“Now, by yond’ marble heaven,
In the due reverence of a sacred vow,
I here engage my words.”—OTHELLO.
We left Preston tortured with the reflection that the news of Kate’s
peril had come too late. Half insane with the thought, he strode to and
fro in his marquee. Suddenly an orderly appeared at the door and
requested our hero’s presence at headquarters, where a council of
officers was to be immediately held.
Wondering what enterprise called them together, and fearful lest duty
should prevent his obtaining the furlough which he intended to ask, in
order that he might save Kate, or at least die in the attempt, he walked
moodily to the tent of Marion. Here he found the leading captains of the
brigade already assembled, late as was the hour; and beside them, Col.
Lee, who had just joined Marion with his legion, subsequently so
celebrated in that partisan war.
“I believe Capt. Preston is the last one expected—I am glad to see him
safely returned,” said Marion, when our hero, having bowed to his
brother officers, had assumed a seat, “and, as the affair on which we
have met is urgent, we will proceed at once to business. Capt. Horry,
will you state the purpose of this assembly; after that we will listen
to you all, beginning with Capt. Preston, who is the youngest.”
Every eye, as he spoke, had been turned on Marion; and as hitherto we
have given no description of this celebrated personage, we will employ
the interval in drawing his picture. Marion, at that time, was about
forty-eight years old; small of stature, swarthy in visage, and having a
face crossed by many lines of thought. Without being positively stern in
aspect, there was a hard expression in his countenance, which at first
might seem to augur a bosom equally hard; but Marion was, in reality, a
man of a singularly mild temperament; and the usually passionless
expression of his face arose rather from the firmness of his character,
and the responsibilities of his station, than from any lack of human
sympathy. His eyes were dark, small, and piercing; but at times they
kindled with enthusiasm. This, indeed, was the only evidence that a
physiognomist could have found of genius in Marion; but when those eyes
flashed indignantly at wrong, blind, indeed, must he have been, who did
not see the master-spirit within. In attire, this great partisan leader
was simple and modest. His words generally were few; and, after the
exertion he made in welcoming Preston, he sank back into a silence which
he maintained until the conference was breaking up, only, as each
officer delivered his opinion, Marion would cast on him a momentary
glance, as if to read his soul, and then sink his head on his breast,
thoughtful and abstracted.
In a few words Capt. Horry explained the purpose for which the council
had been convened. A spy had just come in with the intelligence that the
garrison of Georgetown had been considerably reduced; on which Col. Lee
had proposed that an attack should be made upon the place, since the
country expected some bold and decisive stroke, now that his forces and
Marion’s were united. The plan he suggested was, that a portion of the
brigade should drop down the Pedee by night, and lie in ambush below the
town; that, on the succeeding night, this party should enter the town on
that defenceless side, and taking it by surprise, open an entrance for
their comrades, who, led by Lee and Marion in person, would be ready, at
the signal, to assail the entrenchments on the landward side.
The heart of Preston leaped into his throat as he heard this proposal
“Perhaps Kate may yet be saved,” he said to himself.
Accordingly, when Horry ceased, and Marion, by a nod, signified his
desire for our hero to speak, Preston’s eyes kindled, and he answered,
“My voice is for the attack, whatever be the odds. The opportunity for a
bold, a resolute assault, is all I ask for. We will die to a man, or
succeed. I will undertake, if necessary, to charge with my company up to
the very muzzles of the battery which defends the town.”
Lee turned to Horry and nodded approvingly at these words. “A lad of
spirit,” he whispered apart. “I have heard of his daring at Blakeley’s.
Had there been more such at Camden, we never would have lost that day.”
Marion, however, took no further notice of Preston’s fiery speech than
to turn to the next officer at the table; but a very close observer
might have detected a sudden gleam of the general’s eye, like a flash,
gone in a moment.
The opinions of the other officers were in the main less favorable to
the enterprise than Preston’s; and so many obstacles were mentioned as
necessary to overcome, that he was in torture lest the undertaking
should be abandoned. Even Lee seemed to hesitate, startled at the
difficulties brought forward. Had military discipline permitted it,
Preston would have broken in on the conference; but he was forced to sit
silent, hearing obstacle after obstacle canvassed as unconquerable; yet
his flashing eye, and the agitation of his countenance, told how
difficult it was to restrain himself.
At length all had delivered their opinions except Marion. He glanced
around the board before he spoke, and his words fell on a breathless
auditory. With Preston the excitement was intense to hear the general’s
decision.
“I find,” said Marion, “that I am in the minority here; and that, except
Col. Lee, and Captains Horry and Preston, I am almost alone. I do not go
quite so far as these two latter, however, in considering the enterprise
as certain of success, but I think it affords a fair chance—and bravery
can do the rest. Besides, gentlemen,” said he solemnly, “you know it was
in an attempt on Georgetown that my nephew lost his life; and you all
know, too, that I have sworn to avenge him. I have not forgotten my vow.
