“Then hold yourselves in readiness to march at sunset, in the direction of Graham’s. We will strike such a blow as will make these scoundrels, who would make a profit on the blood of their countrymen, at least a deal more cautious how they attempt to carry on their trade within reach of the strong arms of American freemen. Look well to your arms, boys; nerve your hearts for a determined struggle, and to-night we will strike again for liberty.”
During the day there was a bustle among the men of the brigade, that told the British prisoners, confined within the recesses of the swamp, that something of more than ordinary importance was about to take place. Swords were brightened and sharpened, cartridges were made, and a look, which spake of eager impatience, was worn by all. As night flung her shadow on all, Nat Ernshaw’s brigade rode out into the darkness, and the confines of Cedar Swamp were untenanted save by the dozen English prisoners and the five patriots left to guard them. For a time the noise of footsteps came faintly to their listening ears; then all was silence.
Let us return to Captain Preston and his schemes. With their plot and counterplot, they enter into the thread of our story to color it all.
The gallant Briton was hastily pacing the room. His face, flushed as if with anger, wore a well-settled scowl. Half an hour before he had returned from one of his afternoon excursions at such a pace that one might think forty troopers were close behind in hot pursuit.
Casting his bridle to a soldier in waiting, Preston strode away to his room. Once there, he cast his chapeau upon the bed, and began his hasty walk, in which, however, he was interrupted by a knock on the door. In none of the best of humors he said, “Come in!” The summons was obeyed by a young man whom Reginald knew as an aid-de-camp of Gen. Clinton. In his hand he bore a folded paper.
The young men bowed to each other, and then the stranger said, at the same time handing the paper which he bore, “I was commissioned by Gen. Clinton to bring you these instructions. You are to follow them to the letter, and he hopes that you may be enabled to do good service to your country.”
In his present mood Reginald felt in no humor for interruption. Unfolding the paper, he hastily read its contents. He was informed that, in conjunction with a score of light dragoons, who would be sent to aid him, he would soon have the opportunity of crossing swords with the man who, above all others, he now hated—John Vale. Under the guidance of Timothy Turner, Cedar Swamp was to be invaded; for Gen. Clinton had learned that Nat Ernshaw’s brigade was there ensconced.
“Do you intend to return to Charleston?” inquired Preston, turning to the aid-de-camp.
“Immediately. Such were my orders.”