TWO FIGURES BOUNDED UPON
THE WALLS

FIGHTING
KING
GEORGE

by
John T M^cIntyre

Illustrated
by
J A Graeber

THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
M C M V

Copyright 1905 by The Penn Publishing Company

Contents

Illustrations

Fighting King George

CHAPTER I
HOW FORT JOHNSON FELL

“The wind’s changing again, Cole,” said Tom Deering, as he threw his rudder handle to leeward in order that the sheet might catch the full benefit of the breeze.

The person to whom he spoke was a negro, young in years but of colossal size; as he sat amidships in the skiff, with the sheet rope in his hand, his sleeveless shirt showing his mighty arms bare to the shoulder, he resembled a statue of Hercules, cut out of black marble. Tom Deering was about sixteen, and the son of a rich planter, just below Charleston; he was a tall, strongly built boy for his years, but beside the giant negro slave he looked like an infant. Cole had been born upon Tom’s father’s plantation and was about five years the elder; the two were inseparable; where Tom went the huge black followed him like a shadow.

When he had the sail drawing nicely, Tom continued:

“I wonder, Cole, how all this is going to end?”

Cole shook his woolly head and grinned; then suddenly his face changed and he held up one hand as though bidding his young master to listen.

From across the bright stretch of water between them and the shore came a drum beat; the evening sun slanted down upon the white crests and upon the meadow-lands below the city. No one was in sight, but the hollow rub-a-dub of the drum continued. Seeing his master had caught the sound Cole turned and silently pointed out into the bay.

Two armed vessels, flying the British flag, were standing on and off Sullivan’s Island. From where he sat in the stern of the skiff, Tom’s keen eyes noticed that an unusual air of alertness hung about the vessels; and the wind now and then carried toward them the sound of an officer’s command sharply spoken through a trumpet.

“It’s the Tamar and the Cherokee,” said Tom. “They’ve been lying in Rebellion Roads for the last couple of days. When I saw them up anchor an hour ago I thought something was going to happen, and I was right. Perhaps Colonel Moultrie is going to strike a blow for liberty and South Carolina at last.”

It was the fourteenth of September, in the year 1775. Because of the oppressive acts of the mother country, the British colonies in North America had risen in protest. But their words had been mocked and jeered at by King George and his counselors; and the heavy burdens of the afflicted colonies were only added to. This was more than a spirited people could stand; so from words the colonists proceeded to deeds; in the April before the first shot of the Revolution had been fired at Lexington; and now South Carolina was about to follow the glorious example of her sister state in New England.

If the people of Boston had a “tea party” in Massachusetts Bay, so had the residents of Charleston one in the Cooper river. The public armory of the town was broken open during one dark night and eight hundred stand of arms, two hundred cutlasses, besides cartouches, flints and other material of war were seized by the patriots. Another party possessed itself of the powder at a town near by; while still another emptied Cochran’s magazine.

An army of two thousand infantry and four hundred horse had been raised by the colony. This force was divided into three bodies; the second regiment was placed under the command of Colonel Moultrie, a gallant Indian fighter who had served with credit in the campaigns against the Cherokee nation.

The tap of the drum from the town came to the boys’ ears every little while; the wind was blowing freshly and the sail of the heavy skiff bellied to it, causing her bow to cut through the water at a great rate.

“We’ll soon be on the ground, Cole,” said Tom, peering under the boom to see how far they were away from their usual mooring-place when they sailed up to Charleston. “If it’s Colonel Moultrie’s men being summoned together for service perhaps the hour is at hand when you can settle your account with those who treated you so inhumanly.”

The giant held up one great arm, its huge muscles standing out in knots; the fist clinched and was shaken at Fort Johnson, on James Island, whose guns grinned wickedly across the calm water and whose sentries could be seen pacing backward and forward on the bastions. There was an expression of hate in the face of the slave; he turned to Tom, a strange sound coming from his throat, the forefinger of his left hand pointing to his open mouth. Tom reached forward and pressed Cole’s hand and his dark eyes glowed as he swept his glance toward the British flag which flowed from the tall staff at Fort Johnson.

Cole, by a horrible act of brutality, had been rendered dumb!

A year before, during one of the spasmodic outbreaks of indignation which had become so frequent, the authorities had occasion to suspect Tom Deering’s father of some act against the government.

A party of dragoons were sent to his plantation to secure evidence against him; the leader of this party was a young and arrogant lieutenant, noted for his cruelty even to his own men. The colossal size of Cole at once attracted the officer’s attention when the slaves were summoned to testify against their master.

“We’ll have this fellow out,” cried he, pointing to Cole. “He’s the one that will tell us what we want to hear. He knows; I can see it in his face.”

In vain Cole protested his ignorance of anything his master had done.

“You know, you black hound,” thundered the dragoon. “Tie him up, men; we’ll make him talk fast enough.”

Cole was bound to a cottonwood-tree in front of his master’s door; he continued to protest that he knew nothing, but in vain. The elder Deering and Tom were detained by a sergeant and a file of men inside the house and consequently had no knowledge of what was going forward without.

They heard the angry voice of the young lieutenant raised now and then in a shower of horrible oaths, apparently urging his men to the commission of something which they were reluctant to do. At length a dreadful scream sounded—a sharp, agonizing cry that caused the planter and his son to turn pale and stare at one another with eyes filled with horror. Then the sergeant and his file were hurriedly called from the house; as they were mounting in the yard, Tom and his father rushed out; Cole hung limp against the ropes that bound him to the tree, covered with blood. As the hoofs of the dragoons’ chargers grew faint down the road, it was discovered what had occurred. Wild with rage at what he considered Cole’s defiance the brutal officer had had the slave’s jaws pried open, and had cut his tongue with the point of his sabre.

The great strength of the giant negro and his superb condition carried him through the effects of this barbarous act; in a remarkably short time he had recovered; but he was deprived of speech forever; it was only in gestures such as that which he had made against Fort Johnson that he could convey the longing that filled him, to come to hand-grips with those who had treated him so inhumanly.

They had reached the wharf and were running in alongside; Cole loosed the halyard and lowered the sail. While he was furling it, he stopped suddenly, and by his gestures, which Tom could read very plainly, he called the attention of his companion to a strange stillness on the river.

Tom gazed up and down the stream for a moment and his eyes snapped.

“All the shipping has dropped down the river,” cried he. “That can only mean one thing! Colonel Moultrie is about to attack——”

“Belay there, nevvy,” growled a rough voice, almost in his ear. “Not quite so slack with the jaw tackle.”

“Uncle Dick,” exclaimed Tom, in surprise.

“Yes, it’s the old sea-horse,” responded the owner of the voice, from above them on the wharf.

“You frightened me,” laughed Tom, as he climbed up over the wharf log.

“My frightening you, nevvy,” said the other, “will be nothing to the scare you’ll get if any of Governor Campbell’s spying swabs heard what you were just now going to say.”

Uncle Dick, or as the world knew him, Capt. Richard Deering of the schooner Defence, nodded in a friendly fashion to Cole, who grinned back, from his seat in the bow of the skiff. The captain of the Defence was a sturdy-looking man of about fifty, with his long, gray hair gathered in a cue, sailor-fashion; his weather-tanned face was smoothly shaven; he wore a round, glazed hat, a short pilot coat with metal buttons and long leather boots.

“What is going on, Uncle Dick?” asked Tom, seating himself at the old salt’s side. “I heard a drum beat while we were sailing in the shallows below the town and noticed the Cherokee and the Tamar standing up and down, with all hands ready.”

Captain Deering spat carefully over the wharf log into the water; and then looked up and down the river.

“There is going to be something happen on this river to-night,” said he, “that in the days to come they’ll write in their history books. See all them boats pulled up on the sand, above there?”

There was a long line of galleys and barges and other heavy boats lying half out of the water, under guard of some half dozen men.

“Behind them trees, further up,” continued Captain Deering, “is the whole of Colonel Moultrie’s command—or, at least, all of them as can be got together at short notice.”

“Then it is coming at last,” breathed Tom, his eyes aglow. “South Carolina is to strike for her liberty as those in the north struck, months ago.”

“She is,” cried Captain Deering, catching some of his nephew’s enthusiasm. “Blow my tarry tops, lad, we can’t let those Lexington fellows beat us in the cause. The first shot out of the locker is to be the capture of Fort Johnson; I know, for I collected the boats up there; the attacking party is going to cross the river in them. Those chaps keeping watch are from the crew of the Defence.”

“When is the affair to begin?” asked Tom, hardly able to keep still, so excited was he.

“As soon as it is dark enough to conceal the approach of the boats. There don’t seem to be any unusual goings-on in the fort, so I don’t think they suspect anything; but them two war craft, down in the roads, look bad; they must have had news from somewhere.”

Scarcely had the old sailor ceased speaking when there came a sudden rattle of hoofs; turning they saw a party of scarlet-coated dragoons wheel around a corner and, at a sharp gallop, proceed up the river road. A tall, burly man rode in the midst of them; his red face was angry and fierce looking, and he carried one hand upon his sword in a manner that told his thoughts as plainly as words.

“It’s Lord William Campbell, the new governor!” exclaimed Tom, with a gasp, “and they are on their way to the place where Moultrie’s men are assembled.”

The captain of the Defence arose to his feet.

“There is likely to be trouble,” remarked he. “You climb back into your boat, nevvy, and make sail for the plantation.”

“Not I!” Tom Deering drew himself up proudly. “If there is anything to be done, I am going to help.”

Uncle Dick looked at him sharply for a moment; then he uttered a short laugh, that had a satisfied ring in it.

“Good lad!” cried he. “Blow my tarry old hulk, but there never was a Deering yet that wasn’t always on hand when wanted.” He clapped the boy proudly on the back as he spoke. “Well, come along; we’ve got no time to lose; the breeze is fresh and straight up the river. What kind of a sailer is that craft of yours?”

“There is not a better in these waters for the sort of wind that’s blowing now.”

They clambered into the skiff; Cole shoved the boat clear of the wharf and hauled up the sail. A few strokes of the paddle brought her out into the stream, Uncle Dick threw her into the wind, and away she raced up the river.

The dragoons could still be seen proceeding at their sharp pace along the river road; the black, lowering figure still rode in the midst of them, his hand still upon the hilt of his sword.

“It’s good,” said Tom, “that there is a ridge between the road and the river, just above there; otherwise they’d see the boats, and maybe would try to scatter them and so break up the attempt on the fort.”

Captain Deering smiled.

“Moultrie is nearer than you think for, nevvy,” said he. “A whistle from one of my fellows there on shore would bring a hundred men to the boats in five minutes.” The skiff turned a wooded headland at this moment. “Look there; what did I tell you?”

Upon a smooth piece of ground, which the trees had hidden until they rounded the headland, was gathered the slender force of South Carolina; an awkward-looking body of men, poorly armed, and with a total lack of soldierly appearance. They were mostly planters, woodsmen and artisans who had volunteered for service to their country, without hope of pay. They wore their ordinary dress, though here and there there was an attempt at military smartness; their weapons were fowling-pieces, cutlasses, axes and the plunder of the town arsenal. They were drawn up in order and their officers were putting them through a drill.

The distance by water to this point was much shorter than by road; the skiff had lowered its sail and run its nose up on the sand before the dragoons reached the spot. Captain Deering was just about to hail the militia when there was a flash of red from amidst the green of the trees and Lord Campbell and his company came into view. So sudden was their appearance that the untrained militia would have been thrown into confusion at the bare sight of them had it not been for the sharp commands of their officers. They dressed ranks at the word and wheeled to face the dragoons. The latter had their weapons ready as they lined up on the verge of the woods; Lord Campbell, his face still dark with anger, rode forward toward a small group of officers who stood apart within easy hearing distance of where Tom stood at the water’s edge.

“What body of men is this?” demanded the governor.

An officer of commanding appearance stepped forward.

“It is the authorized force of the colony of South Carolina,” said he.

“Authorized!” Lord Campbell’s eyes blazed. “Authorized by whom?”

“By the Provincial Congress,” returned the officer.

“There is no power in the colony to collect armed bodies of men save my own—under the authority of the king. I command you all in the name of King George to lay down your arms and disperse!”

His angry glance swept along the gathered patriots before him; his burly frame was quivering with rage at the idea to their daring to assemble in defiance of his power and that of his royal master. But there was no movement to obey; he paused for a moment, and then in a voice choking with passion he inquired of the officers:

“Which of you is Mr. Moultrie?”

The question was greeted with dead silence. The governor’s face lit up with triumph; their leader was afraid to proclaim himself; it would be an easy task to put them down.

“I have had information,” cried he fiercely, “that this insurrection is under the leadership of a Mr. Moultrie. Let him stand forth.”

A small, dark officer of infantry stepped forward.

“In this command,” said he, “I will venture to say that there is no Mr. Moultrie. But,” he paused and looked the wrathful governor in the eye with great coolness, “there is, however, a Colonel Moultrie.”

“Ah!” Lord Campbell stared at the speaker with a bitter sneer. “Then will Colonel Moultrie have the goodness to step forward?”

The officer who had answered him in the first instance, advanced, a quiet smile upon his handsome face.

“Colonel Moultrie,” blazed forth the angry king’s man, not giving the other a chance to speak, “do you or do you not intend to disperse this gathering?”

“It is not in my power,” answered Colonel Moultrie.

“Do you not command them?”

“I do; under the Council of Safety.”

“Bah!” The governor’s teeth snapped in a fury of rage at this. “That is all one hears these days—the Provincial Congress, the Committee General, the Council of Safety. I know nothing and care nothing for these rebels against the king and their usurped authority. I recognize none but you in this matter. You are here at the head of an armed force, in open rebellion; and I call upon you to lay down your arms and unconditionally surrender yourself, in the king’s name. Refuse and you must take the consequence of your folly.”

Tom Deering, with a thrill at his heart, saw the small, dark officer, who had spoken so coolly to Lord Campbell, step back and give a command to his company in a low voice. The line of the militia closed in a resolved fashion and the ducking guns were held in instant readiness for use. Lord Campbell saw it, also; and he saw the determined faces of those before him; a glance at his own slender company showed him that smart and soldier-like though they were, they were not a match for the assembled patriots. He turned to Colonel Moultrie, who still stood quietly watching him.

“You refuse?”

“Can you doubt it?”

Without a word the governor wheeled his horse and rode back to his men; another moment and they were going down the river road at the same sharp gallop with which they had arrived.

Dusk had thrown its shadows across the waters of the river; the lights at Fort Johnson began to twinkle. Colonel Moultrie and his officers consulted together. The sharp businesslike departure of Lord Campbell and his men was not at all to their liking. In a few moments they had summoned Captain Deering, of the Defence, and after a few questions the latter turned and beckoned to Tom.

“Captain Deering,” said Colonel Moultrie, smilingly, “tells us that you are a patriot and a native son of the colony.”

“I am both, sir,” answered Tom, gravely.

“Good! You saw the Cherokee and Tamar under sail in Rebellion Roads a while ago, I understand.”

“I did, sir,” said the boy.

“Did they seem as though they intended to ascend the river?”

“No, sir.” Tom answered the question quickly enough; then the actions of the two vessels came back to him, and he added, a light breaking upon him: “But they seemed as though they’d like to; it was just as though they were waiting for a signal.”

“And that,” cried Colonel Moultrie, “is just exactly what they are waiting for. And Lord Campbell is now on his way to give it. Gentlemen,” turning to his officers, “we must cross the river and make the attempt upon the fort at once; otherwise we will have two war vessels scattering cannon shot among us in our passage.”

The orders were quickly given; the patriot force was soon at the water’s edge, embarking in the boats which Captain Deering had collected. Small as their numbers were, the boats were too few to accommodate them, and a good quarter were forced to remain behind. The attacking party had pushed off and was already pulling toward the fort through the quickly gathering darkness, when the small, dark officer who had spoken so coolly to Lord Campbell, came hurrying along. He had been making a disposition of the companies remaining behind and now seemed destined to be left also. He dashed out waist deep in the river in an effort to catch the last galley, but too late. At that moment Tom Deering’s skiff passed slowly by; there was room for another, and Tom called eagerly:

“Climb in, captain. We’re going, too; and we’ll land you there ahead of any of them.”

With a hasty word of thanks the officer scrambled into the boat and took up a position in the bow, from which point he could see all that was going forward.

This was Tom Deering’s first meeting with Francis Marion, afterward to become the great partisan chief of the Revolution and be known to the world as the Swamp-Fox.

Within an hour the attacking party had arrived at James Island and deployed in the darkness before the walls. Marion had sprung ashore as soon as the prow of the skiff grated upon the sand; Tom and Cole were left alone, for they had touched at a point slightly further down than Colonel Moultrie’s men.

“I’m glad Uncle Dick did not cross in our skiff,” said Tom to Cole, as they drew the boat up on the sand. “Now we can look into things on our own account.”

While the militia was arranging, front and rear, for the attack, the boy and his companion were stealing through the bush that grew thickly about the walls of the fort, and wondering at the silence within. It required a half hour for Moultrie to get everything in readiness; and at last, just as he was about to give the word for the attack to begin, two figures bounded upon the walls from inside the fort; one was a handsome youth of seventeen; the other was a giant negro slave. Each waved a blazing torch above his head exultantly.

“Colonel Moultrie,” cried Tom Deering, “the place belongs to you. The British have fled to their ships.”

It was true; the creaking of blocks and the dark loom of a mainsail showed them a vessel scudding down the river. Fort Johnson had fallen without firing a shot.

CHAPTER II
HOW TOM DEERING MADE A NAME

Tom Deering and Monsieur Victor St. Mar, late of the French army, lowered the small swords and stood panting and smiling at each other, in the orchard one afternoon, not long afterward.

“You grow proficient,” said St. Mar in very good English, considering that he had been in the colonies but a few years, “your guard is excellent and your thrust, monsieur, is growing formidable.”

Praise from the French soldier was praise indeed, for he had been a master of the sword in the regiments of King Louis, among which were the greatest swordsmen in the world. He had paused for a time at Charleston on his way from New Orleans to Philadelphia; and during his stay he taught the use of his favorite weapon to the young men of the city. Tom was the youngest and most apt of his pupils; the youth’s strength, length of arm and sureness of eye made him a natural swordsman. At the French soldier’s praise he flushed with pleasure.

“I am glad, monsieur,” said he, as he wiped his brow, “that you think I am progressing. I like the practice of sword play.”

“The rapier,” said the Frenchman, “is a grand weapon—a gentleman’s weapon. I have taught many persons, and have studied the use of the cutlass, the broadsword, the pike, bayonet and dagger; but the rapier is the king of them all; with three feet of bright steel in his hand the master of the sword should fear the attack of nothing that breathes.”

He began buckling the long, slender weapons into their leather case, but paused and looked up at Tom, seriously.

“Study—practice steadily—experiment. That is the way to become a master. You have the material in you for a swordsman; but you must see to the defence—the parry—the guard. You Americans, I find, think the attack is everything. But it is not so. Study the guard. Some day you may meet a foe who has a thrust which you have never seen before. If you have not the parry to meet it your skill in attack will be like that.”

He snapped his fingers and puffed out his cheeks; then he buckled up his sword-case and took his leave with many bows.

Tom Deering had long been a good horseman, a dead-shot with rifle or pistol; but sword-practice was new to him and he threw himself into the art with all the ardor of his seventeen years. Trouble was brewing between the king and his colonies, that was evident, and he was anxious to prepare himself for the struggle, for he had firmly made up his mind that, should the dark cloud of war that he saw gathering burst, he would be one of the first to offer himself for service.

For the capture of Fort Johnson was not immediately followed by open war, as all had expected. For some reason the British did not make any movement. Lord Campbell, the governor, had fled to the Tamar, which still lay in the harbor along with the Cherokee, but, except for sending his secretary to protest he took no steps. The patriots still had a lingering hope that all might yet be well; there were many that clung to the belief that a reconciliation might yet be effected between king and colonies. The proceedings of the people of Charleston still wore, however loosely, a pacific aspect. Though actively preparing for war, they still spoke the language of loyalty, still dealt in vague assurances of devotion to the crown.

But Tom Deering was wide awake; he had a brain and he used it. The hesitation of the colonists would not last long he felt confident; and when they once cast it aside the storm would come in earnest—the sword would be drawn to be sheathed no more until the struggle was lost or won.

After St. Mar, the sword-master, had taken his departure, Tom took his customary afternoon plunge into the river, after which he was ready for a visit which he had planned. Cole brought his best horse, a powerful, intelligent looking chestnut with strong lines of speed and bottom, around to the front of the house and Tom vaulted lightly into the saddle. Cole mounted another horse, a great bay, and followed his youthful master, as was his custom. There were not many horses upon the Deering plantation capable of supporting the great weight of the giant slave for any length of time and still make speed. But the bay carried him as though he were a feather, hour after hour, sometimes, and never showed more than ordinary weariness.