Before God, he shall be avenged before to-morrow night is past. This
very night a part of the troops shall set forth.” With these words he
rose and dismissed the council.
Every heart was now alive for the enterprise. The memory of the outrage
alluded to strung all to a pitch of indignation little short of frenzy.
The watchword, “The Oath of Marion!” was adopted by general consent, and
passed from lip to lip.
Preston, it may well be supposed, was even more excited than his
commander. His only fear now was that his succor would arrive too late.
Agitated by this thought, he tossed to and fro on his couch, vainly
seeking slumber. Many a muttered imprecation left his lips on the
villain who had destroyed his happiness and that of Kate. Frequently he
half breathed aloud the wish that his enemy was before him, man to man,
with none to interfere between him and his revenge.
These thoughts mingled with his dreams, when, exhausted by his
agitation, he sunk finally into a troubled and feverish slumber. Strange
figures hovered around his bed, and haunted his morbid fancies. He
imagined himself bound hand and foot, while his enemy came to exult over
him, leading Kate by the hand, now a dejected, broken-hearted creature,
whom to look at made tears start to the eyes. Then again she was seen,
clothed in bridal white, extended, like a human sacrifice, upon an
altar; while Major Lindsay, converted into a hideous priest of Moloch,
stood ready to plunge the knife into her bosom. A third time he saw her,
standing before a clergyman, while the marriage ceremony was performed
between her and Major Lindsay; he thrilled with ecstasy to find he was
not too late, and rushing forward to save her, the bridegroom was
suddenly transformed into a grinning fiend, and she into a pale, cold
corpse. Shivering with horror he awoke, and started from his bed; nor
was it until he had passed his hand across his brow that the ghastly
vision faded entirely.
But his waking thoughts were scarcely less harrowing than his dreams.
Slowly the recollection of Kate’s sacrifice, and his own unhappiness
came back to him.
“To learn that I am loved, yet perhaps too late,” he murmured. “Why was
I so proud when we last met?”
The sound of the reveille, however, summoned him to his duty. On
emerging from his marquee he saw that the camp was already in motion.
The dragoons were rubbing their horses; the legion were polishing their
arms; officers were superintending the mustering their several corps;
and the whole scene was alive with bustle and noise—the neighing of
steeds, and the voices of men mingling indiscriminately. Almost the
first person Preston met was Serjeant Macdonald, dragging along the old
butler.
“Are you quite fit for duty, serjeant?” said Preston. “That was a bad
example you set the men last night.”
The serjeant looked somewhat abashed, and he stammered out his apology.
“Why, you see, captain, we had no work on our hands, and the Jamaica was
uncommon good. Besides, we wished to do honor to this gentleman, Mr.
Snow, I believe.”
“Not Mr. Snow,” said old Jacob, drawing himself up with dignity, “but
Jacob Bakely, sar—massa gib me his own name. Massa Cap’n Preston know
dat well enough,” and he bowed, but with a familiar smile, to our hero.
“I remember you well, Jacob,” said he, “but I fear you do not find our
quarters as comfortable as those at Mrs. Blakeley’s. We set out, in less
than an hour, on a secret expedition, and perhaps you had better return
home.”
“Please God, no, massa!” interrupted the old man emphatically. “I
volunteer sooner. Dis affair, I inspect, hab someting to do wid sweet
missus Kate; and old Jacob will nebber desert her while he can fight.”
“But he does not even know how to wield a sabre,” said Preston, turning
to his serjeant.
“Lord! I’ve had him at the broadsword exercise these two hours,” replied
Macdonald, aside to Preston. “He’s wonderfully quick, considerin’ he’s a
nigger; and he strikes, too, like a sledge-hammer. Besides, he’s red hot
with courage just now—a reg’lar black lobster boiled.”
Preston smiled. He saw that the whole matter had been arranged between
the two confederates.
“Well, since you are bent on trying a short campaign with us,” he said,
“I shall make no objection. Only, if you are killed, what am I to say to
your mistress?”
Old Jacob looked aghast at the bare supposition, but he quickly rallied.
“Nebber fear dat,” he replied grinning.
“No, indeed,” replied Macdonald, “it would take a saw-mill to cut
through your skull.”
“My skull is not so tick as you tink, Massa Macdonald,” replied old
Jacob, tartly, turning on the serjeant, “I hab you know dat, sar.”
“Well,” said Preston, laughing, “no time is to be lost. Get ready at
once to start.”
The serjeant accordingly dragged off the volunteer, saying, good
humoredly,
“Keep close to me when we charge, and put all your muscle into every
blow you make. You’ve one excellent quality, let me tell you, without
flattery—you hate those English damnably.”
“Sartain, sar,” said old Jacob, making a full stop until he delivered
himself of his speech. “Dey are good looking offisur enough; but, sar,
dey tink Jacob Bakely no more dan a hoss. It’s Jacob here, and Jacob
dare—and de best of missus wine at dat. Dey tink nobody gemman but
darselves. I’se show ’em dare mistake. Lor’ A’mighty, sar, I extinguish
dem.”