’s face showed the same sly,
crafty, smiling expression as of yore; and he rubbed his hands together
as he stood there, exciting in his Cousin Tom’s breast an indignant
desire to come out and kick him.

“Why have you left the room and your father’s guests?” inquired Mark.

“My father’s guests!” Lucy turned upon him a look of scorn.

“They are all your father’s friends, are they not?”

“They are his enemies,” returned the girl, “and well you know it, Mark
Harwood.”

“I am sorry to hear you say that,” said Mark, “because you know that
I----”

“I also know you to be his enemy,” flashed the young lady.

“Lucy!” his voice was filled with injured surprise.

“Oh, don’t use that tone to me! It does not deceive me for a moment.
You are a king’s man--a Tory--a spy of Cornwallis. Even at this moment
you are here in the British general’s pay, to collect any evidence that
may be injurious to my poor father.”

“You are mistaken, Lucy. You do me an injustice. It is true that I am
loyal to the king----”

“Yes, and to prove your loyalty you place yourself at the head of a
band of men who would be a disgrace to the most barbarous country;
they kill, burn, and destroy the lives and possessions of inoffensive
persons, and you take pride in it, Mark Harwood; your boasts have
reached my ears, even here!”

He looked at her for a moment; the offensive smile gradually faded from
his face and a bitter look took its place. He saw that his pretensions
did not throw her off her guard, so he showed his true colors.

“So you have heard of some of my doings,” laughed he, savagely. “Well,
I can’t say that it has affected you greatly.”

“If you mean that your deeds have not frightened me, you are right. I
do not fear you, Mark Harwood, and I never shall.”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” sneered he. “Stranger things have
happened. This is a nest of rebels, and----”

“Prove it.”

“Your father’s refusal to aid the cause of the king is proof enough.”

“Take care,” said Lucy, bravely. “Do not go too far. Remember that my
father has powerful friends in England--friends who will not desert him
if he is in need.”

“Do you suppose that I don’t know that? His influence has been all
that saved him a dozen times or more. But he is a rebel, and you are a
rebel; don’t deny it.”

“I cannot speak for my father,” exclaimed Lucy, “but I can for myself.
I love liberty and hate the tyrannies of the king.”

“Brave girl!” exclaimed the concealed Tom, incautiously.

The sound of his voice reached Mark’s ears, but not the substance of
the words.

“What was that?” said the young Tory, his face paling slightly. But
Lucy gazed steadfastly away and did not answer.

“Did you not hear something like a voice?”

She made no reply; he listened for a moment and then went half-way
down the broad stone steps that led to the veranda, and looked about
searchingly. Tom flattened himself against the wall of the house; the
thick, odorous runners of the vine hung in a heavy screen before him,
effectually hiding him from Mark’s prying eyes. At length the latter
returned to the veranda, but his suspicions were aroused, and he looked
at Lucy from under his frowning brows.

“Did you hear a voice?” inquired he.

But still she did not answer; he bit his lip vexedly, then laughed.

“Do you know,” said he, “when I stood just inside the door there,
before coming out, I heard voices. Who were you talking to?”

“I was talking to myself,” said Lucy, truthfully.

“A likely story,” he sneered. “However, if there is any one lurking
about here I’ll beat him out like a rabbit.” He turned to the door and
paused with his hand upon the catch. “And, by the way, Miss Lucy,”
he continued, “you need not trouble yourself to warn your friend the
rebel, if there is one near at hand; for it will do no good. We’ll
catch him if he were as elusive as the Swamp-Fox, himself.”

Then the door closed behind him; Lucy with her breath catching in sobs
of fright, sprang down the steps.

“Where are you?” she cried.

“Here,” answered Tom, stepping from his hiding-place.

“You are in great danger,” panted Lucy.

“I heard all,” said the boy, quietly.

“Run,” she cried. “They will have no mercy, if they take you.”

“I should expect none in that event.”

The tramp of feet sounded in the hall, coming toward the door.

“They are coming,” exclaimed the poor, frightened girl. “Oh, what will
you do?”

“Calm yourself. If you look as frightened as all that they will be
assured that they are upon the scent of something. Be brave; I know you
can do it, Lucy, if you want to.”

He was unable to say more before the door opened. He turned and ran
rapidly and softly until he rounded the corner of the house at the
upper side. A group of fierce, hectoring men, with sabres belted at
their waists, trooped out at the heels of Mark Harwood.

“Now, gentlemen,” said the latter, “I’m pretty sure that there is a
skulking rebel concealed about here somewhere. Scatter, and run your
blades into every bush. We’ll be sure to stir him out of his hiding.”

The Tories did as directed, while Lucy stood watching them from the
steps. She seemed calm enough; but the twitching of her mouth and the
light in her eyes showed the fear that was almost overwhelming her.
However, she had no cause for immediate fear, for the very daring of
Tom Deering had, by this time, placed him out of pressing danger.

Upon the upper side of the house were a number of long, narrow
windows, set with diamond shaped panes of glass. These opened from
the dining-room; and at the very first one, upon turning the corner of
the house, the lad saw the black, scared face of the slave Dogberry,
looking down at him.

“Goodness me!” Dogberry stared with all his might. “Am dat really you,
Mars Tom?”

“Yes; who’s there with you, Dogberry?”

“Not anybody, sah. They all just now rush out to cotch you.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Tom Deering sprang up, caught the ledge
of the window and drew himself up. He had just vanished, through the
window, when the first Tory rounded the corner.



CHAPTER IX

HOW TOM DEERING HELD THE STAIRCASE


THE dining-room of the Foster mansion presented an appearance of
great confusion, and Tom looked about in astonishment. The furniture
was thrown about in much disorder; some of the costly pictures had
been torn from the walls; others hung askew; valuable bric-à-brac was
shattered upon the hearth.

“What has been going on here, Dogberry?” asked the young swamp-rider.

“Didn’t I told you, Mars Tom, dat dose gemmen was carrying on
scand’lus. Just take a look around and see if I ain’t right.”

At this moment a thin, white-faced man entered the apartment; he had
the appearance of an invalid, and seemed very much disturbed. At sight
of the boy he started back, with a cry.

“You here!” he exclaimed, astonished.

“Yes, Mr. Foster,” quietly, “I am here. Pardon my entering without
being asked; but your Tory visitors became a trifle too pressing
outside there.”

“Oh,” cried Mr. Foster, “when shall I rid myself of them! See what they
have done,” with a gesture of one thin hand at the ruin of his precious
objects of art; “wanton vandalism--without a shadow of excuse.”

“The cowards!” broke out Tom, angrily.

“They demanded wine,” said Mr. Foster, “well knowing that I never keep
it in the house; and because I was unable to produce it for their
entertainment they proceeded to destroy whatever their hands fell upon.”

“It’s a shame,” cried Tom, his voice full of honest indignation at the
outrage and sincere pity for the frail, white-faced man who could not
resent the wrong done him. “But we’ll see what we can do for these
gentry before the day is over.”

“Your cousin, Mark Harwood, is their leader,” said Mr. Foster.

Tom reddened with shame at the words. “Mr. Foster,” said he, “he is
a sort of cousin of mine, it is true; but not a single drop of the
Deering blood flows in his veins.”

“Forgive me,” cried Mr. Foster. “I had not intended, my boy, to make
you remember a relationship that must be painful to you at all times.
But,” looking hurriedly about, “we must not forget that you are in a
position of no little peril. If the Tories were to return and find you
here----”

“Dey am returning, Mars Foster!” exclaimed Dogberry, who had left the
apartment as Mr. Foster entered, and now came posting back, his black
face shining with excitement. “Dey’s all on de veranda now, sah.”

Tom glanced swiftly toward the window.

“No, no,” cried Mr. Foster, “not that; they may be watching for you
there.”

“I must get cover of some kind,” said Tom. “Do you not hear their
footsteps? I shall be caught like a rat in a trap!” His glance
traveled rapidly about the room. “Have you not a cupboard or some such
thing in which I can conceal myself?”

“No,” said Mr. Foster, in despair. But suddenly his face lighted up. “I
have it; the very thing.”

Grasping Tom by the arm he threw open a door. The boy found himself in
a wide hallway at the end of which was a broad steep flight of stairs
leading to the floor above. Almost at the foot of the staircase was a
large clock whose wooden works made a burring sound as they moved, and
whose great pendulum ticked loudly, slowly, solemnly. The clock almost
reached from floor to ceiling: Mr. Foster threw open the painted glass
door.

“There is room for you there,” said he.

In a moment Tom was inside the big clock with the door closed upon him;
almost at the same moment the outer door opened, and the Tories came
stamping noisily into the hall.

“I don’t believe there is any one about the place except those who
belong here,” said one of them in a loud voice.

“I tell you I heard a strange voice,” insisted Mark Harwood.

“Bah!” The owner of the big voice was a huge man, with massive limbs
and the torso of a giant. As he came down the hall he grumbled, “How
long are you going to keep us at this place, anyhow; let’s put the
torch to it and be off.”

“Plenty of time for that,” said Mark. “Don’t be in a hurry.”

“Hurry,” growled the big man. “We’ve been here,” he drew out a heavy
gold watch, “almost three hours,” he continued, consulting the
timepiece.

“Oh, your watch is wrong!”

“Wrong! This watch is never wrong. But, hold on, let’s compare it with
Master Foster’s clock.”

Tom held his breath as the speaker paused before the clock.

“Hello, the confounded thing has stopped,” said the big man. “Run down,
I suppose. Wait, gentlemen; I’ll do Foster a favor by opening his clock
and winding it up.”

He had his hand upon the catch of the clock door when Mark Harwood
pulled him away.

“Never mind the clock,” said the latter; “let us attend to more
important matters.”

Mr. Foster had re-entered the dining-room as soon as Tom had hidden
himself in the clock case; therefore he neither saw nor heard what
passed in the hall. The Tories came into the room, their swords
clanking and their spurs jingling.

“It’s a good thing for you, Foster,” growled the huge man, whose name,
by the way, was Clarage--a notorious bully and leader of a body of
Major Gainey’s loyalists--“that we did not find any one lurking about
the grounds.”

“You could not have done much worse than you have already done,” said
Mr. Foster, bitterly.

“So you think,” put in Mark Harwood. “But we would have proven you
wrong without loss of time, my dear sir; mind you that.”

“A long rope and a stout limb for the spy,” laughed Clarage; “and not
to be any way mean, Foster, we would have given you a place beside him.”

Lucy Foster came in at that moment, and her eyes filled with renewed
resentment as she heard these words addressed to her invalid father.

“How long, Mr. Clarage,” she asked, “is this to continue? My father is
not strong, as you well know; your ruffianly behavior is making him
ill!”

“Ah, it is the little rebel,” laughed Clarage, in his bull-like tones.
Then he turned to Mark Harwood. “Do you know, Harwood, who she reminds
me of as she stands there with her eyes flashing and her little hands
clinched? Why, that cousin of yours--Laura, you know. Why man, it seems
to me that all the prettiest girls in the colony are rebels.”

“But Laura will not remain one for any great length of time,” said
Mark. “And neither would Miss Lucy, here, for all her angry looks,
under like conditions.”

“Why, how is that?”

“Laura is to be married,” returned Mark.

Tom Deering, in the tall clock, started.

“Married, eh?” said Clarage. “And when, pray?”

“On next Christmas eve.”

“And to whom?”

“To Lieutenant Cheyne, of Tarleton’s horse.”

Laura married! and to the inhuman monster who had tortured poor Cole!
Tom could not, would not believe it!

“I did not fancy she’d consent to wed a king’s officer,” said one of
the Tory band. “She was always a proud little thing--a very spitfire.”

“Oh, she’ll consent fast enough,” laughed Mark. “She refused Cheyne,
point-blank, when my father proposed the match; but before Christmas
day comes around, she’ll have changed her mind, I’ll promise you that.
My father is not a man to be balked in his purpose by a slip of a girl.”

“Why did he select Cheyne as her husband?” asked Clarage, with
interest. “Come, tell us that; I’ll warrant there’s some good reason
for it.”

“There is a good reason for everything that Jasper Harwood does,” said
the Tory who had before spoken.

“You are right in that,” said Mark. “You see, father is very anxious
that the estate of our rebel relative, Deering, who was taken in arms
against the king, shall not revert to the crown.”

“Very good of him,” said some one. “But it is the first time that I
knew him to have any friendly feeling toward Deering.”

“He has none. It is not for Deering’s sake that my father is anxious,
but for his own. You see, he wants the estate for himself.”

A gale of laughter went up at this confession. Lucy had been urging her
father to go to his chamber, as his face was growing more drawn and
haggard every moment, showing that the strain was greater than he cared
to admit. At last he consented; she opened the door leading into the
hall and he passed out, thinking that Lucy was following him. He paused
at the tall clock to speak an encouraging word to the boy concealed
therein, then looked surprisedly about for Lucy.

“She has gone on up to her room without waiting for me,” said he, to
himself. Then with another “courage, my lad,” to Tom, he ascended the
staircase.

In the meantime Mark Harwood was explaining, with evident delight, his
father’s reasons for marrying Laura to the British dragoon.

“Cheyne,” said he, “has some very high-class connections across the
water; an uncle is the Duke of Shropshire, you know, and the Marquis of
Dorking is a cousin. Both of these gentlemen are very friendly with the
king and Lord North; so, you see, with the lieutenant in the family,
there is no great danger of our losing the Deering estate.”

Another shout of laughter greeted this; the crafty methods of Jasper
Harwood seemed to please the Tories greatly. Suddenly there came a loud
bellowing from Clarage, and the laughter ceased.

“Where has Foster gone?” demanded the Tory. “What has become of him? He
was here a moment ago.”

“He’s up to some trick,” cried Mark Harwood excitedly. “There is a Whig
spy about, somewhere; and Foster has gone to warn and help him to elude
us.”

There was an instant rush for the door; but Lucy Foster stood there
barring their passage.

“My father is unwell,” she said, quietly, but with a slight tremble in
her voice. “He has gone to his chamber to rest.”

“Ah, is it so, indeed,” sneered young Harwood. “Well, we will assure
ourselves of that, Miss Lucy, if you please. Stand aside.”

“I will not!” cried she, defiantly.

“Don’t waste words with her,” growled Clarage. “There is no knowing
what her rebel father is up to while we are parleying with her, here.”

“I shall not move!” exclaimed Lucy, in ringing tones. “My father has
gone to his chamber because he is unwell--I give you my word for that.
Is it not enough?”

“No,” said Harwood. “We’ll see for ourselves.”

“You shall not disturb him. It is cruel--it is a sin--for he is weak
and ill.”

Without any further words the Tories sprang at her. But at that same
instant the door, against which the brave girl had placed her back,
opened behind her; a strong arm drew her quickly into the hall; then
the door closed with a snap and the astounded king’s men found
themselves facing, not a weak girl, but a tall, muscular youth with a
keen bronzed face, steady, cool eyes, and a naked sabre in his hand.

“Gentlemen,” said he, his fearless gaze traveling over them as he stood
there, “I bid you good-day.”

“Tom Deering,” cried Mark Harwood, astounded.

“Quite so!” The young swamp-rider’s eyes were filled with scorn as he
addressed himself to his Tory cousin. “You are surprised to see me, I
take it.”

“Who is this fool that places his head in the lion’s mouth?” roared
Clarage, his deep voice sounding like the rumbling of distant thunder.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Tom’s level gaze met Clarage’s furious one,
with quiet assurance. “There are no lions here; it is more like a nest
of rats.”

With a snarl the big Tory dragged his heavy, brass hilted sword from
its scabbard.

“Then feel of the rat’s teeth,” he growled drawing back his arm for a
tremendous blow.

“It’s the scout of the Swamp-Fox,” cried Mark Harwood. “Cut him down.”

Tom smiled at the eagerness in his cousin’s voice, and at his very
evident disinclination to try to put the words into execution upon
his own account. The careful teaching of Victor St. Mar had not been
forgotten; on the contrary, Tom had not ceased to practice with small
sword and sabre each day of his life; until, at last, there was not a
man in Marion’s brigade that could stand before him sword in hand.

This gave him a feeling of confidence when Clarage drew back his heavy
blade to cut him down, as Mark Harwood had cried out for him to do. The
Tory had great strength, it was true, but the lad’s practiced eye told
him that there was absolutely no skill behind it.

“Now, my jackanapes,” bellowed Clarage, “I’ll nail you against the
door!”

The heavy blade cut downward with a swish. But it was met and deftly
turned aside; and the wielder of it received a sharp, contemptuous rap
upon the side of the head from the flat of the boy’s sabre, in return.

“Rats!” rang out Tom’s voice. “Rats, all of you! Insulters of girls and
bullies of old men! You dare not face one who rides with Marion. I defy
you all!”

For, at this exhibition of his dexterity with the blade which he held
in his hand, the Tories had ceased to display any undue eagerness to
come forward. Clarage, indeed, made well nigh mad with rage, strove to
get in a cut; but the flashing sabre of the swamp-rider drove him back
with ease.

“Pistols,” cried one. “At him with the pistols.”

“They are in the holsters in the stable,” returned another. This was a
fact that had been noted by Tom; the total absence of firearms among
the Tories was the reason for his, seemingly, uncalled-for boldness.

“Are we to let one boy hold us at bay,” shouted Clarage, flecks of
white foam appearing upon his lip, so great was his rage. “At him, all
together! Cut him down!”

A circle of drawn swords flashed in Tom’s eyes; but before they could
strike, he had vanished through the door and clapped it in their faces.

“After him,” bawled Clarage, in a hoarse, thick voice, as he tore the
door open and dashed into the hall. “Don’t let him escape.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, my dear sirs,” came a steady, resolute voice
from above. In amaze they glared upward. About midway on the staircase
stood the bold youth who had so braved their wrath, his sabre point
resting upon the step upon which he stood. “I have not the slightest
intention of escaping; your company is too entertaining for me to
desire to leave you.”

“We have him safely,” said Mark Harwood in tones of triumph. “Escape
is impossible now; get the muskets, Fannin,” to one of the others,
“we’ll soon bring him to his knees.”

The man shot quickly down the hall and out at the front door. Tom’s
laugh rang in the ears of the seven who remained, for he was thinking
of the disappointment that was in store for them.

“He must be mad,” growled Clarage at this. “No sane person would laugh
at the prospect of certain death.”

“Right,” said Tom. “You are always right, except when you imagine you
can handle a sword.”

Once more his laugh rang out; and before he had done, the man sent for
the firearms came racing back.

“The rifles are gone,” he announced.

“Gone!” they stared at him in consternation. “What do you mean, Fannin?”

“Just what I say,” returned the Tory. “The rifles have been carried
off.”

“I have taken good care of that,” cried the lad on the staircase. “Your
rifles, gentlemen, are where you will not be able to find them in a
hurry. If you want to take me it must be hand to hand.”

“Then hand to hand it shall be,” roared Clarage, his face purple with
passion. “Shall it be said,” he cried, turning to his companions, “that
one rebel boy held back and defied eight loyal subjects of the king?”

His was the boldest spirit among them, and now its influence began to
be felt.

“No! No!” they shouted.

“Then at him, like men. I only ask you to follow me.”

