WILD NAT, THE TROOPER;
OR,
THE CEDAR SWAMP BRIGADE.

BY WILLIAM R. EYSTER.

NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
98 WILLIAM STREET.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by
BEADLE AND ADAMS,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

CONTENTS

WILD NAT, THE TROOPER;

OR,

THE CEDAR SWAMP BRIGADE.

CHAPTER I.
CATHERINE VALE.

There was a time in the history of our country when the stoutest hearts were filled with despair. The defeat of General Gates, followed by the overrunning of the Carolinas, the treachery of Benedict Arnold, and the general bad condition of our army, did not, certainly, tend to cheer those thousands of noble souls earnestly praying for the success of the American cause. It is of that period, of that darkest hour, which precedes the day, that we purpose to write.

Toward the close of a long, disagreeable day, two women sat by the fireside of a dwelling some fifteen or eighteen miles from Charleston. The two presented a contrast, indeed, even though their features were alike. One was an elderly woman, with hair sprinkled with threads of gray, though she yet retained much of her early beauty. The other was a young girl, whose age could not have exceeded nineteen. Although not absolutely beautiful, there was that about her which made her fascinating. With features finely molded, and a graceful carriage, her figure was a model of physical grace and perfectness. Her hair was of that golden hue, so seldom seen save in poet’s dreams. Her voice was as musical and clear as the notes of a flute. Not in all that land of fair women could be found a more truly lovable woman than Catherine Vale.

Catherine and her mother were conversing earnestly together.

“It is not for me, Kate, to judge of the heart of a man; to say that this one is to be trusted, and that one not, without an acquaintance of longer standing than that between myself and young Ernshaw. Without having heard that he was vicious, it has often been told me that he was of unsettled disposition; that he is known to the neighbors as ‘Wild Nat.’ Such a name would never have been given a man of reliable and good character.”

“Whatever you advise, mother, that will I do; for your wish is law, with me.”

“Do not speak of law, Kate; all I do is for your own happiness. If I thought you would be happy with Nat Ernshaw, I would advise you to receive his addresses; as it is, I say wait. Be not too hasty, for time and circumstances will do much to place all things in their true light.”

“I will, mother; I will try him, and prove the strength of his affection. These are perilous times, and times, too, that bring out the good in a man’s character, if there is any good in it; and something may happen which will give you more favorable impressions of Nat Ernshaw, than you appear to entertain now.”

Catherine turned away and busied herself with her household duties. Mrs. Vale gazed with pride upon her daughter, and sorrowfully murmured, “It would be a sad thing for my dear child to throw herself away on such a fellow as ‘Wild Nat.’”

Mrs. Vale’s husband had been dead some fifteen years. He left her the legacy of two fair children, upon whom all her hopes were centered. The son had now grown to be the hardy man of two-and-twenty, and Kate, the belle of the region, had, for several years, been among the young women sought for by the beaux of the country.

Nat Ernshaw had been on intimate terms with the family for some years, and had long cherished a feeling of great regard for Kate. He had an unpleasant reputation, however, among the more staid in the neighborhood. Not that he was absolutely vicious, or wedded to habits of dissipation, for he was neither; but he had a number of, to say the least, negative qualities, which made that prudent and self-pious class, who have the morals of every community in their keeping, predict that he would never come to any good. Catherine was slow, however, to credit either the reports of the busy-bodies, or the prophecies of the elder ones, for she had a woman’s subtle intuitions, sharpened by a cool, clear judgment, and she was fully conscious of all the lights and shades in Nat’s not well-defined character. That he was one of those who let their good qualities remain latent until called out by some important crisis, she perfectly realized; and she had full faith in the future. The word “wait” had no terrors in it. She therefore resolved to abide by her promise; but, like an upright, conscientious girl that she was, she also resolved that Nathaniel should know how she felt toward him; if he could satisfy Mrs. Vale, and prove his affection real, and his character above reproach, she would have no objection to receive him as her accepted lover, and future husband.

The frugal meal was at last ready. Catherine moved toward the door, but before she reached it, the latch was raised, and a tall, straight, well-featured young man entered.

“Sit down, John; Kate was just going to call you to supper.”

“All right, mother; I feel hungry enough; and, after awhile, I want to go over to Squire Stoddart’s. I will be back early, though. I guess you and Kate will not be afraid to be left alone for a little while.”

Mrs. Vale smiled as she answered, “I think not; but, John, it seems to me that you want to see Squire Stoddart rather often. What has he got that is so attractive? Can’t you enlighten us?”

“Certainly, mother, if you will tell me that you are really ignorant, and ask for the sole purpose of finding out what it is, and not to plague me.”

“I can’t say that; so I suppose we will scarcely get the requested information from you. Mary Stoddart is a fine girl, John; and, if the country ever gets settled down, I would have no objection to calling her daughter; but, now-a-days, marrying and giving in marriage, are things which had best be deferred.”

“If we wait till the country gets settled, I am afraid we will all be old and gray-headed. I am not one of those who believe in deferring to some future time what can be done now; and as soon as Mary will consent, you shall call her daughter. I know you will have no objections.”

Running on in this manner, the three kept up the conversation until the meal was over; then John, after finishing up his evening’s work, wended his way in the direction of Mr. Stoddart’s.

Hardly half an hour had elapsed, when the sound of a horse, coming at a full gallop along the road, was heard. The traveler, whoever he was, reined in at the widow’s door. Dismounting, he tied his horse to a tree. To the surprise of Mrs. Vale, who had answered the knock, the person was none other than Nat Ernshaw. She greeted him kindly:

“Come in, Nathaniel; come in. We have seen no one who could give us any news for over a week; and, as you seem to have come from Charleston, you can tell us what is going on.”

“I am ready enough to come in; but as for giving you any news of what is going on in Charleston, it is something I am unable to do. I haven’t seen the inside of the place for three or four weeks, and I don’t expect to see it until these Britishers are driven out.”

The good dame closed the door as he entered, and motioned him to a seat.

“I’m much obliged to you, Mrs. Vale; but, to tell the truth, I hardly have time to sit down. I called to see John, and have a few minutes’ talk with him. If you could tell me where I can find him I will look for him, as I see he is not in the house.”

“What do you want of him, Nat? I am afraid you want to lead him into some mischief.”

“I can not say whether you will call it mischief or not; I am willing to tell you what I wish to do, and I think you will approve of it. These are stirring times, Mrs. Vale, and it’s the duty of every one to do something for the country. The wolf is at our doors, and it’s our duty to drive him away. A number of us are about organizing a troop to fight for our homes and liberty. I know that you and John believe, as I do, that the colonies are in the right; and I came over to-night to see if I could not get John to join us. Every one is joining one side or the other; and, unless we make a vigorous stand now, it will soon be too late.”

“Nathaniel,” said the widow, “you know that John is the main support of my old age; that he and Catherine are all that keeps me here. Were they gone, I would not wish for life. Is not the cause of freedom hopeless? Have not our countrymen been beaten at all points? Is there a chance of success left to hang a single hope on? What good, then, will it do for John to risk his life for the sake of continuing a little longer a struggle which must soon end disastrously?”

“‘While there is life there is hope,’ as the doctors say, Mrs. Vale. You speak truly, when you say the case is desperate; but that it is hopeless, I deny. While there remains a thousand swords and a thousand stout arms to wield them—while there are a thousand brave hearts that pant for liberty, and liberty only, the cause of American Independence will not be given up without a last grand struggle. We must be successful; and, though our lives are given to establish the nationality of the colonies, the sacrifice must not be grudged.”

“Nathaniel Ernshaw, you speak like a patriot, and you must feel like one. I but tried you when I spoke of our cause as hopeless. John is anxious to go to the fray; but his love for me has kept him at home. He shall be kept here no longer. Count on him as one of the company, and, if he falls fighting for liberty and his country, think not I will ever reproach you for having asked him to enter the paths of danger.”

“I thought you would feel so, and I believe John is as enthusiastic as yourself; but his love for you had kept him from joining the army, knowing that, at any moment, he might be ordered away from you. Now the case is different. The foe is in our midst. We can see them from our own door-steps, and we must battle for the defence of our firesides.”

At this moment, Catherine, who had been in the other room, entered. With a pleasant “Good evening,” she shook hands, and, taking a seat, she resumed the knitting which she had relinquished to prepare supper.

