The officer saw his danger; with a sudden jerk of his arm he threw the heavy pistol at the boy’s head. But Tom avoided the flying weapon by swiftly leaning to one side.
“Surrender!” he commanded, his sabre flashing about the officer’s head.
With a roar of anger like that of an infuriated bear the Englishman drew his sword from its scabbard, and the blades crossed with a sharp, angry ring.
Take care, Tom Deering, take care! Your boldness has led you into great danger; you have proved a worthy pupil of Victor St. Mar, late of King Louis’ army, but, as yet, you are not a match for Lieutenant-Colonel Tarleton, at once a man of lion-like strength and ferocity and a master of the sabre.
Yes, it was the terrible Tarleton, himself; he had been making a short cut through the swamp in order that he might rejoin a detachment of his dragoons, when they had come upon this lonely cabin.
“Surrender, you jackanapes!” he roared, in a fury at Tom’s bold demand. “I’ll teach you something that you will not forget in a hurry!”
And with that he began a furious attack upon the boy, aiming sweeping cuts at his head and downward slashes at his sword-arm with marvelous rapidity; but Tom, managing his chestnut mount with his left hand, guarded himself carefully, allowing no opening in his defence. But in a few moments the superior skill and experience of Tarleton, together with his greater weight, began to tell; step by step, the boy was driven back, dazzled by the flashing sabre darting so swiftly here and there before his eyes. A fierce grin of triumph came into the Englishman’s face; victory was in his hands; this presumptuous youth who had dared to face him was about to learn a lesson which he would never forget.
But Lieutenant-Colonel Tarleton had not counted upon Cole. In the very moment of his triumph, when his heavy blade was lifted for a last and finishing stroke, a pair of huge, black arms, as strong as bands of steel, were thrown about him; his sabre was dashed to the ground and he, burly man though he was, found himself plucked from his saddle and gazing up into the grinning, ebony face of the giant slave.
Tom looked down, panting from his exertions, but smiling at the British officer’s discomfiture.
“Hold him fast, Cole,” said he, as the officer began a desperate struggle to break away from the bear-like hug which held him. “No use in struggling, colonel”—the boy perceived the captive’s rank by a glance at his uniform coat. “You are in the hands of the strongest man in South Carolina.”