They took tighter grips upon the hilts of their swords. There was a
window at the head of the staircase and a landing just under it. A
broad beam of sunlight streamed through the window and bathed the
staircase and the boy upon it in a flood of golden light. As the Tories
brandished their swords for the rush, Tom heard a slight sound behind
him; turning his head a little he saw Lucy Foster, pale faced and with
clasped hands, standing upon the landing near the window.

“Don’t come any farther, if you value your safety and mine, also,”
he had just time to call to her, and then the Tories were upon him.
Clarage was first; he delivered a mighty cut at Tom’s head, but it was
put aside and the young swamp-rider’s blade bit deeply into his right
shoulder. Clarage uttered a roar of rage; his right arm was helpless,
but he transferred his sword to his left and came on again. At each
side of Clarage and over his shoulder the other Tories were cutting and
thrusting desperately at Tom. The blows came swiftly and frequently;
but his blade met them all, darting here and there like a streak of
light and seeming at times to twine about their own like the coils of a
metallic snake.

Desperately the battle waged on their part and gallantly upon his; the
girl behind him, upon the landing, more than once cried out in fear
as she saw almost certain death threatening the youth from the Tories’
sword points; but each time he redoubled his exertions and swept the
staircase clear of his foes.

However, this could not last; he was but human, and his strength at
last began to fail; two of his assailants were lying, disabled, at the
foot of the stairs, and the others, to a man, bore testimony to his
prowess. But, when they saw his strength waning, under the urging of
Mark Harwood they pressed upon him, dealing showers of blows with their
heavy sabres.

“Surrender,” cried Mark Harwood.

“You’ll take me, if you get me at all,” panted Tom, dealing an ugly cut
at the nearest Tory.

“Then take you we will,” shouted the bull voice of Clarage. “Press on,
men; he cannot strike so swiftly now. Press on and we have him.”

They crowded upon him with loud shouts and whirling swords. Step by
step he was beaten back, breathless, exhausted, but fighting on. And
when the moment came when he must be taken or cut down, there was a
sudden crashing sound from behind him; the glass of the window at the
landing was splintered and the frame was dashed in upon the floor. The
lad’s heart sank, for he fancied it must be some of the enemy come to
take him in the rear. He dared not turn his head to see, for the blows
were showering about him; but, then, his heart gave a great bound of
joy as a strange, weird cry sounded in his ears and the giant form of
Cole sprang through the shattered window and stood towering and glaring
beside him.

But, as it chanced, the colossal slave was weaponless. Mighty as was
his strength he could not pit his naked hands against the Tories’
swords. At the turn of the staircase, on the landing, a thick oaken
post, carved and about the height of a fair-sized man stood, supporting
the stair-rail.

[Illustration: _STEP BY STEP HE WAS BEATEN BACK_]

With a bound he had reached it; with a mighty wrench he tore it from
its place; and, waving this massive weapon as lightly as a child would
a sword of lath, he flung himself into the fight.

Tom was about striking his last weak blow, as the Tories saw clearly.
But before the terrific onslaught of the giant they recoiled, amazed;
the huge club wheeled about his head once, twice, thrice and they were
swept, howling, to the bottom of the stairs.

“Brave Cole!” Tom gasped the words as he sank back upon the stairs,
exhausted. “Strike hard; it’s our lives or theirs.”

At that time one of the party discovered Mr. Foster’s arms chest; the
Tories threw themselves upon it with shouts of delight and in another
moment a blazing volley swept up the staircase, the bullets singing
spitefully past Cole’s ears.

“Back,” cried Tom. “Back, Cole.”

They bounded round the turn in the stairs, Tom bearing the frightened
girl with him. Another volley crashed into the wall, behind where they
had just stood.

“They will be upon us in a moment,” said Tom, his face pale, but his
eyes burning with a resolute light. “Miss Lucy, leave us; we cannot
hope to hold them back, now; you will be in danger.”

The Tories were reloading in the hall; Clarage was roaring in furious
delight and stamping about like an enraged lion. Cole was rapidly
telling Tom all about what had been done at the barn, his fingers
flying like mad.

“They are ours now,” stormed Clarage, in loud triumph. “We’ll make them
beg; the rebels, the dogs--we’ll show them what king’s men can do.”

“It’s high time you were doing it.” Tom bent over the broken rail at
the place from where Cole had torn his mighty club. “It seems to me,
the loyal subjects of the king have performed rather badly to-day.”

“But we’ll do better from now on,” laughed Clarage, who had in the
height of their triumph actually begun to grow good-humored. “Are you
ready, gentlemen?” to the others.

“Yes, yes,” came a chorus.

To the astonishment of all, Tom Deering stepped boldly forward into
plain view; he was without weapons, and Clarage, with a roar of
laughter, at once jumped to the conclusion that he meant to surrender.

“He has weakened,” he yelled. “The rebel has weakened.”

“Shoot him down,” cried Mark Harwood, from well in the rear. “No
quarter!”

Tom held up his hand, quietly; he showed not the slightest trace of
fear, for the things that Cole had made him understand had filled him
with confidence. The Tories below gazed up at him in astonishment. Tom
spoke:

“I charge all men within hearing of my voice to lay down their arms, in
peace. You are enemies to your neighbors and to Carolina, and in the
name of the Continental Congress, I call upon you to surrender.”

“He’s mad!” burst out Clarage, “as mad as a March hare!”

“Down with him,” shrilled the voice of Mark Harwood. “No quarter to the
rebel.”

The muskets were about to be raised to their owners’ shoulders; Tom’s
voice rang out warningly.

“On your lives, lay down your arms.”

A shout of derision greeted the words; then the young swamp-rider’s
fingers went to his lips and a sharp, shrill whistle split the air.
It was the signal that Cole had arranged with the released prisoners;
and like magic it was answered. Through every door and window, it
seemed, sprang a resolute man; before the Tories could raise a hand a
shattering volley was poured into them. A cloud of smoke, cries and
the sound of heavy blows were swept up the staircase; Lucy, her hand
pressed to her wildly-beating heart, made as though to look over the
rail at the awful scene below. But Tom put her aside, almost roughly.

“Don’t look,” said he. “There is nothing there for you to see.”

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when the door below opened
with a crash; shouts and cries were heard upon the veranda and lawn.
Tom rushed to a window and looked out. He was just in time to see Mark
Harwood, Clarage and the other surviving Tories rush toward the barn,
spring upon the backs of the horses which the liberated prisoners had
brought out for their own use, and gallop swiftly away.



CHAPTER X

HOW MARION’S MEN LAY IN AMBUSH, AND WHAT CAME OF IT


THIS encounter of Tom Deering with the loyalists at the Foster mansion
made a great stir. Mr. Foster, of course, could no longer remain at his
home, where the British were likely to close in upon him at any time;
so he and Lucy, taking their most valuable possessions, made their
way northward toward Virginia. From this time on, also, the British
commander, Cornwallis, displayed a greater solicitude than ever in the
attempts to capture Marion and disperse his band of horsemen.

The legion of Tarleton and a strong force under Major Wemyss were
set in motion to beat him out of his retreats in the cane-brakes and
swamps. It was Cornwallis’ intention to have these forces cooperate,
but Tarleton was delayed and Wemyss would not wait for him.

Through his young scout Marion was kept posted as to the movements of
the advancing enemy.

“Major Wemyss is in command of the Sixty-third Regiment,” reported Tom,
“and he has with him, also, a large party of Tories, under Clarage.”

“Very good,” said Colonel Marion, briefly. “We must prepare to give
them the reception that is due them.”

Major James, a gallant and skilful officer, was summoned and despatched
with a select body of volunteers to reconnoitre. All the outposts were
called in and, thus united, Marion followed swiftly upon the footsteps
of James.

Accompanying the latter was Tom, Cole, and Nat and David Collins. They
pushed quickly forward among the morasses and sunk-land, under the
great trees hanging with moss and a rank growth of creepers; and at
last Major James gave the word to halt.

“Deering,” said he to Tom, “ride carefully forward. I fancy we are
about to come in touch with the enemy. Take a few of the men with you.”

Tom selected Cole, of course, and the two Collinses. They rode slowly
forward, in Indian file, along a narrow road between two impassable
morasses, alert and cautious, never for a moment forgetting that they
were in the neighborhood of the British.

“I hear,” said Nat Collins, who rode at Tom’s side, “that Clarage took
some prisoners north of this place.”

“Prisoners!” the word always had a peculiar interest for Tom; it set
him thinking of his father, so long in the hands of the British--made
him long for a sight of him again.

“A rich booty came with these prisoners, too, so the report goes,”
continued Nat. “A booty that King George’s treasury will never see, I
suppose.”

“The Tories make this war an excuse for plunder,” said Tom. “A great
many of them are more actuated by a desire to seize upon their
neighbors’ goods, than by longing to serve King George.”

Cole, who rode in front, at this point drew rein upon Dando, and held
up his hand. All halted immediately. From far off in the swamp came a
low, steady sound, a rising and falling that seemed to draw nearer with
each passing moment.

“What is it?” asked David Collins, in a hushed voice.

“It’s like the sound of hoofs,” answered Tom. “Hoof-beats in a swamp,
I’ve noticed, have a strangeness about them that seems uncanny. The
ground is so soft, and the thick growth muffles the sound so. I’ve lain
and listened to them many times in the night; they sound all the more
strange coming through the darkness.”

But he was not sure that this was the same sound; and they became
silent once more and listened attentively. Suddenly a night bird began
to wheel in short circles above the tree-top, and its rasping cries
broke the stillness abruptly.

“We’ll not be able to make sure while that fellow is about,” laughed
Tom. “He seems to object to our presence.”

He dismounted and gave Sultan’s rein to Cole. Kneeling in the narrow
road he pressed his ear to the ground, and kept it there for a long
time. At length he arose.

“Yes, horses,” said he, “and quite a lot of them. They seem to be
coming along the main road, west of here.” He remounted Sultan and
sat silently for a moment. Then he continued, “They are going in the
direction of the ford that crosses the Congaree near Fort Mott. There
is only one reason why a party of the enemy should be heading for Fort
Mott at this time, when they have only started out to seek us.”

“I know,” broke in Nat Collins, “I know what you are thinking. It’s
the Tories, under Clarage, and they are taking the prisoners, which I
spoke of, to the fort for safe keeping.”

“Right,” said Tom, his eyes snapping; “that is exactly what occurred
to me. And, look here, what a pity it is that Major James is not here,
and the rest of his men. The Tories will be forced to pass the ruined
mill that stands back from the west road, a short distance from here.
We could reach that point long before them, judging from the sound of
their horses’ feet, and we could give them a surprise.”

For a moment there was silence; then Nat and David broke forth, at once.

“Let us try it--alone!”

Tom laughed in sheer glee, and cried excitedly,

“Do you mean it?”

“We do,” in a breath.

Tom turned to Cole. The great negro grinned; anything that his young
master thought of doing was always of great interest to Cole, because,
as a rule, what his young master thought it worth while to do usually
contained some spice of excitement. Tom knew what the slave’s grin
expressed as well as though it had been in words.

“Good!” cried he. “We’re all agreed; and we’ll try it alone. It can do
no harm, even if we fail.”

Wheeling their horses they spurred back along the road by which they
had come, until they struck a narrow path branching toward the west.
Galloping through such a swamp as that and along such a narrow, crooked
track, in the darkness, was a most dangerous proceeding; but they were
all young and danger, to their ardent spirits, meant but little.

The old mill of which Tom had spoken lay upon the west road--that is
the road leading to the Congaree;--it was deserted and had fallen into
ruins years before. It was seldom that any one troubled it with his
presence; so it was an ideal spot for a surprise or ambuscade. A sharp
gallop of, perhaps, a quarter of an hour brought our four adventurers
to the old mill. The moon was shining brightly; but the overhanging
trees that surrounded the ruin threw it into a deep shadow. A dense
thicket stretched along the roadside well in this shadow, and it was
behind this that our friends ensconced themselves, after first securing
their horses among the trees.

The hoof-beats of the party advancing along the western road now
sounded distinctly in their ears. There was little wind, but it was
blowing in their direction, and it carried the ringing strokes toward
them when the approaching riders came upon a stony part of the road;
but, as a rule, the sound was thick, dull and heavy, for the ground was
soggy, for the most part, and low.

“Look well to your primings,” spoke Tom, as they crouched behind the
thicket. “And keep your pistols at hand, for we will need a second
volley.”

Nearer and nearer came the riders; the rumble of wheels could, also,
now be distinguished; and soon in the moonlit road they saw about a
dozen horsemen, some riding ahead and some alongside a small train of
four wagons.

“It’s an escort with Clarage’s prisoners, sure enough,” Nat Collins
breathed into Tom Deering’s ear. “See, they have all the plunder in the
wagons, just as they took it.”

The wagons rumbled along slowly, drawn by plodding old plough-horses;
the steeds of the escort champed at their bits and pranced impatiently
at the slowness of the pace.

“Ready,” ordered Tom, in a low, sharp whisper. “I’ll give the word.”

The cavalcade was almost abreast of them when one of the escort called
out, apparently addressing some one in one of the wagons.

“So you thought you would run off up to Virginia, did you, Master
Foster, and give us the slip! Well, it’s a rare good thing that I
fell in with you, or who knows but you might have fallen in with
some dishonest rogues upon the way who might have robbed you of the
valuables contained in your wagons.”

“It’s Clarage, himself,” said Tom, startled. “And his prisoners are
Mr. Foster and his daughter Lucy.” He paused a moment, then leveled
his piece over the top of the thicket, his companions doing likewise.
“Fire,” he cried.

The four leveled rifles were discharged at once; two men fell from
their saddles into the road; another, desperately wounded, clung to his
horse’s neck as it raced madly away along the road.

“Hold your ground,” roared Clarage, his bull-like voice plainly to
be heard above all the confusion. His men had drawn together in a
group, their horses pawing and fighting for their heads against the
tautly-drawn bridles.

“The pistols,” whispered Tom. “Fire!”

The long-barreled pistols, of which each of the swamp-riders carried
two, exploded in their turn; a man and several horses went down;
then the second pistol came into play for a third volley with deadly
results. By this time Clarage and his followers, or what were left
of them, were struck by a panic; the three volleys of shots from the
thicket made it seem as though the ambushment was composed of a great
number of men; so, when the four leaped in a body into the road, their
swords flashing, and Tom turned and called, as though cheering on still
more, “Come on, lads; down with the Tories,” the escort could not be
restrained, but gave rein to their steeds and fled down the road toward
the Congaree with the raging Clarage thundering at their heels at every
bound.

At their flight Tom placed his foot on the hub of a wheel and sprang
into the leading wagon.

“Lucy,” he cried, “Mr. Foster.”

“It’s Mars Tom,” cried Dogberry, who had been driving the wagon, but
who at the first shot had dived under the seat. “It’s Mars Tom, Missy
Lucy. We’s safe again. Ha, ha, ha!”

In a moment Lucy Foster and her father were thanking them for this
timely service. Both were pale and worn-looking, especially Mr. Foster,
who had been greatly disturbed at the attack of the swamp-riders.

“We were on our way north,” explained Mr. Foster, “and were approaching
Fishdam Ferry when we were pounced upon by this man Clarage and his
ruffians. All that I have been able to save is contained in these
wagons; that and our lives, also, would have been lost had you not
appeared just as you did.”

“Oh, when will it all end,” cried poor Lucy, wringing her hands. “It is
dreadful; I shall never forget the scenes I have witnessed in the past
few weeks!”

“Don’t fear,” soothed Tom. “Marion will lend you an escort and see your
father safe on your journey. Meanwhile we had better be on our way
back. Major James will be awaiting us.”

Upon their return to the spot where they had left their party they
found that Major James, upon his own account, had also surprised a
party of the enemy and routed them without loss of a man. So, with Mr.
Foster’s wagons rolling along in the midst of them they made their way
toward the point where they were to meet Marion.



CHAPTER XI

HOW TOM MET WITH A BLINDFOLD ADVENTURE


IN the fall Marion defeated a large body of the enemy at the Black
Wingo. News had filtered its way into Carolina that General Greene had
succeeded Gates and was advancing with fresh recruits and the remnant
of the fugitives who survived the fatal battle of Camden. Marion was
most anxious to show Greene and his Continentals that there was a
spirit in the state, so he became more than usually active.

He recruited his force at Williamsburg and was marching to attack
Colonel Harrison, who was in force upon Lynch’s Creek; but his progress
in this direction was suddenly arrested one afternoon when Tom and
Cole dashed back from a scout and informed him that there was a large
gathering of Tories in and about Salem and the fork of the Black
River. Colonel Tynes, who commanded this force, had brought with him
large supplies of the materials of war and comfort-things in which
Marion’s riders stood very much in need. Tom drew pictures of new
English muskets, broadswords, bayonets, pistols, saddles and bridles,
powder and ball, and large stores of hard money which Tynes had also
brought to tempt new levies.

His men wanted so much for all these things that Marion could not
resist the boy’s eloquence. Harrison, for the time, was forgotten; and
the half-naked brigade was headed for Tarcote, in the forks of the
Black River. Crossing the lower ford of the northern branch of the
river, at Nelson’s plantation, Marion came upon the camp of Tynes at
midnight. A hurried survey revealed the fact that the Tories had made
no preparation to ward off an attack. Most of them were asleep; but
many were grouped about the camp-fires.

Hastily collecting his men, Marion struck like lightning. The surprise
was complete; the panic universal. Marion lost not a single man, and
gained a great store of clothing, arms and ammunition, as Tom had
predicted he would.

One after another these victories came; they were small in themselves
but they gave the patriots courage; they revived spirits that had
drooped since the taking of Charleston and the burnings and hangings by
Tarleton and his fierce dragoons. As the leaves yellowed and fell, and
long before the Christmas season set in, the cause of liberty once more
grew bright in Carolina.

Cornwallis was quick to feel this; his parties were continually under
arms; his columns were ever scouring the country for the elusive but
dangerous foe. But Marion had taught his countrymen how to fight
their powerful enemy; surprise, ambuscades, night marches, rapid
retreats--that was the story of his work, and it brought the British,
as far as results were concerned, almost to a standstill.

On December 30, 1780, Cornwallis, from his camp at Winnsborough, wrote
to Sir Henry Clinton at New York:

“Colonel Marion has so wrought upon the minds of the people ... that
there is scarcely an inhabitant between the Santee and Peedee that is
not in arms against us. Some parties have even crossed the Santee and
carried terror to the gates of Charleston.”

The daring expedition of which the British general wrote was led by
Tom Deering. For a long time he had been brooding upon the words of
Mark Harwood spoken that day at the Foster mansion. Laura was to be
forced by Jarvis Harwood to marry Lieutenant Cheyne at Christmas. This,
together with his inability to do anything for his imprisoned father
weighed heavily upon him; he could not sleep at night, and during the
day his helplessness to carry relief to those he cared most for in the
world preyed constantly upon him, allowing him no rest. Oh, if he could
only strike a blow for them; if he could only liberate his father from
the hulks in Charleston harbor--for he felt almost sure, by this, that
it was there he would find him--and save Laura from Jasper Harwood, he
would be happy and content.

He sat one night upon a cottonwood stump at the camp-fire brooding over
these things, with Cole stretched full length beside him, when Marion,
who was going the rounds of the camp, stopped to look at him.

