Alexander Key
Liberty or Death
The narrative of William Dunbar, partisan

    Dedicated to my aunt Sallie Ewing Key whose tales of other days inspired this book.

    Chapter 1: The Turning of the Tide
    Chapter 2: The Dragoons
    Chapter 3: News from Charles Town
    Chapter 4: The Silver Crescent
    Chapter 5: At the Royal George
    Chapter 6: Owls
    Chapter 7: The Letter from Cornwallis
    Chapter 8: The Tattered Brigade
    Chapter 9: Saws and Swords
    Chapter 10: The Spy
    Chapter 11: The Fight at the Blue Tavern
    Chapter 12: I Go to Charles Town
    Chapter 13: The Swamp Fox
    Chapter 14: What Happened at Georgetown
    Chapter 15: The Battle
    Chapter 16: The Prophecy of the Silver Crescent

Foreword
    Before me as I write is a long rifle – a rifle with a barrel more than two feet longer than any used today. Its lock is rusty, the flint is gone, the stock is bound with strips of aged brass to hold the broken wood in place.
    A century and a half ago the barrel was oiled and polished, the lock held a sharp new flint, and a tall man in a fringed hunting-shirt carried it proudly over his shoulder. For it was then the finest weapon of its kind, known to us now as the Kentucky rifle.
    The tall man was an ancestor of mine and he used it through the Revolution – and lived to see it used by his children. The long rifle has never left the family and exists today as a solemn reminder of the days and the deeds of the past, which we are so apt to forget in an age when life is generous and luxuries undreamed in his time have become a common thing.
    This is not a tale of the long rifle, but a tale of the times when it was used – when other men carried weapons like it, endured forgotten hardships, fought forgotten battles, died – and were themselves forgotten; but leaving a freed country behind that grew into a mighty nation and produced people like you and me who sit comfortably in modern homes and think of history as a series of boresome dates and incidents.
    An historical truth needs no tampering to make it more thrilling or interesting, so I have done my best to keep the following story in exact accordance with the happenings of the times. In the illustrations, as well, I have tried to present the country and its people as it was in the past, before its original beauty was ruined by the unrelenting march of progress – progress which is far-sighted and far-reaching, yet stupidly blind and destructive.
    The speech of the back country and of the swamps that I have given to some of the characters is still used in sections of the South, much as it was used in the day of William Dunbar. The gloomy cypress swamps, where many a bloody encounter was fought, still hide the bones of some of Marion’s men – and the bones of their adversaries as well. But besides their speech, the more remote swamps, and an occasional stately mansion of Colonial days, little remains as it was in the time when the fleet horses of the partisans swept through the night to those immortal victories over the British.
    Dorchester, Brittons Neck, Williamsburg, and other places are half-forgotten names. Forests have been cut down, and forests have grown up again, in the spots where the gunsmiths made their arms – and their arms in turn made history. So – lest we forget what has gone before us, or give too little credit where great credit is due – I have tried to tell again of the deeds of the partisans and the part they played in the fight for independence.
    A. K.

Chapter 1: The Turning of the Tide
    From the shady, colonnaded veranda of Summerdale House one could see nearly half a mile of plantation road before it disappeared into the swamp on the other side of the indigo fields. My father, seated in his favorite spindle-back chair, tilted with its back against the wall, was apparently lost in his volume of Montaigne and his usual midday reflections. But it had been a long time since he had turned a page and I knew, though I could not see them, that his half-closed eyes were watching the spot across the fields where the road came into view, and where travelers from the coast were first seen as they emerged from the gloom of the moss-shrouded trees beyond.
    Forty miles away, through a maze of tidewater swamps and pine barrens, lay Charles Town. It was not often that news of the other Colonies and General Washington’s army managed to pass those sand-and-swamp-strewn miles and come to us. Something had happened to the post – it was four weeks late. Even Father’s own rider had not been seen for over a month.
    Father had deliberated on going to Charles Town himself, and finding out how much truth there was to those last alarming accounts of the British troops encamped on the Ashley, right across from the town. But there was a rumor of smallpox in the place. Mother had died of it there three years before. Father chose to remain at home.
    I’d begged to go in his place, more in order to get away from him for a few days than for any other reason. The devil had been in him lately, a tense and silent devil that came with the last weeks of waiting and made the niggers jump every time he looked at them. He wouldn’t let me leave, and all I could do was to sit and watch the road until I was familiar with every variance in shape and color of the shrubbery that lined its sides.
    The sunlight hurt my eyes. The incessant humming of the locusts made me drowsy. I sat there in a torpor, thinking vaguely of the peace of the past years when we had been little affected by the war in the North... then of Prevost and his bloody march a year ago. Reality faded, and I dreamed that General Lincoln had put Clinton and the English to rout, as he had done to Prevost, and that our worries were at an end.
    Then came a sharp sound and I awoke. Father had snapped his volume of Montaigne shut with unusual suddenness.
    He stared across the fields, his face twitching.
    A horseman had appeared upon the road.
    “Egad, Billy! Do you see that? Your eyes are a mite better’n mine. Is it a sorrel he’s a-riding?”
    “Yes, sir, it’s a sorrel. And he’s moving pretty fast for a day like this.”
    Father grunted and sprang from his seat. “Then he’s from Leeds and Company! I wonder what’s happened that he should have stayed away so long and then be in such a confounded hurry to get here?”
    Leeds and Company was the one secret Father shared with me. Opus Leeds was a shipping-master in Charles Town. Father was the “Company,” though as a gentleman of Carolina his name appeared on none of the company’s papers. When the war began he had found shipping far more profitable than indigo-raising. Now his fields were idle and he retained but a bare score of slaves to run the house and stables. But lately, some of Leeds and Company’s vessels had fallen prey to British frigates.
    In a few minutes the messenger turned into the long live-oak-bordered lane that led to the house, a messenger in foam-flecked buckskins and blue homespun. A stranger, for the old rider had never dressed that way. The horse’s gait was uncertain. Twice he stumbled. By the time the house was reached we could see his sides heaving and his head jerking up and down as a horse will do when he is winded.
    Father’s face became more flintlike than ever. He snatched up the whip that was customarily looped over the back of his chair and strode to the rider, a young fellow who appeared but little older than myself. Curious black faces appeared at the doorway and at the corner of the house. They, too, had been watching the road.
    “What’s the meaning of this? Don’t you know how to handle a horse?” Father spoke raspingly, as all the Dunbars did when their temper was up. “Whatever did Opus mean by picking a half-witted fool like you to kill one of my best sorrels?” He’d bred the animal and left it in Charles Town with Leeds and Company. Their messengers used it in carrying important reports back to Summerdale House.
    The messenger dismounted stiffly. He was a tall lad, nearly six feet I judged, with jet-black hair badly in need of a comb, and gaunt, deeply tanned features. Almost like an Indian, I thought, except for the lines of good-humor around his mouth and eyes. There was something strange about him – something not of the tidewater. Whether it was the leathern breeches and moccasins he wore, or whether it was his face that seemed prematurely aged by hardships, I do not know, but he appeared to belong more to the wild back country that lay far to the west.
    “Iffen you all be Mister Matthew Dunbar, you hain’t got no time to be a-thinkin’ o’ hosses,” he gasped, glaring back at Father with a pair of the keenest gray eyes I’ve ever seen.
    “What do you mean, sir?” But as suddenly as it came, Father’s anger died. There was an implication in the other’s tone that dispelled all thought of horses.
    “I mean that Opus Leeds says as how he’s got to see you right away – that all hell’s a-brewin’ an’ that you’ve got to git to Charles Town befo’ the city surrenders.”
    “Surrenders?” Father stared dumfounded.
    “Why, hain’t you hyeared, seh? They sent riders all through the country. Somethin’ must o’ happened to the one comin’ this a-way. Leeds’ regular rider got taken into the army a while back; as I had jest come there, I took his place. They—”
    “But – but lad, what’s happened? Has Clinton actually—”
    For the first time the messenger seemed to gain his breath and like a torrent the news poured forth. “Yes, seh, that’s jest hit, the blasted English blackguard’s been a-layin’ siege to Charles Town fo’ weeks an’ he’s got the city mighty nigh surrounded now an’ there’s high talk o’ surrender. What’s more, they’ve set the Cherokees on the rampage ag’in an’ there’s a detachment o’ British cuttin’ back through the country a-plunderin’ an’ a-murderin’ an’ a-stealin’ all the niggers jest like they say Prevost done last year, an’ I’ll lay they’ll pass right by here. I tell you, all hell’s loose an’ you hain’t got a minnit to spare!”
    Father passed his hand over his eyes as if to wipe away an unpleasant dream. Suddenly his anger broke forth anew.
    “By the Almighty Thunder! what’s happened to that bonehead Lincoln and all his forces that he can’t put a stop to this?”
    The messenger spat derisively. “Aw, Gin’ral Lincoln! He’s jest busy fly-chasin’ an’ struttin’ his front.”
    “And Leeds wants me to risk my neck coming in to see him at such a time?”
    “Well, he spoke as how that iffen you didn’t come everything would be lost, but iffen you came he might be able to save somethin’. He was plum’ hurried; never took time to write a note or nothin’; jest tole me to git here as quick as I could and tell you to return by the Cooper River road.” He started up the steps, reeled slightly as he gained the top, and leaned against a column for support. “Reckon I’d better have a drink o’ water. I’m plum’ tuckered.”
    Father seized his cane and banged it against the wall. Instantly, Johns, the footman and majordomo, appeared in his faded livery. At the sight of his master grimly pacing the veranda, with his stick in one hand and whip in the other, his mouth sagged open and his black hands trembled.
    Father snapped orders. Johns disappeared. Summerdale House, peacefully asleep in the May sunshine a short time before, became a scene of activity. I could hear Johns shouting in his strange Geechee patois, black feet running from taproom to pantry, doors banging in the rear.
    Food and drink were brought for the messenger. He ate like one nearly famished. Father hurried upstairs to change for the journey. By the time he was down again the chaise was waiting in front, the sleek matched bays pawing the ground and champing impatiently at their bits.
    “Billy,” he growled, “I’m leaving everything to you. I hope to be back in two days, but in the meantime you’ve got to have the place in readiness should a raiding party come this way. Remember what happened last year?”
    I nodded. Only the sudden arrival of Lincoln’s troops along the highway beyond the swamp saved Summerdale House from the fate of Bertrand Plantation, four miles away. Bertrand Place was now a mass of charred ruins, her girdled oaks raised dead limbs to the sky, and the family, our friends and neighbors – and loyal patriots – lay buried in a corner of their grounds, victims of British rapacity and Cherokee tomahawks. If only General Lincoln had come sooner, instead of ignoring orders, those things might never have been. But he was far away in Georgia, and Prevost had had time to lay waste the entire country between Savannah and Charles Town before he returned. No wonder Father hated him!
    “You must be on the watch every minute and have every valuable thing in the house hidden in a safe place.” Abruptly he turned to the stranger, examining him intently.
    “What is your name, lad?”
    “Worth McDonald, seh.”
    “And where is your home?”
    “I’ve got no home. I jest come from Kaintuck, seh.”
    Father stared at him. “You’ve just come from Kentuck, alone?”
    “Yes, seh. My people was kilt, an’ hyearin’ the trouble here was gittin’ worse, I come down.”
    “I’ve heard strange tales of the place. I wish there was more time...” For a full minute he studied the messenger, saying not a word, but evidently weighing something in his mind.
    “You look like an honest lad – and one that can be relied upon. As Leeds hired you, you are really in my employ. I’m going to ask you to stay and help.
    “As soon as I leave, lads, gather everything of value together. The silver, my papers in the library – pack them in the strong box. You’ll find the key in the Queen’s Ware urn on my mantelpiece. Take them up to Cypress Island in the dugout, hide them in the hunting-cabin. And don’t forget the portraits – those devils would like nothing better than to slash them to pieces with their sabers. Pack plenty of clothing in one of the leather trunks and take it along – we may have to move to the woods. There are the arms in the gunroom, and two kegs of powder and ball locked in the closet. Here’s the key. Now I must be going.”
    We said good-by. He sprang into the chaise. The little black driver cracked his whip, the bays were away like a gust of wind. The chaise took the turn in the lane on one wheel, disappeared a few minutes later as it dipped down into the swamp beyond fields. We heard the hollow sound of horses’ hoofs upon the bridge over the creek.
    I felt suddenly helpless. Abruptly my world had changed; security had gone out of it.
    The messenger seemed not to notice. “Them’s a mighty fine pair o’ hosses,” he spoke admiringly. “I reckon I hain’t seen the like o’ them befo’ in my life.”
    “The best in the state,” I mumbled. “But I have a thoroughbred that’s taken a lot of plate. I’ve trained him carefully, wouldn’t take a thousand pounds for him. You see, he carried me in first at the last Handicap.”
    “Huh? He did! Jest to look at you, I wouldn’t ’a’ thought you’d be such a hossman!”
    I felt a little deflated. “I can’t help being sort of small in stature – but I’m about seventeen.”
    “Well, I’ll be walloped! I’m eighteen myself – an’ here I was a-thinkin’ you as bein’ a lot younger’n me. I reckon hit’s all in the way a person feels. I’ve had a pretty hard time all my life an’ been in a right smart o’ mixups. An’ doin’ a lot o’ shiftin’ fo’ oneself like that makes you feel old, though,” he added, scornfully, “I hain’t half growed yit, as I’ve been tole.”
    “You look pretty well grown to me. You stand head and shoulders above myself.”
    “A bit more’n eighteen hands. But then I’ve lived in the woods all my life an’ felled a heap o’ trees. That makes you grow like a stalk o’ cane.” He glanced around, frowned. “Guess we’d better git busy.”
    I called Johns and told him what had happened. Like most of the other slaves, he’d been in the family all his life. Father kept none of the half-wild blacks, Congo niggers with filed teeth, because they required constant guarding and he considered them a menace now that things were so uncertain. But Johns, I knew, could be trusted.
    “This gentleman,” I said to him, “will remain and help move the things out of the house. And,” I turned to the messenger, “er, Mr. McDonald, Johns will show you where to find the gunroom, and get a boy to help you. Here’s the key. If you’ll superintend that part of it, I’ll handle the rest. We can have the stuff piled in a wagon at the back of the house and hauled down to the creek in one load. It’s not very far—”
    “All right, Mister Dunbar, seh!” and the messenger clicked his heels together and raised his hand in mock salute. He grinned good humoredly. I laughed. “I been called a heap o’ names in my life, but I hain’t never had no Mister tacked on to none o’ them befo’. You kin call me anything but Mac. I met a Scotch Tory yestiddy by the name o’ Mac somethin’ or other, an’ he got so uppish about his bug-eaten king I had to dust ’im down a bit.”
    I laughed again, and in that moment I felt I’d like Worth McDonald a great deal. “Worth it’ll be, then,” shaking his hand. And suddenly overcoming something that training and tradition had formed in me, I added, “My name’s Will. And speaking of the Scotch, we’re Lowlanders, though there are a lot of Highlanders in the state who haven’t been over very long and they’re all Tories. But the Dunbars have been Carolinians for a hundred years and kings don’t mean very much to us.”
    “Same with me. The McDonalds have been here ’a long time, too, but I’m the only one left. The Injins got the rest.”
    I ran up the stairway to Father’s room. The key to his strong box was in its hiding-place. I opened the big box and began packing the stuff as fast as Johns brought it. Dining-silver, candlesticks, chalices from the horse shows. These, with small valuables and Father’s papers completely filled it. Johns came with a big leather trunk. Into that went sundry wearing apparel, blankets, net hammocks, and a lot of minor articles I couldn’t bear to leave behind to be stolen or destroyed by Clinton’s army of cutthroats.
    On coming out to the wagon I found that Worth had made a clean sweep of the gunroom and had indiscriminately taken down every picture in the house as well; for, as he said later, every picture looked valuable to him and he didn’t see any sense in leaving so much truck behind for the British to enjoy. All these things he had piled carefully into the wagon and he himself was now leaning against a back wheel, peacefully smoking a clay pipe and examining with much interest an extremely long-barreled rifle – a present from Leeds which I never used because of its weight and great length. To the engraved fowling-pieces and silver-mounted pistols he hardly gave a glance.
    “By the Sacred Calumet!” said he, squinting down its long barrel, “I could shoot the third rib outen an earthworm a mile away with this. Hit’s the finest gun ever I’ve held!”
    “If you’d like to have it, it’s yours for the taking.”
    I’ve never seen anyone so delighted in my life. He thanked me again and again. “I was raised on a long bar’l,” he said, “but I busted my last one when I crossed the mountains.”
    “How did you get along without it?”
    “Oh, the Injin I busted my gun on didn’t have no more need o’ his bow and arrers, so I jest used them instead!”
    The wagon was loaded and we were just starting to the creek when I happened to glance at Worth’s clothes. His leathern breeches were worn out, his toes protruded from his moccasins. Suddenly I called him back into the house and gave him one of the buckskin hunting-suits a Catawba woman had made for Father and me.
    “You’d better git into a set o’ these yo’self,” he advised. “You wouldn’t want to have to run fo’ the woods in them pretty velvet things you tidewater folks wear. Sho, an’ you’d better git a rifle an’ have hit ready. Can’t tell what’s a-goin’ to happen.”
    I dressed in buckskins and a linen hunting-shirt, then glanced over the arms. Not finding a gun to my liking, my eyes lit upon a brace of target pistols. Next came an old-fashioned bandoleer with several shot-pouches and an engraved silver powder-flask attached to it. I filled the flask from the powder-keg, hung the belt over my shoulder, and stuck the pistols, which I’d carefully loaded, in the straps across the front. Father carried his derringer with him so we stored the rest of the arms in the dugout.
    “You look a heap more ornery now,” Worth commented, “but kin you shoot?”
    “I can,” I answered, shortly, aiming at a stick floating down the creek.
    But he grabbed my hand. “No, wait till the time comes – then you kin show me. The sound of a shot carries a long ways in these here woods an’ you can’t tell who’s a-goin’ to hyear hit.”
    Besides the gun I’d given him, Worth’s only accouterments were a wicked-looking hunting-knife and a pouch of odds and ends. I completed them now with a powder-horn, scraped to transparency, and a shot-bag and mold to go with the rifle. Worth handed me a long knife he’d taken from the gunroom. “Better carry that,” said he.
    “Huh? What for?”
    “You may be a-wantin’ to lift a sculp some o’ these days – or cut a gizzard.”
    I grinned, but his eyes had a hard glitter in them. I stuck the thing in my belt.
    The dugout, or piragua, loaded with the last of the goods from the wagon, lay low in the black water of the creek. We stepped aboard; Worth in the stern, and I in the bow to ward off logs and cypress knees. Progress was slow. The clumsy craft was packed so heavily with freight that her gunwales protruded a bare three inches above the water line. At every dip of the paddle I was afraid she’d tip and fill.
    We wound along on the seemingly endless route and in a realm of almost perpetual twilight. The trees closed their tops over our heads, the sun disappeared; only the splotches of light on the great trunks ahead and on the dark water showed it was broad day in the fields. Worth, in rebellion at the oppressive silence of the swamp, began singing, half to himself at first, then louder and with a long-drawn syllable at the end of every other line:
        “Oh! I went to the west with Dan’l Boone
          With a yip an’ a holler hee-o!
        An’ with never a thought I’d die so soon,
          With a yip an’ a holler hee-o!
        But an Injin he up an’ shot me dead—
          With a yip an’ a holler hee-o!
        An’ he lifted the sculp from offn my head
          With a yip an’ a holler hee-o!
        But I’m livin’ today an’ a-breathin’ the air,
        Cause the devil won’t have me without any hair!
          Oh! give me a yip an’ a holler hee-o!
    We reached the black pit of the swamp where the island lay, and stored the goods in the cabin. They were safe here; no man who didn’t know the place would ever be able to find it.
    It was late in the afternoon when we paddled down the creek again and went up through the slave quarters towards home.

Chapter 2: The Dragoons
    Worth scowled across the dining-table, surveying uneasily the array of pewter spoons and forks that Johns had brought in from the kitchen, substitutes for the silver we had hidden at the island in the afternoon. They seemed sadly out of place on the damask cover. Even so, they appeared to cause Leeds’ messenger some embarrassment. Poor fellow! Probably he’d never owned but one spoon in his life – if some of the stories I’d heard of the back-country settlers were true.
    He seized upon a spoon at last, shrugged his wide shoulders, and helped himself to the steaming rice and quail. Thereafter he forgot himself entirely and his embarrassment vanished in the relief of his appetite.
    Finally he leaned back from the table, grinned in satisfaction, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “By the Holies! Hit’s a long time since I et a meal like that!”
    “And now to bed. I’m tired enough to sleep on the floor – and you had a hard day yourself.”
    “Reckon as how you’s right, Will. But I was jest a-thinkin’... we got to keep a guard on the lookout tonight. Can’t tell what’s a-goin’ to happen, though I don’t look fo’ no real trouble till tomorrow.”
    “If you like – but I don’t think it would help much.” It was easy to see he didn’t know much of niggers. They could fall asleep and let a house burn down around them. Of course we were safe enough for the night, but for Worth’s sake I told Johns to keep some one watching in the observatory on the roof.
    I showed the messenger to a room across the hall from mine. He frowned at the great mahogany bed, then stepped over and prodded the soft spread with a forefinger.
    “If you wake up before I do, bang on my door and get me up. There’s lots to do in the morning.”
    “Yeah, sho,” absently.
    “Good night.”
    “Good night,” he drawled. I left him standing in the middle of the room, hands on his belt and a resigned expression on his face.
    What an odd devil he was! Perhaps not so strange, after all, I concluded, snuffing out my candle and climbing into bed. Only different from those it had been my lot to meet.
    For a long time I lay awake, seeing again the events of the day. In the background, like a dim panorama, went the images of other days and other events – days when the indigo-fields were dotted with black figures working in the sun. There were parties at the Bertrand place then – and there were races at Charles Town. Silver, my pet sorrel, had won three straight handicaps with me in the saddle.... Then, slowly, the images changed. The fields and the sunlight were blotted out and across the horizon of my mind swept the grim line of Prevost’s regulars and the naked, painted figures of his allies.
    It was too much. I could not sleep. If all went well, Father should be in Charles Town by now. But there were many things that could have happened to him on the way – Tory bands, murderous Cherokees, British scouts. But it was useless to worry; I could only carry out his orders and get everything ready for his return.
    Carefully I checked over the afternoon’s work. Very little had been overlooked. True, the cabin still had to be stocked with food, and it would have been a good plan to put some things in the piragua – just for a sudden emergency. On second thought the precaution seemed unnecessary. Tory bands seldom bothered our own parish. The war was still far away, and in the five years of its being, life had changed very little at Summerdale House. What danger was there now? Abruptly came the memory of Prevost and the Bertrands.
    I turned over, tried to sleep, but the bright moonlight streaming in the windows kept me awake. There was the heavy scent of the magnolia tree in bloom at the corner of the house, and from the grove beyond came the call of an owl and the eerie cries of whippoorwills.
    Then I heard another sound that did not fit into the ordered symphony of the night. In a flash I was sitting up in bed, listening to the unmistakable beat of horses’ hoofs upon the bridge at the end of the plantation road!
    All in a breath I was out of bed, pulling on my clothes, and knocking on the door to Worth’s room. There was no response. The door was partly open, and I entered. He was not there.
    Then I remembered my pistols and belt. I ran back to my own room, slipped the bandoleer over my shoulder, and dashed down the stairs. On the veranda I found Worth, fully attired, examining the lock on his rifle. On the floor near him was a crumpled blanket.
    “You heard it?” I whispered. “Can you see anything yet?”
    “You’re doggone right I did. Don’t take much to wake me up.” He pointed across the fields to the dim line of the road. “See that? They’ll be here in a few minnits.”
    I was already looking. From the black shadow of the swamp came a line of horsemen. They trotted leisurely up the road, two abreast, white breeches and cross-belts showing plainly in the moonlight. I knew what they were, instantly – though it was the first time I’d ever seen such a thing. A troop of British light dragoons.
    There seemed to be dozens of them. I stood there like an idiot, suddenly shaking, remembering all the murder and atrocities they were said to have committed. Here was a real and tangible danger – more than enough of it, and coming closer every second.
    I glanced at Worth. He was standing as calm as a statue, filling the bowl of his clay pipe, his gun barrel leaning easily in the crook of his elbow. Father was away; I was head of the house, and it was time to act like it. Here was an enemy to be dealt with, an enemy that had invaded my country, killed my friends, burned their homes, and even now were daring to approach my own home where I’d lived all my life. I could see the devils setting the house on fire, stealing the niggers and horses and destroying everything in sight. Right then I got boiling mad.
    “Worth, run and wake up the niggers so they can hide in the woods. And the horses – they can’t have our horses! When I turn ’em loose I’m coming back here and shoot as many of those – those—”
    Worth seized my shoulder. “Easy – I’m with you – wouldn’t mind tryin’ out this new rifle. But – iffen we go slow at first hit might save a heap o’ trouble. Iffen we kill any o’ them varmints, they’ll burn things up fo’ sho. Iffen we leave ’em alone, mebbe they won’t do nothin’. Now, after the hosses an’ niggers is cared fo’, sposen I meet you down at the dugout?”
    He snatched up his double blanket, and without waiting for a reply ran to the edge of the veranda. “Quick!” he whispered. “There hain’t much time.”
    I followed him and together we dropped to the ground, raced to the rear of the house. Before we parted I heard him say, “Iffen they do anything ornery, I’ll come back with you and shoot up the whole passel o’ ’em.” As I scrambled over the pad-dock gate I caught a last glimpse of him bounding like a deer toward the nigger quarters.
    Several horses had been left in the paddock for the night. They whinnied at my approach, and an answering whinny came over the fields from one of the British mounts. I opened the rear gate and saw them gallop into the pasture at the back. Quickly I ran to the stable and began jerking open each stall door. Some of the horses were slow in quitting their stalls and I wasted several valuable minutes before I got to the door where Silver was kept. Already I could hear the dragoons clattering up the lane in front of the house. I threw open the door, the big sorrel trotted out, stood still a second with quivering nostrils at the unfamiliar smell of my buckskins, then thrust his nose against my cheek.
    “Good Silver. Steady—” In an instant I was upon his back, my hand grasping his long white mane. A nudge from my toe and he leaped forward into the paddock. The other horses fled at our approach and stampeded into the pasture.
    Then I remembered the gate at the far end of the pasture. It was closed for the night. Unless this were opened and the horses driven through it, my errand would be useless.
    By this time the soldiers had reached the house and I could even hear the hoarse commands of their captain. If I could make the gate without being seen, all would be well. I glanced back. Through the palings in the fence I could see some of the men dismounting, the rest were hidden by the trees and the house.
    A slap to the flank and Silver leaped after the other horses. Suddenly a shout went up from the region of the house. I had been discovered. But already I was halfway across the pasture, flying like the wind to the gate at the lower end.
    A few more seconds and I was there, and it was the work of a moment to lean over and jerk back the bar holding it in place. I kicked the gate open with my foot. The dragoons, I reasoned, being unfamiliar with the grounds, would be several minutes in entering the paddock, so I whirled the sorrel around and galloped back in a half circle, herding the horses toward the lower end. This was easily done, and soon I had the satisfaction of seeing them crowding through the gate, to go splashing a short time later over the shallows of the creek ford.
    Just before crossing the creek myself, I halted on the bank and glanced back through an opening in the trees. Silhouetted against the sky at the highest point of the field were four dragoons riding hard toward me. For the first time that evening I laughed, and grasping Silver’s mane tightly, went bounding across to the other bank. Here, I knew, they would never be able to follow.
    Huge trees, growing so close together as scarcely to admit the light during the day, formed a black, almost impenetrable labyrinth. A stranger would be lost in it immediately.
    I rode several hundred yards into the woods, in a course at right angles with the creek, until I judged I was at a place nearly opposite where the piragua was moored. At this point was a winding trail leading for a mile or more through the swamp, and coming out upon an open stretch of pine woodland. Once the horses reached the pine country they would be safe, though I was afraid a few might have injured themselves in their wild rush through the trees, with innumerable vines and bog holes to bar the way. But I would have preferred them to fall prey to the panthers than be stolen by the British.
    I slid from Silver’s back. “We’ve been mighty good friends,” I said to him, “but we’ve got to part for a time.” He thrust his head forward to have his forehead scratched. It was hard to let him go – I might never see him again. A lump rose in my throat as I pointed up the trail. “You go up to the pine country, Silver, and don’t come back till I call you. Good-by.” I struck him on the flank and he trotted away, immediately disappearing in the gloom of the woods. I listened until I could no longer hear the sound of his hoofbeats, then turned and went to the creek.
    On the bank I stopped and peered through the hedge of underbrush to the other side. I could see the moonlight glinting along the edge of Worth’s long rifle; he was standing motionless one moment, and the next instant he had vanished like a cat behind the tree where the dugout was tied. I was sure I hadn’t made the least sound – and the creek was easily thirty yards wide at this point where it ran across the mouth of a large slough.
    “Worth!” I called softly. “Here I am! Paddle over and pick me up.”
    At the sound of my voice he came into the open again, and jumping lightly into the long cedar craft, gave it a push with the paddle that sent it across to where I was standing.
    “’Twas a long time you was gone,” said he. “I was a-gittin’ plum’ anxious. Them hosses come splashin’ across down there a piece an’ then I hyeared the King’s varmints a-cussin’ an’ I didn’t know whether you fared well or not.”
    “Had a little trouble with the horsey. But I finally got ’em over the creek; they’ll never find ’em now. Hope I didn’t scare you,” remembering the way he had suddenly vanished behind the tree.
    “Naw, I got over bein’ scart a long time ago. Iffen you’d lived in the woods as long as I have, an’ seen some o’ the things I seen, yo’ ears wouldn’t never go to sleep....
    “Now, I was jest a-thinkin’: There hain’t nothin’ us kin do till mawnin’. Hit’s nigh on to midnight now, an’ them varmints won’t do no mischief till sunup. So—”
    “All right. Let’s get some place and sleep.”
    We pushed off into the black silence of the stream.

