WILLIAMS TAKES A FANCY TO FOREST LIFE.—HORSE SHOE AND JOHN RAMSAY CONTINUE ACTIVE IN THE SERVICE OF BUTLER.—MARY MUSGROVE BECOMES A VALUABLE AUXILIARY.
Williams had commenced his retreat before the dawn, as much with a view to accomplish a large portion of his journey before the heat of the day, as to protect himself against the probable pursuit of the rallied forces of the enemy. His destination was towards the mountains on the north-western frontier. The overthrow of Gates had left a large force of Tory militia at the disposal of Cornwallis, who, it was conjectured, would use them to break up every remnant of opposition in this region. It was therefore a matter of great importance to Williams, to conduct his little force into some place of security against the attacks of the royalists.
Colonel Elijah Clarke had, ever since the fall of Charleston, been employed in keeping together the few scattered Whig families in that part of Carolina lying contiguous to the Savannah, with a view to an organized plan of resistance against the British authorities; and he had so far accomplished his purpose as to have procured some three or four hundred men, who had agreed to hold themselves in readiness to strike a blow whenever the occasion offered. These men were to be mustered at any moment by a preconcerted signal; and, in the meantime, they were instructed, by confining themselves to their dwellings, or pursuing their ordinary occupations, to keep as much as possible out of the way of the dominant authorities.
Clarke resided in Georgia, whence he had fled as soon as the royalist leader, Brown, had taken possession of Augusta; and we have already seen that a letter from Colonel Pinckney, at Charleston, which Horse Shoe Robinson had been intrusted to deliver, had summoned Arthur Butler to this frontier to aid in Clarke's enterprise.
Colonel Isaac Shelby, a resident of Washington county in Virginia, until the settlement of the southern line of the State had left him in the district at present known as Sullivan county in Tennessee, had been an efficient auxiliary in Clarke's scheme, and was now ready to summon a respectable number of followers for the support of the war on the mountain border. He and Clarke had accidentally arrived at Williams's camp a day or two before the attack upon Innis, with a view to a consultation as to the general interests of the meditated campaign; and they had only tarried to take a part in the engagement from a natural concern for the fate of their intended comrade, Butler. Having no further motive for remaining with Williams, they were both intent upon returning to their respective duties, and, accordingly, during the retreat of the following day, they took their leave.
The vigilance with which these partisans were watched by their enemies, almost forbade the present hope of successful combination. From a consciousness of the hazard of attempting to concentrate their forces at this juncture, they had determined still to pursue their separate schemes of annoyance, until a more favorable moment for joint action should arise; and, in the interval, to hide themselves as much as possible in the forest. It was consequently in the hope of preserving his independence at least, if not of aiding Clarke, that Williams now moved with so much despatch to the mountains.
His course lay towards the head waters of the Fair Forest river, in the present region of Spartanburg. This district was inhabited only by a few hunters, and some scattered Indians of an inoffensive character; it abounded in game, and promised to afford an easy subsistence to men whose habits were simple, and who were accustomed to rely upon the chase for support. The second day brought our hardy soldiers into the sojourn they sought. It was a wilderness broken by mountains, and intersected by streams of surpassing transparency; whilst its elevated position and southern latitude conferred upon it a climate that was then, as well as now, remarked for its delicious temperature in summer, and its exemption from the rigors of winter.
The spot at which Williams rested was a sequestered valley deep hidden in the original woods, and watered by the Fair Forest, whose stream, so near its fountain, scarcely exceeded the dimensions of a little brook. Here he determined to form a camp, to which in times of emergency he might safely retreat. With a view to render it easy of access as a rendezvous, he caused landmarks to be made, by cutting notches on the trees—or blazing them, in the woodman's phrase—in several directions, leading towards the principal highways that penetrated the country. The retreat thus established is familiar to the history of the war, under the name of the Fair Forest camp.