“There is something,” said the commander, seating himself beside him on
the stump, “that has been upon your mind for some weeks past. What is
it?”

It was not often that Colonel Marion invited a confidence; he was as
kind and gentle a man as could be, but, as a rule, he treated his men
not too familiarly. So, his question proved his interest to Tom at once.

The lad told him of Laura, and of what was to happen at Christmas.
Marion listened and his dark, deep-set eyes kindled.

“The villains,” said he, warmly. “They would make this poor girl
the wife of a man whom she does not care for, in order to create an
influence that will enable them to possess themselves of your father’s
property.”

He paused for a moment, then turned suddenly upon his young scout.

“If I had not the cares and responsibilities of this command resting
upon me,” said he, “I would ask nothing better than to beard them under
their own guns and take this poor child from them.”

“Oh, if I could only make the attempt!” cried Tom. “I could learn
something of my father, too, perhaps. If I only had the force, I would
dare it.”

“Would any of your friends in the brigade volunteer for the adventure,
do you think?”

“A score of them!” exclaimed the youth.

“You have my permission to take them out on the enterprise,” said
Marion, kindly. “It will not only be doing the young lady a service if
you succeed, but will demonstrate to the enemy that we can penetrate
even into his most powerful towns.”

At last Tom had the chance he had so often prayed for. Overjoyed,
he went to work next day sounding his most intimate friends in the
brigade; he went to the younger men from choice, for it was to these
that the boldness of the proposed attempt would appeal. Without the
slightest difficulty he secured the eager consent of the required
number; and all day they prepared for the expedition by polishing and
cleaning rifles and pistols and looking to the edges of sabres. At
dusk, well-mounted and armed, and with high, hopeful hearts they set
forth. The brigade waved their caps and gave them three silent cheers,
for Marion had forbidden noise in the camp.

The camp of Marion at this period was in the midst of a dense
cane-brake in the district between Fort Watson and Georgetown; he had
not as yet settled into his famous base at Snow’s Island, and was
conducting his operations from many different points.

The party under Tom Deering forded the Santee in safety, and by hard
riding and no mishaps made Monks Corner, on the west bank of the Cooper
River, by daybreak the next day. Of course they did not enter the town,
but remained some distance outside, encamped upon a small creek. At
nightfall they resumed their journey; now and then they met a rider or
a carriage in the road; but they were too far into the enemy’s country
for any one to suspect them of being anything else than king’s men, so
boldly and confidently did they push forward.

The coming of day found them in the suburbs of Charleston; the houses
began to appear more frequently along the road, and when the sun at
last showed itself in the east they were trotting along a wide road
toward a small inn which stood, together with a stable and some other
outbuildings, just a trifle to one side.

“This is Natchez’s place,” said Tom; “we stop here.”

Natchez, it was thought, was an Indian of at least quarter blood; he
had kept the inn by the roadside for many years, and was a queer,
silent sort of an old man and an unquestioned though secret friend of
the patriot cause. Marion had, at times, occasion to send a spy into
Charleston; and it was always at the Indian’s Head--for so the inn was
called--that the venturesome one found shelter.

When our friends drew rein before the inn door, Natchez, who seemed
always to be stirring, came out. Tom gave him a quick signal and the
old man peered up at him from under his bushy eyebrows, in surprise.

“So many of you!” he exclaimed, holding up his hands.

“We must remain here until dark,” said Tom.

“It is not an attack upon the city?” asked the old man, eagerly. “Where
is Marion?”

“Back in the swamps, across the Santee. We are upon a secret errand.”

“It is dangerous to hide so many,” said Natchez, complainingly. “You
will have to be satisfied with the barn; I cannot have you in the
house.”

“The barn will answer very well,” agreed Tom. “But open the doors and
let us put up our horses; we have had a hard ride, Natchez; man and
beast, both, are hungry and tired.”

The barn was a good-sized one and very well able to accommodate their
mounts. They climbed into the loft, themselves; there were great piles
of sweet-smelling hay there, and after Natchez and an old negro slave
had served them with a plentiful breakfast, they curled up and slept
soundly through the long day.

Late in the afternoon Tom awoke; the others were still sleeping; so he
climbed down the ladder, and after giving a careful look at the horses
to see that they had been well provided for, he made his way to the
inn.

“Well, Natchez,” said he. “Any news?”

“Maybe,” grunted the old man. He was sitting upon a wooden bench that
ran along in front of the inn, his legs crossed and his hands clasped
around his knee.

“There is something?” Tom looked at him, questioningly.

“A man was here,” said Natchez. “I think he look for you.”

“A man, looking for me!” Tom was startled, and darted a quick look all
about. “You must be mistaken.”

Natchez shook his head.

“No,” said he positively; “he look for you. He come here once, twice,
three times. And every time he look for you.”

Tom sat down upon the bench and looked at the old man. There was
no one, save his own party, who knew that he was at the Indian’s
Head--but, stay; perhaps Marion desired to convey some word to him, and
suspecting that he would halt at the inn, had sent a rider after him.
However, this could soon be ascertained.

“Did the man have the signal?” asked he.

“No,” answered Natchez, “no signal.”

That put the question at rest; the man was not from Marion.

“What sort of a man was he?” asked he, at length.

“Old man--gray hair--one eye--wooden leg.”

At this catalogue of infirmities Tom burst into a laugh.

“Well, he must be a peculiar looking person, to be sure,” remarked he.
“What did he say?”

“Him have paper,” said Natchez. “Him read it. The paper have you on,
sure.”

Tom was puzzled; the whole affair seemed very queer; perhaps the
British had learned--but no; if they knew of his and his companions’
presence at the Indian’s Head, they would have made the fact known by
means of a company of dragoons, and not in this way.

“He was here three times, you say,” he said to Natchez.

The old man nodded.

“And he say he come once more,” said he.

“Ah!” Tom looked surprised. “Well, in that case I can find out just who
and what he is and what he wants.”

After a time Natchez went into the inn to attend to some duties; Tom
remained upon the bench, playing with a lively pointer pup, which had
approached him in a friendly manner. His companions showed no signs of
having awakened; the sun was going down behind a wooded rise in the
ground and the long, wide road stretched away toward the city dusty and
deserted.

“If my peculiar looking friend wants me he had better hurry,” muttered
Tom. “It’s almost time for us to take the road once more.”

He had barely ceased speaking when he noticed, far down the road,
where all had been deserted a few moments before, the figure of a man
slowly approaching.

“Can this be he?” Tom pushed the frolicking puppy from him, and looked
long and earnestly toward the figure. The man came nearer and nearer;
his pace was very slow and he walked with the assistance of a cane.
“Yes!” suddenly, “it is he. There is his wooden leg--and his hair is
gray--and he has but one eye!”

The man continued to slowly advance; when he reached a point in the
road directly in front of the inn, he paused. His remaining eye seemed
very dim of sight, for at first he did not seem to see Tom. But when,
at last, he did make him out, he came nearer and peered at him with
great anxiety. He was a stout man with a fat, flabby, white face;
his single eye squinted through a steel-rimmed glass; his breath was
being drawn fast and with some difficulty, for his walk seemed to have
exhausted him.

He was forced, in order to see Tom plainly, to come very close; he said
nothing, but only looked. Tom sat, silently awaiting the outcome of
the inspection. At length a look of satisfaction spread over the man’s
face; he grinned with delight, and a chuckling seemed to shake him all
over.

He put his hand into his breast pocket and took out a folded paper;
unfolding it with great care, he adjusted his glass and proceeded to
read:

“Young man--tall--brown hair--gray eyes--not very well dressed,” he
lowered the paper and fastened the youth on the bench with his single
eye. “That’s you, is it not?”

“It describes me pretty well,” said Tom.

“It describes you exactly,” said the one-eyed man with the wooden leg.
Then he turned his attention to the paper once more. “Will be at the
Indian’s Head just outside the city, on the evening of December 23d.”
He looked up at Tom, once more. “This is the Indian’s Head, is it not?”

“It is.”

“And this is the evening of December 23d?”

“It is.”

“And you are here?”

Tom laughed; and the one-eyed man looked hurriedly at the paper.

“It does not say anything about your laughing,” he informed Tom, at
last, “but I suppose it’s all right. But, let us get down to business.
Here are,” and he drew out a bulky packet, “your instructions.” He
handed the packet to Tom without more ado, and drew out another paper;
this one had an official look and bore a large seal. “And here,” went
on the man, “is your permit to enter the city and leave it as you will,
without fear and without question, and to have what helpers you require
bear you company.”

He handed the permit to Tom; then he turned and began stumping away on
his wooden leg and cane, without another word. Tom arose hastily; the
papers were not for him, he was confident of that. He was about to
call to the man to return; but the permit--the free and unquestioned
entry into Charleston--was too much; he sank back into his seat and
watched and watched the wooden-legged man until he disappeared down the
long, dusty road.

Then he looked at the passport carefully. It bore the signature and
seal of Cornwallis and, as the man had said, permitted the bearer to
pass in and out of the city at all hours and with whatever company rode
with him. It bore no name other than that of the signature, and Tom
grew puzzled and disturbed.

“Perhaps,” muttered he, “it is for me, after all. Some one in the city
might have known of my desire to save Laura, and my father and----”

But the thing was too improbable. It was, indeed, impossible. The
packet which the man had said held instructions lay upon his knee; it
was not sealed, the several documents which it contained were merely
laid loosely together. Tom thought for some time over the right and
wrong of looking into this packet; it could not have been meant for
him; therefore would it be right to examine it?

It took but a few moments, however, for him to decide; it was
perfectly right to gain information from the enemy by intercepting his
despatches; and these papers might be something of that nature. His
mind once made up he was soon acquainted with the secrets that the
papers held. They were written in a large, flowing hand; but, just
like the passport, none of them contained the name of the person for
whom they were intended. And, in this case, the name of the writer was
lacking, also! Opening the first Tom read:

“Your venture has become known to us in a rather strange way. It is
dangerous, but may do great good. In any case, you may depend upon
us to do all that we can for you. The passport which I send you
will admit you into the city. Come to-night, and alone; as the clock
strikes ten stand in front of the king’s statue near Lord Rawdon’s
headquarters. I will have a person there to conduct you to me.”

The other papers contained names of persons and references to things
that Tom did not understand; but a footnote upon one of them read:

“These may not seem very clear to you, but all will be explained later.”

For a long time Tom pondered over all this. Was it possible, after all,
that some one had learned of his enterprise and was about to help him
in the accomplishment of it? The person, whoever it was, must be high
in the favor of the British; for such a passport as that which he held
was not an easy thing to secure.

And then, again, it might be all a ruse; it might be a trap--a snare,
set to catch him and those who rode with him. In a short time the
others were awake and he placed the matter before them. To say that
they were astonished would be putting it mildly. But, to a man, they
thought it all right. Because, they argued, and Tom thought with
reason, if it were the enemy who sent the papers, why did they trouble
to do it? A squadron, surrounding the barn as they slept, would have
been a safer and much more simple way of capturing them.

“If I were you I’d see it out,” said Nat Collins, decidedly.

“And I! and I!” cried the others.

Cole was the only one who seemed at all dubious; but as the white
youths seemed to be so firm in their belief that everything was right,
he said nothing; and when Tom told him to saddle Sultan he did so
without a word.

“I’ll return some time to-morrow,” said the young scout as he settled
himself in the saddle. “Natchez will take care of you all. Don’t expose
yourselves to the view of any one coming along the road; but lay low.
And now I’m away!” He shook the rein. “Good-bye, boys; good-bye, Cole.”

With this he set off at a sharp gallop toward the city. Darkness had
come on some time before, but the road was excellent and he had no
fear of accidents. As he drew close to the town a sentry halted him.
But the passport of the Earl of Cornwallis met with an instant salute
and he was allowed to proceed. This occurred several times; but always
with the same result. And, at last, he rode into the city’s streets
at about the hour of nine. It had been many long months since he had
last been in Charleston; everything remained the same, however, except
for the flaunting of the British flag which hung from every flagstaff,
and the many redcoats to be seen on the streets, swaggering dragoons
and stalwart grenadiers, who seemed to look with contempt upon the
townsfolk, loyalist and patriot alike.

Tom put Sultan up at a neighboring hostelry, and then wandered about
the city to pass the time between that and the hour at which he was
to meet the guide who was to lead him to the person who had sent the
papers. He had his sabre strapped to his side and carried a heavy
pistol in his breast; people would frequently stop and look after him
as he passed, his hunting-shirt, worn leather leggings and the rest of
his attire attracting their attention. Quite often a dragoon, or foot
soldier would pause and stare into his face rudely as though they had
seen his like before and had their suspicions of him; but his steady
eyes and confident bearing drove from their minds any intention they
may have had of stopping him.

As ten o’clock struck in the tower of a near-by church, he stopped
before the statue of King George, near the governor’s headquarters. At
the same instant a man came out of a shadow immediately across the way
and approached him.

“Are you awaiting any one?” asked the newcomer.

“I am,” said Tom.

“For me?” inquiringly.

“Perhaps so.”

“What word do you bring?”

“I bring no word.”

The man looked at him for a moment, sharply.

“That is very strange,” said he.

Tom drew out the message making the queer appointment.

“Will this do?” he asked.

The man gave it a quick glance and looked relieved.

“Ah!” said he, “why did you not show it at first?”

“You asked for a word.”

“True, I did. But it is all right. Are you,” looking at the lad
suddenly, “prepared to follow me?”

“I am.”

“Good. Where is your horse?”

Tom informed him.

“As it happens,” said the man, “my mount is at the same place.”

As they bent their steps toward the inn where Sultan had been put up,
Tom looked at his companion carefully. He was a very tall and very
spare man, but his shoulders were wide and his chest deep. He was
attired in sober black; his hair was dark, his complexion swarthy, and
an angry looking scar crossed his right cheek. Thinking it as well to
secure what information he could from the guide Tom asked,

“Where are you about to take me?”

“I am not,” answered the man, “permitted to give information of any
kind.”

“But,” protested the youth, “the person who wrote this paper must at
least----”

“We will not speak of any person or persons, if you please,” put in the
man, curtly. “My instructions were to conduct you to a certain spot.
What else is going forward is not my affair; I can say nothing.”

Surprised at this, and rather startled at the increased mystery, Tom
stepped along at the man’s side in silence, until they reached the
hostelry where the horses were. A groom saddled them quickly and
brought them out; the man who was to act as guide for Tom at once
sprang upon the fine gray horse which was led up to the block. Tom
mounted Sultan slowly; the groom seemed to know the dark man with the
scar; this interested our young swamp-rider, and he would have given a
good deal for a quiet word before they rode away.

But this was impossible; the guide never took his sharp eyes from the
youth; he seemed to be expecting some such attempt; and of course while
he watched, Tom could not make it. They set off through the city by
much the same route as Tom had entered it. When they reached a quiet
spot the man with the scar pulled up.

“Young, sir,” said he gravely; “if I am not mistaken this errand means
much to you and--and--well, others.”

“It does,” answered Tom, his mind reverting to Laura.

“You would risk much to carry it through, would you not?”

“I am risking much as it is,” answered Tom, quietly.

“True; so you are. But there is one thing of which I wish to inform
you before we proceed further. He who follows me to-night, must follow
blindfolded!”

Tom flashed him a quick look; for a moment the proposition staggered
him. Had he come too far? was he about to enter a snare, or could it be
that he was already in one! The dark man noticed his hesitation and a
smile glimmered across his hawk-like face.

“You are not afraid?” asked he; and there was something like a sneer
lurking in his even tones.

“Not I,” said Tom, proudly. “I am here for a purpose; if it is
necessary for me to be blindfolded to carry it through, then
blindfolded I will be. I have faced sterner things than darkness and a
single man, sir, many times.”

The scarred-faced man laughed.

“They told me that you were not lacking in courage,” said he; “and I
find that they were right. But come,” he took a large black kerchief
from his pocket, “we have no time to lose.”

He urged his big gray horse alongside Sultan; in a moment the black
kerchief was tightly tied about Tom’s eyes; the lad could not see
anything--all was dark--black--unknown!

“I will ride slightly ahead,” said the man quietly when his task was
done. “Give your horse a free rein; he will follow mine, and in that
way you need have no fear of his carrying you into danger.”

Tom said nothing in reply; he was not quite as sure of this as the
guide seemed to think he should be. It was a strange experience to be
riding through the enemy’s country, under the guidance of a stranger
and upon an errand whose every element breathed mystery; he did not
know at what moment a quick, deadly blow might fall upon him; his
hand rested upon the butt of his pistol, ready to draw it forth at
a moment’s notice; his ears were constantly strained to catch the
slightest sound that might portend danger.

They rode for a long time, then suddenly turned off the road, and
headed across a plantation which lay to the left. They continued across
this for some time, then turned off another road, and this time to
the right. Within the next half hour they turned and twisted in many
directions; Tom realized that the purpose was to confuse him; the place
where he was to meet the writer of the strange message was to remain
a mystery, it was considered necessary to prevent his knowing the way
there did he ever desire to repeat the visit.

At last the hoofs began to ring upon harder ground; the guide drew
up, and from the creaking sound, Tom knew that he was opening a gate.
He was cool and collected, but he could not help his breath coming a
little quicker; he was almost at the end of the adventure; in a few
moments he would know all. They rode inside and the gate closed behind
them. Tom heard some low, guarded words addressed to his companion, but
could not catch their meaning. Then came the quick command:

“Dismount!”

He slid to the ground and stood leaning against Sultan’s shoulder,
unable to take a step in safety because of the blinding kerchief. A
hand was placed upon his shoulder, and a new voice, rather less brusque
than that of the man with the scar on his face, said:

“Now, my friend, I am going to lead you to the person you desire to
see. Under no circumstances attempt to remove the bandage from your
eyes until told; this affair is a most dangerous one, and the utmost
secrecy must be maintained. You understand that, of course.”

“Yes,” said Tom. Of course, he thought, it would not do for the writer
of the message to be suspected of having assisted him, a member of
Marion’s Brigade, into the city. That was, then, the reason for all
this secrecy.

He was led quickly up a flight of stone steps; a heavy door opened and
closed behind him. They then passed down a long corridor, and entered a
room where, as Tom could perceive even through the thick bandage, there
were a great many brilliant lights.

“Now,” said the person who had conducted him, “I am going to leave you
here. Wait the space of a full minute; then you may remove the bandage.”

Tom heard his footstep cross the floor and the door softly close behind
him. All was then silent; his ears were straining to catch any sound
that would indicate the presence of any one else in the apartment; he
longed to tear the blinding kerchief from his eyes. He could hear a
great, solemn clock in the room slowly ticking off the seconds, each
of which seemed an age; but, at last, unable any longer to bear the
suspense, he pulled the bandage away with a sudden jerk, and glared
about him.

Many candles were burning upon tables, stands and in brackets on the
wall. As he gazed at his surroundings a strange sense of familiarity
came to him; the furnishings, the shape of the room, the position of
the windows and doors, the pictures upon the walls.

“There can be no mistake,” he whispered to himself, a strange chill
creeping over him. “I am standing in my father’s house.”