Chapter 3: News from Charles Town
    The sun was up when I awoke. I couldn’t tell how high it was because of the big swamp trees, but here and there a pencil of light shot through the cane-brake where we had hidden for the night. There had been nothing to do but to sleep in the bottom of the dugout. I sat up, stiff as a board, rubbing the mosquito bites on the spots where my half of the double blanket had failed to cover, and wondering suddenly what had happened to the niggers. There hadn’t been a sign of one since the dragoons came.
    Then I saw Worth sitting in the stern. He was holding one end of a cane fishing-pole cut from the bamboo thicket, and was staring unhappily at his unlit pipe.
    “’Morning,” said I. “Trying to catch breakfast?” And with the question I realized how foolish we had been. There was not an ounce of food in the dugout!
    “Yep, bein’ as how our pantry’s a mite empty. But I got hooks, an’ there’s bait a-crawlin’ everywhere.” He grinned good-naturedly. “We’ll git along.”
    “What happened to the niggers last night?”
    “Dunno. The first cabin I hit I seen Johns runnin’ ’round in his nightshirt. I guess he’d hyeared them mutton-eaters, too. Anyways, he up an’ grabbed a bundle o’ stuff an’ we lit off to the other cabins. The niggers was all makin’ fo’ the woods beyonst the garden last time I seen ’em.” Suddenly he grunted and jerked the pole. A fat bream landed in the bottom of the dugout. I had barely cleaned it before he yanked out another one.
    “We’ll git along,” he repeated, carefully returning the hook and line to his pouch.
    I was reaching for the paddle when I saw Worth stiffen, listening. “What is it?” I whispered. He turned slowly around in his seat, looking across the creek in the direction of the house. Then I heard the faint rustle of dry leaves on the other bank. He pointed and laughed. “Only a durned ole ’gator. I thought hit might be something else, at first.”
    We pushed the dugout close to the shore and began to make arrangements for a fire in a well-screened hollow under the bank. Worth scooped a hole in the sand, filled it with crumpled leaves and palmetto fiber, and covered the top with shavings from a lightwood knot. He produced flint and steel, but returned them to his pouch as he glanced at the rifle. He fondled it a moment as if it were some kind of pet, then tightly plugged the touchhole with a twig and stuffed the pan with a bit of unspun flax which he found in a hole in the stock. He pulled the trigger, removed the smoldering flax, and blew it into a blaze. In a few seconds a small fire was burning on the sand.
    The bream were skewered on a stalk of green bamboo and browned over the flame.
    “We’d better plan what we’re going to do,” I said, after a while. “We’re in an awful fix.”
    “Yeah,” he grinned. “There’s a heap o’ things us forgot in our almighty hurry to go campin’ last night.”
    “One of them’s the nigger in the observatory. I’ll bet he’s still there, sleeping through it all. But they won’t hurt him; he’ll fetch forty pounds down at Savannah.”
    “I hope they finds ’im befo’ they set the house on fire.” He raked a coal from the fire, lit his pipe, then carefully covered the fire with sand. He smoked in silence, his brows pulled down in a frown.
    “Do you s’pose Father got to Charles Town all right?”
    “Don’t worry. I hardly think them soldiers met him on the way. Most likely they’s part o’ the bunch cuttin’ through the country, lookin’ fo’ plunder.”
    “He ought to be coming back tomorrow afternoon. We’d better be waiting on the highway to catch him.”
    “Yeah, I was thinkin’ that. We’ll do hit in the mornin’, pervidin’ the varmints hain’t left by then. An’ in the meantime I reckon as how we’d better look fo’ vittles. Plain fish gits tiresome.”
    “There’s the garden. It’s on the other side of the quarters and can’t be seen from the house.”
    “We’d better be a-gittin’ there then – befo’ the King’s varmints finds hit.”
    Accordingly, we pushed the dugout out of the canebrake and floated silently down the creek. It was a tunnel through green cascades of foliage, with thin rays of sunlight spotting the water. Green parrots flitted in the shadows, but the pigeons, of which there were great numbers, sat dumbly still on their perches while we passed in touching distance of them. I was alert, watchful; hidden eyes might be searching for us even now.
    Some distance above the boat landing we halted in the protection of a thicket of young willows and hid the dugout. As yet we had seen no one. Worth inspected the ground and then climbed a gnarled magnolia. He spent several minutes studying the house and the scene of our proposed raid.
    “Jest gittin’ up,” he informed me. “They hain’t e’en got a sentry on the lookout. One man’s at the stables feedin’ the hosses an’ there’s some at the spring-house makin’ off with the milk. Huh! Wouldn’t mind a cold glass myself.” He wiped the perspiration from his face. “I seen the garden – there hain’t nobody near hit. Supposin’ you amble over there while I browse around an’ see what else I kin find.”
    Together we went through the woods, separating at the edge of the cornfield. Worth slipped away in the direction of the nigger cabins and I stooped and walked cautiously along the rows of Indian corn. At the garden, I raised my head above the tassels. No one was in sight. But it was dangerous to take chances. Dropping to the ground, I began worming my way among the early squash and beans, stuffing them into my shirt until it could hold no more. I turned back, filled my arms with half ripe corn, and was making for the woods when I heard a sound.
    I froze to the ground, listening. Some one was coming. Then I saw a dark figure carrying a sack of vegetables. It was Johns. He dropped his sack in surprise.
    “Lawd be praised ifn hit ain’t Mos’ Willum! Is dey enything ah can do fo’ you-all, sah?”
    For a moment I thought of taking him back with me. But I replied, “Better stay and keep a watch on the house, Johns. Those fellows will probably set it on fire when they leave, and you want to have all the boys ready to save what they can. How are the niggers gettin’ ’long?”
    “Jes’ worryin’ ’hot gittin’ dey bellies filled, but dey’s all right. We’s hidin’ down by de Blue Spring, sah.”
    “That’s good. But don’t let those soldiers catch you, Johns. They make mean masters. Good-by, and be ready when you’re needed.”
    “Good-by, Mos’ Willum. May de Lawd watch ovah you till us meets again!”
    I picked my way back through the woods, wondering when I would see his honest black face once more in its accustomed setting. But I was little worried and had no doubt that the dragoons would soon leave the house. As for setting it on fire, I had a vague idea that they might depart in peace and leave things as they were.
    Just as I dropped my load into the dugout, the bushes parted and Worth stood before me. He carried a large willow basket in one hand.
    “My word, you’re quiet!”
    “Hit pays to be. Jest look what I found in one o’ the cabins!”
    From the basket he produced a small iron kettle, two pewter spoons and cups, a strip of side meat, a small gourd of salt and a large one of cornmeal. “An look at this, will you!” Proudly he held up another gourd. “Nice, cold cheese from the spring-house. I jest had to have a drink o’ thet milk – an’ I’m plum’ sorry I couldn’t bring any along fo’ you.”
    “Gosh! Worth, you brought enough! You’re a regular old fox. I don’t see how you did it!”
    “’Twas a mite ticklish,” he admitted.
    Once more we were back on the stream, paddling for Cypress Island. There we would have the protection of the cabin, and no one would be likely to see the smoke from our fires.
    That night we slept in the net hammocks that had been packed with the clothes in the leather trunk. Before settling himself, Worth tested his carefully, declared he hadn’t seen anything so handy in all his life, and was soon stretched out comfortably with his pipe between his teeth. The day had been successful in spite of circumstances. There were provisions aplenty in the cabin, and we had even managed to knock over a mess of pigeons with our poles while paddling up the creek. In the evening Johns had paid us a visit (seeming to know instinctively where to find us), and reported that the dragoons had done no damage as yet. But I slept fitfully, wondering what the morrow would bring.
    Dawn was breaking when I tumbled sleepily to the ground. Worth was up, cooking bacon and hoe-cake in a skillet he had found in the cabin.
    “I was jest a-thinkin’,” he said, as he lit his pipe after breakfast, “that iffen we go down to watch fo’ yo’ paw, we’d better cook up some o’ this truck an’ take hit along. Can’t tell when he’ll be back, with the roads full o’ mutton-eaters. We might have to spend the night down on the creek. Hain’t no use in tryin’ to come back up here in the dark.”
    “Thou speakest great wisdom, Sir Woodsman,” I said, making him a fine bow. “We’ll act on it accordingly.” By the time the sun was an hour high we had filled the willow basket with food for two days and had packed it, together with the hammocks and blankets, in the dugout. Worth took his accustomed place in the stern, and in a half-hour of brisk paddling we came to the thicket where we had hidden the craft the morning before. I climbed to the top of the big magnolia tree to find out what the dragoons were doing.
    Upon the road, far across the fields, were a group of horsemen. They were moving away from the house, and for a moment I was sure that the enemy were departing. But an inspection of the house brought disappointment. Numbers of the dragoons were about the grounds; some of them, drunk on wine from a keg they had brought from the tap-room, were amusing themselves throwing stones through the windows. Two others were merrily riding their horses up and down the garden, trampling on the vegetables. It was sickening to watch them. For a moment I fingered my pistols – but a shot would only have brought added trouble and possibly greater loss.
    Back in the dugout I told Worth what I had seen. The horsemen on the road, no doubt, were setting out upon a marauding expedition in the immediate territory. And even now Father must be on his way home! If they met him...
    “It’s a mile by way of the creek to the bridge,” I explained. “We can paddle within a hundred yards of the place and hide the dugout in a slough. It’ll be perfectly safe because the woods are so thick you can’t see the bridge until you’re almost on it. Then we can cut over to the highway and keep watch behind the trees.”
    Fifteen minutes later we moored the canoe in a slough, untied the leather guards on our gunlocks to make sure the charges had not been dampened in the swamp, and set out for the road.
    Nearing the bridge, we stopped at the sudden sound of voices. “Stay where you are,” Worth whispered. “I’ll slip ahead an’ see what’s up.” He was back in a few seconds. “They left two o’ the varmints to guard the bridge. We’ll have to circle away from here an’ git off down the road befo’ we kin take up our position.”
    A mile below the bridge we found a shady thicket by the roadside where we could remain hidden and see anyone coming from the direction of Charles Town.
    The sun climbed higher. The day grew hotter and the locusts droned in the tall pines. The sun passed the zenith; gradually the shadows became longer and a flush of color tinted the western sky. The long twilight deepened into night. There was no sign of Father.
    Three days dragged slowly to an end. Our food was nearly gone, and the only humans we had seen from our hiding-place were occasional groups of dragoons that would trot past in the morning and return at dusk, bringing with them niggers and horses stolen from the farmers.
    The next morning I went off in search of Johns; and thereafter he kept us supplied with cornmeal and fish while we underwent another period of waiting. I tried hard to dispel the uncomfortable feeling which hung over me. It was just possible, I argued, that the British had taken Charles Town, and that Father would have to stay in the city until Lincoln’s troops could drive them away. On the other hand, perhaps it had taken longer than he had expected to settle his business.
    Days passed, and my uneasiness grew. Instead of the dragoons leaving, as I had expected they would, Summerdale House seemed to have become a regular headquarters for the British. The monotony and uncertainty began to tell on us. Worth wanted action – almost any kind of action. Whenever a dragoon passed, he would finger his long rifle and a fiendish look would come over his face that was beyond my understanding.
    And it was that evening, when we had about decided to go to Charles Town, Clinton or no, that a soldier galloped toward us from the east.
    At first I thought he was another British dragoon. But when he came closer I saw his cap with the silver crescent on the front. The insignia of the Carolina Militia! Worth and I jumped forward to meet him.
    The rider reined back his horse, drawing his pistol.
    “We’re friends!” I cried. “No need of weapons here.” He lowered his pistol, peering at us closely. A hard-bitten fighting-man, he seemed, but a Carolinian just the same.
    “What can I do for you?” he growled, impatiently. He did not return the pistol to his belt.
    “I just wanted to warn you,” I replied, civilly, conscious for the first time that my life in the woods had done nothing to improve my appearance. “You’d best be careful about a mile ahead. There’s a side road crossing a bridge, and the British have it guarded.” I went on and explained matters to him.
    He thanked me gruffly and started to ride away. “Just a minute,” I called. “Can you tell us any news from Charles Town?”
    “Charles Town?” The soldier raised his eyebrows. “I thought you had heard. Charles Town surrendered to General Clinton nearly ten days ago. Every man, woman, and child there is a prisoner! All of South Carolina is now under British rule! I managed to cross the Ashley on the night it happened, and I’ve been hiding with friends ever since. Er – by the way, haven’t heard anything of Colonel Buford’s regiment, have you? He was on his way to join Lincoln.”
    “I – I don’t know anything about him,” I managed to reply.
    “Heard he was up north of Dorchester.”
    “Then you’re taking the longest route to get there.”
    He interrupted with a scowl. “I know, but the ferries are all taken, and I’ll have to go the other way.” With that he spurred his horse and was off in the dusk.
    Charles Town had surrendered! As I realized the full force of what had happened, I sank into the grass by the side of the road and buried my face in my hands. It seemed hard to believe. Never for an instant had I doubted that Lincoln would be able to defend the city and that the invaders would be driven away, as they had been twice before. The war had seemed a remote thing... but Father was a prisoner... Charles Town had surrendered – and with it Lincoln’s entire army! What a blow that was to the patriot cause!

Chapter 4: The Silver Crescent
    Worth sat down beside me. His lean brown hands clasped the stock of his rifle and he began thumping it monotonously against the ground. Finally he pulled forth his pipe, dusted a pinch of powder on the tobacco, and gingerly set it off with a spark. The powder flashed, and in that brief instant I saw that his gaunt face was set and his eyes were staring hard into the night.
    At last he stood up, told Johns to go back to the niggers at the Blue Spring, and to keep watch on Summerdale Place till the day when one of us should return. Then he stalked away, slowly and deliberately, in the direction of the slough where the dugout was hidden. Dumbly I followed, and hardly a word did he speak until we were back upon the creek with the craft pointed upstream. At the landing below the house we stopped and he told me his plan.
    “I come down to this country to fight. Hit’s been a month, an’ I hain’t fired a shot. What’s more, we hain’t got a speck o’ food to speak of that’ll take us where any fightin’s goin’ to be done. Now, up at the house yonder there’s a heap o’ things us kin use; an’ in the stables there’s saddles an’ bags. The varmints is mostly in bed by now, an’ the half o’ them drunk. What d’you say?”
    “I’m with you, my friend,” suddenly feeling the spirit of adventure. “But as for joining the army and fighting, why – I’d never thought of it.”
    “Hit’s about time you thought o’ hit,” he remarked, evenly, and something in his tone made me blush crimson in the moonlight.
    We left the ammunition in the boat and, armed only with the pistols thrust in our belts, started for the house.
    At the kitchen, situated some distance back of the house itself, we stood still, but seeing no one on guard, and no lights to show that anyone was up, tiptoed through the open door, our moccasined feet making no sound.
    The kitchen was in a vast state of disorder. Broken dishes and dirty pans were everywhere. It was hard, in the dim light filtering through the windows, to keep from stumbling over things that littered the floor. There was little in the place worth taking, but I found a tin of tea and a few lumps of brown sugar.
    I went to the cellar entrance. This was a long tunnel leading underground to a space below the dining-room in the house. Johns used it in the winter to prevent the food from becoming chilled on the way from oven to table.
    The tunnel was as black as pitch. I located a taper in the cupboard, lit it from coals in the fireplace, where a pot of stew was still simmering, and led the way.
    But the cellar, we found, had been looted and nearly everything taken out. In a back storage room we were lucky enough to discover a small ham and an earthenware bottle filled with syrup. On a shelf in the main cellar were a few twists of tobacco which Worth gladly put in his pockets.
    Suddenly we stopped as a door slammed overhead. Two pairs of heavy feet thumped across the dining-room floor. Chairs creaked. Voices filtered down to us.
    “So a pair of the rascals are hiding down in the woods, eh!” Laughter. “Won’t find much after we leave tomorrow – Tarleton likes a bloody roarin’ blaze, and I’m followin’ orders...
    A chill crept over me. I’d turned to go when Worth held my arm, motioning me to be still. The voices murmured on, barely audible.
    “Got word from Williamson that a regiment of the rebels under Buford... north of Dorchester. I’m riding over tomorrow in advance of the army. ... Lord Cornwallis wishes to know if Tarleton has engaged them yet.”
    “Luck to ye, Captain Morvin,” came the stronger voice. “Ye make a good rebel in the clothes, but I can’t say they have the color and dash of His Majesty’s uniforms. Let’s have a look at the cap – I’ve been wonderin’ what the scoundrels print on their crescents.
    “Ho! Ho! Liberty or Death, is it?” The voice swore merrily. “It’s ‘Death’ to them, my man. Death to every blighted beggar I meet who’s turned from his king!” A loud laugh followed and a saber clanged upon the table.
    We fled up the passageway into the night. “By the Holy Sixpence!” I heard Worth mutter. “I wish I’d put a ball through the villian’s head when we met ’im on the road. Wonder how far hit is to Dorchester?”
    In that moment I realized there was but one course left for me. All thought of remaining near Summerdale House vanished. Unless every man – and I felt every bit a man right then – did what he could to drive out the British, the state was forever doomed.
    “Come on, Worth. I’m ready to fight!”
    “Them’s fine words you speak, my friend, an’ I’m glad to hyear ’em. But we got to find an army to join, an’ the main army done guve up to Clinton.”
    But we kin go to Buford, tell ’im the news we jest hyeared, an’ stay with him till another army comes along.” .
    “Let’s go, then. The harness-room’s just this side of the paddock. We’ll get a saddle, bags, and a bridle apiece, and I’ll catch our horses in the morning.”
    “But why can’t we steal a pair o’ hosses here an’ turn the rest o’ them loose?”
    “Better not try it. They’re all strange critters and would make a lot of racket before we could get them out. I want my own mount, anyway,” I added, thinking of Silver. “I know where our horses are, and they’ll be easy to catch at daybreak.”
    We reached the harness-room, found the equipment we needed, and stumbled down to the creek with our heavy loads. We’d made up our minds to reach the island in spite of the darkness. There were things in the cabin we could not well do without in such a venture as lay before us.
    The night grew darker. The moon slid ungraciously behind a cloud. It was hard going, for we couldn’t see a foot ahead. Worth paddled by instinct, trying to keep the dugout in the current; it was all I could do working the prow away from brush and logs. Finally even the starlight was blotted out and we were left in a black void. After some trouble I made a torch of a few lightwood splinters, sticking it in the hole made to carry a light for night fishing. Then slowly we crept ahead, the torch flickering in front of us like a great firefly.
    It was ’way past midnight, according to Worth’s reckoning, when we came to the island. A fine drizzle of rain began to fall, so we covered the dugout with a tarpaulin, slung our hammocks in the cabin, and dropped wearily to sleep.
    It was still raining when Worth awakened me. I realized we had overslept, for it was late in the morning. After a quick meal, the saddle-bags were packed with food and extra clothing. Cooking utensils, extra horns of powder, and pouches of shot crammed them full. When we were ready, I took the liberty of opening Father’s strong box and appropriating a handful of guineas and silver which I divided with Worth.
    “But I got money,” he said. “Look-a-here!” and he pulled a great handful of Continental bills from his pocket. “Hit’s the only reason I took Leeds’ message – he offered me so durned much.”
    I couldn’t help laughing. “He’s an old crook!” And I laughed again till I was red in the face. “You’ll have to pardon me, Worth, but Leeds has an eye for business. You see, coming from over the mountains, you didn’t know what a fine state of affairs the tidewater country’s in. That paper money’s worthless. You couldn’t buy a fishhook with what he gave you!”
    “Well I’ll be sculped – the ole skinflint!” And instead of being angry, he laughed and slapped his thigh at the joke. “Then I’ll gladly take some o’ yo’ good money. I’ve a feelin’ we’ll be a-needin’ hit soon.”
    We chose our weapons carefully. I wasn’t used to a gun, so I decided to carry only my brace of pistols, with which I had had a lot of practice. Last of all came a fine pair of sabers from the gunroom collection. Then, with hammocks and blankets rolled in strips of tarpaulin, we entered the dugout.
    Around us lay a cypress swamp stretching half a mile to the south before dry ground was reached. Another half-mile of thick woods fringed the swamp before it merged with the pine barrens beyond. Somewhere on the pine barrens, hemmed in on every side by water or swamp, were our horses.
    We ran the dugout to the end of a long slough, and with bridles over our shoulders set out through the woods. A gray, heavy pall hung over the sky and the rain fell in a fine, continuous drizzle. By the time the pines were reached we were soaked to the skin.
    No horses were in sight. We trudged ahead for nearly a mile, over a carpet of pine straw and yellow daisies, until Worth found fresh prints upon the ground. But it was nearly midday before we found some of the horses, a fact that disappointed us not a little, for we had thought to be far on our way to Dorchester by this time.
    I whistled and one of the horses raised his head. It was Silver. He came trotting forward, white mane and tail flying in the rain, while I searched in my pocket for a sodden lump of sugar. With the other bridle over my shoulder, I rode after a horse for Worth, returning presently with a long-legged bay well known for his speed and endurance. Together we hurried back to the slough.
    Thoroughly equipped, our sabers rattling against the bags and our blankets jolting behind the saddles, we went riding through the pinelands again, this time toward the road to Dorchester. Worth was leaning comfortably back in his saddle, thoughtfully smoking his pipe, his long rifle across his lap. The sky seemed darker, the drizzle increased to a steady downpour.
    Somehow I felt happy, and the thought of leaving Summerdale House troubled me not at all. Probably I would never see home again, and if I did there would likely be only an ashheap to greet me. New homes could be built – but the loss of the old place, I knew, that had withstood the successive invasions of the Yemassees and the Cherokees early in the century, would break Father’s heart. But my own heart was light. I was going to war, and war was a man’s calling.
    Then, some three hundred yards from the Dorchester road, Worth suddenly drew rein. He pointed ahead. Half hidden by the brush and tall broom straw lining the road was a horseman cantering slowly along in the downpour. By his leathern cap and the close-fitting jacket of the Carolina Militia I knew him instantly.
    Worth’s pipe dropped from his mouth in a spasm of eagerness. He ran his horse to the dry shelter of a pine, snatched at the guard on his gunlock, and primed the pan with fresh powder. Quickly he sighted down the long barrel. It was a long shot, even for a rifle. But the rider would soon be hidden by a fringe of swamp, and our horses were too heavily loaded to overtake him.
    The rifle gave a sharp, whip-like sound. The man’s cap flew to the ground. His mount, suddenly frightened, bolted, and he tumbled from the saddle. In a moment he was up and, glancing wildly in our direction, dashed off as hard as he could go into the swamp.
    Worth swore loudly at his failure to bring blood. He reloaded his piece, recovered his pipe, then followed me to the spot where the rider had been. There was no sign of the man anywhere. Worth fingered his rifle, searching the underbrush.
    “No use wasting time,” I said. “We ought to make it to Dorchester by evening.”
    We were just starting ahead again when I noticed the man’s cap in the road. “’Twas a mighty fine shot for the distance,” I offered, consolingly, pointing to the furrow where the ball had grazed one side and cut the chin strap. “Just an inch closer—”
    Suddenly I saw the gleam of the silver crescent on the front. I sprang to the ground, picked up the cap, and climbed back into the saddle. As I read the three words stamped across the emblem, the full force of their meaning blazed into my mind... a strange and unknown something welled within me. I tore the crescent from the traitor’s cap, where it had no right to be, and fastened it upon my shirt.
    “Liberty – or Death! That’s a pretty fine motto, Worth. I – I’ll be darned if I stop till one or the other comes to pass.”
    Somehow I felt older; the gaiety of a moment ago was lost in a newer feeling. There was man’s work ahead.
    We rode onward through the rain.

Chapter 5: At the Royal George
    We traveled steadily throughout the afternoon, stopping neither to eat nor to rest. Gradually the rain lessened, the sky cleared, and the hot sun came beating down upon our shoulders with a tingling warmth. Our buckskin breeches dried to a board-like stiffness.
    So much unaccustomed action had filled the days since I had known Worth that every muscle in me seemed to ache; I’d have given a lot, just then, to lie down in the shade of a tree and rest. And there was the monotonous crunch, crunch of the horses’ hoofs in the deep sand of the roadbed. Worth laughed when he caught me dozing, and kept me awake by imitating the calls of birds that could be heard in the trees.
    When we came at last to the Ashley and the footbridge leading across to the village of Dorchester, afternoon had turned into evening. We were hungry, and I was too tired to even notice the mosquitoes that infested the place. Before crossing the bridge, we halted beneath a willow and studied the section of the town on the opposite bank that could be seen through the trees.
    The place seemed unusually awake – particularly so for the hour of the day. A steady line of logging-teams poured through the main street toward the hill overlooking the town. On the hill itself a square fort of tapia-work was well under way.
    Suddenly I stiffened, alert, all weariness forgotten. No wonder the place was so busy. Mingled with the brown and gray of native homespun I caught the scarlet gleam of British uniforms! And the fort had an added significance. A garrison would be stationed there to hold the surrounding parish.
    Worth’s eyes narrowed, his mouth a tight line. “There’s one thing certain. Buford hain’t nowheres near. Now what do you-all calc’late us’d better be a-doin’ ?”
    “I’m hungry. And, by gosh, there’s an inn across the bridge that serves mighty good terrapin stew. I – I know the innkeeper; he might tell us something of Buford.”
    “That’s the spirrit! I reckon as how tavern vittles would go pretty han’some. Iffen us leaves our hosses an’ things here, maybe they won’t pay us no mind. Anyway, let’s chance hit.”
    We rode back into the swamp bordering the river, tethered our horses, and hid our possessions. With only our hunting-knives in our belts, we returned and crossed the bridge. There was no sentry to question us at the other end, so we turned into the main street and walked casually in the direction of the Royal George Tavern.
    We had proceeded but a little way when we came directly upon a crowd of men collected near a large liveoak. The tree stood in an open place in plain view of every building on the street. From one of its projecting limbs hung the limp bodies of two men.
    As I stared a cold horror went through me. “Thet’s what ye gits fo’ bein’ a rebel,” some one was saying slowly. “Officer come to search they house. They sassed ’im.”
    “Shet up, you damn fool!” another whispered. “You got to be careful how you speak around here.”
    We turned and walked quickly away. But a long time afterward the thing I had seen stayed with me; a short while ago those limp forms hanging before my eyes had been alive and happy in their homes... now, in the awfulness of death, their heads were sunk upon their breasts and their bulging eyes stared at the ground that had been denied them by their executioners.
    The Royal George Tavern stood before us. The old sign, with a likeness of the British monarch painted upon it, was in its accustomed place again. Five years ago, I remembered, after the news of Lexington, that sign had been torn down and hidden away; but now the tables were turned and the innkeeper had changed with the changing times. I wondered if he would recognize me.
    We opened the door and entered.
    In the front compartment some dozen villagers were talking earnestly among themselves. They stopped suddenly, eyeing us suspiciously. We pushed through the swinging-door to the empty back hall and sat down at one of the tables. A negro in an odd combination of pantaloons, livery, and bare feet came paddling in and set noggins and a pitcher of cold spring water upon the table.
    “Where’s the landlord?”
    “Marsa’s in de back room,” he replied, with a disparaging glance at our clothes. “Ah’ll git ’im.”
    A door opened and a large man with a fat, cheery countenance entered.
    “Well, gintlemen, what shall it be this evening? I have some nice venison pie—” Suddenly he recognized me. “If it ain’t Master William himself! Those clothes ill become you, sir. Tell me, how are things over in Summerdale way? And how is your honorable father?”
    Briefly I told what had happened. But of Buford I said nothing. Better to let the matter come up of its own accord, I thought, remembering the sign.
    “Well now, that’s right bad, sir. Right bad, I say. But some people have to be the martyrs if His Highness means to keep his colonies loyal.” It was a different speech from the one he had made some months earlier, when Father and I had spent a night at the tavern. There had been a ring of sincerity then that now seemed lacking. Caution fled and anger rose in its place.
    “He’s a rotten excuse for a king if he has to make martyrs of everyone! What have those two fellows done that they should be hanging by their necks down the street like common criminals?”
    “Easy, my lad. Not so loud, I beg you!” The innkeeper sat down beside us. “Do you realize, my good sir, that it’s rebel talk you’re makin’ – just the sort o’ talk that’s been hanging men?”
    I could only glare at him in silence. Worth shifted his feet uneasily. “I reckon us’d better be goin’. I hain’t so hawngry.”
    “Tush, gintlemen! Keep your seats. In these days o’ strife an’ tribulation ’tis best to know which way the wind blows before you speak.” With that he tiptoed to the swinging-door, peered through it an instant, then resumed his seat. “Now, lookahere, boys, which way was you a-headin’ for when you come to Dorchester?” And with the question his smile vanished and I saw it had only been a mask to hide the true man beneath. His heavy face grew serious and there was a sadness there I had never seen before.
    “We came to join Colonel Buford. Some one told us he was near here.”
    “I’m mighty glad that’s the way you-all feel about things. But you’re a little late for Buford. Fact is, he never touched town; was away up north o’ here for a while, but he pulled out when the British come. No tellin’ where he’s gone by now. But here’s something that’ll interest you mightily—” The innkeeper paused and leaned closer. “Ride on to the Peedee, and somewheres near Lynches Creek—”
    The door behind us swung suddenly open. The innkeeper’s broad smile returned to his face. Two red-coated officers took a near-by table, clamored for port, and rattled their sabers against the table legs.
    “Evening, lootenants. How goes the garrison?” and the innkeeper beamed and called for his nigger. “Terribly sorry, gintlemen. I’m just out o’ port; it’s mighty scarce these days. But I’ve some fine Madeira the sloop brought from Charles Town last night. And there’s venison pie—”
    “Bring on the pie, keeper, and wiggle a leg with that wine.”
    “Do you want the pie, too, my friends?” and the broad smile turned to us. I nodded. “An’ heaps o’ hit,” Worth assented. “We’s plum’ hawngry.”
    Food was brought and we ate in silence. The nigger lit tapers to drive out the encroaching darkness. The Redcoats grew merry over their wine.
    “Ho, keeper, fill your glass. We’ll drink to the King, my man.”
    “To the King it’ll be, good sirs. May the rebels get their just desserts!”
    “Aye. They’ll get their dues.” They drank, smacked their lips, and drank again. Suddenly one of them turned half about on his bench, staring at us.
    I grew fearfully uncomfortable. But I went on with my eating, trying to pay no attention to the fellow. He frowned, mumbled something under his breath, then said, aloud, “Who are ye that ye should sit there like a pair of dumb gillies when the King’s name is heard?”
    A devilish light came in Worth’s eye. I tried to speak, then choked. The innkeeper interposed. “Oh, don’t mind ’em, Mister Lootenant. They’s both from back in the woods, you know. They was just tellin’ me they’d like to sign up an’ see if they could be o’ help in buildin’ the fort.”
    “There’ll be work aplenty for ye, my young coots,” said the other officer. They laughed, filled their glasses, and the first officer added, “Now mind, ye’d better be reporting to headquarters this evening, or I’ll be thinking ye’re a pair o’ bloody rebels. That goes mighty hard on the digestion.” He drained his glass and grinned evilly.
    “By the way, gintlemen,” began the innkeeper, looking at me but addressing the officers, “I hear that over on the Peedee—” He paused, saw that the men were not watching, then closed one eye in a perceptible wink. I nodded slightly in answer.
    “Over on the Peedee, I say, the word’s come that the rebels o’ Williamsburg are collectin’ an’ they’re makin’ plans to contest the king’s rights. I’ve been told they’re meetin’ in the swamps somewheres in the neighborhood o’ Brittons Neck.”
    Worth prodded me with the toe of his moccasin. I looked at him knowingly.
    “Yeah? I heard something o’ the kind this morning,” replied the first officer. “But that sort o’ thing means nothing. Wait till Colonel Tarleton returns from chasing Buford. He’ll put an end to the business.”
    We finished our meal and rose to go. I groped in my pocket for a few odd shillings. At the same time I was dimly aware that the candle-light shone on something pinned to my shirt – a something that flashed with my movements and caught the eye of the first officer, sitting only a few feet away. If I had not been so tired I would have known instantly what it was, perhaps could have avoided the thing that followed. But I moved ahead, wondering vaguely at a growing sense of insecurity.
    A bench scraped back. The first officer arose, frowning. Then, blankly amazed at my thoughtlessness, I remembered the silver crescent. The insanity of wearing it – through the village, into the tavern! – the thought jolted me to instant and terrible wakefulness. There was trouble ahead. Plenty of it. My hand shot up to shield its telltale reflection from the light.
    The gesture came too late.
    “Halt!” cried the first officer. I had turned to run. But there was a table barring the way; a hand grasped my shoulder. The other officer rose. Worth, too, was on his feet. He was motionless, stooped, like a coiled spring.
    “Here, now, what ails ye that ye should act that way with one of His Majesty’s servants? Egad, ye act like a bloody rebel, tryin’ to run away!” He spun me around, snatching at my hand. The crescent flashed suddenly into the light again.
    “Faith!” he bellowed. “So! Ye come in here wearing a rebel pin, playin’ the part o’ one o’ His Majesty’s loyal subjects! Take it off! Throw it on the floor! Let’s see ye step on it!”
    I didn’t move. I was scared, and like a witless idiot I was beginning to lose my temper. And my tongue started to say things that helped not a whit. “Get your damn hands off of me, you stinkin’ mutton-eater!”
    “By the bloody thunder, I’ll lay your head open for a rebel.” He grabbed me by the hair, spun me off my feet, and his free hand darted for his saber. I was down, the saber was half out, when his wrist pressed across my mouth. I bit it and he turned me loose.
    It looked as if things were all over for me. If I jumped back he would have room to finish drawing his blade and I would be cut down in an instant. There was only one chance. I sprang at him and closed.
    My weight had no effect upon him – but the saber slid back into its scabbard. And then he had me with both hands about my throat. Breath, and life, too, it seemed, were going; it was in a desperate frenzy then that I whipped out my knife. I drove it, once, twice, into his shoulder. He roared as the steel bit into him, and hurled me a dozen feet away, across bench and table, and onto the floor.
    One light went out as the candlestick was knocked over. Scrambling to my feet, miraculously unhurt, I saw Worth’s fist crash into the face of the second officer, saw him reeling backward dazed as the first officer, blood running from his shoulder, lunged forward. He was cursing foully and his blade was free.
    Worth, nimble as a panther, ducked that oncoming rush, and a long splinter flew from the table beside him as the saber descended. Instantly he seized the remaining candlestick and hurled it. I heard it thud into the officer’s face as the room was plunged into darkness.
    There were confused cries, a volley of curses. A table overturned and dishes crashed to the floor. A voice whispered in my ear. It was the innkeeper.
    “To the rear, quick! There’s a swamp back o’ the garden, and – there's owls on the Peedeel”
    Wondering, I groped for Worth’s arm, found it, and dragged him after me. We reached the door of the kitchen, just as the swinging-doors at the other side opened, let in an excited murmur of voices, and showed the forms of the villagers silhouetted in the dim light behind.
    We swept through the kitchen, sending the frightened nigger sprawling, and tore out into the garden and the black night. Stumbling over interminable rows of beans and squash, we vaulted at last across a rail fence and fell into the tall grass on the other side. But doors were banging behind us. Men came running across the garden. So, panting for breath, we stooped and ran along the edge of the fence. At the end was a patch of scrub oak where we were once more able to stand upright. I was weak and shaken. With the heavy meal I had eaten, and the fatigue of the past few days, my legs seemed ready to give way at any moment. I reeled against a tree, gasping, my heart thumping as if it would burst.
    Worth mercilessly jerked me along. I followed blindly, tripping now over a tangle of grape vines and honeysuckle, and falling a moment later over a log. The woods grew blacker, if that were possible; the ground more spongy with every step. In a little while we were splashing knee deep in the mud and water of a shallow slough.
    We stopped and listened. From far away came an occasional shout. But the sounds seemed to be drawing no nearer and there was no glimmer of a torch through the trees. For the moment we were safe. We waded through the slough, found a dry hummock on the other side, and threw ourselves upon the ground.
    “Whe-e-ew!” Worth exclaimed. “’Twas a narrer squeek we had. An’ by the Sacred Calumet, Will, I didn’t know you could put up sich a scrap! I’m a-thinkin’ you gave the devvil some medicine he’ll taste a long time.” And like the good sport he was, he said nothing about the crescent.
    “I was a fool,” I replied. “If I’d used my wits a bit, I could have made up a story about the crescent and everything would have been all right.” I grunted suddenly, discovering I was still grasping my knife. It felt wet and sticky in the dark. I wiped it on the grass and returned it to my belt.
    “Worth,” I continued, after a time, “I owe you a lot for getting me out of that fix. I was mighty near the death of you – a-wearing this badge into Dorchester. If you hadn’t been such a fighter, God knows what would have happened to us. But I promise you I’ll keep my head from now on, and I won’t go risking our necks again.”
    “Aw, that’s all right, Will. We was both tired or we’d a thought o’ hit.” The tidewater training that had held me in reserve up to this moment dropped away like a cast-aside garment. I held out my hand and he took it in a strong grasp.
    “We’re pardners, Worth, and I’ll stick by you till the war’s ended.”
    “An’ I’m with you, Will, an’ I’m a-stickin’ by you too, my friend.”
    We rested in the swamp until close on to midnight, taking turns at sleeping and watching, until we deemed the villagers and the garrison must all be in their beds. Then we left our hiding-place and crept back into town.
    The place was dark. Not a light was burning and the only sounds that could be heard were the whippoorwills down in the swamp. We followed the street, walking very softly past the Royal George and the gunsmith’s shop farther down. The path leading to the bridge was just ahead. All seemed well. If no sentry were on the bridge, we would soon be safely across the river and at the place where the horses had been tethered.
    But a sentry was on the bridge – though at the moment he was asleep and snoring loudly. “Are you willin’ to chance hit?” came the whisper. I nodded. On tiptoe, our feet making no sound on the sandy path, we approached the sleeper.
    What our chances of passing him might have been I can only guess, but at that moment the peace of the night was shattered by the baying of a hound on the porch of a near-by shack. The dog jumped toward us, snarling. The sentry awoke and we took to our heels.
    The hound followed, nipping at our heels. The sentry challenged us, and finally discharged his firelock. The sound, I realized, would soon bring other soldiers to his assistance.
    Worth turned then and dealt the cause of the trouble a powerful kick that sent him spinning. He bothered us no longer. But the damage was done. We had to get away as fast as we could and think of some other method of crossing the river.
    It was hard to tell where we were going in the darkness. I knew we kept somewhere near the river by the strong smell of the fishhouses and the rotting hulk of a scow I fell over. Then I heard people running. A lantern flashed and a voice cried to us to halt.
    We ran harder than ever, taking the easiest path. A moment later I saw we had made a mistake, for we had turned onto a small pier and all retreat was cut off.
    “Can you swim, Worth?” I panted. “Naw, but I’ll try!” Then he stopped, pointing to the dim outline of a dugout moored to a piling. “Hop in, an’ pray fo’ a paddle!”
    He made a frenzied effort to loosen the unfamiliar sailor’s knot from the mooring-post, failed, then slashed it loose with his knife. We dropped to the bottom, kicked the craft free of the pier, and went floating into the river. I found a piece of board stowed under the seat and began paddling with it as fast as I could.
    “Gawd-a-mighty!” Worth sighed a few minutes later. “I’m beginning to think Dorchester’s a mite onhealthy!”
    “Anyway, we found out where to go, and had a good supper in the bargain. They’ll never find us now.”
    “Yeah. But hit’s sleep we be needin’ now. Let’s make fo’ the hosses an’ string them hammocks. We got to git a early start to the Peedee.”

