“Harry, what would you advise? You have had more experience in this mode of life than I, and this is an occasion which calls for all our energies.”
A look of honest pride stole over the face of the forester at this marked display of the confidence of his superior in rank; but it was only for a moment, and then the old expression of caution and determination again resumed its place. After a pause, in which he seemed to be debating in his mind the better way of serving the wish of the other, he appeared to have hit upon the plan, and advancing still nearer to his companion to prevent the possibility of being overheard, he said, in a low whisper,
“You must go back to the camp and raise the men, I will follow in the trail of the party; they must have taken the lower route, as the late defeat of the Tories in the north would make the other unsafe. If I fail I will meet you at the Big Pine—you will take that road—they cannot get farther than the Cypress Swamp to-night—I will be there.”
This arrangement seemed to meet the views of the other, as he made no objections to it, but after some minor matters had been disposed of, the two prepared to separate. Shaking his companion heartily by the hand, the younger of the friends struck into the forest in the same direction as that from which we saw him emerge. The other gazed after him until he became lost in the darkness of the shadows, and then striking into the wood in the opposite direction, he proceeded for some distance with hasty steps, until he gained a spot more densely shaded than usual. Parting the branches, he entered the enclosure, and in a few moments came forth leading a horse, which he immediately mounted, and plunged more deeply into the wood. Leaving our two friends to the fulfillment of their tasks, we must give the reader some account of the circumstances that preceded their introduction to us.
William Seaton, the hero of our narrative, was the only child of one of the oldest families in the South. At the breaking out of the war of the Revolution, his father took a firm and decided stand in the defense of the rights of the Colonists, and sealed that defense with his blood. He fell at the Siege of Charleston, bequeathing to his son the care of a mother. With the same bold and fearless love of his native land that distinguished his sire, young Seaton, on the receipt of this intelligence, hastened home from the little band of men to which he belonged, and bearing his mother to a place of safety, hurried to rejoin his comrades again. He had joined that band, by the consent of his patriot father at the outbreaking of the war, though then but a stripling, and had acted with them in all those prominent events that has rendered them so famous in the annals of freedom.
Attached to the same company as Seaton was a young man named Wilson, like him a volunteer in the cause of liberty; and both being in the spring of youth and promise, they became mutually attached. The hours not devoted to labor were spent in the society of each other. In one of the many changes that the fate of war made in the position of this band of patriots, they encamped in the vicinity of Wilson’s father, and now, when the duties of the camp did not call for the attendance of our friends, the snatches of time were spent at the paternal residence. George Wilson’s father was far advanced in the vale of years, and consequently remained neutral, as far as actions went, in the excitements of the day. But still his heart was with the Colonists in the unequal struggle for their rights. The chief attraction for Seaton, however, was Emma Wilson, the sister of George; and she was well worthy a soldier’s admiration and love. She was a soldier’s sister, full of noble daring, and untameable spirit. At each visit Seaton lingered longer and longer. Each glance of his eye was full of meaning, and told more truly to Emma, than words, the conquest she had made. Seaton feared to offer the hand of a nameless soldier to the sister of his high-souled friend, though that hand had been raised at the altar of liberty. But he was poor, his father had periled his all in the cause of his country, and it had been wrested from him; and now the son had nothing, save his sword and the consciousness of rectitude. But that could not prevent the growth of the passion in the breast of young Seaton; and how often would he think he saw in the hesitation and blushes of Emma, when he requested her to sing his favorite songs, something on which to build a lover’s hopes; and this, though slight, would raise into a flame the fire of his affections.