Tom’s father, a tall, dignified gentleman, with the appearance more of a scholar than a planter, and bearing scarcely any resemblance to his brother, the skipper of the schooner Defence, met them on the road near the house.

“Are you going up to the city?” asked he, drawing rein.

“No, sir,” replied his son. “I’m going over to the Harwood plantation. I have not been there for some weeks.”

“You have not been there, I suppose, since the taking of Fort Johnson?”

“No, sir.”

Mr. Deering looked grave. Jasper Harwood, who owned the large plantations some eight miles from them, was his half-brother, and he knew his real character better than Tom.

“I will not forbid you to go,” said the father. “But it will be just as well if you’d stay away.”

Tom looked surprised.

“Why, father, what do you mean?”

Mr. Deering laughed.

“After the part you took in the little affair of the night of the fourteenth of September,” said he, “I don’t think your presence will be very welcome upon the Harwood plantation. I hardly think Jasper Harwood looks upon the matter from the same point of view as you, Tom.”

“Do you mean that he is a king’s man, sir,” exclaimed Tom.

“I’m sure of it,” answered his father.

“I can’t bring myself to believe it, father. He is, perhaps, like a great many others just now, reluctant to prove disloyal, but when the real time comes to act, I think you will find him as staunch for the Provincial Congress as any of us.”

Mr. Deering laughed at his son’s earnestness.

“Well, my boy, I trust you’re right, but I don’t think so. Jasper Harwood is a Tory, and will hardly take the trouble to hide it from you. So, you will not be kept long in suspense, if you are going there.”

From the time he left his father and struck across the fields and swamps toward the Harwood place, Tom was deep in thought. Perhaps his father was right. He knew that Jasper Harwood was a harsh, arrogant man, with a violent temper and a great respect for the crown; but that he would let the latter blind him to the blessings of liberty, and turn his hand and tongue against his neighbors and friends was more than Tom, boy like, could realize.

“But even if the master of the plantation himself is a king’s man, there are others there who are not,” mused the boy as he loped along, followed by Cole on the big bay. “Mark will prove true to the colony, I know. And then, there is Laura! Every throb of her heart is of indignation against British oppression. I am confident of that.”

He was still deep in thought, and they were ascending a narrow road that led to the Harwood house before Tom realized it. Suddenly Cole uttered his strange cry and touched his horse with the spur. In a moment he was beside Tom, one hand upon his shoulder, and the other pointing to a small clump of trees by the roadside near the house. A half dozen horses were tied there, and from their trappings Tom knew them to be the mounts of the king’s dragoons. A like visit to their own plantation was still vivid in his mind; its horrible result to Cole caused all sorts of dreadful fears to crowd into his mind, and with beating heart he urged his steed forward at a gallop and threw himself from its back before the door. The sound of the galloping hoofs coming up the graveled path caused a rush to the doors and windows; among a group of red-coated dragoon officers, at the top of the high stone steps leading to the door, Tom recognized the planter, Jasper Harwood. Far from being in any peril, he seemed to be very well content, having a long churchwarden pipe in his hand, and the jovial looks upon the officers’ faces caused the boy to banish his fears for his half-uncle’s safety, at least.

There seemed to be a perfect understanding between the planter and the dragoons, but as he recognized Tom, Harwood’s flush deepened into one of anger.

“Ha, Master Deering, is it?” cried he, loudly. “I thought it was a troop of horse from the way you came charging up the path.”

Tom passed the bridle over his arm, and leaning against the chestnut’s shoulder he stood looking up at the group upon the high steps of the mansion.

“I am very sorry that I startled you,” he said.

At this the dragoons burst into a roar of laughter.

“He’s sorry he startled us,” bellowed one, his face purple with glee. “By the Lord Harry, but that’s good! A snip of a boy startle a lot of king’s officers.”

Once more the laughter rang out. Tom looked at them composedly enough for a time; but suddenly his face paled, his mouth set, and an angry light began to gather in his eyes. He looked about for Cole; but the giant negro was not to be seen; and, after assuring himself of this the lad breathed a sigh of relief. For, among the officers at Jasper Harwood’s door, he recognized the lieutenant whose brutality had deprived Cole of his speech. The sight of the ruffian filled him with indignation; but he knew that it would hardly do to give vent to it at this time, so he held his peace.

“This young blade is a friend of yours, Mr. Harwood, I suppose,” spoke this officer, his voice thick and husky.

“He is from a neighboring plantation,” answered Harwood, scowling at Tom, darkly.

“Let’s have him in,” cried another. “He seems to be an excellent horseman; let’s see if he’s equally good at other things. Introduce us, I beg of you, to the youth who is good enough to fear that he startled us,” and once more they roared.

“That will, perhaps, follow in good time, gentlemen. Meanwhile, don’t let the table be idle; keep your knives and forks. I’ll join you in a few moments.”

At this hint the dragoons disappeared into the mansion, and Harwood was left alone with Tom.

“So,” said the planter, after a pause, during which his eyes had been searching Tom’s face, “you’ve come, have you?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the lad, wondering what the expression upon the man’s face meant. “I thought I’d ride over and see you all.”

“I had not thought,” sneered the Tory, “that you would have the courage to face me after what you have done.”

Tom drew himself up proudly.

“I have done nothing of which I am ashamed,” said he, quietly.

“Do you dare stand there and tell me that? Do you tell me to my face that you are not ashamed?”

“Anything that I have done I would do again,” declared the boy, boldly.

“Oh, I see,” the planter’s sneer returned. “You are saturated with the radical teachings of the mob yonder there in the city. And with your head full of their accursed doctrines you have dared to raise your hand against the king.”

“I have dared to raise my hand against a tyrant,” cried Tom, forgetting caution in his ardor for the cause. “If King George does not know how to govern a free people it’s high time he was learning.”

The Tory’s face grew dark with wrath; but before he could speak, a boy, who seemed a few years Tom’s senior, stepped through the doorway.

“Just a moment, father,” said he. “Don’t speak while you are angry; it will only create ill blood between relatives, and that should not be.”

This was Mark Harwood, the planter’s only son; he was a thick-set youth with a far from prepossessing face, and a sly manner. His father looked at him for a moment, in surprise; he must have seen something in the glance which was directed secretly at him, for he held his peace, though the anger did not die out of his face.

Mark Harwood descended the steps, with outstretched hand.

“Tom,” said he, with great cordiality in his voice, but a lurking look of craft in his eyes that the other did not like, “I’m very glad to see you.”

Tom took the offered hand.

“Thank you,” said he. “You are very good, Mark.”

“Not at all. But tie up your horse and come in; we must have you join us; as you have seen, we are entertaining some friends, rare good fellows who will be glad to meet you.”

“Thank you, Mark, but I think I had best be riding homeward.”

“I cannot permit that!” Mark took him by the shoulder in a very friendly fashion and continued, earnestly: “If we were to allow you to go now there would always be a feeling of estrangement between us; you would feel that you were not welcome here, and we should feel that we had, in an angry moment, offended you. Come, don’t let us have a mere matter of politics step in between us.”

“I’ll not, Mark.” Tom gripped the other’s hand warmly. Then he turned to the planter. “If in a moment of heat, Mr. Harwood,” he continued, “I answered you unbecomingly, I beg your pardon.”

“Say nothing more about it,” said Harwood. Tom tied his horse under the window, as he expected to remain but a few moments; he did not catch the looks that passed between father and son as he did so; if he had he would not, probably, have crossed their doorsill with so light a heart. As he followed them through the wide hallway, which ran directly through the middle of the house and contained an immense fireplace capable of accommodating great back logs that would last for weeks in the coldest winter, Tom happened to glance in at a partly open doorway. He caught sight of a beckoning finger; without hesitation he stepped aside, pushed open the door and entered. In a moment he was eagerly pounced upon by a dark-eyed girl of about his own age, or perhaps a year or so older.

“Oh, Tom,” she cried, “I am so glad to see you.”

“I thought I’d have to go away without catching a glimpse of you, Laura,” he returned. “And it was to see you, more than anything else, that I came.”

She laughed and looked pleased.

“I’m flattered, sir, I’m sure,” she said. Then her manner changed suddenly. “I wanted you to come, Tom, ever so much, so you could tell me the news of Colonel Moultrie’s taking of Fort Johnson. Uncle Jasper heard that you were there; that you were the very first over the walls.”

“Yes, I was there,” said Tom, proudly, “but Cole was first over the wall; I was second, because he reached down and pulled me over after him.”

Laura Thornton clapped her hands delightedly.

“Oh, you’re so brave, Tom; I wish I was a boy, then I, too, could do something for the cause. But they’re all Tories here—uncle, Cousin Mark and all; I dare not say a word of what I think about that hateful old King George!”

“I call that too bad,” said Tom, warmly. “A person should always be allowed to say what he thinks.”

“That’s what I say, too, but I’m afraid of Uncle Jasper, Tom; he’s so violent when he’s angry. Oh, if I could only break out on him as you did awhile ago! I stood at the window and heard it all. You were so splendid, Tom; you were not in the least bit afraid of him, were you?”

“Well, I should hope not,” said Tom.

“But don’t trust him, Tom,” she whispered, as though fearful of being overheard. “Don’t trust him or Mark, either; they both hate you, and just now I heard them talking to one of the officers whom they are entertaining; they are going to——”

Here she was interrupted by her uncle’s harsh voice, calling:

“Tom! Tom Deering, I say, where have you gotten to!”

A heavy foot sounded upon the bare, polished floor of the hall, coming toward the door of the room in which they were standing.

“He’s coming,” said Tom.

“I must tell you about the despatch,” said Laura, hurriedly, catching Tom by the arm.

“The despatch?” said he, looking at her wonderingly.

“Lieutenant Cheyne is to ride with it after dark to a point below the city; there will be a boat’s crew awaiting to carry him aboard one of the king’s ships. Oh, Tom, they intend to-morrow night to bombard Charleston!”

Tom’s face paled.

“Are you sure?” he demanded.

“I heard it from their own lips. Oh, Tom, Tom, what will the poor people do if the despatch reaches Lord Campbell’s hands?”

“It shall not reach them,” said Tom, firmly. “I’ll give my life, if need be, to prevent it.”

At this moment the door was pushed rudely open and Jasper Harwood strode into the apartment.

“Ha!” said he, angrily. “I find you here, do I! I’ve been bawling all over the place for you.”

“I saw Laura, sir,” said Tom, “and just paused for a moment to speak to her.”

“Well,” growled he, not seeming to relish this explanation in the least, “now that you have spoken with her, suppose you come into the dining-hall and not keep my guests waiting for you.”

Tom pressed Laura’s hands in hurried thanks; his glowing eyes told her how grateful he was for the information which she had just given him. In it he saw a chance to serve his country and make a name for himself at the same time.

The planter led him through the hall, into the room in which his dragoon guests were assembled. The table contained some bottles; and, as though by chance, the sword of each dragoon lay near him ready to hand.

“Ah!” said Mark Harwood, as Tom entered, at the planter’s heels. “Here you are at last!”

There was something like a sneer in his tone as he said this; the officers seemed to see a hidden meaning in them, for they laughed boisterously and hammered the table with their glasses. They made room, however, for the boy at the head of the table, as though anxious to do him honor. Cheyne, the lieutenant who had tortured Cole so barbarously, slapped him familiarly upon the shoulder.

“Now, fall to, youngster. You’re a pretty sprout of a king’s man, and a king’s man should never shirk.”

“In these times of rebellion,” said Mark Harwood reaching forward and filling a goblet, which stood upon the table before Tom, “good, loyal subjects are rare. So let us treat them well when they visit us.”

Tom Deering flashed the young Tory a rapid glance.

“Come, take your glass, my lad,” cried Cheyne.

“Yes, yes!” shouted the others, holding their own bumpers aloft, and laughing expectantly.

“Pardon, gentlemen,” said the soft voice of Mark Harwood. “I was about to propose a toast!”

“A toast! A toast!” The dragoons sprang to their feet as one man, glasses in hand. Tom knew by the sudden malice of his Tory cousin’s look that it was for this that he had been invited into the dining-hall. Something was about to occur—something by which he was to be humiliated before these British soldiers. But with flashing eyes he, too, arose and faced the Tory. Mark raised his glass.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “I give you the king.”

“The king!” they shouted and were about to drain their goblets when Cheyne stayed them.

“One moment,” requested he. “Our young friend here does not seem disposed to honor the toast.”

Angry looks came from all sides. The sly, oily voice of Mark Harwood reached Tom’s ears.

“You mistake, gentlemen,” said Mark. “Of course he will join us.”

By his look Mark was daring Tom to refuse; like a flash the latter saw the plan and his cheeks flushed with resentment. The young Tory thought he would be afraid to refuse. In the glance that Tom had darted about the room a few moments before he saw Laura, unnoticed, standing with frightened face in the doorway; come what may he would not be humiliated before her, above all others.

“The toast!” cried the dragoons, eagerly, all their eyes fixed upon him with threatening looks.

“Very well, gentlemen.” Tom quietly put down the glass and took up a goblet of water. “I will drink a toast with you.”

“Of course he will,” laughed Jasper Harwood, his hard face glowing with triumph at what he took to be an exhibition of cowardice.

“I never had the slightest doubt of it,” sneered Mark.

“Yes, gentlemen, I will give you a toast that any honest man can drink.” He looked about at the expectant British officers and then at the sneering Tories; his voice was steady, his hand never trembled. “I give you the Provincial Congress!” Amid dead silence he lifted the cool water to his lips and took a sip; then he threw the glass into the middle of the table, where it smashed into a hundred pieces, as he shouted, “Down with the king!”

The dragoons grasped their sabres, but he was through the door, out at a window and upon his horse’s back before they could act. They crowded through the front door and ran along the path toward the place where their horses were; but Tom was already out upon the road waving his hat at them defiantly. Wheeling his fleet steed he dashed down the narrow road, then suddenly pulled up with a cry of delight. Almost directly in his path was Cole, a wide grin upon his ebony face; upon a long rope he had the dragoons’ horses, and at the word was ready to make off with them. The British officers discovered their loss almost at the same moment, and they ran down the rough road, brandishing their sabres and shouting a volley of most dreadful threats.

“We’ll take them along with us, Cole,” said Tom, laughing. “Lord Campbell can get another supply, but Colonel Moultrie would appreciate them very much.”

So, despite the threats that rang in his ears, Tom Deering rode gaily away behind his first capture from the enemy. Seeing that he had no intention of surrendering their mounts, the dragoons soon gave up the chase and returned in no very sweet tempers to the mansion of their Tory host.

Late that night, Lieutenant Gordon Cheyne, of Tarleton’s Dragoons, rode slowly, upon a borrowed horse, along a deserted road in the neighborhood of Charleston. Suddenly, as he turned a bend, and just at a place where the woods grew thick upon each side of the road, a horseman rode into his path and presented a pistol at his head.

“Stand!” ordered the newcomer.

“What do you want?” demanded the lieutenant, pulling up suddenly.

“Your despatches.”

Cheyne started, and his hand crept toward his holster.

“Make no movement toward a weapon,” said the horseman. “Give me the despatches, and give me them quickly.”

With a cry Cheyne drew a packet from his breast and threw it at the horseman. The latter caught it deftly and stuffed it into his boot leg.

“Now,” said he, “about face and return to those who sent you.” The officer of dragoons wheeled and set off, in a fury, down the road. “And tell them,” called the horseman after him, “that the Provincial Congress has a thousand eyes.”

CHAPTER III
HOW THE BRITISH SHIPS RAN FROM CHARLESTON HARBOR

On the 9th of November, which was but a few days previous to Tom Deering’s adventure with the British, the Provincial Congress of South Carolina resolved “by every military operation to oppose the passage of any British armament”; and this order was issued to the commandant at Fort Johnson, Colonel Moultrie. The fort itself was strengthened, more men were enlisted, and bills of credit were issued. The blow for which all had been waiting seemed now about to be struck; the redcoats and patriots were about to grapple in that fierce struggle which was to last eight long years and set a continent free.

Colonel Moultrie had taken up his headquarters at Haddrill’s Point, which was being fortified; it was here that the training of his men was going forward, and the place had the appearance of quite a formidable camp.

The eastern sky was beginning to gray under the hand of approaching morning, when the sentinel on guard at the upper road caught the sound of flying hoofs rapidly approaching him. His musket quickly came around and he stood ready to receive friend or foe.

“Halt!” he cried.

The galloping horse was pulled up so quickly as to almost throw him back upon his haunches.

“Who goes there?” demanded the sentry.

“A friend,” came the voice of Tom Deering.

“Advance, friend, with the countersign.”

Tom walked his snorting horse forward.

“I have not received the countersign,” said he. “But I have urgent business with Colonel Moultrie, and must see him at once.”

“Against orders,” said the sentry. “I’ll call out the sergeant of the guard, though, and leave him to settle it with you.”

In a few moments the sergeant had presented himself. Tom was led forward into the light of a camp-fire, where the sergeant carefully questioned him.

“I can answer no questions,” said the boy, “unless asked by Colonel Moultrie or——”

“Captain Marion, perhaps,” said a voice behind him.

Tom turned quickly; within a foot of him was the small, dark officer with the aquiline nose and the burning black eyes, whom he had carried across the river in his skiff on the night when Fort Johnson was taken.

Francis Marion was, at this time, past his fortieth year. He had been a planter, his only previous military experience having been in the war with the Cherokees some years before; in this he had gained some fame as a leader of a “forlorn hope” at the battle of Etchoee, in which the Carolinians had defeated the French and Indians. Then he had been a lieutenant in the regiment of Middleton. Colonel Moultrie, who was in command of the patriot forces, had been captain of the company in which Marion served at that time.

“So,” said Marion, “you would like to see Colonel Moultrie, would you, my lad?”

Tom, holding the bridle of his horse with one hand, raised the other in salute.

“Yes, captain,” answered he promptly.

“Well,” said Marion, “I owe you something for your service that night on the river.” He laughed lightly. “You see, I have not forgotten it; nor have I forgotten the fact that you, single handed and alone, captured a fortified position.”

Captain Marion was pleased to regard Tom’s errand lightly, it seemed; a boy must always prove that his doings are worth the consideration of his elders. In spite of the fact that he recognized in Tom Deering no ordinary lad, Marion could not accept his word that his business with Colonel Moultrie was not some hair brained freak. Tom saw all this in the dark, smiling face of the soldier before him; and he recognized the fact that he must come down to plain dealing and take him into the matter before he could hope to see the colonel.

“Captain Marion,” said Tom, with a glance at the sergeant and his file of listening men, “can I have a word in private with you?”

Still smiling, Marion led the boy a little way apart, but well out of earshot.

“Now,” said he, “tell me all about it.”

“Would you consider it a serious matter,” asked Tom, looking him candidly in the eye, “if the British ships came up and bombarded the city in the night?”

Marion’s face grew grave, and he glanced keenly at the boy’s intent face, an alert look stealing into his eyes.

“I would consider it very serious,” said he, in reply, his voice sober and low.

“There is to be such an attack to-night,” said Tom. He drew the captured despatches from his boot leg, and held them out. “This packet I took from an officer of Tarleton’s dragoons two hours ago, some distance below here.”

“Have you examined them?”

“I have, in order to make sure that I was not at fault. I did not wish to come here with nothing to substantiate my statement.”

Marion took the packet and glanced hurriedly through the papers. After a moment’s examination he said, quietly:

“Come with me.”

Within a quarter of an hour a dozen officers were gathered in Colonel Moultrie’s cabin in the center of the encampment. The captured papers were before them; Tom Deering stood at the table answering the questions with which they plied him.

“This attempt seems mere madness,” said Colonel Moultrie, at length. “How do they hope to get their vessels past the fortified points without danger of being destroyed?”

MARION TOOK THE PACKET

This seemed to be the general opinion of the council; but Marion, who happened to glance at Tom at that moment, saw an eager light in his eyes.

“Speak out, lad,” said he, kindly. “If you have anything to say upon this question I have no doubt but that Colonel Moultrie will be glad to hear it.”

“Of course,” said the colonel. “You have done us too great a service already, my boy, for us to refuse to listen to you.”

“I just wanted to say, sir,” exclaimed Tom, eagerly, “that the British ships can get up to the city, and without the slightest danger to themselves.”

The colonel looked startled.

“You are sure of what you say?” he demanded.

“I am positive. They can come up by way of Hog-Island channel.”

“But that is not deep enough for their heavy vessels,” cried an officer.

“At high water,” said Tom Deering, calmly, “there is water enough to float the largest ship in their fleet, providing they have a man at the wheel who knows the course. I have come through the channel many a time with my uncle, Captain Deering, of the schooner Defence.”

