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.