From a discussion of the state of the country, Nathaniel turned to talk of other matters, spoke of what was going on about them, and thus passed a pleasant half-hour. Finally, he rose from his seat, remarking:

“To tell the truth, I must leave now, although I should love well enough to stay here a little while longer. If I was certain that John would be home soon, I should wait for him: but, as it is, I think I shall ride over to Squire Stoddart’s—where I take it he is—and have a few words with him. It is important that I speak about the organization now, as we will hold a meeting to-morrow night.”

Catherine accompanied the young man to the door, and remained talking with him for some time. When she returned, the color had risen in her face, but she quietly took her seat, while the clattering along the road told that Nat was making all possible speed in the direction of the squire’s.

CHAPTER II.
THE TORY SPY.

No man is so base as he who deliberately takes up arms against his own country. Such a one is fit for any deed, however mean, cowardly, or wicked. Unfortunately, traitors have been found in every country, in all times; nor were they wanting during the American Revolution. While there were a number of honorable men who, believing that the colonies were wrong in revolting from the king, did not take up arms against them, on the other hand there were numbers of base, sordid wretches, who were willing to cling to any side so that it was the strongest—to support any cause so that it was one which promised them booty. Such a one was Timothy Turner, who followed the fortunes of the British, who was devoted to their interests, who had, in short, sold to them his very soul and body for paltry gold.

Although the character of this young man was not fully known, yet suspicion rested upon him, and the Whigs had formed unfavorable conclusions which were not long wanting a justification. He lived in a small cabin, about half or three-quarters of a mile from Mr. Stoddart’s; and, though ostensibly he supported himself by tilling a small patch of ground, yet the dullest mind must have perceived that a support from such a spot was simply an impossibility.

On this night, Timothy Turner was wending his way home from a tavern which stood on the road about three-quarters of a mile from his house. As he turned from the door, he thought he heard the sounds of a rapidly approaching horseman. Pausing for a moment, to see whether his ears did not deceive him, he discovered the dusky figure of the rider. As he passed the tavern, and by the light which streamed from the door, Turner caught sight of the man. It was Nathaniel Ernshaw.

“Ha! curse him, what is he doing, riding about at this time of night? It’s no good Wild Nat is after; blast him, if I could but lay my hands on his carcass, I would show him a touch of my nature. If ever I get the chance, he shall pay dear for what he has done.”

The ruffian kept on his journey down the road, straining his eyes to follow the fast-flitting figure before him. When Ernshaw came to the lane which led in to Mr. Stoddart’s dwelling, he reined in his horse, and, dismounting, threw open the gate. Turner, who had followed as closely as possible, on seeing the direction of Nat’s errand, stealthily drew near to the spot.

Nathaniel drew up to the house, and knocked on the door. The knocking brought a middle-aged man to the door. Holding a candle above his head, he took a careful survey of the visitor.

“Why, Nat, is it you?” said the squire. “What brings you here at this time of night? Come in.”

“No, I thank you, squire. For once in my life I have business to attend to. I was over to see John Vale, but found that he was not home. If he is here I wish you would ask him to step to the door for a few minutes. I have something important to say to him.”

“Well, he’s here, sure enough; and if you won’t come in, why I will have to send him out—that is, if he is willing.”

The old squire then entered the house again, to make Nat’s requisition known to the son of his neighbor. Timothy Turner had, in the mean time, approached to within hearing distance, and now stood ready to note every word that was uttered. He scented gold and revenge in the issue of that interview.

John Vale soon made his appearance. The two young men shook each other cordially by the hand. The conversation which ensued it is unnecessary to detail. Every word of it was overheard by the spy. When, at length, John expressed his determination of joining the company which his friend was raising, Turner rubbed his hands in high glee, as he muttered to himself:

“You shall find out, Mr. John Vale, and you, Mr. Nathaniel Ernshaw, that Timothy Turner is not the proper man to slight. This intelligence is worth ten golden guineas to me, and the revenge besides.”

“As my mother approves of it, I’m with you, Nat. When and where do we meet? Let me know the rendezvous, and trust me but I’ll be there.”

“There was some talk,” replied Nat, “of meeting in the swamp, but that is too far for the most of us. So that is out of the question; but you know Clingman’s mills and the pine woods that run back from the creek. If you enter the woods by the path immediately opposite the mill, you will find a small clearing. That is the spot. Be on hand by ten o’clock to-morrow night, and I promise you that your eyes will be gladdened by the sight of thirty young men, all good, stout patriots—ready, if need be, to die for their country.”

“And I can assure you,” said Turner, to himself, “that you’ll see the greater part of them do so, unless something very unexpected prevents it.”

“You can depend on me, Nat,” said John. Again shaking hands, Ernshaw mounted his horse, and galloped away.

Turner waited until the clatter had died away, and then silently hastened in the direction of his dwelling. Arriving there, he sought the shed which covered his horse. Hurriedly saddling the beast, he rode off toward the city of Charleston, twenty miles distant.

Gen. Clinton, the military commander in Charleston, had scarcely arisen, on the following morning, when his servant announced a man waiting to speak with him.

“Who is he?” was the general’s inquiry.

“He says that his name is Turner—that he rode twenty miles last night to bring you an important piece of news.”

“Turner? Then I think I know the man. He is one of those tory hounds we find it necessary to use. I’ll vouch for it, he is planning some piece of rascality. Admit him.”

The servant retired and returned with Turner. Gen. Clinton surveyed the fellow for a moment, then addressed him rather sharply:

“How now, sir? What have you to say? It should be something of importance to cause you to journey so far and fast.”

“It is of importance,” rejoined Turner. “I heard at a late hour, last night, of a meeting of rebels which is to take place this night. There will be thirty or forty of them, and their purpose is to form a brigade to act with Marion, Sumpter and others. I know the names of but two; but, if the rest of the men are as good as they, the band may do much injury to the king’s cause.”

“What are the names of these two of whom you speak?”

“Nathaniel Ernshaw and John Vale—two most desperate men, and fit to do any thing against the followers of the king.”

“Ernshaw? I have heard that name before—where, I can not say. This thing shall be attended to. I will see that measures are taken to cut them off; but where is this meeting to be held?”

“About twenty miles from here there is a building called Clingman’s mill. In a wood immediately behind this the rebels are to assemble. I will lead any troops which you may send to the spot.”

“How many of them did you say that there would be?”

“Between thirty and forty. Whether they will be armed or not, I can not say, but I do not think they will be. Some of them may have their rifles, but I have no doubt fifty of your men could take the whole of them alive.”

“Be in readiness, then, to act as guide. Or stay; I will see you again this morning. Come an hour before noon. If your intelligence proves correct you shall receive a suitable reward.”

Gen. Clinton rang the bell for his servant to show the tory out. The man who performed this duty was a negro whom Gen. Clinton had received into his service since his arrival in Charleston. He was an intelligent-looking black, who had ingratiated himself into favor, and now seemed to be almost a necessity with the general.

As Sampson opened the door for the exit of Turner, he shrugged his shoulders in a manner which told that it was displeasing to him to be compelled to do any service for such a man. Hardly had the body of the tory crossed the threshold ere the door was violently closed behind him. The black returned to his master, and busied himself preparing for his master’s breakfast. Having partaken of this meal, Gen. Clinton left the house, turning his footsteps in the direction of a dwelling inhabited by a rich and influential tory.

Sampson passed quickly out by the back door, and, crossing the garden, emerged from it into the street. Walking rapidly along for some squares, he at length turned into a somewhat obscure alley. A few steps brought him to the front of an humble-looking dwelling, at whose door he gave a few taps. His summons was quickly answered, and a middle-aged woman threw open the door.

“Is it you, Sampson?” said she. “What brings you here at this time of day? Any thing important?”

“I guess mebbe it is. Whar is Simon? I got suthin’ to tell ’m.”

“Simon is here, if you would see him; so come in.”

The black entered the cabin, and found himself in the presence of the person he was seeking, an honest-looking mechanic, whose eye and bearing betokened the fearless man.

“Whatever brings you here must be of importance, Sampson; so tell us at once,” said the mechanic, or Simon Hunt, as was his name.

“Thar’ ar’ no one here who oughtn’t to har a secret, is thar’.”

“Trust me for not harboring any such about my house.”

“Listen, then. This mornin’ that Timothy Turner came to see the general, an’ tell him ’bout a meetin’ o’ whigs that was to be held to-night, and so the general ’l send down a lot o’ his sodgers and chop ’em all up. If you kin send ’em word you’ll be doin’ a good thing for de blessed cause.”

“All right, where is this meeting to be held, and who is to hold it? I must know who to send word to. Give me that, and they shall know the game before night.”

