We return for a moment to look after Butler. As near as my information enables me to speak—for I wish to be accurate in dates—it was about the 23d of September when our hero arrived at Gilbert-town, and found himself committed to the custody of Ferguson. His situation, in many respects uncomfortable, was not altogether without circumstances to alleviate the rigor of captivity. Ferguson, though a rough soldier, and animated by a zealous partisanship in the royal cause which imbued his feelings with a deep hatred of the Whigs, was also a man of education, and of a disposition to respect the claims of a gentleman fully equal to himself in rank and consideration—even when these qualities were found in an enemy. His intercourse, of late, had been almost entirely confined to the wild spirits who inhabited the frontier, and who, impelled by untamed passions, were accustomed to plunge into every excess which the license of war enabled them to practise. He had, accordingly, adapted his behavior to the complexion of this population, and maintained his authority, both over his own recruits and such of the opposite party as had fallen into his hands, by a severe, and not unfrequently by even a cruel bearing. Following the example set him by Cornwallis himself, he had more than once executed summary vengeance upon the Whigs whom the chances of war had brought into his power; or, what was equally reprehensible, had allowed the Tory bands who had enlisted under his banner, to gratify their own thirst of blood in the most revolting barbarities. Towards Butler, however, he demeaned himself with more consideration—and sometimes even extended to him such little courtesies as might be indulged without risk to the principal purpose of his safe custody. A separate room was provided for the prisoner, and he was allowed the occasional services of Harry Winter and the other companions of his late misfortune. Still, the familiar scenes of suffering and death which Butler was constrained to witness amongst his compatriots, and the consciousness of his own inability to avert these calamities, greatly weighed upon his spirits. His persuasion, too, that Ferguson was now aiding, by what seemed to be a most effectual participation, in the plan for the capture of Clarke, and his belief that this blow would sadly afflict, if not altogether dishearten the friends of independence in the South, added to his private grief. He knew nothing of the mustering of the mountaineers, and saw no hope of extrication from the difficulties that threatened to overwhelm his cause.
Such was the condition of Butler during the first four or five days of his captivity at Gilbert-town. At the end of this period, circumstances occurred to raise in his bosom the most lively excitement. Suddenly, an order was issued for the immediate movement of the army southwards—and the prisoners were directed to accompany the march. It was apparent that information of importance had been received, and that some decisive event was at hand. When, in pursuance of this command, the troops were marshalled for their journey, and Butler was stationed in the column, along with all the other prisoners of the post, he was startled to observe the dragoon, James Curry, appear in the ranks, as one regularly attached to the corps. Butler had seen nor heard nothing of this man since he had parted from him at Blackstock's after the battle of Musgrove's mill; and his conviction, that, acting under the control of some higher authority, this individual had been the principal agent in his present misfortunes, gave him a painful anxiety in regard to the future. This anxiety was far from being diminished, when he now discovered that the same person, with a party of dragoons, was specially intrusted with his guardianship. Winter and the other troopers who had, until this moment, been allowed to keep him company, were now directed to take a station amongst the common prisoners, and Butler was furnished with his horse, and commanded to submit to the particular supervision of the dragoon. These arrangements being made, the march of Ferguson commenced.
The army moved cautiously towards the upper sections of the district of Ninety-Six. It was evident to Butler, from the frequent hints dropped in conversation by the royalist officers, that Ferguson supposed himself to be getting every moment nearer to Clarke. In this state of suspense and weariness the first day's march was concluded.
The second was like the first. Ferguson still moved south, slowly, but steadily. Every man that was met upon the road was questioned by the commanding officer, to ascertain whether there was any report of troops westward. "Had any crossed Saluda—or been heard of towards the mountains!"—was an invariable interrogatory.
None, that the person questioned knew of—was the common reply.
"Tush! the devil's in it, that we can hear nothing of the fellow!" exclaimed Ferguson, after the fifth or sixth wayfarer had been examined. "Clarke and his beggars are flesh and blood—they travel by land, and not through the air! Faith, I begin to think Cruger has saved us trouble, and has got his hand on the runaway's croup! James Curry."
The dragoon rode to the front and bowed.
"You left Fort Ninety-Six only on Wednesday?"
"I did."