Egan hurried back into the house, and caught up a portmanteau which he kept lying by his bed at night. Mistress Egan and Peggy were dressed by this time, and the three hurried into the swamp which lay to the north of the cottage. The man who had given the warning passed on to perform the same office for other menaced families.
Unused to swamps, the British seldom followed the inhabitants into their recesses, and this proved the safety of many a family in the Carolinas. They were scarcely within the confines of the marsh when they heard the tramp of many hoofs, the neighing of horses, and the enemy was at the cottage.
“By my hilt, the birds have flown,” shouted an English voice, and the words were distinctly heard through the stillness of the night. “Search the house, boys. Egan must have some rich pickings. Bring out whatever there is of value, and then burn the hut. The horses and cattle must be hereabouts somewhere.”
There followed hoarse cries and a rush for the building. It seemed to Peggy that a moment had hardly passed before a red glare lit up the spot where the cottage stood.
“Back into the swamp,” whispered Egan in a whisper. “They may see us here.”
Back into thicknesses of morass such as Peggy had never seen before they went, speaking only when necessary and then in the lowest of tones. And thus the rest of the night was spent, while the fiends ravaged the herding pens, and beat up the bushes for the ponies. The fugitives remained in hiding until morning dawned. Then they made their way back to the blackened ruins of the cottage. Tears coursed down Peggy’s cheeks at the sight.
“What shall thee do?” she cried putting her arms about Mistress Egan. “Oh, what shall thee do?”
For a moment the fisherman’s wife could not speak. She shed no tears, but her face was worn, and drawn, and haggard. She had aged in the night.
“Henry,” she cried, “there is but one thing for us to do, and that is to get to mother’s.”
“And how shall we do that, Mandy? We have neither horse nor wagon left us.”