This information set the council in a state of great excitement; Tom was thanked over and over for what he had done.

“You have, without doubt,” said Colonel Moultrie, “saved us from making a fatal mistake.”

Before the sun was three hours high a plan of action had been formulated and was in progress of execution. Captain Deering was summoned in hot haste from his schooner, which lay in the river, and ordered to cover and protect a party detailed to sink a number of stone-laden hulks in the narrow Hog-Island channel. The Defence, some weeks before, had been fitted up with carronades and a long thirty pounder cannon, and she was just the ready, quick-sailing craft for the work.

By early afternoon the hulks were being floated into the channel, the Defence hovering about them like a great bird watching over its young. The work had scarcely begun, however, when the British lookouts discovered it, and the Tamar bore down upon the hulks, firing from her bow guns as she came. The Cherokee was only a little behind her sister craft in promptness of action, and opened with her lighter guns, also. The Defence answered with her carronades, but their range was not great enough, and she did but little damage; the guns from Fort Johnson opened; a few shots were effective; but the firing was discontinued as soon as the British war-ships showed signs of hesitation. Meanwhile the alarm was beat at Charleston, where the troops stood to their arms. But the time was not yet; the Tamar and Cherokee, seeing that they could not frighten the blockading party off, went about and retreated beyond range.

From this time on the local patriots began to proceed vigorously. Ships were impressed and armed like the Defence, and they were badly needed, for the British in the harbor became more and more troublesome. Captain Thornborough, the officer in command of them, began to seize all vessels within his reach, entering or coming out of the port.

Of the newly-gathered fleet of the Americans Captain Deering was placed in charge. Heavy artillery was mounted on Haddrill’s Point and the work of fortification at the same place was hurriedly completed. A new fort was raised on Jones’ Island and another one begun on Sullivan’s Island, some distance below the city; the volunteers were constantly coming in, swelling the ranks of the patriots both ashore and afloat. Among these latter was Tom Deering’s father; the planter armed a small sloop and manned it with a crew of slaves, who gladly offered to follow him against the British.

But Tom, to his father’s surprise, refused to join him.

“Is it possible, Tom,” demanded he, sternly, on the morning upon which he formally took charge of the sloop as an officer of the colony, “that you have suddenly grown faint-hearted?”

“Faint-hearted! I!” Tom looked at his father reproachfully. “You don’t think that, father, surely! Have I not done some service, already, for the cause of liberty?—not much, of course, but still, enough to prove that I am ready to go to any length against oppression.”

“You have done some things,” said Mr. Deering, his eyes alight with pride, “that have made me thank the good God who had given me such a son. But,” and his face grew grave once more, “it seems strange that you will not enter the service of the colony, now that she needs you.”

“I have thought the matter over very carefully,” answered Tom, “and have concluded that I shall be better as I am.”

“Tom!” his father’s face grew white. “What do you mean?”

“If I enlist,” returned Tom, “I shall be forced to march in the ranks and obey orders. If I remain free, I can do as I will; and by so doing I can render much more effective service. Those despatches which I captured are not the only ones that will be carried through the outlying districts under the cover of night; there is information to be gained of the enemy’s movements and plans, by one who knows the roads, the cane-brakes and swamps, and has the courage to dare the British dragoons. This is the work that I have laid out for myself, father, in this fight. And this is the work, I think, that I can best do.”

“Tom!” The planter clasped his hand and threw one arm about him; “forgive me for what I have said. I might have known, my lad—I might have known.”

The whole of the long winter and spring passed; the British had all retreated to their ships; while the colonists were deeply absorbed in preparations for the defence of the city. Inland, parties of loyalists, or Tories, had risen and were slaying and burning, but their ravages were confined to a small district as yet. Jasper Harwood, Tom’s half-uncle, and his son Mark, were at the head of a band of these partisans, and they were carrying terror wherever they went. Moultrie sent small parties in pursuit, now and then; but these only served to check the outrages for a space; when the patriots once more returned to the city the slaying and burnings were at once renewed.

Tom did splendid service against these desperate bands. In company with Cole, his giant servant, he penetrated very frequently into their districts, and often gained information that saved both lives and property. During this time, Marion, now a major, was in command of the depot of supplies at Dorchester and it was with his small force that Tom was most frequently in touch. In this way he came to realize the genius and resolution of this small, kindly man with the burning, deep-set, black eyes; for at no time was he unready to spring into the saddle and dash at the head of his men to the rescue of some imperiled section; at no time was his invention at fault for a plan of onset or ambush.

But the constant rumors of the coming of a strong fleet to reinforce the Cherokee and Tamar caused Marion to ask for a change of post to Charleston, where he would be more actively engaged. This was granted him; he was once more appointed to the Second Regiment under Colonel Moultrie and stationed at Fort Sullivan, on the island of that name which stands at the entrance to Charleston harbor and within point-blank shot of the channel. Tom, during the long months at Dorchester had become devoted to Marion and this, together with the expectation of a battle, caused him to follow him to Fort Sullivan—or Fort Moultrie as it was then called, in honor of its commandant.

Tom helped to build the fort; for when he arrived there it was scarcely more than an outline. It was constructed of palmetto logs, a simple square, with a bastion at each angle, sufficient to cover a thousand men. The logs were laid one upon another in parallel rows, at a distance of sixteen feet, bound together with heavier timbers which were dovetailed and bolted into the logs. The work of constructing this fort was a good preparatory lesson for the great conflict that was to follow. Tom grew brown and tough and sinewy with the long days of labor in the sun; the wonderful strength of Cole, the dumb-slave, was a constant source of astonishment to both officers and men; to the amazement of all he would lift, unaided, a great piece of massy timber to crown an embrasure and set it in place, or, when horses were scarce, go down on the beach and drag the ponderous tree trunks from the water. At sight of the open-eyed astonishment of those about him he would throw back his head, his white teeth shining in two even rows, and laugh with the perfect glee of a child.

In spite of the incessant labor of the soldiers the fort was still unfinished when the recently arrived and powerful British fleet appeared before its walls. Colonel Moultrie’s force consisted of four hundred and thirty-five men, rank and file, comprising four hundred and thirteen of the Second Regiment, and twenty-two of the Fourth Artillery. The fort at this time mounted thirty-one guns; nine were French twenty-sixes; six, English eighteens; the remainder were twelve and nine pounders.

The day before the British hove in sight, Tom Deering was witness to an exciting scene which took place between General Charles Lee, whom the Continental Congress at Philadelphia had recently sent to take command of the Army of the South, and Colonel Moultrie. The two officers were standing upon a bastion, looking seaward; Tom and Cole were bolting some timbers together, near at hand.

“It is madness to attempt a defence of this point,” said General Lee. “The fleet is even now in the roadstead and the works, here, are far from being finished.”

“I disagree with you, general,” returned Colonel Moultrie.

“But, Colonel Moultrie,” cried General Lee, not seeming to relish having his opinion so candidly opposed, “how are you going to defend yourself?”

“With the guns of the fort,” said the colonel; “and the brave men who will be behind them.”

“All very well, my dear sir, if it were Frenchmen or Spaniards who manned the attacking fleet; but they are British ships, sir! British ships, and sailed by British tars!”

General Charles Lee had been trained in the English army, and he had, perhaps, naturally enough, an overweening respect for the prowess of an English fleet. It is fortunate that this feeling of awe was not shared by Colonel Moultrie and his men.

“Let them once get within range of my heavy guns,” said the colonel, “and it will make no difference as to what nation they belong. We shall make them run from Charleston harbor, just the same.”

“Your fort presents, at present, little more than a front to the sea,” protested General Lee. “Once let them get into the position for enfilading and you cannot maintain your position.”

“I will risk it,” said Colonel Moultrie. His officers were with him in this; and Lee’s authority was not great enough to force them to evacuate their position against their will.

On the 20th day of June, 1776, the British ships of war, nine in number, and consisting of two vessels of fifty guns, five of twenty-eight, one of twenty-six, and a small bomb-vessel, sailed up the harbor under the able command of Sir Peter Parker. They drew abreast of the fort, let go their anchors with springs upon their cables, and began a terrible bombardment. They strove, after a time, to gain a position for the destructive enfilading fire which General Lee so feared; but the Defence, the Tartar sloop, commanded by Tom’s father, and several other small vessels, came down boldly and maintained such a stubborn resistance, that Sir Peter quickly displayed signals ordering the attempt to be abandoned.

Fort Moultrie at the beginning of the fight had but five thousand pounds of powder; this small supply had to be used with great care.

“Not a shot must be wasted,” cried Colonel Moultrie; “every one must do execution. Let each officer in command of a gun aim it in person.”

This command was obeyed, and its results were frightfully fatal to the British and their ships. In the battle the Bristol, Sir Peter’s flag-ship, lost forty killed and wounded; Sir Peter himself lost one of his arms; the Experiment, another fifty gun vessel, lost about twice as many. The fire of the fort was directed mainly at the heavy craft. Tom Deering, as he toiled with rammer and sponge at one of the French twenty-six pounders, of which Marion had charge, heard that little officer constantly call to his brother gunners:

“Look to the Commodore—look to the heavy ships; they can do us most damage!”

In the heat of the action the Acteon, one of the smaller of the enemy’s ships, being hard pressed by the Defence and Tartar, ran aground and immediately took fire. At this point the British Commodore would have been forced to strike his colors, or be destroyed, but suddenly the powder ran out and the fire of the fort slackened and finally ceased altogether.

Struck with astonishment at this the British also ceased their fire, thinking the fort had been abandoned.

“We must secure ammunition,” cried Colonel Moultrie, his face ashen. Here was victory all but in his grasp, and to have to give it up would be almost fatal in its effect upon his men.

“The schooner Defence has a large supply,” said Marion, to his commander, as he wiped the black powder stains from his face.

“But she is nowhere in sight,” said Moultrie, sweeping the harbor with his glass.

Tom stepped forward, his hand at the salute.

“Well,” demanded the colonel.

“I saw the Defence chased into Stone Gap Creek awhile ago,” stated the lad eagerly. “She is safe, though, for see,” and he pointed shoreward, “there are her topmasts above the trees.”

“Good,” exclaimed Marion, his face lighting up.

“But how can we reach her? The enemy’s vessels will not allow her to come out,” said the colonel.

“We can go to her,” ventured Tom, hesitatingly, for it seemed presumptuous for him to offer a suggestion to his commander. “The Tartar is lying under the guns of the fort. We could reach the Defence in her. The British could not follow us up the creek; they draw too much water.”

The ammunition that remained on board the Tartar, save a few rounds, Tom’s father gladly gave up to Colonel Moultrie, and a few guns resumed service from the fort, but firing slowly. Under mainsail and jib the gallant little sloop then stood out, in the teeth of the British, heading for the creek where the Defence was lying. Major Marion, Tom Deering and Cole stood upon her deck, watching a brig-of-war which had just started to head them off.

“She’s a fast sailer,” said Mr. Deering, a shade passing over his face, after he had watched the quality of their pursuer for a few moments.

“Do you think she can overhaul us?” asked Major Marion.

“There is no question about it,” returned the planter, “if she is given time enough. But the distance to the creek is short; we may reach there. Then, with the help of the Defence, we can fight her off on the return run.”

The Tartar had arrived within hailing distance of the mouth of the creek, when the brig suddenly discharged a lucky shot from a long bow gun that splintered the sloop’s mast and left her lying a helpless hulk upon the waters.

“It’s all over,” said Marion, quietly.

“The boat remains,” said Mr. Deering. “Quick. You have still time to gain the Defence.”

“And you, father?” said Tom.

“I remain with the sloop,” answered the planter.

“But you will be taken prisoner!”

“I will not leave my crew,” said his father, firmly. “There is not room for us all in the single yawl.”

“Then I will remain, also,” said Tom.

“You will join Major Marion in the boat,” commanded the planter, evenly. “Carolina has need of all her youth. It would be a needless sacrifice for you to throw yourself into the hands of her enemies.”

Despite the boy’s protests, his father remained firm; so with a heavy heart Tom climbed into the boat with Marion. Cole would have remained behind with his master; but the planter, who recognized the great attachment of the giant black to his son, and saw how valuable he would be during these dangerous times, promptly ordered him, also, into the yawl.

They were just pulling into Stone Gap when a small boat with an armed crew left the British brig and pulled for the wrecked Tartar. So it happened that Roger Deering was one of the first prisoners of war taken in Carolina.

Apparently the British skipper did not realize the significance of the sloop’s errand; for after taking her crew from her she set fire to the hull and sailed back to rejoin the other vessels in the line of battle.

An hour later the Defence crept out of Stone Gap Creek and headed for Fort Moultrie. She was a swift sailer, and the old salt who commanded her knew how to make her do her best. So, in spite of pursuit and flying shot, she anchored under the guns of the fort and quickly transferred her powder. The British, during the protracted lull in the fort’s fire, had drawn closer; but now, under the brisk and accurate cannonade they withdrew again to their first position. The fight then continued, hotter than ever; shortly afterward the fort received another supply of powder from the city, which did much to encourage the defenders.

The cheers, however, that greeted the arrival of the ammunition had scarcely died away when a distant roar of voices raised in exultation came from the British fleet.

“Look; the flag,” cried some one.

A solid shot from one of the flag-ship’s heavy guns had carried away the flag and it fell, fluttering like a wounded bird, outside the walls of the fort. In an instant Tom Deering, who was once more helping to serve the gun, threw his rammer to Cole and leaped upon the wall. A storm of canister swept about him and a hundred voices shouted for him to return; but, without hesitation he leaped to the sandy beach below, between the ramparts and the enemy, seized the fallen colors, stuffed them into his bosom and then with the help of the mighty, outstretched arm of Cole, scrambled back inside.

Again the flag was run up to the top of the staff, by means of fresh halyards; the sight of it seemed to give the colonists renewed courage, for they turned to the conflict with a resolution that was unconquerable. The British ships were fast becoming mere wrecks, so seeing that a continuation of the combat would be mere folly, the signal flags were flown at the masthead of Commodore Parker’s vessel to cease firing. Ten minutes afterward a fleet of ships, with sails hanging from the rigging in shot-rent rags, and with hulls battered, leaking and torn with canister, ran out of Charleston harbor in disorder.

“They carry your father with them, a prisoner,” said Major Marion, to Tom Deering, as they leaned, watching, upon a hot gun.

“But they shall not keep him,” cried the lad, “to die in their prison hulks! He shall be free! I am only a boy; but the whole British navy shall not keep me from him. It may be a month, a year, or even more, but he shall be free in spite of all the fleets and armies they can send!”

CHAPTER IV
HOW TWO MEN BURIED A CHEST OF GOLD

The battle of Fort Moultrie was of immense importance to all the confederated states. It happened before the Declaration of Independence was passed at Philadelphia. Because of the slowness of travel in those days the news did not become known in the capital city and other points of the north for a month or more afterward; but it served to strengthen the patriots in their cause, and that went for much in that dark hour of doubt.

For three years the British made no further attempt to invade Carolina.

During this time Tom Deering saw service against the Cherokees and Tories; but the greater part of his time was devoted to trying to find his father. He and Cole used every means in their power to find where the planter had been taken; more than once they assumed the characters of loyalists, when they saw a British ship standing in near shore, and with a boat-load of fresh vegetables they would pull or sail out to her under pretence of desiring to sell the things to the officers. But all their questioning upon these and other occasions went for nothing; no trace was to be had of his father. But Tom was not disheartened; the finding of his father was to be his task, and he persisted in it day after day, week after week; wherever there promised to be a shred of information, there he rode, sailed or walked. But not once in the entire three years did he gain a single clue.

Then, suddenly, came the surprise of General Howe at Savannah; the Americans were dispersed and the city fell into the hands of the British. Ten thousand picked troops under Sir Henry Clinton sailed from New York upon Charleston, bringing a train of heavy artillery. Six weeks after the city was invested it fell, and four thousand men were taken prisoners; the command of the British then was given to Lord Cornwallis, and at once the entire colony began to feel the gross abuse of power and wanton tyrannies with which that officer soiled his name.

Tom Deering, between his marches in the Cherokee and Tory countries had found much time to attend to the plantation. Nothing had been heard of his father since the day the boat’s crew of the brig-of-war took him from the wrecked sloop, so the whole care of the extensive estate now fell upon the boy.

Tom’s mother had died when he was but a child, and he had no brothers or sisters. The only relatives he knew of, in the wide world, other than Captain Deering were the Harwoods, and these, of course, he never saw, as they had not ventured into the neighborhood of Charleston since once taking arms against their neighbors. Tom was now a stalwart, bronzed youth of about nineteen; hard riding had developed him wonderfully in body and constant danger had given him that calm, steady, tried courage that is a soldier’s best gift.

The Deering mansion was crowded with many objects of value in the way of plate, pictures and antique carvings, of which his father had been a tireless collector. Upon looking over the books of the plantation one day, Tom discovered that there was also about four thousand pounds in gold in the house, his father having drawn all his money out of the banks at the first sign of trouble between the colony and Great Britain. This was a very large sum and its possession troubled the boy not a little. The money was locked up in a heavy oaken chest in his father’s private room; and when the news reached him that Sir Henry Clinton was in the outer roadstead, he set about finding a hiding-place for it, his judgment telling him that the city was in danger.

He and Cole opened the chest one night; the broad gold pieces, mostly Spanish, were tied up in stout bags.

“If the enemy storm and demolish Fort Moultrie,” said Tom, as he looked reflectively at the bags, “they will be very keen after hard money to pay off their men and obtain fresh supplies. So they would not hesitate a moment in seizing upon this if they chanced upon it.”

The hiding-place must be a secret known only to themselves; the slaves upon the plantation could be trusted to the last one; but if the dragoons of Tarleton suspected the presence of treasure upon the place, they would terrorize the negroes by threats of torture and compel them to tell where it was hidden.

Some distance from the house, in the middle of an orchard, was an old well, the waters of which were used in dry weather to keep the young trees in good condition. As a small boy Tom had often lowered himself into its dark depths in a spirit of exploration; and now, as he cast his mind about for a safe place to conceal the gold, the well occurred to him.

“I have it, Cole,” exclaimed he, cheerfully. “The old well in the orchard is the place; about half-way down, a large stone fell out a long time ago, and behind the bed where the stone lay we can dig out a hole large enough to contain all the money.”

Cole nodded delightedly; in his opinion it was just the thing. So out they went, at a side door at the upper end of the house to prepare the hiding-place. Cole carried a long rope, for Tom decided not to trust his weight to the well rope, which was old and very likely rotten; they also had a masked lantern, a short iron bar and a small spade.

“We must be careful and not be seen,” said Tom, as they picked their way through the garden. “The Tories are drawing in close, at the expectation of a British victory; and if one of them saw us prowling about in the darkness he would suspect something at once.”

They reached the well in a very few minutes, and he at once set to work to descend. Cole formed a sling at one end of the rope and passed it about Tom’s body. The boy had the masked lantern fastened to his belt; the spade and bar were lying upon the low curb of the well; he was just about to swing himself down into the black hole when suddenly there came a low, sullen shock as of distant thunder, followed by another and another. The eyes of the boy and the giant went instantly in the direction of the harbor; a flare of light ran along the sky, and immediately vanished.

“The British!” said Tom. “That was their big guns that spoke; and they are firing rockets, too. They mean to attack the fort in the darkness. We are none too soon, Cole; for there is no knowing what will happen now.”

Cole’s strong arms lowered him slowly into the well, and he soon found the place he sought. A large and almost square stone had fallen out and behind where it had lain in the lining of the shaft the earth could be seen. Tom carefully pried out some few other and smaller stones with the bar; these he passed up to Cole, after which he set to work with the spade to dig an aperture sufficiently large to hold the sacks of gold.

As he worked he could hear the steady growl of the distant guns; above his head he could see but a small, round spot in the sky through the shaft of the well; and every little while this small, round spot would be lit up by a sudden glare of rockets sent hissing into the heavens as signals to the captains of the attacking fleet.

In about half an hour Tom’s task was completed. Cole was signaled and hauled him out of the well.

“Now,” said Tom, “let’s get the bags down. It will be daybreak, almost, when we finish with this matter; and we want to be done with it before any of the hands are stirring.”

When they reached Mr. Deering’s office, Tom was about to open the chest once more and take the bags out for transportation to the orchard. But a gesture from Cole stopped him. With an ease that made even Tom’s eyes open in wonder, and the lad was accustomed to Cole’s exhibitions of tremendous strength, the giant slave hoisted the chest upon his back, and motioned to his master to go before him and open the doors. It was a dead weight and sufficient to crush an ordinary man; but Cole carried it downstairs, through the wide hall, out into the garden, and thence to the orchard, where he lowered it to the ground with scarcely a labored breath.

“Cole,” said Tom Deering in astonishment, “I believe you are a second cousin to an elephant! You’re growing stronger every day!”

