Читать книгу Wild Nat, the Trooper; or, The Cedar Swamp Brigade - William R. Eyster - Страница 5

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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.”