Wonder possessed him; the thing was strange beyond his dreams of
strangeness; he could, try as he would, make nothing of it. Then
footsteps sounded--heavy, commanding footsteps that approached the
door leading into the room from the main hall. Tom stood in the middle
of the apartment bathed in the full glare of the lighted candles,
waiting; the door opened and two British officers entered, each big,
red-faced and imperious-looking, and each bearing upon the breast of
his scarlet coat many glittering orders and decorations.

They were Lieutenant-Colonel Tarleton and the Earl of Cornwallis!



CHAPTER XII

HOW TOM TOOK PART IN A MYSTERIOUS CONSULTATION


FOR a moment Tom Deering was rendered powerless by the sudden shock
of the surprise; he stood staring at the two British officers with
wide-open eyes. Then a feeling of helplessness swept over him--a sense
of being caught--of having been lured into the clutches of his foes.
He could not speak; at each tick of the clock he expected to hear them
denounce him.

But they did not; they bowed to him silently and advanced to the table
at the centre of the room and sat down; Tarleton was looking straight
at him, but gave not the slightest sign of having recognized him;
Cornwallis had taken up a quill from the table, and was tapping with it
upon the table, a flickering smile upon his face.

“You seemed rather disturbed,” said he.

With a powerful effort Tom pulled himself together; he was caught, but
there was no use in his showing the white feather, he thought. So he
replied, quietly enough:

“I must confess to being slightly surprised, sir. But that is all.”

Cornwallis’ smile broadened.

“Just so,” chuckled he. “You did not expect to meet two British
officers, I suppose.”

“I had no idea whom I was to meet,” said the young swamp-rider.

“Of course not; how could you?”

Cornwallis tapped the table with the point of the quill, thoughtfully;
now and then his eyes would wander from Tom’s face to that of Tarleton;
he seemed to be considering something very carefully.

“I had thought,” said he at last, “to meet a very different person.”

“A rather older person, to be sure,” said Tarleton.

Tom bent his head slightly, but said nothing.

“Of course,” said the commander of the British army, “you do not know
either of us--no more than we know you. It is better so; the work that
you are about to do is of exceeding peril, and the less we know of each
other, the better.”

Tom looked at the speaker in astonishment. However, he did not allow
the feeling to show in his face; they were playing with him, he
fancied; and he suddenly resolved that he would bear his part in it,
and prove that he was not afraid.

“I had thought,” said he coolly, after a moment’s silence, “that I had
met this gentleman,” nodding toward Tarleton, “before.”

“You have just come to Charleston, from Canada,” said Tarleton. “How
could you?”

The expression upon the man’s face as he said this, puzzled Tom; he
seemed to be sincere; he seemed to mean it; and not the slightest
recollection of having met Tom in a hand to hand conflict that day in
the swamps was observable in his countenance. What could it all mean?
The lad began to doubt the evidence of his own senses.

“How,” asked Lord Cornwallis, “is Sir Henry?”

“Sir Henry?” Tom looked at him dully.

“Of course, Sir Henry Clinton.”

Tom recovered, with a slight gasp.

“Oh,” said he, “he was quite well when last I heard of him.”

“Then,” said Cornwallis, “he does not write to you very often.”

“No,” confessed the lad, “he does not.”

“I had thought that he would neglect it after a time. He has a short
memory at best. However, since you have arrived here safely it does not
matter.”

“You received the list of names which we sent you?” inquired Tarleton.

“I did,” answered Tom, his mind going at once to the papers which he
had received, but had not understood.

“You did not get much information from them, of course,” put in
Cornwallis, with a laugh. “But that was not to be expected; you must
become acquainted with the section first.”

The truth was slowly dawning upon the young scout; these men were
not playing with him as he had supposed. They were serious; they had
mistaken him for another--for a person whom they had never seen, and
who was due in Charleston, upon some mysterious errand, at that time.

“This department of yours,” said Tarleton after a longer pause than
usual, “is something new, is it not? I have heard that Chatham was
strongly opposed to it, but that the king----”

“Hush!” Cornwallis laid his hand warningly upon the other’s arm. “That
is a thing not to be spoken of.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Tarleton, impatiently, “among friends----”

“Even among friends,” said Cornwallis, “silence must be kept.” He
turned to Tom. “Is this not so?”

“I believe,” answered Tom slowly, for he feared to betray himself,
“that the utmost secrecy is considered necessary.”

“Exactly.” Cornwallis looked triumphantly at the other officer. “Just
what I have always held since the matter was first brought to my
attention. To hope to do anything by such means, one must work in the
dark, so to speak--one must not allow even a whisper to reach the upper
world, if success is to be hoped for.”

“Quite right,” and Tom bowed, more mystified than ever, but determined
to carry out the matter to the end.

“And now,” said Cornwallis, “I suppose you will wish to see the
gentleman who is to give you the information which you seek.”

“If you please.” The youth said this not without some misgiving; but he
dreaded to refuse, as it might excite some suspicion.

“Ah,” said Cornwallis, apparently greatly pleased. “I had fancied that
you’d not want to see him until later. But I had him come here to-night
on the chance; I am delighted that you show a willingness to take the
matter up so promptly.”

Tom was rather angry with himself for this same willingness; but it was
too late now; so Cornwallis rang a bell to summon the person spoken of.

“He is waiting in the next room,” said he, “and I rather think you will
find him the kind of man you want.”

Here the door opened and Lieutenant Cheyne of Tarleton’s horse entered.
He looked at Tom sharply for a moment as he crossed to the table at
which the others were sitting. But it had been four long years since
the affair of the mansion of Jasper Harwood, and Tom had greatly
changed and grown since then; so he bore himself with boldness and
confidence and looked straight into Cheyne’s eye without a quaver. The
lieutenant, however, was only marveling at the youth of the visitor
who had come there wrapped about in so much mystery; no thought of ever
having met him before had crossed his mind.

“This gentleman,” said Cornwallis, “will introduce you wherever you
wish, in Charleston.”

The lieutenant bowed.

“I shall be most happy,” said he.

“As to the towns and cities further north,” proceeded Cornwallis, “we
have provided another person for that. I will summon him, also.”

His hand was already upon the bell, but Tom stopped him.

“One moment,” said he. “The name of this person, if you please.”

The other three looked at him in surprise.

“I had thought that no names were to be mentioned at this stage of the
proceedings.”

[Illustration: _“THIS GENTLEMAN,” SAID CORNWALLIS,
                “WILL INTRODUCE YOU”_]

Tom saw that he had gone a little too far; but he feared possible
recognition, and it might chance that the man whom the British
commander was about to call in, would know him; so he continued, boldly:

“Safety is the first thing to be looked after. I must demand the name
of this person, before you admit him.”

“Surely you can suspect no one in Charleston,” said Cornwallis in
surprise.

Tom determined upon a shrewd stroke.

“If none were suspected,” said he, “I should not be here.”

The words struck home; the three British officers looked at each other.

“True,” said Cornwallis, soberly. “That fact escaped me for the moment.
The gentleman who is waiting without is Mr. Clarage, a loyal subject of
the king.”

Without knowing it the young swamp-rider had been standing upon the
brink of discovery; for had Clarage once entered the room he would have
been sure to have recognized him. The look upon Tom’s face was observed
by Tarleton, and misconstrued.

“Surely,” said he, “you do not mean to say that you refuse Clarage’s
aid!”

“I do,” said the youth, promptly.

“You suspect him!” Cornwallis uttered the words in tones of the utmost
astonishment. “Why, I did not dream that you ever had heard his name
before.”

“I have heard of the gentleman many times,” said Tom, gravely.

Once more the three officers stared at one another, this time
apparently astounded.

“I had not imagined,” said Lieutenant-Colonel Tarleton, “that the
ramifications of the new system were so extensive.”

There was a certain note of respect in his voice that did not escape
Tom; he had made an impression by his boldness.

“There are many things connected with this business,” said the youth,
“that I don’t understand myself.”

“I suppose not--I suppose not.” There was awe in the voice of
Cornwallis as he said this; and Tom could scarcely keep from laughing.
He was determined to escape the notice of Clarage, so he continued,

“This man Clarage must not be permitted to observe me--he must not see
me--he must not know who I am.”

“Is it possible that he is suspected as strongly as all that!”

“He is not a king’s officer,” said Tom, “and in these times it behooves
us to suspect every one not actually in the uniform.”

“Right,” cried Tarleton. “Right, sir! Allow me to shake you by the
hand.” He grasped Tom’s hand as he spoke, and shook it warmly. “When I
first clapped eyes upon you I could not understand why a boy had been
sent about this important business; but I see it now; it’s because you
have brains and know how to use them.” He continued to shake Tom’s hand
violently. “I beg your pardon, sir, for my first impression of you;
but I see my mistake, and am willing to acknowledge it. You are right.
Every one in Carolina should be suspected except those who wear the
king’s uniform.”

Then the two senior officers talked long and earnestly about matters
of which Tom had not the slightest knowledge; but, seeing that he was
supposed to be well informed as to most of it, he kept nodding his
head or shaking it, as the case might be, and wore a look of great
gravity. He gradually drew from their talk that he was supposed to be
a messenger, sent by the very highest officials of the government at
London, to collect facts of some kind. But just what the facts were,
and why so much caution was considered necessary in their collecting,
he could not learn. At length Cornwallis said:

“There is to be an affair to-morrow evening at which you could meet a
very great many people, if you choose to attend.”

Tom trembled with expectation; but his voice was steady enough, as he
asked:

“Indeed; and what is that?”

“Lieutenant Cheyne’s wedding; it is Christmas eve and he is to marry
the ward of Jasper Harwood, a most excellent gentleman and a strong
advocate of the king’s government.”

“I shall be most happy to have you come,” said Cheyne, bowing.

“I’ll be glad to,” said Tom, returning the bow, and struggling to hide
his eagerness.

“There is to be a sort of Christmas fête at the same time,” remarked
Lieutenant Cheyne. “A mask, you know; it’s a thing that the people here
do about Christmas time, you see.”

“Ah, yes! A mask.” Tom looked thoughtful. “But, my dear sir, I think
this will prevent my attending. I have no costume.”

“No costume,” broke in Tarleton, with a loud laugh. “What is the matter
with the disguise you are wearing now?”

“Ah, true,” said the youth, coolly. “Quite so.”

“I’ve had my eye upon it for some time,” said Tarleton. “It’s much the
same sort of thing as that scamp Marion and his fellows wear. But I
suppose you adopted it because you had to pass through the region which
that villain infests.”

“I did pass through Marion’s district--yes,” said the youth, evenly.

“It will do nicely,” said Cheyne. “Indeed I could imagine nothing
better for such an occasion.”

“Very well, then,” said Tom. “It is settled.”

“I shall be glad to send for you,” remarked Cheyne.

Tom considered for a moment. His thoughts were working upon a plan that
had just flashed into his mind; and then he replied:

“No; upon consideration it would be best that I go alone. Where is the
wedding to take place, sir?”

“Here,” said Cornwallis. “You came to this plantation blindfolded; you
could not find your way here again, alone.”

“I shall leave the place with my eyes open,” said Tom, “and shall note
its location as I ride toward the town. And now,” after a short pause,
“if we have quite finished, I shall be on my way.”

“We have said all that we can say, for the present,” said Cornwallis.

“Then,” said the young swamp-rider, as he bowed with dignity to the
three British officers, “I will bid you good-night, gentlemen, and
trust that we shall meet soon again.”

Sultan was at the door. Tom sprang upon his back and shook the rein.
Then he waved his hand to the officers on the steps, for they had
followed him with considerable ceremony through the hall; in a moment
he was dashing along the well-remembered road leading from his father’s
plantation. He followed the track toward the city for some time; then
drew rein and listened. There was no sound on the road behind, no
evidence that he was being followed. Assuring himself of this, he
wheeled Sultan into a narrow road leading northwest, and went dashing
light-heartedly to meet his comrades at the Indian’s Head.



CHAPTER XIII

HOW THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENED ON CHRISTMAS EVE


AT Christmas time, in the year 1780, the British had no very great
occasion for rejoicing, so far as their affairs of government
were concerned, at least. They were at war with three European
nations--France, Holland and Spain; their colonies in North America
were waging a desperate war for independence that seemed as though it
would never end, and their attempt to gain possession of West Point, on
the Hudson, through the treachery of the infamous Benedict Arnold, had
just failed.

However, the army under Cornwallis, or at least the officers, did
not seem to take their country’s misfortunes very much to heart. The
winter season was long remembered for its many gaieties; the loyalists
of the town had thrown open their houses and vied with each other as
to who could do the most for the king’s scarlet-coated dandies. And
among them all not one entertained upon the scale of Jasper Harwood;
he seemed determined to prove his loyalty to the crown by his lavish
expenditures; but in reality, as the reader knows, he had another
reason.

The Harwood place was a large one. Hundreds of acres of land were
planted with cotton and tobacco; scores of slaves toiled upon the
plantation to enrich their master; his mules, oxen and horses were
very many. Then, too, he had the Deering place under cultivation; the
slaves upon it already addressed him as master; the revenues that came
in he appropriated to his own use, which little piece of knavery the
authorities overlooked in so good a citizen.

His plan to marry his ward Laura to Lieutenant Cheyne, of Tarleton’s
regiment of horse, had long been in his mind; but now he was to carry
it into effect. All preparations had been made; the Deering mansion,
which Harwood now occupied, it being nearer to the city than his own,
was brilliantly lighted; the grounds, for the South Carolina December
is not severe, were also brightly illuminated, and were thronged by
large crowds of guests, all en masque, laughing, chattering and getting
all the enjoyment out of the situation possible.

The sounds of music, softly played, came from the mansion; splendidly
attired officers and gorgeously dressed maskers now and then passed
the windows or thronged down the steps. Here and there was gathered a
knot of the young blades of the army, both foot and horse, masked, but
wearing their uniforms. They talked and laughed loudly; the campaign
was largely the subject of their conversation, and they recounted their
personal deeds vaingloriously.

“If the louts would only stand and fight,” said one youthful, but
strapping dragoon. “How is a fellow to do anything satisfactory when
the beggars do nothing but dart in and out among the swamps like a lot
of gnats.”

“You are right,” said another; “it is quite disappointing when one has
a body of them almost in one’s hand, and then, in a moment--presto,
they are gone.”

“And this rascal Marion is the most elusive of the lot,” said the
first speaker. “He positively will not stand up and fight fairly. It’s
most distressing, when one is going at the head of a party, along a
dark path through the swamps, to have this fellow, the Swamp-Fox, as
Tarleton has named him, suddenly spring out from ambush and pour a fire
into one.”

A laugh greeted this complaint; it was well known to all that the
speaker had suffered in this way not long before.

“Campbell must have been asleep in his saddle that night,” remarked one.

“Then all whom the Swamp-Fox has surprised have been dozing,” flared
Campbell.

“It’s not exactly because of the surprise,” said the other, “but what
you saw afterward.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if what you told me you saw in the fight were not the visions of
a dream, I’ll give up.”

“Oh, you mean the black!” exclaimed the stalwart young dragoon. “But he
was no vision; he was a stern reality, as some of my fellows have cause
to remember.”

“Tell us about it, Campbell,” said another. “Prove to us that you were
not slumbering upon the occasion spoken of.”

“It’s not much of a story,” said Campbell, “it only shows how startled
a man can be by something out of the ordinary when it comes upon him
suddenly.

“You see, awhile back, Tarleton sent me out with thirty men across the
Santee to destroy some stores that the rebels had been accumulating
on an island in one of the swamps. I had crossed the river and, as it
was coming on night, was looking for a dry spot to encamp. Suddenly,
without a moment’s warning the air was filled with the crash of rifle
and pistol-shots and the most infernal yelling that I have ever
listened to. Then out from behind bush, thicket, trees and everything
else that could possibly hide a man, poured the rascally band of this
rebel, Marion.”

“Nothing extraordinary in that, that I can see,” said the young officer
who had asked for the story. “As you have just said yourself a moment
ago, it’s a favorite device of the Swamp-Fox.”

“Just a moment,” said Campbell, with a wave of the hand. “I have not
yet reached the point of my narrative. When the ambuscade broke cover
there rushed upon me a giant negro. He looked,” and the young dragoon
gazed about him, “he looked about the thickness of that big cottonwood;
I am tall, but he simply towered above me as though I were a dwarf.”

“Campbell’s eyes were magnifying that night,” cried one, amid a burst
of laughter from his companions. “He saw giants--possibly it was the
genius of the swamp.”

“You may laugh,” protested Campbell, “that is what Blake did when I
first told him. But it’s a fact, I tell you. When he rushed at me it
would have gone hard with me had it not been for Sergeant Humphries,
who took the first sweep of the black’s sabre upon his own. Humphries
is no boy in weight, but, gentlemen, the force of the blow almost
knocked him from the saddle.”

While Campbell was speaking, Mark Harwood, who formed one of the party,
had been listening eagerly. Now he spoke.

“Did you notice,” he asked of Campbell, “a companion with this giant
negro?”

“Well, Mr. Harwood,” laughed the strapping young dragoon, “he had a
great many companions. We went flying, helter-skelter, through the
swamp, with the whole lot of them hot at our heels.”

“But, I mean, was there not a person--a young man of about my age, but
more of your size--whom the negro stuck to a great deal?”

Campbell looked thoughtfully at the speaker for a moment, then said:

“Come to think of it, there was. It seemed a great deal like master and
man.”

“And that,” cried Mark Harwood, “was exactly what they were. The white
youth was my rebel cousin, Tom Deering.”

“Your cousin,” said Campbell, surprised. “Well, if that is so, you have
for a cousin one of the most remarkable masters of the sabre that it
has ever been my lot to see. Gentlemen,” turning to the others, “the
way that lad handled his weapon. It was marvelous. The blade seemed to
be a thing of life!”

The young officers forming the group seemed disposed to laugh at this
also; for Ensign Campbell’s experiences upon the night in question had
long formed a subject for the exercise of wit. But Mark Harwood spoke
again.

“I haven’t the slightest desire to praise Tom Deering, gentlemen,”
said he, bitterly, “but what Campbell says is so. This rebel is a most
remarkable swordsman. It was he, in the end assisted by this same giant
slave, who kept the staircase against a party of loyalist gentlemen
some time since.”

An immediate hush fell upon the group; they had heard of this exploit
and had marveled at it. Maskers in various splendid or grotesque
costumes strolled about the grounds chattering and laughing at the
antics of those who had most given themselves up to the spirit of the
occasion. About the time Campbell began to tell his story of the black
giant, a masker, attired as a Carolinian backwoodsman, had paused near
them and, as he listened, stood leaning against a tree. He wore a black
mask upon the upper part of his face; a heavy sabre was hanging at his
side, and he carried a rifle in his hands. His dress was an unusual
one, and hardly the thing to be chosen in Charleston at that time; for
it was of the kind worn by those who were in arms against the king.

Nevertheless, to the slight surprise of a great many who noted the
fact, there seemed to be men in much the same costume, and all wearing
black masks, scattered about the grounds. They did not seem to mingle
with any of the other merrymakers, neither did they seem to be
acquainted with one another.

The woodsman who stood near to the spot where the British officers were
gathered seemed desirous of attracting no attention; he stood very
quietly, listening, but never once venturing to speak.