“He on’y knows two—they be Masser John Vale and Nat Ernshaw.”

“What? Nat Ernshaw turning whig trooper? That’s unexpected, but I always thought there was good in the fellow, if he only had a chance and would show it. I’ll send my boy straight off. If he puts the spurs to the old roan’s sides he ought to get to Ernshaw’s before dinner. Then they have the whole afternoon in which to warn the boys not to come to the meeting. The two that were mentioned, though, will have to keep dark, or they will find the country too hot for them.”

“Well, Nat kin take care on himself. Take smarter men dan de Britishers to ketch him asleep; and he take keer o’ Massa John, too; but I think I better go. It might ’pear s’picious if any one see me here. Good mornin!”

“Good morning,” answered Hunt. “There goes a noble fellow,” continued he, speaking to his wife. “This is the third time he has brought important intelligence of the movements of the British. Where is Simon? He must start directly.”

CHAPTER III.
GOING OUT TO SHEAR, AND RETURNING SHORN.

It was about one o’clock in the afternoon, when fifty British soldiers, under the guidance of Timothy Turner, set out for the rendezvous of the Whig partisans, going with the avowed intention of “driving them like sheep before them into Charleston, or else leave their mangled carcasses to rot on the spot where they fell.”

Plenty of time was before them, for the troop was well-mounted and could get over the distance in a few hours; but there was danger of getting to the spot too soon. Well acquainted with the roads thereabouts, the tory determined to lead the men by a circuitous and rather unfrequented route, which, though it was some miles further, afforded this advantage—none of the whigs would thus see the body of horse, and consequently, could not give the alarm which should prevent the patriot muster from taking place. By it, too, he could penetrate through the pines and station the whole force so as to surround his unsuspecting countrymen.

Having settled his mind on this point, Timothy took the lead, mounted on a fine horse furnished him for the occasion,—his own being too fatigued by his morning’s journey to permit him to take the field with it.

John Vale was just sitting down to his dinner when the boy Simon reached his house, bearing the important message with which he was intrusted. John immediately recognized the lad, for he had often seen him before. Judging that he had some very special news to tell, he rose from his seat and followed the lad into the yard.

“If you have any thing to tell, speak out, Simon.”

“Father sent me here to tell you to warn every one not to go to the meeting in the pines back of Clingman’s mill.”

“Indeed,” responded John, with an accent of astonishment. “Can you tell me how your father learned a meeting was to be held there? I did not know of it myself until late last night.”

“Timothy Turner found out about it, and rode over to Charleston last night. He had a talk with General Clinton, and the general is going to send forty or fifty soldiers to take you all. Sampson, the servant of the general, heard Turner telling General Clinton about it; so he told father, and father sent me down here to tell you and Nat Ernshaw. You are to tell the rest, so the Britishers will have their ride for their pains.”

“Your father has done well, and you’re a patriotic fellow to take so long a ride to warn us of our danger. Come into the house and get some dinner, then we’ll go over to Ernshaw’s together.”

Simon was tired, and a good hearty meal was most acceptable. When he had done, the young man took down his rifle and powder-horn from the hooks, and swung them over his shoulder, then, turning to his mother, he remarked:—

“Perhaps you will not see me again to-day, perhaps not for weeks. From what I hear, there is a good chance for us to begin the campaign, and when we once take to the field, there is no telling how long we shall be compelled to keep it. Remember, though, that I am fighting, as is my duty, for my country, and if I die, that I die in a good cause.”

“You know, John, that I love you and would do any thing to shield you from harm or danger; but I rejoice to see you going. The nation has need of such as you—those with strong arms and brave hearts. Go, and may our Heavenly Father guard and bless you.”

John kissed her and his sister, then left the house, turning to the stable. He soon led out his gallant steed. Mounting, he led the way to Nat Ernshaw’s. Nat was at home, and catching sight of the two at a distance, surmised that they had important business with him.

“What’s in the wind now, John?” inquired Nat. “Simon Filby, there, looks as though he had been riding all morning, and, I guess, if the truth be told, he was—”

“Matter enough. He has ridden from Charleston this morning for the express purpose of saving us all from capture or slaughter. Relate to Nathaniel the message which your father instructed you to deliver.”

The boy proceeded to repeat his story and message. Nathaniel was astonished; it seemed to him incomprehensible how Turner had obtained his intelligence concerning the contemplated meeting.

“There is something strange about this,” said he. “There can hardly be a traitor among us, and how else the secret could have leaked out I am unable to say. I particularly cautioned them not to speak of it even among themselves. But stay! I think I have it now. You say that Turner arrived this morning?”

“Yes, sir!” answered Simon.

“Now that I think of it, I have the impression that I caught a glimpse of him coming out of the Royal Arms, last night, as I passed on my way to Squire Stoddart’s. He may have followed, and by sneaking up, may have heard the conversation that look place between you and I. We have no time to lose. There is much for us to do.”

“I agree with you,” responded Vale. “It would be well for us to hold a consultation. I think that, if rightly managed, we can turn this to advantage. Our troop can be, at the best, but poorly armed and mounted. To be of any great service, both of these defects must be remedied. Here is the opportunity!”

“By heavens! you are right. If we could capture or disperse this force that is to be sent against us, we could secure what we most need, horses and arms. Besides, it would give the men confidence. Here is a list of names,” continued Ernshaw, drawing a paper from his pocket; “do you hurry and see the fifteen whose names are first on that paper. Tell them the particulars, let them know the force that is coming, and then fix a rendezvous at the Black Rock, a mile this side of the mill. They must be there at sundown, armed. Leave your rifle here, for you will be back again before night. You are well mounted, don’t spare your horse. As for Simon, here, he had better stay until his nag is rested, then get back to Charleston as soon as possible. He might be missed.”

It was by no means a light task to accomplish, this visiting thirty persons at as many different houses; leaving it undone might prove fatal. With their patriotic enthusiasm kindled, they bent themselves to their duty. Every one with whom the young patriots spoke felt as they did. An opportunity was now offered to strike for their country, and they were willing to seize it.

Such was the expedition used, that John Vale had returned to Nat’s, and was conversing with old Mr. Ernshaw by five o’clock; half an hour later Nat himself returned.

In answer to Vale’s question—“how did you succeed?” he answered:—

“Oh, admirably. Not one has shown any signs of backing out. If your success has been equal to mine, thirty as resolute fellows as ever looked through the sights of a rifle, or wielded a broadsword, will be assembled at Black Rock by sundown.”

Near the hour of sunset, an observer, had he been stationed near the Black Rock—a spot so called from a huge black rock which lifted its head from the waters of Cedar Creek—might have noted the approach of a number of young men, all hurrying in one direction. Some were mounted, and others were on foot; all bore weapons of one kind or another—rifles, muskets, fowling-pieces, and a few swords.

They came, too, from every direction, by twos and threes, talking together, and apparently discussing some important question. When the sun had finally disappeared and the twilight had settled over all like a friendly cloak, thirty-two men were gathered on the banks of Cedar Creek: among the number were Nathaniel Ernshaw and John Vale. The majority of the company were young men, none of them over thirty,—all broad-shouldered, deep-chested, bronzed with exposure to the weather, and as spirited as the winds which played over their hills and valleys.

Ernshaw addressed his companions—stating that they were well acquainted with the object which brought them there;—were they willing to enter into a conflict with a body of men larger in number, better armed, more used to such scenes of blood and carnage? If they were willing let them say so. A low but distinct “We are!” passed around. Nat continued:—

“The soldiers were to start from Charleston at an early hour this afternoon, before this time they should have accomplished the distance. There is another road which they must have taken. Timothy Turner,”—at the mention of this name a shout of execration burst from the lips of all—“I say, Turner knows the other road, and that it leads near by the spot where we would have held our meeting. I think I know the exact spot where the dragoons are this moment stationed. By going three-quarters of a mile out of our way, we may, by a third path, come upon them unawares. Shall we venture?”

No one raised a dissentient voice; all seemed anxious for the fray. One, however, a hardy-looking six-footer, begged leave to say a word before they started.

“You see we’re formin’ into a troop that’s goin’ to give thunder and brimstone to every bloody, stealin’, cut-throat of a Britisher that we come across. You know who started this here idea, and got it into motion, an’ all that ’ar; but thar’s one thing that ain’t settled yet, an’ that is, who’s captain? It’s purty generally understood that Nat Ernshaw is goin’ to lead us, but we hain’t actooally given him the legal authority yit; so I move that he be constitooted our captin’, an’ we all agree to be under and obey his orders, regular soger fashion. Whoever’s in favor of this let him speak out and tell it.”

