SHOWING HOW A GOOD SOLDIER WILL TURN THE ACCIDENTS OF WAR TO
THE BEST ACCOUNT. ENSIGN ST. JERMYN IN A DISAGREEABLE DILEMMA.
Robinson having thus succeeded in his enterprise, now found himself in
circumstances of peculiar perplexity in regard to the disposal of his
prisoners. Here he was, in the neighborhood of the British posts--in a
district of country of which the enemy might be said to have, at this
moment, complete possession--(for Horse Shoe himself was almost the only
belligerent in the field against them)--and, more than that, he was but
a few miles' distant from a camp whose scouts had chased him almost to
his present place of refuge. It was scarcely probable, therefore, that
he could hope to retain his captives long under his control, or prevent
the enemy from receiving intelligence of the capture. He was, however,
notwithstanding these embarrassments, as usual, cheerful, confident, and
self-possessed. He had no wish or motive to detain the private soldiers
as prisoners of war, and would at once have dismissed them, if he could
have assured himself that they would not make the earliest use of their
liberty to convey information of their misadventure to the first corps
of loyalists they should meet, and thus get up a hot pursuit of him
through the whole district. But he had cogent and most important reasons
for holding the ensign, St. Jermyn, in close custody. It occurred to
him, that this officer might be used to control the procedure that
should be adopted by those who meditated injury to Arthur Butler; and he
therefore, at once formed the resolution of communicating with the
nearest British authorities, in order to assure them that he would
retaliate upon the Ensign any pain that might be inflicted upon his late
comrade. His plan was speedily formed--it was to keep his prisoners
until night-fall, move off under cover of the darkness to some remote
and concealed spot with St. Jermyn, and release the others, on their
parole or pledge not to take up arms until regularly exchanged.
Whilst the sergeant was deliberating over these arrangements, the
prisoners were allowed to shelter themselves from the rain under a shed
near the door of the dwelling, where Andrew, with all the pride and
importance of his new station, marched to and fro, before them, like a
trained sentinel. There was a small log building in the yard of Ramsay's
mansion, which had been recently erected as a store-house, and which
being well secured at the door by a padlock, Robinson determined to
convert for the nonce into a prison. It contained but one room, not
above twelve feet square, with an earthen floor, and received no light
except such as was admitted under the door, and through a few crannies
about the roof. Into this narrow apartment the soldiers were now
marched; a bundle of straw was thrown upon the floor; sundry flitches of
bacon, that hung upon the walls, were removed; and a few comforts, in
the way of food and drink, were supplied to render the accommodation as
tolerable to the inmates as was compatible with their safe custody. This
being done, our friend Andrew was posted in the passage-way of the
dwelling, in full view of the door of the store-house, which was
carefully locked, with a musket in his hand, and with orders to make a
circuit every five minutes round the little building, to guard against
any attempts at escape by under-mining the foundation.
As noon approached the weather began to clear up, and with the first
breaking forth of the sun came David Ramsay, the proprietor of the farm
which was the scene of the present operations. His recognition of Horse
Shoe Robinson was accompanied by a hearty greeting, and with an
expression of wonder that he should have ventured, in hostile guise,
through a country so beset as this was by the forces of the enemy; but
when he heard the narrative of the exploit of the morning, and saw the
trophies of its success in the weapons piled against the wall, and, more
especially, when he received from the lips of his wife a circumstantial
account of the part which had been performed in this adventure by his
son Andrew, his delight seemed almost to be absorbed by his astonishment
and incredulity. The proofs, however, were all around him; and after
assuring himself, by an actual inspection of the prisoners through one
of the chinks of the store-house, he came into his own parlour, sat
down, and laughed out-right.