Chapter 6: Owls
    We were in our saddles before sunrise. The Peedee, so I reckoned, lay nearly two days’ journey to the northeast. But there were rivers to cross, and the possibility that the ferries might be in the hands of the Tories made our route uncertain.
    The first problem was to get our horses and accouterments safely across the Ashley. We found an old timber-trail leading to the west, on a parallel with the river. By following this for an hour or more we came to a larger road leading down to the water. Here, upon the bank, was a tumble-down cabin, and near by, drawn partly up upon the sand at the foot of the road, was a leaky scow.
    Someone certainly lived in the cabin, though at the moment he was nowhere about. Worth scratched his head.
    “I hain’t a-goin’ to wait all mornin’ fo’ a ferryman – not in these times.” With that he pushed the scow out into the water, holding it while I led the horses on board. But before we started poling across the river I ran back and laid two shillings upon the cabin steps to ease my conscience.
    I might just as well have kept the money, for, in midstream, we heard a hullabaloo behind us. The ferryman and a helper had suddenly returned. They stood upon the bank a moment, shouting angrily and shaking their fists; then one man darted into the cabin. He came running out with a fowling-piece, and the two of them scrambled down the bank into a skiff, which we had not noticed before.
    “Lean on hit!” said Worth. “Looks like they’s a mite upset ’bout somethin’. I reckon news must travel fast around here.” The scow was heavy and clumsy, but we had a good start. The ferryman, though, was barely a hundred yards behind us as we touched the farther bank and leaped upon our horses. As I glanced back, one man dropped his paddle and raised his piece. Buckshot spattered the sand to our rear.
    Worth turned about in his saddle, raising his thumb to his nose in an age-old gesture. “Ye orta be ashamed o’ yerself, ole mud turtle!” he yelled. He slapped his horse’s flank and ferryman and river disappeared as we galloped up the winding road.
    “He cussed like a Tory,” grinned Worth, later. “So I guess we done the right thing, after all.”
    From here the road led north; that is, it should have if it had been stretched tight like a string. But it was like the rest of the roads in the country, winding in and out through the pines, bending around swamps, and zigzagging continuously to avoid canebrakes and fallen trees.
    We met no one, and hardly a house did we see. The country was wild and the brush was filled with small game. Later in the day the road merged with the highway leading to Camden. The country became more settled, with much evidence that the route had recently been traveled by a large body of troops. That they were British we quickly learned from a farmer at work in his garden, and we decided it would be a far better thing if we stayed clear of the highways and kept to the twisting country trails.
    Therefore we turned off upon the first overgrown trail leading to the northeast, and continued in this direction throughout the remainder of the day, following always the little-used trails and meeting but a lone horseman on the way. Even he seemed loath to meet us, for he spurred his horse into the woods while still out of gunshot, nor did he appear again.
    “’Tis a fine state o’ things the country’s come to,” grumbled Worth. “You can’t tell yo’ inimies from yo’ friends; an’ every man’s yo’ inimy till he finds out what side you’s on.”
    Late that evening we came to Lenud’s Ferry on the Santee. I was afraid of the place, but we had to chance it, as it was the only crossing for miles.
    A half-dozen men were loitering on the bank near the barge. All carried muskets or fowling-pieces.
    “No tellin’ what they are,” Worth whispered. “But hit’s gittin’ dark an’ we may as well chance hit. Talk sweet, now!”
    The affair at the Royal George had taught us a lesson we were not soon to forget. Making sure the crescent was safely hidden in my pocket, we rode boldly to the uncertain interview ahead.
    “An’ what mought you-all be wantin’ hereabouts?” drawled one of the men. He was nearly as tall as Worth and carried a battered musket in the crook of his arm. The other men stood ready, suspicious and sullen-eyed.
    “We was aimin’ to cross the river, friend,” said Worth.
    “An’ why do you call me ‘friend’ so easy-like, as if you’d knowed me all yore life?”
    “Well, now,” said Worth, scratching his head, “you ’pears almighty friendly-like to me, in spite o’ the look in yo’ eye. An’ we’s willin’ to pay fo’ the crossin’ iffen you don’t mind.”
    “A man’s looks is oncommon deceivin’, these days,” replied the man with the battered musket. “A friend crosses here without payin’; other folks don’t fare so han’somely. An’ what mought you-all be a-wantin’ on t’other side, mought I ask?”
    “We come down outen the hills to do a bit o’ fightin’, an’ I’ve hyeared there’s good fightin’ ahead. O’ course, we don’t know much about the goin’s-on, but we’s aimin’ to do the right thing.”
    “You’s spoutin’ onhealthy talk, young feller; he who knows not his party be an inimy to both. But it mought be you can tell us somethin’ o’ the owls from yore parts?”
    At this unusual question Worth remained silent. He stared frowning at the man as if he had not heard correctly.
    An uncomfortable silence followed. In those few seconds my thoughts turned back to the Royal George. I strove for an answer I seemed to know. Then I remembered – the fight... the sudden darkness... the innkeeper’s words....
    “There’s owls on the Peedee, friend!” said I. “That’s where we’re going.”
    “Shore, now, that’s a tolerable good answer, an’ one we’s all glad to hyear.” The tenseness left the faces of the men. Worth and I slipped from our saddles. And as I talked, a world of change came over us and over those listening. We were among friends. Our purpose and our views were the same. Most of us had been driven from our homes and all had grievances to settle with a common enemy.
    They made us share their supper, fish and a few roasted yams, and would not hear of us dividing our own food with them. It was dark when we finished, so we stayed with them during the night. At dawn we were ferried across the Santee.
    “The men you’re lookin’ for are somewheres near Lynches Creek and the Peedee – all good partisans,” we were told. “Major James is in charge. A youngish man, but a fine soldier and a gintleman. Keep a sharp lookout for Tories. There’s been talk of them organizing under Wemyss and he’s a bad varmint to cross. An’ you mought tell the Major we’s still holdin’ the ferry an’ thar’s no sign o’ that devil Tarleton.”
    We thanked them and rode away. The morning was cool and we felt far better after a solid night’s rest, which was a blessing after the burning weather and the sleeplessness of the past few days.
    The country beyond the Santee was much like that we had already passed through. There were no bridges. When we came to a stream too small for a ferry, the horses stopped to drink, then plunged boldly into the water and splashed to the other side.
    For the moment the future was forgotten. I listened to Worth’s wild yarns of the trail and of the strange country where he had lived. I told him how Father had planned to send me to school in England, but that the war had interfered and I had gone to William and Mary instead. And I learned something of Worth’s life – how he had spent his early life upon the upper Peedee, and later moved to the hills where other members of his family were living. When he was thirteen, his father, with two uncles and their wives, had crossed the mountains with a large party going to settle in the little-known land of Kentuck on the other side. They were led by a hunter named Boone, who had been to the place before, bringing back wonderful tales of the Eden he had found beyond the mountains. Worth had lived to see his family massacred in Indian raids sponsored by Hamilton, the “ha’r-buyer,” had joined Clark’s expedition and helped defeat Hamilton, and, after peace had been assured in Kentuck, had returned to South Carolina. He had come directly to Charles Town in the hope of joining the army. He grew bitter at this point, for, I learned, the finely uniformed officers of the Carolina Militia had laughed at his uncouth appearance and he had turned away without enlisting.
    “But,” said he, “jest look at ’em now! And they hain’t a-goin’ to keep me from fightin’. I have an idear them men o’ Williamsburg will be right glad to see us – iffen they be like the men at the ferry. An’ when the trouble’s all over, Will, I’m a-goin’ back to Kaintuck.”
    As we trotted along, the thought of Kentuck grew upon me. And I told him that I, too, might some day go there with him.
    We had been so busy talking that we had paid little attention to either the time of day or the country through which we were riding. It was no wonder that, when the sun had nearly reached midday, we should come very near to running into a band of raiding Tories.
    It was a woman’s shriek somewhere ahead that warned us. Before us, the trail bent around a thicket; whatever was happening was hidden on the other side.
    “Git outen the road!” warned Worth. I followed him quickly into the cover of the woods. We dismounted, ran back, and crawled carefully through the thicket until we could see beyond.
    Men were circling a farmhouse. Directing them was a figure in a red jacket with white cross-belts. I heard a second anguished cry, and saw a frenzied woman held by two of the men. Smoke began pouring from the windows of the house and a tongue of flame swept suddenly to the roof. There was no sign of the farmer himself.
    “Can’t we do something?” I whispered. “That’s awful! Those poor settlers have so little.”
    “Better not risk hit,” came the grave reply. “Our hosses hain’t so fresh or I’d try a shot at ’em. Besides, iffen we did any damage, no tellin’ what they’d do to that woman....”
    “Damn stinkin’ Tories! Just wait! We’ll settle their score before long.”
    We crept back to our horses. Worth led the way in a wide circle through the woods. “Less mouthin’ an’ more lookin’,” he growled. “We’s liable to git ourselves in a hull slough o’ trouble iffen we hain’t keerful.”
    Late that afternoon we forded a muddy creek and drew back to rest on a tree-studded knoll out of sight of the road.
    “Hyear them owls?” said Worth. “Kinda early fo’ them to be a-callin’.” He cupped his hands and sent forth a weird, wavering cry – a perfect imitation of the sounds that floated up from the woods. “Jest watch, now; there’ll be one a-comin’ over here in a minnit.”
    He answered and the call was repeated several times. But though we waited a quarter of an hour, no owls appeared. The thing had me puzzled. It was too early for the owls to be out. The sun hadn’t yet dipped over the edge of the swamp. Later, it would be easy to call them and bring them flying back and forth over our heads, but now...
    Worth smiled and pulled out his eternal clay pipe. Producing a twist of tobacco – one of the twists he had found in the cellar at home – he filled his bowl and leaned against a tree.
    “Pardner Will,” said he, looking at me quizzically, “hit ’pears to me you-all don’t know the difference ’tween a regular owl an’ a human owl.”
    “Huh?” Then I began to see the light. “You mean—”
    “I hain’t a-sayin’, but iffen I hain’t almighty wrong they’ll be over here in a little while, jest like I tole you. Take a think back to them ferrymen on the Santee. Remember all that talk o’ the Peedee owls? I once lived on the Peedee myself, though ’twas a mighty long time ago.”
    I’d hardly had time to “take a think back” before I heard the whinny of a horse at the foot of the knoll. Then came a slow thump of hoofs; the bushes parted and a horseman was before us, a fowling-piece held in readiness on the pommel of his saddle. Another moment and a second rider came up behind us.
    “Well, well! What be this?” drawled the first rider. Glancing at us keenly, he flipped open the cover of a pewter snuff-box with one hand, dug out a sizable pinch with a grimy thumb nail, and sniffed it quickly. He sneezed, then stared at us sourly. A huge, tattered, raw-boned man with eyes like flint.
    “Two pairs o’ leather-legs they be, Longnose,” he continued, squinting at the second rider. “An’ what mought two pairs o’ leather-legs be wantin’, restin’ here all easy-like?”
    “I was a-wonderin’ how far hit was to the Peedee,” said Worth.
    “Sartin, now, the Peedee’s a moot question in these parts. You sound like a lad from the hills – an’ what should a hill lad be wantin’ tharabouts?”
    “I’ve hyeared hit tole that there’s owls on the Peedee, friend!”
    “Sho, sho – thar be heaps o’ owls on the river – heaps o’ owls.” His face lighted. The hard glint left his eyes and he dismounted. He had a pair of the longest arms I’ve ever seen on a man. “The Peedee’s but an hour’s ride ahead, an’ thar’s where we be goin’.”
    Thus it came about that we continued our way to the Peedee under partisan escort. He of the long arms and the flint eye was Silas Larkins, one of Major James’ scouts. Longnose, a silent and very thin man with a beak like a parrot, had been signaling for the other to return to the Major when Worth interrupted with his owl calls. They had been wary in approaching, thinking we might be Tories.
    “The country’s been throwed in such a stir-up lately,” said Larkins, “that a man can’t tell what he’s gonna run onto. An’ good swamp-suckers like Longnose an’ me ain’t takin’ chances.” He gave our equipment an appreciative glance, missing not a detail. “You got to be keerful when you git to the campin’-place. Most o’ the boys is Irish; they ain’t so well heeled theirselves an’ they mought be givin’ your trappin’s the green eye.”
    By dark we came to a swiftly flowing stream almost hidden by the black growth of trees and bamboo. Not a light glimmered, nor was there even a sign that anyone was near. But when Larkins gave his owl call, followed by two sharp whistles, an answering call came to us through the night. Soon a slim piragua slid to the edge of the bank. We dismounted, dumped our equipment in the bottom, and coaxed the horses into the water. Still holding the reins, we took our seats. The animals swam patiently beside us; the piragua glided forward into a black obscurity.
    It was a dismal place, the swamp we entered, and I couldn’t see ten feet ahead of me. The boatman used no light, and for a good part of the way he pulled us along by hooking a long pole in the branches overhead. The pole had a prong from a deer antler tied to the end of it. Soon we came to open water; there was a warbling whistle ahead of us; the piragua grounded and we got out. The horses stumbled up the muddy bank. We threw the loads across the saddles and followed our guide on foot.
    “This is Snow’s Island,” said Larkins. “Right whar Lynches Creek hits the Peedee.”
    Mud and vines were left behind as the ground became higher. Now our feet sank knee deep in the soft leaves beneath great tree-trunks. We crossed a gully, broke through a thicket, and saw the glimmering of a dozen small fires in an open space ahead.
    A dog barked, was immediately silenced, and horses whinnied at our approach. Some of them were tethered near, and the light glistened on their sleek sides and slim legs. Chickasaw stock, most of them, and rather small, but swift, hardy animals far superior to the nags I’d seen the British use. I patted Silver. He stood a good two hands higher than many of the rest, and I’d have bet a hundred guineas he could outrun the bunch.
    We entered the circle of light. Scattered around a tremendous oak in the center of the glade were twenty or thirty men lounging about the fires. Their clothing was nondescript and much of it was in tatters, but here and there among the homespun was the broadcloth and linen of the aristocrats. Several had brought their niggers, and these were busy roasting venison and potatoes.
    Blankets, bridles, and an occasional powder-horn dangled from the lower branches of the huge swamp trees. The flickering fires made shadows dance on their buttressed trunks; the streamers of moss hanging down were like stalactites in a ghostly cave. Even the men were unreal. The firelight brought out hard lines on their faces. Rugged, unshaven faces they were, and to me, tired and not a little hungry, their owners were grim and half-wild.
    A group surrounded us. They asked Larkins about the roads and then stood admiring our horses with a great show of enthusiasm. One huge fellow, with a red face and a thatch of blazing hair, went so far as to pluck at Worth’s saber dangling from his saddle.
    “Here’s a fine blade, men, an’ I be needin’ one sorely. Shore, now, when raw hands come in with a good load of equipment, ’tis time to divvy up an’ each man for his share. The sword’s mine, men.”
    “Hold offen that, friend,” Worth drawled. “The blade’s mine an’ I’s aimin’ to use hit soon.”
    “My name’s Tressidy – Hell’s-fire Tressidy I be, an’ no half-growed rapscallion of a hill kid’s goin’ to start any sass around here. Stand away. I take the sword!”
    “Hell’s fire an’ be damned to you!” Worth’s voice had an edge to it that cut like a knife. There was a glitter in his eye and a knotting of muscles in his jaw that made him look dangerous. It didn’t look good and I tried to restrain him.
    “I’m from Kaintuck,” he said, throwing off my hand, “an’ I’ll divvy up my stuff when the proper man says the word – but until then hands off! An’ the same goes fo’ my pardner.”
    Tressidy of the red hair blinked a little unbelievingly and his big jaw dropped. Somebody laughed. “Hell’s-fire, you must ’a’ thought you was pickin’ on a striplin’, but seems like you got holt of a he wildcat from the mountains!” It was Larkins’ drawling voice, and there was an amused ring in it.
    Tressidy’s jowls swelled to an unhealthy purple and his mouth closed with the sound of a steel trap. He moved, and the circle around us widened like a ripple upon a pool. One beefy hand shot through the air for Worth’s throat. Worth fenced it with his elbow and his fist slammed against the other’s mouth. The crowd yelled, Tressidy cursed like a devil, and Larkins jerked me into the thickening, undulating ring of men. Some were laying bets, and the bolder ones, including Larkins, were shouting encouragement to Worth.
    “Give ’im the thumb! Bust his eye-strings!”
    “No gougin’!” Larkins bellowed, and I saw him send the exponent of it sprawling with the flat of his hand.
    Now the two in the ring were moving swiftly. Beside the great hulk of his opponent, Worth’s lithe body seemed frail and without substance. Head lowered, Tressidy lunged, both fists flailing in front of him. Worth slithered eel-like under his shoulder, his blow whipping upward across the big devil’s cheek. Suddenly they closed, and I could see Worth was caught in the crook of Tressidy’s thick arm. They struggled, swayed, and whirled downward. Worth was on the bottom.
    Then a strange thing happened. There was an agonized groan and Tressidy’s big body shot abruptly upward as if he had been snatched by an invisible hand. He fell almost beside me and lay there a moment, gasping. Then he doubled over, cursing softly, his hands twitching across his belly.
    Larkins howled in delight and thumped me across the back. “I said he was a wildcat! He used his feet, Injun fashion, when Hell’s-fire tried to choke him!”
    Worth bounced upright, his breath rasping, and jerked Tressidy into the center of the ring again. “You got enough,” he snarled, “or do you want me to plum’ dress you down?” The crowd silenced, waiting for blood.
    Tressidy was still game, and there was murder in his eye as he got to his feet. One hand was knotted about the hilt of a knife in his belt.
    “Halt!” A hard voice snapped authority. “No fighting here! There’ll be fighting enough when we meet the Tories.” Men were flung aside. A tall figure in a tight military jacket dominated the ring. “What’s this mean, Tressidy? You seem to be the cause of a lot of mix-ups.”
    “Excuse me, Major,” Larkins spoke, “but I was just bringin’ in these two pairs o’ assorted leatherlegs what wanted to tie up with us when Hell’s-fire busted in an’ wanted to take some o’ their armamints.”
    Tressidy glared at Worth. “I ain’t done with you, an’ next time I won’t let you pull no tricks on me—”
    “Shut up!” snapped the man in the military jacket. “I’ll see that all weapons are fairly divided among those who know best how to use them. But I won’t stand for any more trouble in camp. Back to your fires, men.”
    Tressidy walked sullenly off. The others went respectfully back to their places. We sat down under the big oak tree while the Major’s nigger cooked a batch of hoecakes. Major James was a young man with the lean jaw of a fighter, and a devil-may-care glitter in his eye. “Egad! What a sorrel!” he exclaimed, glancing at Silver.
    I liked the Major immediately. “He was raised at Summerdale, sir. Sired by Flimnap.”
    “Then he’s a fine animal indeed, if he has the blood of Flimnap the Great in his veins. Raised at Summerdale, was he? You must be the son of Matthew Dunbar. I’ve never met the gentleman, but my family has spoken well of him.”
    Thereupon I told him how Father had been at Charles Town when the place surrendered, and why Worth and I had come to join the partisans of Williamsburg.
    “I’m mighty glad to have you both with us,” he said. “We’ve been here just a few days, and we’re all too poorly armed to go into action yet. But I have hopes of equipment soon – and then we’ll see what the future holds for us.” The Major lowered his voice. “Be careful of Tressidy. He’s a good soldier and all that, but not one to forget the trouncing he got.”