A simultaneous and unanimous “ay!” announced that Nat Ernshaw was the accepted and willing chosen commander of the patriotic brigade.

“Three cheers for Ernshaw’s brigade!” shouted one whose patriotism had overcome his prudence, and the three cheers were accordingly given with a will. Then the whole band took up its line of march, the men handling their weapons with eager impatience.

Nat was busy in laying out his plans for attack. The principal difficulty which presented itself seemed to be, how to open the battle. He might, he felt assured, steal upon the dragoons and shoot down a score or more of them before they could rightly tell from whence their danger came; but there was almost an insuperable objection to this plan—it seemed too much like murder. After due deliberation he settled on the course which he intended to take, and which seemed to be most safe as well as most honorable. What it was, the reader will hereafter learn.

When the Americans reached the path which led through the woods, the captain addressed a few last words to his men. Then they pressed on with noiseless steps. When Ernshaw found they were within a few rods of the spot designated, he left the troop and went forward to reconnoiter. Carefully peering through an opening between the pines, he looked out. It was a clear, moonlight night—so light that he could easily distinguish the forms of some forty or fifty horsemen, who occupied the area before him. Wishing to draw closer to them to mark their disposal, a cracking stick betrayed his presence. Every one of the waiting enemies were startled—the captain of the troop calling out, “Here comes one of them at last. Into the woods after him, half a dozen of you, but don’t use fire-arms unless it is absolutely necessary. It will give the alarm.”

Instantly seven of the privates threw themselves from their steeds for the pursuit; but they had scarcely touched the ground when a command, given in a quick, clear-ringing voice, riveted them to their places. “Hold! Not one step or you are dead men. Surrender to Nat Ernshaw’s Carolina Brigade, or your lives shall be the forfeit!”

For a time a panic seemed to thrill the hearts of the Britons—this command so unexpectedly, so sternly given.

“It’s but a ruse my men,” shouted the captain. “First rank fire a volley, then charge into the woods.”

“Fire away. We will return volley for volley, and the man who stirs from his tracks dies,” responded Nat. Then turning to his men, who had ranged themselves in solid rank behind him, he gave the command:—“Make ready, advance, take aim, and be ready.”

A murmur ran along the ranks. The clicking of thirty rifles sounded out on the still air. The British troops had quickly formed, and, at the word of command, they sent a volley from the carbines with which the dragoons were armed, into the patriot ranks.

“Fire!” shouted Nat. The combined crack of the thirty rifles rang out with a fearfully startling sound. The hail of lead was deadly in the extreme, though its effect was not as severe as it might have been had it gone hurtling forth in the daytime. Many a bullet proved a messenger of death to the mercenaries of the foreigner.

Sixteen of the troopers dropped from their saddles, dead. The captain received a ball through his shoulder. Eight others were severely wounded. With that marvelous celerity gained by practice, the Americans had reloaded their rifles. “First division, fire!” commanded Ernshaw. Another volley sped on its mission of blood, and half the remaining troopers tumbled from their saddles, while their maddened and frightened horses flew wildly away into the woods.

“Fly,” screamed a Briton. “We cannot remain longer here and live!”

“Hold!” cried the leader of the Americans. “Throw down your arms and surrender and your lives are safe; attempt to flee and we give you another volley.”

Hardly had the summons to surrender been given, when the few of the soldiers who still grasped their arms threw them down, and the captain, faint from the loss of blood, answered:—“We agree. Come forward and receive our surrender.”

The Americans stepped from the shade of the woods and stood in a line, waiting for the commands of their captain. As Ernshaw appeared, the crack of a pistol was heard, and a bullet whistled by close to his head.

“Missed! by the infernal!” shouted a voice, easily recognized as that of the tory Turner. He plunged into the gloom of the woods, unappalled by the dozen bullets that followed.

“The tory, Turner!” remarked one of the men; “let us pursue him. His capture is of more importance than all else we have done.”

“Not so,” replied Ernshaw; “let no man go in pursuit. It would be impossible to come up with him, and our force would only be separated, which must not be.”

A little murmuring followed, but all soon saw the wisdom of obeying the captain, and, accordingly, quietly acquiesced.

General Clinton was sitting in his chamber, busily engaged in examining a number of parchments which lay exposed on the table before him. It was now well on toward noon. Though apparently intent on his work, his mind evidently was not at ease. “It is strange,” he muttered to himself, “that nothing has been heard concerning Captain Morgan and his troop, whom I sent out to capture those rebels. I told him to endeavor to take the young man, Vale, alive, if possible, and send me word immediately. One of his men would have arrived, ere this, had he chosen to obey my commands. I will see, though; perhaps there is some news stirring without.”

He advanced to the door for the purpose of calling his servant, when a loud knocking arrested him. He stood for a moment listening, and then sank back in his chair, remarking, “There is some one at last.”

The door was flung open to admit the tory spy, Timothy Turner. With a pale face spattered with blood, and his left arm supported in a sling, he strode across the floor, and stood confronting the general. For a moment Sir Henry looked at him with a countenance indicative of surprise and apprehension; then he burst forth:

“How now, sir? What brings you before me in such plight? Speak, man!”

“It is easy to tell the whole story. We went out to shear, and come home shorn—or, rather, I do, for I am the only one who escaped. All the rest are dead, or prisoners!”

“Then you deceived me, and I shall see that you receive your reward for so doing. Without there, Sampson!”

“You needn’t put such a sorry face on the matter, general, for the information I gave you was correct enough. The trouble was, that the rebels got wind of our intended attack, hid themselves in the woods, and, when the moon arose, came down on us as they would on a covey of partridges. If I had wished to deceive you, I should have taken better care of myself, and this left arm would not have had a rifle-ball through it. I remained till every thing was lost, fired the last shot, and then cleared out, with half-a-score of balls flying around my head. If that looks like treachery, then call in your men and do as you like with me.”

“Probably it is as you say, and I was overhasty. The king can not afford to lose such friends as you. There is gold to heal your wounds. Leave me, now, for I have important business to attend to.”

Turner pocketed the purse which Sir Henry threw upon the table, and, making a low bow, left the apartment.

Ten minutes later, Sampson, the black servant, entered, bearing a card, with the name, “Captain Reginald Preston,” written thereon. Receiving the command to admit him, the gentleman soon made his appearance. He was still a young man, not over thirty, and, by some, would doubtless be called good-looking; but a close inspection would tend to dissipate any favorable opinion which might be hastily formed. Though well dressed, with all the appearance of being a gentleman, his features wore the stamp of a life of profligacy, the effects of which, the strength of a good constitution was unable to ward off. Of good family, though a younger son, he had once been possessed of quite a fortune, which he squandered away amidst the splendid gayeties of London life, and was now recruiting his health and fortune in the service of the king. Such in appearance was Reginald Preston, the visitor of Sir Henry Clinton.

He approached the general in a careless manner. Shaking hands with the superior officer, he took a seat.

“I received your note,” remarked Preston, after a silence of some minutes, which he spent in curiously eyeing the papers on the table. “I could not quite understand the drift of it, but here I am to receive the explanation, which you promised when we should meet. I send out my application for exchange by the next ship, and have a fair prospect of leaving this miserable country; so don’t send me where I will be killed off before I get a chance to enjoy this fortune of mine.”

“Perhaps it may be as well to stay here. You never could live in London without money, and your pockets are not particularly replete with that article.”

“I know they haven’t been; but this little fortune I was speaking about is sufficient to keep me floating until I can carry off a rich wife. Three thousand a year is not such an insignificant sum.”

“It is concerning that ‘small fortune’ that I wish to speak. If you will take the trouble to recall the words of your letter from Thompson & Smith, you will remember that they stated the fact in nearly these words: ‘Although, at the present time we can scarce speak with absolute certainty, yet, we have the pleasure of announcing, in all probability you are heir to an estate of three thousand a year. We would not advise you to announce this as a fact, until we discover whether there be any nearer relatives to the deceased than yourself. At present, we know of none.’ Are not these the words?”

“I must confess that you are better posted in the matter of the letter than I am. If you ask my opinion, I should say they are the precise words.”

“Well, then, listen. By these papers which you see upon the table, it is announced that a nearer relative to the gentleman who left the property has been discovered, and that your chances of again shining in London life are decidedly slim—for the present, at least.”

