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!