“Ah, yes,” spoke the man whom Campbell had addressed as Blake, “we have
heard of that little affair of the staircase. It took place at the
Foster plantation, did it not?”

“Yes,” replied Mark Harwood. “A nest of traitors to the king which I
had long striven to break up.”

“The family consisted of one half-grown girl and her father, who was
an invalid,” said Ensign Campbell, quietly. “Not a very desperate
gathering of partisans, one would think.”

This was greeted by a slight laugh. Cold looks were directed at Mark;
the Tories were little liked by the British soldiery; they felt that
contempt for them which is bound to arise in the breasts of brave men
against those who prove false to their own kind. And among all the
loyalists in Charleston Mark Harwood was liked the least; his sly,
cunning manner and his mirthless smile made him hated among the frank
young soldiers of the king’s forces; they avoided his company as much
as possible, but, of course, to-night they could not but tolerate him.

Mark felt the sting which the quiet words of young Campbell contained
and a dark flush stained his cheeks.

“It is the weakest who are ever the worst,” cried he, noticing the cold
glances of dislike leveled at him. “A man like Foster could do as much
harm to the cause of the king as Marion himself.”

“Perhaps so,” said Blake, bitingly. “But there is much more credit in
matching oneself against Marion; he, at least, can fight back.”

Mark bit his lip savagely at this; he felt the hostility which some of
his actions had awakened, now and then; but he could never be made to
see the shame of them. His was a mind which recognized no law of right
or wrong or fairness where a foe was concerned. It did not matter much
to him who or what the foe was, he would set about crushing him as
completely as possible; if he were weak it made Harwood all the more
resolved, for, as Lieutenant Blake had insinuated, a weak foe could not
fight back, and hard fighting was a thing which Master Mark had not
much stomach for.

“I have frequently noticed, Harwood,” said Ensign Campbell, “that you
always select some such object as Foster for your attacks, when you are
left to your own devices.”

Mark turned upon the young dragoon with a snarl.

“You have a reputation, I believe, Campbell,” said he, “for frequently
noticing nonexistent things.”

“You mean by that, I suppose,” said the other, composedly, but with a
warning sparkle in his eye, “that I am given to stating what is not
true.”

Mark caught the look in the dragoon’s eyes; at any other time it would
have frightened him; but now he was filled with the recklessness of
rage.

“And another thing,” said he viciously, “you yourself admit that you
fled before the sword of Tom Deering that night in the swamp; and yet
you, almost in so many words, accuse me of cowardice--I who faced him
that day at Foster’s.”

“You faced him!”

“Yes--I!” Mark’s face was livid with passion; he knew that these men
held his personal courage in contempt, and he had a sort of mad desire
to convince them that he was equal to themselves in that respect.
“Fannin and Clarage will support me in this,” he continued, knowing
that he could depend upon the support of these worthies in anything.

“Well,” said Campbell, in a changed tone, “if you successfully faced
this wonderful swordsman I beg your pardon, for anything that I may
have said or hinted at.”

“He did not hold his ground long when I sprang up the steps, I assure
you,” cried Mark, delighted at the impression which he had created. He
at once plunged into a glowing account of what had occurred--colored
to suit himself, of course; but he had not spoken a dozen words when a
hand was laid on his shoulder, and turning he found himself gazing into
a pair of clear gray eyes which looked at him from out the holes of a
black mask.

“I beg your pardon,” said Tom Deering, quietly, for the masker was he,
“but will you kindly repeat what you have said.”

Mark shook himself free of the clutch upon his shoulder and returned,
angrily:

“Who are you, sir? I do not know you. I am speaking to these gentlemen,
and am not addressing you.”

“Once more I beg your pardon.” Tom’s voice was still quiet. “But your
statement to these gentlemen,” bowing to the young officers, “was what
made me interrupt you. I know something of the affair at Foster’s, and
would like to correct what you have mis-stated.”

Mark trembled with mingled rage and apprehension.

“Hello,” said Campbell, in a low voice to Blake, “our friend here seems
able to put a spoke in Harwood’s wheel. This is most interesting.”

“Who are you?” said Mark, once more.

“Who I am does not matter,” said Tom. “Gentlemen,” he now ignored Mark,
“I have met some of those who bore Mr. Harwood company upon that day,
and----”

“And they told you the facts of the case,” cried Lieutenant Blake,
anxious to see Mark humiliated. “Come, out with it; let us hear what
you have to say.”

“I have merely this to say. Mark Harwood did not once have the manhood
to place himself within the reach of his cousin’s sabre. He spent his
time upon the outskirts of the throng, and his part in the affray
consisted entirely of shouting directions to braver men than himself.”

A score of cold, contemptuous eyes turned themselves upon Mark; the
scorn they felt for him was unmistakable. Mark, quivering with passion,
turned upon Tom, his hand raised to strike--but the next instant he was
measuring his length upon the ground, and Tom had vanished amidst the
quickly gathering crowd.

The rooms of the Deering mansion were large ones, but the brilliant
gathering to-night completely filled them. It was a strange feeling for
the young swamp-rider, a half hour or so after his experience with
Mark, to stand a stranger--unknown--in his own home.

The crowd had begun to press into the house, for the hour had arrived
when Laura was to be made the unwilling wife of Lieutenant Cheyne. Tom
would have given anything for a word with her, for Laura had been his
mother’s favorite niece, and was a good, brave-hearted girl whom he had
always been proud of. But, though he had sought everywhere, he could
not catch even a glimpse of her.

However, as he stood by the door leading to the main hall, there came
a sudden stir among the ladies. A party had just come in; splendidly
attired women, officers glittering with orders and gold lace, gentlemen
of civil life in powdered wigs and frills starched to a snowy
whiteness. And in the midst of them was Laura, looking sad and red-eyed
with weeping.

Tom started forward, but the thronging crowd was too great and he was
forced back to the quiet spot near the door which he had occupied
before. And, as fate willed it, in a few moments poor Laura, who had
crept out of the chattering, laughing, exclaiming crush to cry, stood
at his side.

“Laura,” said he eagerly. “Laura.” His tone was low, but the sound
reached her; and she looked at him, frightened and surprised.

“Laura,” said he. “Don’t you know me?”

“Cousin Tom,” whispered she, delight mixed with fear. “Oh, what are you
doing here? You have placed yourself in great danger; why did you come?”

“To see you.”

“To see me!”

“And to ask you if this, which is to take place here to-night, is with
your free will.”

Laura did not answer, but sobbed.

“I see it is not,” proceeded Tom in the same low voice. “Laura, my
mother always thought as much of you as if you had been her own
daughter. And I will do and dare for you what I would do and dare for
my own sister.”

“Tom, what do you mean?”

He had no chance to answer, for at this moment Jasper Harwood came
hastily up and, with a searching, suspicious look at Tom, drew Laura
away. Lieutenant Cheyne had come in accompanied by a crowd of young
officers; Tarleton and Lord Cornwallis glittered among the gathering
in their splendid uniforms; not a thing was wanting, in Tory Harwood’s
mind, to make the occasion one of the utmost pomp and display.

The burly old Tory stood, with Laura, in the midst of his glittering
guests.

This ceremony was all that was needed to place the Deering plantation
well within his possession, and the thought filled him with great
satisfaction. Some, in the mansion’s great rooms, had removed their
masks, but most had not; and, among others the numerous body of maskers
in the costumes of backwoodsmen, who had grouped in a solid mass near
the door, still kept their faces covered.

The music was playing softly as Harwood raised his voice.

“Here, Cheyne,” said he, “come this way.”

Lieutenant Cheyne stepped forward, but to the surprise of all he was
shouldered aside by a rough-looking youth in a black mask.

“What now, sir!” exclaimed Cheyne, angrily.

“Stand aside,” said Tom Deering, sharply. He pushed his way to the
centre of the room, all falling back in surprise; Cornwallis and
Tarleton, from the far end of the room, had recognized him as their
mysterious visitor of the night before, and were staring eagerly to see
what he was about to do.

“What do you mean by this offensive conduct, sir?” demanded Jasper
Harwood, his face growing a deep purple and his wicked little eyes
snapping with anger. “This is my house and----”

“Hold,” cried Tom in a voice that rang through the room like the blast
of a bugle. “You speak falsely, Jasper Harwood. I am master here.”

“Master!” Harwood started and a shade of pallor crept into his face.
“What do you want here?”

“To take this poor girl, and place her among friends,” he pointed to
Laura as he spoke.

“Am I, her uncle, not her friend?” Jasper Harwood advanced upon Tom,
but the masked young swamp-rider looked him fearlessly in the eye. “Who
are you, sir?” the older man demanded, furiously, “who are you, I say?”

Tom turned and held up his hand with a proud gesture.

“Stand out, my gallant lads,” he cried, his eye flashing.

The masks were torn from the faces of the backwoodsmen, and they stood
forth with musket, pistol and naked sabre, facing the startled guests
of Jasper Harwood.

“These!” cried Tom, his glance sweeping the brilliant throng of
officers who stood, their swords half drawn, looking at him astounded,
“these are Marion’s men.”

“And you?” shouted Jasper Harwood.

Tom plucked the covering from his face.

“Look,” said he.

As Jasper Harwood looked into his gallant nephew’s face, there came a
sudden crash of falling metal; the great candellabrum, which had been
the sole means of lighting the room, had been dashed to the floor by
Cole, and the place was left in complete darkness. Women screamed and
men shouted; but when lights were once more secured, the swamp-riders,
with Laura in their midst, were gone; and the hoof-beats of their
horses rang out from far down the road.



CHAPTER XIV

HOW THE BRITISH LOST SOME PRISONERS


DOWN the road, like the wind, raced the band of Marion’s men; Laura,
under escort of Nat and David Collins, rode well ahead, as Tom knew
that they would not meet any of the enemy in that direction. The road
skirted the bay, and from across the quiet waters could be seen the
lights of the British ships.

Tom had expected pursuit to be hotly made, but to his surprise there
was no evidence of it. A little reflection told him the reason for
this. The plantation was a considerable distance below the city, and
the officers attending the masque had, for the most part, come in
carriages. Therefore no chargers were available for a chase, at least
not sufficient to mount a force capable of coping with our adventurers.
No sound was heard by Tom or Cole, who rode behind, alert for anything
that might happen; the ringing hoof-beats of their own party were the
only noises that disturbed the silence.

But, at length, even this ceased; the cavalcade had been brought to a
sudden halt, and Tom and Cole rode forward to learn the cause of it.
Nat and Dave Collins were waiting for him; Laura, patting her pawing
horse’s neck, was beside them.

“What’s the matter?” asked Tom.

“As we rounded the bend in the road,” said David Collins, “I thought I
saw a sudden gleam of light from the water, close to shore.”

“I saw it, too,” said Nat, his brother. “It seemed as though it was
from a boat.”

“It was in a boat,” put in Laura. “I saw it plainly. And the boat was
full of men.”

“Remain where you are,” directed Tom. “Nat, I leave you in charge.
Dave, you and Cole come with me; we’ll see what all this means. It may
be a boat’s crew from one of the vessels of war which has been somehow
signaled that we are coming by this road.”

They left their horses in care of their comrades and cautiously
advanced; as they neared the beach they could hear the water lapping on
the sand--yes, and now they caught the undoubted murmur of voices.

“We’ll have to put the boats’ noses up on the beach and wait for them,”
said a voice.

Tom nudged his companions and they returned it. “Without question,”
they thought, “they have been warned, and are waiting for us to put in
an appearance.”

“I expected them to pass, long before this,” spoke another voice, “and
keel haul me if I understand the delay.”

“Oh, give them time,” said the first speaker, “we have all night before
us.”

“No, souse my tops if we have; the tide changes at two o’clock, and we
want to take advantage of it.”

Here followed the sound of keels grating upon the sand. Through the
gloom Tom could discern two large boats, in each of which were a half
dozen men, armed to the teeth. Somehow, the voice of the last speaker
sounded strangely familiar; Tom, who, like his two companions, lay
flat upon the sand, crawled forward for a space in order that he might
obtain a better view. As it chanced, in his path were a quantity of dry
shells; and as he drew himself over these, they made a crackling noise.

“What’s that!” whispered one of the men in the boat nearest Tom.

“What do you mean?”

“Didn’t you hear a sound from the beach over there?”

A laugh followed this.

“You thought you heard hoofs awhile ago,” said the second voice, from
the other boat. “It’s all your imagination.”

“Well, tar my old rigging!” cried the other, obstinately. “I heard
something just then, and I’m going to see what it was.”

The speaker leaped out upon the sand, a cutlass in his right hand and
a lantern in his left. He slowly advanced, his lantern flashing this
way and that, until at last its rays rested upon a bronzed, youthful,
smiling face gazing calmly, from the sand, into his own.

“Tom Deering,” he almost shouted, his eyes wide with surprise.

“Uncle Dick!” cried Tom in return, and in a moment he had sprung to his
feet and gripped the old sea-dog in a hug like that of a cinnamon bear.

“Easy, lad, easy!” gasped Uncle Dick. “If you grip me any tighter
you’ll smash my hull and bring the masts by the board.”

He wrung his nephew’s hand warmly, his weather-beaten face all wrinkled
with smiles, his long gray cue almost bristling from pure joy.

“I thought you were one of the enemy’s spies,” said he at last after he
had greeted the grinning Cole, and had had Nat presented to him. “But
what in old Neptune brings you here? Tell me all about it.”

In a few moments Tom had acquainted him with the facts of his
expedition to Charleston. The old man wrung his hand once more as he
finished.

“Brave boy,” cried he, delighted beyond measure. “So you saved Laura
from that swab, Harwood, did you! Well, you’ll never do a better thing
in your life! And you have a company of friends back there a piece, did
you say?”

“Yes, there are a round score of us, all told.”

“You are not too much done up to take a hand in another little
enterprise before the night’s over, eh, lad?”

“No,” cried the young scout, eagerly. “I can speak for all my friends,
I know. What is it, Uncle Dick?”

“Down there,” and the old seaman pointed to the water’s edge, “I have
two boats, and in them is the biggest part of the crew of the four-gun
schooner, Defence.”

“Then your schooner was not taken by the enemy when they captured
Charleston!”

“Nothing like it. And she’s been doing good work for Congress ever
since, even if I do say it myself. But, to come back to the present:
Some time ago I learned that your father was still held a prisoner in
the hulks there,” pointing to some heavy, unpainted and unseaworthy
craft that were anchored off a sandy headland and whose lights could be
plainly seen.

“My father!” There was a sharp note of pain in Tom’s voice. “Then he
has not been sent to the English prisons; he has been detained here in
one of those hulks all this time, as I supposed. What a fate!”

The lad would have broken down had not Captain Deering made haste to
reassure him.

“There, there, boy! don’t take it so hard. He’s done very well,
considering. The party who brought me the news of him says he’s in good
health.”

“Even if that be so,” broke in Tom, his eyes burning as they fastened
themselves upon the hulks, “even if that be so, how long can it last?
If he remains there he will break down both in health and spirit.”

“He’ll not be there long,” said Uncle Dick, quietly.

Tom looked at him quickly, eagerly.

“What do you mean by that,” seizing his uncle by the arm; “do you mean
that----”

“That is just exactly what I do mean,” said the seaman. “Inside of an
hour your father is to be transferred from the hulk in which he is
held prisoner to the frigate Benbow, which you see lying over there,”
pointing to the vessel of war nearest the shore. “She is to sail
to-morrow for England, and Lord North has issued orders for the captain
to bring your father and some other wealthy prisoners with him.”

“Yes, yes,” said Tom, his voice husky with anxiety. “And your plan
is----”

“To attack the boat that carries them from the hulk to the frigate. I
have, as I said before, almost the entire crew of the Defence here in
her pinnace and gig; and each man of them is armed for desperate work.
There is room in the boats for some of your friends if they care to
join us in this little affair; we cannot have too many, as there is no
knowing what sized crew will man the boat; and with, perhaps, a marine
or two for good measure.”

Tom despatched Cole back to bring up the remainder of his band; and
when they advanced and learned what was going forward they, to a man,
volunteered to help. The first thing to do was to see to Laura’s
safety; Captain Deering sent one of his men for a fisherman’s yawl
which he knew was drawn up on the sand a short distance below. The
fisherman was an ex-member of the Defence’s crew and a stout friend of
his old captain; so when he and one of his grown sons appeared with the
yawl he readily agreed to row Laura to the schooner, the whereabouts of
which was carefully explained to him.

Tom, after the boat containing the girl and the two friendly fishermen
had pulled away in the direction of the schooner, detailed two of his
men to lead the horses to a point some miles below on the shores of
the bay. Then he and the others placed themselves under the orders of
Captain Deering and his first mate, who was in command of the second
boat.

“Now, lads,” spoke the skipper of the Defence, “I guess there’s no use
telling you that you are bound on a dangerous cruise--not a very long
one, but such a one as will need us to keep the starboard and larboard
watch both on deck all the time.”

“Douse the lantern!” said the mate, gruffly. He was a thick-set, hardy
looking man, about his captain’s age; he had an eye like a hawk and
a way of casting it about every now and then that at once dubbed him
sailor. The captain instantly blew out the lantern.

“Anything moving, Mr. Jackson?” asked he.

“I heard a creaking of blocks from the hulks,” returned the mate. “They
are lowering the boat, skipper, I think.”

“Then we’d best be afloat!” exclaimed Captain Deering. “Tumble in, my
hearties, and push off.”

The sailors of the Defence and the swamp-riders were soon evenly
distributed between the gig and the pinnace; the former was under the
command of Captain Deering in person, and in the bows sat Tom and Cole;
Nat and David Collins were in the mate’s boat; all were silent as the
boats shoved off from the beach; the lapping of the water against their
sides and the long, soft strokes of the oars were the only sounds that
could be heard.

“They’ve launched a boat,” said the mate in a low tone. The gig and
pinnace still pulled side by side, a double length of oar between them.
“Yes, and there goes another one, and another.”

“Stiff work,” growled the captain, as he strove to follow the mate’s
pointing finger. “I can just about make them out, Mr. Jackson, and they
seem to be full of men.”

“Let’s hope they’re mostly prisoners,” said the mate.

“Have your cutlasses ready, men,” said Captain Deering, softly. “We
can’t use the pistol until we’re sure of where we are firing.”

The three boats had pushed off from the hulk by this time; one was a
galley, pulled by at least a dozen men and carrying as many marines in
her bow, another was a small jolly-boat, and the last a ship’s gig in
the stern of which were to be seen several officers.

“Don’t bother the galley,” said Uncle Dick. “It holds only a guard. The
prisoners are in the gig or the small boat.”

“There seem to be only three of them,” said Tom, straining his eyes
through the darkness. “But I can’t make out my father among them.”

“He’s there, fast enough,” said the captain, encouragingly.

The pinnace and gig lay directly in the paths of the advancing boats;
Captain Deering had given orders to cease rowing, and they lay
silently upon the water, rising and falling with the slight swell.
The others had not yet seen them, for they showed no lights, but kept
swinging steadily along with their sweeps. The galley was first and the
skipper passed the word, hoarsely:

“We’ll have to give her a volley, after all. Ready, lads, and shoot
low.”

He had scarcely spoken the words when a marine in the bow of the
approaching galley discovered them and gave the alarm.