The great slave grinned; he took a childish pleasure in his enormous power, and it made him happy when notice was taken of it by Tom, or his father. The sacks were now taken out of the chest, and once more the lad was swung down into the well, carrying several of them in his arms. Quite a number of trips were necessary before the gold was all stored in the hollow behind the stones.

“Now,” said Tom, “we must block up the opening. It will not do to allow it to remain as it is.”

Some lime was procured from a barrel in the negro quarters, slacked and quickly mixed with sand and water.

“It’s not very good mortar,” remarked Tom, “but it will have to answer, as it’s the best we can do.”

The stones that had been removed were replaced in the side of the well, and another was procured to replace the one that had fallen out; then all were cemented firmly in place, and all trace of the work destroyed. After they had finished, Tom breathed a sigh of relief.

“Good,” said he. “It will take a sharp eye to discover that, I fancy. It is secure there until the times grow settled and father is released on parole or exchanged.”

They had reached the side door, at the upper end of the house, carrying the chest between them, and were just about to go in, when Tom suddenly laid his hand warningly upon the big slave’s shoulder.

“Don’t move,” whispered he. “Listen!”

They stood as silent as graven images. The soft “pit-pat” of cautious footsteps was approaching, down a narrow path between two high screens of hedge. The shadows by the doorway lay deep and black, but the path leading to it was flooded by moonlight. A night bird flew by, overhead, crying harshly and sharply in the stillness. The footfalls had now ceased, but there immediately followed a rustling in the hedge. The next moment the stiff growth parted and a face was thrust through—a pale, sly looking face with narrow eyes and a crafty expression. It was that of Mark Harwood!

The shadow was too deep about the doorway for the prowling Tory to see our friends, however; he remained glancing here and there for a moment, then his head was withdrawn and his soft footfalls once more fell upon the listener’s ears.

For a moment Tom had been startled; he had thought that the Tory had been watching their labors, and that the whereabouts of the treasure was known. But a moment’s reflection convinced him that this could not be so. Mark had approached the house from an entirely different direction, and was apparently endeavoring to find out if any one was astir.

Assured that the hiding-place of his father’s money was not known to Mark, Tom at once conceived the notion of playing the Tory a trick.

“Cole,” he whispered, “did you hear any other footsteps than his?”

Cole shook his head.

“He must be alone,” said Tom. “Perhaps he has come out ahead of his father’s band of thieving loyalists to look the ground over. They always did envy my father his prosperity, Cole, and now they think they’ll have a chance to rob him, seeing that the British are near at hand.”

While he spoke, Tom was thinking of another matter; suddenly he clapped the negro on the back and laughed low and gleefully.

“I have a plan,” said he, eagerly. “We’ll fool them; we’ll let them think they have the matter in their own hands. Now, do just what I tell you, and don’t hesitate.”

Mark had stolen off around a corner of the house, and his footsteps had died away. Tom unlocked the door at which they were standing, opened it wide and suddenly clapped it shut with a resounding slam. Cole started in surprise, but Tom reassured him.

“Take hold of the handle of the chest,” whispered the lad, “and act as though it were very heavy. We’ll lug it to the maize field just below the quarters.”

Cole took hold of the chest, and they bore it along through the garden, around the house, over a low wall and through the silent street of the negro quarters. As they went, Tom glanced over his shoulder now and then, while they passed through a deep shadow, and at last he was rewarded by seeing the skulking figure of Mark Harwood, creeping along in the shadow of a fence, behind them. As Tom had expected, the loud closing of the door had attracted him; and when he saw the young patriot and his servant carrying a chest in a secretive fashion, and in the dark of the very early morning, he eagerly followed them.

When Tom and Cole reached the maize field they put the chest down at a fence corner. The crown of Mark Harwood’s wide wool hat was plainly visible to Tom’s watchful eyes, sticking above a bush behind which he was crouching. Tom was careful not to let the spying Tory know that he was observed; and in a voice that he knew would reach the listener, he said to Cole:

“This will be a good place to bury it. It won’t do to let all this gold lie around now when there is danger of the enemy coming. We’ll bury it here and make a note of the spot; when everything is quiet again, and the Tories gone, we can dig it up once more.”

Cole greeted these words with a long stare of surprise; Tom was afraid that he did not understand his words; but, no, it was the situation that puzzled Cole. But he had heard the skulking footsteps behind them as they had lugged the empty chest down to the maize field, and putting one thing and another together, the whole thing suddenly dawned upon him; and he burst into a ringing laugh that split the silence like a knife.

Tom grasped his arm in pretended alarm, and covered his mouth with his hand.

“Hush!” warned he, for the benefit of the crouching Tory. “Somebody may hear you. And it won’t do to have what we are about to do, overseen. Keep quiet, now, and go to work.”

Cole took up the spade which they had brought with them, and set to work in the fence corner, turning up the ground. Tom found a mattock which a careless hand had left in the field overnight, and proceeded to lend vigorous aid. The Tory crouched behind the bush, eagerly watching; Cole, as he worked, was so convulsed that his great shoulders shook, and his eyes gleamed with enjoyment in the moonlight.

At length they had the hole sufficiently large; with much burlesque effort they dragged the chest into it, and proceeded to throw back and stamp down the earth. Tom wiped his brow after the job was finished, and Cole followed suit.

“There we are,” said the boy. “Nobody will ever know that is there. The maize will soon grow over the spot, and it will never be noticed.”

They took up spade and mattock, and silently set off for the house; behind them still crouched Mark Harwood, an expression of malignant triumph upon his cold, sly face.

“It’s safe, is it, Tom Deering?” he muttered, below his breath. “That’s all you know about it. Sir Henry Clinton will soon be master of all about here, and father and I will be masters of the Deering plantation. Then we shall see if your chest of gold is safe, or no.” And with a low laugh, he shook his fist after the two retreating forms; then he turned and cut swiftly across the fields, for day was coming fast and it would not do for him to be observed.

CHAPTER V
HOW TOM JOINED MARION’S BRIGADE

Within a week after Tom had hidden his father’s four thousand pounds in the old well Charleston had capitulated, and the army of General Lincoln was in the hands of the British. The dragoons of Lieutenant-Colonel Tarleton overran the whole district between the city and the Cooper River; the patriot bands were broken up and scattered in every direction.

In spite of the peril Tom could scarcely bring himself to leave the city and its neighborhood. It seemed like deserting his task, like seeking safety for himself and leaving his father to his fate. “He may be on board one of those war-ships, Cole,” said he to the slave, as they sat in their saddles prepared to leave the plantation. “It cuts me to the heart to go; but to remain means certain capture, and as a prisoner I could, of course, do nothing. I’ll go,” and he held up his clinched hand as though making a vow, “but I’ll return again. I’ll never rest content till my father breathes free air again.”

For a time South Carolina seemed doomed; defeat followed defeat so rapidly that the hopes of the colonists were paralyzed, their spirits subdued. Moultrie, who might have led them, was a prisoner of war; Governor Rutledge had withdrawn to the North State to stir up the people, and win over recruits to the cause of liberty; even Sumpter, Horry and like bold spirits had to fly for their lives.

During the siege of Charleston, Francis Marion had lain with a broken leg in a little cabin far back in the swamps of the Santee district. Before the arrival of Clinton and his army, the little Huguenot had met with an accident which prevented his taking part in the defence of the city. Now, when Tarleton and his men, and the harsh troopers of Cornwallis, were scouring the country all about, he was still confined to his couch. He was too conspicuous a person, his military talents had been too well proven, for the enemy to have forgotten him. So his only safety was in hiding and watching and waiting for his hour to strike.

It was just the luck of Tom Deering and Cole, after escaping from Charleston, to be pushing through a cane-brake on their way north one afternoon when dusk was about to creep out of the east. The section was well known to the boy and his servant, for they had ridden over it many times in pursuit of Tories during the period after the victory at Sullivan’s Island. Suddenly a series of shots rang out, followed by a woman’s scream; with one accord our friends spurred forward, their powerful animals crashing through the growth in long, swift bounds. In a few moments they had gained a clearing, in the middle of which stood a small cabin. The figure of a man lay before the door and a sobbing woman bent over him. A riderless horse was cropping the grass near at hand and a British soldier, desperately wounded, sat propped against a stump. Two other troopers and a huge, red-faced officer—of high rank, judging from his uniform—sat their horses at the edge of the clearing. The troopers were loading their pieces; the officer was waving an empty holster pistol and shouting madly; two young men, hardly more than boys, were stationed behind trees, rapidly loading their long ducking guns, and facing the soldiers.

It required but a glance for Tom Deering to realize the situation; it was a patriot family attacked by a party of British. Instantly he called to Cole, and, without pausing, they rode at the dragoons. Each had a heavy cavalry sabre and a pair of large holster pistols; the sabres were drawn as they charged; their heavy, curved blades rose in the air, flashing in the waning light of day. They were upon the three Englishmen before the latter realized their presence; Cole’s great bay horse, in full career, struck against the lighter animal of one of the troopers and sent horse and man to the ground in a struggling heap. At the same instant one of the youths behind the trees near the cabin, having finished reloading his piece, fired; the other dragoon fell from his horse with a shattered shoulder. This left but the burly, red-faced officer still in the saddle, and without a moment’s hesitation Tom dashed at him, his sabre swinging for a cut.

The officer saw his danger; with a sudden jerk of his arm he threw the heavy pistol at the boy’s head. But Tom avoided the flying weapon by swiftly leaning to one side.

“Surrender!” he commanded, his sabre flashing about the officer’s head.

With a roar of anger like that of an infuriated bear the Englishman drew his sword from its scabbard, and the blades crossed with a sharp, angry ring.

Take care, Tom Deering, take care! Your boldness has led you into great danger; you have proved a worthy pupil of Victor St. Mar, late of King Louis’ army, but, as yet, you are not a match for Lieutenant-Colonel Tarleton, at once a man of lion-like strength and ferocity and a master of the sabre.

Yes, it was the terrible Tarleton, himself; he had been making a short cut through the swamp in order that he might rejoin a detachment of his dragoons, when they had come upon this lonely cabin.

“Surrender, you jackanapes!” he roared, in a fury at Tom’s bold demand. “I’ll teach you something that you will not forget in a hurry!”

And with that he began a furious attack upon the boy, aiming sweeping cuts at his head and downward slashes at his sword-arm with marvelous rapidity; but Tom, managing his chestnut mount with his left hand, guarded himself carefully, allowing no opening in his defence. But in a few moments the superior skill and experience of Tarleton, together with his greater weight, began to tell; step by step, the boy was driven back, dazzled by the flashing sabre darting so swiftly here and there before his eyes. A fierce grin of triumph came into the Englishman’s face; victory was in his hands; this presumptuous youth who had dared to face him was about to learn a lesson which he would never forget.

But Lieutenant-Colonel Tarleton had not counted upon Cole. In the very moment of his triumph, when his heavy blade was lifted for a last and finishing stroke, a pair of huge, black arms, as strong as bands of steel, were thrown about him; his sabre was dashed to the ground and he, burly man though he was, found himself plucked from his saddle and gazing up into the grinning, ebony face of the giant slave.

Tom looked down, panting from his exertions, but smiling at the British officer’s discomfiture.

“Hold him fast, Cole,” said he, as the officer began a desperate struggle to break away from the bear-like hug which held him. “No use in struggling, colonel”—the boy perceived the captive’s rank by a glance at his uniform coat. “You are in the hands of the strongest man in South Carolina.”

“You black dog,” fumed Tarleton, making a prolonged and desperate struggle to break free, “let go, or I’ll be the death of you.”

Cole grinned widely; he coolly pinned the fuming colonel to the ground by the simple process of kneeling upon his chest; his splendid white teeth flashed his entire enjoyment of the whole affair.

“Take care,” said Tom, a note of sternness now in his voice, “that this affair, here at the cabin, does not end in your own death. Let us see what damage you have done.”

The two boys who had been stationed behind the trees defending their home when Tom and Cole came up, had approached and were looking with some astonishment at the herculean black and at the wondrous ease with which he mastered the powerful king’s officer.

“Has any one been hurt?” asked Tom.

“Father has been wounded slightly,” said one of the youths. “But it’s not much, for he’s on his feet again, as you can see.”

The man who had lain upon the ground at the cabin door was limping painfully, with the aid of the woman, to a spring near at hand. The trooper whom Cole had unhorsed was attending to the wants of his wounded comrades.

“They must have surprised you,” said Tom. “How comes it that soldiers attack the homes of citizens?”

“British soldiers,” said one of the young men, bitterly, “do anything these times. They kill, burn and destroy; it does not matter much to them who their victims are so long as they refuse to take up arms for King George.”

“They are hanging and burning the homes of all who will not help them,” spoke the other youth. “If a man wants to save his life or his property he must turn traitor to his friends—he must betray his neighbor and take up arms for a false old madman who calls himself king!”

“I’ll see you swinging at a tree limb for those words, you traitorous rebel!” cried Tarleton, whose arms were now bound behind him by his belt, and who, under guard of the watchful Cole, had stood listening to the young man’s words.

“Take care, you red-coated scoundrel!” exclaimed the other, wheeling upon him fiercely; “take care that you don’t swing from yonder cottonwood yourself before the hour is up. In these times each man in the swamp-lands of Carolina is a law unto himself. You have attacked us without cause, and in strict justice we should treat you as you would have treated us had you taken us prisoners.”

“You don’t mean to say,” cried Tom in horror, “that regular troops are hanging prisoners! I thought that only the Tories would be guilty of such deadly and cowardly work.”

“Colonel Tarleton, here,” and the young man pointed one accusing finger at the British officer, “has given orders to spare no one whom they suspect. And as they suspect all who will not help them, the cane-brakes are full of fugitives, the clearings show nothing but burned homes.”

“Colonel Tarleton!” exclaimed Tom, looking in surprise at the burly form before him, and into the red, strongly-marked face. “Is this Colonel Tarleton?”

The Englishman laughed harshly. “Ah, I see you have heard of me,” said he, sneeringly. “There are not many in the Santee district that have not; and there will be many more, I promise you, before this uprising is done with. There is only one way to deal with rebels, and that is to crush them utterly—to have no mercy.”

“And from what I have just heard, and just seen, too, for that matter, you are acting upon your theory,” said Tom Deering, looking Colonel Tarleton angrily in the eye. “You are a soldier—serving under the flag of what should be an enlightened nation; and do you not know that there is no excuse for such measures—that warfare does not sanction them?”

“I plan my own actions and in my own way,” returned Tarleton. “And when I want advice upon the subject, my forward young friend, depend upon it, I shall not come to you.”

The two young men, as Tom now found, were Nat and David Collins; they and their father were wood-cutters in the swamps. Tom noticed something furtive in their glances, from time to time, toward the cabin, which stood some little distance away from the scene of the fight. Several times he had made as though to approach it, but they had always prevented this by calling his attention elsewhere. But now they were engaged in attending to their father, who had a painful wound in the calf of the leg, and Tom advanced to the cabin door. At another time he would not have dreamed of prying into their affairs, but those were dangerous days, and a patriot’s safety rested solely upon his alertness—upon his being constantly upon the outlook for peril. The people seemed to be friends of Congress, but Tom had grown so accustomed to assuring himself of everything that he did not trust them until he had discovered that which they seemed so anxious to hide.

The interior of the cabin was dark to one just coming into it; so Tom stood in the doorway, his sabre still in his hand, peering about, and waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. Suddenly he was startled by a quiet voice saying:

“Stand as you are. A movement will be dangerous, my friend, and a sound equally so.”

Tom was surprised; for the moment he could see nothing; then he began to make out, but dimly, a couch of furs and pine boughs in a corner; a man lay upon this—a man who had lifted himself up upon one elbow and held a pistol in his hand. The gray of twilight had deepened in the swamp and the dim light that came through the open doorway was not sufficient to enable the man upon the couch to see Tom’s face clearly; then, too, the latter was standing with his back to the light.

“You have succeeded in ferreting me out, I see,” said the man upon the couch. “But you have not taken me yet, remember that.”

“Who are you?” demanded Tom, his hand clutching, instinctively, the tighter upon the hilt of his sabre.

“Don’t pretend ignorance,” said the man. “You have set a price upon my head—or at least your masters have—the butcher Tarleton and Sir Henry Clinton.”

At this Tom pressed forward a step; but the voice rang warningly through the room, causing him to halt instantly.

“As you are!” said the man, sharply. “It is not wise to approach a cornered man.”

“Whoever you are,” said Tom, eagerly, “if you are an enemy of the British you are a friend of mine.”

There came an exclamation from the man upon the couch.

“Have I made a mistake,” said he. “Surely I heard the sounds of fighting outside. If you are one of us that means that——”

“The British have been beaten,” said Tom, finishing the sentence for him. “There were only four of them; two troopers have been wounded, another and Colonel Tarleton are prisoners.”

“Tarleton!” The man upon the couch, in his excitement attempted to spring out upon the floor, but sank back with a groan. “I had forgotten; you see my leg is broken.”

Just then Nat Collins, the elder of the two brothers, entered; he seemed angry at Tom for having entered the cabin, and there was an anxious look about him, as he stood gazing from one to the other, not knowing just how to act.

“Light a candle, Nat,” said the man upon the couch. “And why,” he proceeded, “did you not tell me that friends had arrived.”

“They did not come until the fight had started,” said Nat, lighting a candle in a brass sconce from a dim fire that burned on the hearth. The flickering light fell upon Tom’s face as the young wood-cutter arose, and the man on the couch uttered an exclamation of surprise.

“Tom Deering!” cried he.

Tom gave him one quick look and then springing forward, he seized his hand.

“Major Marion,” he burst out joyfully. “Who would ever have thought of seeing you here.”

“I wouldn’t, myself, some little time ago,” said the soldier. “How is it with you, my lad?”

Tom had been of great service to Major Marion in his expeditions against the Tories after the defeat of Sir Peter Parker’s fleet at Sullivan’s Island; the two had gradually come to admire and trust one another greatly.

“I have my good horse,” answered the boy, “and I have a brace of pistols and a sabre; and, yes, there’s Cole, too; but that’s all; the British have all the rest,” sadly—“house, slaves, plantation and all.”

“So, I have been told, is the case with all the men in Charleston who had the courage to brave the king,” said Marion. “But I can say nothing from my own observation, Tom, for I broke my leg about the time Clinton arrived in the roadstead; and since the fort fell I’ve been hiding in the cane-brakes like a fox; yes, and listening to the hounds in full cry all around me. But don’t despair, my boy; Carolina is not yet beaten; she has only begun to fight.”

As they talked there in the dimly-lighted room, the elder Collins limped in. Marion’s quick eye at once noticed that he had been wounded.

“You’ve been hit,” said he, anxiously.

“Nothing to speak of, major,” said the man. “It bled pretty freely and it pains a great deal, but it won’t last long.”

Here Mrs. Collins followed her husband into the room. “What are you going to do with that British officer?” inquired she. “He’s going on something dreadful out there.”

“Have him brought in,” said Marion to Tom. “I want to see this ruthless king’s officer before we let him go.”

“Let him go!” ejaculated the Collinses in a breath. “You are not going to do that.”

“We are hardly in a position to take prisoners of war,” said Major Marion with a smile. “We cannot resort to his own measures and use the rope, either. But bring him in.”

In a few moments Lieutenant-Colonel Tarleton stood within the cabin, and his wounded troopers were lying groaning upon the floor near by. He looked with lowering brow upon Major Marion, his harsh, brutal face made all the more ruffianly by the rage which distorted it. Marion lay stretched upon his couch of furs and pine boughs, his deep-set, brilliant black eyes seeming to search into the very soul of his enemy. Tarleton bore the look for a time, then burst out in a voice thick with the rage that consumed him.

“So you are that skulking fox, Marion, for whom we have been looking!”

“And you,” returned the little man, “are that hound, Tarleton, whom I have been trying to avoid.”

“Take care,” burst out Tarleton, who like a great many others of his sort, did not like to be paid in his own coin.

“Thank you; I shall endeavor to,” returned Marion, coolly. “It was my desire to see you; for, Colonel Tarleton, I think the day is coming when we shall meet quite often in the persons of our followers; and it is as well for me to know you by sight.”

“I’ll teach you all to know me,” swore the fiery Tarleton. “I’ll make the Carolinas dread my very name.”

“If that is your ambition, it is realized already. The mothers along the Santee frighten their children into quiet by telling them that the bloody Tarleton is coming. The reputation, my dear colonel, is not a very noble one; but such as it is you have realized it; and as you seem to like it I wish you great enjoyment of it.”