The careless expression which had been resting on Preston’s face, suddenly vanished under this, to him, remarkably unpleasing intelligence.

“Good heavens, general! You do not mean to say that all my plans are to be disarranged, and hopes blasted in this shockingly disagreeable manner. Those Thompsons and Smiths must be a set of thorough-faced rascals. As to my uncle’s leaving any relatives outside of our family, and nearer than myself, I am sure it’s a mistake, or else a trumped-up claim. His wife died forty years ago, and his only son was killed among the Indians, nearly as long since.”

“You have hit the right nail on the head, to use a vulgar expression. That son is the person to whom I refer. It seems that he was not killed by the Indians, and lived long enough to raise a family. He is dead now, but there remains a son and daughter, not to speak of his wife. Your uncle took it into his head to turn this only son out of doors; that was what caused him to come to America; but, as he left no will, the estate naturally enough reverts to his grand children.”

“And who are these grandchildren?”

“The grandson is John Vale, one of the rebels whom we endeavored to capture yesterday night.”

CHAPTER IV.
THE WOLF AND THE LAMB.

“So, he is nothing but one of these cursed rebels, after all. If that is the case, my chances are not so desperate as you seem to think. If Captain Morgan succeeded in doing his duty, he is doubtless in custody now, if not dead. Of course I speak of the young man; I have no fears of the old woman and her daughter.”

“Captain Morgan did his duty to the best of his ability; but I am sorry to say that John Vale is not only not in custody, but that, on the contrary, it is Morgan and his command—that is, those of them that are still alive—who are the prisoners.”

“You can not mean to say that a troop of dragoons has been defeated by a squad of these half-mounted, half-armed rebels?”

“I mean to say just that; and I now order you to take your troop and proceed to the spot to bury our dead. No doubt the Americans will be in such haste to leave, after their victory, that they will have left the corpses still exposed.”

“And after that, what remains to be done?”

“You will leave the spot and return some miles. There are two whigs, whose houses are close together; their names are Phillips and Tappan. Take up your quarters with them until I send you further orders. It will be necessary to have a force in that vicinity, and your work will soon be ready for you.”

“Then I must hold myself ready to begin the extermination of the rebels. I go; but I have misgivings that it will be no child’s mission.”

“Good-morning, then.”

“Au revoir! ” and, with a graceful wave of his hand, Reginald Preston departed.

Hastening to his quarters, he found that the news of the defeat of Captain Morgan had preceded him. On leaving the presence of Sir Henry, Turner had been active in spreading the story of the defeat. He found the men now anxious for a brush with the “rebel dogs,” as they styled the patriot brigade.

When the duty detailed was confided to the soldiers, they were enthusiastic enough, and set up a shout. In an hour from the time Preston bade adieu to General Clinton, he was on the road, having Turner with him as guide.

The arm of the tory was not, by any means, seriously injured; and the prospect of more gold made him ready to encounter danger again, although he had but lately so narrowly escaped death. They had not ridden far, when Preston expressed a wish to have some conversation with him, and the two rode on some distance ahead.

Whatever it was that Reginald wanted, it seemed as though he found some difficulty in getting at it. After some questions of no moment, he began to speak of the Vales. If he was desirous of knowing the history of the family, from the very moment when the head of it first put foot within the State, he could have found no more fitting person to inquire of. Turner had made them a study, it would seem; and the questioner soon learned a great deal more than it was pleasing for him to know. There was no doubt, now, in his mind, but that John Vale was his uncle’s grandson, and fully entitled to the possession of the property which he had fondly hoped was to become his own. Although the young man was a rebel to the crown, he was afraid that it would not invalidate his title to the estate. Although John Vale and the rest of the family might be attainted, yet he well knew that a large proportion of the money was in the hands of Americans, and probably they were whigs.

What thoughts passed through his brain in the course of that ride, it is hard to state; but, long ere the journey’s end was reached, his mind was settled as to the course to be pursued. The fortune he would have, and Turner should be the tool through which he should reach it. Riding side by side the now deliberate villain and his tool occasionally spoke together, but Preston was too much engaged in perfecting his plans to ask more than an occasional question; while Turner, cunning, and quick of divination, had a partial clue to what was in the mind of the British partisan.

When the British reached the spot on which the conflict of the preceding night had taken place, they found all traces of the struggle removed. Four or five newly-made mounds testified that the rebels were too brave and generous to let the corpses of their foes remain festering in the sun. Here and there, among the short grass, deep red stains and pools of coagulated blood marked the spot where the men had fallen; a broken plume, a glove, or a torn epaulet—these were the only signs of the slaughter. Horses, men, arms—all had disappeared, and the Britons had the consolation of knowing that when they should meet this brigade of rebels, they would find them armed with tried weapons of Great Britain’s own furnishing. The men looked mournfully around; for soldiers have hearts, and are capable of warm attachments; and here many a comrade, with whom they had spent many happy hours, had bit the dust.

Preston marked the direction which Ernshaw had taken, for his trail was plainly visible; but, as his orders were to retire toward Charleston as soon as he had performed the last sad offices for the fallen, he dared not go in pursuit although his men were eager enough for a fray. Disappointment was plainly visible on more than one face, when the order came for a return, but no murmurs were raised. Slowly the procession emerged from the woods, and crossed Cedar Creek, taking the road which led toward the farm-houses, where Captain Preston was to take up his headquarters.

Mrs. Vale had, long ere this, heard the result of the conflict, for her son had returned at early dawn. It was to stay but for a moment, however, for he knew that now home would be no place for him. A company would be sent to revenge the defeat of Captain Morgan as soon as intelligence would be received by the commander at Charleston; and, as his house lay on the road, it would be dangerous to be near it.

When the troop had arrived opposite the door, Reginald gave the command to halt, and ordered half-a-dozen of his men to dismount, and search the house. Though it was improbable, it still was not impossible that some of the rebels might be found within it. Catherine and her mother were sitting sewing, when the door was rudely flung open, disclosing the red-coated soldiers who stood at the threshold.

With calmness Mrs. Vale arose, and advanced a step toward them, saying, as she did, “What do you want, sirs?”

The men replied by entering the room first; then, one of them said: “To search the house to see if there be any rebels laid away within it.”

“One of you will be sufficient, then; you will find nothing within its walls which it is not right that an honest woman should have.”

“And your son—is he within?”

“He is not; but if he were, it perhaps were as well for you to defer the search, for he is not one who willingly permits liberties to be taken with himself or his house.”

The answer that was given to this rather fiery speech of the good woman, was a fierce scowl, and then the men spread themselves over the house. It was soon evident that those whom they sought were not within, and they passed out. Reaching the yard, a large-sized dog was standing in the pathway, regarding them with a look which might well pass for one of intense astonishment. The foremost soldier, not liking the looks of the animal, and having a deep hatred for any thing American, drew his sabre and made a stroke at the unflinching dog as he neared him. The sudden attack, and the pain of a slight wound, caused the dog to bound aside with a sharp cry; but, almost immediately he turned, and, with lips drawn back over his teeth, was about to spring upon the offender.

Catherine, who had hitherto remained seated, hearing the cry rushed to the door. In a moment she detected the true condition of affairs. At the sound of her call Lion forgot his purpose, and, with a quick bound, leaping by his would-be slayer, stood by the side of Miss Vale.

Captain Preston saw what had transpired, and called to the man to relinquish his purpose—for he had turned as if to follow the creature. With a surly obedience the fellow obeyed. With a low bow to the fair young girl, who still stood in the doorway, the captain struck spurs into his charger’s sides, and galloped away, his men following at the same rate of speed. Catherine and her mother gazed after them, and, as the maiden caressed the shaggy head of Lion, she gave vent to her feelings, by saying to her mother in a low, half musing tone: “Notwithstanding all the cruel deeds that have been committed by these foreign soldiers, there seems to be a little good in some of them. So they would kill you, my brave Lion, for trying to defend your home? You must be more careful next time, or you may get yourself into an unpleasant difficulty, from which you can not come with a whole skin.”

The dog shook his head gravely, and looked up into the face of his mistress, as though he understood the advice given him, but was rather uncertain, whether or no he should take it. He gave a low bark and wagging his tail threw himself on the floor, while Catherine resumed her sewing.

Great was the consternation of the good old whigs, Phillips and Tappan, when a troop of British cavalry came dashing along the road, and drew up in front of the dwelling of the former. In answer to a heavy knock, the old man himself came to the door. Reginald Preston related to him the orders of General Clinton. Where he could find accommodations for thirty or thirty-five men, was a question that puzzled the good old man for a time, but he consoled himself with the thought that he would be no worse off than his neighbor Mr. Tappan—toward whose house the remainder of the troops were being led by their captain.