These arrangements being completed in the course of the first day after his arrival, Williams now applied himself to the adoption of measures for the safety of Arthur Butler. Amongst the spoils that had fallen into his hands, after the victory over Innis, was the document containing the proceedings of the court-martial. The perusal of this paper, together with the comments afforded by Robinson, convinced him of the malignity of the persecution which had aimed at the life of the prisoner. It occurred to him, therefore, to submit the whole proceeding to Lord Cornwallis, to whom, he was persuaded, it either had been misrepresented, or, most probably, was entirely unknown. He did not doubt that an appeal to the honorable feelings of that officer, with a full disclosure of the facts, would instantly be followed by an order that should put Butler under the protection of the rules of war, and insure him all the rights that belong to a mere prisoner taken in arms in a lawful quarrel. A spirited remonstrance was accordingly prepared to this effect. It detailed the circumstances of Butler's case, which was accompanied with a copy of the proceedings of the court, and it concluded with a demand that such measures should be adopted by the head of the army, as comported with the rights of humanity and the laws of war; "a course," the writer suggested, "that he did not hesitate to believe his lordship would feel belonged both to the honor and duty of his station." This paper was consigned to the care of an officer, who was directed to proceed with it, under a flag of truce, to the head-quarters of the British commander.
Soon after this, Robinson apprised Williams that Ramsay and himself had determined to venture back towards the Ennoree, to learn something of the state of affairs in that quarter, and to apply themselves more immediately to the service of Butler. In aid of this design, the sergeant obtained a letter from Williams, the purport of which was to inform the commandant of any post of the loyalists whom it might concern, that an application had been made on Butler's behalf to Cornwallis, and that the severest retaliation would be exercised upon the prisoners in Williams's custody, for any violence that might be offered the American officer. Putting this letter in his pocket, our man of "mickle might," attended by his good and faithful ally, John Ramsay, took his leave of "The Fair Forest" towards noon of the fourth day after the battle near Musgrove's mill.
The second morning after their departure, the two companions had reached the Ennoree, not far from the habitation of David Ramsay. It was fair summer weather, and nature was as gay as in that piping time before the blast of war had blown across her fields. All things, in the course of a few days, seemed to have undergone a sudden change. The country presented no signs of strife: no bands of armed men molested the highways. An occasional husbandman was seen at his plough: the deer sprang up from the brushwood and fled into the forest, as if inviting again the pastime of the chase; and even when the two soldiers encountered a chance wayfarer upon the road, each party passed the other unquestioned—there was all the seeming quiet of a pacified country. The truth was, the war had rolled northwards—and all behind it had submitted since the disastrous fight at Camden. The lusty and hot-brained portions of the population were away with the army; and the non-combatants only, or those wearied with arms, were all that were to be seen in this region.
Horse Shoe, after riding a long time in silence, as these images of tranquillity occupied his thoughts, made a simple remark that spoke a volume of truth in a few homely words.
"This is an onnatural sort of stillness, John. Men may call this peace, but I call it fear. If there is a poor wretch of a Whig in this district, it's as good as his life is worth to own himself. How far off mought we be from your father's?"
The young trooper heaved a deep sigh "I knew you were thinking of my poor father when you spoke your thoughts, Horse Shoe. This is a heavy day for him. But he could bear it: he's a man who thinks little of hardships. There are the helpless women, Galbraith Robinson," he continued, as he shook his head with an expression of sorrow that almost broke into tears. "Getting near home one thinks of them first. My good and kind mother—God knows how she would bear any heavy accident. I am always afraid to ask questions in these times about the family, for fear of hearing something bad. And there's little Mary Musgrove over at the mill"—
"You have good reason to be proud of that girl, John Ramsay," interrupted Robinson. "So speak out, man, and none of your stammering. Hoot!—she told me she was your sweetheart! You hav'n't half the tongue of that wench. Why, sir, if I was a lovable man, haw, haw!—which I'm not—I'll be cursed if I wouldn't spark that little fusee myself."
"This fence," said Ramsay, unheeding the sergeant's banter, "belongs to our farm, and perhaps we had better let down the rails and approach the house across the field: if the Tories should be there we might find the road dangerous. This gives us a chance of retreat."
"That's both scrupulous and wise, John," replied the sergeant. "So down with the pannel: we will steal upon the good folks, if they are at home, and take them by surprise. But mind you, my lad, see that your pistols are primed; we mought onawares get into a wasp's nest."
The fence was lowered, and the horsemen cautiously entered the field. After passing a narrow dell and rising to the crest of the opposite hill, they obtained a position but a short distance in the rear of the homestead. From this point a melancholy prospect broke upon their sight. The dwelling-house had disappeared, and in its place was a heap only of smouldering ashes. A few of the upright frame-posts, scorched black, and a stone chimney with its ample fire-place, were all that remained of what, but a few days before, was the happy abode of the family of a brave and worthy man.