The quiet, biting words of Marion made the burly colonel writhe; he answered in his loud, harsh fashion, but it was like matching a bludgeon against a rapier, and he got all the worst of the contest of tongues. And while they talked Tom Deering and Cole, assisted by the two Collins boys, were not idle. The mounts of the three dragoons were led up; a rude sling was quickly constructed and placed between two of them for Marion. After the attacks of Tarleton, the little partisan would not be safe in this place when the defeated troopers and their colonel reached their own camp. It was Marion himself who had told Tom what to do, for none knew the danger better than he.

When all was ready Cole took the slight form of the major in his mighty arms and bore him out to where the sling was awaiting him. There were horses enough to mount all, Mrs. Collins included. They were brought up to the door; Mr. Collins and his wife were assisted to their saddles, and then the three youths and Cole closed and fastened the cabin securely, with Tarleton and his men still inside. The language of the British officer startled Tom; but Marion had dealt with such people before.

“I bid you good-night, Colonel Tarleton,” he called as he rested his injured leg in the easy depths of the sling. “And you may save your compliments; for when I extend you mine it will be on a sword blade or the barrel of a rifle. Now then,” turning to Tom, “if we are ready, forward.”

And away they went, along the narrow paths of the swamp, amidst the darkness of the southern night, under the cottonwoods and palmettos; and this little party was the nucleus of Marion’s Brigade, that band of patriots which was a constant thorn in the side of Lord Rawdon; that shadowy, evasive, swift striking brigade whose glory shall live while there is a true heart that remembers.

The toil of the march and the dangers were as nothing to Tom Deering; but his spirit was heavy within him, and as they penetrated further and further into the interior it grew heavier still. For each step was taking him further away from his father—the good, kind father whom, sleeping or waking, he never forgot, and who was now lying with heavy irons upon his limbs in some noisome prison pen.

CHAPTER VI
HOW FRANCIS MARION HEARD GOOD NEWS FROM WILLIAMSBURG

For weeks the little band pressed on through swamps and over stony roads. The Baron De Kalb, with a force of Continentals from Virginia, was marching south, and it was upon falling in with this army that Marion based his hope of safety. For it had not been long before the alarm was out; the swift, merciless dragoons of Tarleton and the skulking loyalists were after them night and day. How they escaped, they themselves could not afterward remember; the bay of dogs, upon their trail at night, would often startle them into renewed flight; the warning of a friend, or perhaps a slave, would cause them frequently to change their course by day.

Marion’s injured limb grew slowly better; at last he was able to dispense with the sling and ride in the usual fashion. After this they made much better progress and pushed northward rapidly. Mrs. Collins was left at a small town with some relatives; the band was augmented from time to time during this flight until at last it numbered some twenty hardened, bronzed men and boys, well-mounted, but poorly armed and clothed.

Tom and Cole were scouting one afternoon; it was dark when they rejoined their comrades, who had encamped on the banks of a small stream. Marion, almost entirely well now, sat by the camp-fire cleaning his pistols when Tom threw himself from his tired horse and approached him.

“What news on the scout, lad?” asked the commander.

“A change has been made in the force which we are anxious to meet,” replied the boy. “General Gates has superseded De Kalb and is pushing south by forced marches. It is his intention, I hear, to carry the war to the enemy instead of waiting for him to attack.”

Marion received the intelligence with moody brow.

“Gates,” said he, slowly. “I’ve heard of him. A hot-blooded, impetuous officer. Brave, but rash; and not at all the man for the work.”

“You, too, think he should avoid a meeting until compelled to fight, do you, major?”

“He should avoid a meeting until he knows his ground and is acquainted with the force before him. There is nothing to be gained by venturesome enterprises such as, I dare say, General Gates will attempt. It will but weaken him and unnerve his rank and file. De Kalb would have been a better man; he is accustomed to the warfare of petty European principalities, which is conducted with caution and no waste of men or supplies. I am sorry to hear this; the appointment of Gates was a mistake.”

The fears for the reckless courage of Gates expressed by Marion were only too well founded. That hot-tempered officer came plunging through North Carolina, full-tilt, with the ambition, seemingly, like Cæsar to write a dispatch announcing in the same breath the sight of and the conquest of the enemy.

The army commanded by General Gates, though small, was the best-equipped that the south had yet seen; they were well-clad in smart uniforms; their musket-barrels shone in the sun; their camp had all the neatness of a camp of trained soldiery; their artillery was heavy and capable of excellent service. Despite his rapid marches, Gates had the knack of keeping his men in good condition, and on the evening when Marion, with Tom Deering and Cole riding upon either side of him, and his nondescript band of woodsmen and fugitive militia at his heels, rode into it, the Continental camp was at its neatest and trimmest. The coonskin caps and wretched rags of the newcomers excited the jeers of the smart regular troops as their owners went down the road, between the line of camp-fires, toward the general’s tent.

“If this is the sort of reinforcement South Carolina has to offer us,” cried a big sergeant of Virginia foot, “we’ll have to do their share of the fighting, too.”

Tom Deering could not stand the laugh of contempt that greeted this, but reined up beside a company of the jeering infantry and allowed his comrades to trot by behind the unruffled Marion.

“If you men of Virginia go as far as we of Carolina for the cause,” said he, “you’ll go to the mouth of the British cannon, and a little further.”

“Well crowed, my bantam-cock,” laughed the big sergeant. “And how long have you been soldiering, may I ask?”

Tom’s eyes flashed as he faced the circle of laughing infantrymen who had gathered about him at the prospect of sport; their laughter angered him, for he felt that it was uncalled-for and unjust. So he swept the big sergeant scornfully with his eye.

“I was soldiering,” said he, “before you had pulled on that nice, clean uniform for the first time. I had served a gun at Fort Moultrie and been under fire in a score of other places, sergeant, while you were still driving bullocks in the Virginia hay-fields.”

It was a fact well known to his comrades that the sergeant had, up to this time, never smelled gun-powder in actual battle; and when Tom finished speaking a roar of laughter went, directed at the big man; and he reddened angrily, and bit at his huge mustache.

“Never judge a dog by the color of his fur,” said Tom, delighted to have turned the laugh upon the other. “And never judge a man by the coat upon his back. When you, sergeant, have raced through an enemy’s country—a country, too, full of swamps, thickets and almost impassable roads, for months, with bloodhounds upon your track by night and Tories with ropes ready in their hands searching for you by day, you will not look so trim and natty as you do now, and you will not be so ready to laugh.”

The troops of General Gates were a rough, good-humored lot; it required but a moment for them to catch the truth of the boy’s remarks; and with one accord, the sergeant included, they burst into a cheer for the sincerity and heartiness of which there could be no doubt. Tom’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he waved his cap in response, wheeled his horse and dashed after his comrades.

“There is good stuff in them, for all their readiness to jeer,” he muttered to himself. “And they are big, strong, willing looking fellows, too; and should render an excellent account of themselves.”

Marion’s men were halted in the road not far from the headquarters of General Gates. The latter and Marion were standing at the flap of the tent conversing earnestly. Beside the stalwart general of the Continentals Marion looked insignificant; and Gates, like his men, seemed to regard the partisan’s command as a rabble, the like of which clings to the skirts of every army. His face wore an amused smile, not unmixed with contempt. It is a fact that this officer was a vain man, of ostentatious habit and one whose judgment was very apt to be affected by parade and the external show of things.

“I am very thankful to you, Major Marion, for coming to put your company at my service,” said General Gates, patronizingly. “But, the fact is, I have no very great opinion of cavalry, and think I have but little need of it.”

Marion flushed with resentment at this; but controlled himself.

“This is a very thinly settled country, general,” returned he. “I should think that an active troop of horse would be very useful both in securing intelligence and in procuring supplies.”

Gates seemed somewhat impressed by this, and after some further conversation, invited Marion into his tent. The troop of swamp-riders dismounted and picketed their horses outside the camp, preparing to settle for the night. The very rags and poverty of this little band which was afterward to become so famous were but proofs of their integrity, could Gates but have seen it in that light. It was in defiance of the temptations and the power of the British that these men had taken the field, and had the leader of the Continentals been a wise man, he would have seen, even through their rags and destitution, the steady glow of patriotism; which enkindled throughout the state by this little, dark, unassuming officer, and Sumpter, and a few others of equal daring, was to blaze out, at last, in that perfect brightness which was to cause the invader to slink away, confounded.

That night and the two following Marion and his men spent in the camp of General Gates. In spite of the bad impression which his tattered command had made upon the general, Marion’s undoubted knowledge of the surrounding country was noted and made use of. But Tom could not bear the camp or its people and spent but little time there; for he and Cole were constantly scouting over the flats and through the woods, at his leader’s orders, in the hope of catching a view of the foe.

The town of Williamsburg was not a great many miles away, and upon the evening of the first day Tom and his faithful follower rode into the town to see what news there was to be had. The town was a hotbed of patriotism; the very name of King George was execrated there, and the boy was sure to be welcomed and to receive what tidings of the British the townspeople possessed. As it happened, a few weeks before this, a party of British and Tories had entered the place and plundered right and left; a few who resisted, and some others whom the Tories pointed out as rebels, were shot; then the marauders rode off with the warning to Williamsburg to improve in her loyalty to king and parliament or she would receive another visit.

The citizens gathered in angry crowds. “If,” said they, “we are to be set upon when we have not struck a blow against the crown, what worse can happen to us if we take up arms and fight like men should against tyranny.”

There was no answer to this argument, so the Williamsburgers proceeded to arm themselves with whatever they could find in the way of weapons, and set about drilling upon the village green. It was in the midst of the drill that Tom and Cole found them that evening when they rode down the main street, and very proud the townsfolk seemed to be of it.

“Tell General Gates,” said the stout old burgess to Tom, after finding out where he was from, “that the freemen of Williamsburg are preparing. Let the British make another of their ruffian raids upon the town, and it shall not be like the last. This time, instead of cautious words, they will be greeted by a sleet of lead.”

“Hurrah!” rang lustily from the ranks of the militia. “That they will!”

“Let them show so much as their noses in the town limits again and we’ll send them back to Cornwallis as soundly beaten as ever a pack of prowling curs were yet.”

The speaker was a brawny, sooty man, in a blacksmith’s apron; he carried a great sledge over his shoulder instead of a musket, and seemed in every way capable of doing his part in carrying out the promise. His words were greeted by much laughter and cheers by his comrades, and under cover of this Tom was drawn aside by the stout burgess.

“They are rare good lads, all of them,” spoke the burgess. “They will fight for their rights and their firesides to the last, but they have no one to lead them in whom they have confidence; it is a great pity, but it is so.”

“THEY ARE RARE GOOD LADS, ALL OF THEM,”
SPOKE THE BURGESS

He shook his head despondently as he said this, and as his eyes traveled along the not very trim ranks of the volunteers, he shook his gray head sadly.

“Is there no man of experience among them?” asked Tom.

“Not one, not one,” answered the burgess, “and it’s a great pity, for they are a fine body of men.”

He shook his head once more and sighed regretfully. Then turning to Tom he continued:

“I sent a messenger to Governor Rutledge asking him to select a leader for this company.”

“What was his answer?”

“He said that there was but one man in the entire South whom he would name as an ideal leader of irregular troops.”

“And that man was——?”

“One Francis Marion.”

Tom started in surprise and then laughed with pleasure.

“Well,” said he to the stout old burgess, “why do you not secure him?”

“He is not to be found. The governor has no idea if he be living or dead. Men die suddenly in these times, you know.”

“But suppose,” said the boy, “that I could tell you where to find him?”

The old man grasped him eagerly by the arm.

“You are not jesting?”

“Not in the least. I am of Major Marion’s command. He is now in the camp of General Gates.”

The burgess was overjoyed at this intelligence; he wrung Tom’s hand warmly. “Good news,” he cackled, hardly able to restrain himself. “I will go to him in the morning—I will offer him the command.” Then he paused suddenly and continued in a more sober tone. “Do you think, my lad, that he will be inclined to accept?”

Tom thought of his commander’s cold reception at the hands of General Gates, and answered promptly:

“I rather think he will, sir.”

“Good—good!” The old fellow went off, at this point, into a rapture of chuckling. “Come, you will lodge with me to-night; I will not accept a refusal. Wait until I give word to dismiss the company for the day; then you shall have as fine a supper and as soft a bed as you have ever had in your life.”

At the burgess’ command the drill-sergeant dismissed the militia; then Tom and Cole were led away to the comfortable stone house of the town official; their horses were put up in the stable and baited with corn; Cole was taken in hand by some of the negro servants, while his young master was borne off to be introduced to the family of the burgess. In spite of his worn clothes and unkempt appearance, the boy was kindly welcomed by his hostess and her blooming daughters. To be sure he noticed, now and then, that the girls would giggle together, aside, over his deerskin hunting-shirt or his leather leggings; but they made up for this by their many little kindnesses; and the sly looks of admiration which they stole at his handsome, sun-browned face and tall, sinewy form often made his cheeks burn.

The burgess was as good as his word; the supper which Tom sat down to was the best he had eaten for many a long week; and the bed upon which he stretched his tired length afterward, being the first he had slept in since leaving home, felt fully up to specifications.

Early in the morning the household was astir; and when Tom and the master of the house had breakfasted they bid the ladies good-bye. The chestnut and the bay were ready saddled at the door; and beside them stood a fat, white horse which was to bear the weight of the worthy burgess.

“He is not very speedy,” admitted the official, “but he is strong and safe. And that last quality, young sir, is not a thing to be overlooked when one comes to my age, and attains my girth.”

The ladies waved their kerchiefs from the windows; the burgess and the young swamp-rider took off their caps and bowed in return, while Cole grinned like an amiable Goliath. Then they shook their reins, and set off for the Continental camp, to bear the good tidings to Marion.

CHAPTER VII
HOW TOM DEERING FOUGHT WITH GATES AT CAMDEN

Needless to say, Marion received the news of Williamsburg’s offer with great satisfaction; it was a relief to him to secure a command of his own, and he made ready to set off with his tattered horsemen, to assume control. With this new body came the commission of colonel, after a few days, from Governor Rutledge.

When his small company were ready to leave the camp of Gates, that officer gave Marion strict instructions as to the best means of rendering him service. The fancy of Gates already beheld the squadrons of Cornwallis in full flight; and it is a fact that his greatest solicitude at this time seems to have been how to secure his captives.

“As you march south, colonel,” said he to Marion, “I want you to make it your special duty to destroy all the scows, boats, ferry-flats and barges on your route. The enemy must be deprived of the means of escaping.”

“Very well,” returned Marion, “I will do all I can in this or any other line, general, to aid you.”

But afterward he remarked to Tom, who was his trusted confidant:

“He never seems to have heard of the barnyard proverb, ‘Don’t count your chickens before they are hatched.’ In his fancy he has met the British and routed them on every hand. It promises badly for the army, my lad.”

“Can we do nothing, sir?”

“I fear not. General Gates is not the man to tolerate interference. If he were more open to advice he would be a much safer leader.”

With the departure of Marion the better genius of Gates left him. The British, under Lords Rawdon and Cornwallis, were in possession of Camden, a small town upon the east bank of the Wateree; and Gates conceived the idea of surprising them. On the night of the 15th of August he left his camp at Rugely’s Mills and advanced toward Camden. Upon the same night the British made a move to surprise Gates; so, almost before they knew it, the vanguards of the two armies met in the darkness near a small stream of water known as Sanders Creek.

Before breaking his camp Gates had sent to Marion for a few horsemen who knew the country; and Marion had sent Tom and Cole to lend what aid they could. These two were in the advance guard of the American army when it encountered that of the British. Tom’s big chestnut horse Sultan, up to his knees in the waters of Sanders Creek, was the first to note the approach of the enemy; he cocked his ears, threw up his head and snorted.

“What is it, boy?” said Tom, his eyes running over the ground before him as well as the darkness would permit. As though in answer there came a scattering of rifle-shots and a “pinging” of the leaden messengers about his ears.

He wheeled and rode back to the banks. Saluting the captain in command, he reported:

“The enemy, sir, seem to be on the other side of the creek.”

The captain was inexperienced and very nervous.

“What force is there?” asked he.

“Could not make out, sir, because of the darkness. Shall I cross and try to find out?”

“If you think it safe,” said the captain.

“That it is necessary is enough for me,” returned Tom, proudly.

He spurred Sultan into the water once more, and under cover of the night crossed the stream. A long line of British cavalry was stretched directly in front; they had, undoubtedly, sent word back to their main body and were now waiting for orders. Tom dismounted and took a long observation of the foe’s position; when at last he remounted and crossed the creek once more, he found that General Gates himself had ridden forward and was anxiously awaiting his report.

“Their advance is stretched all along the stream, sir,” said the lad, saluting. “And from indications their main body is coming up rapidly.”

A hasty inspection of the ground caused Gates to order his force to fall back upon some plantations in their rear; the British, not at all sure of what was awaiting them, did not cross the creek; and thus the two armies lay upon their weapons waiting for daybreak. At the first graying of the eastern heavens the British were forming to advance, and the Americans were rapidly making ready to receive them. If there was any advantage it was in favor of Cornwallis. His force was composed of veterans, who would be cool under most exigencies, while Gates’ army was, for the greater part, made up of raw volunteers.

The First Maryland division, including the Delawares under De Kalb, were posted on the right; the Virginia militia were on the left; the North Carolinians, led by the gallant Caswell were in the center, while the artillery, in battery, was in the road. Such was the formation of the American line; both wings rested upon morasses; the Second Maryland brigade was posted as a reserve a few hundred yards in the rear of the first.

The battle began with the advance of the American left—the Virginians, under Stevens. A galling rifle fire was suddenly poured into them; struck by sudden panic they turned and fled, many of them not having even discharged their pieces. This wretched example was followed by the North Carolina division in the centre, with the exception of a single corps commanded by Major Dixon. The small body of cavalry, under Armond, a foreign adventurer, broke at the same moment.

Tom Deering had been detained by the commander to carry messages and orders to different parts of the field; he saw the rout, and with sinking heart he strove to rally the fleeing militia, riding among them, waving his sabre and shouting desperately for them to stand and reform.

“Are you cowards to run at the first fire?” he shouted. “Rally, men; strike a blow for freedom and your native state.”

For very shame some of the fugitives halted, and Tom began rapidly reforming them. But, just then, the British cavalry plunged forward, and the hope of staying the panic was gone forever. The devoted Continentals—Maryland and Delaware troops, all trained soldiers—bore the brunt of the action. De Kalb was at their head, for Gates had ridden away to the rear in the desperate hope of rallying the militia; the artillery was in the hands of the enemy, and the regulars who continued to stand fast numbered but nine hundred, as opposed to two thousand of the best troops in the British service.

But these stout hearts, undismayed by the flight of their comrades, not only resisted the attack of the enemy, but actually carried the bayonet into their ranks. The combatants rushed and reeled with locked weapons; but the struggle could not last, for when the British cavalry returned from pursuing the fugitives their sabres gave the finishing stroke to the affair. The heroic De Kalb fell, pierced by fourteen wounds, and at the fall of their leader the rank and file broke and fled from the field, leaving everything behind them.

When darkness closed in once more it found General Gates, with a shattered remnant of his once formidable force, flying along the roads toward North Carolina. As for Tom Deering, he was on his way through the swamps to rejoin Marion, his eyes full of unshed tears and his heart full of the bitterness that comes with defeat.

CHAPTER VIII
HOW TOM BRAVED THE TORIES

“Cole!”

A movement of the giant slave’s eyes showed that he heard. He and his young master had dismounted upon the edge of a clump of woods and were carefully surveying a large brick mansion that stood in the midst of a well-kept park.

“I don’t like the looks of things,” said the young swamp-rider. “There are strangers in Mr. Foster’s mansion, Cole, and we had better be sure of who they are before we venture into the open.”

Cole signified his entire approval of this course; so they tied their horses well among the trees and then crawled back to the verge of the wood once more.

Some months had passed since the defeat of Gates; Colonel Marion had now begun to make himself felt in the struggle, and his sudden ambuscades and unlooked-for onslaughts had made his name a terror to British soldier and Tory alike. Not a little of the credit of all this was due to the devotion to duty shown by Tom Deering and his faithful slave. The hoof-marks of Sultan and Cole’s bay charger, Dando, were imprinted upon every mile of territory between the North Edisto River and the Little Peedee. The courses of the Congaree and the Wateree were as familiar to them as though there were not a fresh danger lurking in every turn they made.

They had the hardihood to even penetrate the region about Orangeburg and Ninety-Six in search of information as to the enemy’s movements; and the news which they gathered frequently led to disaster for the British in the shape of a severe loss of supplies, or the destruction of a flying column proceeding upon a raid.

While Tom Deering was willing to take any risks and dare any peril to serve his country, still it is doubtful if he would have been so eager, so tireless in his efforts if it had not been that the thought of his father goaded him on. He knew that until the Americans retook Charleston there would be little chance of his being able to rescue the prisoner; and so he was willing to take his life in his hands at any hour of the day or night in the hope that by so doing he might hasten the hour.

