Buford's strength had been so burnt out with fever, and so wasted from
the suppuration of his wound, that he was but the pale, limp outline of
a man when I laid him gently on one of my mother's snowy beds. Had he
been more than Tory, more than British officer, my dear mother would
have received him kindly in his present state, and laid aside all other
duties to care for him. It was good to see her hovering over him with
gentle touch and to hear her say: "They were good to you, son, when you
were in like condition. I am proud you brought him to me; he shall have
every care, every comfort."
"Oh, brother, were you as ill as this, when he took you from the
Philadelphia prison?" said Jean, tender commiseration on her face.
"Weaker, I think, only I had passed the stage of delirium into which he
slipped only a few days ago. But look at me now! See how robust I am!"
and I lifted her by the elbows to the level of my face, kissed her and
set her upon her feet again, adding: "Buford will soon be as sound, with
yours and mother's nursing."
"His mother and sister nursed you?"
"They had me well-cared for. I was over the worst when they found me."
"We'll nurse him carefully, dear Donald, you may be satisfied of that.
Is he, though, really a Tory? He looks like a gentleman," glancing
toward him as she spoke, as if she half suspected Buford of possessing
hidden tusks and horns like some fabled monster.
"And gentleman he is, only his opinions do not agree with ours";
whereupon I laughed so merrily at Jean's shocked face that mother signed
to us to leave the room, lest we disturb her patient. "Aye, little
sister," I continued, "prejudice is a most strange thing! 'Tis like a
pestilence in the air, poisoning even the most innocent and
pure-hearted. Heaven, Jean, I doubt not, is a place where thought is as
free as God's smile, and conviction untrammeled, save by love and
knowledge of truth. Such state would almost be heaven, methinks, without
other concomitants."
Jean, though the sweetest of little women, and well endowed with common
sense, and all needful womanly reason, cared not, like Ellen, to follow
the twistings and wanderings of thought, so she took me straight back to
our subject.
"And if Captain Buford gets well, Donald, will they hang him because he
is a Tory?"
"Do you suppose, innocent one, that we but fatten him for the halter?
Either he'll be exchanged, paroled, or discharged."
"Then he'll go back to fight more against us? Oh! Donald, I'm afraid I
shall hate the poor man when he begins to get stronger, though he looks
now so pitiable."
"It would be very hard to hate Buford, Jean. You'll forget he's in a
sense our enemy. But, don't bother your little head about all this yet;
perhaps Generals Greene and Washington may make peace with the British
by the time Buford is strong enough to shoulder arms again. A few more
victories like King's Mountain and Cowpens and it's done."
"What would then become of Captain Buford?" persisted Jean.
"He would be released, and could go back to Philadelphia, or to England,
as he pleased. Perhaps his estate would be confiscated, and he might
suffer other persecutions. There is much bitterness everywhere against
the Tories," I responded.
"Poor gentleman!" she sighed; "perhaps we ought not to want him to get
well."
"Nonsense, little Jean! Of course we want him to get well, and if he
could be consulted he himself would choose to get well, you may be sure.
A man worth the name wants to see the end of the play--to finish the
game--to keep up life's battle while muscle and wind are left him to
fight with. Do all you can to cure him, Jean, and leave his future in
his own hands."
"And God's," she added reverently.
* * * * *
All this conversation I repeated to Ellen, during the few brief hours I
had to spend with her. Then we went back to the subject of prejudice,
and I talked out the convictions which Jean had not encouraged me to
express. Ellen was broad-minded, open-souled--one of God's chosen
transmitters from generation to generation of ever-widening truth. This
talk between us upon the subject of prejudice, as to which we were
already agreed, led on to a less general discussion, and gave me
opportunity to drive, I hoped, another wedge between superstition and
consecration. Presently I made the enquiry I almost dreaded to have her
answer:
"Tell me of your daily life with Aunt Martha, Ellen; is each day still a
trial to you, exercising all your fortitude and patience?" Her answer
gave me my first heart's ease for weeks.
"No, Donald, I wonder, indeed, if it was ever so bad as I thought, or if
my stubborn will and set defiance magnified the hardships I underwent,
as a child, under Aunt Martha's discipline. However that may have been,
I find her, now, disposed to give me full liberty, and to exact few
duties. Indeed, it is of my own will that I relieve her of such duties
as she will trust me to perform; and since her health fails more and
more, she is obliged to let others do many things she once took upon
herself."
"And she never asks you to go to church?"
"No, but twice I have offered to go. Father Gibault granted me
absolution beforehand--as Elisha did Naaman--should I think it best to
attend the Protestant meetings which my relatives frequented. And I have
found the quiet church a better place to repeat my litany and aves than
even my own room; the preacher's voice I can imagine to be the priest's
intoning, and if I shut my eyes, I can see the candles, and smell the
incense."
I smiled at this naive confession. "But you make no signs, I hope," I
said in pretended seriousness, which for a moment deceived her.
"I am careful to do so only under my tippet; and see! I wear my beads
beneath my gown," and Ellen drew forth a small ebony cross and held it
out for my inspection.