Ramsay was a staunch friend of the independence of his country; and
although he had not been up in arms in the cause, he gave it all the aid
he could by the free expression of opinion, and by a resolute refusal to
comply with the requisitions of the royalists. His eldest son had joined
Sumpter, and had already been active in the field; and he himself
looked, with an almost certain expectation, to see visited upon himself
that proscription under which thousands were already suffering, and
which he had only escaped as yet by the temporizing delays of his
opponents, or by their neglect, arising out of the incessant hurry and
pressure of their military operations in the organization of the new
dominion which the royal forces had but lately acquired. He was a man of
sturdy frame--now only in the prime of life--brave, thoughtful, and
intelligent, and firmly resolved to stand by his principles through
whatever adverse chances. The present aspect of affairs was, to his
mind, almost decisive of his fate: the capture of these prisoners, made
from information derived from his own family, and in which his own son
had been a principal agent; their confinement, too, in his own house,
were facts of so unequivocal a character as inevitably to draw upon him
the prompt ire of the Tories, and compel him to assume the attitude and
abide by the issues of a partisan. As he had faith in the justice of his
quarrel, and a strong devotion to the principles upon which it was
sustained, he did not hesitate in the crisis before him, but heroically
determined to meet the worst that might befal. He, therefore, in the
present emergency, became a useful and efficient ally to Robinson, who
opened to him the full history of Butler, and the course of measures he
was about to pursue for the relief of that unfortunate officer.
We must now leave the sergeant holding watch and ward over his
vanquished foes, and shift our scene to Musgrove's Mill. The
family of Allen Musgrove were in a state of great disquietude. Horse
Shoe Robinson had disappeared before daylight; and when the miller and
his nephew left their beds, a little after the dawn, the only
intelligence they had of the departure of their guest was inferred from
finding the stable door open and the sergeant's horse absent. This fact
was explained when Mary met them at breakfast. Horse Shoe had set out
for Ramsay's to learn some tidings of John, and to enlist him in an
effort to liberate Butler. He had departed under cover of darkness to
avoid molestation from Innis's scouts, and she, Mary Musgrove, had
placed the key of the stable, the night before, in a place where Horse
Shoe might find it. Such was the extent of the maiden's information. The
day passed wearily upon her hand: she was anxious to hear something of
Butler--something of Horse Shoe--and something, we suppose, of John
Ramsay. Frequently during the morning she and Christopher Shaw held
secret conferences: they spoke in whispers: suspense, care, and doubt
were pictured upon her face; and as the rain pattered against the
windows she oftentimes stood before them, and looked out upon the
distant road, and across the wide fields, and then upwards to the
clouded sky. The sun at length appeared, and his rays seemed to shoot a
glimpse of joy into the breast of the maiden, as she walked forth to
note the drying of the roads, and to see the clear blue, which, in that
climate, outvies the mellow and rich tints of a Tuscan heaven.
The day waxed, and the birds sang, and nature was gay, but the maiden
was restless and unquiet: the day waned, and the sun rode downwards on
the western slope in gorgeous beauty; but Mary was ill at ease, and
thought little of the grand and glorious firmament. Her communings with
Christopher Shaw, meantime, became more eager: she and her cousin were
seen to wander towards the mill; then Christopher left her, and,
presently, he might be discovered leading two horses, one bearing a
side-saddle, down to the margin of the stream. There was a short visit
to the house by the young man--a word whispered in the ear of the
mother--a shake of her head, an expression of doubt, a final nod of
assent,--and, in the next moment, Mary and Christopher were seen
trotting off on horseback, on the road that led towards Ramsay's.
