Our fortress is the good greenwood,
Our tent the cypress tree;
We know the forest round us,
As seamen know the sea.
We know its walls of thorny vines,
Its glades of reedy grass,
Its safe and silent islands
Within the dark morass.
_Song of Marion’s Men._
It was several days after the events of the last chapter, and the scene
was one of wild and woodland beauty. Huge cypresses rose on every hand,
festooned with parasite plants; broad glades opened here and there in
all directions; and vast arcades stretched off in the distance, groined
and vaulted like a Gothic minster. It was just such a spot as Robin Hood
might have chosen in old Sherwood. Here were gnarled monarchs of the
forest which had braved the lightnings and the storms of a thousand
years: here were natural bowers, formed by the interlacing branches of
the trees, such as fair Rosamond might have been sheltered in: here were
vines, drooping from the huge branches, like curtains, or hanging in
festoons across the way, like the draped banners of a mighty host. The
whole scene was full of picturesque beauty. And the effect was
heightened by fires, which, glimmering here and there between the trees,
cast wild and flickering shades along the sward, and gave the prospect
the air of an enchanted forest. Fragrant plants filled the evening
atmosphere with delicious perfume—the laurel, the shrub, and, more
exquisite than all, the sweet-scented jessamine.
This, as the reader may have imagined, was Marion’s celebrated camp at
Snow Island. It was a piece of high river swamp, nearly altogether
enclosed by water, and defended by its natural position from surprise
and siege alike. Here, after his famous expeditions, he was accustomed
to retire and recruit his men, exhausted by the long and rapid marches,
often sixty miles a day, which they had been called on to endure.
Perhaps the great secret of this renowned partisan’s success, next to
his indomitable courage, which reminds us of that of a knight of
chivalry, was the care which he took to give his followers sufficient
rest between his enterprises. His maxim was to lie low and feed high
until the hour came to strike; but then his motions were as rapid, and
the blow he struck as decisive as the thunderbolt.
The present occasion was one of those on which his men, having returned
from a successful expedition, were resigning themselves, like true
soldiers, to the pleasure of the moment. The sentinels were indeed
posted at the outskirts: but inside the camp itself was universal
wassail and song. The reins of discipline seemed, for the time, to have
been relaxed. The different messes were gathered together over their
meals: the cheerful cup circulated from hand to hand: and many a merry
jest was told, or lyric of war or love was sung by those jovial boon
companions.
One of these groups seemed even more merry than the rest. It was
composed of about a dozen men, prominent among whom was Preston’s
serjeant, Macdonald, who acted as the director of ceremonies for the
time being, and saw especially to the circulation of the cup.
“Keep it up, boys.” he said, handing around the bottle, “it isn’t often
we get such real old stuff as this, for it’s not every day we have the
rifling of a rich Tory’s cellars, as we had last week. A short life and
a merry one, is my motto. Hillo! my excellent friend, Jacob, why don’t
you drink? You needn’t sit showing us your teeth all the time, though
they are so handsome. Comrades, here’s the health of Jacob Snow—that’s
you, my old chap, I suppose—he serves as pretty a mistress as there is
in the thirteen colonies, and boasts a shin-bone that curves like a
reaping-hook. Jacob Snow, standing, egad!”
“Lor, Massa Macdonald, I’m deeply obligated for dis honor,” said the old
butler, for it was indeed he. “I am discumfounded for words to distress
my feelings.” Here he laid his hand on his heart.
“That’s it—blaze away, old fellow,” said the serjeant, slapping him on
the back, “I knew you could talk as glib as a parson. So you were at
Mrs. Blakeley’s when we were before that place, were you? You remember
my sending in for my baggage!”
“Gor Amighty, yes!” said old Jacob, full of reverential admiration. “And
you’se de gentleman too dat shot Lieut. Torriano at three hundred yards.
Yaw! yaw! yaw! dat made ’em furious. Major Lindsay said you were an
Injun, and no better dan a cannon-ball—he, yaw!”