Chapter 7: The Letter from Cornwallis
    “I want to fit a fight!” Worth was grumbling. “My nose is been itchin’ fo’ the smell o’ powder since—”
    “Aw, stow it,” I growled. “I can’t help it if the Major made messengers out of us.” I was sick of it, too. We’d come to Snow’s Island all primed for action, and now, weeks later, we were riding drearily up a winding trail, wondering what was going to happen to ourselves and the country. The British and the Tories had a tight hold on everything; settlers were being murdered, houses burned, and the Major spent most of his time riding away alone while his men remained behind and quarreled.
    Everywhere, too, people were whispering that the North had abandoned South Carolina to the enemy. The days ahead looked black, especially when I remembered the fate of Colonel Buford. Tarleton and his dragoons had attacked him and had butchered every man in the regiment, even after they had surrendered and cried for quarter. I wondered if the spy we had met upon the road that night had found Buford and led Tarleton to him.
    “What’s wrong with the Major?” fumed Worth. “Why don’t he let us tackle them Tory bands what’s runnin’ loose all over the parish. Why, we only took six prisoners since—”
    “We got to have weapons to fight with, man! There’s only four swords among the lot of us, counting the two we gave to the company captains. And how do you expect our crowd to face a bunch of cut-throats outfitted by the British, when we’ve got less than three rounds of powder apiece?”
    “Huh! Iffen Colonel Clark was here there’d be fightin’, swords or no. Them devvils Wemyss an’ Barfield, an’ that hound Gainey, would be buzzard meat. But as it is we’s spendin’ our time carryin’ notes between the Major an’ his friends, an’ things is gittin’ worse every day. There was all that talk awhile back ’bout a big army under Gin’ral Gates a-comin’ down to help us. They done guve us up. An’ now the mutton-eaters have built forts clean from the coast to Camden. They control the main roads, an’ nearly every ferry is guarded.”
    “They took Lenud’s Ferry from our guards yesterday.”
    “Yeah, I know hit,” Worth muttered. “But I can’t figger why the Major didn’t git worked up about it. He’s a fightin’-man, iffen there ever was one, but I guess he jest hain’t a leader. He’s planning something – something funny. Only I can’t make out what he’s got up his sleeve.”
    “We’ll know tonight,” I said. “He’s called a big meeting, he and his friends, and men have been slipping down through the swamp to the island all afternoon. The pot’s on the fire, boiling, whatever’s in it.”
    Worth turned off the trail and drew rein beside a bubbling spring. The afternoon was sweltering, so we tied our horses in the seclusion of a thicket and sat down to finish the remains of a meager hoecake saved from breakfast.
    “Wish I had a shot at a nice, fat buck, right now,” I said. We’d been hungry for days.
    “I reckon as how e’en roast Tory might go well fo’ a change. I knowed a Long Knife what got hawngry one winter when he was out alone. So he up an’ ketched hisself an Injin an’ lived high fo’ a week.”
    Suddenly the twinkle in his eyes changed to a glitter and his hand closed slowly over the long rifle in his lap. The flint snapped back. He was staring at something on the trail behind me.
    I heard the soft beat of hoofs on the grass. As I turned, a plump and very hot little man rolled from a horse that had evidently been ridden a great distance. As we were in the shade on the far side of the spring, he did not see us at once, but produced a huge red handkerchief and began mopping his face. Without even looking up, he hurried forward and thrust his head into the cool water. The horse trotted forward and incontinently began to drink beside him.
    We laughed. The little man jerked back his head like a startled pig, eyes bulging, water running down his face into his open shirt front.
    “You ’pears to be a trifle hot, stranger!” announced Worth.
    The man sprang to his feet. He dried his face and blinked uncertainly from us to his horse.
    “Are you a Whig or a Tory?” I asked, fingering one of the pistols.
    “I mought be either!” The little man’s glance focused on our weapons. “What business be it o’ yourn?”
    “Business enough!” growled Worth. “Spit out yo’ answer!”
    “Whig!” gasped the little man.
    “You got the devvil beat fo’ guessin’, stranger, but where did you come from?” A few bounds carried Worth to the man’s horse. The stranger’s pistol was still fastened to the saddle.
    “I left Moncks Corner yesterday—”
    “An’ what ferry did you take when you crossed the Santee?”
    The man hesitated. Finally, “Lenud’s.”
    Instantly, Worth was upon him. He gave a jerk, the little man was lifted from his feet and thrown face downward by the spring, his arms pinioned behind his back. In another moment I had his hands tied with a rawhide thong.
    “Guess you had no idea we knew about Lenud’s Ferry,” said I. “We learned only last night that it had been taken by the Tories.”
    “But I’m no Tory, damn ye!” our prisoner sputtered.
    “We’ll see about that,” I said, proceeding at once to give him a thorough searching. I was certain he was a messenger. His horse was lathered from hard riding, and he’d been headed west where a number of British forts were located.
    But his clothes revealed nothing incriminating. Only a few shillings, a bag of shot, and a silver snuff-box. The bag on his saddle was more disappointing. There wasn’t even a crumb of food inside.
    “I reckon as how we’s a mite wrong, stranger.” Worth frowned, sat down, but made no move to untie the man’s hands. “We’s plum’ disappointed in you; we was a-hopin’ you’d at least be a Tory. Our friends back in camp is a mite hawngry, an’ up an’ declared they’d as lief eat good Tory meat as any other.” He grinned at me slyly. “An’ you’s so nice an’ fat!”
    The little man squirmed. “What’s all this nonsense? Let me go, I say. I’m a Whig!” But there was a break in his voice.
    In a small pile on the ground were the objects I’d taken from his pockets. I picked up the snuff-box. It was richly ornamented and in the center was the owner’s coat of arms – two falcons rampant upon a shield. Was it this particular owner’s coat of arms? It seemed unlikely. The man was too ill-clothed, his pistol was too noticeably of a cheaper make. A man with a fine snuff-box would carry a better weapon.
    Suddenly I snapped back the lid of the thing and dumped its black contents upon the ground. It was as I had hoped. Firmly wedged in the bottom was a wad of fine paper – or papers, as I discovered after unfolding them. Signed to the bottom of the very first one was a name known and hated through all the colonies.
    “Worth! He’s a Tory! Just read this!”
    The prisoner groaned.
    Worth took the papers, glanced through them uncertainly, then pointed to the signature on the first. “My eyes is kinda po’. What’s hit say, Will?”
    At first I was puzzled, for the signature was as plain as day. But in a flash I understood. There was something, I resolved, that I’d have to teach Worth at the first opportunity.
    “The signer of these papers,” I breathed, “is Cornwallis!”
    “Cawnwallis! The varmint!” Worth glared with fiendish deviltry at the prisoner. “Then we eats, friend Will, an’ I’m fo’ takin’ his sculp this minnit!”
    “Better take him in alive,” said I, very seriously. “The Major might want to question him first.”
    * * *
    We blindfolded our prisoner before taking him to camp in the evening. Only tested partisans knew the secret of the place, and it was a secret we were to guard carefully all through the dangerous days to come.
    The island was alive with men when we returned. Scores of new arrivals sat conversing in low murmurs around the edge of the glade. A small fire in the center cast a dull light upon soiled homespun and buckskin, upon white linen, and upon cleanshaven faces and bearded ones. Behind them, vague blurs in the shadows, were black faces with solemn, blinking eyes. These were silent under the pall of heavy seriousness hanging over the assembly.
    Near by I could see Major James conversing with a small group of strangers. Suddenly I caught the word “protection” – and for the first time I began to sense the full import of the meeting. Worth and I had been so busy carrying the Major’s notes to men scattered over the parish that we had missed the undercurrent of things happening around us. And it had all been vague, secretive.
    But from the British headquarters in Charles Town had come a proclamation stating that all people in South Carolina who would sign their names as loyal subjects of England would be allowed to live peaceably, without loss of life or property. This was the “protection.” Lately the “protection” had been revoked. And Major James, I knew, had just been to Georgetown, where the local enemy commandant was stationed....
    A hush fell over the assembly. Now the Major was standing in the center of the glade. The firelight flickered on a sheaf of thin papers in his hand. Papers from the silver snuff-box I had taken from the Tory messenger.
    “Men of Williamsburg,” said he, “at your request I went to see Captain Ardesoif in Georgetown, to find out what treatment the enemy would give to us as citizens of a captured state. Many of our friends have signed the ‘protection’ in order to avoid losing their homes and being sent to prison. But the ‘protection’ has been revoked.
    “Ardesoif’s reply was that every one of us would have to turn out and join the British!”
    Immediately the crowd was in an uproar. “Join the enemy!” they shouted. “Fight our friends!”
    “Never!”
    “That’s what I told the devil,” the Major lashed forth. “And when he damned me for a rebel I broke a chair over his head and just managed to reach my horse and escape with my life.
    “But that isn’t all. Just listen to this – it’s a letter from Cornwallis, just taken this afternoon from one of his messengers:
       “I have given orders that all the inhabitants of this province who have subscribed, and taken part in this revolt, should be punished with the greatest rigor; and also those who will not turn out, that they may be imprisoned and their whole property taken from them or destroyed.... I have ordered in the most positive manner that every militiaman who has borne arms with us, and afterward joined the enemy, shall be immediately hanged!”
    It was the ultimatum. The enemy gave no quarter. Many a man among those present, I knew, had seen service in the provincial British army before the war in the days of the Indian uprisings. A few bolder ones had even joined recently in order to trick the enemy out of equipment. The tumult died and the Major spoke again.
    “Our only chance is to fight! Fight or be hanged! Some of you may wonder why I haven’t carried out my statement before this. But first we had to be organized, and we had to know just where we stood and what help we could expect from the North.
    “Friends, the North hasn’t abandoned us! I’ve just learned today that a big army is coming down under General Gates himself – the hero of Saratoga! And the partisan leaders of this state have been busy. Tonight we have mustered here four companies of loyal Whigs – and our good Governor Rutledge, who managed to escape the fall of Charles Town, has appointed an able leader to take command of all the troops we can raise.”
    Everyone applauded. New hope shone in the faces around me. “Our leader!”
    “Who is he?”
    “You all know him,” said the Major. “He is Colonel Marion!”
    No wonder the crowd yelled, and men began to cut capers around the fire. Who hadn't heard of Colonel Marion! He was a distinguished figure in Charles Town – and a man that I was proud to claim some acquaintance with, for he’d often entered thoroughbreds against Father’s in the races. Long ago he had made a name for himself in the Indian wars, and during the first siege of Charles Town he had shown such valor that everyone hailed him as a hero. This was the first news that he had escaped the city’s last siege.
    “Colonel Marion has already raised a small force,” said the Major. “The next step is to send immediate word to him that we are awaiting his command. Who wants to carry the message? It should be some one that knows him.”
    Instantly I was up, stammering, “M-may I have the honor?”
    And thus it was that I rode into North Carolina upon a mission for the men of Williamsburg. Worth and Larkins were my bodyguards.

Chapter 8: The Tattered Brigade
    The late July sun blazed down unmercifully. Two sentries were sprawled in the shade of a tree, their blue coats in a roll beneath their heads, their cocked hats pulled over their faces to keep away the flies. One snored lustily. The other had an eye turned warily upon the river and the orderly rows of tents on the other side – the encampment of the Maryland Regimentals, nucleus of the relief army from the North. It was here that I expected to find Colonel Francis Marion, who had come to confer with General Gates.
    We were almost on them before the second sentry grabbed his musket and snapped to his feet. “Halt!” said he. “Who comes here?”
    “Friends,” said I.
    “An’ iffen we’d been inimies,” Worth added, maliciously, “jest wouldn’t you be in a pretty pickle!”
    This didn’t go down so well. The sentry kicked his companion awake, glaring at us like an angry dog at a trio of beggars. His glance swept our grimy faces and dirty buckskins, then rested on our sleek, clean-limbed horses.
    “What d’you three horse thieves want here?” he demanded, insolently.
    “I didn’t quite hyear that, stranger!” Worth was out of his saddle on the instant, his eyes full of fight.
    “Stop it, Worth,” I growled. “I’m in charge here. This is no time to start trouble.”
    “Hain’t a-goin’ to be no trouble iffen this make-believe soldier kin remember to be polite.”
    “Polite!” roared the first sentry, now on his feet and fully awake. “Who in damnation d’you think you are?”
    “Just a minute,” I cried, springing to the ground. “We’re here with an important message for Colonel Marion. Where—”
    “A make-believe soldier, am I,” snarled the second sentry, ignoring me. “No horse thief says that to a Maryland Regimental and—”
    He didn’t finish. Worth was on him like a panther. In a flash the musket was knocked away and the fellow was hurled a dozen feet. “A hoss thief, be I! I’ll be sculped an’ singed iffen I let that pass!”
    “Yeah,” the first sentry spat out, “and you look like a devilish Tory, besides. Stand back!” His musket was raised. He was so excited it looked as if he’d pull the trigger any moment.
    Larkins, who had dismounted, saw the same thing. Abruptly he thrust his fowling-piece under the sentry’s weapon and knocked the barrel up. The charge went into the air.
    In a second the thing turned into a mad scramble. The two Marylanders started for Worth and pounced on him together. Something slammed against my ear and I went spinning. When I was able to see straight again, Larkins was standing under the tree, puffing and sweating, a grin on his face. Under each of his great arms was the head of a squirming sentry. And splashing across the stream toward us were a dozen cavalrymen attracted by the musket-shot.
    A fine mess things had turned out to be! Instead of coming in to camp as messengers, we became captives of our own army and had the disgrace to be taken in under guard. I argued, pleaded, and tried to explain, and all I got was a slap from a saber.
    “I tell you we came to see Colonel Marion! Don’t you understand?”
    “Who in the devil’s this Colonel Marion?” rasped the officer on duty. “What’s that got to do with attacking a couple of sentries on duty?”
    One of the cavalrymen suddenly laughed. “I know, Sergeant. Remember the little duffer what come to headquarters yesterday to see the Gen’ral?”
    “Gawd! Is that the kind of colonels they have down here?”
    “Yeah. And did you see the outfit of old crows he brung with him to join the army!”
    The guards howled. The sentries, who were being taken back as witnesses of our treason, forgot the drubbing we gave them and joined in with the rest.
    “So that’s Colonel Marion! Then we were fightin’ horse thieves all along!”
    “Shet yo’ damned mouth,” snarled Worth, “or I’ll tell what you-all was a-doin’ when us come up. Ever hyear o’ a man what was caught sleepin’ on sentry duty?” He spoke out of the corner of his mouth so that only the two could hear.
    The sentries sobered instantly. They held their peace while we forded the stream and drew rein before a large tent facing the rest of the camp.
    The sergeant dismounted and stood at attention beside the entrance. On the inside I could see half a dozen officers in close conference around a table. One of them arose and came outside.
    “Colonel Williams, sir,” announced the sergeant, “I report the capture of three countrymen accused of fighting with our sentries across the river.”
    “Fighting with the sentries, eh? Hm – what was the matter?”
    “They wouldn’t heed our challenge, sir,” replied one.
    Worth glared at him. “They tried to git obstreperous with us, Colonel.”
    I pushed Worth aside. “I’m sorry, Colonel Williams, there’s been a misunderstanding. We came with a message for—”
    “Order! Order! What’s going on out here?” A tall, gaunt man with an amazingly long nose had risen from the group at the table. He brushed the officer roughly aside and stood frowning down at us. “Attention! All of you!”
    “I beg your pardon, General Gates. There was a little disturbance across the river.” The officer motioned to us. “These men—”
    “Get the beggars out of the way, Williams. Their cases will be tried at regular court-martial in the morning.”
    General Gates – the victor of Saratoga! Something numbed me and I stood there gaping like a ninny. Worth and Larkins glanced at me expectantly. I swallowed, wet my lips, and suddenly found my voice.
    “I – I, er – General Gates, we’re very sorry, sir, but we came to see Colonel Marion. The sentries didn’t understand. We have a – a very important communication for him.”
    “Mr. Marion again, eh? Huh!” The General stared coldly at the lot of us. In spite of his greatness, I couldn’t help but think what a sour devil he was. I watched him straighten, his heavy lower lip puffed out, and he roared at the guard of cavalry. “Dismiss! Back to your posts, sentries!” Then he thrust his head inside the tent, “Some more of your vagrants to see you, Colonel Marion.”
    Someone tittered, and a small man in a shoddy uniform came limping out. He ignored the General and his magnificence, shot me a glance with his piercing black eyes, and his thin face lighted in a smile.
    “Why, we have met before – on a far better day! Mr. Matthew Dunbar’s son, as I live!” He seized my hand.
    “Colonel Marion, sir, I have the honor of bringing you a message from Major John James, written for the men of Williamsburg.” I pulled a small metal box from my pocket, opened it, and took out the sealed message the Major had given me.
    “That box” – Colonel Marion spoke, looking intently at the object in my hand – “it, er – looks a bit familiar.”
    “I found it on a Tory messenger, sir. It contained papers from General Cornwallis.”
    “Strange,” he frowned. “A silver snuff-box.... I think I’ve seen the coat of arms on it before.” He frowned again, broke the seal from the message I handed him, and began to read.
    The Colonel was a man hardly taller than myself, a thin, wiry man somewhere in his late forties. The only things about him that were not faded or torn were his silk neckerchief and his cap – the leathern cap of the South Carolina Militia, with its cockade on the side and its silver crescent on the front. But there was something about his face that raised him far above the sullen hero of Saratoga, who stood plucking his lower lip and scowling down at us from the doorway of the tent. The Colonel’s face was aquiline and darkly handsome, with the keen, calm look about it of a born leader.
    Finally he folded the paper thoughtfully and his black eyes bored into the heavy-lidded ones of the General. “After our conference, sir,” he drawled, “I take it that you decline the services of myself and my men.”
    “You are most emphatically right, Mr. Marion. I do not feel that your little band of, er – vagrants, could exactly be considered as an asset to the army.”
    “Very well. I have just been offered the command of several companies of Whigs in South Carolina. With your kind permission I shall leave immediately. You know, down in my state we don’t measure soldiers with the eyes of a tailor. But I must warn you, my dear General: our country is strange to you, and you’ll need good scouts who know the trails – if you expect to succeed in your campaign against Camden.”
    The General’s face purpled. “Go on! Get your tramps out of my sight! We don’t need your advice on how to whip the English!” He turned his back and stamped into the tent.
    “I am delighted,” the Colonel spoke, making a fine bow to the officers who sat staring at us from the table, “that South Carolina’s hopes of freedom have been vested in so capable a leader. Good day, gentlemen!”
    Worth and Larkins were standing awkwardly at attention. As I introduced them their awkwardness vanished at the Colonel’s unexpected handclasp and smile. I knew they liked him on sight.
    We were to leave for Snow’s Island immediately. As the Colonel started across the encampment in the direction of his men, I noticed he was limping badly. His nigger hadn’t showed up with his horse, so I offered him Silver.
    He thanked me and accepted graciously. “Met with a most fortunate accident in Charles Town just before it was taken,” he explained. “Fell, broke my ankle, and subsequently had to be carried home to recover – all of which saved me the privilege of becoming a prisoner to General Clinton. I’m still pretty lame but it’s better than being held in irons.”
    We followed him through camp to the edge of the woods. Worth had a devilish grin on his face. “Mebbe he hain’t so big,” he whispered, “but he’s got a blisterin’ tongue what’ll make a buck alligator sit up an’ behave! Gawda’mighty! I’ll follow him till the last Redcoat’s been skinned an’ eaten!”
    A score of men – and boys – were lounging in the shade of the trees, waiting for the Colonel. They snapped to their feet, alert and ready as soon as we came in sight. Some of them were about my own age. Big, sturdy fellows, most of them, like the men at Snow’s Island. All marksmen and forest bred. You couldn’t mistake the squint in their eyes and the hard muscles rippling under their homespun. Several had their niggers along.
    I couldn’t tell who looked the more ruffianly, ourselves or the band before us. There were a few aristocratic faces, but you’d never know it, to judge by their clothes. No wonder General Gates had formed a poor opinion of them. Old Sour-face!
    Colonel Marion climbed slowly out of the saddle. His little troop, without waiting for a command, lined up before him. They seemed to know that some decision had been reached, and seeing the looks of expectancy on their faces, their leader lost no time in telling them what had happened.
    “Men, no doubt you will all be sorry to learn that we cannot become a part of this magnificent army – but it has been decreed otherwise.”
    Everybody smiled. I knew, from what I had seen already, that fellows of this type cared little for uniforms.
    “These three gentlemen,” indicating Worth, Larkins, and myself, “have brought word that four companies of patriots, near Williamsburg, await my command. Saddle up and be ready to leave immediately for South Carolina.”
    He looked around as if expecting some one he had not seen. “Oscar!” he shouted.
    A black figure suddenly bounded to its feet from somewhere beneath a tree.
    “Oscar, you black nuisance, saddle Ball at once!”
    “Yassah, Mos’ Francis, right ’way.”
    In one minute the nigger was back with the Colonel’s horse, a fine, blooded animal nearly as large as Silver.
    “Give us the horn, Oscar.”
    The nigger unslung from his shoulder a hunting-horn, decorated with scrimshaw work, and blew three sharp blasts.
    There was a hurried packing of saddle-bags and tightening of cinches. In a few seconds we were all mounted, following the Colonel single file through the long lane of tents that led to the river.
    The news of our departure spread quickly. Before we had half covered the distance to the ford the way was lined with Regimentals, laughing, joking, and making all manner of fun of us as we passed.
    “Yo ho! The old crows are starting south early this year!”
    “Take a good look, men, there goes the Tattered Brigade. You’ll never see its like again!”
    “The Tattered Brigade! There goes the Tattered Brigade!”
    Then they started yelling. Hundreds of them, all over the place. “Hurrah! for the Tattered Brigade!”
    Slowly we filed down to the river. Not once did the Colonel so much as turn his head or move at a faster pace until we were far on the opposite bank, out of sight of the Maryland encampment. Then he drew rein and faced his troop.
    “It takes more than a uniform to make a patriot, men. Forget the damn fools. Most of them haven’t been under fire yet.”

Chapter 9: Saws and Swords
    It was a fine, sunny morning in early August when we crossed Port’s Ferry, where several Whig guards were stationed, and wound through the Peedee swamp to the mouth of Lynches Creek. Major James and two new officers met us at the island landing. Behind them nearly the entire force of men was gathered as well, eager for a glimpse of their new commander.
    As he stepped ashore the Colonel was met with a low murmur of welcome. The Major came forward with a smart salute. “Colonel Marion, sir! We await your orders.”
    The Colonel smiled, and dispensing with formalities, shook hands all around. “’Tis a pleasure to see you again, Major.” Then to the other officers; “The Horry brothers! I knew we’d meet again when there’s fighting to be done!”
    Immediately the Colonel gave orders for a general inspection. Men who had slouched around the fire now sprang briskly into line. The new leader had a way with him!
    We were ranged in a circle around the great oak tree, each man with whatever arms he possessed in his hands, and his equipment spread out before him on the ground. Colonel Marion went slowly along the line, asking the men their names, where they lived, and carefully examining the weapons of each as he passed. He gave to every one a small object from a pouch he carried – an object that occasionally flashed in the pools of morning light that sifted through the foliage. As he came closer I saw they were silver crescents like the one I had taken from Morvin’s cap. Finally he came to me.
    “You have no rifle?” he said, taking the pistols from the belt across my shoulder and testing the flints.
    “No, sir, I am a better shot with a pistol.”
    “Can you use a sword?”
    “Yes, sir. Father taught me how. Worth and I brought sabers to camp, but they were loaned to the company captains to use.”
    He shook his head. “It is too bad. They are our most prized weapons, and we have so few of them.” Then he saw my crescent and patted me on the shoulder. “Wear it proudly, my son. There is no better emblem for a soldier to have. It is liberty or death for us – and I have sworn never to lay down my arms until we can call our country our own.”
    “I have sworn the same, sir.” He smiled and passed to the next man.
    When the inspection was over we stood curiously waiting while Colonel Marion went into conference with the other officers under the oak. It lasted but a few minutes, then we were called to attention.
    Frowning, the Colonel limped slowly around the circle again. Then, as if arriving at the solution of a perplexing problem, he stopped, snapped his cane against his boots, and spoke to the assemblage.
    “I want every man who is skilled in smithing to step forward.”
    Six men answered his call. Instantly, without explanation, he gave the order for four of the five companies that now made up the Brigade to saddle their horses and be ready to march. He led the way to the landing, with the six smiths close behind.
    In the half-hour since our return, some strange, driving force seemed to have invaded the camp. There was a brisk rattle of commands; men sprang eagerly to obey. Quietly, quickly, with the precision of the best-drilled troops, the Brigade swung into action. Horses were saddled in a moment, and in a surprisingly short time the four companies were moved across to the south bank of the Peedee. There we waited, impatient for the next order. Such was the confidence in Colonel Marion.
    There was a word of instruction to the officers. The four companies trotted single file through the swamp. On coming into the sandy pinelands, we divided, each company going in a different direction. I couldn’t tell what was up, but I could hear the whisper of sawmills, and I wondered.
    As messengers, Worth and I had been assigned to the Colonel’s group. Now I heard him call one of the smiths to the front, Maury by name, and direct him to lead. We galloped after him, and when we had covered nearly four miles at a fast pace we arrived at Maury’s home, a small plantation house set far back among the pines, facing fields of corn and yams overgrown with weeds.
    We rode up the lane, and coming to the rear of the house, dismounted in front of a rambling shed in which were anvils, a forge, and all the implements of a blacksmith’s trade.
    Charcoal was brought, a fire was kindled in the forge, and Worth, myself, and a dozen others were set bringing water from the spring at the foot of the hill to fill the barrels in the shed.
    Soon men from the other companies began to appear. They came in two and three at a time, all of them bringing objects from their homes or the homes of their friends. These were pewter candlesticks, porringers and plates, and, rarely, a small piece of lead. But the smiths only sat silently around the shop while we melted down the pewter and lead and molded it into bullets, each man making his own from his own mold, for few of the guns were of the same bore. Still the smiths waited, and the forge glowed red in the shadow of the shed.
    Then, an hour later, a large body of men galloped up the lane, carrying the heavy cross-cut saws they had stripped from the sawmills in the neighborhood. Immediately the smiths pulled off their shirts and tied on leather aprons. Worth began to work the forge, and one by one the saws were thrust into the coals until they glowed white in the heat. The smiths began to hammer, and the men from the other companies were sent away to search for corn and dig for yams while we stayed to help in the shed.
    The forge roared with the fierce pumping of the bellows. Men grunted, cursed, and sweated in the heat, and a half-dozen hammers beat a wild, ringing rhythm upon the white-hot metal. Slowly, amid the showers of sparks from the clanging hammers, the saws were cut into strips, the strips grew into the shapes of crude swords. These were fashioned into long, tapering weapons that were plunged hissing into the tubs of cold water. We worked like devils. The grindstone whirred tirelessly, putting an edge on the blades, whirred throughout the afternoon and far into the night, to the accompanying clang of metal on metal and the alternate singing and deepthroated grunts of the smiths as they swung their hammers:
       “I’ll beat you a sword from a saw, will I,
         With a hump! an’ a hump! an’ a hump!
       That’ll cut from the crown to the jaw, say I,
         With a hump! an’ a hump! an’ a hump!
       An’ when it is made, go spit on yo’ blade,
       An’ to hell with the Britisher’s law, say I!”
    As the night wore on the clanging became less frequent, the fire in the forge died down, and at last the grindstone ceased its whirring. Our work was done. The peace of the night descended upon us and we crept off to what places we could find to sleep till morning. But in the shed, by the side of the grindstone, was a great heap of swords. Rude, ’tis true, but fit enough for our purpose, and all finished except for wooden handles and an added whetting. And on the outside were sacks of potatoes and corn gathered from the fields, and small bags of bullets molded from the pewter plates. And ahead of us – perhaps there was liberty.
    * * *
    Some one was shaking me by the shoulder. I sat up. It was not yet daylight, and there was but a faint streak of red above the trees to indicate the hour before dawn.
    “Git yo’self movin’, Will,” snapped Worth.
    “What’s the matter?” I jumped up with an alacrity born of the last few months of uncertain living in the woods. “Lord! I haven’t had enough rest to satisfy a jaybird.”
    “Hit’s the early Whig what gits his Tory, an’ the Colonel’s itchin’ fo’ blood. He says as when we’s druv’ the devvils outen the parish an’ whupped ’em good, then we kin rest. I was jest a-talkin’ to him an’ he guve orders fo’ you an’ me to saddle up an’ go scoutin’ in the Britton’s Neck country. That’s what we git fo’ havin’ the best hosses in the outfit. He’s got his claws out fo’ a Tory named Gainey, an’ we got to find ’im.”
    We cooked a hasty breakfast and at the approach of dawn were in our saddles, riding north in the direction of Port’s Ferry, which we had crossed the day before. Strapped to our saddles were a pair of the new sabers, the handles of which we planned to finish at the first opportunity.
    In an hour we had crossed the ferry. The sun peeped over the woods and the mist in the swamp began to lift. We proceeded quietly, and as we went farther away from the island our caution increased. I couldn’t forget the time when we’d ridden inadvertently upon a raiding party.
    It was nearly noon when Worth, who was slightly in the lead, suddenly turned, held up his hand for silence, and whirled his horse into the cover of the trees. I followed.
    “There be some one a-comin’,” he whispered. “I hyeared a hoss ahead.”
    In a moment a horse and wagon made its appearance. It was driven by an old man whose pepper-and-salt shirt clung loosely to his bony shoulders. No one else was in sight, so we came out of cover.
    “Hello, Uncle,” began Worth. “I be lookin’ fo’ a little info’mation.”
    “I mought swap a bit o’ info’mation fo’ terbaccy, son, an’ if I had more o’ the pizen I’d charge ye nothin’.” He removed a shapeless hat, fanned his face, then reached forth a toil-hardened paw for a pinch of Worth’s precious leaves.
    “First, Uncle, I’m aimin’ to know yo’ political views befo’ proceedin’.”
    “I’m too old fo’ political views, boys,” said he. “Howsomever, ye look too almighty honest to be up to devilmint. What’s botherin’ ye?”
    Worth plunged boldly ahead. “We’s lookin’ fo’ Tories, mister. Maybe you kin tell us where some o’ them be?”
    “I had a visit from fifty o’ them yestiddy. Gainey an’ his hell’s imps they were. I’m supposed to be a Tory myself, around the Britton’s Neck section, so the only things they took was my last bit o’ pork an’ my last bushel o’ cawnmeal! They left me my house an’ my life, which ain’t worth nothin’, neither o’ them, an’ when they went they somehow forgot to pay fo’ what they took. Them be Tories fo’ ye! So this mornin’ I had to go an’ shell a lot o’ cawn to make up what I lost, an’ I’m on my way to the gristmill to have it ground.”
    “Gainey’s men, were they!” I growled. Since the time when the “protection” had been revoked, Gainey and his compatriot, Barfield, had been thundering through the Peedee district. Blood-drunk ghouls, with murder and worse behind them. To put an end to their raids had been Major James’ greatest wish.
    “Did you hyear anything o’ their plans, mister?” queried Worth.
    He gave us a hard stare. “I did. An’ don’t tell me ye ain’t Whigs! I’m a Whig, too, but I don’t want to be caught spreadin’ the things I know. Come on off the road a piece an’ have a bite with me.” He drove his wagon into the woods, and opening a basket of potatoes and cold chicken, invited us to help ourselves.
    “Now,” said he, “there was a lot of talk about the heathens goin’ to the Fraser plantation in the mornin’. They were to take on supplies there, then cross the river to raid the country between here and Kingstree. The Frasers, it’s been whispered around, is Tories, though they makes as if they’s somethin’ else, an’ I spect they could explain a right smart o’ mischief hereabouts.”
    He told us how to reach the Fraser place, which lay beyond a wide creek to the east. When we had finished we gave him our thanks, and Worth handed him a larger piece from his twist of tobacco. Then back to our saddles we went, following the route the old man had explained to us.
    Two miles farther along the road we came to a hill, from the top of which could be seen a tiny settlement – a tavern, a log house, and a church. We skirted this with proper caution, for it was a “Tory town,” and some distance to the east of it came upon another road that led, we had been told, to the Fraser plantation.
    “Let’s go plum’ to the place,” suggested Worth. “That way we kin get an idea of the lay o’ the land an’ hit’ll help the Colonel a lot iffen he decides to attack.”
    It was not long before we passed the creek that the old man had mentioned, and a short distance beyond that the brick plantation house of the Frasers. It was an imposing structure for the parish we were in, but it possessed none of the grandeur of the old houses of the Goose Creek country, that section between Dorchester and Charles Town.
    As we left the house behind, the road turned south. It showed signs of little use, and before long it became a mere trail leading through the swamp. Finally, after a long ride over it, we came out upon the Port’s Ferry road that we had traveled in the morning.
    “There!” exclaimed Worth. “We’ve learned something. All we have to do is to lead the Colonel back along this trail and we kin surprise the varmints in the mornin’ at the plantation. Next thing is to git to the island an’ report.”
    “One of us had better stay and keep an eye open in case anything happens,” I said. “Besides, without a guard here, you might lead them past the trail in the dark.” I picked two pine needles from the ground and held them with only the tips showing. “Longest straw stays. Choose.”
    Worth pulled a straw. It was the shortest. “We hereby parts, friend Will. Dunno jest when I’ll be back with the Colonel, but hit’ll be some time tonight. Good-by.”
    “Good luck,” said I. “You’ll find me at this very spot.”
    He wheeled his mount and cantered away in the direction of the Peedee.
    I watched him until he was hidden by a bend in the road, then fell to thinking how I should pass my time in his absence. Silver was tired and kept throwing back his head to let me know he was thirsty. I dismounted and led him beyond the road where a spring bubbled in a ravine. The saddle and blanket I removed and, letting him drink his fill, hobbled him so that he might graze and yet not stray out of the hollow.
    It was impossible to tell how long it would take Worth to return with the Brigade. His big bay was a powerful brute, but having been ridden the greater part of the day in the August heat, his progress would be slow. It would be several hours after sundown, at the earliest, before I could expect to see him again. In the meantime, there were several things that I could do, the first of which would be to make some kind of a handle for my sword.
    With my hunting-knife I trimmed a piece from a hickory sapling, then whittled it into two rounded halves that would fit together across the butt of the iron. Next I took the handle guard, a flat strip of metal several inches in length, slipped it over the end of the sword, and bound my wooden handles behind it with thongs of rawhide that I always carried in my pockets. When the whole was finished I looked at it critically, tested the handle, and twirled it about to see if it balanced.
    In the end I decided that the smiths understood their craft. Crude it was, an object that would probably cause laughter among the well-equipped British, but I hadn’t a doubt of its effectiveness.
    I was badly out of practice, and I knew that, before many more hours passed, my life might depend upon my skill as a swordsman. So I went to work upon a dwarf sweet-gum tree, spending the next half hour parrying, feinting, and slashing at a swaying limb.
    Growing tired at last, and conscious of a great drowsiness, I unrolled my blanket and lay down in a thicket. An hour, I promised myself, would be enough to make up the sleep I’d lost last night.
    Something touched me and I awoke. Startled, I sat up, aware of a huge shape standing near. It was only Silver, reminding me I’d overslept. I jumped up, staring. Night had come. Just how late it was I couldn’t tell. The moon was up but its beams were nearly lost in the mass of foliage overhead.
    I untied the hobble from Silver’s legs, saddled him quickly, and led him to the edge of the road. A moment’s inspection of the ground showed that nobody of horsemen had passed recently. Relieved, I sat down to wait, Silver standing motionless beside me.
    Somewhere behind me frogs were piping shrilly. A whippoorwill was crying near by. The moon threw small pools of light upon the roadbed, but the masses of trees on either side were only hazy, indistinct forms against the blacker gloom of the swamp. The shadows were deceiving and seemed at times to detach themselves from their proper places and move to new positions. I tried to forget my imagination and listen for the distant owl-call that would announce the approach of the Brigade.
    Hours seemed to pass. A rabbit hopped cautiously across the road. A shadow that had been giving me some concern crept several feet to one side. Silver tugged slightly at the reins and sniffed. The hair at the back of my neck began to bristle. The shadow moved a yard farther from where it should have been and neared the road. Silver snorted. The shadow galvanized into action, became a deer, and bounded through a pool of light into the gloom beyond.
    The eerie, quivering cry of a screech owl came from the south. I answered and was disgusted a minute after to see a real owl flying silently overhead.
    But a few moments later I heard another owl-call; three times in succession it came. Answering quickly, I leaped upon Silver’s back. Soon a cavalcade of horsemen rode toward me.
    Worth, astride a fresh mount, was in the lead. Immediately following him were the Colonel, Major James, and three companies of the Brigade. Worth and the two officers dismounted, some one lit a torch, and I traced a rough map in the sand showing the way we had traveled that afternoon, the swamp trail, the plantation house, and the road leading across the creek in the direction of the village.
    “The bridge is the place,” commented the Colonel. Immediately he ordered the men to dismount, look after their horses, test their arms, and sleep until they should be called.
    “You’re tired,” I said to Worth. “Trot off and get some rest. I’ll fix your sword if you haven’t done it already.”
    “Don’t bother, Will. I’m jest a-goin’ to strap the blade onto the end o’ my bar’l an’ make a pike outen hit. Some o’ the others is e’en puttin’ ’em on poles. A plain sword’s kinda out o’ my line.”
    I followed him to a spot where we could tie our horses and lie down. Five minutes after the Colonel’s order every man had retired to a place of concealment and hardly a sound was to be heard. One might have traveled upon the road and had no suspicion that more than threescore men lay resting a few feet away.
    It must have been three in the morning when I was awakened. Torches were lit, we mounted our horses, and with Worth and myself in the lead beside the Colonel, the long cavalcade began to move along the swamp trail in the direction of the plantation house. As we neared the higher ground the way became easier and the torches were extinguished. On the edge of the plantation, half a mile from the house, we came to a halt and Colonel Marion rode up and down the line, giving his instructions to the men. In brief, his plan was this: we were to follow the road until we came nearly to the bridge; there we were to hide behind the trees on either side. When Gainey and his Tories had crossed the bridge, a blast from a hunting-horn would be the signal for the attack. Each of us must single out his man, and if possible take him alive. No firing was to be done except in a case of necessity. Every prisoner captured meant another Whig released from the enemy.
    “Dunbar,” spoke the Colonel, “you and McDonald have already done your duty. You may retire and rest if you wish. There are more than enough men for what is to come.”
    “What! Not fight?” growled Worth. “Huh! I come all the way from Kaintuck to stick a Tory gizzard! Ketch me backin’ out!” I was feeling jumpy as a cricket, but I wasn’t backing out, either.
    The Colonel cracked a grin. “Very well, but mind now, I want prisoners. We can’t exchange dead men.” Then he relapsed into his usual taciturnity, saying no more until we had approached the bridge and had taken our stations on each side of the road.
    “Remember,” came his advice as he gave us a last inspection, “Surprise the enemy. Not a sound till you hear the horn, then go for them!”
    Silently we waited. An hour went by. It was still dark, but dawn could not be far away. Would they come by sunrise or would it be later? I laid my sword across my lap, inspected the priming of my pistols, then stuck them loosely back into the belt so they could be drawn instantly. I was getting jumpier than ever. Wouldn’t they ever arrive?
    Then something crept over me. I don’t know what it was, for I’d never had the feeling before. It must have been the dread uncertainty of what was to come. Perhaps I could begin counting the minutes of my life. A slip, a flicker of a sword point, or a musket-ball I couldn’t guard against – these things would happen soon... and some of us would die. I clenched my sword tightly and tried not to think of such things.
    The sky lightened. The trees and the roadway beyond became more distinct. Somewhere on the plantation a cock crowed. Slowly a red smear spread over the patch of blue in the east. A sweat formed on my forehead and I felt sick.
    There came a sound from the bridge – the sound of a horse’s hoofs echoing upon the timbers. Then followed a second and a third. Immediately after the noise became a steady clatter and I caught a glimpse of the advance rider going past on the road. Muscles tightened in me; I was no longer a human something, but a hard thing incapable of feeling. Another moment now...
    The clatter ceased. The horsemen were passing in a body. I grasped the reins tighter and picked a dark shape moving ahead.
    Then came the vibrating blast of a hunting-horn.
    I kicked Silver and he leapt for the road. Suddenly something in me yielded, a barrier was crashed. I yelled and, whirling my sword, rode straight for the man I’d singled out.
    The woods erupted men on horseback. The road became a mass of plunging horses and slashing, cursing riders. A musket cracked. Somebody cried hoarsely; a man tumbled from his saddle. Blades clanged and sparks flew. But I was aware of only one figure and in an instant I was upon him. He was a heavy, bearded devil and he was raising his pistol when our mounts came together. One swing of my sword smashed his wrist. The weapon dropped. I seized a pistol in my left hand. He surrendered.
    Then came cries for quarter. The affair was nearly over. About twoscore of the enemy, seeing we had them surrounded, threw down their arms and allowed us to take them without further resistance. A number on one side of the line made a break for the woods, but Tressidy, hatless and red hair flying, tore after them.
    “Hold, damn ye!” he roared. He sent a musket-ball into the back of one and ran another through with his sword a second later. The man gave a horrid shriek, then fell from his horse. A third reached the woods and made his escape.
    It was over. I sagged down in the saddle.
    Tressidy rode up, wiping his sword on the flank of his horse. He seemed pleased, as if the ordeal of killing two men in so short a time had been the lightest of tasks.
    “Here, my lad,” he laughed, offering me a flask, “take a drink o’ this. ’Tis good for weak hearts, an’ ye’ do look weakish.”
    I shook my head. I’d gladly have taken a swallow from anyone else at the moment. He rode past. I straightened my shoulders, glanced toward the east, and suddenly felt better as the flaming edge of the sun appeared over the trees.
    The fight had lasted but a few minutes. In counting up we found that nearly forty prisoners had been taken, four had been killed outright, and possibly ten, including Gainey himself, had escaped by making a dash for the woods or retreating back over the bridge. Of our own men not one was killed, and only three were slightly wounded. The Brigade was in high spirits as we started south with our prisoners.
    During the engagement I’d lost sight of Worth. I rode completely around the cavalcade, but there wasn’t a sign of him.
    “Have you seen McDonald?” I asked Colonel Marion.
    “No. Have you seen Major James? He seems to have disappeared, too.”
    I had not, and on asking several others the same question found that no one knew anything about them.
    In sudden apprehension I galloped back and began searching through the woods, shouting Worth’s name. But though I looked for a quarter of an hour I could not find him. Something had happened, but Heaven knew what.