“Pull hard,” roared Captain Deering. The oarsmen obeyed, and the gig
shot forward. The swamp-riders knelt or stood in the bow, their muskets
ready. “Fire,” cried the skipper of the Defence.

A shower of musket balls swept into the galley; the marines in her
were too surprised to make a quick recovery; but their officers were
shouting angry commands and hot words of reproof at them, and they
at last succeeded in discharging their pieces in a half-hearted way;
but before they could reload the gig of the Defence was alongside
them, and cutlass and sabre were at their deadly work. Tom fought with
desperation; the galley must be beaten off before he could hope to get
alongside the British gig, which held the prisoners. But the marines
had recovered from their surprise by this time and were battling
determinedly.

“We must end this,” Tom heard Captain Deering growl, “the gig is
pulling away to save the prisoners.” The old sea-dog was slashing right
and left with a cutlass as he spoke, with Tom and Cole at his side.
Back and forth they swayed; the gunwales of the gig and galley ground
together, the sword-blades flashed up and down; the pistols barked
gruffly through the din of shouts and the clash of steel on steel.

Cole had lost his sabre overboard, and, clutching his rifle-barrel with
both hands, was doing frightful execution among the enemy with the
brass-bound butt. At the words of Captain Deering, the giant slave’s
eyes darted toward the British gig; its seamen were pulling lustily
toward the frigate, its officers urging them to increased exertion
with every stroke. Without a moment’s hesitation Cole sprang into the
galley, clearing a space before him with his clubbed musket. Then once,
twice, thrice the heavy butt of the weapon rose and fell; there was a
splintering of wood, a sudden shout of rage and fear, and the galley,
her bottom stove in, sank in the waters of the bay.

As she went down Cole clutched at the stern of the gig and was hauled
on board by Tom and the skipper. The latter, as cool and collected as
though he sat on his own after-deck, gave the word.

“Give way, lads; and pull hearty.”

The gig bounded through the waters like a thing of life; the creaming
waters were dashed from her sharp bow; the men pulled with skill and
good will, and Tom noted, as he stood in the bow, that they gained upon
the British boat. The pinnace, under Mr. Johnson, had grappled with
the galley on the other side, and had not cleared the wreck so quickly.
But she now was bounding after the gig under the impulse of her crew’s
brawny arms.

“They are going to reach safety under the frigate’s guns before we
overhaul them,” said Captain Deering. “I’m afraid it’s hopeless, lad.”

“No, no,” cried Tom, desperately; “don’t give up the chase. I’ll reduce
their speed a trifle.”

He picked up his rifle as he spoke, placed it to his shoulder, ran his
eye along the barrel and pulled the trigger. A cry came from the flying
boat; one of the oarsmen dropped his sweep and tumbled into the bottom.
This, of course, caused much confusion; the wounded man was dragged
forward and another man took his place. But the gig of the Defence had
made a clear gain upon them of fifty yards.

“Good lad!” cried the captain. “Try it again.”

Tom did not stop to reload his rifle, but picked up one belonging to
one of his companions. He leveled the piece with great care. Once more
the shot rang out, and once more an oarsman fell. The British officers
in the stern now began firing, but as they did not take careful aim
their shots did no harm. By this time, however, those on board the
frigate had received the alarm; lanterns flashed upon her decks and
a drum rolled sullenly. The boat containing the prisoners was almost
within range of her guns when the gig of the Defence overhauled her.

They grappled instantly and the fight raged with the utmost fury.
Without a moment’s hesitation Tom, followed by Cole, sprang into the
enemy’s boat among the cutlasses and pistols of the British tars.

“Father,” he cried, “I am here! I have come to save you.”

But he could not pause to look about, for the enemy had flown at him
with great determination. Shrieks of pain and shouts of rage mingled
with the clash of steel and the spiteful explosions of the firearms.
But in the heat of the conflict the pinnace with Mr. Johnson and his
crew arrived, and in a very few moments the British sailors were forced
to surrender their arms.

“Now,” cried Tom, his tones full of joy, “the prisoners.”

A number of white, worn-looking patriots were helped into the gig.
Tom’s heart sank when he looked at them. His father was not among them!

“Are these all the prisoners?” he cried, addressing one of the
white-faced men who sat in the stern of the Defence’s gig. “Was there
not another named Deering?”

“I do not know,” returned the man.

Tom, with despair in his eyes turned to the British officers in the
other boat. With one accord they burst into a laugh.

“Ah!” exclaimed one; “so it was he that you were after. Well, you’ve
failed, for you attacked the wrong boat.”

“He was not in the galley,” gasped Tom, his face going white.

“No; he was in the jolly-boat.” The speaker pointed to a dark speck
alongside the frigate. “See, there she is; she has made safety.”

“He is there,” shouted Tom to Captain Deering. “Pull for the frigate.”

“Sit down,” said the old sailor quietly. Then he gave the word to shove
off.

“You are not going to desert him!” Tom was beside himself. “You are not
going to leave him behind!”

“Give way,” ordered Captain Deering.

The men bent to their oars, and the gig bounded over the short waves,
putting more and more water between them and the frigate at every
stroke. Mr. Johnson had issued the same command and the bow of the
pinnace was but a few yards from the gig’s stern. Tom’s burning eyes
were fixed upon the frigate; somewhere in the dark loom of its hull was
his father--the father whom he so longed to see and whom he had vowed
to liberate. Each stroke of the oars that carried him from him cut him
like a knife.

“One dash,” he implored his uncle. “One swift dash and we can save him.”

“The frigate has lowered her boats,” said the skipper of the Defence.
“It would be certain death to attempt it.” Then to the sailors he cried
encouragingly, “Pull hard, my lads, show the British what American
muscle can do!”

The two boats shot away under the compelling force of the sturdy arms
at the oars.

“It’s a good four knots to the schooner,” said the mate, from the
pinnace. “And their men are fresh.”

This was true; for a long time the men bent to their oars, but the
schooner was still too far off to be seen, while the steady stroke of
the frigate’s boats could be heard astern in the darkness, each moment
growing nearer. And the other war vessels in the bay had sounded the
alarm by this time; signal rockets were flaring across the sky, and
the light of lanterns was to be seen on every hand, while the throbbing
of drums was faintly borne to their ears.

“Looks like desperate work,” said the captain. His tones were grave and
his eyes were straining through the gloom. “Oh, if we only stood on the
decks of the old schooner I would not care for them all.”

As though in answer to his words Tom suddenly sprang to his feet.

“Look!” shouted he. “Look there!”

“The Defence!” exclaimed the skipper, joy in his voice, “and bearing
down to hunt for us.”

Like a great bird the schooner loomed up through the darkness; her
mainsail, topsails and jib were set and bellying to the breeze; the
ripple of the water at her foot could be plainly heard, for she was
almost upon them when Tom discovered her.

“Ahoy!” shouted the skipper. “Schooner, ahoy!”

A prompt response came from the Defence’s deck; she swept about with
the grace of a hawk; and all hands were soon on board and the gig and
pinnace swung up after them.

“Make all sail,” said Captain Deering to Mr. Johnson. The mate’s deep
tones rang through the schooner; blocks creaked, ropes were manned, and
seamen swarmed into the rigging. Then like a great, white ghost the
Defence fell into the breeze and swept out of the harbor, leaving the
pursuing boats to return to the frigate with the news of the prisoners’
escape.

As Tom leaned on the quarter-rail and gazed eagerly back over the
schooner’s white track he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Come, lad, forgive me,” said his Uncle Dick; “you see for yourself,
don’t you, that it was useless to go nearer the frigate?”

Tom gripped his uncle’s hand. “Yes,” he said, “you were right, of
course, uncle. But it’s pretty hard to have been so near, and, and----”

He could not finish the sentence, but turned away abruptly, and for
many a day Tom had a heavy heart.



CHAPTER XV

HOW TOM DEERING FOUGHT HIS FIRST FIGHT UPON THE SEA


WHEN the schooner was well beyond pursuit she dropped in close to
shore, and word was sent to the men who guarded the horses to take them
back to Marion’s camp. Then the vessel got under way once more; it was
no time to loiter, as the frigates might make sail after them at any
time.

Tom, sick at heart at his failure to rescue his father, had decided to
stick to the Defence until he saw Laura at least in safety somewhere;
and several others of his command were delighted at the prospects of a
cruise upon deep water. Next morning Tom approached his uncle upon the
subject of Laura.

“I’ve been running out of the port of Baltimore,” said Captain Deering,
“for a long time, and we have some folks at Baltimore. You don’t
remember your Uncle Ben’s family, I suppose? I’ve been to see them once
or twice during the last year, and a fine, healthy lot of boys and
girls they are, and Ben and his wife are as hearty as can be. Suppose I
run up the Chesapeake, and have Laura stop with them for awhile?”

“An excellent idea,” said Tom, much relieved. “And I’m glad you thought
of it, for Laura’s safety has been troubling me a great deal.”

The run along the coast up to the Chesapeake was enlivened by a number
of chases by British vessels; there was one, a sloop-of-war, of about
the same tonnage as the Defence and carrying not many more guns, which
Captain Deering ran from with great regret.

“I’d like to train Long Tom on her,” said the old sea-dog, patting the
long pivot gun, amidships; “but as I’ve got Laura on board, I suppose I
must show the sloop a clean pair of heels.”

When they reached Baltimore, after a narrow escape from a brig and two
fleet schooners which were cruising up and down at the mouth of the
bay, Tom and the captain saw Laura safely housed with Uncle Ben, who
was delighted to receive her; then, after many “good-byes” they once
more sought the Defence.

As it happened the harbor of Baltimore was in great commotion just
about that time; a great fleet of merchantmen, fifty sail in all, were
waiting for a chance to sail, but the British fleet outside kept up
such a vigilant watch that it seemed as though the time would never
come. A brave and resolute officer, Captain Murray, who had at one time
served in the land force and afterward in the infant navy, was engaged
by the merchants of the port for the post of commodore of the fleet.

His personal charge was a “letter of marque,” the Revenge, carrying a
crew of fifty men and eighteen guns. A few days before, Captain Murray
had signaled the fleet to make sail; but upon venturing into open
water he had encountered a greatly superior force and was compelled
with his entire fleet to run up the Patuxent for safety.

However, he had now received word that the enemy, grown tired of
waiting, had sailed, and he was making ready for another attempt.
Knowing that the Defence had lately entered the port he paid her a
visit next morning in his gig.

“Captain Deering, I believe,” said the commander of the letter of
marque.

“Yes, sir,” said the old sailor, who stood in the waist, overlooking
some repairs to the topsails, which had been badly torn by a discharge
of small shot from one of the British vessels.

“I am Captain Murray, of the Revenge,” said the visitor. “The fleet
which you see in the harbor is about to sail to-morrow; I have come to
you to know how conditions are outside.”

“There seems to be plenty of the enemy’s craft,” grinned Captain
Deering, “and they are mighty liberal with their shot, for witness of
which look at my topsails,” and he waved his horny hand toward the rent
canvas which some of the sailors were stitching and patching as they
sat with their backs to the bulwarks.

“I’ve been asking for delay,” said Captain Murray; “but the merchants
want their cargoes afloat, and will listen to nothing else but
immediate sailing orders, they having heard that the enemy had sailed.”

“I know what they are,” said the skipper of the Defence. “These
land-lubbers are never satisfied. If their old tubs are held back they
rave and tear; and if they are taken out in the face of the enemy and
are captured or sunk they go on worse than before. Tar my old hull,
captain, there’s no way of pleasing such swabs.”

“I see you’ve been in some such position as mine yourself,” said
Captain Murray.

“I have,” returned Captain Deering. “I convoyed a fleet out of
Charleston before the British took the town. They gave me no peace
till I got their old hookers out; and then when the enemy bore down
on us, six sail strong and mounting as many guns as I had men, they
scuttled here and there like a lot of ducks in a rain-storm. Result was
that about half of ’em was seized; and of course when I ran back with
the others the entire blame was put upon me.”

“Just so,” said the captain of the letter of marque. “I’m afraid that
is how it is going to be with me. When do you sail, Captain Deering?”

“At the next tide,” answered the other.

“Could you be prevailed upon to sail with the fleet?” inquired the
other anxiously. The trim look of the Defence, the bright, well-kept
guns and the brisk businesslike crew had taken his fancy. The schooner
would be no mean addition to his fighting force, and he awaited the
answer with interest.

“If the fleet,” said Captain Deering, “sails when I do, and means to
stand to its guns if the enemy is sighted, I’ll stick by you while I
have a shot in the locker.”

“I thank you,” said Captain Murray gratefully. “There is to be a
meeting of the captains, upon the Revenge, this morning. We are going
to arrange matters before sailing.”

Now, although the merchant fleet numbered fifty sail and some of
them were large vessels, very few of them carried guns. It was
plain, therefore, that even this great collection of craft would be
comparatively helpless under the fire of a few light, well armed, fast
sailing vessels of the enemy. It was to effect some sort of a system of
defence that the commodore had called the captains together, and the
meeting upon the Revenge ended in terms of agreement being entered into
by the armed ships, to support one another in case of attack. Signals
were agreed upon for the entire fleet, and then all retired to their
respective vessels to await the turning of the tide.

In the gray of the morning the boatman’s whistle sounded through the
Defence; all hands turned out to up anchor and make sail.

“This will be our first experience at deep-water fighting,” said Tom
to Nat Collins as they, with the remainder of the swamp-riders’ band,
stood in the stern, ready to lend a hand when required.

“You expect fighting, then?” said Nat.

“To be sure. You see how sharply we were pursued in running in? Well,
if they would exert themselves so much against a single schooner, it
stands to reason that they will double their efforts against a huge,
helpless fleet like this. The Chesapeake will see some gunnery this
morning, and before the sun gets very high, in my opinion.”

“And your opinion’s a good one, my lad,” said the gruff voice of Mr.
Johnson, the schooner’s mate, who was passing just then. “There are
some of the British lying outside there, ready and waiting for this
fleet of old pine planks; and they’ll dance with delight when we show
ourselves in open water.”

There was a great flurry and noise in the vast gathering of
merchantmen; their capstans clanked, their blocks and rigging creaked,
their seamen chanted as they hauled upon the ropes. Then one after
another they got under way; the Defence and the Revenge, followed by
the other vessels carrying guns, led, under easy sail; the fleet as
it passed down the bay and out into the Atlantic made an imposing
appearance.

The shore line had not yet been dipped under the sparkling waters,
when Mr. Johnson’s prophecy came true. A fleet of privateers suddenly
hove in sight, close under the land. The Revenge flew the signal for a
superior force, and ordered all unarmed vessels to return to port, and
the others to rally about her. The Defence promptly bore up in answer
to the signal, but, to the shame of the others, only one brig followed
her example; the rest ran for Hampton Roads.

The British fleet consisted of a large ship of eighteen guns, a brig of
sixteen and three schooners; and with one accord they stood in for the
body of the merchantmen.

“There will be a general capture if that is allowed,” said the skipper
of the Defence to his mate.

“Ay, ay,” growled Mr. Johnson. “It’s time for the Revenge to show her
teeth, if Murray expects to do anything.”

“And for the Defence, too,” said Captain Deering. “Ready the Long Tom,
Mr. Johnson; we’ll try a round shot at that nearest schooner; she’s too
saucy by far for the weight she carries.”

The long gun was charged and the captain himself sighted it.

“There is a long, slow swell,” said he to Tom, “and that’s the best
sort for gunnery afloat. You can time the rise to a fraction of a
second. The best gunners are going to win this fight, for everything is
in their favor.”

He ran his eye along the polished length of the pivot gun, then applied
the match. Long Tom barked sharply, the solid shot went skipping
across the waves like a heavy-winged bird; there came a quick crackling
sound upon the schooner fired into and her foremast, splintered close
to the deck, went, in a tangle of rigging and spars, over the side.

“Well aimed,” praised Mr. Johnson, admiringly. “She’s out of the fight
for awhile, anyhow.”

“There goes the Revenge,” cried Tom.

The letter of marque had put herself into a tight place; in order to
give his merchantmen time to escape, Captain Murray had awaited the
approach of the privateers, and in a short time he was between the fire
of the ship and brig. As Tom spoke the Revenge let go both broadsides
and she reeled trembling under the shock. As Captain Deering had
predicted, good gunnery was going to be felt in that long, slow swell;
the firing of the Revenge was almost perfect, and the damage done by
her broadsides and smaller guns during the next half hour was very
great.

[Illustration: _“WELL AIMED” PRAISED MR. JOHNSON_]

The two uninjured schooners bore up on the Defence and engaged her; the
American brig here entered the fight, with the brass carronades with
which she was armed. She took the attention of one of the schooners
from the Defence, and Captain Deering headed for the other with his bow
guns barking like vicious dogs and the powder-smoke almost covering
his vessel’s advance. The steering-gear of the privateer had been
damaged by a well-placed shot from the long gun early in the action;
so she could not manœuvre as she otherwise would have done; the result
was that the Defence laid herself alongside, and with a wild cheer
the seamen and swamp-riders, led by Tom and the mate, sprang over the
rail and rushed among her crew. These latter, apparently, were not
accustomed to this style of fighting, for after a weak resistance they
threw down their arms and cried for quarter.

Captain Deering directed that they should be driven down below and the
hatches battened down; then placing a half dozen men on board the
captured craft to manage her, he drew off. The American brig was still
engaged with the third schooner; the latter was the lightest armed and
manned, and as the brig seemed fully capable of providing her with
entertainment the Defence went about and bore up for the Revenge.

Captain Murray was fighting his vessel with desperate resolution; but,
by this time, his ammunition began to grow low, for they had been hotly
engaged for a full hour, and his fire had somewhat slackened. And now
the gallant officer’s heart leaped with delight as he saw the Defence
heading for the brig, upon his starboard; for with the attention of
this vessel attracted from him for a space he felt that he could deal
with the ship.

Tom Deering, who had sailed upon many coasting trips in the Defence
before the outbreak of the war, was at the helm; Captain Deering was
superintending the loading of his guns with canister and musket balls;
Mr. Johnson was mustering a boarding crew in the waist. As they neared
the brig, which greeted them with a scattering fire of small arms and a
broadside which did little or no damage, the captain shouted to Tom,

“Down your helm--hard!”

The signal had been arranged between them; the brig manœuvred to meet
the expected movement of the schooner; but Tom promptly threw his helm
up, and a swinging spar became entangled in the rigging of the Defence,
whose mate at once, with a body of seamen, sprang to make the tangle
secure. The schooner was now in a position from which she could rake
the brig from stem to stern.

“Fire,” cried Uncle Dick. The guns, loaded with the canister and musket
balls, swept the British ship’s decks, and in a few moments there was
not a man to be seen. Those who had not fallen by the fire had sought
safety below decks; Mr. Johnson was about to give the word to board,
when the lashings gave way, and the two vessels drifted apart.

The guns of the Defence were given time to cool and commander and crew
looked about them. The ship which had engaged the Revenge had hauled
off; the third schooner, after inflicting sufficient damage to the
rigging of the American brig to prevent pursuit, had also drawn away.
Then Captain Murray, whose vessel had suffered severely, having borne
the pounding of both British ship and brig for an hour, flew the signal
to cease firing. He knew that it would not be possible for them to take
the British vessels, so a continuation of the action would only be a
waste of ammunition.