When they had ridden some two or three miles, and had entered upon the
high-road between Ninety-Six and Blackstock's--somewhere near to that
piece of haunted ground, where, on the morning of this very day, a
goblin had struck down James Curry from his steed--they descried a
military party of horse and foot slowly advancing from the direction to
which they were travelling. In a few moments they met the first platoon
of the cavalry, headed by a trumpeter and the unsightly captain Hugh
Habershaw. They were detained at the head of this column, whilst some
questions were asked respecting the object of their journey, the troops
in their neighborhood, and other matters connected with the affairs of
the times. Christopher's answers were prompt and satisfactory: he was
only riding with his kinswoman on a visit to a neighbor; Innis's camp
was not above two miles and a half away, and the country in general was
quiet, as far as he had the means of knowing. The travellers were now
suffered to pass on. In succession, they left behind them each platoon
of threes, and then encountered the small column of march of the
infantry. Mary grew pale as her eyes fell upon the form of Arthur
Butler, posted in the centre of a guard. Her feeling lest he might not
recognise her features, and guess something of her errand, almost
overpowered her. She reined up her horse, as if to gratify an idle
curiosity to see the soldiers passing, and halted in a position which
compelled the ranks to file off, in order to obtain a free passage round
her. Every look seemed to be turned upon her as the escort marched near
her horse's head, and it was impossible to make the slightest sign to
Butler without being observed. She saw him, however, lift his eyes to
hers, and she distinctly perceived the flash of surprise with which it
was kindled as he became aware of her features. A faint and transient
smile, which had in it nothing but pain, was the only return she dared
to make. An order from the van quickened the march; and the detachment
moved rapidly by. As Mary still occupied the ground on which she had
halted, and was gazing after the retreating corps, she saw Butler turn
his face back towards her; she seized the moment to nod to him and to
make a quick sign with her hand, which she intended should indicate the
fact that she was now engaged in his service. She thought she perceived
a response in a slight motion of Butler's head, and now resumed her
journey, greatly excited by the satisfaction of having, in this
accidental encounter, obtained even this brief insight into the
condition of the prisoner.
The sun was set, when Mary with her convoy, Christopher Shaw, arrived at
Ramsay's. Always an acceptable guest at this house, she was now more
than ever welcome. There was business to be done in which she could
discharge a most important part, and the service of Christopher Shaw in
reinforcing the garrison was of the greatest moment. When the
intelligence regarding the movement of Butler to Innis's camp was
communicated to the sergeant, it suggested a new device to his mind,
which he determined instantly to adopt. Butler was at this moment, he
concluded, in the hands of those who had engaged the ruffians to set
upon him at Grindall's ford, and it was not improbable that he would be
summarily dealt with: there was no time, therefore, to be lost. The
sergeant's plan, in this new juncture, was, to compel the young ensign
to address a letter to the British commandant, to inform that officer of
his present imprisonment, and to add to this information the
determination of his captors to put him to death, in the event of any
outrage being inflicted upon Butler. This scheme was communicated to
Ramsay, Shaw, and Mary. The letter was to be immediately written; Mary
was to return with it to the mill, and was to contrive to have it
secretly delivered, in the morning, at Innis's head-quarters; and David
Ramsay himself was to escort the maiden back to her father's house,
whilst Shaw was to attend the sergeant and assist him to transport the
young ensign to some fit place of concealment. The private soldiers were
to remain prisoners, under the guard of Andrew, until his father's
return, when they were to be released on parole, as prisoners of war.
The plan being thus matured, Robinson went forthwith to the
prison-house, and directed Ensign St. Jermyn to follow him into the
dwelling. When the young officer arrived in the family parlor, he was
ordered to take a chair near a table, upon which was placed a light,
some paper, pen, and ink.
"Young man," said Robinson, "take up that pen and write as I bid you."
"To what end am I to write? I must know the purpose you design to
answer, before I can put my hand to paper."
"To the end," replied Horse Shoe firmly, and with unwonted gravity, "of
the settlement of your worldly affairs, if the consarns of to-morrow
should bring ill luck to a friend of mine."
"I do not understand you, sir. If my life is threatened to accomplish an
unrighteous purpose, it is my duty to tell you at once, that that life
belongs to my king; and if his interests are to suffer by any forced act
of mine, I am willing to resign it at once."
"Never was purpose more righteous, sir, in the view of God and man, than
ours," said David Ramsay.
"I have a friend," added Horse Shoe, greatly excited as he spoke, "who
has been foully dealt by. Some of your enlisted gangs have laid an
ambuscade to trap him: villany has been used, by them that ought to be
ashamed to see it thriving under their colors, to catch a gentleman who
was only doing the common duties of a good sodger; and by mean
bush-fighting, not by fair fields and honest blows--they have seized him
and carried him to the camp of that blood-sucking Tory, Colonel Innis. I
doubt more harm is meant him than falls to the share of a common
prisoner of war."
"I know nothing of the person, nor of the circumstances you speak
about," said the ensign.