"My God! my thoughts were running upon this! I feared their spite would break at last upon my father's head," cried John Ramsay, as he put spurs to his horse and galloped up to the ruins. "The savages have done their worst. But my father and mother where are they?" he exclaimed, as the tears rolled down his cheeks.
"Take heart, my brave boy!" said Robinson, in the kindliest tones. "There's a reckoning to come for all these villanies—and it will go hard with many a Tory yet before this account is settled."
"I will carry a hot hand into the first house that covers a Tory head," replied the young trooper, passionately; "this burning shall be paid with ten like it."
"All in good time, John," said Robinson coolly. "As for the burning, it is no great matter; a few good neighbors would soon set that to rights, by building your father a better house than the one he has lost. Besides, Congress will not forget a true friend when the war is well fought out. But it does go against my grain, John Ramsay, to see a parcel of cowardly runaways spitting their malice against women and children. The barn, likewise, I see is gone," continued the sergeant, looking towards another pile of the ruins a short distance off. "The villains! when there's foul work to be done, they don't go at it like apprentices. No matter—I have made one observation: the darkest hour is just before the day, and that's a comfortable old saying."
By degrees John Ramsay fell into a calmer temper, and now began to cast about as to the course fit to be pursued in their present emergency. About a quarter of a mile distant, two or three negro cabins were visible, and he could descry a few children near the doors. With an eager haste, therefore, he and the sergeant shaped their course across the field to this spot. When they arrived within fifty paces of the nearest hovel, the door was set ajar, and a rifle, thrust through the aperture, was aimed at the visitors.
"Stand for your lives!" shouted the well known voice of David Ramsay. In the next instant the door was thrown wide open, the weapon cast aside, and the father rushed forward as he exclaimed, "Gracious God, my boy and Horse Shoe Robinson! Welcome, lads; a hundred times more welcome than when I had better shelter to give you! But the good friends of King George, you see, have been so kind as to give me a call. It is easy to tell when they take it in their head to visit a Whig."
"My mother!" exclaimed John Ramsay.
"In and see her, boy—she wants comfort from you. But, thank God! she bears this blow better than I thought she could."
Before this speech was uttered John had disappeared.
"And how came this mishap to fall upon you, David?" inquired Horse Shoe.
"I suppose some of your prisoners," replied Ramsay, "must have informed upon Andy and me: for in the retreat of Innis's runaways, a party came through my farm. They stayed only long enough to ransack the house, and to steal whatever was worth taking; and then to set fire to the dwelling and all the out-buildings. Both Andy and myself, by good luck, perhaps, were absent, or they would have made us prisoners: so they turned my wife and children out of doors to shift for themselves, and scampered off as fast as if Williams was still at their heels. All that was left for us was to crowd into this cabin, where, considering all things, we are not so badly off. But things are taking an ill turn for the country, Horse Shoe. We are beaten on all sides."
"Not so bad, David, as to be past righting yet," replied the sergeant. "What have they done with Major Butler?"
"He was carried, as I learned, up to Blackstock's, the evening of the fight; and yesterday it was reported that a party has taken him back to Musgrove's. I believe he is now kept close prisoner in Allen's house. Christopher Shaw was here two days since, and told us that orders had come to occupy the millers dwelling-house for that purpose."
Horse Shoe had now entered the cabin with David Ramsay, and in the course of the hour that followed, during which the family had prepared refreshment for the travellers, the sergeant had fully canvassed all the particulars necessary to be known for his future guidance. It was determined that he and John should remain in their present concealment until night, and then endeavor to reach the mill under cover of the darkness, and open some means of communication with the family of the miller.
The rest of the day was spent in anxious thought. The situation of the adventurers was one of great personal peril, as they were now immediately within the circle of operations of the enemy and likely to be observed and challenged the first moment they ventured upon the road.
The hour of dusk had scarcely arrived before they were again mounted on horseback. They proceeded cautiously upon the road that led through the wood, until it intersected the highway; and, having attained this point, John Ramsay, who was well acquainted with every avenue through the country, now led the way, by a private and scarcely discernible path, into the adjacent forest, and thence, by a tedious and prolonged route, directed his companion to the banks of the Ennoree. This course of travel took them immediately to the plain on which Innis had been encamped—the late field of battle. All here was still and desolate. The sheds and other vestiges of the recent bivouac were yet visible, but not even the farm-house that had constituted Innis's head-quarters was reoccupied by its original inhabitants. The bat whirred over the plain, and the owl hooted from the neighboring trees. The air still bore the scent of dead bodies which had either been left exposed, or so meagrely covered with earth as to taint the breeze with noisome exhalations.