In his excursions Tom had discovered many things of a surprising nature. One of these was the fact that there were still some of the partisans of congress who were, as yet, in possession of their estates. As a rule these were very rich and very cautious men; and one of them was Mr. Foster, who owned and cultivated great stretches of land between the Congaree and Columbia. This rich planter had from time to time provided the young scout with valuable information. It was a search for this very desirable requisite of intelligent warfare that brought our two friends upon the edge of the Foster plantation to-day.

“From the appearance of the horses,” said Tom, “the visitors are not soldiers. It may be some of our own brigade, Cole.”

But the black gestured his doubt of this. Through long practice he had become master of a sort of sign language, and could readily communicate his thoughts to his young master.

“Tories,” signaled Cole.

“No, no,” said Tom, “they would not dare disturb Mr. Foster. Why, Cornwallis himself has not deemed it wise to do that.”

“Tories,” signaled Cole, once more, and this time very positively. “Tories will do anything!”

Tom laughed.

“You are right in one way, Cole,” said he. “There is not much of a blackguardly or bloody nature that they have left undone, in this section at least. But, all the same, in this case I think you’re wrong.”

But Cole remained obdurate; he seemed most unwilling to change his views. They were still discussing the situation, Tom in low, guarded tones and Cole in his not very deft sign language, when suddenly there came a strange, smothered sound from overhead, followed by a crashing of a heavy body through the boughs of a tree, and a man, with a cry of fear upon his lips, tumbled to the ground at their feet.

Like a flash Cole had produced his heavy pistol and presented it at the man’s head; but Tom pushed it quickly aside.

“It is Dogberry,” said he, quietly. “Put up your weapon, Cole.”

Cole glanced at the newcomer, and then a broad grin of recognition spread across his face. It was a negro slave belonging to the Foster place, and he lay flat upon his back, staring at them with great, round eyes, while an expression of mingled fear, amazement and doubt rested upon his ebony countenance.

“Well, Dogberry,” said Tom, laughing at the negro’s remarkable entrance on the scene. “Suppose you tell us all about this.”

“Mars Tom,” said Dogberry, sitting up, “is dis you, sah?”

“Of course it is. And here’s Cole, too.”

“Lawsee! I done gone ’most broke my black head!” Dogberry stared up into the tree. “Just look how far I fall, Mars Tom. Just you look up there, sah.”

“How came you up in the tree?”

“Mars Foster put me there, sah.”

“Mr. Foster. Impossible.”

“’Deed he did, Mars Tom. I’se telling you de plain truth. He put me up there when de Tory white men comes along to-day.”

“Tories!” exclaimed Tom. “Where?”

“They am up at de house, sah, at dis moment. And they am carrying on scand’lus with de fambly.”

“But what were you sent into the tree for?”

“To watch for you, sah. Mars Foster sort of thought you’d be along dis way to-day, Mars Tom; and I was told to climb up in de tree and watch for you, and not let you go up to de house, and get cotched by de Tories.”

“Thank you, Mr. Foster.” Tom waved one hand in the direction of the planter’s mansion. “I’ll remember that of you, and will return the favor some day.”

Cole began to make rapid passes and signs to Dogberry; the latter, at the best, was much in dread of the giant dumb-slave, but just now Cole’s earnestness made him very terrible in the other’s eyes, indeed. Cole was asking how Dogberry, if he was watching in the tree, failed to note their approach and neglected to make his presence known to them. Very much frightened at Cole’s gestures, Dogberry clung to Tom.

“Don’t let dat nigger harm me, Mars Tom. Look at dar! He’s making a sign dat he’ll frow me over de fence!”

At this Cole burst into a gale of laughter; and then Tom explained.

“He wants to know why I was in de tree and didn’t make no sound?” Dogberry looked exceedingly foolish, and then continued: “De plain truth, Mars Tom, is dat dis nigger done gone went to sleep, and didn’t wake till a great big yaller-tailed hornet come along and stung him on de nose.”

“That accounts for your sudden arrival, then,” smiled the young partisan. “But, tell me, Dogberry, how many Tories are at your master’s place?”

Dogberry’s knowledge of numbers was exceedingly limited; so he slowly and laboriously counted nine upon his fingers and held them up.

“Just dis many, sah, and dey am having dreadful carryings on. De ladies of de fambly is most frightened out of dey wits.”

“Nine, eh!” Tom looked reflectively at Cole and the giant held out his great arms and smiled. There were none too many in his estimation. But his master was doubtful. Tom had partaken of Marion’s caution; he had seen so much of the Swamp-Fox’s success based upon mere carefulness, that he began to give caution a place beside courage in the list of qualities necessary to a soldier.

“How are they armed?” he asked the negro.

“Dey have swords, sah, like yours; and dey have guns—one apiece, for I counted dem. I see dem standing on de lawn under de apple tree.”

“On the lawn under the apple tree!” repeated Tom, his eyes lighting. “Are you sure of that, Dogberry?”

“Yes, sah. Dat’s where I saw ’em put dere guns. And I s’pose dey’s there still.”

“The lawn has no windows overlooking it from the ground floor, Cole,” said Tom slowly. “If we could get those guns we might make an important capture.”

Instantly Cole began to signal to be allowed to try to secure them.

“No, no,” said Tom, “we must be sure that things are as stated. Dogberry may be mistaken, or he may have forgotten something.”

At this Dogberry’s eyes grew large and bright with sudden recollection. “Dar, now!” ejaculated he, “I did forgot something, sah. When dem Tories come up to de place dey have some prisoners wif dem.”

“Prisoners!”

“Yes, sah. And dey’s locked up in de barn at this minute.”

“Very well, Dogberry, you may return to the house. Try and get word to Mr. Foster that you have seen us; but be careful and don’t let the Tories hear you.”

“No, sah; ’deed I won’t. I’ll be careful, sah.” Dogberry slowly made his way through the woods until he reached the main road; then he approached the house carelessly as though, possibly, just coming back from his work on some distant part of the plantation.

Cole and Tom formed their plans instantly. They must release the prisoners, and if possible they must secure what ammunition the Tories possessed, for Marion was so badly in need of it that even a few rounds would be welcome. It was well known that the Tories were always well supplied with powder and shot; the king furnished it to them, not grudgingly as he did to his regular troops, but freely; and they used it in a corresponding fashion.

“I’ll manage to get the rifles out of their reach,” said Tom to Cole. “You slip around to the barn and see if you can liberate the men. If there is a guard over them, which most likely there will be, dispose of him quietly. I need not tell you to avoid unnecessary bloodshed, for I know that you will do that, anyway.”

Cole nodded his understanding of his master’s instructions and moved softly away; but in a moment he turned and came back.

“What’s the matter?” asked Tom, in surprise.

Cole held out his hand; the gesture was more eloquent than any words could have been; it spoke of the friendship and love that existed between master and man, of the affection that began in childhood and would only end in death. Tom’s eyes filled with tears; he grasped the outstretched hand tightly.

“Forgive me, Cole,” said he, “for not thinking of it first. We are going into danger, and either of us, or both, may not come out of it alive. If this should prove the case: good-bye.”

Then they separated; Cole stole away toward the back of the house, keeping his huge frame well concealed behind the tree trunks and thick bush. The barn was a large structure, not a great distance from the house, and as he came in view of the big doors Cole saw a man standing, leaning upon the muzzle of a rifle and staring toward the mansion.

Tom set about his work as cautiously as the slave; he crept along behind the bush and a stone fence until he reached a spot almost directly in line with the old apple tree which Dogberry had mentioned. It stood almost in the centre of the lawn; a few rustic seats were at the foot, for it formed a delightful place for a rest upon a hot afternoon.

“And there are the Tories’ rifles, sure enough,” muttered the lad. “No one seems left to watch over them; so I’d best make the move quickly, for there will hardly be a better opportunity.”

After a long, last look about to see that no one was observing him, Tom broke from cover and boldly stepped out across the lawn toward the tree where the guns were standing. He deemed it best to attempt the thing boldly; for as it was broad day cunning would be thrown away. The rifles were of the variety provided by the king to his loyal subjects in North America, and were rather heavy. Tom took up the entire nine, however, having left his own light fowling-piece behind in the bush; it was rather a heavy load, but the lad was strong and toughened by constant outdoor exercise, so he managed to carry them off back along the track by which he had approached, and concealed them in a safe place.

Not a sound was to be heard anywhere save the low, moaning chant of some slaves at work in a far-off field, and an occasional outburst of rude laughter from the mansion. There was no sign of Cole; Tom stole to a position from which he could view the barn. He, too, saw the man with a rifle, on guard before the big door.

“A man on the watch, as I supposed there would be,” muttered the boy. “I don’t think Cole will be able to approach him unseen. But, I wonder——”

He paused suddenly, for the guard at the barn door had moved slightly and afforded a clearer view of his face.

“It’s Cole!” breathed Tom, excitedly. “Good for him!”

He watched for a few moments; but the colossal negro did not move; he might have been asleep on his feet, so quietly did he stand. A renewed burst of laughter just then came from the house and drew Tom’s attention from him for a moment. When his gaze returned once more, Cole had vanished!

Tom could not believe his eyes for a moment; but a second glance proved to him that the first had been right. There did not seem to be any place near at hand behind which Cole could conceal himself; and Tom was greatly puzzled.

“However,” he muttered, after a time spent in waiting for the great negro to reappear, “wherever Cole is he’ll render a good account of himself; so I need not worry about it.”

He made his way back to the front of the Foster house. The lawn was still deserted; no one was in sight, but the boisterous laughter of the Tories within showed that they were still carrying through their, apparently, fixed plan of revelry.

“I’d like to get a view of what’s going on,” said the lad to himself. “Mr. Foster has done me many favors and been of great assistance to General Marion and the cause; so I’d risk a great deal to help him in any way that I could.”

The more he pondered the matter the more he felt inclined to approach the house; it was a daring thing to do, but a scout for the Swamp-Fox must become accustomed to daring deeds, and Tom had had his share of them.

“If only Cole were here,” thought he, “I would not hesitate a minute. But here goes anyhow; I’ll trust to luck, for this once, though the colonel would be against that sort of thing if he were here. He says always be sure of your aim and of what you are about to strike, before dealing the blow.”

He had started for the house while he was still speaking; as noticed before, there were no windows overlooking the lawn from the first floor; so there was no danger of being overseen in this way; but, still, there was a wide doorway leading out upon a long veranda; some one might come out and discover him at any moment.

He did not breathe freely until he reached the shelter of the walls, against which clung and climbed a thick growth of honeysuckle. This, at least, would afford a slight concealment; and he worked his way slowly along until he was in position to see any one who came out of the house by the front door.

“It’s good that the vine is thick and rather loose at the bottom,” said Tom, drawing the tendrils about him. “It would be a ticklish thing to stand here without any cover at all.”

He stood there for some little time, debating as to what his next move should be. He had concluded that a venture around the corner of the house would be about the best thing he could do, when suddenly there came a sharp metallic click, followed by the sound of a closing door. Tom’s heart beat loudly against his ribs; he peeped through the screen of vine leaves toward the veranda.

A tall young girl stood there; she was attired in white, and her dark eyes were flashing with resentment; there was a hot flush upon her cheeks, as she threw out her arms, in a gesture of anger, and exclaimed:

“Oh, how long is this to last! how long is it to last! They are brutes to treat my father so; to be taken prisoner by the enemy would not be near so bad.”

“It’s Lucy,” said Tom to himself, as he recognized Mr. Foster’s daughter. “And something unpleasant is happening, just as I thought.”

“If I were only a man!” whispered the girl passionately. “If I only had brothers, we should see how long these cowards would infest my father’s house.”

There was a short, clear whistle by which Tom attracted the attention of the Foster household before he ventured into the open upon his visits. It was a signal well known to Mr. Foster, Lucy and the more trustworthy of the slaves; and Tom now placed his fingers to his lips and whistled the notes softly.

Lucy started as the sound struck her ear; with quick steps she came forward to the rail of the veranda and leaned forward eagerly. Tom was just about to step from his place of concealment behind the vines, when the door opened and closed swiftly, and Mark Harwood stood upon the veranda at Lucy Foster’s side.

The girl went pale and caught her breath; Tom shrank back among the vines, clutching the pistol which he had taken the precaution to bring with him.

“Miss Lucy,” spoke Mark Harwood.

Anger sparkled in the girl’s eye as he addressed her; it was clear that she held him in great aversion. Mark’s face showed the same sly, crafty, smiling expression as of yore; and he rubbed his hands together as he stood there, exciting in his Cousin Tom’s breast an indignant desire to come out and kick him.

“Why have you left the room and your father’s guests?” inquired Mark.

“My father’s guests!” Lucy turned upon him a look of scorn.

“They are all your father’s friends, are they not?”

“They are his enemies,” returned the girl, “and well you know it, Mark Harwood.”

“I am sorry to hear you say that,” said Mark, “because you know that I——”

“I also know you to be his enemy,” flashed the young lady.

“Lucy!” his voice was filled with injured surprise.

“Oh, don’t use that tone to me! It does not deceive me for a moment. You are a king’s man—a Tory—a spy of Cornwallis. Even at this moment you are here in the British general’s pay, to collect any evidence that may be injurious to my poor father.”

“You are mistaken, Lucy. You do me an injustice. It is true that I am loyal to the king——”

“Yes, and to prove your loyalty you place yourself at the head of a band of men who would be a disgrace to the most barbarous country; they kill, burn, and destroy the lives and possessions of inoffensive persons, and you take pride in it, Mark Harwood; your boasts have reached my ears, even here!”

He looked at her for a moment; the offensive smile gradually faded from his face and a bitter look took its place. He saw that his pretensions did not throw her off her guard, so he showed his true colors.

“So you have heard of some of my doings,” laughed he, savagely. “Well, I can’t say that it has affected you greatly.”

“If you mean that your deeds have not frightened me, you are right. I do not fear you, Mark Harwood, and I never shall.”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” sneered he. “Stranger things have happened. This is a nest of rebels, and——”

“Prove it.”

“Your father’s refusal to aid the cause of the king is proof enough.”

“Take care,” said Lucy, bravely. “Do not go too far. Remember that my father has powerful friends in England—friends who will not desert him if he is in need.”

“Do you suppose that I don’t know that? His influence has been all that saved him a dozen times or more. But he is a rebel, and you are a rebel; don’t deny it.”

“I cannot speak for my father,” exclaimed Lucy, “but I can for myself. I love liberty and hate the tyrannies of the king.”

“Brave girl!” exclaimed the concealed Tom, incautiously.

The sound of his voice reached Mark’s ears, but not the substance of the words.

“What was that?” said the young Tory, his face paling slightly. But Lucy gazed steadfastly away and did not answer.

“Did you not hear something like a voice?”

She made no reply; he listened for a moment and then went half-way down the broad stone steps that led to the veranda, and looked about searchingly. Tom flattened himself against the wall of the house; the thick, odorous runners of the vine hung in a heavy screen before him, effectually hiding him from Mark’s prying eyes. At length the latter returned to the veranda, but his suspicions were aroused, and he looked at Lucy from under his frowning brows.

“Did you hear a voice?” inquired he.

But still she did not answer; he bit his lip vexedly, then laughed.

“Do you know,” said he, “when I stood just inside the door there, before coming out, I heard voices. Who were you talking to?”

“I was talking to myself,” said Lucy, truthfully.

“A likely story,” he sneered. “However, if there is any one lurking about here I’ll beat him out like a rabbit.” He turned to the door and paused with his hand upon the catch. “And, by the way, Miss Lucy,” he continued, “you need not trouble yourself to warn your friend the rebel, if there is one near at hand; for it will do no good. We’ll catch him if he were as elusive as the Swamp-Fox, himself.”

Then the door closed behind him; Lucy with her breath catching in sobs of fright, sprang down the steps.

“Where are you?” she cried.

“Here,” answered Tom, stepping from his hiding-place.

“You are in great danger,” panted Lucy.

“I heard all,” said the boy, quietly.

“Run,” she cried. “They will have no mercy, if they take you.”

“I should expect none in that event.”

The tramp of feet sounded in the hall, coming toward the door.

“They are coming,” exclaimed the poor, frightened girl. “Oh, what will you do?”

“Calm yourself. If you look as frightened as all that they will be assured that they are upon the scent of something. Be brave; I know you can do it, Lucy, if you want to.”

He was unable to say more before the door opened. He turned and ran rapidly and softly until he rounded the corner of the house at the upper side. A group of fierce, hectoring men, with sabres belted at their waists, trooped out at the heels of Mark Harwood.

“Now, gentlemen,” said the latter, “I’m pretty sure that there is a skulking rebel concealed about here somewhere. Scatter, and run your blades into every bush. We’ll be sure to stir him out of his hiding.”

The Tories did as directed, while Lucy stood watching them from the steps. She seemed calm enough; but the twitching of her mouth and the light in her eyes showed the fear that was almost overwhelming her. However, she had no cause for immediate fear, for the very daring of Tom Deering had, by this time, placed him out of pressing danger.

Upon the upper side of the house were a number of long, narrow windows, set with diamond shaped panes of glass. These opened from the dining-room; and at the very first one, upon turning the corner of the house, the lad saw the black, scared face of the slave Dogberry, looking down at him.

“Goodness me!” Dogberry stared with all his might. “Am dat really you, Mars Tom?”

“Yes; who’s there with you, Dogberry?”

“Not anybody, sah. They all just now rush out to cotch you.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Tom Deering sprang up, caught the ledge of the window and drew himself up. He had just vanished, through the window, when the first Tory rounded the corner.

CHAPTER IX
HOW TOM DEERING HELD THE STAIRCASE

The dining-room of the Foster mansion presented an appearance of great confusion, and Tom looked about in astonishment. The furniture was thrown about in much disorder; some of the costly pictures had been torn from the walls; others hung askew; valuable bric-à-brac was shattered upon the hearth.

“What has been going on here, Dogberry?” asked the young swamp-rider.

“Didn’t I told you, Mars Tom, dat dose gemmen was carrying on scand’lus. Just take a look around and see if I ain’t right.”

At this moment a thin, white-faced man entered the apartment; he had the appearance of an invalid, and seemed very much disturbed. At sight of the boy he started back, with a cry.

“You here!” he exclaimed, astonished.

“Yes, Mr. Foster,” quietly, “I am here. Pardon my entering without being asked; but your Tory visitors became a trifle too pressing outside there.”

“Oh,” cried Mr. Foster, “when shall I rid myself of them! See what they have done,” with a gesture of one thin hand at the ruin of his precious objects of art; “wanton vandalism—without a shadow of excuse.”

“The cowards!” broke out Tom, angrily.

“They demanded wine,” said Mr. Foster, “well knowing that I never keep it in the house; and because I was unable to produce it for their entertainment they proceeded to destroy whatever their hands fell upon.”

“It’s a shame,” cried Tom, his voice full of honest indignation at the outrage and sincere pity for the frail, white-faced man who could not resent the wrong done him. “But we’ll see what we can do for these gentry before the day is over.”

“Your cousin, Mark Harwood, is their leader,” said Mr. Foster.

Tom reddened with shame at the words. “Mr. Foster,” said he, “he is a sort of cousin of mine, it is true; but not a single drop of the Deering blood flows in his veins.”

“Forgive me,” cried Mr. Foster. “I had not intended, my boy, to make you remember a relationship that must be painful to you at all times. But,” looking hurriedly about, “we must not forget that you are in a position of no little peril. If the Tories were to return and find you here——”

“Dey am returning, Mars Foster!” exclaimed Dogberry, who had left the apartment as Mr. Foster entered, and now came posting back, his black face shining with excitement. “Dey’s all on de veranda now, sah.”

Tom glanced swiftly toward the window.

“No, no,” cried Mr. Foster, “not that; they may be watching for you there.”

“I must get cover of some kind,” said Tom. “Do you not hear their footsteps? I shall be caught like a rat in a trap!” His glance traveled rapidly about the room. “Have you not a cupboard or some such thing in which I can conceal myself?”

“No,” said Mr. Foster, in despair. But suddenly his face lighted up. “I have it; the very thing.”

Grasping Tom by the arm he threw open a door. The boy found himself in a wide hallway at the end of which was a broad steep flight of stairs leading to the floor above. Almost at the foot of the staircase was a large clock whose wooden works made a burring sound as they moved, and whose great pendulum ticked loudly, slowly, solemnly. The clock almost reached from floor to ceiling: Mr. Foster threw open the painted glass door.

“There is room for you there,” said he.

In a moment Tom was inside the big clock with the door closed upon him; almost at the same moment the outer door opened, and the Tories came stamping noisily into the hall.

“I don’t believe there is any one about the place except those who belong here,” said one of them in a loud voice.