"So much the better for you," replied the sergeant. "If your people are
brave sodgers or honest men, you will not have much occasion to be
afeard for yourself; but, by my right hand! if so much as one hair of
Major Arthur Butler's head be hurt by Colonel Innis, or by any other man
among your pillaging and brandishing bullies, I myself will drive a
bullet through from one of your ears to the other. This game of war is a
stiff game, young man, but we will play it out."
"Major Arthur Butler!" exclaimed the officer, with astonishment, "is he
taken?"
"Ha! you've hearn of him, and know something, mayhap, of them that were
on the look-out for him?"
"I cannot write," said the officer sullenly.
"No words, sir," interrupted Horse Shoe, "but obey my orders; write what
I tell you, or take your choice. I will bind you hand and foot to a tree
on yonder mountain, to starve till you write that letter; or to feed the
wild vermin with your body, if you refuse."
The ensign looked in Robinson's face, where a frown of stern resolution
brooded upon his brow, and a kindling tempest of anger showed that this
was not a moment to hazard the trial of his clemency.
"What would you have the purport of my letter?" asked the officer, in a
subdued voice.
"That you have got into the hands of the Whigs," replied the sergeant;
"and that if so be any mischief should fall upon Major Butler, by the
contrivings of your friends, you die the first minute that we hear of
it."
"I have had no hand in the taking of Major Butler," said the young St.
Jermyn.
"I am glad of it," answered Robinson, "for your sake. You will die with
a better conscience. If you had a hand in it, young man, I wouldn't ask
you to write a line to any breathing man: your brains would spatter that
door-post. Take up the pen and write, or stand by the consequences."
The officer took up the pen, then, hesitating a moment, flung it down,
saying:
"I will not write; do with me as you choose."
"The young man drives me to it, against my own nature," said Robinson,
speaking under strong excitement. "If he will not pen that letter, then,
David Ramsay, you will write to Innis, in my name, and say Galbraith
Robinson has got the Ensign where no Tory foot will ever follow him, and
holds him to answer the first mischief that is done to Arthur Butler.
But, I swear to this sulky boy, that if that letter goes to Innis for
want of a better, as I am a man and a sodger, he will never taste food
or water till I hear that Major Butler is free. He shall starve in the
mountain."
"Oh, God! oh, God!" ejaculated the young soldier, in bitterness of
heart; and covering his face with his hands, he threw his head upon the
table, where he wept tears of agony. At length, looking in the
countenance of Robinson, he said: "I am young, sir--not above twenty
years. I have a mother and sisters in England."
"We have no time to spare," interrupted Robinson, "much less to talk
about kinsfolk. Major Butler has them that love his life better than
e'er an Englishwoman loves her son. If they are brought to grief by this
onnatural rascality, it matters nothing to me if every daughter and
sister in England pines away of heart-sickness, for the loss of them
that they love best. Take my advice, my lack-beard," added Robinson,
patting him on the shoulder, "and write the letter. You have the
chances of war in your favor, and may save your neck."
"I will do your bidding, sir," said the ensign, after a pause. "Under
the compulsion of force, I agree to write," and he once more took up the
pen.
"You speak now like a reasonable gentleman," said Horse Shoe. "I pity
you, friend, and will preserve you against harm, so far as it can be
done in the circumstances of the case."
The ensign then wrote a few lines, in which he communicated to Colonel
Innis, or to whatever officer his letter might be delivered, the straits
in which he found himself, and the resolution of his captors to hold his
life forfeit upon the event of any rigors, beyond those of an ordinary
prisoner of war, imposed upon Major Butler. When he had finished, he
gave the paper to Robinson.
"Read it aloud, Mr. Ramsay," said Horse Shoe, delivering the scrawl to
his friend.
Ramsay read what was written.
"It must be wrote over again," said Horse Shoe, after he had heard the
contents. "First, it must make no mention of his being only a few miles
off; that must be left out. Secondly, my name needn't be told; though if
the runagates knowed he was in my hands, they wouldn't think his chance
any better on that account. Let him say that the Whigs have got
him--that's enough. And, lastly, he must write his own name in full at
the bottom. And, look you, young man, don't be scrawling out the lines
in such a way that your own hand-write moughtn't be known. That must
speak for itself, because upon this letter depends your life. You
understand?"
