IN PERILOUS CIRCUMSTANCES.
Young Simon Hunt by this time, must be admitted, ought to have some
knowledge of the roads leading from the outskirts of Charleston
to Cedar Swamp and its environs, inasmuch as he had twice already
traversed them for the sake of his country’s welfare; and old Simon,
remembering the adage that, “The pitcher may go to the well once too
often,” had some misgivings as to the result. As he had no other
messenger in whom he could place implicit confidence, he finally
concluded again to send his tried boy--a son worthy of his brave
sire. It was by no means a safe business, this carrying messages from
Charleston to a band of rebels; and once caught at it, there was
little doubt in the mind of Hunt but that the boy, young as he was,
would be speedily strung up as a warning to all who, in the future,
might feel inclined to attempt to become post-riders with news for an
enemy.
Young Simon Hunt threw the saddle upon the back of the good roan, and
having partaken of a substantial breakfast, was ready to start full
an hour before sunrise.
Twice on his journey was he intercepted by those whom he had reason
to dread. Once, when but a few miles from Charleston, by a troop of
British soldiers; once again, when nearer his goal, by three tories,
who stopped him to endeavor to obtain some information as to what
was going on in the city. Each time, by his boyish assurance, he was
enabled to slip through their fingers; and, safe in body and limb, he
reached the outposts of Nathaniel Ernshaw’s fortified camp.
It was with no pleasurable emotion that the patriot captain saw the
messenger arrive; and even before the tale was told, he guessed what
had brought the boy from the city. When he found that his fears were
all verified, he was not long in determining how to assist Vale in
the perilous strait in which he was placed.
“I will effect his rescue even though I have to make an attack on
Charleston with the men I have around me,” said Nat. “I will be in
the city to-night.”
* * * * *
When morning came, and Sir Henry Clinton had arisen, his first
thought was of the young man who, the night before, had been captured
as a spy. Accordingly, after breakfast, he had him brought up from
the guard cells for examination.
When the stalwart young man made his appearance before the general,
that worthy gazed upon him with a look of curiosity. John was still
dressed in his disguise, and his clothing evinced marks of a recent
struggle. A cut over the right eyebrow, with the blood congealed
thereon, showed that he had not yielded himself willingly as a
prisoner, and had only given in at the last moment.
“I understand that, having come into the city in disguise, you have
been apprehended as a spy.”
To this salutation Vale merely responded, “So it appears.”
“Your name, I believe, is Vale; and you are one of those rebels who
are engaged in resisting the laws of the land, in endeavoring to
overthrow the legally appointed government, to the great injury of
the king and all his peaceably disposed subjects. As a rebel, you
were deserving of death by the rope, and being captured acting as a
spy, you will most certainly receive your deserts.”
Vale kept silent for a moment, as though desirous of hearing the
British officer to an end; but finding that some reply was expected,
he answered: “As for being a rebel, you and I differ as to what
is the true meaning of the word; but this much I can say: I did
not enter Charleston as a spy, but on my own private and peculiar
business, which could neither be deferred, nor delegated to another.
I came for no hostile purpose, and if I hang, a _dozen_ Britons will
keep me company.”
“Indeed! And may we ask how that can be? As you are bold enough
to threaten, perhaps you can explain how those threats are to be
accomplished.”
“I can, and that to your satisfaction. When a company of dragoons was
sent out to capture a number of patriots who were to meet together
for the purpose of forming a patriot brigade, the majority of them
met with a sudden death. Some twelve or fourteen of them were spared,
however, and my execution will be the signal for theirs.”
This answer, given so calmly, took the commander all aback. He could
scarcely doubt Vale, for the American spoke with the accent of truth.
His contemplated course of action accordingly was changed; Vale was
permitted to live for a while at least, and the prisoner was remanded
to his place of confinement, while Clinton should make up his mind as
to what should be done with him.
The afternoon had worn well on, and John was sitting in his cell,
cursing the fate that condemned him to this confinement, when
he should be searching high and low for his missing sister. His
cogitations were at length broken in upon by the opening of the door,
and the keeper entered, followed by Simon Hunt.
“I’ve brought your brother-in-law here to see you, and give you half
an hour for talking; so, whatever business you have, get done with it
in a hurry, for it’s the last time you’ll meet, I’m a thinking.”
Thus spoke the jailer, and, departing, he slammed the door behind
him, leaving the two alone together.
“This is kind,” said John, “coming to see me; but how did you effect
an entrance here? Will you not excite suspicion in the minds of the
British?”
“Never fear for that. I am pretty well known as a most devoted
subject to the king, and were it not that my trade is useful to
them, before this I should, doubtless, have been enrolled among the
ranks of his supporters. As a relation of your wife’s, I persuaded
the jailer to admit me. He and I are friends, by the way, and all is
right in _that_ quarter.”
“I suppose, of course, you have some object in this visit?”
interrupted Vale, “and whatever it is, it had best be spoken of
immediately, for I understood the jailer to say that you had but half
an hour.”
“What could my object be but to speak of your release from this
imprisonment? There is no question about it; if you are left here two
days, your death is _certain_. I heard of the answer that you made to
Gen. Clinton this morning, and that answer alone preserved your life
through the day. Unless we do something to prevent it, day after
to-morrow would scarce see you among the living.”
“But what is to be done? Can you effect my rescue from this place?