Chapter 10: The Spy
    Neither Worth nor Major James appeared during the return trip to the Peedee. I concluded, on remembering the Major’s fiery actions with the Tory, Ardesoif, and his hate of all Tories in general, that he’d gone in pursuit of the escaped members of Gainey’s band. Possibly Worth was with him.
    When we crossed Port’s Ferry our troop was divided. One company escorted the prisoners to a place where an exchange could be made with the British; the rest of us were dispatched in small groups with orders to scatter over the territory between the Peedee and the Santee, and destroy all boats (save a few we were to hide for our own use) and intercept anyone riding between Charles Town and Camden.
    I found myself with Tressidy and a slim, dark youth named Gabriel, whom I’d first seen in Colonel Marion’s company.
    Tressidy, who was in charge, led the way. After riding six miles up the river bank we came to Witherspoon’s Ferry, the main crossing on the route from North Carolina. Besides several big scows, there were at least a dozen other boats at the landing, and the ground round about was so trampled that it seemed as if a host of men must have passed recently. “What’s happened here?” I demanded.
    “Seems as if ye hain’t up on the times,” remarked the burly leader. “Gin’ral Gates an’ his grand army passed here while you an’ that yappin’ pardner o’ yourn was out a-scoutin’. I reckon ye didn’t know that a big battle is all wound up ready to pop! Come on, my lads, we’s goin’ from here down to the Santee to smash some boats so’s Lord Rawdon’s troops can’t git shet o’ Gates.”
    “Where – where’s the thing going to happen?”
    “Over by Camden. The hull British army’s camped there.”
    “Gee!” muttered Gabriel. “Camden! Gee!”
    “Gosh!” said I. “If Gates licks ’em—”
    “South Carolina will be free and it won’t be long till the war’s over!” Gabriel’s dark face twisted in a grin. We followed Tressidy down the narrow road.
    “Let’s see, Camden’s straight west of here – about eighty miles, I’d reckon.”
    “Yeah, about the center of the state. Looks like our troubles are nearly over – with Gates in charge of things.” Gabriel grew serious.
    “But it seems too bad, though, that so much bloodshed should be necessary before we can come to terms with England. Some day, perhaps, such disputes between countries will be arranged peaceably and sanely; but now—” He shrugged his shoulders resignedly. “I guess it’s a matter of how many pounds of flesh and gallons of blood we must extract from the enemy before we can call our homes our own.”
    “Keep your eyes open for messengers,” I said. “Maybe we’ll see somebody that can tell us more about what’s going on.”
    Later in the day we pulled up at a crossroads where the relief army had turned to the right. We’d found no one as yet who could give us any information. Tressidy retrieved a soiled piece of paper from his pocket and studied the detailed instructions we had been given, which, through some idea of his own importance, he hadn’t permitted us to see. At last he continued straight southward. That route, he admitted, should take us beyond the “warpath,” the long, British-patrolled highway running between Charles Town and Camden.
    The section we entered now was less settled, and the road led us through deep forest and tangled swamp most of the way. But the small streams we passed over were flowing low enough in the August heat for our horses to wade across. What boats we saw were left far back upon the banks and were so dry that their seams had split. However, Gabriel and I took the precaution of knocking holes in the bottom of each boat we found, for a sudden rainstorm, I knew, would swell the rivers and creeks to twice their normal size, making them impassable for soldiers on foot. Tressidy laughed at our pains.
    When we came to the upper Santee, Tressidy realized we’d been right. The sky had darkened and thunder rumbled in the distance. The river was higher than any of us had expected the previous day.
    Tressidy frowned and ran a big hand through his unruly red hair. “I’m a-goin’ down to look for boats,” he said. “You young dandies skedaddle up the other way. Smash every craft ye see. I’ll hide a couple o’ boats myself, then I’ll know whar they be if the Colonel wants ’em. Now mind ye, don’t go too far up, for ye’ll run slap onto Fort Watson. I’d hate most bad to have the British hang ye for rebels! Meet me here at sundown.” With that he rode away, gun strapped to his saddle, an ax over his shoulder.
    Upstream from this point the woods were thick, trees grew right down to the water’s edge and, hanging far out, completely hid the bank. It was a gloomy place, filled with intersecting sloughs, and with a tangle of vines and roots that made riding impossible. It was easy to see why Tressidy had chosen to go downstream. We tied our horses in a sandy ravine and set out along the river bank. I led the way, sword ready to slash at the moccasins infesting the region, and Gabriel followed with the extra ax we’d brought from the Peedee.
    Hardly a hundred yards above the point where we’d left Tressidy were a half-dozen boats hidden in the mouth of a creek. We knocked the bottoms out, crossed the creek on a fallen tree, and started upstream again.
    “I’ll bet we’re in for a regular drenching soon,” remarked Gabriel, with a glance at the sky. “But wet or no, I’d like to hear some news of Camden.”
    It was an hour before sundown when the first scattered drops began to fall. We were standing on a slight bluff that gave us a good view of the country immediately ahead. From here the heavy swamp growth gave way to more open ground interspersed with tall grass and canebrakes. In the distance grew straggling groups of pines, gradually thickening into a black line of forest.
    I was for going back when Gabriel pointed to a scarcely visible road winding through the pines and grass down to the water’s edge. At the place where road met river was a rough log landing to which a number of flatboats were moored.
    “We can’t be far from Fort Watson,” he said. “My guess is that it’s just beyond the bend in the river, behind the line of woods.”
    My eye was following the road. Far up, where it was nearly lost to view, I suddenly noticed a black dot moving toward us. Careful scrutiny revealed it to be a man on a horse.
    “Look, Gabriel,” I whispered. “Here’s where we catch one of Mr. Cornwallis’s messengers! It couldn’t be anybody else in this section, and maybe we can sweat some news out of him. Come; we’ve just got time to hide in the palmettos by the landing before the fellow gets there.” I began running down the slope in the direction of the boats, Gabriel at my heels.
    When we reached the boats rain had begun to fall in a succession of sudden bursts, drenching the ground in spots, ceasing abruptly, then falling again in another place. The rider was still some distance away when we caught a last glimpse of him before entering the tall grass. There was little possibility that he had sighted us through our screen of underbrush.
    We crawled into a clump of palmettos by the side of the road, examined our pistols, and put fresh powder in the pan of each. The rain worried me. What if the priming should become dampened? Not that I had any intention of shooting if I could help it, but I couldn’t take chances. As a safeguard I cut one of the palmetto fans to hold over the pan when I stepped into the road.
    We had not long to wait. A horse snorted in a sudden wave of drenching rain, then something came splashing through a puddle beyond our place of concealment.
    “Wait till he dismounts,” I muttered.
    A horseman passed our line of vision. He stopped a bare ten feet away, only his feet and the legs of his mount showing through the fronds. For a full minute he kept his position, evidently studying the river and the prospect of crossing. Finally he threw one leg over the top of the saddle and slid to the ground.
    Gabriel and I sprang into the road, ordering him to surrender. But at the sight of him we both stopped short in amazement. The man wore the blue coat of a Continental officer.
    “S-sorry!” stammered Gabriel. “We thought sure you were a Tory! H-has Gates whipped the English yet?”
    “Of all the galoots, you two are the worst. Capture me, eh!” He laughed. “Here, make yourselves useful. I’ll tell you about Gates when you ferry me across.”
    He was a big fellow, and a decidedly surly-looking one. His laugh awoke in me the remembrance of an incident long past. I took another look at his face, my heart began to race madly, and I maneuvered for a position behind him. My pistol was still protected by the palmetto covering.
    “Up with your hands!” I snapped, suddenly, thrusting the pistol into his back. “Captain Morvin, you are my prisoner!”
    The man cursed, reluctantly raising his hands. “You’re a blasted Tory yourself,” he snarled. “If I didn’t think you had a dry charge in your hand I’d break both your heads.”
    “Take his weapons,” I said to Gabriel, who had been watching my actions open-mouthed. “Then tie his hands. Captain Morvin’s a spy!”
    “I demand that you stop this nonsense and let me go,” expostulated the prisoner. “When General Gates learns of this it’ll go hard for you.”
    “We’ll search him,” I told Gabriel, ignoring the other’s protestations, “then we’ll get on one of these flatboats and float down to Tressidy.”
    Carefully we examined our prisoner’s clothing. There wasn’t a thing in his pockets that looked suspicious.
    “Sure you’re right, Dunbar?” questioned Gabriel. “How do you know he’s a spy?”
    “I’ll tell you about it later on the boat, but first let’s take off his boots. They’re good hiding-places.” His right boot disclosed a thin sheaf of papers. The first was a rough map, presumably of Charles Town, marked with a number of crosses at different points. In one corner was a tiny shield with two falcons upon it – identical with the design on the snuff-box in my pocket. I wondered if Colonel Marion had been able to remember where he’d seen the coat of arms.
    But there was no time to think of that now. I turned to the next piece of paper and began to read the hurried writing upon it. I stared incredulously, read the thing again. The words danced insanely. Captain Morvin smiled sardonically.
    “Great God!”
    “What – what’s the matter, Dunbar?”
    “Here, Gabriel, read it yourself. It’s from that butcher, Tarleton. He says that General Gates has been utterly routed – two thousand Continentals killed or captured!” (Tarleton exaggerated. An actual counting showed but half that number.)
    Gabriel snatched the paper. At last he handed it back, his hand shaking. “It’s terrible,” he said, dully. “Tarleton adds that he defeated Sumter himself, killed half his men.... I’m afraid this means the end of everything!”
    “Forget it, Gabriel. We’re still alive and there’s a hundred men in the Brigade ready to fight at the drop of a hat. I’ll bet this news won’t faze them a bit. Come on; we’ve got to report this to the Colonel.”
    It was hard to be optimistic in the face of such an unexpected calamity. I didn’t believe the words I spoke. As we led our prisoner and his horse aboard one of the long flatboats and poled out into the current, I knew we’d come to the end of our hopes. With the defeat of Gates and Sumter, the Brigade was now the only body of men in the state, to my knowledge, who were opposed to the British. With our scant means and numbers, what chance had we?
    I glanced down at the silver crescent and remembered the vow I’d taken. I realized I had misjudged my comrades. There wasn’t a man in the entire Brigade who’d cease fighting until the end.
    Seated in the stern of the boat, unmindful of the rain, I whispered to Gabriel of my first meeting with Morvin. I knew the fellow was dumbfounded that I should know so much about him, and I took good care that he should not be enlightened. Probably he didn’t even remember meeting me on the road that night.
    It was sundown when we came to the place where we’d left Tressidy. The boat was ankle-deep in water, our clothes sodden. Instead of being uncomfortable, I felt refreshed; it was a relief after the stifling weather.
    Tressidy was waiting for us. His pig eyes glinted when he saw the prisoner.
    “Lieutenant Tressidy, sir,” I began, saluting with mock formality which he took to be real, “I beg to report the capture of a spy and the total defeat of General Gates’ army at Camden!”
    “What!” he bellowed. “Gates got beat? Naw, ye’re plum’ daffy!”
    I handed him Tarleton’s rain-soaked message. Tressidy groaned like one struck. “I’d ne’r ’a’ believed it!” He began cursing, keeping it up till his face purpled.
    I was for starting back at once to break the news to the Colonel, but for some reason Tressidy ruled it down. “I’m a-runnin’ this,” he growled. “Our horses are tired, an’ so are we. It’ll soon be dark, so we’d best camp hereabouts an’ git a fresh start just before daylight.”
    An hour later we had a fire going in the sandy ravine where our horses were hidden, and yams on to roast. There was one apiece, small ones at that. The rain stopped and we managed to dry our clothes. When I slung my net hammock I couldn’t help thinking of that last meal at home. Rice and quail, more than we could eat. And now – the end of the world had come.
    In the morning a new development arose. Tressidy announced he would take the prisoner back by himself. Gabriel objected. For that matter, I myself could see no reason why we should be forced to stay on the Santee while Tressidy went back alone.
    “Calm down, my young dandies. Don’t forget that Hell’s-fire himself is a-runnin’ this business. What would ye say if I told ye the Colonel is already on the march here an’ should be here tomorrow night!”
    “I’m sorry,” Gabriel said, passively. “But we had no chance to read the instructions; how were we to know he was coming here? However, don’t you think you’ll need some help with the prisoner? He might get away.”
    “What do ye mean?” Tressidy growled, his eyes suddenly dangerous.
    “Oh, stop it, Gabriel,” I broke in. “Can’t you see he’s doing us a favor? If we went we’d only have to ride back here with the Colonel tomorrow.”
    “Suit yourself, then,” Gabriel turned and stalked away.
    “Give me them papers ye took off the prisoner,” demanded Tressidy. “I’ll have to turn ’em over to the Colonel.”
    I reached in my pocket. They were not there. “I must have given them to you last evening. I haven’t got them now.”
    “Ye did nothin’ o’ the kind,” he snapped. “Ye’ve got ’em – now quit stallin’ an’ hand ’em over.”
    “But I haven’t,” I retorted. I emptied my pockets to prove it. “One of us must have dropped them on the ground last night. They are probably somewhere between here and the landing. I’m sure I can find them, though, before you get back.”
    “Ye’ll find ’em now, ye pin-headed shrimp!” He seized me by the shoulder with one great hand.
    I saw the other one just in time, kicked, and wrenched away. Then the devil lunged at me. I tugged at a pistol.
    Abruptly Gabriel’s lithe figure shot between us. “For shame, Dunbar! Put away your weapon.” He wheeled on Tressidy. “Listen to this, Hell’s-fire: the Colonel ordered that there should be no fighting between members of the Brigade. But we’ve stood enough from you, and we’re not the only ones who have complaints to make! Now, you take the prisoner back without any more trouble, and we’ll find those messages before you return.”
    “Tryin’ to order me, are ye?”
    “Yes. And if you don’t listen to reason I’ll have a few things to say to my brother that won’t be so nice.”
    Tressidy glared wickedly but did not reply. At last he turned to his horse. When he and the prisoner were in their saddles, ready to leave, he pointed a beefy forefinger at us. “We have a score to settle, my lads, an’ the day o’ settlement’s not far away!” When Tressidy and the prisoner were gone, Gabriel pulled something from his pockety. It was the sheaf of messages we’d taken from Morvin.
    “I’m sorry to be the cause of a row,” he said, “but I’m convinced it was for the best. Of course, it was wrong for you to draw a pistol on the red-haired devil; in the army it’s a serious offense when a superior officer is concerned; though in this case I can hardly blame you. Tressidy’s a scoundrel and a disgrace to the Brigade.”
    “He’s got a nasty temper, if that’s what you mean, but he’s a good soldier. I’ve seen him fight, though I don’t admire his methods. Anyway, he’s a good Whig.”
    “I’m not so sure of it, Dunbar!”
    “Why do you say that?” As much as I hated Tressidy, I still had faith in him.
    “Last night,” continued Gabriel, “when you were asleep I heard him talking to Morvin. They seemed to be planning something together. I couldn’t be sure what it was, but coming as it did right after the defeat of the relief army, when things look so bad, I had the feeling that Tressidy might be willing to desert and go over to the British. So, before you were awake this morning, I took the messages out of your pocket so there wouldn’t be any chance of Tressidy taking them – and losing them.”
    “Oh, I think Tressidy was just trying to lead Morvin on to see if he could find out anything.”
    “Possibly, but it didn’t appear that way at all.”
    “Funny,” I said, “how you shut him up when you mentioned your brother. Who is your brother, anyway?”
    “My brother? Why, I thought you knew. He’s the Colonel. My name’s Gabriel Marion!”