"There is a great difference, John," said Horse Shoe, who seldom let an occasion to moralize after his own fashion slip by, "there's a great difference between a hot field and a stale one. Your hot field makes a soldier, for there's a sort of a stir in it that sets the blood to running merrily through a man, and that's what I call pleasure. But when everything is festering like the inside of a hospital—or what's next door to it, a grave-yard—it is mighty apt to turn a dragoon's stomach and make a preacher of him. This here dew falls to-night like frost, and chills me to the heart, which it wouldn't do if it didn't freshen up the smell of dead men. And there's the hogs, busy as so many sextons among Innis's Tories: you may hear them grunt over their suppers. Well, there is one man among them that I'll make bold to say these swine hav'n't got the stomach to touch—that's Hugh Habershaw: he sleeps in the mud in yonder fence-corner."
"If you had done nothing else in the fight, Horse Shoe, but cleave that fellow's skull," said Ramsay, "the ride we took would have been well paid for—it was worth the trouble."
"And the rapscallionly fellow to think," added Horse Shoe, "that I was a going to save him from the devil's clutches, when I had a broadsword in my hand, and his bald, greasy pate in reach. His brain had nothing in it but deceit and lies, and all sorts of cruel thoughts, enough to poison the air when I let them out. I have made an observation, John, all my life on them foul-mouthed, swilling braggers—that when there's so much cunning and blood-thirstiness, there's no room for a thimbleful of courage: their heart's in their belly, which is as much as to signify that the man's a most beastly coward. But now, it is my opinion that we had best choose a spot along upon the river here, and leave our horses. I think we can manœuvre better on foot: the miller's house is short of two miles, and we mought be noticed if we were to go nearer on horseback."
This proposal was adopted, and the two friends, when they had ridden a short distance below the battle ground, halted in a thicket, where they fastened their horses, and proceeded towards the mill on foot. After following the course of the stream for near half an hour, they perceived, at a distance, a light glimmering through the window of Allen Musgrove's dwelling. This induced a second pause in their march, when Ramsay suggested the propriety of his advancing alone to reconnoitre the house, and attempting to gain some speech with the inmates. He accordingly left the sergeant to amuse himself with his own thoughts.
Horse Shoe took his seat beneath a sycamore, where he waited a long time in anxious expectation of the return of his comrade. Growing uneasy, at last, at John's delay, he arose, and stole cautiously forward until he reached the mill, where he posted himself in a position from which he was able to see and hear what was going on at the miller's house. The porch was occupied by three or four persons, whose conversation, as it came to the sergeant's ear, proved them to be strangers to the family; and a ray of light from a taper within, after a while, made this more manifest, by revealing the scarlet uniform of the enemy. Horse Shoe was thus confirmed in the truth of the report that Butler had been brought to this place under a military escort. With this conviction he returned to the sycamore, where he again sat down to wait for the coming of his companion.
It was after ten o'clock, and the sergeant was casting over in his thoughts the long absence of John, when his attention was aroused by the sound of footsteps, and the next instant John Ramsay and Mary Musgrove stood beside him.
"What kept you till this time of night?" was the sergeant's accost.
"Softly, man, I have news for you," replied Ramsay. "Here is Mary herself."
"And so she is, indeed!" exclaimed the sergeant, at the same time shaking her hand, "this is my petticoat-sodger; how goes it with you, girl?"
"I have only a moment to spare," replied the maiden cheerfully, "and it is the greatest of good luck that I thought of coming out; for John gave me a signal, which I was stupid enough not to understand at first. But, after a while, I thought it could be no one but John Ramsay; and that, partly, because I expected he would be coming into the neighborhood ever since I heard of his being at his father's, after the ensign was made a prisoner."
"I went," said John Ramsay, "to the further side of the house, where I set to whistling an old-fashioned tune that Mary was acquainted with—walking away all the time in an opposite direction—as if there was nothing meant—"
"And I knew the tune, Mr. Horse Shoe," interrupted Mary, eagerly, "it was Maggie Lauder. John practised that trick once before to show me how to find my way to him. Upon that, I made an excuse to leave the room, and slipped out through the garden—and then I followed the whistling, as folks say they follow a jack-o'-lantern."