“I tell you I heard a strange voice,” insisted Mark Harwood.

“Bah!” The owner of the big voice was a huge man, with massive limbs and the torso of a giant. As he came down the hall he grumbled, “How long are you going to keep us at this place, anyhow; let’s put the torch to it and be off.”

“Plenty of time for that,” said Mark. “Don’t be in a hurry.”

“Hurry,” growled the big man. “We’ve been here,” he drew out a heavy gold watch, “almost three hours,” he continued, consulting the timepiece.

“Oh, your watch is wrong!”

“Wrong! This watch is never wrong. But, hold on, let’s compare it with Master Foster’s clock.”

Tom held his breath as the speaker paused before the clock.

“Hello, the confounded thing has stopped,” said the big man. “Run down, I suppose. Wait, gentlemen; I’ll do Foster a favor by opening his clock and winding it up.”

He had his hand upon the catch of the clock door when Mark Harwood pulled him away.

“Never mind the clock,” said the latter; “let us attend to more important matters.”

Mr. Foster had re-entered the dining-room as soon as Tom had hidden himself in the clock case; therefore he neither saw nor heard what passed in the hall. The Tories came into the room, their swords clanking and their spurs jingling.

“It’s a good thing for you, Foster,” growled the huge man, whose name, by the way, was Clarage—a notorious bully and leader of a body of Major Gainey’s loyalists—“that we did not find any one lurking about the grounds.”

“You could not have done much worse than you have already done,” said Mr. Foster, bitterly.

“So you think,” put in Mark Harwood. “But we would have proven you wrong without loss of time, my dear sir; mind you that.”

“A long rope and a stout limb for the spy,” laughed Clarage; “and not to be any way mean, Foster, we would have given you a place beside him.”

Lucy Foster came in at that moment, and her eyes filled with renewed resentment as she heard these words addressed to her invalid father.

“How long, Mr. Clarage,” she asked, “is this to continue? My father is not strong, as you well know; your ruffianly behavior is making him ill!”

“Ah, it is the little rebel,” laughed Clarage, in his bull-like tones. Then he turned to Mark Harwood. “Do you know, Harwood, who she reminds me of as she stands there with her eyes flashing and her little hands clinched? Why, that cousin of yours—Laura, you know. Why man, it seems to me that all the prettiest girls in the colony are rebels.”

“But Laura will not remain one for any great length of time,” said Mark. “And neither would Miss Lucy, here, for all her angry looks, under like conditions.”

“Why, how is that?”

“Laura is to be married,” returned Mark.

Tom Deering, in the tall clock, started.

“Married, eh?” said Clarage. “And when, pray?”

“On next Christmas eve.”

“And to whom?”

“To Lieutenant Cheyne, of Tarleton’s horse.”

Laura married! and to the inhuman monster who had tortured poor Cole! Tom could not, would not believe it!

“I did not fancy she’d consent to wed a king’s officer,” said one of the Tory band. “She was always a proud little thing—a very spitfire.”

“Oh, she’ll consent fast enough,” laughed Mark. “She refused Cheyne, point-blank, when my father proposed the match; but before Christmas day comes around, she’ll have changed her mind, I’ll promise you that. My father is not a man to be balked in his purpose by a slip of a girl.”

“Why did he select Cheyne as her husband?” asked Clarage, with interest. “Come, tell us that; I’ll warrant there’s some good reason for it.”

“There is a good reason for everything that Jasper Harwood does,” said the Tory who had before spoken.

“You are right in that,” said Mark. “You see, father is very anxious that the estate of our rebel relative, Deering, who was taken in arms against the king, shall not revert to the crown.”

“Very good of him,” said some one. “But it is the first time that I knew him to have any friendly feeling toward Deering.”

“He has none. It is not for Deering’s sake that my father is anxious, but for his own. You see, he wants the estate for himself.”

A gale of laughter went up at this confession. Lucy had been urging her father to go to his chamber, as his face was growing more drawn and haggard every moment, showing that the strain was greater than he cared to admit. At last he consented; she opened the door leading into the hall and he passed out, thinking that Lucy was following him. He paused at the tall clock to speak an encouraging word to the boy concealed therein, then looked surprisedly about for Lucy.

“She has gone on up to her room without waiting for me,” said he, to himself. Then with another “courage, my lad,” to Tom, he ascended the staircase.

In the meantime Mark Harwood was explaining, with evident delight, his father’s reasons for marrying Laura to the British dragoon.

“Cheyne,” said he, “has some very high-class connections across the water; an uncle is the Duke of Shropshire, you know, and the Marquis of Dorking is a cousin. Both of these gentlemen are very friendly with the king and Lord North; so, you see, with the lieutenant in the family, there is no great danger of our losing the Deering estate.”

Another shout of laughter greeted this; the crafty methods of Jasper Harwood seemed to please the Tories greatly. Suddenly there came a loud bellowing from Clarage, and the laughter ceased.

“Where has Foster gone?” demanded the Tory. “What has become of him? He was here a moment ago.”

“He’s up to some trick,” cried Mark Harwood excitedly. “There is a Whig spy about, somewhere; and Foster has gone to warn and help him to elude us.”

There was an instant rush for the door; but Lucy Foster stood there barring their passage.

“My father is unwell,” she said, quietly, but with a slight tremble in her voice. “He has gone to his chamber to rest.”

“Ah, is it so, indeed,” sneered young Harwood. “Well, we will assure ourselves of that, Miss Lucy, if you please. Stand aside.”

“I will not!” cried she, defiantly.

“Don’t waste words with her,” growled Clarage. “There is no knowing what her rebel father is up to while we are parleying with her, here.”

“I shall not move!” exclaimed Lucy, in ringing tones. “My father has gone to his chamber because he is unwell—I give you my word for that. Is it not enough?”

“No,” said Harwood. “We’ll see for ourselves.”

“You shall not disturb him. It is cruel—it is a sin—for he is weak and ill.”

Without any further words the Tories sprang at her. But at that same instant the door, against which the brave girl had placed her back, opened behind her; a strong arm drew her quickly into the hall; then the door closed with a snap and the astounded king’s men found themselves facing, not a weak girl, but a tall, muscular youth with a keen bronzed face, steady, cool eyes, and a naked sabre in his hand.

“Gentlemen,” said he, his fearless gaze traveling over them as he stood there, “I bid you good-day.”

“Tom Deering,” cried Mark Harwood, astounded.

“Quite so!” The young swamp-rider’s eyes were filled with scorn as he addressed himself to his Tory cousin. “You are surprised to see me, I take it.”

“Who is this fool that places his head in the lion’s mouth?” roared Clarage, his deep voice sounding like the rumbling of distant thunder.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Tom’s level gaze met Clarage’s furious one, with quiet assurance. “There are no lions here; it is more like a nest of rats.”

With a snarl the big Tory dragged his heavy, brass hilted sword from its scabbard.

“Then feel of the rat’s teeth,” he growled drawing back his arm for a tremendous blow.

“It’s the scout of the Swamp-Fox,” cried Mark Harwood. “Cut him down.”

Tom smiled at the eagerness in his cousin’s voice, and at his very evident disinclination to try to put the words into execution upon his own account. The careful teaching of Victor St. Mar had not been forgotten; on the contrary, Tom had not ceased to practice with small sword and sabre each day of his life; until, at last, there was not a man in Marion’s brigade that could stand before him sword in hand.

This gave him a feeling of confidence when Clarage drew back his heavy blade to cut him down, as Mark Harwood had cried out for him to do. The Tory had great strength, it was true, but the lad’s practiced eye told him that there was absolutely no skill behind it.

“Now, my jackanapes,” bellowed Clarage, “I’ll nail you against the door!”

The heavy blade cut downward with a swish. But it was met and deftly turned aside; and the wielder of it received a sharp, contemptuous rap upon the side of the head from the flat of the boy’s sabre, in return.

“Rats!” rang out Tom’s voice. “Rats, all of you! Insulters of girls and bullies of old men! You dare not face one who rides with Marion. I defy you all!”

For, at this exhibition of his dexterity with the blade which he held in his hand, the Tories had ceased to display any undue eagerness to come forward. Clarage, indeed, made well nigh mad with rage, strove to get in a cut; but the flashing sabre of the swamp-rider drove him back with ease.

“Pistols,” cried one. “At him with the pistols.”

“They are in the holsters in the stable,” returned another. This was a fact that had been noted by Tom; the total absence of firearms among the Tories was the reason for his, seemingly, uncalled-for boldness.

“Are we to let one boy hold us at bay,” shouted Clarage, flecks of white foam appearing upon his lip, so great was his rage. “At him, all together! Cut him down!”

A circle of drawn swords flashed in Tom’s eyes; but before they could strike, he had vanished through the door and clapped it in their faces.

“After him,” bawled Clarage, in a hoarse, thick voice, as he tore the door open and dashed into the hall. “Don’t let him escape.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, my dear sirs,” came a steady, resolute voice from above. In amaze they glared upward. About midway on the staircase stood the bold youth who had so braved their wrath, his sabre point resting upon the step upon which he stood. “I have not the slightest intention of escaping; your company is too entertaining for me to desire to leave you.”

“We have him safely,” said Mark Harwood in tones of triumph. “Escape is impossible now; get the muskets, Fannin,” to one of the others, “we’ll soon bring him to his knees.”

The man shot quickly down the hall and out at the front door. Tom’s laugh rang in the ears of the seven who remained, for he was thinking of the disappointment that was in store for them.

“He must be mad,” growled Clarage at this. “No sane person would laugh at the prospect of certain death.”

“Right,” said Tom. “You are always right, except when you imagine you can handle a sword.”

Once more his laugh rang out; and before he had done, the man sent for the firearms came racing back.

“The rifles are gone,” he announced.

“Gone!” they stared at him in consternation. “What do you mean, Fannin?”

“Just what I say,” returned the Tory. “The rifles have been carried off.”

“I have taken good care of that,” cried the lad on the staircase. “Your rifles, gentlemen, are where you will not be able to find them in a hurry. If you want to take me it must be hand to hand.”

“Then hand to hand it shall be,” roared Clarage, his face purple with passion. “Shall it be said,” he cried, turning to his companions, “that one rebel boy held back and defied eight loyal subjects of the king?”

His was the boldest spirit among them, and now its influence began to be felt.

“No! No!” they shouted.

“Then at him, like men. I only ask you to follow me.”

They took tighter grips upon the hilts of their swords. There was a window at the head of the staircase and a landing just under it. A broad beam of sunlight streamed through the window and bathed the staircase and the boy upon it in a flood of golden light. As the Tories brandished their swords for the rush, Tom heard a slight sound behind him; turning his head a little he saw Lucy Foster, pale faced and with clasped hands, standing upon the landing near the window.

“Don’t come any farther, if you value your safety and mine, also,” he had just time to call to her, and then the Tories were upon him. Clarage was first; he delivered a mighty cut at Tom’s head, but it was put aside and the young swamp-rider’s blade bit deeply into his right shoulder. Clarage uttered a roar of rage; his right arm was helpless, but he transferred his sword to his left and came on again. At each side of Clarage and over his shoulder the other Tories were cutting and thrusting desperately at Tom. The blows came swiftly and frequently; but his blade met them all, darting here and there like a streak of light and seeming at times to twine about their own like the coils of a metallic snake.

Desperately the battle waged on their part and gallantly upon his; the girl behind him, upon the landing, more than once cried out in fear as she saw almost certain death threatening the youth from the Tories’ sword points; but each time he redoubled his exertions and swept the staircase clear of his foes.

However, this could not last; he was but human, and his strength at last began to fail; two of his assailants were lying, disabled, at the foot of the stairs, and the others, to a man, bore testimony to his prowess. But, when they saw his strength waning, under the urging of Mark Harwood they pressed upon him, dealing showers of blows with their heavy sabres.

“Surrender,” cried Mark Harwood.

“You’ll take me, if you get me at all,” panted Tom, dealing an ugly cut at the nearest Tory.

“Then take you we will,” shouted the bull voice of Clarage. “Press on, men; he cannot strike so swiftly now. Press on and we have him.”

They crowded upon him with loud shouts and whirling swords. Step by step he was beaten back, breathless, exhausted, but fighting on. And when the moment came when he must be taken or cut down, there was a sudden crashing sound from behind him; the glass of the window at the landing was splintered and the frame was dashed in upon the floor. The lad’s heart sank, for he fancied it must be some of the enemy come to take him in the rear. He dared not turn his head to see, for the blows were showering about him; but, then, his heart gave a great bound of joy as a strange, weird cry sounded in his ears and the giant form of Cole sprang through the shattered window and stood towering and glaring beside him.

But, as it chanced, the colossal slave was weaponless. Mighty as was his strength he could not pit his naked hands against the Tories’ swords. At the turn of the staircase, on the landing, a thick oaken post, carved and about the height of a fair-sized man stood, supporting the stair-rail.

STEP BY STEP HE WAS
BEATEN BACK

With a bound he had reached it; with a mighty wrench he tore it from its place; and, waving this massive weapon as lightly as a child would a sword of lath, he flung himself into the fight.

Tom was about striking his last weak blow, as the Tories saw clearly. But before the terrific onslaught of the giant they recoiled, amazed; the huge club wheeled about his head once, twice, thrice and they were swept, howling, to the bottom of the stairs.

“Brave Cole!” Tom gasped the words as he sank back upon the stairs, exhausted. “Strike hard; it’s our lives or theirs.”

At that time one of the party discovered Mr. Foster’s arms chest; the Tories threw themselves upon it with shouts of delight and in another moment a blazing volley swept up the staircase, the bullets singing spitefully past Cole’s ears.

“Back,” cried Tom. “Back, Cole.”

They bounded round the turn in the stairs, Tom bearing the frightened girl with him. Another volley crashed into the wall, behind where they had just stood.

“They will be upon us in a moment,” said Tom, his face pale, but his eyes burning with a resolute light. “Miss Lucy, leave us; we cannot hope to hold them back, now; you will be in danger.”

The Tories were reloading in the hall; Clarage was roaring in furious delight and stamping about like an enraged lion. Cole was rapidly telling Tom all about what had been done at the barn, his fingers flying like mad.

“They are ours now,” stormed Clarage, in loud triumph. “We’ll make them beg; the rebels, the dogs—we’ll show them what king’s men can do.”

“It’s high time you were doing it.” Tom bent over the broken rail at the place from where Cole had torn his mighty club. “It seems to me, the loyal subjects of the king have performed rather badly to-day.”

“But we’ll do better from now on,” laughed Clarage, who had in the height of their triumph actually begun to grow good-humored. “Are you ready, gentlemen?” to the others.

“Yes, yes,” came a chorus.

To the astonishment of all, Tom Deering stepped boldly forward into plain view; he was without weapons, and Clarage, with a roar of laughter, at once jumped to the conclusion that he meant to surrender.

“He has weakened,” he yelled. “The rebel has weakened.”

“Shoot him down,” cried Mark Harwood, from well in the rear. “No quarter!”

Tom held up his hand, quietly; he showed not the slightest trace of fear, for the things that Cole had made him understand had filled him with confidence. The Tories below gazed up at him in astonishment. Tom spoke:

“I charge all men within hearing of my voice to lay down their arms, in peace. You are enemies to your neighbors and to Carolina, and in the name of the Continental Congress, I call upon you to surrender.”

“He’s mad!” burst out Clarage, “as mad as a March hare!”

“Down with him,” shrilled the voice of Mark Harwood. “No quarter to the rebel.”

The muskets were about to be raised to their owners’ shoulders; Tom’s voice rang out warningly.

“On your lives, lay down your arms.”

A shout of derision greeted the words; then the young swamp-rider’s fingers went to his lips and a sharp, shrill whistle split the air. It was the signal that Cole had arranged with the released prisoners; and like magic it was answered. Through every door and window, it seemed, sprang a resolute man; before the Tories could raise a hand a shattering volley was poured into them. A cloud of smoke, cries and the sound of heavy blows were swept up the staircase; Lucy, her hand pressed to her wildly-beating heart, made as though to look over the rail at the awful scene below. But Tom put her aside, almost roughly.

“Don’t look,” said he. “There is nothing there for you to see.”

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when the door below opened with a crash; shouts and cries were heard upon the veranda and lawn. Tom rushed to a window and looked out. He was just in time to see Mark Harwood, Clarage and the other surviving Tories rush toward the barn, spring upon the backs of the horses which the liberated prisoners had brought out for their own use, and gallop swiftly away.

CHAPTER X
HOW MARION’S MEN LAY IN AMBUSH, AND WHAT CAME OF IT

This encounter of Tom Deering with the loyalists at the Foster mansion made a great stir. Mr. Foster, of course, could no longer remain at his home, where the British were likely to close in upon him at any time; so he and Lucy, taking their most valuable possessions, made their way northward toward Virginia. From this time on, also, the British commander, Cornwallis, displayed a greater solicitude than ever in the attempts to capture Marion and disperse his band of horsemen.

The legion of Tarleton and a strong force under Major Wemyss were set in motion to beat him out of his retreats in the cane-brakes and swamps. It was Cornwallis’ intention to have these forces cooperate, but Tarleton was delayed and Wemyss would not wait for him.

Through his young scout Marion was kept posted as to the movements of the advancing enemy.

“Major Wemyss is in command of the Sixty-third Regiment,” reported Tom, “and he has with him, also, a large party of Tories, under Clarage.”

“Very good,” said Colonel Marion, briefly. “We must prepare to give them the reception that is due them.”

Major James, a gallant and skilful officer, was summoned and despatched with a select body of volunteers to reconnoitre. All the outposts were called in and, thus united, Marion followed swiftly upon the footsteps of James.

Accompanying the latter was Tom, Cole, and Nat and David Collins. They pushed quickly forward among the morasses and sunk-land, under the great trees hanging with moss and a rank growth of creepers; and at last Major James gave the word to halt.

“Deering,” said he to Tom, “ride carefully forward. I fancy we are about to come in touch with the enemy. Take a few of the men with you.”

Tom selected Cole, of course, and the two Collinses. They rode slowly forward, in Indian file, along a narrow road between two impassable morasses, alert and cautious, never for a moment forgetting that they were in the neighborhood of the British.

“I hear,” said Nat Collins, who rode at Tom’s side, “that Clarage took some prisoners north of this place.”

“Prisoners!” the word always had a peculiar interest for Tom; it set him thinking of his father, so long in the hands of the British—made him long for a sight of him again.

“A rich booty came with these prisoners, too, so the report goes,” continued Nat. “A booty that King George’s treasury will never see, I suppose.”

“The Tories make this war an excuse for plunder,” said Tom. “A great many of them are more actuated by a desire to seize upon their neighbors’ goods, than by longing to serve King George.”

Cole, who rode in front, at this point drew rein upon Dando, and held up his hand. All halted immediately. From far off in the swamp came a low, steady sound, a rising and falling that seemed to draw nearer with each passing moment.

“What is it?” asked David Collins, in a hushed voice.

“It’s like the sound of hoofs,” answered Tom. “Hoof-beats in a swamp, I’ve noticed, have a strangeness about them that seems uncanny. The ground is so soft, and the thick growth muffles the sound so. I’ve lain and listened to them many times in the night; they sound all the more strange coming through the darkness.”

But he was not sure that this was the same sound; and they became silent once more and listened attentively. Suddenly a night bird began to wheel in short circles above the tree-top, and its rasping cries broke the stillness abruptly.

“We’ll not be able to make sure while that fellow is about,” laughed Tom. “He seems to object to our presence.”

He dismounted and gave Sultan’s rein to Cole. Kneeling in the narrow road he pressed his ear to the ground, and kept it there for a long time. At length he arose.

“Yes, horses,” said he, “and quite a lot of them. They seem to be coming along the main road, west of here.” He remounted Sultan and sat silently for a moment. Then he continued, “They are going in the direction of the ford that crosses the Congaree near Fort Mott. There is only one reason why a party of the enemy should be heading for Fort Mott at this time, when they have only started out to seek us.”

“I know,” broke in Nat Collins, “I know what you are thinking. It’s the Tories, under Clarage, and they are taking the prisoners, which I spoke of, to the fort for safe keeping.”

“Right,” said Tom, his eyes snapping; “that is exactly what occurred to me. And, look here, what a pity it is that Major James is not here, and the rest of his men. The Tories will be forced to pass the ruined mill that stands back from the west road, a short distance from here. We could reach that point long before them, judging from the sound of their horses’ feet, and we could give them a surprise.”

For a moment there was silence; then Nat and David broke forth, at once.

“Let us try it—alone!”

Tom laughed in sheer glee, and cried excitedly,

“Do you mean it?”

“We do,” in a breath.

Tom turned to Cole. The great negro grinned; anything that his young master thought of doing was always of great interest to Cole, because, as a rule, what his young master thought it worth while to do usually contained some spice of excitement. Tom knew what the slave’s grin expressed as well as though it had been in words.