Thinking this scene over later, Ellen's religion seemed to me not only
harmless--apart from her superstitious vow--but so much a part of her as
to be lovable. It would nowise affect my confidence and love were my
wife always a devout Catholic. Could I be one with her, though, in her
religion; could I yield my own simple and sublime faith for hers?--to
that question came a not uncertain negative. My reason and feelings
repelled all the dogmas and practices so sacred to Ellen, as hers did
those most congenial to my spirit! No! I would make no compromise with
the woman I loved--the woman I would win for my wife. She must come to
me trusting all, confiding all. There must be no terms of barter between
me and my heart's love.
* * * * *
The company of militiamen I was able to take with me to General Greene
was warmly welcomed, for many of the men of King's Mountain and Cowpens
had refused to enlist for regular service, and General Greene was using
all the skillful tactics of which he was master to avoid a drawn battle
with Cornwallis' united army, until his own was strong enough to offer
some hope of another victory. Defeat could not be risked just now, for
that meant a resubjugated South, and then General Washington's
dislodgement from Philadelphia and New Jersey, which would be the end of
our hopes and our efforts. The battle of Guilford Court House, fought on
the fifth of March, was claimed by the British as a defeat for the
Americans; but Charles Fox realized, as General Greene did, its true
import, when he said on the floor of the British Parliament:
"Another such victory as that of Guilford would destroy the British
Army."
General Greene now retreated to Troublesome Creek and there awaited the
expected pursuit. We did not know until later that General Cornwallis
had lost a third of his force, nor that he was so encumbered with
wounded, and so needy of supplies of all kinds, as to make pursuit
impossible. Slowly he fell back into the Tory Highland Settlement at
Cross Creek. We followed, at first cautiously, but more and more eager
to dislodge and rout our enemy as we learned of his crippled condition.
Our own lack of ammunition prevented our doing so, and General
Cornwallis was perforce allowed to cross Deep River, near Ramsay's Mill.
Both armies crouched here--like two angry lions, pausing in prolonged
combat, and waiting but for strength enough to make again at each
other's throats--for some weeks, the river between, with all its fords
vigilantly guarded. We Continentals fared hardly, meanwhile, subsisting
on ash cakes, and the black, stringy meat of the half wild cattle,
raised on the pine barrens. The damp ground was our bed, and our ragged
blankets and our tattered clothes were our only protection from the
vagaries of the spring weather.
A bold decision of General Greene's relieved the strained situation. He
would leave Cornwallis in his rear, and advance by rapid marches to the
relief of South Carolina. If Cornwallis should follow him he would turn
and give him battle;--if he should decide to march on northward to
cooperate with Arnold in Virginia, the militia and General Lafayette
must take care of him. His, General Greene's, task was to relieve the
Southern States; he would stick to his work.
We advanced swiftly to Camden, held by a considerable British force, and
sat down before it. Cornwallis still remained at Ramsay's Mill. The
night before the fall of Fort Watson, which would give us Camden,
General Greene sent for me to his tent. "Colonel McElroy," he began--I
have found no opportunity to state my gradual rise in rank during my
eight months of southern service,--"I wish to send important dispatches
to Governor Jefferson, and for obvious reasons prefer to have them
conveyed orally. I must have a trusty and well accredited messenger, and
one perfectly familiar with the country, therefore I have chosen you.
Say to Governor Jefferson that I believe it to be General Cornwallis'
intention to advance into Virginia in an attempt to over-run and
subjugate that state. Say to him, that I hope, with the assistance of
Sumter's and Marion's rangers, without further reenforcements, to
relieve the Southern States, and afterwards, if I am needed, I will
gladly come to the help of Virginia. I would not have him think that I
have deserted that noble commonwealth whose aid, more than that of any
of the others, has enabled me to do what so far it has been possible to
accomplish in this department. I know the bravery and loyalty of
Virginians, and have no fears for the result there, but these
over-ridden South Carolinians must have instant succor, if the State is
not to be given over finally to the British and the Tories. Have you a
fleet mount, Colonel McElroy?"
"The best that can be raised on my father's plantation, and bred from
good English hunting stock."
"You will need to ride swiftly, and persistently. Once Cornwallis gives
the order to advance--you know his habit--there'll be no delays, no
deliberate marches."
"I fully realize that, General; I will lose no time."
"A somewhat circuitous route might be the safer: skirt the Highland
neighborhood, though your route be lengthened thereby. It might be well
to suggest to Governor Jefferson the extreme importance of guarding any
army stores we may have left in Virginia, though doubtless the obvious
necessity to do so will occur to him."
"Where shall I rejoin you, General?" I asked.
"I cannot say where one, two or three weeks may find me; it depends both
on Cornwallis' movements, and our successes or reverses, as we attempt
to relieve South Carolina. I would suggest that you do not try to rejoin
me until ordered to do so. Should Cornwallis continue his advance into
Virginia, Governor Jefferson will need you to help to raise and command
the militia, doubtless. You may say that I but lend you to him, until
the tide of invasion has been rolled back from your State."
* * * * *
Thanking General Greene for his confidence implied, I saluted, and went
at once to my tent to make preparations for departure early the next
morning.
Though General Cornwallis had the advantage of two days' start, I
overtook him on the third day, and from that time distanced his
encumbered movements every hour. Part of my way was over ground he had
just traversed, part lay parallel with it, and more than one distressing
scene came under my observation. Smoldering homes, barns, and hay ricks
sent up a sodden smoke from all along the route, and several times I saw
women and children sheltering, for lack of better place, under the eaves
of half-burned ricks. Say the most one can for it, war at its best is
but a grim and terrible necessity.