"And so, by a countermarch," continued the young dragoon, "we came round the meadow and through the woods, here."
"Now that you've got here at last," said Horse Shoe, "tell me the news."
"Major Butler is in the house," said Mary and John, both speaking at once. "He was brought there yesterday from Blackstock's," continued the maiden. "Orders came from somebody that he was to be kept at our house, until they had fixed upon what was to be done with him. Colonel Innis was too ill to think of such matters, and has been carried out of the neighborhood—and it is thought he will die."
"How many men are there to guard the prisoner?" asked the sergeant.
"There are more than twenty, with a lieutenant from Ninety-Six, who has the charge of them."
"And how does the major bear his troubles?"
"He seems to be heavy at heart," replied the maiden. "But that may be because he is away from his friends. Though my father, who is a good judge of such things, says he suffers tribulation like a Christian. He asked me privately, if I had heard anything of you, Mr. Robinson: and when I told him what folks said about your being with the people that beat Colonel Innis, he smiled, and said if any man could get him free, it was Horse Shoe Robinson."
"Do they allow you to see him often?" inquired the sergeant.
"I have seen him only two or three times since he came to the house," answered the maiden. "But the officer that has charge of him is not contrary or ill-natured, and makes no objection to my carrying him his meals—though I am obliged to pretend to know less about Major Butler than I do, for fear they might be jealous of my talking to him."
"You can give him a letter?"
"I think I can contrive it," replied the maiden.
"Then give him this, my good girl," said Robinson, taking Williams's letter from his pocket and putting it in Mary's hand. "It is a piece of writing he can use whenever he is much pressed. It may save him from harm. Now, I want you to do something more. You must find a chance just to whisper in his ear that Horse Shoe Robinson and John Ramsay are in the neighborhood. Tell him, likewise, that Colonel Williams has sent a messenger to Lord Cornwallis to lay his case before that officer, and to get some order for his better treatment. That the doings of that rascally court-martial have been sent by the messenger, hoping that Lord Cornwallis, if he is a brave and a Christian man—as they say he is—will stop this onmerciful persecution of the major—which has no cause for it under heaven. Will you remember all this?"
"I'll try, sir," responded Mary; "and besides I will tell it to my father, who has more chance of speaking to Major Butler than I have."
"Now," said Horse Shoe, "we will be here again to-morrow night, a little earlier than this; you must meet us here. And say to the major, if he has any message for us, he may send it by you. But be cautious, Mary, how you are seen talking with the prisoner. If they suspect you it will spoil all."
"Trust to me," said the girl; "I warrant I have learned by this time how to behave myself amongst these red-coats."
"There, John," continued Horse Shoe, "I have said all I want to say, and as you, I have no doubt, have got a good deal to tell the girl, it is but fair that you should have your chance. So, do you walk back with her as far as the mill, and I'll wait here for you. But don't forget yourself by overstaying your furlough."
"I must get home as fast as possible," said Mary; "they will be looking for me."
"Away, John Ramsay—away," added Horse Shoe; "and have your eyes about you, man."
With this command John Ramsay and the miller's daughter hastily withdrew, and were soon out of the sergeant's hearing.
After an interval, which doubtless seemed short to the gallant dragoon, he returned to his comrade, and the two set out rapidly in quest of their horses; and once more having got into their saddles, they retraced their steps at a brisk speed to Ramsay's cabin.
CHAPTER XXX.
All distant and faint were the sounds of the battle;
With the breezes they rise, with the breezes they fail,
Till the shout and the groan and the conflict's dread rattle,
And the chase's wild clamor come loading the gale.
The Maid of Toro.