“Good!” cried he. “We’re all agreed; and we’ll try it alone. It can do no harm, even if we fail.”

Wheeling their horses they spurred back along the road by which they had come, until they struck a narrow path branching toward the west. Galloping through such a swamp as that and along such a narrow, crooked track, in the darkness, was a most dangerous proceeding; but they were all young and danger, to their ardent spirits, meant but little.

The old mill of which Tom had spoken lay upon the west road—that is the road leading to the Congaree;—it was deserted and had fallen into ruins years before. It was seldom that any one troubled it with his presence; so it was an ideal spot for a surprise or ambuscade. A sharp gallop of, perhaps, a quarter of an hour brought our four adventurers to the old mill. The moon was shining brightly; but the overhanging trees that surrounded the ruin threw it into a deep shadow. A dense thicket stretched along the roadside well in this shadow, and it was behind this that our friends ensconced themselves, after first securing their horses among the trees.

The hoof-beats of the party advancing along the western road now sounded distinctly in their ears. There was little wind, but it was blowing in their direction, and it carried the ringing strokes toward them when the approaching riders came upon a stony part of the road; but, as a rule, the sound was thick, dull and heavy, for the ground was soggy, for the most part, and low.

“Look well to your primings,” spoke Tom, as they crouched behind the thicket. “And keep your pistols at hand, for we will need a second volley.”

Nearer and nearer came the riders; the rumble of wheels could, also, now be distinguished; and soon in the moonlit road they saw about a dozen horsemen, some riding ahead and some alongside a small train of four wagons.

“It’s an escort with Clarage’s prisoners, sure enough,” Nat Collins breathed into Tom Deering’s ear. “See, they have all the plunder in the wagons, just as they took it.”

The wagons rumbled along slowly, drawn by plodding old plough-horses; the steeds of the escort champed at their bits and pranced impatiently at the slowness of the pace.

“Ready,” ordered Tom, in a low, sharp whisper. “I’ll give the word.”

The cavalcade was almost abreast of them when one of the escort called out, apparently addressing some one in one of the wagons.

“So you thought you would run off up to Virginia, did you, Master Foster, and give us the slip! Well, it’s a rare good thing that I fell in with you, or who knows but you might have fallen in with some dishonest rogues upon the way who might have robbed you of the valuables contained in your wagons.”

“It’s Clarage, himself,” said Tom, startled. “And his prisoners are Mr. Foster and his daughter Lucy.” He paused a moment, then leveled his piece over the top of the thicket, his companions doing likewise. “Fire,” he cried.

The four leveled rifles were discharged at once; two men fell from their saddles into the road; another, desperately wounded, clung to his horse’s neck as it raced madly away along the road.

“Hold your ground,” roared Clarage, his bull-like voice plainly to be heard above all the confusion. His men had drawn together in a group, their horses pawing and fighting for their heads against the tautly-drawn bridles.

“The pistols,” whispered Tom. “Fire!”

The long-barreled pistols, of which each of the swamp-riders carried two, exploded in their turn; a man and several horses went down; then the second pistol came into play for a third volley with deadly results. By this time Clarage and his followers, or what were left of them, were struck by a panic; the three volleys of shots from the thicket made it seem as though the ambushment was composed of a great number of men; so, when the four leaped in a body into the road, their swords flashing, and Tom turned and called, as though cheering on still more, “Come on, lads; down with the Tories,” the escort could not be restrained, but gave rein to their steeds and fled down the road toward the Congaree with the raging Clarage thundering at their heels at every bound.

At their flight Tom placed his foot on the hub of a wheel and sprang into the leading wagon.

“Lucy,” he cried, “Mr. Foster.”

“It’s Mars Tom,” cried Dogberry, who had been driving the wagon, but who at the first shot had dived under the seat. “It’s Mars Tom, Missy Lucy. We’s safe again. Ha, ha, ha!”

In a moment Lucy Foster and her father were thanking them for this timely service. Both were pale and worn-looking, especially Mr. Foster, who had been greatly disturbed at the attack of the swamp-riders.

“We were on our way north,” explained Mr. Foster, “and were approaching Fishdam Ferry when we were pounced upon by this man Clarage and his ruffians. All that I have been able to save is contained in these wagons; that and our lives, also, would have been lost had you not appeared just as you did.”

“Oh, when will it all end,” cried poor Lucy, wringing her hands. “It is dreadful; I shall never forget the scenes I have witnessed in the past few weeks!”

“Don’t fear,” soothed Tom. “Marion will lend you an escort and see your father safe on your journey. Meanwhile we had better be on our way back. Major James will be awaiting us.”

Upon their return to the spot where they had left their party they found that Major James, upon his own account, had also surprised a party of the enemy and routed them without loss of a man. So, with Mr. Foster’s wagons rolling along in the midst of them they made their way toward the point where they were to meet Marion.

CHAPTER XI
HOW TOM MET WITH A BLINDFOLD ADVENTURE

In the fall Marion defeated a large body of the enemy at the Black Wingo. News had filtered its way into Carolina that General Greene had succeeded Gates and was advancing with fresh recruits and the remnant of the fugitives who survived the fatal battle of Camden. Marion was most anxious to show Greene and his Continentals that there was a spirit in the state, so he became more than usually active.

He recruited his force at Williamsburg and was marching to attack Colonel Harrison, who was in force upon Lynch’s Creek; but his progress in this direction was suddenly arrested one afternoon when Tom and Cole dashed back from a scout and informed him that there was a large gathering of Tories in and about Salem and the fork of the Black River. Colonel Tynes, who commanded this force, had brought with him large supplies of the materials of war and comfort-things in which Marion’s riders stood very much in need. Tom drew pictures of new English muskets, broadswords, bayonets, pistols, saddles and bridles, powder and ball, and large stores of hard money which Tynes had also brought to tempt new levies.

His men wanted so much for all these things that Marion could not resist the boy’s eloquence. Harrison, for the time, was forgotten; and the half-naked brigade was headed for Tarcote, in the forks of the Black River. Crossing the lower ford of the northern branch of the river, at Nelson’s plantation, Marion came upon the camp of Tynes at midnight. A hurried survey revealed the fact that the Tories had made no preparation to ward off an attack. Most of them were asleep; but many were grouped about the camp-fires.

Hastily collecting his men, Marion struck like lightning. The surprise was complete; the panic universal. Marion lost not a single man, and gained a great store of clothing, arms and ammunition, as Tom had predicted he would.

One after another these victories came; they were small in themselves but they gave the patriots courage; they revived spirits that had drooped since the taking of Charleston and the burnings and hangings by Tarleton and his fierce dragoons. As the leaves yellowed and fell, and long before the Christmas season set in, the cause of liberty once more grew bright in Carolina.

Cornwallis was quick to feel this; his parties were continually under arms; his columns were ever scouring the country for the elusive but dangerous foe. But Marion had taught his countrymen how to fight their powerful enemy; surprise, ambuscades, night marches, rapid retreats—that was the story of his work, and it brought the British, as far as results were concerned, almost to a standstill.

On December 30, 1780, Cornwallis, from his camp at Winnsborough, wrote to Sir Henry Clinton at New York:

“Colonel Marion has so wrought upon the minds of the people ... that there is scarcely an inhabitant between the Santee and Peedee that is not in arms against us. Some parties have even crossed the Santee and carried terror to the gates of Charleston.”

The daring expedition of which the British general wrote was led by Tom Deering. For a long time he had been brooding upon the words of Mark Harwood spoken that day at the Foster mansion. Laura was to be forced by Jarvis Harwood to marry Lieutenant Cheyne at Christmas. This, together with his inability to do anything for his imprisoned father weighed heavily upon him; he could not sleep at night, and during the day his helplessness to carry relief to those he cared most for in the world preyed constantly upon him, allowing him no rest. Oh, if he could only strike a blow for them; if he could only liberate his father from the hulks in Charleston harbor—for he felt almost sure, by this, that it was there he would find him—and save Laura from Jasper Harwood, he would be happy and content.

He sat one night upon a cottonwood stump at the camp-fire brooding over these things, with Cole stretched full length beside him, when Marion, who was going the rounds of the camp, stopped to look at him.

“There is something,” said the commander, seating himself beside him on the stump, “that has been upon your mind for some weeks past. What is it?”

It was not often that Colonel Marion invited a confidence; he was as kind and gentle a man as could be, but, as a rule, he treated his men not too familiarly. So, his question proved his interest to Tom at once.

The lad told him of Laura, and of what was to happen at Christmas. Marion listened and his dark, deep-set eyes kindled.

“The villains,” said he, warmly. “They would make this poor girl the wife of a man whom she does not care for, in order to create an influence that will enable them to possess themselves of your father’s property.”

He paused for a moment, then turned suddenly upon his young scout.

“If I had not the cares and responsibilities of this command resting upon me,” said he, “I would ask nothing better than to beard them under their own guns and take this poor child from them.”

“Oh, if I could only make the attempt!” cried Tom. “I could learn something of my father, too, perhaps. If I only had the force, I would dare it.”

“Would any of your friends in the brigade volunteer for the adventure, do you think?”

“A score of them!” exclaimed the youth.

“You have my permission to take them out on the enterprise,” said Marion, kindly. “It will not only be doing the young lady a service if you succeed, but will demonstrate to the enemy that we can penetrate even into his most powerful towns.”

At last Tom had the chance he had so often prayed for. Overjoyed, he went to work next day sounding his most intimate friends in the brigade; he went to the younger men from choice, for it was to these that the boldness of the proposed attempt would appeal. Without the slightest difficulty he secured the eager consent of the required number; and all day they prepared for the expedition by polishing and cleaning rifles and pistols and looking to the edges of sabres. At dusk, well-mounted and armed, and with high, hopeful hearts they set forth. The brigade waved their caps and gave them three silent cheers, for Marion had forbidden noise in the camp.

The camp of Marion at this period was in the midst of a dense cane-brake in the district between Fort Watson and Georgetown; he had not as yet settled into his famous base at Snow’s Island, and was conducting his operations from many different points.

The party under Tom Deering forded the Santee in safety, and by hard riding and no mishaps made Monks Corner, on the west bank of the Cooper River, by daybreak the next day. Of course they did not enter the town, but remained some distance outside, encamped upon a small creek. At nightfall they resumed their journey; now and then they met a rider or a carriage in the road; but they were too far into the enemy’s country for any one to suspect them of being anything else than king’s men, so boldly and confidently did they push forward.

The coming of day found them in the suburbs of Charleston; the houses began to appear more frequently along the road, and when the sun at last showed itself in the east they were trotting along a wide road toward a small inn which stood, together with a stable and some other outbuildings, just a trifle to one side.

“This is Natchez’s place,” said Tom; “we stop here.”

Natchez, it was thought, was an Indian of at least quarter blood; he had kept the inn by the roadside for many years, and was a queer, silent sort of an old man and an unquestioned though secret friend of the patriot cause. Marion had, at times, occasion to send a spy into Charleston; and it was always at the Indian’s Head—for so the inn was called—that the venturesome one found shelter.

When our friends drew rein before the inn door, Natchez, who seemed always to be stirring, came out. Tom gave him a quick signal and the old man peered up at him from under his bushy eyebrows, in surprise.

“So many of you!” he exclaimed, holding up his hands.

“We must remain here until dark,” said Tom.

“It is not an attack upon the city?” asked the old man, eagerly. “Where is Marion?”

“Back in the swamps, across the Santee. We are upon a secret errand.”

“It is dangerous to hide so many,” said Natchez, complainingly. “You will have to be satisfied with the barn; I cannot have you in the house.”

“The barn will answer very well,” agreed Tom. “But open the doors and let us put up our horses; we have had a hard ride, Natchez; man and beast, both, are hungry and tired.”

The barn was a good-sized one and very well able to accommodate their mounts. They climbed into the loft, themselves; there were great piles of sweet-smelling hay there, and after Natchez and an old negro slave had served them with a plentiful breakfast, they curled up and slept soundly through the long day.

Late in the afternoon Tom awoke; the others were still sleeping; so he climbed down the ladder, and after giving a careful look at the horses to see that they had been well provided for, he made his way to the inn.

“Well, Natchez,” said he. “Any news?”

“Maybe,” grunted the old man. He was sitting upon a wooden bench that ran along in front of the inn, his legs crossed and his hands clasped around his knee.

“There is something?” Tom looked at him, questioningly.

“A man was here,” said Natchez. “I think he look for you.”

“A man, looking for me!” Tom was startled, and darted a quick look all about. “You must be mistaken.”

Natchez shook his head.

“No,” said he positively; “he look for you. He come here once, twice, three times. And every time he look for you.”

Tom sat down upon the bench and looked at the old man. There was no one, save his own party, who knew that he was at the Indian’s Head—but, stay; perhaps Marion desired to convey some word to him, and suspecting that he would halt at the inn, had sent a rider after him. However, this could soon be ascertained.

“Did the man have the signal?” asked he.

“No,” answered Natchez, “no signal.”

That put the question at rest; the man was not from Marion.

“What sort of a man was he?” asked he, at length.

“Old man—gray hair—one eye—wooden leg.”

At this catalogue of infirmities Tom burst into a laugh.

“Well, he must be a peculiar looking person, to be sure,” remarked he. “What did he say?”

“Him have paper,” said Natchez. “Him read it. The paper have you on, sure.”

Tom was puzzled; the whole affair seemed very queer; perhaps the British had learned—but no; if they knew of his and his companions’ presence at the Indian’s Head, they would have made the fact known by means of a company of dragoons, and not in this way.

“He was here three times, you say,” he said to Natchez.

The old man nodded.

“And he say he come once more,” said he.

“Ah!” Tom looked surprised. “Well, in that case I can find out just who and what he is and what he wants.”

After a time Natchez went into the inn to attend to some duties; Tom remained upon the bench, playing with a lively pointer pup, which had approached him in a friendly manner. His companions showed no signs of having awakened; the sun was going down behind a wooded rise in the ground and the long, wide road stretched away toward the city dusty and deserted.

“If my peculiar looking friend wants me he had better hurry,” muttered Tom. “It’s almost time for us to take the road once more.”

He had barely ceased speaking when he noticed, far down the road, where all had been deserted a few moments before, the figure of a man slowly approaching.

“Can this be he?” Tom pushed the frolicking puppy from him, and looked long and earnestly toward the figure. The man came nearer and nearer; his pace was very slow and he walked with the assistance of a cane. “Yes!” suddenly, “it is he. There is his wooden leg—and his hair is gray—and he has but one eye!”

The man continued to slowly advance; when he reached a point in the road directly in front of the inn, he paused. His remaining eye seemed very dim of sight, for at first he did not seem to see Tom. But when, at last, he did make him out, he came nearer and peered at him with great anxiety. He was a stout man with a fat, flabby, white face; his single eye squinted through a steel-rimmed glass; his breath was being drawn fast and with some difficulty, for his walk seemed to have exhausted him.

He was forced, in order to see Tom plainly, to come very close; he said nothing, but only looked. Tom sat, silently awaiting the outcome of the inspection. At length a look of satisfaction spread over the man’s face; he grinned with delight, and a chuckling seemed to shake him all over.

He put his hand into his breast pocket and took out a folded paper; unfolding it with great care, he adjusted his glass and proceeded to read:

“Young man—tall—brown hair—gray eyes—not very well dressed,” he lowered the paper and fastened the youth on the bench with his single eye. “That’s you, is it not?”

“It describes me pretty well,” said Tom.

“It describes you exactly,” said the one-eyed man with the wooden leg. Then he turned his attention to the paper once more. “Will be at the Indian’s Head just outside the city, on the evening of December 23d.” He looked up at Tom, once more. “This is the Indian’s Head, is it not?”

“It is.”

“And this is the evening of December 23d?”

“It is.”

“And you are here?”

Tom laughed; and the one-eyed man looked hurriedly at the paper.

“It does not say anything about your laughing,” he informed Tom, at last, “but I suppose it’s all right. But, let us get down to business. Here are,” and he drew out a bulky packet, “your instructions.” He handed the packet to Tom without more ado, and drew out another paper; this one had an official look and bore a large seal. “And here,” went on the man, “is your permit to enter the city and leave it as you will, without fear and without question, and to have what helpers you require bear you company.”

He handed the permit to Tom; then he turned and began stumping away on his wooden leg and cane, without another word. Tom arose hastily; the papers were not for him, he was confident of that. He was about to call to the man to return; but the permit—the free and unquestioned entry into Charleston—was too much; he sank back into his seat and watched and watched the wooden-legged man until he disappeared down the long, dusty road.

Then he looked at the passport carefully. It bore the signature and seal of Cornwallis and, as the man had said, permitted the bearer to pass in and out of the city at all hours and with whatever company rode with him. It bore no name other than that of the signature, and Tom grew puzzled and disturbed.

“Perhaps,” muttered he, “it is for me, after all. Some one in the city might have known of my desire to save Laura, and my father and——”

But the thing was too improbable. It was, indeed, impossible. The packet which the man had said held instructions lay upon his knee; it was not sealed, the several documents which it contained were merely laid loosely together. Tom thought for some time over the right and wrong of looking into this packet; it could not have been meant for him; therefore would it be right to examine it?

It took but a few moments, however, for him to decide; it was perfectly right to gain information from the enemy by intercepting his despatches; and these papers might be something of that nature. His mind once made up he was soon acquainted with the secrets that the papers held. They were written in a large, flowing hand; but, just like the passport, none of them contained the name of the person for whom they were intended. And, in this case, the name of the writer was lacking, also! Opening the first Tom read:

“Your venture has become known to us in a rather strange way. It is dangerous, but may do great good. In any case, you may depend upon us to do all that we can for you. The passport which I send you will admit you into the city. Come to-night, and alone; as the clock strikes ten stand in front of the king’s statue near Lord Rawdon’s headquarters. I will have a person there to conduct you to me.”

The other papers contained names of persons and references to things that Tom did not understand; but a footnote upon one of them read:

“These may not seem very clear to you, but all will be explained later.”

For a long time Tom pondered over all this. Was it possible, after all, that some one had learned of his enterprise and was about to help him in the accomplishment of it? The person, whoever it was, must be high in the favor of the British; for such a passport as that which he held was not an easy thing to secure.

And then, again, it might be all a ruse; it might be a trap—a snare, set to catch him and those who rode with him. In a short time the others were awake and he placed the matter before them. To say that they were astonished would be putting it mildly. But, to a man, they thought it all right. Because, they argued, and Tom thought with reason, if it were the enemy who sent the papers, why did they trouble to do it? A squadron, surrounding the barn as they slept, would have been a safer and much more simple way of capturing them.

“If I were you I’d see it out,” said Nat Collins, decidedly.

“And I! and I!” cried the others.

Cole was the only one who seemed at all dubious; but as the white youths seemed to be so firm in their belief that everything was right, he said nothing; and when Tom told him to saddle Sultan he did so without a word.

“I’ll return some time to-morrow,” said the young scout as he settled himself in the saddle. “Natchez will take care of you all. Don’t expose yourselves to the view of any one coming along the road; but lay low. And now I’m away!” He shook the rein. “Good-bye, boys; good-bye, Cole.”

With this he set off at a sharp gallop toward the city. Darkness had come on some time before, but the road was excellent and he had no fear of accidents. As he drew close to the town a sentry halted him. But the passport of the Earl of Cornwallis met with an instant salute and he was allowed to proceed. This occurred several times; but always with the same result. And, at last, he rode into the city’s streets at about the hour of nine. It had been many long months since he had last been in Charleston; everything remained the same, however, except for the flaunting of the British flag which hung from every flagstaff, and the many redcoats to be seen on the streets, swaggering dragoons and stalwart grenadiers, who seemed to look with contempt upon the townsfolk, loyalist and patriot alike.

Tom put Sultan up at a neighboring hostelry, and then wandered about the city to pass the time between that and the hour at which he was to meet the guide who was to lead him to the person who had sent the papers. He had his sabre strapped to his side and carried a heavy pistol in his breast; people would frequently stop and look after him as he passed, his hunting-shirt, worn leather leggings and the rest of his attire attracting their attention. Quite often a dragoon, or foot soldier would pause and stare into his face rudely as though they had seen his like before and had their suspicions of him; but his steady eyes and confident bearing drove from their minds any intention they may have had of stopping him.

As ten o’clock struck in the tower of a near-by church, he stopped before the statue of King George, near the governor’s headquarters. At the same instant a man came out of a shadow immediately across the way and approached him.

“Are you awaiting any one?” asked the newcomer.

“I am,” said Tom.

“For me?” inquiringly.

“Perhaps so.”

“What word do you bring?”

“I bring no word.”

The man looked at him for a moment, sharply.

“That is very strange,” said he.

Tom drew out the message making the queer appointment.