“Ha! ha! A cannibal, you mean, my old brave, I suppose. But that hitting
of the lieutenant was a trifle to the way I served Major Gainey. Wasn’t
it, lads?”
“Ay, was it!” echoed half a dozen voices, “Tell it to him—tell it.”
“Shall I?” said the serjeant, addressing Jacob with something of drunken
gravity; for the whole party, by this time, had done ample justice to
their flagons.
Old Jacob nodded, and Macdonald begun.
“Well, then, you must know, my jolly old blade—but fill your cup again,
and drink perdition to the Englishmen—that a party of us had a brush
down by Georgetown, not long ago, with some of the British regulars, who
were killing beeves at White’s Bridge. We soon whipped the red-coats,
and then chased them toward the town. But their friends there, hearing
the firing, came swarming out like bees, and so we went at it again, hip
and thigh as the good book says, and for a while it was the toss of a
sixpence which should win. We fought a pretty smart bit of the day: but
at last the red-coats gave ground again. I had noticed among them an
officer whom I took for Major Gainey, a fellow that had the impudence to
boast he’d carry Marion a prisoner on his saddle into Georgetown: and so
I singled him out, resolving to try his pluck, and comb him down a
spell. But no sooner did he see me, coming down on Black Bess, than he
clapped spurs to his horse—and a cursedly good one it was—and made
straight for the town, like an old woman who sees a mad-dog. Down the
road we went, clattering and thundering; but devil a bit for a long
while could I gain on the major. I might have cut down half a dozen
strapping fellows as I dashed along, but I had made up my mind to have
nothing short of the leader himself. Old Black Bess did wonders that
day! The trees and fences shot past, as if running a race. The major’s
blooded horse went as I never saw a beast go before, but I was close
behind, and beginning to gain on him. We were now almost at the entrance
of Georgetown. Still I held on, whooping to old Bess like a mad devil,
as I was. Just as I reached Richmond fence, I lapped the quarter of the
major’s horse, and with a lunge ran my bayonet into his back. The major
had turned around, frightened half to death, lifting up his hands
beseechingly; and I thought I had him sure, till the cursed bayonet came
off, and left me only the gun. I was mad enough at having lost him, yet
I could not help laughing as I saw him go down the streets of
Georgetown, the bayonet still sticking in him, like a skewer into a
trussed fowl. I hauled up, and came off safe; and that’s the last we’ve
heard of Major Gainey.”
With narratives like these the night passed; the old butler listening
with open mouth and ears. At length, toward midnight, the tread of a
horse’s feet was heard, and directly a clear, commanding voice called
Macdonald by name.
“The captain, by the Lord!” exclaimed the serjeant, jumping up as if
struck by an electric shock. “Here he is at last, alive and sound, which
I began to fear for—Huzza! But stop. Now, Jacob Snow, Esq., deliver
your mission. Stand up like a man, as I do, and don’t sway about like a
pine tree in a hurricane. Captain, this gentleman,” continued the
speaker, his voice getting thicker and thicker, “has a message for you
from Miss Mowbray, but he’s too cursedly drunk to know it.”
At these words our hero, who was regarding the group with a look of
silent rebuke, turned suddenly on the old butler, who was, if truth must
be told, the only sober one of the party. A flash of joy lit up Capt.
Preston’s face as he extended his hand for the supposed letter. Old
Jacob, who had no missive of that character to deliver, but who had come
wholly on his own responsibility, hesitated what to say. While the two
parties are thus regarding each other, we will explain the incidents
which had brought them thus unexpectedly together.