In the confusion that ensued upon the defeat of Innis, James Curry succeeded in conducting Butler from the field. His orders were to retreat with the prisoner to Blackstock's; and he had accordingly set out with about a dozen troopers, by a private path that led towards a quarter secure from the molestation of the enemy, when the attack commenced. Butler was mounted behind one of the men, and in this uneasy condition was borne along the circuitous by-way that had been chosen, without a moment's respite from the severe motion of the horse, nearly at high speed, until, having accomplished three miles of the retreat, the party arrived at the main road that extended between Innis's camp and Blackstock's. Here Curry, conceiving himself to be out of danger of pursuit, halted his men, with a purpose to remain until he could learn something of the combat. Butler was in a state of the most exciting bewilderment as to the cause of this sudden change in his affairs. No explanation was given to him by his conductors; and although, from the first, he was aware that an extraordinary emergency had arisen from some assault upon Innis's position, no one dropped a word in his hearing to give him the slightest clue to the nature of the attack. The troopers about him preserved a morose and ill-natured silence, and even manifested towards him a harsh and resentful demeanor. He heard the firing, but what troops were engaged, by whom led, or with what chances of success, were subjects of the most painfully interesting doubt. He could only conjecture that this was a surprise accomplished by the Whigs, and that the assailants must have come in sufficient force to justify the boldness of the enterprise. That Horse Shoe was connected with this irruption he felt fully assured; and from this circumstance he gathered the consolatory and cheerful prognostic of a better issue out of his afflictions than, in his late condition, seemed even remotely possible. This hope grew brighter as the din of battle brought the tidings of the day to his ear. The first few scattered shots that told of the confusion in which the combat was begun, were, after an interval, succeeded by regular volleys of musketry that indicated an orderly and marshalled resistance. Platoon after platoon fired in succession—signifying, to the practised hearing of the soldier, that infantry was receiving the attacks of cavalry, and that as yet the first had not faltered. Then the firing grew more slack, and random shots were discharged from various quarters—but amidst these were heard no embodied volleys. It was the casual and nearly overpowered resistance of flying men.
At this juncture there was a dark frown on the brow of Curry, as he looked at his comrades, and said, in a low and muttered tone, "That helter-skelter shot grates cursedly on the ear. There's ill-luck in the sound of it."
Presently a few stragglers appeared at a turn of the road, some quarter of a mile in the direction of the battle, urging their horses forward at the top of their speed. These were followed by groups both of infantry and cavalry, pressing onwards in the utmost disorder—those on horseback thrusting their way through the throng of foot-soldiers, seemingly regardless of life or limb; the wounded with their wounds bleeding afresh, or hastily bandaged with such appliances as were at hand. All hurried along amidst the oaths, remonstrances, and unheeded orders of the officers, who were endeavoring to resume their commands. It was the flight of men beset by a panic, and fearful of pursuit; and the clouds of dust raised by the press and hurry of this career almost obscured the setting sun.
During the first moments of uncertainty, Curry, no less anxiously than Butler, remained stationary by the road-side, reading the distant signs of the progress of the fight; but now, when the disastrous issue was no longer doubtful, he commanded his cavalcade to move forward, and from that moment prosecuted his journey with unabated speed until he arrived at Blackstock's.
Butler was unceremoniously marched to his former place of confinement in the barn, where a rigorous guard was set over his person. In the confusion and insubordination that prevailed amongst the crowd, that, during the night, was continually increasing in the little hamlet, the common rites of humanity towards the prisoner were forgotten, and he was left to pass the weary hours till morning, on a shock of hay, without food or other refreshment than a simple draught of water. From the unreserved murmurs of those who frequented the place, and the querulous upbraidings of the soldiery against each other, Butler was enabled to glean the principal incidents of the day. The supposed death of Innis reached him through this channel, and, what was scarcely a subject of less personal interest to him, the certain end of Hugh Habershaw. It was with a silent satisfaction at the moral or poetical justice—as it has been called—of the event, that he heard the comrades of the late self-conceited captain describe his death in terms of coarse and unpitying ribaldry—a retribution due to the memory of a cruel and cowardly braggart.
When the morning was fully abroad, the disarranged and broken remnants of the Tory camp began gradually to be reduced to a state of discipline. The day was spent in this occupation. Orders were every moment arriving from the higher officers of the late camp, or from the nearest British posts. Videttes bore the tidings of the different military operations from the neighborhood of the enemy. The fragments of companies were marshalled into squads and subdivisions; and, successively, one party after another was seen to leave the hamlet, and take a direction of march that led towards the main British army, or to the garrisons of the lower districts.
Towards the close of the day one detachment only was left; and Butler was given to understand that this was intrusted with his especial keeping. It was composed of a few regular soldiers of the garrison of Ninety-Six, and a small number of the country militia,—making, in all, about twenty men, commanded by Lieutenant Macdonald, of the regular army.