"Give it me," said the ensign; "I will write it as you desire."
And again the unfortunate officer applied himself to the task that was
imposed upon him; and in a short time produced a letter, which, being
subjected to the criticism of the bystanders, was pronounced
satisfactory.
As soon as this was done, St. Jermyn was conducted into another
apartment, and there confided to the guardianship of Christopher Shaw.
Horse Shoe now took a light and the writing materials from the table,
and repaired with David Ramsay--both of them well armed--to the
store-house, where the other prisoners were confined. After they had
entered and closed the door, posting Andrew with his musket on the
outside, Horse Shoe addressed the men in a gay and cheerful tone:
"Come, my lads, as you are good, honest fellows, that can have no great
love for these little country cabins, judging by your bad luck and
oncomfortable circumstances in that one where I found you this morning,
I have come to set you free. By the laws of war, you have the right, if
I choose to take it, to give me your parole. So now, if you have a mind
to promise me, on the honor of sodgers, not to sarve again until you are
fairly exchanged, you shall all leave this before daybreak. What do you
say to the terms?"
"We are all agreed," replied the men, with one accord.
"Then write out something to that effect," said the sergeant to Ramsay.
"You that can't scratch like scholards, stick your marks to the
paper--d'ye hear?"
The parole was written out by Ramsay, and duly signed or marked by each
of the four men. This being done, the sergeant informed them that,
exactly at three in the morning, the door would be opened, and they
would be at liberty to go where they pleased, provided they pledged
themselves to visit no post of the enemy within twenty miles, nor
communicate any particulars relating to their capture or detention to
any British or Tory officer or soldier, within seven days. This pledge
was cheerfully given, and after a few words of jocular good-nature were
exchanged on both sides, Horse Shoe and his companion retired.
David Ramsay now ordered out his own and Mary Musgrove's horses, with an
intention to set out immediately for the mill.
"Does Major Butler know that you are in his neighborhood?" inquired
Ramsay of the sergeant, before the horses were brought to the door.
"Oh, bless you, yes," replied Horse Shoe. "I left word for him yesterday
at Blackstock's, by giving the babblers there something to talk about,
which I knew he would hear." And the sergeant went on to relate the
particulars of his stop at that post: "And I sent him a message,"
continued he, "this morning, by James Curry, in the same sort of
fashion. A little before daylight, I heard the devil singing one of his
staves upon the road back here, so loud that he seemed to be frightened
by ghosts or sperits; so I rode up fast behind him, and cuffed him out
of his saddle, and then away I went like a leather-winged bat. I knowed
the curmudgeon's voice, and I expect he knowed my hand, for he has felt
it before. I'll be bound, he made a good story out of it; and, as such
things fly, I make no doubt it wasn't long reaching the ear of the
major, who would naturally think it was me, whether James told my name
or not, because he knows my way. It was as good as writing a letter to
the major, to signify that I was lurking about, close at hand. I never
went to school, Mr. Ramsay, so I write my letters by making my mark. I
can make a blow go further than a word upon occasion, and that's an
old-fashioned way of telling your thoughts, that was found out before
pen and ink."
"Well, Horse Shoe, you are a man after your own sort," replied Ramsay,
laughing. "Come, Mary, take the letter; our horses are at the door."
"Good bye t'ye, David," said Horse Shoe, shaking Ramsay's hand; "it may
be some days before we see each other again. Kit and me will be off with
this young ensign before you get back. Don't forget the prisoners at
three o'clock. And, a word, David--where had we best take this young
sparrow, the ensign, to keep him out of the way of these fellows that
are scouring the country?"
"Leave that to Christopher Shaw," replied Ramsay; "he knows every nook
in the country. So, now, friend Robinson, good night, and luck go with
you!"
It was a clear starlit night, and every tree and pool sent forth a
thousand notes from the busy insects and reptiles that animate the
summer hours of darkness, when David Ramsay set out with Mary Musgrove
for her father's house.