Chapter 11: The Fight at the Blue Tavern
    Gabriel Marion was, in nearly every respect, the opposite of Worth. A silent, melancholy fellow with none of the other’s light wit and keen joy of living. But one could not help liking him, for he had every excellent trait to be expected in an aristocrat.
    After Tressidy’s departure we spent our time watching the roads. From a distance we counted several bodies of cavalry passing on the Camden highway, which crossed the river at Nelson’s Ferry some miles below us. But it was not until dusk of the following day that we saw the thing we’d been expecting all the while – the first group of Continental prisoners being taken in to Charles Town. Instantly our duty was clear.
    “How far is it to Nelson’s?” I asked.
    “About five miles. There’s a tavern just beyond it, on the other side of the river. I’ll bet anything they’ll camp there for the night! It’s the only place within twenty miles. The Blue Tavern serves good ale and the British will be out to celebrate.”
    “Sure they’ll stop there! Lord! Look at those prisoners – more than a hundred of the Maryland line! They can hardly put one foot in front of the other; must have been on the march nearly three days now.”
    “Every bit of it. How many of the guard can you count from here?”
    “Seems to be thirty or forty.”
    “Not too many. If only the Brigade will get here tonight!”
    “’Twould be the chance of a lifetime to strike back at the devils,” I returned. “If Tressidy told the truth about the Colonel being on the march here, we should be able to capture the guard and also gain a hundred good fighting men for the Brigade.”
    “Tressidy!” Gabriel showed his contempt. “The more I think of him, the more I believe he lied. I’ve had a feeling all morning that he and the prisoner were planning to go over to the enemy just as soon as they left us.”
    “Aw, don’t worry about it,” said I, sorry the subject had been mentioned. “The only thing we can do is to wait for the Brigade to arrive. If they don’t come by the time the moon’s up, we’ll know it’s time to start looking for them.”
    We went back to the ravine, searched for an extra yam and found none, then sat down to wait. The twilight fled. Night came. I threw a few pine knots upon the dying fire to drive off the uncomfortable blackness. Gabriel settled himself against a tree, his brow furrowed moodily. It would be an hour or two before the moon appeared.
    A leaf rustled at one end of the ravine. I jerked around at the sound, expecting to see anything from an Indian to a banshee. It was only a wild hog. Likely we had made our camp upon a hog-run and the brute was afraid to pass the fire. For several seconds I eyed him speculatively, thinking how good it would be to see him roasting on a spit. I fumbled around, trying to find a pistol. Then I noticed he wasn’t alone. Three other hogs, including a monstrous boar, were directly behind him. This altered the situation immediately. I had no wish to be held in ill-favor by the boar; he could rip me to pieces in a flash.
    “Look, Gabriel!” I whispered.
    But Gabriel had already seen them, for he was reaching for the sword that lay beside him. At the sound of my voice the foremost hog grunted and started to run back the way he had come.
    Then the unexpected happened. A terrific squealing arose from the spot where the hogs disappeared. There came one dreadful, high-pitched scream of a brute in agony, then a blast of sound from the boar and a snarl.
    We jumped up. My bandoleer was out of reach, so I grabbed a sword. Two smaller hogs rushed blindly toward us, fleeing from an invisible foe. Gabriel, with a lightning thrust, speared one with the point of his blade. It screamed and died.
    Suddenly, from out of the blackness, bristling and foaming, came the demon of revenge. It was the old boar. The firelight glinted on his five-inch tusks and his little evil eyes. He stopped a moment, blinded by the fire, then lunged to the right and the left in the hope of locating the unknown something that had attacked and probably killed one of his brood. In an instant he spied me and, head lowered, charged.
    I wavered on the point of panic, jumped sidewise just in time, and swung the sword with all the force I had upon the middle of his high back. He roared like a bull alligator, wheeled, and tried to come at me again. But the blow had done its work; his back was broken and his hindquarters were paralyzed. Gabriel and I ran him through with our swords at the same moment. He died game, fighting till the last breath trying to get at us.
    I sank down on a log, too excited to hear the heavy clump of horses’ hoofs over the edge of the ravine. It was a familiar shout that brought me to my senses.
    “Hi! Will! Didn’t know hit was hawg-killin’ time!”
    There was Worth, one arm in a sling, grinning with delight at seeing me again. Beside him were the Colonel, Tressidy, Larkins, and Major James, and behind, silhouetted in the light of the rising moon, were more than a score of the Brigade. Tressidy had kept faith, after all.
    While Gabriel imparted the news of the Maryland prisoners to the Colonel, Worth and I went to one side to exchange stories.
    “The other day,” said he, “when we whupped the cussedness outen Gainey’s men, I was a-waitin’ right side o’ the Major. As we charged ’em, I plum’ lost sight o’ you, an’ right in the thick o’ things I seen two o’ the varmints make a break fo’ the bridge. The Major took at ’em, an’ bein’ as how two was more’n his share, I up an’ followed. I caught up with the Major, an’ he said the man in the lead was ole Gainey himself – that was his meat, but I could have the other. Well, they was both on right smart hosses an’ guv’ us a long chase. After a spell we caught up with the first man; the Major tore by after Gainey while I stayed to dust down my share o’ the two. He fit like a wildcat, wouldn’t listen to no reason a-tall, so I kilt the varmint to save time. I tried my best not to do hit, but he got me to the point where hit had to be done.”
    “Ho! So ye kilt a man, eh?” interrupted a voice. “I’ll bet ye was a-runnin’ so hard gettin’ away he broke his neck a-tryin’ to catch ye!” I looked up. There was Tressidy.
    Worth gave him the barest glance and went on speaking. “As I was a-sayin’, I was jest a-goin’ to sculp the devvil when I looked down an’ seen he had red hair. The sight o’ red hair jest plum’ disgusts me so I let him lay. When the Lord put that color on a man, he was a-markin’ him fo’ the Evil One!”
    Tressidy snorted and walked away.
    Worth winked slyly and continued, “Well, after I done fo’ the varmint I looked around fo’ the Major, but he had gone on ahead, so I lit out to find ’im. In about fifteen minnits I come to a hill. From the top o’ hit I seen the Major, jest out o’ rifle-shot, a-tearin’ along behind Gainey. He weren’t a-gainin’ none, so he up an’ throwed his sword at the varmint. Hit caught him right in the middle o’ the back an’ went in where his gizzard ought to be. Gainey must ’a’ been tougher ’n dried mule meat, fo’ he kept a-ridin’, an’ the first thing I knowed there was a whole passel o’ British come suddenly around a bend toward us. The Major yelled, ‘Come on, boys. Here they are!’ an’ waved his arms like as if he had a whole army right behind him, an’ charged the devvils head on. I yipped an’ hollered an’ went a-ridin’ to ’em as fast as I could, but befo’ I got there they’d turned tail an’ was a-runnin’ away like a bunch o’ whupped hound dawgs. By the Holies, hit was funny! An’ the Major did hit all by himself, with only a empty pistol fo’ a weapon!”
    “But how did you get your arm hurt?” I queried.
    “That happened the next mornin’,” he explained. “You see, the Major an’ me didn’t git back to the island till long after you an’ the rest had gone a-boat-bustin’. So we was in camp when someone brung news o’ another troop o’ Tories under a Redcoat named Captain Barfield. The Colonel an’ the Major got together what men could be located, most o’ which was in the Colonel’s own company. Befo’ daylight the next mornin’ we laid fo’ ’em. We whupped ’em good an’ took nigh all o’ them prisoners. Befo’ I could disarm the varmint I picked I got stuck in the shoulder with his blade. Don’t amount to nothin’ – Larkins put a little resin on hit, an’ bound hit up fo’ me, so I s’pose I’ll be able to use the arm after a spell.
    “Well, after that we started on the march here with this one company; the others was sent to Georgetown fo’ supplies.”
    Worth stopped a moment to light his pipe. His eyes lit upon the animals Gabriel and I had killed. “My!” he said, “that fresh meat’ll sho taste good; we hain’t had nothin’ fitten to eat fo’ a coon’s age. By the Holies, you must have had a right smart scrap with them hawgs, jedging from the racket we hyeared befo’ we got to you. Let’s have hit.”
    I’d hardly finished telling him about it when he bounded to his feet, ignoring his bandaged arm, and snatched a pine knot from the blaze. “I’m a-goin’ to find out what started the doin’s,” said he, leading the way to the upper part of the ravine. A hundred feet away from the camp he stooped and began examining something on the ground.
    “See that blood an’ them tracks? Hit was a panther! He pounced on a pig here an’ scairt the rest o’ them down to you.”
    “I’m glad he picked out a pig instead of me!”
    “You talk jest like everybody else hereabouts, Will. They won’t mess with a man. I had one follow me fo’ a week when I crossed over from Kaintuck. The Injins say they’s a friendly brute unless you git ’em het up. Listen!” he stopped a moment. “They’s a argumint a-goin’ on back at the fire. Let’s see what’s up.”
    We raced back to camp. In the center of a knot of men were Gabriel and Tressidy, the latter loudly voicing his denial of some accusation made by the other.
    “Ye act plum’ daffy, a-makin’ as if I’d turned the man loose! What can I do if a prisoner pledges his honor he won’t escape, an’ then throws his soul to the devil by gittin’ shet o’ me when I warn’t a-lookin’? As it was, I wasted two rounds o’ powder on him an’ drawed no blood!”
    “I’m not a-saying you turned him loose, Tressidy. I’m a-saying it looks strange you had to take the prisoner to the Brigade when you knew they were coming here anyway. And you made such a racket about the messages being mislaid. I’ll bet if you’d had those messages you’d have lost them along with the prisoner!”
    Tressidy’s face purpled. His eyes glittered. Suddenly his jaw snapped shut as some one pushed through the circle and confronted him. It was Colonel Marion.
    “This is emphatically not a time for argument.” He spoke slowly, but with calm command. “Gabriel, Tressidy has been reprimanded for his lack of vigilance, and hereafter any accusations you or anyone else has to make must first be reported to me.”
    Gabriel and his opponent turned their backs upon each other and started away'. “Be seated, men,” continued the Colonel, addressing the group. We sat down in a semicircle around him.
    “Gabriel and Dunbar have fortunately provided us with fresh meat. We will need it, for ahead of us lies a duty which we must be in condition to perform.” He paused thoughtfully, leaning on his stick to rest his injured ankle. The firelight cast copper lights upon his lean, swarthy face; I saw a sadness and a determination there that showed clearly how he’d taken the Camden disaster.
    “Men, I have withheld the news of General Gates’ attack on Camden until I could secure more complete information. There is little to say; yet, it is hard. Lords Cornwallis and Rawdon have been the victors and a great many Continental prisoners have been captured!”
    A groan came from the company. It was bitter news for them, as it had been for myself. Ahead, now, was only the prospect of a long and bloody struggle, and no man could say what the end might be. But I’d been right in my judgment of the Brigade’s worth. There was no discouragement here, only grim faces that grew harder as I looked at them. They’d fight to the finish for what they considered their own. I was proud to be one of them.
    “The past week has brought us two victories,” said the Colonel. “Tomorrow must bring us a third. Below us, at Nelson’s, are a great body of prisoners from the Maryland line. A strong British guard is over them. I’ve already dispatched two scouts to find out how they are situated. In the morning, if all’s well, we must surprise them and – whip them!”
    “The Tattered Brigade’s with you, Cunnel!”
    The spell of disappointment was broken. Past issues were forgotten in preparation for the attack. To swoop down suddenly upon the British camp, capture men and baggage and release the Continental prisoners, was in every respect a daring thing to do – but if successful it would be a coup to raise the hopes of many and give us new assurance to carry on. The men said little, but I knew what they were thinking. Striking back at the enemy was only half of it. We also had a score to settle with those cocky Marylanders.
    During the fights with the Tories, especially at night, our men had had some trouble distinguishing each other from the enemy. As a safeguard against this, small strips were torn from a white blanket and made into rosettes and streamers to fasten to our hats. Worth and I had been going bareheaded, but now we took out the fur caps we’d stored in our saddle-bags and attached the cockades to one side.
    Meanwhile some of the fellows went to work on the wild hogs and soon had great pieces of them roasting over the fire. Fresh pork and yams now became a royal dish after the ill fare we’d been having. At last, weapons cleaned and everything in readiness for the attack, we lay back to rest till the appointed hour.
    Worth, ever the vigilant and sleepless one, awoke me while it was still dark. Silently the horses were saddled and we filed out upon the dim trail that would take us, after a few miles, to the ferry.
    Since the fall of Charles Town Nelson’s Ferry had been in the hands of the British. On either bank guards had usually been stationed, but tonight, probably from a feeling of over-security after the annihilation of the American army, the guards had left their posts to join their friends at the tavern some distance away at the fork of the roads. This latter fact our scouts had learned, together with the knowledge that the entire arms of the escort had been stacked in front of the tavern. There were several men on duty guarding the prisoners, but only two sentries had been posted on the roads, one above the camp, and the other below.
    With the greatest care to make no tell-tale sound, we crossed the Santee in two large flatboats. Colonel Hugh Horry, now acting as one of the captains in the Brigade, was dispatched with a dozen men to gain control of a swamp road beyond the tavern. Colonel Marion, with the rest of us, approached from the river side. At a safe distance from the place the Colonel called a halt. Larkins dismounted and crept through the trees to settle with the sentry on our side so that no alarm might be given. The same thing was to be done on the other side by one of Horry’s men. When the sentries were taken, a blast from the hunting-horn would be the signal for both parties to charge the camp.
    I waited nervously. Worth drew his arm from its sling, stretched it carefully, and grasped his long rifle in both hands. The sword was still attached to the end of the barrel. He had no right to fight with an injured shoulder and I tried to make him fall back to the rear. But he only gave me a hard look and shook his head.
    Minutes dragged by. Dawn was only an hour away. Far off through the trees came the glimmer of a fire. I was watching that point of light when a stealthily moving form cut it from view. It was Larkins returning. He was grinning, and under one long arm he was carrying a limp figure. It was the sentry. One quick tap of a musket butt had done it.
    At a whispered order we moved slowly ahead. The point of firelight became larger. From beyond the tavern came the faint, wavering call of an owl. I jerked a pistol from my belt and held it cocked in my left hand. My sword was ready in my right, and the reins in my teeth.
    Then came one quick blast from a horn. I kicked Silver and the Brigade roared down upon the camp.
    A musket cracked ahead of us. Sleeping figures sprang to life. We tore into the clearing before the tavern, riding down those who sought to block the way, and made for the stacks of muskets in front of the door. Already the tavern was vomiting half-robed men in a mad scramble to seize weapons. A half-dozen guards in uniform, who had been watching the big circle of prisoners in the center of the clearing, began firing. We reached the muskets before any had been taken, putting to flight every one who had come from the tavern. At the same moment Colonel Hugh Horry’s men came charging from the other direction, cutting off their escape.
    What followed was swift and deadly. The British, finding themselves without muskets, drew their swords and bravely tried to hack their way to freedom. It was a reckless move and cost the lives of several of their men before any gained the forest. One, whom I overtook, proved a far better swordsman than myself. I fired, missed, and with a twist of his wrist he sent my blade flying a dozen feet and would have finished me a moment later if it hadn’t been for Worth. But Worth was right behind me. With a wrench that must have cost him unspeakable pain from his shoulder, he hurled his heavy rifle at the fellow and knocked him sprawling.
    In five minutes the thing was over. We were in possession of the tavern. Numbers of the British had escaped to the woods, but more than a score were taken. Of our own, one had been killed by the firing of the guards, and one had been slightly wounded from a sword-thrust.
    Colonel Marion lined us in front of the American prisoners – one hundred and fifty of the same Maryland Regimentals I had seen in North Carolina. “Gentlemen,” said he, removing his cap, “the Tattered Brigade takes pleasure in releasing you from the enemy. Would any of you care to join our ranks?”
    And wonder of wonders, one hundred and forty-seven of them ungratefully refused! The war, they said, was a lost cause and they’d had enough of it.
    “I’m sorry, sirs,” returned the Colonel, “that no more than three of you like the cut of our uniforms. I am doubly sorry that our duty as partisans cannot permit us to escort you safely to your own homes, but there is more important work to be done.”

Chapter 12: I Go to Charles Town
    The Blue Tavern and the road to Camden were not places at which to tarry long, for the great route was well patrolled by British cavalry, and news of our raid might reach them at any moment. It was, therefore, barely daybreak when we turned our horses toward Georgetown, leaving the freed Continentals to shift for themselves.
    Worth had hurt his injured shoulder badly when he came to my assistance during the fight. I noticed throughout the day that his face was set; he said hardly a word. That evening, when we halted on the outskirts of a plantation devastated earlier in the summer by Wemyss, Worth had to be helped from his saddle. He tottered a few feet and collapsed under a pine.
    “Shore now,” mused Larkins, taking one look at Worth’s flushed cheeks, “here be a lad what won’t ride none tomorrow. An’ I reckon Captain Benson be the same; he got a saber-cut on the head this mornin’ an’ is feelin’ porely himself. Hm-m, I’ll have to do a bit o’ medicatin’.”
    He knelt beside Worth and opened a small packet containing a few surgical instruments and divers homemade salves and herbs – the sole medical store of the Brigade. He cut away the old bandage and was on the point of applying an evil-appearing concoction to the wound when a strange voice interrupted and he was pushed roughly aside.
    “Naw, sah, naw you don’t! Ah ain’t gwine stan’ heah an’ see you send him slap ter glory wid no sech doin’s!”
    I blinked up at the newcomer who had somehow appeared unnoticed in our midst. She was an old negress, barefooted and bareheaded, with little knots of gray hair on her head, and bulky in an array of worn and patched clothing. Bending down in Larkins’ place, she peered at the wound with kindly eyes set in a wrinkled, black face.
    “De po’ chile!” said she, thereby diminishing Worth’s six feet to a mere half his former length by three words and a look of sympathy. “Pick him up, Mos’ Long-arms,” with a glance at Larkins, “an’ tote him to Mauma Beck’s cabin. Ah reckons Ise fotched mo’ white folkses from de brink o’ de grave dan you all could count. Dis way, sah!”
    Larkins grinned and obeyed. He lifted the protesting Worth as if he weighed nothing, and set out docilely behind the negress, with the entire company at his heels. Colonel Marion could not restrain a smile; Mauma Beck had appeared as silently as a black apparition in the dusk, dominating the situation with an air of extreme capability and aged wisdom. But it has always been thus with “maumas.” By the time they have raised two generations in a family they acquire an authority that becomes the plague of the household.
    Worth was laid on a cot in a clean-swept cabin some distance from the slave quarters, a place Wemyss had happily overlooked in his raid. Mauma Beck dove among her herbs, prepared a drink from one, a poultice from another, gave her patient a draught that made him swear but subsequently put him to sleep, and then dressed his wound with a skill that left no doubt in my mind that she knew what she was about. When she was through she turned to Captain Benson, gave him the same treatment, and sent him to lie down under the pines outside.
    “You’ll be feelin’ toler’ble in de mawnin’, Capt’n.” But at Worth she only shook her head. “Hit be de swamp fevers an’ a pizen wound. Ah dunno, he do be lowly. Ah reckons ah’d better read mah cards an’ see if dey tells me enything.”
    She went to a pine table and picked up a pack of greasy cards. “Is you-all a friend o’ hisn?” At my nod she told me to sit down across the table. As I took my seat she began slowly dealing the cards, face up.
    “Bad luck, bad luck,” she mumbled. “Jest one thing after another. He’s a-gwine to be pow’ful sick; an’ you-all, sah, is got the Evil One a-campin’ on yo’ shadow. Oh, Lawsy me! Ah see hard times an’ dead men ahead an’ dey’s arm in arm wid de Evil One!” She pushed the cards aside, afraid to look at them further.
    I shuddered. The future seemed bad enough without her ominous forebodings. As for Worth, I could hardly bear to think of what might happen. Then something occurred to me; I reached into my pocket and drew out four of the guineas I’d brought from home. “These are yours, Mauma Beck. I want you to do all you can for the sick man. He’s the best friend I have in the world.”
    She took them without a trace of greediness and tied them in a corner of her kerchief. “Ah’ll try to fotch him ’round, sah. Ah’d e’en draw a conjur’ ring ’round de devvil hisself if ’twould help any. But – O Lawd! he’s in pow’ful po’ way, an’ what’s gwine ter happen is gwine ter happen. He’s sech a nice-’pearin’ chile, too!”
    In the morning Worth was worse. He was mumbling incoherently and didn’t recognize me when I sat down beside him. I called Mauma Beck aside and asked if there was anything she could do. She shook her head. “Can’t you see, sah, dat – dat he’s on de brink? D-didn’t you hear de death-bell a-ringin’ last night?”
    I stumbled out of the cabin and sat on a log outside. Some one handed me a slab of pine bark piled high with hominy, but I couldn’t eat. I pushed it aside and started to enter the cabin again, when my name was called.
    It was Colonel Marion. He seated himself by me and took a thin, sealed packet from his pocket.
    “Dunbar, here are some letters that must be taken to Charles Town. Should they fall into the hands of the British, he who carries them will be shot. But they are important to the Cause and must be taken through the enemy lines and delivered in the city. Do you think you can do it?”
    I didn’t want to leave Worth. I might never see him again. Vainly, I tried to form an answer, but could not.
    “Very well, then,” replied the Colonel. “I am aware that the mission entails grave danger.” He arose. “There are others...”
    I jumped up and clutched his sleeve. “I – I’m not afraid to go. But there’s Worth; he’s sick, he’s – dying! He kept me from being killed the other night, and I’m afraid it’s costing him his own life.”
    The Colonel sat down again. He laid his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry that I misunderstood you, my son. But many of us will die before we can call our land our own again. We must fight, and forget.”
    “I’ll go. And I’ll deliver those letters if it’s the last thing I ever do.”
    “Thank you. I’d send Gabriel with you, but he’s already gone to summon the other companies foraging at Georgetown. Wemyss and his Tories are plundering at Kingstree a few miles away and they’re hanging every patriot they catch. I can’t spare another man, for I’ve let some go home to look to their families, and many of the remainder also wish to go as soon as we’ve stopped Wemyss. You see, my boy, our men have two burdens to shoulder – not only is the war to be fought, but what crops there are must be harvested so we can carry on the fight. Since Congress cannot pay us, we must furnish our own livelihood.
    “But here is my plan: In Charles Town are a number of firm patriots who are ready to do all in their power to help us. Although under parole, they are not allowed to leave the city. Still, they are in a position to learn much of the enemy’s actions and they know whenever a convoy or raiding party leaves for the country. I’m anxious to establish a system of regular communication with these well-wishers and so be ready to attack any expedition that starts out.
    “I want you to make all possible haste to Charles Town, leave your horse in the care of friends outside the city, and when it is dark slip in and deliver these letters at the home of Mr. Tom Singleton.”
    “You mean the Mr. Singleton of Church Street – the tobacco planter who owns so much property there?”
    “Yes. I’ve had word indirectly that he’s one of the few people who have been allowed to keep his home since the British occupation, and I know him to be a man who will stop at nothing to help us.”
    When I had Silver ready to leave, the Colonel gave me an additional paper. It was the map of Charles Town that Gabriel and I had taken from Morvin.
    “You may need this,” the commander explained. “It shows all the points of entry to the city, and I believe those crosses mark the places where guards have been stationed.”
    I went into the cabin to bid a last farewell to Worth. He seemed to be asleep and his bronzed face was strangely pale. Had his fever subsided? – or was he.... In sudden fright I bent over him. He still breathed, though irregularly. As I touched his hand he moaned almost inaudibly but did not awaken. “Good-by, friend Worth,” I said, then choked and ran from the cabin.
    I climbed upon Silver and was just starting away when a restraining hand grasped the bridle. Mauma Beck stretched a bony arm up to me and vaguely I saw that she was holding a tiny bag suspended from a leathern thong.
    “You-all take dis, sah, an’ hang hit ’round yo’ neck. There be nothin’ in de world to save you from de bad luck o’ de Evil One, fo’ his dev’lishness been workin’ too long. But dis heah hab in hit a pow’ful spell, an’ hit’ll keep you outen de grave, no matter what happens.”
    I thanked her and tried to give her another guinea, but she refused it. “No gold kin buy dis, ’kase de buyin’ would kill de spell. Ah’s gittin’ old, sah. Hit’s time ah gived hit to one what needs hit – an’ you sho needs hit, sah!”
    I rode away with a dull ache inside of me and Mauma Beck’s “spell” hidden under my shirt front at my throat. A little black bag, containing Heaven knew what manner of minute trifles, and all calculated to keep body and soul together. But I could feel no amusement at the gift. Mauma Beck had given it to me out of the goodness of her being. I wished the blessings of God upon her – and upon another.
    * * *
    It was the following morning, as I neared Charles Town, that I began to grow more wary of each successive turn in the road. I had had the good fortune to spend the night at the home of a Whig family along the way, whose older male members were near Georgetown under Horry. They served me the best their scant larder afforded and one of the children, a boy of seven, escorted me five miles through a swamp to avoid a ferry in control of the enemy.
    I was beginning to feel that Mauma Beck’s prophecy had been wrong when I left him, but I’d scarcely gone a mile farther when I came to a mill and found myself in a predicament entirely unlooked for. Below the mill the way led over a bridge. Guarding the crossing were two red-jacketed cavalrymen whose horses were tethered to the near-by trees. Back of me the road wound tortuously through a bog, making retreat so slow that I could easily have been brought down by a pistol-ball before I could make use of Silver’s speed. They’d already seen me. The only recourse I had was to ride boldly forward and by some trick gain the other side of the bridge. Once there the road was clear, and I doubted if any horse the enemy possessed could overtake me.
    I thought hard, and at the guards’ challenge I thrust my hand in my pocket and held up the silver snuff-box taken from the Tory messenger.
    “I’m in a hurry,” I said. “I’ve a message for Commandant Balfour.” Balfour was the officer in command of Charles Town.
    My heart was thumping like a hammer as one of the guards peered at the cover of the snuff-box. “Go on,” said he. “If you’re from Williamson, I suppose it’s all right.” I slid the box back in my pocket and Silver began to canter across the bridge. It had been easier than I thought.
    Suddenly I heard them whispering behind me.
    “Hey!” the second guard’s voice came raspingly, “Just a minute, boy. I’d better have another look at ye!”
    I was in no mood now to face questions I couldn’t answer. Besides, I’d gained the other side of the bridge. I gave Silver a slap on the flank and leaned low over the saddle. The big sorrel streaked forward like an arrow from a bow, and ere the guards could fire I’d passed out of the hollow and had a line of trees between myself and the bridge.
    I heard them cursing, and shortly after came the sound of galloping hoofs behind. But I didn’t look back until we were far beyond the swamp and Silver was thundering over a straight stretch of fence-bordered road running through a plantation. I knew now that I could not be far from Charles Town.
    The guards were out of rifle-shot in the rear, but they were still coming as fast as their inferior mounts would run. I began to feel better. They hadn’t a chance in the world of catching up with me.
    But in sudden consternation I saw a group of cavalry approaching in a dust cloud ahead. Escape seemed cut off; I’d been riding in a trap. There wasn’t a fork in the road, and the rail fences rose high on either side.
    I’d have to chance the fence. I jerked Silver to to the right; without breaking his pace, he sailed over the rails like a flying deer. The big sorrel went bounding across a field, took a ditch with another powerful leap, and soon carried me safe into the forest that lay on the other side.
    Another hour of riding, by devious paths and overgrown swamp trails, took me well away from the danger point, nor did I see or hear anything of the enemy during the while. And thus by a long and circuitous route I came at noon to a large plantation situated a few miles from the outskirts of Charles Town. I hid Silver and my weapons in a clump of shrubbery below the slave quarters and warily approached the great house on foot. It was the country home of the Motte family, staunch friends of my father’s.
    I stopped behind a spreading oak a hundred yards from the front entrance, studying the approach to the veranda and the encircling grounds. There was every possibility that the family had been confined in their town house when Charles Town fell; on the other hand, should anyone be at home, it was likely that British officers would be visiting the place, for Mrs. Motte had three daughters, all noted for their beauty.
    But there were no horses tethered to the hitching-posts, and no scarlet gleam of an enemy uniform did I see. For that matter, the whole place appeared dead and even the slave quarters, usually noisy and full of life, had been silent when I passed.
    Then I heard some one softly singing in an upstairs room. My fears vanished and I walked boldly to the broad veranda, stepped to the entrance, and raised the knocker on the door. Its sound broke harshly upon the encircling stillness. The singing ceased abruptly. After a long while I heard a movement on the stairs. Suddenly a strong feminine voice demanded to know what I wanted.
    At the sound of my name the door opened and Mrs. Motte herself stood before me.
    “Land sakes!” she exclaimed. “Is this really Billy Dunbar? My dear boy, what has happened to you? You look a fright in those clothes, and you’ve changed so I’d hardly recognize you! Come in this instant.
    “We have to be careful about visitors in these terrible days,” she explained, as I was led down the hall and into the great library. “There are droves of unmannered British soldiers running loose around the parish and they’ve treated the people shockingly. We have so little protection now – in fact, so little of anything. Lord Rawdon (he’s made his headquarters in my town house) wouldn’t give me permission to come here for the longest while, and when I did at last leave the city I found nearly all of our negroes taken away, and practically everything of value besides. It’s been God’s mercy alone that we’ve had enough to eat. Tell me, Billy, what’s happened to you since I saw you last?”
    “Mostly trouble, of one kind or another.” I gave her a brief sketch of events. “But Father – have you heard anything of him?”
    “Yes, Billy. He’s alive, but that’s all I know. He and the menfolk of my own family, along with all the leading citizens of the parish, were taken to St. Augustine and imprisoned in San Marco. (Now called Fart Marion.) I haven’t heard a word from them – though we are supposed to be allowed to exchange letters – but Lord Rawdon has assured me they are all well. Still, one can’t believe anything the blackguard says, and I’ve grown sick from worrying about them.” She turned her face away, fumbled with her handkerchief, and went to the door. “I must call the girls; they’ll be so glad to see you.”
    I stared aghast at my tattered shirt and buckskins. “Not in these!”
    She laughed. “Come with me, son. I think I can find something that will fit you. Lord knows you need it. And those poor men in the Brigade! I’m going to set the entire household busy right away and make some clothes for them.”
    That evening, bathed, clothed in a suit of home-spun that almost fitted, and buoyed by the best dinner I’d had for weeks, I bade good-by to the Motte family and set out on foot for Charles Town. The Colonel’s precious letters were tied around my arm under the sleeve. Silver had been hidden in a secluded stable to be cared for until my return.
    An hour’s walk brought me to the Cooper River. A search for a boat required a much longer time, for it had now grown dark, but I at last located a piragua half filled with water. I managed to clean the thing out, then pushed off into the stream, using a piece of board for a paddle.
    The tide was going out, so I had only to sit in the stern and guide the craft as it drifted along. A full red moon rose over the water. The blackness in which I was floating became as light as day and it seemed as if I were suspended between two worlds, each with its moon, its dim clouds, and its mysterious horizons of trees on either side.
    Then far ahead, across a long stretch of flat marsh, came the faint glimmer of many lights. As I came closer, I suddenly thought of a thing that had not occurred to me before; namely, the epidemic of smallpox that was supposed to be ravaging the city. But the British did not seem to mind the place themselves, so I concluded that its unhealthiness depended entirely on whether one were Royalist or Whig.
    The marsh was just ahead now, and I could see the opening of Town Creek, really a small section of the river running through the marsh to the northeast point of the city and coming out near the end of Bay Street. Should I go by way of the creek, or paddle around the island that it formed? Hastily I studied Morvin’s map, which could be read plainly in the bright moonlight. Town Creek had been omitted in the drawing, so I decided it wasn’t important enough to be watched. I noticed, however, that several places on Bay Street had been marked with a cross, though the small pier at the end of Church Street had not been indicated. It would be well to stop there, as it would save much time in getting to Mr. Singleton’s house.
    Accordingly, I turned the prow of the piragua into the creek, came out half an hour later at the head of the town, and carefully avoiding the long wharves along the way, nosed the craft against the pier that, as near as I could judge, formed the end of Church Street.
    Hardly had I scrambled up the rough ladder to the top of the pier when I saw that something had gone amiss. Either I’d miscalculated the distance or Morvin’s map had been wrong. There, sitting in the deep shadow of a shed directly in front of me, was a sentry.
    He’d already seen me; there could be no retreating. As the man jumped up with a challenge on his lips, I held out for the second time that day the silver snuff-box. Without the faintest idea who the mysterious Mr. Williamson might be that the bridge guards had mentioned, I said, “I’m from Williamson. I’ve a message for Commandant Balfour.”
    The sentry was half drunk and in the most amiable of moods. He’d never heard of the Mister Williamshun I spoke of, he admitted, though if I wash on my way to shee ’is hono’ble Commandance ’twash all right wi’ ’im. He warmed up, offered me a drink which I refused, and began telling what a devil and a ladies’ man he was; all of which I listened to with impatience, and only managed to part from him by slipping a guinea in his palm and wishing him luck. I left him happier than ever, musket in one hand and a half-empty bottle in the other.
    Once off the pier and away from the warehouses, I found I was really at the foot of Church Street, after all. It was very late and only an occasional light beamed from the rows of dwellings. Not a soul did I see along the way.
    When I knocked softly at the door of Mr. Singleton’s mansion I reckoned it must be nearly midnight, and I wondered what that worthy gentleman would say upon being called from his bed at such an hour. But when he opened the door himself, asked me my business, and bade me enter, I was surprised to find him fully dressed. I begged his pardon at being forced to call at the unseasoned hour.
    “Not at all,” he answered, kindly. “I’m in the habit, these days, of receiving a great number of late visitors.” He picked up a candle which he’d set upon a hall table and led me to a small upstairs sitting-room. I sat watching him silently while he read Colonel Marion’s letters.
    Mr. Tom Singleton was an old man, but he didn’t seem to be one who felt the weight of his years. I’d noticed that he walked with the step of one much younger, and his face, as he bent over the papers, reflected the mind of a man shrewd, keenly awake to what was happening around him, and full of the vitriolic wit for which he was both famed and feared. A thin little hornet of a man, dressed simply and with not even a wig to hide his baldness.
    “You are a true patriot, William Dunbar, to risk coming into Charles Town tonight. But your valor will mean a lot for the Cause. Had you been caught, and these papers discovered upon your person, you most certainly would have been executed, in spite of your youth. Even had you nothing with you, it would have caused trouble, for you are not registered under parole, and you would have had a hard time explaining your presence here.
    “So, when you return I will give you only a verbal message to take to your renowned leader. It is this, that I have already established a means of gaining valuable information for him, and that information will be taken speedily to his camp by friends living across the river. It will be easy for those of us under parole here to leave and return during the night – far easier than for you to enter and depart safely, for we know where the guards are stationed and we have boats hidden at various points. But tell me, did you have any trouble coming here tonight?”
    Here was a chance to find a solution to a problem that had been puzzling me for some time. Immediately I told him what had happened and showed him the silver snuff-box. “This belongs to some one by the name of Williamson. Whoever he is, I’m much indebted to him, for the box has saved me from capture.”
    Mr. Singleton took it in astonishment, peered at the falcons on the cover, and again at Morvin’s map.
    “Why,” he exclaimed, “I’d never ’a’ believed it! Not that the devil is above reproach, but that his position – !”
    “You know who he is?”
    “I know the owner of this box, my boy, and he’s a Whig. But before I go so far as to condemn him I’ll have to do some investigating on my own part. I’d better keep the map. It doesn’t show the location of sentries at all; rather it shows points where Whig families are in the habit of sending and receiving communications outside the city.”
    “I guess I’d better be starting back.” I stood up. “It will take me till nearly morning to reach Mrs. Motte’s house.”
    But his kindness would not permit me to leave until I’d had some rest. He showed me to a room where I could sleep, and an hour before dawn called me himself, and I went down to a breakfast that his cook had prepared especially for me.
    My first thought on leaving his home was to return to the piragua and make use of the incoming tide to take me back upstream, for there was still some time before the ebb would begin. At the pier I found the guard in a drunken stupor, but the piragua, it had vanished in the night. The frayed mooring-cord told the story.
    I had to find another boat, and find it very soon. I ran back to Bay Street, which flanked the river, and began looking along the wharves. Most of the craft that I saw were too large to be of any service and were securely chained to their moorings. The sky lightened and the heavy mist along the waterfront began to lift. In a little while it would be daylight; if I couldn’t find a boat by then I’d have to go back to Mr. Singleton’s house and hide until night came again. The thought of the delay rankled me; I wanted more than ever to get back to Mauma Beck’s cabin and see Worth. Even now it might be too late.
    Suddenly I saw a skiff. It had been pulled up on the sand at the foot of a pier and was tied by a heavy hempen rope to a piling. A pair of oars was stored under the seat.
    I ran toward the piling and began untying the tightly knotted rope. I worked furiously trying to get it loose, but it had been tied by stronger hands than mine. My knife would have cut it, only 'my knife had been left back at Mrs. Motte’s with the other weapons.
    At last the rope began to give a bit. I struggled with it harder than ever and finally got it unfastened.
    A crunching step sounded in the sand. Before I could turn around two heavy pairs of hands laid hold of my shoulders.
    “So!” came a hard, even voice. “We’ve caught the rascal that’s been doin’ all the boat-stealin’. Walked right into the trap an’ we a-watchin’ all the time!”
    “Come, you’re goin’ to the Provost,” said the other man, a plainly dressed individual like his companion. “Yes, egad, to the Provost with you, along with the rest of the thieves and rebels.”
    I jerked, kicked, and at last tried to reason with them. They paid no attention to the snuff-box when I brought it out, and when I surprised myself by inventing a tearful lie about slipping into the city to see my poor sick father who’d been captured in a skirmish, they gave me no sympathy whatever. All I got for it was an evil grin, a clout on the head, and I was hauled away like a sack of meal between the two.
    And thus it came about that I was confined in the dreaded Provost, that foul, dark cellar under the Exchange that the British had converted into a prison, and in which was packed everyone, from the lowest criminal to the most respectable citizen, who had committed some trifling offense against His Majesty’s government.