Capt. Preston had found great difficulty in regaining the camp, in
consequence of Major Lindsay having left word of the place, where he had
sought refuge, with some Tories in the neighborhood. These men, anxious
to secure so redoubtable a leader, had immediately stationed patrols at
all the usual outlets of the swamp, and thus twice had our hero been
driven back into its recesses, once narrowly escaping death. At length,
however, in the dead of night, he had succeeded in eluding his enemies,
and gained the high-road. His flight, however, had led him into a
district full of Tories, and he was forced to travel with great caution,
and make a long circuit, in order to return to the camp. Meantime his
absence there had occasioned much alarm, especially among his troop; and
Macdonald had intended, if he did not appear by the ensuing morning,
setting forth to make inquiries respecting him, fearing he was dead.
The old butler had been in the camp two days. He had attended his
mistress to Georgetown, and was the only one who suspected the true
state of Kate’s heart. He loved that fair creature with the blind
devotion a dog shows to its master; and he had long been fully satisfied
that her affections were given to Preston. Of our hero he had some such
idea as the old romancers had of a Paladin of former days, looking on
him as capable of doing any deed, no matter how impossible. To old Jacob
it seemed only necessary that Preston should know of Kate’s danger, in
order to rescue her. Accordingly, when he found the marriage actually
resolved on, and the day fixed, he stole out of Georgetown, and made the
best of his way to Marion’s camp.
Here the news of Preston’s absence fell on him like a thunderbolt. But
he knew that no one else could assist him; and moreover he held Kate’s
secret too sacred to be imparted to others. Meantime, he found amusement
in listening to the tales of the soldiers, and he was never happier than
when, with mouth wide open, he sat devouring some story of the war. He
implicitly believed every thing he heard, and thought with humble vanity
what a sensation he would create in the kitchen at Blakeley Hall, when
he rehearsed there those tales; for Jacob, in his lowly way, was a sort
of Froissart, and, with the unctuous old canon, thought nothing so
“honorable and glorious as gallant feats of arms.”
Preston now drew the butler aside, and said,
“Have you the letter here?”
“Please, massa,” said the old fellow, determined to blurt through the
business with a round falsehood, since he could think of nothing else
just then that would serve his turn, “Please, massa, dat was a cursed
lie in Sarjeant Macdonald—I nebber had a letter from Miss Kate, but I
hab one lily message from her. She is in Georgetown, in a
polemic—either she must marry Major Lindsay, or Mr. Mowbray be hung.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Preston, “What is it you say? Trifle not with me,”
he said sternly, seizing the slave by the collar.
“As true as dare is a heaven above,” said the old butler trembling, and
half frightened out of his wits; “what I say is de Gospel truth.”
He then proceeded to give Preston a more detailed account of affairs, so
far as they were known to him, adhering generally to the truth, except
in roundly asserting that Kate had sent him.
Preston’s heart throbbed when he heard this. Kate loved him, then, after
all. Hope whispered to him a bewildering dream; for if she could be
rescued, what happiness might be his. But then came the thought—how was
this to be effected? Kate was at Georgetown, a post of considerable
strength, and no succor could reach her, unless by stratagem; yet with
time this might be effected. But in what manner could the vigilance of
guards be surmounted, and the prizes carried off—for it was necessary
to rescue her father as well as herself? Suddenly the voice of old Jacob
aroused him from the train of thought into which he was plunged.
“Dere is lily time left, sar,” he said, “for I hab waited here two days.
To-morrow night it will be too late, for den de wedding is to take
place.”
“To-morrow night!” said Preston aghast—for now he heard, for the first
time, of the period fixed for the marriage. “God of heaven! it is
already too late—she is lost for ever.”
He turned his face, tortured with anguish, up to the moon, which was
sailing, full and bright, through the blue depths of air. How calm and
unruffled was that silvery planet? Ages ago it had shown thus, equally
cold and unsympathizing. It had seen the sacrifice of Jeptha’s daughter;
it had beheld the fugitive Pompey; it had gazed on Zenobia, when a
crownless queen; it had looked down on pestilence, and war, and human
misery in every shape—and still it held on its course, the same cold,
unfeeling orb, mocking at man and his agony. Preston turned away and
groaned. Heaven as well as earth seemed without hope.