Butler remained in his present state of seclusion four or five days, during which he experienced much mitigation of the rigors of his captivity. Macdonald was a careful and considerate soldier, and demeaned himself towards his prisoner with such kindness as the nature of his trust allowed. He removed him into a comfortable apartment in the dwelling-house, and supplied him with the conveniences his situation required; he even made him occasional visits, which were attended with more than the mere observances of courtesy and respect, and expressed a sympathy in his sufferings.
These unexpected tones of comfort, from a quarter in which Butler had hitherto heard nothing but fierce hatred and harsh rebuke, fell gratefully upon his ear, and gave a brighter color to his hopes for the future. But he could not help observing, that no hint was dropped by Macdonald which might furnish him the slightest ground of surmise as to the vicissitudes that yet awaited him. The reported fall of Innis seemed to afford a natural foundation for the belief, that the malice of his enemies might hereafter be less active,—as he attributed much of the persecution he had suffered to the secret machinations of that individual. He no longer saw around his person those agents who first pursued him with such bitter hostility. He seemed to have fallen into entirely new combinations, and had reason to augur, from all he saw, that their purposes against him were less wicked. And first, above all other topics of consolation and comfort, was the conviction that a brave and efficient party of friends were in the field, intent upon his liberation. Still, his situation was one in which it required all his manhood to sustain himself. A young soldier of an ardent temper, and zealously bent upon active and perilous service, can ill brook the tedious, dull delays of captivity, even in its mildest form: but if this thraldom befal in a period of universal agitation, when "great events are on the gale," of which the captive is only a witness to the pervading interest they excite, without being permitted to know their import; if moreover, as in the case of Butler, an impenetrable veil of mystery hang over the purpose of his captivity, behind which the few short glimpses afforded him, open upon his view nothing but death in its most frightful forms; and if to these are added, by far the bitterest of its qualities, the anxieties, cares, and pains of a devoted, plighted lover, separated from the heart that loves him, we may well conjecture that the most gallant spirit may find in it, even amidst occasional gleams of sunshine, that sinking of hope which the philosophic king of Israel has described as making "the heart sick,"—that chafing of the soul that, like the encaged eaglet, wearies and tears its wing against the bars of its prison. Even so fared it with Arthur Butler, who now found himself growing more and more into the shadow of a melancholy temper.
It was soon ascertained that Williams had abandoned the field he had won, and had retreated beyond the reach of immediate pursuit. And as the post at Musgrove's mill afforded many advantages, in reference to the means of communicating with the garrisons of the middle section of the province, and was more secure against the hazard of molestation from such parties of Whigs as might still be out-lying, an order was sent to Macdonald to remove with his prisoner to the habitation of the miller, and there to detain him until some final step should be taken in his case.
In pursuance of this requisition, Butler was conducted, after the interval of the few days we have mentioned, to Allen Musgrove's. The old man received his guest with that submission to the domination of the military masters of the province, which he had prescribed to himself throughout the contest,—secretly rejoicing that the selection made of his house for this purpose, might put it in his power to alleviate the sufferings of a soldier, towards whose cause he felt a decided though unavowed attachment. This selection furnished evidence to the miller, that nothing had transpired to arouse the distrust of the British authorities in the loyalty of any part of his family,—and to Butler, it inferred the consolatory fact, that the zealous devotion of Mary Musgrove to his service had as yet passed without notice; whilst to the maiden herself, it was proof that her agency in the delivery of the letter, which she had so adroitly put within the reach of the officers of the court, had not even excited a suspicion against her.
The best room in the house was allotted to the prisoner; and the most sedulous attention on the part of the family, so far as it could be administered without inducing mistrust, was employed in supplying him with whatever was needful to his condition. On the part of the commanding officer, the usual precautions known to military experience for the safe keeping of a prisoner were adopted. The privates of the guard occupied the barn, whilst Macdonald and one or two subordinate officers took up their quarters in the dwelling-house: sentinels were posted at the several avenues leading to the habitation, and a sergeant had the especial care of the prisoner, who, under this supervision, was occasionally allowed the range of the garden. The usual forms of a camp police were observed with scrupulous exactness;—and the morning and the nightly drum, the parade, the changing of sentries, the ringing of ramrods in the empty barrels of the muskets, and the glitter of weapons, were strangely and curiously associated with the rural and unwarlike features of the scenery around.