Thus stood matters, when, one evening, Seaton started to visit the Wilson’s, George having been absent some days on account of the illness of his father. It was some distance from the camp, and as he was in the dreaming mood, he suffered his horse to proceed at a slow pace, and gave full vent to his fancy. From this trance he was aroused by a slight noise, and raising his eyes, he beheld (for a turn of the path brought him within view of it) the mansion of the Wilsons in flames. Putting spurs to his steed he soon arrived at the spot. Here all was desolation and ruin. The truth flashed upon him. It was the work of the Tories. But what had become of the inmates? Had they fallen victims, or had they been made captives? No one was visible to solve the question. But no time was to be lost, and after a hasty survey of the vicinity, he started in the direction of the camp to report the affair and procure assistance for the prisoners. On the return he fell in with one of the scouts, and making known the affair to him, it was determined to fall upon the trail of the party, if possible to watch them until they should encamp, and then the scout, by superior knowledge of the windings of the forest, must return to the camp and ensure the surprise and capture of the foe. Acting on this, and knowing that the captain was at this time on his way from the Santee with a body of recruits, Seaton chose the route most likely to fall in with him, to whom he would communicate the intelligence and obtain assistance. Giving his instructions to his companion to await him at the Crossings, he gave the reign to his horse and dashed into the wood. With the result of this meeting the reader is already acquainted in the conversation between the two at the commencement of the story. Buried in the gloom of the ravine, Harry Burton saw the prisoners pass, guarded by a strong band of the Tories. Marking their direction, he had in quiet awaited the coming of his comrade.
Our business now is with the scout. After he parted from his companion, he left the main route, and striking deeper into the forest, pursued his way for some time with as much rapidity as the nature of the ground would admit of, appearing to be guided more by instinct than reason, so well did he, amid the darkness of the dense wood, find out the different pathways and crossings of the forest. After continuing his unbroken course for some time, he turned again in the direction of the main path. Falling into the stream of a small rivulet that ran in that direction, he followed it up, as if to prevent any marks of his horse’s feet being seen in the coming light, if he should not succeed in his enterprise. Silently and steadily did he ride on until he gained a bend in the stream, where he dismounted, and leaving his animal in the deep shade of the trees, continuously advanced to the edge of the pathway, and bent his gaze long and earnestly along the road. Satisfied of the absence of any hostile party, he emerged into the clearing, and commenced a careful survey of the path, with as much accuracy as the faint beams of a partially risen moon would permit. Long and anxious was the labor, and not till he was satisfied of the recent passing of a band of mounted men did it cease. Once confident of this, he again mounted, and pressed on with renewed vigor, still keeping hid in the shade, though not at so great a distance as before. Continuing his course for some time, he gained the top of a hill, and here, for the first time since the passing of the band at the Crossings, he again gained sight of the captives. Halting, that the distance between them might be increased, and thus the danger of discovery lessened, he had a full opportunity to observe them. No material change had taken place in the aspect of the party since he last saw them, save that the bonds of the female had been unloosed, and she was suffered to ride between two of the band. Her brother was still bound, and his horse fastened to that of one of the escort. The only circumstance that struck the quick sight and sense of the scout was the want of that caution and discipline that betokens the consciousness of danger.
Taking advantage of this want of prudence on the part of his enemies, the active mind of the scout suggested the bold expedient of pushing into the front of the party, and by secreting himself in the dense foliage that skirted both sides of the road, gather, if possible, from the lips of the Tories, some hints of their designs. Without waiting to calculate the danger of the undertaking, he again took to the forest, and putting his steed into a swifter pace, made a circuit of some distance to avoid the most remote possibility of being seen. Having again gained the road-side, he took a position more favorable for his purpose. He did not wait long ere the foremost of the band came in sight. When sufficiently near, Harry recognized him as one of the most active and unprincipled of the men who had long been a terror and dread to that vicinity. He had been an unsuccessful suitor for the hand of Emma Wilson; and this, joined to his unrelenting hatred of the Whigs, made the object of the recent attack apparent to the scout. He was attended by several others of the same character—some actuated by motives of personal malice, and others by the love of plunder. The leader appeared in earnest conversation with those who rode near him; and, as they neared the place where the scout was concealed, the words of some of them reached his ear. They were directed to the captain of the band, and were spoken as if in continuation of a question.
“But what do you intend doing with the brother? He fought well, no matter what else he has done, and deserves a better fate than I fear you intend for him.”