“A score of them!” exclaimed the youth.
“You have my permission to take them out on the enterprise,” said Marion, kindly. “It will not only be doing the young lady a service if you succeed, but will demonstrate to the enemy that we can penetrate even into his most powerful towns.”
At last Tom had the chance he had so often prayed for. Overjoyed, he went to work next day sounding his most intimate friends in the brigade; he went to the younger men from choice, for it was to these that the boldness of the proposed attempt would appeal. Without the slightest difficulty he secured the eager consent of the required number; and all day they prepared for the expedition by polishing and cleaning rifles and pistols and looking to the edges of sabres. At dusk, well-mounted and armed, and with high, hopeful hearts they set forth. The brigade waved their caps and gave them three silent cheers, for Marion had forbidden noise in the camp.
The camp of Marion at this period was in the midst of a dense cane-brake in the district between Fort Watson and Georgetown; he had not as yet settled into his famous base at Snow’s Island, and was conducting his operations from many different points.
The party under Tom Deering forded the Santee in safety, and by hard riding and no mishaps made Monks Corner, on the west bank of the Cooper River, by daybreak the next day. Of course they did not enter the town, but remained some distance outside, encamped upon a small creek. At nightfall they resumed their journey; now and then they met a rider or a carriage in the road; but they were too far into the enemy’s country for any one to suspect them of being anything else than king’s men, so boldly and confidently did they push forward.
The coming of day found them in the suburbs of Charleston; the houses began to appear more frequently along the road, and when the sun at last showed itself in the east they were trotting along a wide road toward a small inn which stood, together with a stable and some other outbuildings, just a trifle to one side.
“This is Natchez’s place,” said Tom; “we stop here.”
Natchez, it was thought, was an Indian of at least quarter blood; he had kept the inn by the roadside for many years, and was a queer, silent sort of an old man and an unquestioned though secret friend of the patriot cause. Marion had, at times, occasion to send a spy into Charleston; and it was always at the Indian’s Head—for so the inn was called—that the venturesome one found shelter.
When our friends drew rein before the inn door, Natchez, who seemed always to be stirring, came out. Tom gave him a quick signal and the old man peered up at him from under his bushy eyebrows, in surprise.
“So many of you!” he exclaimed, holding up his hands.