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.”