Chapter 13: The Swamp Fox
    Mauma Beck’s prophecy had been right, after all. I could think of no worse luck, barring mutilation or death, than being forced to repent my sins in the Provost. Now time stood still; the end of all things had come. I might never see Worth again. But I was glad, thankful beyond measure, that I had fulfilled the Colonel’s mission before being caught. In the darkness I fingered Mauma Beck’s trinket, the only possession I’d been allowed to keep. Perhaps, after all, there was magic in the thing.
    A kind-hearted visitor took a message from me to Mr. Singleton, but it was nearly a fortnight before that worthy gentleman could contrive to have me released. He accomplished it then only by the payment of a large fine and a promise to the Commandant that he would be responsible for my actions. So I was placed under parole and went to live in Mr. Singleton’s house until a day should come when an exchange of prisoners would allow me to return to the Brigade.
    That day was far in advance, for it was four months from the time of my capture before I was given my freedom and a pass to return to Colonel Marion in safety. But there was much that happened in the meantime, and I will relate it as briefly as possible.
    One of the first things I did was to inquire of Leeds if he’d received any word from Father. Upon learning that he had not, I forthwith wrote a number of letters; one to Father at San Marco, which I doubted would ever be delivered, another to Mrs. Motte, explaining my absence, and a third to Gabriel Marion, asking about Worth. This last was eventually taken to the Brigade, along with other messages, through a relay system organized by Mr. Singleton. In the dead of night I would row across the Cooper, in a boat concealed by day under a private pier, and deliver Mr. Singleton’s communications at the house of a friend. In turn these were taken to other partisan homes, where they were later picked up by Colonel Marion’s scouts. Thus, in spite of my parole, I continued to be of service to the Brigade.
    Gradually, to the amazement of the British, tales of the Brigade’s successes were whispered through the city. Wemyss, I learned, was defeated, and hardly a day passed but I heard of some new exploit of the Colonel’s; how, in the darkness, he had swooped upon an enemy camp, taking prisoners and putting the rest to flight, and again, appearing in broad day, he had fallen upon the rear of a British convoy, throwing the line into a panic, capturing supplies, and disappearing in the dim aisles of the swamp before a return shot could be fired.
    These exploits proved too much for the British. They sent the bloodthirsty Colonel Tarleton and his “Loyal Legion” to put an end to the business. On the day Tarleton returned, empty-handed, and swearing that the “old swamp fox couldn’t be caught,” Mr. Singleton gave a banquet to celebrate his glee.
    Mr. Singleton, being a man of means, kept a menagerie. Among other animals was a large pet baboon of which he was very fond. At the banquet, to which a number of Whig friends were invited, he brought forth his pet, arrayed in a red coat and white crossbelts, and sat him in a place of honor at the table. All through the evening he kept us in an uproar, addressing his toasts and witticisms to this semblance of British authority. “Sir,” he would say, raising his glass, “here’s to the health of the Swamp Fox, may he raid many a Tory hen-roost.” And, “Here’s to the British muddleheads who’re beginning to learn the meaning of ‘Liberty or Death’!”
    Soon after Tarleton’s ignoble return Mr. Singleton had occasion for another party. In the back country a sudden rising of backwoodsmen surprised a division of Cornwallis’ army and totally defeated them at King’s Mountain. Cornwallis lost a thousand men. And a month later, when our own Colonel Sumpter nearly annihilated Tarleton’s “Loyal Legion” of cutthroats, Mr. Singleton was in higher spirits than ever and gave his third banquet, much frowned upon by the Commandant. This was the last affair I was to witness at Mr. Singleton’s home, for a short time after that I received my release to return to the Brigade.
    “There is a er – a gentleman I would like you to meet before you go,” said my host when I was ready to leave. “I don’t want you to forget his face, ever, for I hope some day a patriot will face him on the field of battle and that he will do his duty. However, we’re in Charles Town now, and we will have to meet him as friends.”
    As we were approaching a dwelling on Tradd Street, a man, dressed in the simple garb and coatee of a merchant, preceded us to the entrance. We were admitted right behind him by a negro in livery, and though I didn’t see who it was until we came into the drawing-room, I was certain I knew the man’s identity.
    In a second my worst fears were realized. There wasn’t any doubt about it – the man was Captain Morvin! Without even glancing at us, he disappeared into an adjoining room. And who, I wondered, could be the owner of the house that received Whig and British spy alike as his friends?
    A large, heavy-featured man, immaculately dressed in white smallclothes and green surtout, and smelling strongly of a combination of pomatum and spirits, came forward to meet us.
    “Ah, my dear Mr. Singleton!” said he, with a great show of hospitality. “Pray be seated. Egad, sir, ’tis a pleasure to see you again! An honest Whig is so rare these days.”
    “Yes, damned rare!” replied the old man, giving him a glance that would have scorched a stone. “This is my young protege, William Dunbar, my dear General. We were just passing here when I happened to remember that your parole would soon be up, so I thought I’d better pay my respects before you left. No doubt you’ll attach yourself to General Greene’s staff when he comes down with the second relief army?”
    “General Greene!” said the other, ignoring me completely. “Why, how did you know he was on the march to South Carolina?”
    “Oh, things get whispered around. ’Tis strange how the people of Charles Town find out everything that goes on, things Lord Rawdon himself doesn’t seem to know.” Mr. Singleton settled himself comfortably on the lounge beside me, and with eyes glittering with premeditated mischief glanced across at his host, who was at that moment taking a pinch of snuff from a small ornate box. “Faith, sir,” he resumed, “every Whig in the city knows that we have another Benedict Arnold right here in our midst, and that Cornwallis is planning to let him join the relief army in order to betray it! ’Tis said that even the Swamp Fox knows of it – and that he’s sworn to hang the animal as soon as he catches him outside of Charles Town!”
    “The devil you say!” ejaculated the General, his face beginning to turn pink under Mr. Singleton’s amazing fabrication.
    “Dear me!” Mr. Singleton exclaimed. “I see you’ve found the snuff-box you lost so long ago.” He seemed not to notice the other’s embarrassment. “I say, may I have a touch? I fear I’ve left my own box at home.” This was unusual, for Mr. Singleton never took snuff, even though a great part of his fortune had been made in tobacco.
    “’Tis a beautiful thing,” he continued as he took the object in his hands. I’d been wondering all along what lay back of this strange conversation. But one glance at the falcons on the cover of the snuff-box brought me to my senses.
    Before me sat the mysterious Williamson!
    And in the back room was Morvin, the spy. A deadly suspicion crept through me as I glimpsed, suddenly, the answer to another riddle. Mauma Beck’s prophecy was yet to be fulfilled. There was disaster ahead – and I was on the brink of it now.
    I was so busy turning the whole thing over in my mind that I was hardly aware of bidding the man good-day and following Mr. Singleton through the door and down to the street. The snuff-box, of course, had been returned to its owner when I was thrown into the Provost. And Williamson, as Mr. Singleton very well knew, had been in the act of planning some deviltry against his countrymen when we called. Morvin’s presence alone was enough to discredit any man who professed to be a partisan.
    “The lying, perfumed old crocodile!” snorted Mr. Singleton as we walked away. “He’ll have to openly join the British after this; he’ll be afraid to do anything else. Don’t forget him, William, for I hope the Brigade really does take him.”
    I hardly heard him, for another grave thought had begun to trouble me. Morvin’s escape from Tressidy began to appear altogether too easy. I’d seen Tressidy in action. What chance would an unarmed man have in getting away from him? There wasn’t the slightest doubt that Gabriel had been right in his suspicions. I could understand it now – Tressidy had deemed the cause of Liberty to be lost after the defeat of Camden, and he’d been ripe for any proposals Morvin had chosen to make. And I’d been fooled into believing he’d kept faith with us by not deserting with his prisoner!
    The plan was deeper than that – it meant only that he was staying with the Brigade in order to betray it. What a wonder it hadn’t happened already! But there was Gabriel, suspicious and alert, who was probably watching him all the time.
    In my pocket was the pass that would take me safely from the city. At Mrs. Motte’s was Silver, waiting to be saddled and ridden once more to the Peedee. The sooner I got there the better, though what good it would do I didn’t know, for I had no tangible proof of Tressidy’s guilt. At least I could tell the Colonel what I’d learned, and steps could be taken to keep Tressidy in ignorance of the Brigade’s plans.
    * * *
    It was the next morning – a crisp morning in mid-December – that I rode away from the Motte plantation, taking the shortest route to Lynches Creek and the Peedee. All during my parole the family, as well as the servants, had been spinning and weaving wool from their own sheep, which they kept carefully hidden from British eyes, and making the resulting cloth into clothes which were smuggled to the Brigade. But knowing my preference for buckskins, the old black “mauma” of the family had made me a new suit of that material, including with it a heavy hunting-shirt to keep out the winter cold. For this I was thankful, because there was hoarfrost on the ground that morning and all the trees, excepting the pines and great liveoaks, raised bare limbs to the sky.
    Just where I’d find the elusive Swamp Fox it would be hard to say, though Mr. Singleton had told me before I left that the Brigade was planning an attack upon Georgetown. The road I followed would take me within a few miles of there; very likely I’d find some member of the band lurking in the vicinity.
    Late that afternoon I crossed the Santee at a deserted ferry, and, coming to a fork in the highway two hours later, tied Silver in the protection of a clump of trees and sat down to nibble my lunch and wait. Georgetown lay six miles away on the right fork; the other road continued north in the general direction of Snow’s Island. If any members of the Brigade were near they’d be sure to pass within a short distance of where I sat.
    A chaise went by, and later an old man with a wagonload of rails. Twilight came, bringing with it a growing belief that my calculations had been wrong. The Brigade must be far away in some other parish.
    I climbed back into the saddle, determined to ride as far as possible toward the Peedee before night came. Just before turning into the road, a horseman galloped slowly past. Sudden hope changed to disappointment; he was only a drab tradesman going in to Georgetown – a tradesman in a black three-cornered hat and a short coatee that flapped under his elbows with each step of his horse.
    I glanced a second time at his coatee, then noted his square, heavy build of the shoulders beneath it. In a wave of recollection I knew I’d seen that same pair of shoulders only yesterday in Charles Town. They had preceded me up the steps to General Williamson’s house!
    I jerked at a pistol, gave Silver a slap. We bounded into the road. By the gods! Here was one time when Captain Morvin wouldn’t get away!
    Only a few lengths separated us when he heard me coming. He turned half about in his saddle as I called on him to surrender, ignored my upraised weapon, whipped out a pistol of his own and fired point-blank. Hot air singed my cheek.
    He saw he’d missed, spurred his horse, and tore off down the dusky road toward Georgetown. Now was my chance. I had him at a disadvantage, his pistol was empty and Silver should overtake him in a minute or two. I bent low over the saddle.
    Captain Morvin was well mounted. I didn’t seem to gain on him an inch. Minute by minute we thundered ahead, the trees flew by in a steady stream of murky shapes; we splashed madly through a creek, sending the spray flying, tore over a hill and streaked downward into a hollow – and Morvin still several lengths in front. I couldn’t understand it. Never before had Silver allowed another horse to keep the lead.
    Slowly the distance between us widened. Five lengths became six, and six grew into eight. In a sudden desperation I fired both pistols at the vanishing figure. A waste of good powder – my aim was as poor as Morvin’s and I had the humiliation of stopping in the middle of the road and having to watch a fleeter horse carry him away into the approaching night.
    My hand went down consolingly and patted Silver’s spume-flecked shoulder. Suddenly I slipped out of the saddle and stood off a pace to look at him.
    “No wonder, Silver!” I growled. “Why, you’re as fat as an old she Injun!” Four months of good living and inactivity had done it. His slim lines were gone and the once powerful muscles that had rippled under his skin were covered with a soft layer of fat. But a few weeks of riding with the restless Swamp Fox should whip him into shape and make him as good as ever. “Anyway, Silver,” rubbing his forehead, “you did your best. And the time will come when you’ll make up for it.”
    I climbed into the saddle and started back the way I’d come. At the fork in the roads I stopped a moment in indecision. It was dark now, and the gloomy route ahead was scarcely visible in the dim starlight. I decided the best thing to do would be to find a suitable camping-place well away from the road and wait until morning before going farther.
    Far back in the woods the whippoorwills were calling – strange voices in the world of night; to me they were symbolic of this great land of forests and rolling hills that stretched into the dim unknown beyond the mountains to the west. My own land it was. Should we ever be able to govern it ourselves and leave it a freed country to other generations to come? And would they love it as I loved it, or would the forests and their game vanish and be forgotten, and vast hordes of uncaring people take their places as they’d done in other countries across the sea? I wondered.
    The distant, wavering call of an owl floated three times through the night. And near me, three times, came the cry of a whippoorwill.
    The signal of the Brigade.
    I gave three answering cries and rode up the Pee-dee road to meet the whippoorwills, atingle with delight that I should soon see some of my old comrades again – a delight that abruptly changed to fear. I’d soon hear the truth about Worth. Strange, but during all the time I was in Charles Town I’d been unable to find out a single thing about him.
    After a hundred yards I stopped. Two horsemen loomed out of the night. Their clothes were rough and worn, but on their heads were high leather caps like the Militia had used, only the cockades were white instead of black. Then I recognized the one in advance.
    “Gabriel!” and riding forward seized his hand. He greeted me like a brother. Then: “How – how’s Worth?”
    But before he could answer a lively familiar voice broke in: “Will! I’ll be double-sculped an’ hamstrung iffen hit hain’t you!” It was Worth that now wrung my hand and all but swept me from the saddle in his bubbling happiness at seeing me again. I hardly knew him, so gaunt and worn was he.
    “Lord, I thought you were dead, Worth! My, I’m glad! I—”
    “The devvil wouldn’t have me,” he grinned. “So I got well ag’in, an’ while you was away I had to have a pardner, so I took on Gabe here. He come in plum’ handy by savin’ my useless skin once, an’ now we’s fightin’ this squabble together.” Gabriel grinned – something I’d seldom seen him do.
    “What’s going on?” I queried.
    “Georgetown,” replied Gabriel. “We’re out to capture it tonight. We’re with Tressidy. He’s a captain now. There are about a dozen of us under him, going to cut off retreat from one road while the rest of the Brigade attack the town from the other side.”
    “Yeah,” said Worth, “we have the Gin’ral’s orders for Hell’s-fire to take up position. He’s way off to the right. The Gin’ral’s a mile back, movin’ on to Georgetown.”
    Suddenly I seized Gabriel’s arm. “If Tressidy’s ahead on the right fork he’ll be sure to catch Morvin. Morvin rode by here half an hour ago. I tried to catch him, but Silver’s been penned up four months and can’t run!”
    “Morvin!” Gabriel gasped. “Again? Why, I’d give anything to catch that hound. There’s been somebody in the Brigade passing information on to him, for I’ve seen him twice riding away, but he was always out of gun-shot and on a good horse.”
    “That’s right,” Worth said. “Remember, Gabe, the time that varmint Tarleton almost caught us near Richardson’s? Most o’ our men was away lookin’ to their fields an’ Tarleton had us outnumbered ten to one. Some yaller skunk got word to him where we was an’ we had a lively time a-throwin’ him offen the trail.”
    “I’m sure I know who the traitor is,” Gabriel answered. “An’ if Hell’s-fire fails to catch Morvin tonight he’s going to have to answer to the General for a lot.”
    “What General?”
    “You’s plum’ outen the happenin’s since you been gone,” said Worth. “The old Swamp Fox is been made a gin’ral by the Guv’ner. An’ he deserves hit. There hain’t a smarter leader in the country than him. We got these new trappin’s,” pointing to the military cap he wore, “when we was up in North Caroliny some time back.”
    “Gabriel,” I muttered, as we passed the fork and rode to meet the detachment ahead, “I know you’re right about Tressidy. I was too blind to see through it before, but tonight, if things work out right, I think we’ll have proof to show him up.” In the darkness I touched the tiny black bag around my neck and shivered, partly from the cold and partly, perhaps, from some vague, undefined fear of what the night held in store for us. I couldn’t help recalling Mauma Beck’s discomforting prophecy. The words “bad luck, bad luck... an’ dead men ahead!” ran with evil insistence through my mind.

Chapter 14: What Happened at Georgetown
    Before long we came upon the rear scout of Tressidy’s detachment, whom I’d first heard replying to Worth’s call. He, too, had seen Morvin pass, but it had happened so quickly he hadn’t realized the man was a stranger until he’d gotten away. He didn’t try to catch him, for Tressidy’s men were down the road, waiting to stop anyone that came by.
    Another quarter hour brought us to Tressidy himself. His men were lined silently under the trees, awaiting the word that would take them a mile ahead to a bridge which furnished the only avenue of approach on this side of the town. One glance showed us there was no prisoner among them.
    “Don’t say anything about Morvin yet,” whispered Gabriel. “I want to find out some things first.”
    He delivered General Marion’s message to Tressidy, the detachment began to move forward to the bridge, and the three of us dropped to the rear to talk to one of the men. In answer to Gabriel’s query we learned that some one had ridden into the group, had been seized immediately – and on being questioned by Tressidy had been released and allowed to ride in to Georgetown, Tressidy’s explanation being that the man was a Whig and a good friend of the Swamp Fox’s.
    “That proves it!” Gabriel muttered. Suddenly he stopped his horse dead in the road, whispering to Worth and myself while the rest rode ahead.
    “Great God! Do you see what Tressidy’s done? He’s let Morvin ride ahead to warn the commandant at Georgetown that the Brigade’s a-going to attack! The British will have time to get prepared and they’ll have troops planted to surprise and capture us. If they catch my brother they’ll hang him – and two-thirds of the rest of us are in for the same thing!
    “One of you ride back as quick as you can and head him off before he reaches the other approach to the town. Tell him what’s happened. I’ll stay and handle Tressidy. Hurry!”
    I was just whirling Silver around when Tressidy, easily distinguishable by his bulk and the dun horse he rode, trotted back to us. “Here, here!” said he. “What’re ye confabbin’ about? Git up ahead whar ye belong!” He stared at me, and for the first time that night recognized my face. “Well, if it ain’t the little shrimp back to do some more fightin’! Ye got tired o’ the doin’s an’ went to Charles Town to rest, did ye?”
    Before I could answer, Tressidy found himself staring incredulously into the ugly muzzle of Gabriel’s pistol. “Up with your hands!” snapped Gabriel. “You let Morvin pass, did you? Thought you’d warn the British we were coming and let us be captured, did you? Not so; we found you out this time, Tressidy! Worth, ride ahead and call the men back, and, Will, for God’s sake hurry and head the others off!”
    I whipped the ends of the reins across Silver’s shoulder and he sprang away, carrying me in a few seconds out of sound of Tressidy’s sudden furious fit of cursing. But in a minute I saw that the big sorrel was beginning to breathe heavily. He’d never be able to carry me to the Brigade in time.
    Then came the sickening thought that I knew nothing of the Brigade’s plans other than they would attack the town from the other side. I was ignorant of the roads in the vicinity, and to locate anyone in such a place at night, without even a moon to light the way, was like trying to solve the mystery of some ancient Greek labyrinth with Death allotting but a brief interval.
    The roar of flying hoofs brought relief. In another moment Worth was riding beside me, his rangy bay covering the ground in great leaps that promised soon to leave me behind.
    A musket-shot sounded far in the rear. Then came another – and another. I thought I could hear faintly the shouts of men and the clang of steel on steel.
    Worth checked his mount and whirled him around with a suddenness that nearly threw him from the saddle. “Good Holy Father! They’ve jumped ’em already! Ride on, Will. I’m a-goin’ back to help.”
    “Quick – swap horses with me! Silver’s worn out. And where can I find the others?”
    The exchange was made instantly and Worth called over his shoulder, as he dashed away, “Side road to the left – half a mile away – an’ ride yo’ head off!”
    Worth’s iron-muscled bay was fresh and he tore through the night like a wild wind on a rampage. How long it took me to reach the side road I don’t know, but it seemed like an age; and when I turned into it the trail appeared to stretch interminably on and on in the darkness without a sign to let me know how far I was from the Brigade. It was like moving in a nightmare; the road became a treadmill winding perpetually under the horse’s hoofs; the harder I rode and the faster the trees flashed by, the longer did the route seem to be, and the trees were like the same trees that moved continually on either side. But then, I was tired from being long in the saddle, and I was frightened.
    Perhaps it was only fifteen minutes after leaving Worth when I ran into a dark moving column of horsemen. What a relief to see the white cockades of my friends in the starlight and to know that I’d been in time to stop them!
    A retreat was ordered immediately. The Brigade, now numbering more than six companies, lashed their mounts and rode like devils to the relief of the other detachment.
    Before we came to the main road two companies were dispatched under Major James to follow a narrow defile through the swamp and gain the bridge where Tressidy had first been ordered to take up his position. This maneuver, if carried out in time, would prevent the British attacking party from retreating into Georgetown.
    From up in front came the blast of a hunting-horn. Then Colonel Horry yelled a repetition of the General’s command: “Here they are, boys! Hold your fire. They’ve captured Tressidy’s men!”
    Our ranks widened out like the best-trained cavalry. Some of the men swept through into the woods bordering the road, to attack the enemy’s flanks and guard against escape; those in the rear galloped to the front, and thus in a great half-circle, each man with his head low over the saddle, and with point of sword or pike before him, we bore upon the compact body of British that tilled the road ahead.
    The enemy met us with a scattering musket-fire that had little effect. Seeing we were closing in upon them with superior numbers, they whipped their horses about and began a disorderly retreat back to Georgetown, leaving their prisoners behind them on the road.
    Suddenly from ahead we heard the shouts of the Major’s men as they rushed to meet the retreating British. This totally unexpected move had the desired effect. The enemy found themselves hemmed in on all sides, with escape out of the question, so they threw down their arms and screamed for quarter.
    Only one offered resistance.
    He fought furiously for his freedom – and succeeded in obtaining it. Two men who opposed him were knocked from their saddles with the butt of his gun before he reached the cover of the swamp and was swallowed up in the night. Too late we saw who it was – a burly man on a dun horse. Tressidy had escaped!
    Abruptly our attention turned to a new quarter. A tall figure on a great sorrel suddenly lunged like a panther out of his saddle, and grasping one of the prisoners by the throat, bore him to the ground.
    “Stop him! Stop him!” shrieked the prisoner. He clawed frantically at the face of the one who held him, a maniacal figure who seemed bent on tearing the other to pieces.
    “By the holies, Morvin, pray!” That terrible voice was scarce recognizable as Worth’s. “You – you damned spyin’ murderer! You ordered him hanged. Now you die!”
    Men leaped from their horses and tried to pull the two apart.
    “Lemme alone. I’m a-goin’ to kill him – he killed my friend!” Worth’s voice was crazed. Morvin writhed agonizingly under the deadly fingers that ripped his throat; his eyes rolled horribly. A half-dozen men fought and panted in the dim starlight and at last pried the two apart. Morvin stood ashen, trembling with the fright of one doomed.
    Worth lashed out with his fists, snarling, crying, trying to break away from the arms that held him. “You fools, let me finish him! That’s Morvin, d’you see? That’s Morvin – an’ Tressidy let him ride to Georgetown an’ bring back the British. They come here an’ captured us, an’ Morvin, that damned beast, he ordered Gabriel hanged! Yes, by the Almighty, he had Gabriel hanged an’ he helped do hit with his own hands – an’ Tressidy helped him do hit!” His voice broke. Suddenly he slashed out again – a madman that no one could hold. “Let me kill him. The rest o’ you go find Tressidy an’ I’ll kill him, too!”
    He threw himself upon Morvin. The two and the men holding them became a twisting heap upon the ground.
    “They’ve hanged the Gin’ral’s brother!” The news flashed through the ranks. A voice shouted: “Hang the bloody prisoners! Git your ropes, boys; we’ll pay off the debt now!”
    It would have happened then and there but for one thing. The Swamp Fox himself sprang to the ground. “Men! Stop it! Get up McDonald! We’ll attend to Morvin later.” He began to snap commands.
    The shouting died instantly. One glance at the General’s strained face, and orders were carried out swiftly. We looked after our dead and wounded and then rode quickly away from the place before the British had time to come with the main force and wreak more disaster.
    When, later, we rode to a hidden camp in the heart of a swamp, the Swamp Fox far in the lead, astride his charger Ball, I heard muffled whisperings around me, and I knew that Gabriel’s murder was not to go unavenged. It had been an inflexible rule in the Brigade that no deed should ever be committed that would bring us discredit, and that rule had always been rigidly kept. But the memory of Gabriel and the sight of that bowed figure riding alone with his grief far ahead of the company were enough to make everyone lay rules aside. Surely Gabriel might have his revenge later at court-martial, but now was the time for justice.
    So it was that thirteen men dropped silently to the rear of the column, one man a prisoner, and ere we reached our camp in the swamp twelve of them returned.
    In the morning I learned that Morvin had been hanged to a tree at the fork of the roads, a place no traveler from Georgetown could avoid.
    “There’s still that varmint Tressidy,” Worth murmured. “I’m a-prayin’ to Heaven that I finds him sometime. I hain’t never sculped a white man, friend Will, not e’en a renegade, but I swear by whatever gods what be that I’m a-goin’ to-sculp one red-haired skunk in this world!”