I have thought of nothing but escape all day, but have hit upon
no feasible plan as yet. They have even ironed me so that I can
not reach the window, and, if I could, those stout iron bars would
prevent my exit.”
“Supposing they would iron you, I took the liberty to bring you
instruments with which you could effect the removal of the fetters,
and work away at those iron bars which appear to be so great an
impediment to your progress to freedom. Of course you know what
_caution_ means? and I advise you to use it. Wait till the jailer
comes at nine o’clock before you work off the irons. After his visit,
you will have plenty of time, and when the hour of three arrives, you
may expect me on the outside with a ladder and saw, and, with what
you may already have done, I think it will go hard if you are not off
and away before sunrise.”
John Vale took the file and the little saw which the blacksmith gave
him. His face brightened up instantly, and hope nerved him to action
again.
“Have you concealment provided for me after I make my exit? There
will be a hot search for me, I can tell you. I fear Gen. Clinton less
by far than I do the vindictive search that the tory Turner will
make.”
“If Cedar Swamp will do for a place of concealment, then I think
there is one provided for you, impenetrable enough.”
“Not so!” responded Vale. “You know that I came to this city for a
_purpose_, and, until that purpose has been accomplished, I will
_not_ leave this place! My sister, if she be in Charleston, must
first be found.”
“Catherine shall be found. I have a spy engaged in searching for her,
and, unless our eyes have been greatly mistaken, we can even now walk
right to where she is confined.”
“You are indeed my friend,” cried Vale, grasping the rough hand of
the blacksmith. “Heaven bless you for the concern which you take for
one, a total stranger to you!”
“Never think of that, man; you would do the same for any other true
patriot that should chance to be in distress. Remember, then, that
you are not to use your instruments until the jailer has gone around
for his nightly inspection, and that, at three o’clock in the morning
I will be near you. One thing I forgot to tell you--I sent word to
Nat Ernshaw concerning the position in which you were placed, and I
should not be surprised if his brigade would, some time before this,
have set out toward Charleston. But I hear steps coming down the
passage--I suppose my time is up. Good-by, till to-night. Keep a good
heart, and you yet can snap your fingers to your heart’s content at
Gen. Clinton and Timothy Turner.”
The door opened; the jailer made his appearance, crying, “Time’s
up!” Accordingly Hunt took leave of his pretended brother-in-law,
and followed the man from the cell, chatting all the while very
familiarly with him.
It was near ten o’clock, and Simon Hunt was making up a bundle of
those things which he would be likely to want. He all the while
hummed to himself snatches of a song much in vogue with the rebel
partisans of that day.
“At Bunker Hill we met the foe,
To spoil their calculation;
We knock’d the British to and fro,
And lick’d ’em like tarnation.”
Thus the brave-hearted smith was humming, when there came a knocking
on the door. Immediately he put an end to his song, and bundled away
his things in a great hurry. Opening his door, he saw Nat Ernshaw
before him. Hunt, surprised, said not a word, but drew him into the
house, carefully closing the door and securely fastening it. He then
said, rather sternly, “I think, Mr. Ernshaw, that you have acted very
rashly in entering Charleston. Your presence here could have been
dispensed with, and I only sent you the message with regard to the
capture of Mr. Vale, in order that you might be prepared to act with
me, as I should hereafter determine.”
“I know all that,” answered Nat, “but I preferred running the risk
and seeing that no stone was left unturned to secure the escape of my
friend. According to your wish, my men will be at the designated spot
at four o’clock to-morrow morning, and will remain there for about
two hours. I would sooner, though, that they could have time to get
further away from the city under cover of darkness.”
“I would have liked it well enough myself, for I am opposed to
running any useless risk; but, to be of any service, they must be
there at that time and at no other. The rescue of your friend must be
accomplished _to-night_, for it will be too late to-morrow to think
of it. But you must stand in need of some refreshment after your
journey. Our larder is not overstocked with delicacies, but of plain
fare there is a sufficiency.”
“I am, to tell the truth, in need of some nourishment, for I have
taken little since morning; but I can not rest until my mind is eased
on several points. You know, or rather I suppose you know, that
John’s sister’s disappearance was what led him into the city; and I
would ask whether he has had any intelligence as to her whereabouts?”
“Make yourself easy on that point,” answered Hunt. “She is safe as
yet, and this night, if the fates are propitious, you shall see them
both.”
“Then I am satisfied,” said Nat, drawing a great sigh of relief,
while he looked his gratitude to Hunt.
The blacksmith’s good, willing wife set out a plain repast for
Ernshaw. He did ample justice to it, for he was fairly faint from
hunger and weariness.
When Ernshaw had finished his meal, Simon resumed the conversation,
saying, “The business upon which we will be engaged this night will
be dangerous enough; and of the two things which are to be done, I
can scarce tell which is the more so--to rescue John Vale from his
prison, garrisoned as it is by British soldiers; or to rescue his
sister from Jim Fagan’s cottage, garrisoned by any forces which Capt.
Preston may have chosen to throw into it. You can have your choice
which of the two _you_ will attempt.”
“In all things I will be governed by you, though, if I were to
choose, I would let you see to John, while I might be permitted the
_privilege_ of bearing away his sister. But you speak confidently, as
though your plans were well matured, and there could be no failure.
Let me into the secret of your plan of procedure, for I am, as yet,
in the dark, and there does not appear to be over much time left for
us to do our work in.”
“My plans are simple enough, and need no explanation. It will take
but a few minutes for you to learn them.”