As there was no possible good to be gained by demurring, Mr. Tappan, like Mr. Phillips, obeyed the order of his uninvited guests with seeming alacrity, and did his best to ingratiate himself with those who had the power to resent any fancied ill-treatment.

Captain Reginald had a room set apart for his use in Mr. Tappan’s house, but, as the two whigs were near neighbors, he was not separated from the rest of his command, by more than two hundred yards.

As he retired for the night, he murmured to himself: “I must really find some way of becoming more intimate with that pretty cousin of mine, for, though not beautiful, she pleases my fancy most mightily. I have half an idea that it would pay to marry her, and settle down in this cursed country! With her share of the fortune, I could become quite a respectable farmer. How it would look! The honorable Reginald Preston driving a couple of plough horses.”

CHAPTER V.
CEDAR SWAMP.

Nat Ernshaw had not a very definite idea of what was to be done when he organized his brigade. His intention was patriotic,—to assist his country in retaining her independence,—but, how it was to be done was not particularly clear at the outset. To wage war against the bands of armed tories, which were constantly being formed; to take as prisoners any straggling British, and to attack and cut to pieces all troops, hostile to the great cause, whom he should chance to meet; these were the objects contemplated when working to form the brigade. His signal success in the outset had been inspiriting to his men as well as to himself, and they were now willing to obey his orders, with a confidence which an untried leader never inspires.

One of the great objects sought for was accomplished in the defeat of the dragoons; his men were able to mount and arm themselves well. Feeling not the least compunction in spoiling those who had come to spoil them, the arms and equipments of the conquered foe were quickly appropriated by the conquerors; and, having buried the fallen, the whole party held a consultation. It was decided to be unsafe to disband, and that it would be better to fall back to Cedar Swamp. From thence, the troop could send out scouts, who might learn whatever was going on, and bring intelligence of any place where their services would be of use.

Although the prisoners were a burden, still, there was a disinclination to let them go. Accordingly, it was decided that they also should be carried to the Swamp, as they might be at some future time, serviceable for exchange. By morning the troop was plunging into the hidden recesses of Cedar Swamp.

One might search in vain for a better place of rendezvous, surrounded on the outside by a swamp which it was almost impossible for a footman to pass, much less a horseman. There was, within, a cordon of thickly interwoven bushes and stunted trees; then another ring of swamp, and, finally, in the center, a spot of solid ground, some fifteen acres in extent, studded here and there with tall trees. One track there was, winding and intricate, along which the Americans found their way under the careful guidanceship of John Vale. It differed not in its appearance from the adjoining swamp; but, under the wet, miry earth, at the depth of six or eight inches, there was solid footing.

As it was uncertain how long they would remain in this place, and as the swamp would always be their place of refuge, on which to fall back, it had been determined to construct a few huts, sufficient for the accommodation of the whole brigade and their prisoners. Brawny arms were bent to the task; and, long before nightfall eight small cabins were to be seen, lifting their humble roofs which were rendered quite impervious to inclement weather. Several of the men had been dispatched to their homes to procure provisions, and make arrangements with their families, by which supplies could be obtained during their stay in the Swamp.

Five days have passed. During that time Captain Preston has been quartered at the house of Mr. Tappan. It was a heavy thing for the old patriot to bear this, being compelled to furnish food and drink to the enemies of his country, but, no murmur was allowed to escape his lips; he knew too well what might be the consequences of an unguarded expression, to allow himself or family to give vent to the feelings which were struggling for utterance.

Understanding his restless disposition, one would suppose that Preston’s hours would hang heavily on his mind, yet, that was far from being the case. The tory, Turner, all concealment as to his principles, having been thrown aside, was frequently with the captain holding secret conferences. To what these conferences referred, the reader will learn by a further perusal of our story. The last two days, also, the captain had been absent during the afternoon—had his steps been marked, it would have been found that he rode in the direction of Mrs. Vale’s. Reginald seemed to have taken a sudden fancy for his cousin.

This relationship had not thus far been referred to. On the part of Mrs. Vale and her daughter it was never suspected—how could it be, when the name of Preston was totally unfamiliar to her ears? The visits of the captain had been a source of uneasiness to the two. For, although he seemed to have stopped by accident, yet a mother’s heart is not the thing to be deceived by a smooth speech, and a well-coined lie. She trembled as she thought of the dangers which the presence of the unwelcome visitor foreboded.

With an unusually warm smile upon his face, Reginald rode up to the house this afternoon. He stated, that, being in want of something to occupy his time, he thought he would ride over and inquire how Miss Catherine’s pet was progressing.

The cut which Lion, the dog, had received was severe, and the noble animal was consequently an object on which he might exercise his commiseration.

Captain Preston was received with a cool welcome. Mrs. Vale was polite—freezingly so; and Catherine, while she did not manifest decided displeasure, did not seem to be overjoyed at his presence. The gallant captain had not created a very good impression in his three visits.

With a pertinacity, by no means pleasant to the uninvited guest, the widow kept her seat, nor once offered to leave the room, while Kate seemed deaf to the hints which were thrown out concerning the state of the garden, the agreeableness of the weather, and the propriety of exercise. The nimble fingers plied the needle most rapidly, while answering the numerous questions of Reginald. As he did not think it best to commence an offensive warfare upon women, the chances of any private conference with his fair cousin, seemed, to Preston, to be small indeed; so small, that the thought of incontinently beating a retreat, more than once crossed the Briton’s mind, but was as often dismissed; he could not—he would not give it up so!

At length, insensibly as it were, Mrs. Vale was drawn into conversation. The young man had an insinuating manner that was hard to resist, and he taxed his conversational powers to entertain these, to him, simple folk, quite as much as he had ever done to rivet the attention of some wealthy belle, in the days when he flirted in the London salons, and was an honored guest at the table of the richest and most distingué families of the aristocracy. So much did the widow forget herself, that she actually asked the visitor to remain for tea, when she saw him preparing to leave about half an hour before the regular time for that meal. Gratifying as it would, no doubt, have been to the young man, he was, nevertheless, compelled to decline—he had an engagement which it was necessary for him to meet; he did not, however, state this as an excuse, but simply declared his inability to remain.

When Preston had departed, the impression he left behind was rather favorable than otherwise. Kate’s heart told her he was one to be feared rather than respected, and that these visits boded no good. On the contrary, the mother’s first suspicions seemed allayed, and she expressed a fear that she had hastily formed a bad opinion of the honest young man, as Captain Preston appeared to be. He promised her dwelling protection from all foraging parties belonging to their line.

As a general rule, it is wisest not hastily to change first-formed opinions. Mrs. Vale saw into the true character of Reginald almost the moment he crossed her threshold, but suffered her vision to be obscured by the curtain of plausible conversation and insinuating manners, of the shrewd man of the world. She was not the first mother who had been flattered into silence in the same manner!

CHAPTER VI.
HOT WORK AHEAD.

Two weeks have elapsed since the time when Nat Ernshaw first formally enrolled the names of the volunteers, who wished to fight under the continental banner. During that two weeks they have not been altogether idle, for, in addition to the discomfiture of the troop of dragoons, they had attacked and dispersed some fifteen or twenty tories who had assembled at a spot about nine miles from the swamp.

It may, at first, seem strange that the Americans did not make an attack upon the detachment of soldiers which had, for over a fortnight, been holding, as a barrack, the houses of Tappan and Phillips. No doubt they would have been willing enough to attempt an expulsion, had there been a probability of success. Nat considered that his force of thirty-five or forty men would hardly be able to cope with fifty or sixty, unless the larger party could be taken by surprise. Though a scout had been for days watching the houses, it so far seemed as though nothing could be done.

It was late in the evening, and the sun’s last lingering rays had long since ceased to tinge the western horizon, when the majority of the patriot soldiers were already “turned in,” that Capt. Ernshaw was startled by hearing the low, long-drawn whistle of the sentinel stationed at the outskirts of the swamp.

The signal implied that something important was to be communicated. Thrusting a pistol in his belt, Ernshaw left the hut and traversed the—by no means safe—path that led to the willow-trees under which the sentinel was stationed.

As he neared the spot, it could be seen that the guard had left his place of concealment, and was engaged in talking with a young lad. The boy, who was mounted on a speedy-looking roan mare, had evidently ridden far and fast.