Within a half hour the enemy had drawn together to make repairs;
then they hoisted what sail they could, and all five stood out to
sea, while the Revenge and Defence re-entered the harbor with the
crippled brig limping, as it were, in their wake. For this gallant
action the skippers and crews received the thanks of the merchants of
Baltimore. The Defence was somewhat damaged by the British fire; so
Captain Deering delayed long enough to refit; and there being no enemy
now to fear the merchant fleet sailed in safety to their different
destinations. One morning the Defence also slipped out of the bay and
was soon bounding swiftly over the sparkling waters of the Atlantic, on
her way south.



CHAPTER XVI

HOW TOM DEERING SERVED WITH GENERAL GREENE


ABOUT a week later the Defence ran into Charleston harbor, and Tom
Deering and his friends, after bidding the skipper good-bye, were put
ashore. The journey back to the district across the Santee was made on
foot. It was a long and wearisome one, and being made at night caused
it to seem all the more difficult. The first day they passed at the
Indian’s Head; and in three nights more they found themselves back in
the camp of the Americans.

It was shortly after their return that Marion retired to Snow’s Island,
which is to this day pointed out as “the camp of the Swamp-Fox.” He
had concluded that the place would be a safe depot for his arms,
ammunition, prisoners and invalids--difficult of access, easily
guarded and close to the scene of his most active operations.

Snow’s Island lay at the confluence of Lynch’s Creek and the Peedee. On
the east was the latter river; on the west was Clarke’s Creek, issuing
from Lynch’s, a deep stream which small vessels might ascend; Lynch’s
Creek lay on the north, but was choked by rafts, logs, and refuse
timber. The island was large; thick woods covered the elevated tracts,
dense cane-brakes the lower.

It was here that Marion made his fortress. He secured all the boats in
the neighborhood, destroying those which he could not use.

Where the natural defenses of the place seemed to require strengthening
he labored upon them; by cutting down bridges and obstructing the
ordinary pathways with timber he contrived almost perfectly to isolate
the section of country under his command. From this fortress his
scouting parties were sent forth nightly in all directions to report
on the doings of the British at Nelson’s Ferry and Scott’s Lake.

Here Marion and his men lived like the Robin Hood of old, and his
generous outlaws of Sherwood forest. Nature herself seemed to be with
them; the dense woods and interminable growth screened them from the
enemy; the vine and briar guarded the passes; the swamp was their moat;
their bulwarks were the deep ravines, which, watched by sleepless
riflemen, were quite as impregnable as the castles of the Rhine.

Tom Deering and Cole were kept busy those first days at Snow’s
Island; for General Greene, a soldier of great firmness, prudence and
forethought had some time before assumed command of the army of the
South, and the young scout carried all the despatches between the two
camps. One day at the Continental camp Tom was summoned to the tent of
the commanding officer. The sentry passed him in, and he stood at the
flap of the tent, his hand at the salute, waiting to be addressed.

A number of officers were with General Greene, and they seemed to be
deeply interested in some maps which lay upon the table before them.
General Greene at length looked up.

“Deering,” said he, “I have sent for you because you are well
acquainted with this country in every direction and because you are
very well spoken of by General Marion,” for the American leader had now
attained that rank.

“Yes, general,” answered Tom, wondering what was to come.

“As you have probably heard,” continued the officer, “General Morgan
is operating in the western section of the state; it is positively
necessary that I, in person, reach his force without delay.”

“I can guide you, general,” said Tom promptly. “I have been over the
ground many times.”

“Very well,” said Greene, briefly. “See that your mount is rubbed down,
fed and well rested; and get some sleep yourself. We start in the
morning at daylight.”

Tom saluted and left the tent to communicate the intelligence to
Cole. The General Morgan of whom Greene had spoken was in command of
a corps of light infantry, of the Maryland line, numbering over three
hundred men, two hundred Virginia militia, and the cavalry force that
had, under Lieutenant-Colonel Washington, just beaten the British at
Clermont. Sumpter had been wounded in the fight at Blackstock and was,
as yet, unable to leave his bed, so his force, also, joined itself to
Morgan’s.

Cornwallis had been on the point of advancing into North Carolina; but
being unwilling to leave Morgan’s brigade in his rear, he despatched
Colonel Tarleton against him. Morgan had, at first, retreated before
the superior numbers of the British; but being closely pursued, he
halted at a place called the Cowpens, and arranged his men in the order
of battle. Tarleton’s headlong dragoons rushed upon him; the militia
had given way and the regular troops followed. Just when it seemed
that Morgan was beaten, he succeeded in reforming his scattered ranks
and ordered a general charge. Shamed, and eager to show their gallant
leader that his faith in them had not been misplaced, the Americans
dashed at the astounded enemy and sent them flying in all directions.

Upon receiving intelligence of Tarleton’s repulse, Cornwallis left
the banks of the Broad River, after destroying his heavy baggage, and
commenced one of his rapid marches toward the fords of the Catawba,
hoping to reach there in time to intercept the retreat of Morgan, who
would, of course, know that he would now be pursued by the main body of
the enemy.

This was the news which General Greene had just received, and which
made him so anxious to go to Morgan and personally see that no rash
measures were attempted that would endanger the brigade. He, with Tom
Deering, Cole and a half dozen mounted infantry, started next morning.
After a hard ride of almost two days they reached Morgan where he had
encamped upon the Catawba. He had reached the fords about two hours
before Cornwallis; the camp-fires of the latter could be seen across
the river, for the British general had put off the crossing until
morning, being sure that he would overtake his adversary then.

But, as fate willed it, the Catawba rose rapidly during the night; and,
to Cornwallis’ consternation, was impassable for two days.

Greene now took command of Morgan’s division in person; Tom was sent
out with a party to watch the movements of the enemy who, as soon as
they could cross the river, were once more in hot pursuit. It was a
race for the Yadkin, now; the Americans were weighted down with baggage
and their progress was slow; the British carried nothing, practically,
but their arms, and their march was made at great speed.

The rear-guard of the patriots was about crossing the Yadkin when the
van of the British came up. Greene had put Tom in charge of a small
party which was detailed to protect some baggage wagons; the wagons got
stuck in the soft and badly cut ford and the enemy galloped forward
with cheers to cut them off.

“Stand, men!” called Tom, calmly. “Steady! Don’t give an inch! We’ll
make these fellows pay dearly for the baggage. Hold your fire until I
give the word.”

So he talked to them as they stood, waist deep, in the stream; the
British rode forward firing their pieces and then plunged into the
ford. The rear-guard at the word from Marion’s young scout raised their
rifles and poured a steady volley into them which emptied many saddles.
General Greene rode down to the edge of the stream about this time.

Tom saluted.

“I’m afraid we cannot save the wagons, general.”

“Get more horses,” ordered Greene, who disliked leaving behind supplies
of which his soldiers were so much in need.

Fresh horses were hitched to the wagons, the teamsters cracked their
whips and shouted like madmen; but it was no use.

“The wheels are too deeply sunk in the mud, general,” reported Tom.

“Cut the traces,” directed General Greene, regretfully; “we must leave
them, I suppose.”

While the traces were being cut another charge was made by the enemy’s
horsemen. The rear-guard under Tom had crossed the ford, and met the
charge with steady courage. The deadly rifles spoke with flaming
tongues, and once more the dragoons fell back. This time, however, they
had approached nearer, and as they were scattering to run Tom caught
sight of a face which caused him to start with surprise and then clap
spurs to Sultan in reckless pursuit.

It was Mark Harwood, in a British uniform, dismounted by the rifle
fire and racing desperately to escape. But a dozen bounds of the big
chestnut placed Tom alongside his enemy; with a drawn pistol held to
his head Mark paused, his face deathly white.

“Mercy,” he gasped. “Tom, have mercy.”

“You are my prisoner,” said Tom, sternly.

“No, no,” cried Mark. “Morgan or Greene would hang me. Let me go. I’ll
do whatever you say. I’ll tell you where your father is--I know you’ve
been anxious about him.”

“Where is he?” Tom’s heart beat hard. Since the night of the battle in
the bay he had heard nothing of his father and had spent many hours and
days brooding upon his fate.

“Promise you’ll let me go free,” demanded the Tory, “and I’ll tell you.”

“I promise,” said Tom.

“He was taken on board the frigate Benbow, which sailed for New York
some time ago.”

“Are you speaking the truth?”

“Upon my honor.”

“Your honor!” Tom laughed with scorn. “But go, I give you a minute to
get out of my sight.”

Mark dashed for the bush and disappeared like magic; Tom turned
Sultan’s head and rode back to his comrades.

“I thought you were about to take a prisoner,” said General Greene. “We
cannot bother with them now.”

“It was a Tory cousin of mine, general,” said the scout. “He gave me
some valuable information about the whereabouts of my father, and,
knowing that you wanted no prisoners anyway, I let him go.”

“Quite right. I am glad to hear that you’ve had news of your father. I
have heard how he was taken prisoner; he was a brave man. Perhaps we
can secure his exchange.”

“If we only could,” cried Tom, eagerly. “I would give anything to see
him at liberty once more.”

And from that time on there was not an hour that he was not planning a
way by which his father was to breathe free air again.

“If I could only get to New York,” he repeated constantly. “If I only
could get to New York. I might be able to do something, then. But here
I am helpless.”

Some nights later the opposing armies were once more encamped with only
a stream between them. And again, remarkable as it seems, the water
rose suddenly in the night, making the ford impassable.

This afforded Greene time to put a goodly distance between himself
and Cornwallis; but the latter continued the chase with unabated
determination, as soon as he had made the crossing; Greene was
retreating toward Virginia; and having abandoned some of his baggage
was making better progress. Once more they approached a river, this
time the Don; Greene’s army crossed it just as, for the third time,
the British reached the opposite bank. Disheartened by these continued
disappointments after such desperate efforts, Cornwallis here gave up
the chase, and marching south, established himself at Hillsboro.

Greene lay on the Don for some little time, resting the weary brigade
and recruiting.

The defense of Virginia was at this time in the competent hands of the
Marquis de Lafayette who was encamped not far from Petersburg. Desiring
to communicate with him before marching back into Carolina, General
Greene one day sent for Tom.

“I am going to give you a chance to set your father free,” said he.

Tom’s eyes sparkled with joy; he could scarcely hold himself in, so
great was his delight.

“Do that, general,” he cried, “and there is nothing that I will not do
in return.”

“In giving you this opportunity,” said Greene, “I am also sending you
upon a dangerous mission. I want you to carry some important dispatches
to General Washington, who is somewhere in the neighborhood of New
York.”

“Very well, sir.” Tom stood saluting in the doorway.

“These papers contain the reports of the army of the South, and are to
be forwarded to Congress. I tell you this in order that you might know
the value of your charge and guard it accordingly. When you go out,
tell the sentry to request General Morgan to come to me. That is all.”

Tom saluted and left the tent. All that day Greene and Morgan were in
consultation; the result was a goodly packet of papers strongly tied
and securely sealed, which were handed Tom next day as he sat upon
Sultan’s back before the commander’s headquarters, with his faithful
Cole at his side.

“Make your best speed,” said General Greene, “and guard your dispatches
with your life. And now, God bless you.”

The hands of the young swamp-rider and his faithful servant went up in
a smart salute. Then they touched Sultan and Dando with the spur and
went dashing away toward the north, Tom’s heart throbbing with joy at
the prospect of at last rendering his father aid.



CHAPTER XVII

HOW A TRAITOR TO HIS COUNTRY WAS TAKEN AND LOST


THE hardships of the following weeks were never forgotten by Tom
Deering nor Cole; the entire state of Virginia seemed overrun with the
enemy in small parties; they were compelled to lie concealed for days
at a time in the hut of a slave, in the cabin of a woodman or in the
dwellings of patriots of higher rank. Sometimes these shelters were not
to be had; and in such cases they slept in the woods or the thickets.
Food was scarce, and many days they scarcely broke their fast.

At length joyous news reached them. Lafayette had set out from
Baltimore in the latter part of April and had arrived on the 29th,
after forced marches of two hundred miles, at Richmond. This was the
first news of the gallant marquis that they had heard since leaving
the camp of General Greene on the Don, weeks before. They were not more
than a hundred miles or so from Richmond at the time, and at once set
out for that place.

“Great things have happened, Cole, since we started on this journey,”
said Tom, “and greater still are going to happen.”

News had reached them that on March 15th Greene, with an army of above
4,000 men had been attacked by Cornwallis at Guilford Court House, and
they learned that while the Americans had fallen back, Cornwallis was
so badly crippled that he could not follow up his advantage.

“And they say,” said Tom, “that Lord Cornwallis intends to march
north and endeavor to conquer Virginia. Well, let him come; I suppose
Lafayette will be ready for him, and perhaps he will find that Virginia
is as tough a bone to pick as Carolina.”

They were riding, while Tom spoke, along a narrow and little frequented
road; it was late on the second day of their journey since hearing of
the entrance of the French general into Richmond, and they had already
began to wonder how far they were from the town. Standing some distance
from the road, among a clump of trees was a long, low building that
looked like a schoolhouse. The two stopped to examine it carefully
before venturing into full view of its possible occupants.

“It looks like a schoolhouse,” said the young swamp-rider, “and, if it
is, should be deserted at this time. But there is no telling, in these
days, for----”

But he never finished the sentence.

A scream rang out from the building at which they were gazing, and
almost at the same instant the door burst open and a boy of possibly
fifteen darted forth. After him followed a man in the uniform of a
British general of brigade, and two soldiers, one of whom carried a
rope.

“Stop, you dog,” cried the officer in a high, harsh tone. “Stop, or I
fire!”

He held a heavy pistol in his hand; the fleeing lad saw it and
stopped, terror-stricken.

“Come back,” directed the officer, a sneer curling his lip at the
promptness of the obedience. “Come back, you young hound, and answer
the questions which I ask you.”

The boy retraced his steps reluctantly. A girl of about sixteen,
meantime, had emerged from the building with two small children
clinging to her skirts; fear had blanched all their faces; they gazed,
trembling and silent, at the boy and the officer.

“We are needed here, Cole,” said Tom, evenly. “I wonder how many there
are in the party at the schoolhouse?”

Cole bent his brows in an expression that expressed his fear that there
were more of them than were visible.

“You stay here,” said Tom. “Dismount and have your rifle ready. I’m
going over there to speak to those redcoats.”

Cole, without a word, did as commanded; he squatted among some bushes
in a spot from which he had a clear view of the schoolhouse; his rifle
was held between his knees, ready for anything that might occur.

The lad at the schoolhouse, white-faced and with quivering lip, stood
before the British officer; he was a slight, delicate boy, at best, and
seemed unaccustomed to rough treatment. The redcoat glared at him like
an animal, blood hungry and enraged.

“I want the truth,” said he.

“I have told you the truth,” was the boy’s reply. “I know nothing.”

“You lie!” Turning to the soldier who held the rope, the officer
proceeded, “Corporal, bring the halter here; perhaps that will bring
him to his senses and induce him to tell the truth.”

The girl, who stood in the doorway with the children, screamed sharply
and, running forward, she threw her arms about the boy’s neck.

“No, no,” she cried. “Please don’t harm him; he is my brother; he knows
nothing.”

“Corporal,” ordered the officer, “take her away.”

Despite her cries, the girl was dragged away; the boy forgot his own
danger and sprang toward the two soldiers, his eyes flashing.

“Let her go,” he cried, his pale cheeks flushing with indignation.
“Take your hands off, you cowards!”

“Ah, you have spirit, have you,” cried the officer, his laugh sounding
harsh and unpleasant upon the evening air. “Well, you’ll need it before
many minutes, my lad, if you don’t loosen that tongue of yours.”

“I tell you again, I know nothing about the American general’s army; I
did not see them; I do not know how many or how few men there are in
Richmond.”

“Corporal, the halter,” cried the officer; “there is no use in our
wasting words here.”

The British corporal brought the rope; the boy’s eyes widened as he
looked upon it, but his lips closed firmly. Without a word more it was
tossed over the limb of a near-by tree and the corporal was widening
the noose when Tom rode up.

“Just one moment,” said Marion’s young scout. “I would like to know
what this little pleasantry means, if you please.”

He sat upon Sultan’s back and gazed coolly into the faces of the three
redcoats. The officer had put down his pistol some few minutes before,
and now clapped his hand to his sword. He was a handsome man, with
piercing eyes that contained, also, something that was cold and cruel;
his nose and chin were prominent and aggressive, demonstrating a bold
and enterprising spirit--a spirit capable of great things or the most
base. He looked at the young swamp-rider for a moment, and then said,
sneeringly,

“So you would like to know what this little pleasantry, as you call it,
means, would you?”

“Yes,” replied Tom Deering, his voice as even as though he were talking
to Cole by the camp-fire, and his eyes as steady as though he were
gazing at an empty horizon line, “I have some curiosity on that point.
If you see your way clear to enlightening me I should be obliged to
you.”

“And, suppose,” said the British brigadier, “suppose I should refuse?”

“In that event,” spoke the scout, “I would venture a guess--and a
pretty accurate one, I fancy.”

“Indeed?” The bitterness of the officer’s sneer increased. “You flatter
yourself upon your coolness, I take it; but this time, at least, you
have made a mistake.” His sword suddenly flashed out from its scabbard,
and in a voice thick with rage, he shouted:

“You rebel dog, I’ll teach you a lesson for your insolence. Down from
your horse!”

[Illustration: _THE OFFICER SPRANG FORWARD_]

Tom sat still, gazing into the passion inflamed countenance before
him; seeing that he did not move to obey, the officer sprang forward,
his sword ready for a blow. When it descended Tom received it upon the
steel barrel of his holster pistol, not even troubling himself to
draw his sword.

“Now,” said he, gazing with irritating calmness into the other’s eyes,
“you really should not allow yourself to give way to these sudden fits.
You are of a rather stout habit, and apoplexy is not a thing to be
tempted.”

For a moment the brigadier seemed unable to speak, so enraged was he.
Then he managed to shout an order to the corporal; and the latter
rushed toward his rifle which stood leaning against the schoolhouse
wall. But his hands had no sooner closed upon it, than a shot rang out
from the bushes at the roadside and he fell prone upon his face. At
this the other soldier sprang at the young man, plucking a bayonet from
his belt; but the heavy ball of Tom’s pistol broke his shoulder and he
sank beside his comrade.

“Now, sir,” said Tom sternly, “you are my prisoner.”

The British brigadier looked at him gloweringly for a moment; his sword
was held as though he meditated another spring, but Tom checked any
idea which he might have had of such an attempt.

“If you desire to throw away your life,” said the young scout, “attempt
to escape. If I raise my hand you will be shot from the cover along the
road just as your corporal was.”

There was a haggard, despairing look in the British officer’s face as
he, at length, laid down his sword. Tom called Cole from his post,
and the giant negro mounted guard over him. In a few moments Tom
discovered that the three redcoats had ridden up to the schoolhouse
just as the children were about leaving it for the day. The boy whom
they were about to hang, young as he was, was the schoolmaster; the
girl and the two younger children were his sister and brothers, who had
clung to him in his danger, even after all the others had scattered,
terror-stricken, to their homes about the countryside.