Chapter 15: The Battle
    Christmas that winter was a bleak, dismal affair. Game was scarce. Food of any kind was hard to find. Most of the men were in rags in spite of what clothes had been given us. Some of them had not even a blanket to keep off the cold at night. General Marion himself had no blanket, and rather than deprive any man in the Brigade of one he refused to accept any offered him – which was only one of the many acts that bound him closer than ever to our hearts. With the exception of powder and ball, we were all well armed, though for ammunition we had to depend entirely on what we could capture from the enemy.
    But the dawn of the new year brought with it many changes and a world of hope. Much could I write of the events that took place during that year; of how Morgan and Greene came down with the second relief army; of the battles they fought and the victories and near-victories over the British that were theirs; and of how the tide slowly began to turn in favor of the patriots. And through it all would ring the successes of the Brigade; of how we stormed Fort Watson and in the night built a great wooden tower from which we fired down upon the garrison and brought about its surrender, and how we at last captured Fort Motte and even Georgetown itself. So it was that the British were gradually pushed back toward Charles Town, and by the end of the summer held only the city and the village of Dorchester, a few miles up the Ashley.
    The Brigade was now on the move between Charles Town and the British encampment about forty miles away near Nelson’s Ferry. It was here that Lieutenant-Colonel Stuart, left in command of the British forces in the state while Cornwallis was trying to push onward and capture the Northern Colonies, was endeavoring to reestablish the line of forts we had so recently demolished.
    General Greene was but a few leagues away, and almost hourly we expected to hear of him going into battle, and wondering at the same time if he would want us to come and join forces with him. In the meantime we were as busy as jackals around a lion’s prey, and every convoy, scout, and messenger that Stuart sent from his camp the vigilant Brigade succeeded in capturing. Worth and I were kept flying between Greene and the Swamp Fox with the information thus obtained, and at intervals spying from hilltops for messengers along the road.
    “I don’t know what’s a-goin’ to happen,” commented Worth, as we stopped one noon to ransack our saddle-bags for a scant meal and give our horses a rest from the September heat. “Things is all gittin’ set to pop an’ I wish they’d pop an’ git hit over with. This war’s a-gittin’ tiresome. Don’t mind fightin’, but I want to see things decided so’s I’ll know whether we or that bug-eaten king’s a-goin’ to run things.”
    “We’ve captured all their forts but Dorchester,” said I. “And if we keep on we’ll soon be in control of the entire state.”
    “Yeah, sounds good, but we’s a long way from bein’ in control o’ the state, friend Will. An’ s’posin’ we was, what difference would hit make with the varmints a-holdin’ the rest o’ the country? Look here,” and he began making diagrams in the damp sand with a stick.
    “See now, here’s Georgy, the Carolinys, an’ Virginny, an’ with the exception o’ Georgetown which we took a few weeks back, the British is a-holdin’ everything from Savannah right straight up the line to Canady.
    “Cawnwallis is up in Virginny a-makin’ the fur fly, an’ here’s the rest o’ his army down here under Stuart. I overhyeared the Gin’ral a-talkin’ yestiddy, an’ here’s what he says has got to be done; that we’s got to keep the two British armies separated so’s they can’t help each other, an’ then we got to whip Stuart or else drive him back to Charles Town with his army so busted up that he won’t be able to fight fo’ a long time. Iffen we can’t do that, hit’s too bad; iffen we can, well, there’s a chance, providin’, o’ course, somebody licks Cawnwallis, which, don’t seem likely.”
    “Anyhow, things look better—” I stopped suddenly. A strange thrill shot over me as I heard, from afar off, the sound of a hunting-horn. Twice more it came. After an interval it was repeated three times again.
    Worth bounded to his feet, dinner and the weighty discussions of war forgotten in an instant. “Hyear that? He’s a-callin’ everybody back at once. Something’s on hit’s way to happen!”
    We bounded upon our horses and rode recklessly down through brush and scrub to the muddy road that lay rutted and steaming in the midday sun. “Wonder where we’ll find him now?”
    “Dunno. The Swamp Fox took the trail fo’ Dorchester this momin’, but I reckon as how he must have come back. That’s Oscar’s hawn we hyeared a-tootin’. But there’ll be scouts down the road apiece to tell us where to meet.”
    A half-mile farther on Worth gave the whippoorwill signal. From a clump of trees beyond the road came an answering cry. We turned toward the sound and found Larkins waiting.
    “Straight ahead, Leather-legs, across that thar branch. Cut through the woods an’ you’ll find the Swamp Fox in a clearin’ thar.” Larkins indicated our direction with a wave of his hand.
    “What’s a-stirrin’?” inquired Worth. “I jest been a-prayin’ fo’ action.”
    “Sartin now thar be action a-comin’, my lad, an’ thar’ll be all you want. We be goin’ to help skin Stuart!”
    “Jumpin’ banshees – Stuart! Com’on, Will; hit sounds good to me!”
    Larkins’ grizzled face broke into a grin. “Shore, but wait till them Redcoat muskets start a-rattlin’ round yore ears, you’ll be fiddlin’ a different jig then. We been doin’ a heap o’ fightin’ in the last year, Leather-legs, but we ain’t never had to go slap up an’ spit in the face o’ the hull British army before.”
    “I seen a heap o’ musket-fire in my life. I’m used to hit.”
    “Shore.” Larkins’ face became more serious. “But thar’s goin’ to be a heap o’ good blood spilt soon, an’ I hate to see you lads in it. ’Tain’t what you been used to. Thar’s a real battle a-comin’, not a pickneck. But run on an’ God help you. The Swamp Fox is waitin’.”
    We crossed the little stream, passed the woods, and came out into an open place. I was surprised at the crowd of men I saw there. The Brigade’s numbers had recently dwindled to little more than fifty, since many of the men had gone home to look after their fields, while others, under the respective company captains, were in different parts of the state, holding the Tories in check. But now the little clearing was filled with three times the number I had expected to find, and more men were coming in from the woods all the time. A few were mounted, but the majority were on foot, many wearing remnants of uniforms that had once graced the state militia. Without a doubt the Swamp Fox had been busy for a long time rounding up partisans for the battle.
    We took our places with the mounted members of the Brigade, and waited while General Marion limped among the new arrivals. He examined their weapons and gave each man a word of encouragement. When we were finally arranged in company order the Swamp Fox mounted his horse and faced his little army.
    “Men, we’re going to join General Greene at Burdett’s plantation. We’ve got three rounds of powder apiece, and we’re going to make it count whether we get any more or not. I know your record of the past and I know you’re going to uphold it when the time comes. Tomorrow we face an English army. They wear beautiful red uniforms, but—”
    A loud guffaw came from a ragged, bearded partisan. “Thar’s nothin’ ole Hannah kin hit better’n red, Gin’ral!” he said, holding a five-and-a-half-foot woodsman’s rifle over his head and patting the barrel. The rest of the company broke into a laugh and then into a cheer.
    A smile flitted over the lean, worn features of the Swamp Fox. “You’ll see plenty of red tomorrow, and old Hannah’ll have a chance to do a lot of talking.”
    He gave the order to march, the men shouldered their arms and trudged after their leader. Part of those who were mounted were sent ahead as an advance guard, while the remainder brought up the rear. Considered from the view of pure army discipline, there was much about our unkempt troop that could be criticized. We followed no military rules, and those on foot carried their guns in any fashion they chose and walked as individuals. But an underlying discipline was there – every man had been under fire many times and they loved and respected their commander to a degree that would send them charging in the face of certain death if he so ordered.
    Night brought us to Burdett’s plantation, alive with hundreds of tiny camp fires around which Greene’s army of two thousand was drying its mud-spattered uniforms and cooking its stores. I was thankful that I rode Silver, for the recent rains had swelled the streams to muddy torrents and transformed the roads into rivers of muck; everyone on foot was tired and soaked to his waist from plowing through swamp and creek.
    “I’d give a heap to be back in Virginia,” growled a footsore Continental as we passed.
    “Aw, shut up!” I heard another say. “You may be in Heaven tomorrow, so you better start sayin’ your prayers!”
    In the morning we were up with the sun. Drums beat a slow roll as regiment after regiment underwent a last inspection and we were formed in the order of battle. My heart sank as the Brigade was ordered to the front line. We were to lead the attack upon the British camp and would be the first ones to receive the hail of enemy bullets and the charge of their gleaming bayonets!
    “Powder!” came the cry. “Three rounds ain’t enough to keep a man movin’ ahead.” It was the owner of old Hannah speaking.
    A new keg of powder was opened and every flask and horn in the Brigade was allotted an extra fifteen rounds. When this was done, General Greene rode up and gave instructions to the front regiments. Those of us who were mounted were to fall in with Lee’s cavalry and ride in advance of the army until we came in sight of the British. Then we were to shift and cover the right flank and give the front line of infantry an opportunity to advance, spread out, and fire. This entire front line, composed of members of the Brigade, a battalion of South Carolina Militia led by Colonel Pickens, and two battalions of North Carolina men, was placed in charge of the Swamp Fox – the man whom General Gates had chosen to ignore the year before.
    The fife-and-drum corps set up a lively march. There came a sharp barking of commands from the officers, arms rattled, feet swung in time to the music, and the army began its seven-mile advance to the enemy camp.
    As I rode along in the column of Lee’s cavalry, with Worth and Larkins on either side of me, I began thinking of the days when I’d first joined the Brigade. War had seemed altogether different then and I’d thought how glorious it would be to hear the sound of musketry, the clash of arms, and the shouts of men going into battle. The idea of fighting and possibly dying for the sake of liberty had made me fearful, it is true, but it was a grand thing and my spirits had flared high with visions of the future. The horror of the battlefield and the awful cries of the maimed and dying had held no place in those thoughts. Instead, my idea of war had been an idealistic conception wherein the horror was wellnigh obscured by the glory. But now I began thinking of the other side of the matter. I’d seen enough in the past year to know what to expect in the next few hours, and I could see no glory ahead. I was riding to a human slaughter and nothing more.
    The sun mounted higher. The road steamed. The heat would be intolerable by noon. I was wondering how much longer we had to ride when I heard a commotion up in front. The cavalry stopped. Then:
    “Here they come, boys!” It was the voice of Colonel Lee – the same “Light Horse Harry” that had helped the Brigade take Fort Watson.
    “Pick your man. Fire!”
    Muskets and pistols spat flame. I was too far back to see what was happening.
    “Charge ’em, boys!”
    The cavalry thundered forward at a gallop, two of its eight troops riding out obliquely in a flanking movement. A riderless horse dashed by into the woods. I saw four enemy dragoons lying on their backs in the road. Some others were crawling painfully off into the underbrush. A sharp fight took place ahead. In two minutes it had ceased and one troop came riding back escorting a score or more of the enemy that had been taken prisoners.
    “We surprised a reconnoitering party,” I heard some one explain. “Stuart can’t be far away.”
    We waited while the infantry caught up with us. The sun glared like a molten monster and I looked longingly at the shade under the trees. Larkins gave me a drink from his canteen.
    “Forward, boys, slowly. Keep a sharp lookout,” came Colonel Lee’s order.
    The fifes ceased their shrill notes. The infantry swung silently along to the low tapping of the drums.
    A bugle sounded far ahead. We were almost there. In a little while I could hear the mad beating of the enemy drums. The routed dragoons had given the alarm.
    Suddenly the Continental fife-and-drum corps began a wild march. Officers shouted commands, swiftly the army assumed the order of battle. Our legion of cavalry swept into the woods upon the right. The roadway was cleared of men, and General Marion’s front line advanced through the trees, two regiments on either side of the road.
    A cannon roared with a frightening, deadly sound. A ball crashed through the foliage overhead. On my left I heard orders shouted at the gunners and two three-pounders began flashing a reply. I caught brief, fragmentary glimpses of red-coated figures some hundreds of yards ahead through the trees.
    The battle had begun!
    My heart thumped violently, my hands shook as from raging fever. I clenched my sword tightly and tried to get used to the whacking, ripping sound overhead. It sent branches flying and sprayed us with leaves and long moss. Cannon balls! Steadily through it all we advanced, our front line darting like shadows from one huge tree to the next. The British fell slowly back, keeping just out of range of our muskets which we had not yet fired.
    Suddenly our three-pounders ceased their noise – the enemy artillery had put them out of commission. Some of our gunners had been hit. I could hear one shrieking. The cry was maddening.
    The silencing of our cannon was the signal for the British musketry to begin. The woods ahead spurted smoke and flame. The Swamp Fox’s front line fired a volley, stepped behind trees to reload, then advanced to fire again. The air became filled with a hail of whistling bullets. The British muskets roared in unison, the Americans answering with a continuous rattling sound in which could easily be distinguished the sharp, whip-like crack of the long rifles of the woodsmen. Ahead to my left I saw the huge, bearded partisan calmly loading and firing his piece as if he were at a squirrel-shoot. At each crack of his rifle an enemy figure dropped. Old Hannah was upholding her reputation.
    “Forward, men!” cried Colonel Lee above the din of the guns. “Stop that flank movement!” I kicked Silver and the cavalry went leaping over log and bush toward an enemy regiment bent on cutting up the right end of the Swamp Fox’s line. We tore into them, shouting, swords pointed ahead. Some we rode over, others were instantly cut down. Two platoons were separated from the main body and immediately surrendered. The rest retreated and fell back to the center line of their own men.
    I glanced around. Worth was still with me. Larkins was wrapping his kerchief around his hand to stop the spurting blood. Old Hannah had stopped speaking; her owner lay silent upon the ground, still grasping the long barrel in both hands.
    The Swamp Fox’s line was gradually thinning. At last they fell back behind the Continentals to replenish their ammunition and give the others a chance to use their muskets.
    Plainly, now, we could see the scarlet coats of the enemy. Hardly fifty yards separated us. To the rear of them the woods stopped abruptly on the edge of a wide field. In the center of it rows of white tents gleamed in the dazzling sunlight. Behind the tents was a red-brick house that stood just back of the road. The road itself ran in a straight line through the thick woods, the open field, and on past the house to the river in the distance.
    “Pick your cover, boys, and hold your ground,” Colonel Lee roared. “They’re going to charge somewhere.”
    Hundreds of Red jackets began running obliquely to our left.
    “Let ’em have it, boys.”
    The cavalry began firing in earnest. Red jackets passed our line of vision, moving toward the road. I reloaded and fired feverishly. The pistols grew hot in my hands. A cannon ball struck a huge oak a glancing blow, ricochetted within a foot of me, and demolished a small pine. Worth, on my right, was quite oblivious to it; his eyes were blazing from smoke and excitement and his long rifle was spitting flame as fast as he could load and pull the trigger. A bullet scored my cheek and I felt something warm dripping down my chin.
    “Are you hurt, Will?” yelled Worth. “Yo’ face is bloody.”
    “No, just grazed me. You all right?”
    “Yep, an’ this long bar’l kin sho shoot straight. See iffen you kin spot a red-haired varmint among them mutton-eaters.”
    I hardly heard, for a new maneuver was under way. I waved my pistol to the left. He nodded. The enemy had concentrated in a mass and was charging down the wide road like a wedge, intent upon cutting our army in half. The Continentals gave way before the oncoming hosts.
    Suddenly the American six-pounders were unlimbered and began to speak. Bravely, the English swept on. The Continental line rallied and two reserve regiments came to the front with fixed bayonets.
    “Advance! Sweep the road with your bayonets!” came the hoarse command behind the American lines.
    Steadily the two opposing forces came nearer together, each holding their fire. When they were but thirty yards apart there came two peals of thunder, two great clouds of smoke – and when it had cleared the ground was littered with writhing figures.
    The English faltered and turned. The Continental regiments broke into a wild cheer and charged. The enemy fled. Back down the road they went, and across the fields behind their tents, closely followed by the Regimentals.
    Colonel Lee waved his sword and led the cavalry at a gallop through the woods to the right corner of the field.
    “Charge those dragoons,” he yelled. Enemy horsemen were vainly trying to hold their ground in the face of General Greene’s advance. When we were a hundred feet away they fired haphazardly and retreated toward the red-brick house.
    “Cut ’em off, boys! Cut ’em off! Don’t let ’em get back to their own lines!” Colonel Lee spurred his horse and led us at top speed along the edge of the field.
    A half minute of riding brought us to the other end, but the main body of British cavalry had succeeded in passing us. A dozen found their retreat blocked, so they veered to the right and made off through a fringe of trees where another road ran at an angle into the first. “The army is defeated!” they cried. “Back to Charles Town!”
    “See that big fellow on the black horse?” shouted the Colonel. “That’s that dirty traitor, Williamson! Go get him, Company Eight! Forward, the rest of you – charge to the rear of the camp!”
    I didn’t know whether I belonged in Company Eight or not. But it made no difference. The sound of that name sent me bounding after the black horse at a mad gallop. Worth and Larkins were directly behind. “I hope some day a patriot will meet him on the field of battle,” Mr. Singleton had said – and here was Williamson riding ignominiously away from the field of battle as fast as his mount could carry him!
    Four other cavalrymen were abreast of me and Williamson and his men were a hundred yards ahead when we tore into the muddy highway leading into Charles Town. Trailing back of us were Worth, Larkins, and the remainder of the company.
    The slippery road made dangerous footing for the horses and it gave little opportunity for the fleeter ones to make use of their speed. Gradually, though, I drew away from my own party – and at the same time I noticed that Williamson was beginning to outdistance his. I prayed for a section of sandy ground. Once away from the mud Silver would be able to stretch his mighty flanks and overtake anything ahead. The past year had made him lean and hard, and he was in his prime.
    But what if I should overtake the fleeing horsemen? They’d be between myself and Williamson and it would be insanity to attempt anything with the cavalry far in the rear. I glanced back. The main part of Company Eight was coming in a body, fifty yards behind, but trailing me a few lengths was Worth, grinning savagely and seeming not to mind the mud thrown at him by Silver’s flying hoofs.
    I looked toward Williamson again. He was a long distance ahead of his own men; so far, in fact, that he would soon be out of sight of them if he kept on. His escape seemed certain; he was lucky to be so well mounted.
    Then, abruptly, the mud came to an end and in its stead was firm, wet sand. And I perceived, too, that we were coming to a place that I knew well, for I’d ridden over the same spot many times in the past weeks. Ahead was a bridge the British had built over a wide, deep creek. Ordinarily the road on the other side led straight on. But the creek was swollen from the rains, and overflowing water had created several large ponds beyond the bridge. A new road now wound from the bridge in one great half-circle, bent back to the creek again, and turned once more in a second curve before it picked up the thread of the road – all of which was a detour in the shape of the letter S that twisted along the higher ground to avoid the ponds.
    But the one thing about all this that interested me was that first big curve and the manner in which it bent back to the creek. The ground there was firm and open, the creek very deep, though possibly not too wide for a blooded horse to jump.... There were patches of scrub oak and brush that would hide my maneuver, and if everything went well, I could make the astonishing move of putting the fleeing horsemen behind me instead of between myself and Williamson. And ere I caught up with my man, the company would have caught up with the others and taken them prisoners.
    Williamson was crossing the bridge. I was only a stone’s throw behind the enemy horsemen. Now was the time to turn. I left the road and went flying over the coarse grass, guiding Silver between the clumps of water oaks and occasional immense pines that stretched far up into the cloudless sky. Each second I came nearer the creek and the spot where it was touched by the detour.
    Then I heard horses back of me. A glance over my shoulder showed Worth and three or four of the troop following my lead. He, too, had remembered the road beyond the bridge and saw in it a chance to head off Williamson’s men.
    The creek was directly ahead. Even as I judged the distance across it a black horse carrying a hatless, red-jacketed officer flew past on the opposite bank.
    I bent over the saddle and eased the pressure on the reins. It was a long jump across the creek, even for Silver. Could he make it, or would he land with a splash in the deep water and let Williamson escape while we were trying to swim out?
    The big sorrel didn’t falter. He galloped straight to the bank, gave a mighty leap, and shot over the water. I leaned back, bracing my feet in the stirrups. Silver’s forefeet came down on the rough turf on the road. Glory be! He’d made it! I was willing to bet the riders back of me wouldn’t be so lucky.
    Williamson was but a short distance ahead now. Silver streaked forward. The distance began to shorten. I could hear Williamson talking to his horse, trying to urge him on at a faster pace. Finally he began lashing him with the end of his reins.
    The distance between us became shorter still. The devil was but three lengths in front. I cocked a pistol, raised it.
    “Halt, or I’ll shoot,” I cried. I felt no compunction about sending a ball through his head. For some reason I held him almost as much responsible for Gabriel’s death as I did Morvin and Tressidy. Before his deviltry had been discovered was he not the leader of a group bent on betraying every one of us?
    Williamson’s only answer was to whip out his pistol. I should have known he’d fight; if he were taken it would mean a hanging. There was no other way; I’d have to shoot. I took aim and pulled the trigger.
    There came a click as flint met steel – but no fire. The pistol was empty. I dropped it and snatched out the other one just as Williamson turned half about in his saddle and leveled his own weapon.
    There was a spurt of flame, a roar, and a numbing force tore into my left breast. I grasped the saddle for support, suddenly faint and dizzy. Then, with a great effort, I raised the second pistol. I couldn’t miss – he was only ten feet ahead. Trees and clumps of brush were blurring. My finger tightened on the trigger. I saw a flash; Williamson fell from his saddle.
    I was dimly conscious of red-coated figures ahead on the fading roadway, then of a volley of shots and men yelling. Silver wheeled around, reared far back with his forefeet in the air, then pitched sideways into a thicket. I was falling; trees, bushes, and red-coated figures whirled dimly, vanished as my head crashed against something. A vast, empty whiteness obliterated the world.

Chapter 16: The Prophecy of the Silver Crescent
    A mocking bird sang airily. A hound bayed in doleful contrast. There was a smell of smoke in the air – smoke from pine fires tinged with the aroma of frying ham. My eyes opened into a soft light and stared into an impenetrable canopy of gray and green... gray shrouds of moss on innumerable virgin trees. A figure sat beside me. It dipped a cloth in a piggin of water and placed it on my forehead.
    I tried to move, but the effort brought hot needles ripping through my chest. Then I found I was trussed up like a mummy, with only my right arm free. The fog cleared out of my head; the figure near by became recognizable.
    “Ugh! Worth! What’s going on?”
    “Not a thing, friend Will,” came the familiar but tired voice. “Lawd! I be glad to see you better. I thought fo’ a time hit was all up with you, in spite o’ what that army surgeon said.”
    “How – where am I?”
    “You’s on a island in the Santee; hit’s one o’ the Swamp Fox’s hideouts an’ he’s turned hit into a sick camp fo’ the Brigade.”
    “It must be late. How’d things turn out today?” Worth removed the cloth, wrung it out in the cold water, and replaced it on my forehead. “I guess you don’t know you’s been here fo’ three days – an’ a-ravin’ like a fool all the time!”
    I blinked at him unbelievingly, but the sight of his worn face and the hollows under his eyes left me convinced.
    “Three days!” Then, “Did we whip Stuart?”
    “We came mighty nigh a-whuppin’ him, but after we got sent fo’ Williamson them bat-eyed Continentals busted into Stuart’s camp an’ started a-plun-derin’ an’ eatin’ an fo’got all about the battle! Guess ’twas cause they hadn’t had no decent vittles fo’ a month. So Stuart had time to git his men together an’ they started a-firin’ from that brick house, which they’d made into a kind o’ fort. Gin’ral Greene had to call his men off. Iffen them blame-fool Continentals had ’a’ kept on after that charge, they ’a’ captured Stuart an’ his hull army. As hit was, a lot o’ them got kilt, although they say Stuart lost a heap more men than we did. Anyway, the British had to retreat back to Charles Town – which means, friend Will, that the state’s mighty nigh in our hands. All we got to do now is to capture Dorchester an’ keep the varmints bottled up in the city.”
    “How about Williamson? Did I kill him?”
    “Naw, but you put a ball through his shoulder an’ he’s Gin’ral Greene’s prisoner now. We followed you as fast as we could the other day, though some o’ the boys had to swim the creek. We captured Williamson’s men an’ then went to look fo’ you. We hadn’t gone far when we run slap onto a convoy o’ provisions comin’ from Charles Town. Say,” he asked suddenly, “who shot you, anyway – Williamson or the convoy guard?”
    “Williamson. That convoy guard started firing just after.” Then a sudden sickening fear rose in me. “Is – is Silver all right?”
    Worth looked down at the ground. He didn’t say anything for a long time. “I’m sorry, Will. I know how you loved that sorrel. But that convoy... they did hit, Will.”
    Silver – dead! I turned my head away so he couldn’t see how I felt. Silver – afraid of nothing, who could take the highest fence, outstrip the fleetest mount in the state, who had carried me safely through so many months of fighting....
    “Did you capture the convoy?” I asked later.
    “Yep, we took ’em, an’ iffen hit weren’t fo’ that we wouldn’t have nothin’ to eat. That’s their ham what’s been a-cookin’. An’ say, Will, I hain’t supperstitious nor nothin’, but I wish you’d look at this.” He bent down, gingerly unpinned something from my chest, and held it for me to see. “The reason I asked iffen hit was Williamson that shot you was whoever did hit was a dead hand with a gun – only, there was some spell a heap more mighty than the bullet what kept hit from yo’ heart!”
    Worth was holding in his hand the silver crescent that I’d always worn on my shirt front. Its appearance had greatly changed since the last time I’d seen it. One end was twisted and it seemed as if some one had dragged a sharp tool across its surface – a sharp tool that had erased all but one word of its famous inscription.
    “Hit saved yo’ life, friend Will, fo’ hit turned Williamson’s bullet aside. I hain’t supperstitious, as I said, but you jest read this one word left on hit – an’ tell me iffen you don’t think hit’s perdictin’ the truth!”
    I smiled happily, for the remaining word was Liberty.
    And some weeks later, when I was better and able to move around, there came great news that bore out the prophecy of the crescent. Lord Cornwallis had surrendered to General Washington at Yorktown! The war would soon be over now, the ultimate freedom of the Colonies was assured, and before many months had passed I’d be on my way home.
    Home! The thought brought with it a flood of memories. What would home be like? – only a mass of charred ruins, the fields overgrown, the blacks either dead from starvation or stolen by the British, the indigovats rotting in the sun and rain, and the shade trees girdled and bare! I wasn’t certain of these things. I had had no chance to go near Summerdale House, for it lay way south of the Ashley in a section beyond the Brigade’s movements. But I’d seen other places desecrated by the enemy and I knew quite well what to expect. And what of Father? The last I’d heard was that he was still in St. Augustine with the other captive citizens. Not a single line had I received from him, though I was certain he must have written. Perhaps by this time he was dead from abuse and the effects of long confinement. What would home be like? – a dreary soul-deadening place indeed when I considered these things.
    But I was young – and upon my shoulders and others like me would rest the burden of slowly building up what we’d lost. It would be a long fight all over again, and one fully as hard as the war itself.
    The war was not over yet. Such thoughts were premature. Even now the Brigade was moving in the swamps on the outskirts of Dorchester, cutting off enemy supplies, waylaying their scouts, and preparing the way for General Greene to storm the fort.
    I must help them; my side was nearly healed, though I still carried one arm in a sling. It had been broken when Williamson’s bullet glanced off the crescent. I’d been lucky at that, for many others had been killed that day. Perhaps Mauma Beck’s little black bag had as much to do with my luck as the crescent itself.
    Worth brought me a horse he’d taken from a Tory, and together one morning we rode to meet the Brigade. My mount was a poor, dispirited animal, ill used by his former owner. Worth offered me his big bay instead, but I refused and would not hear of it. He’d become keenly attached to his horse, and I knew the attachment was not one-sided.
    “Never mind, friend Will,” he said, as we rode along a swamp trail in the direction of Dorchester. “I’ll git you a better critter jest as soon as I find a good one a-trottin’ along under a Tory.”
    Neither of us suspected at the moment that his promise would be fulfilled before many hours had passed, and that a vow he’d made long before would be executed at the same time. But the thing happened, and here is the manner in which it came about:
    At noon my arm and side were beginning to hurt from the rough gait of the animal I rode. A rounded hill rose near by, the summit of which promised to be a good place to rest. There was good cover at the top, and through the thinning autumn foliage we could see the winding trail beneath. I lay down to sleep while the ever-vigilant Worth kept an eye on the scene below in the hope that some enemy scout would come riding past.
    I woke abruptly when he gave the whippoorwill cry. Three answering calls came upward from the glen.
    “Who is it?” I whispered.
    Worth picked up his long rifle. “An old friend o’ mine. You lay low here till I come back, Will.” A change had suddenly come over him. His voice sounded strange and hard.
    He went gliding down the hill like an Indian. I’d never learned that trick of walking over dried leaves without making a sound. At the same time, though, I couldn’t understand why he acted that way if it were only some member of the Brigade approaching.
    When he was gone I crept to the spot where he’d been watching, waiting for a glimpse of the rider. At first I couldn’t see him, for the trail was half hidden by the great trees growing on the hillside. But soon I made out a dun horse moving below, with a great bulk of a man in the saddle. He was hatless, and on his head was a mop of unruly red hair! No wonder Worth had acted strangely!
    I reprimed my one remaining pistol and stood wondering what to do. At first I thought I’d better follow Worth and be ready to help should anything go wrong. But that would ruin Worth’s chances. Tressidy would hear me coming.
    The dun horse moved nearer the spot where Worth had gone. Any second, now, I expected to hear the crack of his rifle, see the dun horse bolt, Tressidy fall....
    But I wasn’t prepared for what happened next, for I hadn’t counted on Worth’s sense of sportsmanship. Suddenly his voice rang out in a challenge. I could hear him distinctly from where I stood.
    “Halt! Drop yo’ gun, Tressidy!”
    The dun horse came to a stop. I saw Tressidy’s gun fall to the ground.
    “Git offen yo’ hoss! I’m a-goin’ to give you a chance to fight, an’ I’m a-goin’ to send you where you belong!”
    I started down the hill as fast as I could run. Worth had lost his mind – Tressidy was twice his size. I didn’t blame him for not wanting to shoot from ambush – but this!
    I stumbled out upon the trail. Tressidy was stripping off his accouterments. Worth had him covered with his rifle.
    “Worth, you fool! What do you think you’re doing?”
    “I tole you to stay up there till I come back. I don’t want you to see what I’m a-goin’ to do to that skunk.” His voice was hard and dry, his eyes pin-points of steel.
    “Gabriel was as much my friend as yours, but you’re my friend, too, Worth. You’re not going to do this.” But he was beyond the force of argument; nothing on earth could have moved him from his purpose.
    Tressidy was grinning evilly. “Afraid I’m a-goin’ to hurt him, be ye? You jest stand by, ye chicken-livered shrimp, an’ watch me twist his head off!”
    “You don’t deserve to be given a chance.” I was trembling in a sudden maniacal hate. “You didn’t give Gabriel a chance, and, by Heaven, I’m not going to give you any!” I snapped back the hammer, raised the pistol.
    Worth gave a bound and seized my wrist in a grip so powerful that I couldn’t pull the trigger. The thing fell to the grass. “This is my rat-killin’, Will. Leave us be.”
    For only an instant were his eyes turned away. Tressidy took immediate advantage of that instant and leaped, his big hands making an effort to grasp the long rifle Worth carried. But Worth saw him coming. His foot flashed out, caught Tressidy in the pit of the stomach. The force of it sent the big man into a quivering heap.
    He gasped, gained his breath. “I want fa’r play, damn ye.”
    “You’ve lost yo’ right to hit,” came the reply. “Git on yo’ feet, you sneakin’ bag o’ buzzard-meat, an’ take what’s comin’!”
    Tressidy rose slowly. Worth crouched pantherlike. The two met swiftly, became a twisting, cursing mass on the ground. Tressidy worked to the top. One mighty arm was about Worth’s neck. Slowly he began squeezing and turning that dark head around.
    I groped for the pistol. But before I could get to them they’d rolled over, and Worth, miraculously, had freed himself from that terrible grip.
    Suddenly he bounded to his feet and I saw that he’d seized Tressidy with both hands around the right wrist. He spun sideways and gave a terrific jerk, his body whipping forward like a hickory sapling. Tressidy, for all his great weight, was thrown over Worth’s head and entirely across the trail. He lay there a moment, stunned.
    But he was roaring like a maddened bull when he rose. I noticed he’d snatched up something from the ground. He raised it to his shoulder. It was his own gun.
    My yell was drowned in the sound of a rifle shot. I turned, expecting to see Worth crumple up, but there he was with his long rifle smoking in his hands. He stood till he got his breath, then laid the rifle aside and picked up his hunting-knife. Slowly, he strode to the shape half hidden in the grass beyond the trail.
    He returned presently and in his hand was a four-inch circle of scalp.
    “Now,” he said, holding it, “Gabriel kin rest in peace. I swore I’d sculp one red-haired skunk in this world, an’, so help me God, I done hit. An’ there’s yo’ hoss, friend Will – a good rangy dun.”
    * * *
    By the 1st of December Dorchester fell to the combined forces of Greene and the Swamp Fox. Each day that followed promised to bring with it news that the long struggle had come to an end, for now the Continental army was camped on the very outskirts of Charles Town and the British dared not venture forth.
    But it was an entire year after the fall of Dorchester before the stubborn diplomats across the ocean consented to a treaty of peace. Then came the day when that memorable cry rang through camp, through forest and swamp, and was borne on the very wings of the wind for all weary partisans to hear:
    “The war is over! The war is over!”
    The British army packed up to leave on the waiting ships. The Continental army made ready for the grand parade into the city, where they would be welcomed as the deliverers of the state and receive the congratulations of Governor Rutledge and all the people. And then, at the last minute, General Greene informed the Brigade that our rags and tatters and disreputable looks would not fit well in so magnificent an affair, and we need not go to the reception.
    It was with bitter hearts that we disbanded in the swamp that day and each man bid farewell to his beloved commander. His last words rang in my ears as Worth and I climbed into our saddles and started home.
    “Good-by, men. You’ve fought well and covered yourselves with glory, and I’m proud of you – even if General Greene isn’t. And if he wants our roses as well as his own, let him have them. They’ll be faded tomorrow, but the fame of the Brigade will never fade.”
    We rode away into a bleak December day, through a world nearly devastated by the ravages of war. I would never have believed that a land, alive and bright with the songs of birds two and a half years ago, could be so devoid of life. During that long ride back home I saw hardly one living creature. The game had been practically annihilated to feed the hungry armies. I glimpsed not a single deer, which was a wonder when I remembered how many there’d been; I heard not a bob-white call, and before they could be heard everywhere; and I passed plantations as silent as the grave, with no sign of poultry or livestock to give them a semblance of life. It was a dead, unhappy world, and I felt depressed as I’d never felt in all the long months of fighting, sleeplessness, and starvation that lay behind me.
    But then, I was young, and all things would change with time. It was my place to begin all over again and help build up what had been torn down.
    I sat up straighter as this new resolve took hold of me. The future was mine.
    Worth stared unhappily at his empty pipe, smiled suddenly as the sun came out from behind a cloud, and began singing. It was something that carried my thoughts far away from the encircling stillness and the bitter reminders of war:
       “Oh, I’ll take my long bar’l in my hand
         An’ westward I’ll be goin’;
       I’ll cross the Blue Wall to a land
         Where silver streams be flowin’.
       ’Cause, oh – hit seems that I kin hyear today
         That long, green cane a-wavin’,
       Beyonst the Blue Wall, far away
         From people’s misbehavin’!”
    “It must be a regular Eden beyond that old Blue Wall,” said I. “And that long cane people say grows so thickly over there.”
    But Worth didn’t answer. His eyes were looking off into the distance – dreaming.
    Almost before I knew it we were riding over a familiar bridge, a bridge I hadn’t seen for many weary months. I stopped short on the other side, apprehension holding me. We were almost home – but what would it be like?
    I clutched Worth’s sleeve. “You – you go on ahead and tell me what you see. I’m afraid to, Worth.”
    He rode up to the higher ground beyond the hollow, and remained a long while with his hands shielding his eyes.
    “What do you see, Worth?”
    “I see a white house,” slowly, tantalizingly. “One corner o’ hit looks like ’twas partly burned. They be niggers out a-workin’ on hit. Yeah – an’ I believe I see a white man on the veranda, a-bossin’ ’em.... Come on, friend Will. I bet yo’ paw won’t know you, you been away so long!”
    Then as I joined him at a gallop I heard him say, “That long cane keeps a-wavin’ in my mind, friend Will. I reckon as how I’ll be goin’ back to Kaintuck soon. Maybe you’ll come with me.”
    “I think I will, sometime,” I replied. “But there’s work I must do first.”

    1936

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