“Why, Simon, is that you?” queried Ernshaw, as he shook the boy by the hand. “What has brought you away out here in such a hurry? Something important, I’ll be bound.”

Simon nodded a recognition as he handed a letter to the captain, saying: “I should think it must be important, for father told me to ride as though my life was on it. Sampson was down at our house this morning, and, after he had left, father wrote this letter. I guess you’ll have pretty hard work to read it, for he was in a hurry.”

“Follow me into the camp,” said Ernshaw; “but be sure you don’t turn aside on the way. The bog is deep enough to swallow up a hundred as good horses as that gallant roan of yours, and I should be sorry to see her floundering there after doing us such good service.”

“Never mind, Mister Nat. I guess I know the path nearly as well as you do. Before father moved to Charleston we lived about three-quarters of a mile from here, and there’s many a time that I went to gather berries in Cedar Swamp.”

“Come on, then, for I am impatient to read this letter.”

The letter, though hastily scrawled by one whose hands were stiffened with many a day’s hard labor, was sufficiently legible to be read by Nat. He found that it contained important news indeed. It ran as follows:

Friend Nat:—Keep your eyes open, for Clinton is going to give you a brush. Turner was over here yesterday, and the general has determined to send out a force of a hundred men for your capture. There’s to be a tory meeting on Black Run to-morrow evening, and there’ll be thirty-five of the traitors present. I guess you know what to do. They will be well armed, so you may expect some hard knocks. Ben Graham is at the bottom of it, and the meeting will be in his barn. You know the spot. Success to the good cause!

Simon.

For some minutes Nat did not speak. The distance from Cedar Swamp to the Black Run spoken of in the letter was but little, if any, over seven miles, and every man in the brigade was well acquainted with the road. There was no necessity for immediate action, as the distance could be got over, on the following day, from sunset till ten o’clock.

“Well, Simon, you are our good genius,” said Nat. “The intelligence you bring is important enough, and you can tell your father he may rest assured that I will act upon it. Gen. Clinton will find that the best hundred men in the British army would be insufficient to effect our capture; and, as for the tories of Black Run, all I have to say is, that if there are not a few unwelcome guests intruding upon their meeting before it comes to a close, it will be because there are no true patriots left in the Carolinas. Will you remain with us to-night?”

“I guess I had better. You see the roan can stand as hard a pelt as most horses, but it will not do to work her too hard. She has got over near thirty miles to-day, and thirty more would be a little too much.”

“You are right, Simon; turn in with us. Accommodations are rather poor, but I think you can stand it.”

“If I stay to-night, I am afraid you will have to keep me to-morrow, too. The Britishers are on the road, and stopped me as I was coming down, but I trumped up a pretty long story for them. If they see me again, they may stick a little closer.”

“Never mind that. You are welcome to stay as long as you choose, provided you are willing to brave our hardships and dangers. You shall always be welcome. For to-night you must share my bed, such as it is.”

Wearied with his long ride, the young patriot needed no second urging. He was soon fast asleep. Early in the following morning the whole brigade was, as usual, up and astir. Simon’s mysterious appearance created some surprise, for the arrival of the previous night had not been spoken of by the sentinel; but when it was hinted that he brought important intelligence, which would doubtless bring them face to face with the enemy again, considerable enthusiasm was manifested, and two or three of the more immediate acquaintances of the blacksmith’s son, assumed the pleasant task of “pumping” him. Their success in this undertaking was by no means equal to their perseverance.

After an hour of ungratified curiosity had passed, the men were drawn up by command of Ernshaw, who stated that he had something to communicate, which, doubtless, they would be glad to hear.

“From a devoted friend of liberty,” said Nat, “residing in Charleston, I have just received a message. There is to be a meeting of tories held to-night at Ben Graham’s, on Black Run. From what I hear, I think it is their intention to assist the British troops in attempting our capture. Of course you know what I would wish to do; are you all with me?”

“All!” was the answer, given in a single breath.

“Then hold yourselves in readiness to march at sunset, in the direction of Graham’s. We will strike such a blow as will make these scoundrels, who would make a profit on the blood of their countrymen, at least a deal more cautious how they attempt to carry on their trade within reach of the strong arms of American freemen. Look well to your arms, boys; nerve your hearts for a determined struggle, and to-night we will strike again for liberty.”

During the day there was a bustle among the men of the brigade, that told the British prisoners, confined within the recesses of the swamp, that something of more than ordinary importance was about to take place. Swords were brightened and sharpened, cartridges were made, and a look, which spake of eager impatience, was worn by all. As night flung her shadow on all, Nat Ernshaw’s brigade rode out into the darkness, and the confines of Cedar Swamp were untenanted save by the dozen English prisoners and the five patriots left to guard them. For a time the noise of footsteps came faintly to their listening ears; then all was silence.

Let us return to Captain Preston and his schemes. With their plot and counterplot, they enter into the thread of our story to color it all.

The gallant Briton was hastily pacing the room. His face, flushed as if with anger, wore a well-settled scowl. Half an hour before he had returned from one of his afternoon excursions at such a pace that one might think forty troopers were close behind in hot pursuit.

Casting his bridle to a soldier in waiting, Preston strode away to his room. Once there, he cast his chapeau upon the bed, and began his hasty walk, in which, however, he was interrupted by a knock on the door. In none of the best of humors he said, “Come in!” The summons was obeyed by a young man whom Reginald knew as an aid-de-camp of Gen. Clinton. In his hand he bore a folded paper.

The young men bowed to each other, and then the stranger said, at the same time handing the paper which he bore, “I was commissioned by Gen. Clinton to bring you these instructions. You are to follow them to the letter, and he hopes that you may be enabled to do good service to your country.”

In his present mood Reginald felt in no humor for interruption. Unfolding the paper, he hastily read its contents. He was informed that, in conjunction with a score of light dragoons, who would be sent to aid him, he would soon have the opportunity of crossing swords with the man who, above all others, he now hated—John Vale. Under the guidance of Timothy Turner, Cedar Swamp was to be invaded; for Gen. Clinton had learned that Nat Ernshaw’s brigade was there ensconced.

“Do you intend to return to Charleston?” inquired Preston, turning to the aid-de-camp.

“Immediately. Such were my orders.”

“Then you will inform Gen. Clinton that I hold myself in readiness to obey his orders; and, so soon as the reinforcements of which he speaks—though I see no real necessity for them—shall arrive, I will proceed to attack the rebels. Tell him, from me, that I desire something of the kind—some more stirring life; for this inactive state of affairs is enough to drive a man crazy.”

“I will say this to him,” answered the young man, and bowed himself out of the room.

When the messenger had departed, Reginald resumed his walk, all the while muttering to himself.

“Too bad! too bad!” burst from his lips. “This rebel beauty has twined herself about my heart until I—I, who could pass through all the gayeties of London life with a heart untouched—am almost her slave! By all that’s holy and unholy, she shall not triumph thus! I’ll make her come down on her knees and beg—ay, beg in vain—for that which I have so freely offered her. By heavens! it makes my blood boil when I think of it. She, with her soft, baby face wearing a smile of contempt—I, like a school-boy, kneeling at her feet, asking her for her love! She shall learn what it is to scorn one who has the will and the power to return revenge for scorn, and bring tears for laughter.”

Catherine Vale it was who brought that scowl to Reginald’s brow, who drove him up and down the room, like one possessed. That afternoon, standing under the shadow of the great pear-tree which stood behind the house, he had offered his love, had lain open his heart, and was rejected with a firmness which had something of scorn in it.

“Useless, sir!” said Catherine. “No arguments which you can offer may avail to change my determination. I had partially foreseen some such result, yet did not know how I could avoid it. If your professions are sincere, I thank you for the honor which you have conferred upon me. At the same time, I suppose you see the impropriety of your continuing your visits. Once for all, I bid you good-by.”

She held out her hand. The captain endeavored to detain it, but the ever-present Lion came between them rather menacingly to the lover. He flung the hand from him, hastily mounted his horse, and rode away.

Catherine had a foreboding of evil to come from that rejection. She saw the black cloud, for now she read the heart of the man clearly, truthfully.

Turner now was with the English. To him Reginald naturally turned as a fit instrument to work out his will. At his command, Timothy made his appearance. Soon they were busied with the details of a plan, which even the traitor tory hesitated at first to engage in. But a man who can betray his country for gold will not hesitate long, even where a maiden’s honor is pitted against the base courage of the unscrupulous villain.