“Richmond,” said the young schoolmaster, “is about three miles away,
straight ahead. Keep to the road; you can’t help but strike it.”

Cole bound the prisoner upon his horse, which was found tied behind the
schoolhouse; the young girl and her brother thanked them with tears
in their eyes; and then they mounted and rode away in the direction
indicated.

It was quite dark when they, at length, sighted the lights of the town
from a rise in the ground; they skirted a clump of woods and entered
a lane which was lined with trees upon each side and was very dark.
However, as it seemed to lead directly to Richmond, they pushed ahead
without any hesitation. They had ridden well into the lane, when a
volley of shots rang out; Cole clutched at his arm, and the prisoner’s
horse fell kicking in its death agonies.

Cole took his rein in his teeth and, following Tom’s example, drew his
pistol as he set spurs to his horse. With great leaps Sultan and Dando
bounded forward and as they sped down the dark lane they heard their
late prisoner’s voice crying after them, triumphantly,

“When you reach De Lafayette, tell him how you caught me, and how I
slipped through your fingers!”

Within an hour after escaping this ambush Tom was in the camp of
Marquis de Lafayette, and was explaining his mission to that brave
gentleman himself.

“It is almost a miracle that you have escaped capture,” said he,
speaking with a slight French accent. “Your ride from North Carolina
must have been filled with many perils.”

“Yes, general,” answered the youth; “but the strangest of all happened
on the road just below the town.”

“Ah! and what was that?”

In a very few words Tom told him of his capture of the British
brigadier, the ambush, and the prisoner’s cry when he found himself
safe with his friends once more.

The general’s keen eyes flashed. “What was he like--your prisoner?” he
demanded. “Describe him!” and Tom began to tell what he could remember.
But almost at the first word General de Lafayette came to his feet with
a spring, and his clinched fist struck the table a blow that made it
dance.

“It was he,” came from his lips in almost a shout. “It was the
arch-traitor Benedict Arnold himself! He is here with Phillips, and is
leaving a trail of rapine behind him.” The marquis clapped Tom on the
back, as he continued, regretfully: “My boy, you have escaped fame by a
hair’s breadth; by to-night’s work on the road you came within the wink
of an eye of writing your name with your sword-point upon the pages of
your country’s history!”



CHAPTER XVIII

HOW TOM DEERING RODE WITH WASHINGTON AT YORKTOWN


TOM remained with Lafayette in Virginia for some time.

“Your orders,” the general had said to him, “are to make all speed to
General Washington’s camp, are they not?”

“Yes, general,” answered the scout.

“Then, you will make more speed by remaining where you are for a time.
To attempt to win your way through the country north of here would be
folly at this time--you would lose both your dispatches and your life.”

“But,” protested Tom, “my orders were such as to----”

“Your orders were to deliver the dispatches to General Washington,”
spoke Lafayette, quietly. “And if you ride north now, it will be as
though you desired the papers to fall into the hands of the enemy.”
He smiled at the young scout’s indignant expression. “You love your
country’s cause, I feel sure of that; but it is one thing to be brave
and another thing to be foolish. Wait; in a few weeks, or days,
perhaps, by hard riding and great caution you might get through. But at
this time the attempt would be suicide.”

Tom realized the truth of all this, but chafed at the delay; now that
he had definite news of his father he burned with the desire to help
him in some way.

“If I could only put the matter before General Washington,” he told
himself again and again, “he would have him exchanged, for the general
would appreciate his service.”

The friends of America in the British parliament, and they were many,
were rapidly beginning to make headway at this time; Lord North was
put to his wit’s end to maintain his position against them. “End the
war,” was beginning to be heard night after night in both the Commons
and the Lords; even the crusty old king was beginning to waver in his
purpose.

Colonel Phillips and the traitor Arnold had been beaten off by
Lafayette and the gallant Baron Steuben; and just as Phillips was
breathing his last Cornwallis arrived in Petersburg with 7,000 picked
men. Cornwallis, while a stern, relentless soldier--indeed a ruthless,
in many respects, was still a gentleman; and one of his first acts upon
taking command, was to pack Arnold back to New York; the traitor was
more than he could tolerate.

The British at once seized all the horses for many miles
around--hundreds of them--overran the James River district, and took
possession of Richmond and Williamsburg.

“There is one thing I like about the war as conducted in Virginia,”
Tom said to Cole one morning as they were ready to depart on a scout.
“There are not nearly so many Tories; there is not that neighbor
against neighbor which exists in Carolina. Up here almost every enemy
wears a red coat.”

This was the day that Tom intercepted a dispatch from Sir Henry
Clinton, calling Cornwallis to the seacoast. He reported in the
afternoon to the commander.

“But where is the dispatch?” asked Lafayette.

“Lord Cornwallis has it by this time, I suppose,” answered the scout.

“Ah!” Lafayette looked at his horseman sharply. “Tell me about it.”

“I and my servant, general, sprang upon the courier just as he was
climbing the bank after crossing the James. We took his papers and let
him go. As you directed me to do in every case, I read the dispatches
in order to assure myself that they were worth bringing to your notice.”

“Yes!” said the general, expectantly.

“General Clinton desires Lord Cornwallis to at once proceed to the
coast, and hold himself ready to reinforce the army at New York.”

“Ah, is Washington pressing Sir Henry so close!” cried Lafayette,
delighted. “If so I see the end coming at last. But proceed.”

“During the morning,” continued Tom, “I was sighted by a scouting party
of the enemy. I had sealed up the dispatches about as I got them, and
in my flight I managed to drop them, as though by accident. This ruse,
I thought, would lead General Cornwallis to think that the contents of
the dispatches were still secret.”

“Very good!” said the French general, his lip closing in a firm line.
“This perhaps will lead to something.”

What it led to was this: Cornwallis, in answer to Clinton’s appeal,
set his force in motion from Williamsburg to Portsmouth. He was upon
the point of crossing the James when Lafayette attacked him with great
fury, under the impression that the main body of his army had already
crossed.

A day or so before, Tom had been despatched in hot haste to the camp of
General Wayne to urge him to form a junction with Lafayette. At the
prospect of a fight “Mad Anthony” had leaped to his feet and roared out
his orders to make ready to break camp. And, as it happened, it was he
that led the attack upon Cornwallis at the James. Tom, who had a high
admiration for the courage of this dashing soldier, had asked leave to
remain with him during the fight, and had granted the permission with a
laugh.

“I may want a fast horse to carry back my news of victory,” said he,
a twinkle in his eye, “and,” with a glance of appreciation at Sultan,
“you have the best in the army.”

It was only a short time after this that they threw themselves upon the
enemy. General Wayne’s eyes opened wide at sight of their great array.

“We’re attacking Cornwallis’ entire force,” cried a staff-officer in
dismay. “Shall we sound the retreat?”

Wayne threw his eagle eye over the field.

“No,” he shouted, hotly. “Sound the charge.”

The bugle rang out and the slender command charged with great
impetuosity; then like a flash, before the astounded British could
recover, Wayne ordered a retreat. If he had attempted the retreat in
the first instance the chances are that he would have lost his entire
command; as it was, Cornwallis was so astonished at the bold manœuvre
that he could not take advantage of the American’s position until too
late. Afterward he, apparently, suspected an ambuscade, for he sternly
forbade any pursuit.

The country to the north was now somewhat clear of the enemy, and Tom
asked General Lafayette’s permission to go on toward New York.

“It would be as well, perhaps,” said the French officer. “The way is
as free of British as it will be for some time, and the dispatches are
evidently important. But proceed by way of Baltimore; you have the
best chance of getting through by that route.”

The ride to Baltimore was a long and difficult one, also attended
by great danger. When he reached that city he, of course, at once
proceeded to the home of his Uncle Ben. After greeting Laura, who was
delighted to see him, he inquired after the brave old skipper of the
Defence--Uncle Dick.

“The Defence is being used as a dispatch boat by the Count de
Grasse,” answered Uncle Ben. “You know the French fleet is now in the
Chesapeake.”

“Why,” said Tom, “you astonish me. I have heard nothing of that.”

“The news was slow in coming,” laughed Uncle Ben, his face shining with
delight. “It must have been delayed somehow. And have you not heard of
Cornwallis’ position?”

“He is at Portsmouth, is he not?”

“No; he remained there but a short time. He has concentrated his force
upon the south side of the York River--a place called Yorktown. There
are some British war-ships in the river; but Admiral de Grasse has both
it and the James blockaded.”

“But what good will all this do?” protested Tom. “The Marquis de
Lafayette is not strong enough to cope with him.”

“But,” cried Laura, who had been listening, “General Washington is!”

“General Washington!”

“You have missed all the news, my boy. Why, Washington has turned
his attention from Sir Henry Clinton at New York and is marching on
Cornwallis at Yorktown.”

“Then to deliver my dispatches I must turn back!” exclaimed Tom, with
sinking heart. “My father is a prisoner upon the Benbow frigate at New
York; and I had hoped to have him exchanged when I got there.”

“The Benbow!” Uncle Ben stared at him. “Why, the Benbow is not at New
York. She is one of the vessels in York River.”

“You are sure!” Tom grasped his arm excitedly.

“I am positive.” The old man took a letter from the cupboard. “It’s
from your Uncle Dick,” he continued, “and was sent up by means of a
trading craft which he boarded down the bay.”

Tom read the letter eagerly. The Benbow was the vessel whose boats they
had attacked that night in Charleston harbor. Before proceeding north
she sailed, with several hundred slaves taken from the plantations of
patriots in the Carolinas, for the West Indies, to help replenish the
coffers of the king by their sale. This occupied some months, and on
her way from there to New York with her white prisoners she was met
by the Defence and three French ships of war. A running fight lasting
several days was the result, and it ended at length by the Englishman
running into the Chesapeake and up the York River where she, together
with the other British ships, was prevented from coming out by the
fleet of Admiral de Grasse.

“The Benbow is blockaded in the York River!” Tom almost shouted the
words. “And my father is on board! I now have two reasons to reach
Yorktown in time; to see Washington thrash Cornwallis, and set my
father free.”

No time was lost; and he at once set out upon the return journey with
Cole. Both Sultan and Dando seemed to feel the impatience of their
masters, and the journey was made at a remarkable pace; they scarcely
stopped to sleep at all, and were it not for their faithful horses
would not have once dismounted on the way.

Tom’s wish was granted; they arrived before any decisive steps were
taken. On August 23d, De Grasse had landed two thousand French troops
under St. Simon to reinforce Lafayette. On September 30th, Washington
had reached Yorktown, after a long series of rapid marches, and was
at once joined by Lafayette and St. Simon. A British fleet made an
attempt to ascend the York and relieve Cornwallis, but was driven off
by Admiral de Grasse.

Tom found that Washington had posted the French in front, and on
the right of the besieged town, extending from the river above to
the morass in the centre, where they were met by the Americans, who
extended to the river below. The young swamp-rider had arrived on
October 6th; and for two days and nights he and Cole slept almost
without a break. It was on the evening of the 8th that they first
reported for duty to Lafayette.

“The general is engaged,” said the sentry at the door of the marquis’s
quarters. “General Washington is with him.”

General Washington! Tom had not, as yet, laid eyes upon the great
Virginian, so he waited near by. As it happened, Lafayette heard his
voice at the door, and sent an officer out to bid him enter. Tom obeyed
with a beating heart; the French officer stood by the table in the
centre of the room, and in the background were grouped a number of
distinguished Americans and Frenchmen. But it was the figure at the
table that took the young scout’s attention; it was that of a large man
with a calm, noble face, and the air of one who commanded by natural
right. His hands rested upon the table before him, and his eyes were
fixed upon a youth who stood opposite him, under guard. Tom could not
restrain a cry of surprise at sight of him. The youth was Mark Harwood!

At the cry Washington looked toward Tom, inquiry in his quiet eyes.
Lafayette stepped forward.

“Pardon me, general, but this is the youth of whom I have already
spoken to you.”

“Ah, yes.” Washington’s face lit up with one of his rare smiles. “I
am pleased to meet so brave a soldier,” said he, addressing Tom. “I
have heard of your service with Generals Marion and Greene; and also
of what you have done since you joined General de Lafayette. Believe
me, your country is proud of such sons; and while she has such she is
unconquerable.”

The young man’s face burned with pleasure; praise from Washington was
praise indeed, and as he noted the smiles of the officers gathered
about, he felt that they, too, thought the same.

After a few moments, the commander-in-chief turned to a captain who
stood at Mark Harwood’s side.

“Captain Lacey,” said he, “take this man away.”

“Will you not use my information, then?” cried young Harwood, his face
going pale. “It is accurate; it will be of great service to you. I was
trusted by Lord Cornwallis and I can tell you his positions; I can tell
you how----”

“Enough,” Washington waved his hand. “Have you no shame--have you no
manhood? You were trusted by General Cornwallis, and now that you fancy
him on the verge of defeat, you come to me and offer to betray him.
Captain Lacey, take him away.”

“Wait!” Mark sprang toward the table at which Washington sat. “I can
prove to you--to all here--that my information is worth your while.”

“I never deal with traitors,” returned General Washington, sternly.

Mark’s face grew even more white as he saw the expression in the
American general’s eyes; in desperation he turned to Tom.

“Tom Deering, tell them who I am. You know me; you know whether I have
Cornwallis’ secrets or no.”

Washington looked with sudden surprise at Tom.

“Do you know this person?” he asked.

Tom flushed. “I answer with shame,” said he, “he is my cousin.”

“There,” cried Mark, “did I not say he knew me. Ask him about my
likelihood to have valuable information; he can tell you.”

“Silence!” broke in General de Lafayette, angrily.

“He is my cousin,” repeated Tom, steadily. “He is a Tory and was a
companion of Clarage, Fannin and Gainey in Carolina.”

“Ah!” Washington’s eyes flashed as he listened. “So he was leagued with
those ruffians! Well, that he should now turn traitor is no more than
might have been expected.”

“What disposition shall we make of him, general?” inquired Captain
Lacey, his hand on Mark Harwood’s shoulder.

“Drive him back to the British lines,” said Washington, briefly.

“No, no,” cried Mark, in sudden panic, “not that! Why, they would have
no mercy upon me now; they would shoot me at sight.”

“Take him away,” said de Lafayette, shortly.

Two stout infantrymen were summoned, and they dragged the traitor to
the door, despite his struggles.

“Don’t send me back to the British,” shrieked he, mad with fear, “don’t
send me back to my death. See, upon my knees, I beg of you. I will do
anything--tell you anything--and not ask a penny in payment; only don’t
send me back; don’t send me back.”

The coward was dragged gasping, livid, and screaming away. Tom heard
afterward that Mark had been driven back into Yorktown by a half dozen
French and American soldiers who pricked him with the points of their
bayonets whenever he showed a disposition to lag. What happened upon
his arrival there Tom never knew; at any rate that was the last he ever
saw of him.

On the evening of the next day--the 9th of October--the American
batteries opened on the town at a distance of some six hundred yards;
and so heavy was the fire that many of the British guns were dismounted
and silenced. Shells and red hot balls reached the enemy’s frigates in
the harbor, several of which were burned. By the evening of the 11th
the Americans had advanced to within three hundred yards of the British
lines.

On the 14th Tom Deering participated in an attack upon a redoubt, on
the left, and helped to carry it by assault; almost at the same time a
party of gallant French troops carried another, on the same side. These
were included in the works of the besiegers. Nearly a hundred pieces
of heavy ordnance were now brought to bear upon the British works, and
with such effect that the fortifications were beaten down and almost
every gun rendered useless.

Tarleton’s force was posted at Gloucester Point, across the York River;
and, hoping to break through the detachment of French which Washington
had placed in the rear of that place, Cornwallis attempted to cross
and join hands with him. But a violent storm came up and scattered his
boats after one division had succeeded in making the crossing. The
result was that on the 19th a capitulation was made, and 7,000 British
troops were surrendered to Washington.

Tom entered the captured town with the victorious general and his
officers. He stood upon a broken quay, with Cole, looking about at
the wreck which the American gunnery had made, a feeling of sadness
mingling with the joy of the triumph. Suddenly Cole’s strange cry
sounded, and gazing in the direction which the giant’s finger pointed
he saw the Defence, like a great bird with snowy, outstretched wings,
come scudding up the river. The schooner had hardly lowered her sails
and plunged her anchor into the waters when the two, having pulled out
in a bateau, were upon her decks.

“Keel haul me, Phil,” cried the voice of Captain Deering, “it’s Tom.
It’s Tom! Your son!”

“Father!” cried the youth. “Father! Where are you?”

He had not caught sight of the man leaning against the mizzen mast, but
who now turned and sprang toward him.

“Tom, my boy,” it was his father’s voice, the same old voice whose kind
ring he had not heard for these long, long years. And in a moment
they were locked in each other’s arms. After greetings, delighted
exclamations and hugs had been indulged in, the planter explained his
presence on the Defence.

“When Lord Cornwallis surrendered to Washington the British ships
struck their colors to Admiral de Grasse. And as the Benbow on which I
was a prisoner happened to be one of them----”

“And as I,” interrupted Captain Deering, “heard that she had prisoners
aboard her, I got the French admiral’s permission to search her well,
in the hope that what has happened would happen.” He clapped the
planter on the back. “And here he is, Tom, back again; a little pale
and somewhat the worse for wear, but not beyond mending by any means.”

They spent several hours comparing notes and relating their personal
experiences. The planter’s eyes glowed as Tom told some of his
adventures. He had not had the opportunity to serve his country, but he
felt that his brave boy had done enough for both.

“The war will not last much longer,” said Tom, at length. “This is a
blow from which the enemy can hardly recover.”

“I think you’re right, lad,” spoke Captain Deering; “the men who do the
talking will now take the place of those who do the fighting. Peace is
not far off.”

       *       *       *       *       *

They were right; but peace did not come immediately. Greene, Marion,
Sumpter and Pinckney were still to strike swift, crushing blows in
Carolina. Five days after the fall of Yorktown, Sir Henry Clinton
arrived in the Chesapeake with 7,000 men; but, learning that Cornwallis
had surrendered, he hastily retreated.

On November 30, 1782, preliminary articles of peace were signed at
Paris. Savannah was evacuated by the British in July of 1783; New York
in November; but Charleston did not see the last of the enemy until
December. Upon the 14th of that month the American columns entered the
city, and those of the enemy retired to their ships. Tom Deering, his
father, Uncle Dick and Cole were among the first to enter; and they
sped as fast as their horses could carry them to the Deering place. The
slaves received them with joy, and soon everything was placed in order.

Not long afterward Laura was brought back by Uncle Dick in the Defence;
and one of the first things which Mr. Deering did, after his four
thousand pounds had been recovered from the old well, was to see that
the papers declaring Cole a free man were made out.

It was in vain that Cole protested,

“I don’t want to be a free nigger,” signaled he, complainingly, to Tom.
“I want to live here on this plantation.”

Tom patted the giant negro’s great shoulder.

“It would be the most unhappy day of my life, Cole, to see you leave
the plantation,” said he. “But after what you have done, we can’t hold
you in slavery. You must be a free man--as free, as completely at
liberty as our country.”


THE END



TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Superscripted characters are preceded by a carat character: M^cIntyre.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.



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