“Beware, Turner, of ever breathing a syllable, to a living soul, of aught concerning which I have spoken or shall speak. You know my wish. Now, will you act?”

“Whenever you can show me that it is to my interest to follow your lead, then I will do what you command,” said the tory, with a slow but distinct, determined utterance.

“It shall be to your interest, if by interest you refer to your reward in gold. I am not the kind of man to see friends of mine go unrewarded. Will you promise secrecy and obedience? If so, here is a foretaste of what you may expect.” Preston dangled before the eyes of the base wretch a purse well filled with gold.

“While you give gold I will give service,” said Turner. “When you find me shrinking at any piece of work where there is money to be made, then just shoot me. I ain’t fit to live.”

The Briton smiled in real satisfaction, as he noted how eager was the thirst for gold in the heart of the scoundrel before him. With gold he could lead him anywhere, even to the very gates of death. He had found his man!

“Take this purse,” continued Preston; “and now listen to what I say. You have, I suppose, a pretty good idea already of what it is; hear these particulars. This Kate Vale must be abducted, but it must be done in such a manner that none of the blame can rest on me. Persons may suspect, but they must have no proof on which to hang their suspicions.”

“Well, what else.”

“Return to the city and search out a private in Hyde’s company. The fellow’s name is Blanchard. You can easily find him, for he passes all his time, when not on duty, in a small tavern in the lower part of the city, kept by one James Fagan. After finding him, explain the state of affairs, and lay your heads together. If you two can not abduct the woman between you, I would not give much for your services.”

“Is Blanchard entirely and devotedly in your confidence?” queried Turner. This asking him to assist in the abduction of an honest woman, whose only crime was her not being able to appreciate the good qualities of a British officer, was a matter which required every caution.

“Fully. He was in my service before he enlisted, and you need not be afraid of his betraying you. Tom Blanchard may be a villain, but he is one who will never stoop to betraying a confidence, or turning on a friend.”

“Then that is all I wished to know. I suppose you want the thing done as soon as possible; so, without waiting any longer, I am off for Charleston. As it will cost considerable, I suppose this purse is only for expenses; our reward is to come afterwards.”

“Yes, yes; leave now. Do your best, and if you succeed you shall be fully paid for your time and trouble.”

When the base creature left the room, a smile of disgust rose to the face of the captain. Though he was willing to use the tool which so readily yielded to his wishes, Reginald most heartily despised him. These thoughts, however, were soon chased away, for he had other things to consider. This abduction of Catherine Vale was not the only scheme in view. He earnestly wished to effect the death of his other cousin, John Vale.

Not, to be sure, by assassination, but rather by the fortune of war; in the field, with sword in hand, or on the scaffold as a rebel—either of these modes would be justifiable slaying. The sister to be abducted, ruined; the brother to be murdered; the mother to die of a broken heart; when these things are consummated, perchance there may be a truly legal claim upon a certain not-to-be-despised fortune, which these three alive would be pretty sure to keep him from. All should be done, and the “fortunes of war” would bear the whole responsibility.

CHAPTER VII.
THE ASSAULT UPON THE BARN AT BLACK RUN.

Ben Graham was by no means a man of small importance, as one might suppose from the manner in which he was spoken of in the letter which Nat Ernshaw had received. On the contrary, he was a man well-off in every respect, being wealthy, and, in spite of his manners,—which, as a general matter, were by no means worthy of imitation,—was possessed of influence among the farmers who lived in contiguity with Black Run.

Though suspected long since by Ernshaw with having a greater love for the British than was to be desired by an American-born citizen, yet he had never any reasonable amount of proof to justify him in denouncing Graham as a tory. Now, although Hunt might be mistaken,—which was very improbable,—the predilections of the wealthy planter were about to be determined with a certainty.

When the shadow of night had fairly clouded over all, the first of the tories made his appearance in front of Graham’s house. Each one to be admitted into the tory council was intrusted with a secret sign and password. With these this first-comer was acquainted; so Ben, who was enjoying the night, and apparently taking his ease, sitting on his porch, invited the man to take a seat.

Soon two others made their appearance, each giving the mysterious password. All three were directed to go to the old barn, where Ben would meet them so soon as their number was complete.

In the course of half an hour thirty men were congregated in the old barn, when Ben appeared, bearing a lantern, and bringing with him three more men. It did not take the meeting long to organize, for every one was in a hurry to learn what precise advantage it would be to them to be members of the tory regiment.

When at last, Ben Graham stated the case, the whole secret was told in one word—plunder. Plunder from the whigs whatsoever there was to plunder, whether money, lands, or life. Chosen from a circuit of a number of miles, as men, devoid of principle, but full of the lust for money, these fellows were just the creatures to be moved by the mind and judgment of Ben Graham—for that gentleman, of course, intended for himself the honors of a captaincy.

Four dimly-burning stable-lanterns cast but a weak and fitful light over the large company assembled in that old barn. The room, though in reality well paved and dry, seemed damp and gloomy. All outside openings had been carefully boarded up, so that no unobserved listener might see the gathering or catch some unguarded speech.

It was, in truth, a picturesque scene,—these thirty men, all crime-stamped, as the majority of them were, standing around a huge box—through the dim light looking like an altar, and the men like devotees to some strange shrine—and bending their gaze fixedly upon the stern countenance of the self-elected leader. Bold, unscrupulous, fond of adventure, without a thought for the right of the question, Graham was the sort of man to lead such a horde of villains.

A half-hour slipped away. The opinions of the men had been taken, and Graham elected, with all due formality, captain. Anxious to assume his new dignity in a manner suitable at once to it and to himself, Captain Ben proceeded to make a speech:—

“I know most of you have your rifles, but there are some who are without weapons, and, what is worse, not meaning any offence, without money to buy any. The king is particularly careful that such men shall be enabled to do their duty; and so this box, here, contains about a dozen rifles,—for I thought we’d need that many,—and swords and daggers enough to go around the whole party. If one of you will hand me an ax, I will open the box and show you the gift of the king.”

An ax made its appearance. A few vigorous strokes removed the top of the box, disclosing the arms of which Graham had spoken. With exclamations of pleasure the men crowded around the box, handling the weapons, and praising their leader for thus procuring the “tools” for those who were without them.

Nat Ernshaw’s men had been at no pains to heat their gallant steeds. The meeting had been some time in session ere the brigade arrived in sight of the old barn. There was no sign of any person being within that dark, deserted-looking stone pile.

“By heavens!” whispered one, “I believe that for once we are out,—that we have been fooled, and that the sooner we get back to the swamp the better.”

“Pooh!” answered the one addressed; “you had better reserve your opinions for to-morrow morning, then, if you are alive, you are welcome to pass what judgment you choose upon the object of this expedition. I’ll wager you three to one it’s not a wild-goose chase.”

“Perhaps!”

“No perhaps about it. Mark my words, we will have some sharp work to-night. Any thing that comes from Simon the blacksmith is reliable information.”

“Hush,” said one who rode beside the last speaker. “The captain wants us to draw up close and listen to his commands. He has laid out his plan I guess, and is going to explain to us.”

Wild Nat had laid out his plans and did explain them.

As Ben Graham was forcing off the lid from the box of arms, Nat was approaching the house with a force of forty dismounted troopers.

A sentinel had been placed on the outside of the barn, with directions to stand in the shadow. Leaving his men, Nat quietly stole around the corner of the barn, looking for the sentinel. When at length his eye rested upon the indistinctly defined shadow of the tory, he threw himself at full length upon the ground and stealthily crawled toward the spot upon which the man was stationed.

John Vale peered cautiously around the corner and watched the progress of his friend. He saw the sentinel suddenly start and lean forward, then a figure leapt up and struck down the man. A low whistle announced to Vale that the coast was clear.

Ben Graham cast a glance of pride upon the stalwart villains whom he was to command. They gave a shout when they saw the steel, and pressed forward to look within the box.

An answering shout! Was it the echo that pealed through the room, or did they hear that cheer only in imagination? The tories looked at one another with astonishment and fear pictured upon each countenance.

“We are betrayed!” sang out one nearest the door. “Fly, for the rebels are coming!”

A sort of hurried movement was made; then all stood still again, to wait for what was to come. The suspense did not endure long, for with a crash the door flew open, and on the threshold, with a torch in one hand, a bright gleaming sword in the other, stood Nat Ernshaw, while a swarm of faces showed dark behind him.

“Surrender, you tory dogs!” shouted Nat. “Surrender. Show them your strength, boys. At them!”