Horse-Shoe Robinson: A Tale of the Tory Ascendency

A BRITISH PARTISAN.

As the events of this history are confined to the duration of the Tory Ascendency in South Carolina, it becomes me to prepare my reader for the conclusion to which, doubtless much to his content, he will hear that we are now hastening. We have reached a period which brings us to take notice of certain important operations that were in progress upon the frontier, and touching the details of which, to avoid prolixity, I must refer to the graver chronicles of the times. It answers my present purpose merely to apprise my reader that Colonel Clarke had lately assembled his followers and marched to Augusta, where he had made an attack upon Brown, but that almost at the moment when his dexterous and valiant adversary had fallen within his grasp, a timely succor from Fort Ninety-Six, under the command of Cruger, had forced him to abandon his ground, and retreat towards the mountain districts of North Carolina. To this, it is important to add that Ferguson had now recruited a considerable army amongst the native Tories, and had moved to the small frontier village of Gilbert-town, with a purpose to intercept Clarke, and thus place him under the disadvantage of having a foe both in front and rear.

The midnight seizure of Arthur Butler and his friends, whilst returning from Ramsay's funeral, was effected by McAlpine, who happened at that moment to be hastening, by a forced march, with a detachment of newly-recruited cavalry from Ninety-Six, to strengthen Ferguson, and to aid in what was expected to be the certain capture of the troublesome Whig partisan.

As M'Alpine's purpose required despatch, he made but a short delay after sunrise at Drummond's cabin, and then pushed forward with his prisoners with all possible expedition. The route of his journey diverged, almost at the spot of the capture, from the roads leading towards Musgrove's Mill, and he consequently had but little chance to fall in with parties who might communicate to him the nature of the accident which threw the prisoners into his possession; whilst the prisoners themselves were sufficiently discreet to conceal from him everything that might afford a hint of Butler's previous condition.

The road lay through a rugged wilderness, and the distance to be travelled, before the party could reach Gilbert-town, was something more than sixty miles. It was, accordingly, about the middle of the second day after leaving Drummond's habitation, before the troop arrived at the term of their journey, a period that coincided with that of Cornwallis's breaking ground from his late encampment at the Waxhaws, which we have seen in the last chapter.

Ferguson was a stout, fearless, and bluff soldier, and instigated by the most unsparing hatred against all who took up the Whig cause. He had been promoted by Earl Cornwallis to the brevet rank of lieutenant-colonel, a short time before the battle of Camden, and despatched towards this wild and mountainous border to collect together and organize the Tory inhabitants of the district. His zeal and activity, no less than his peremptory bearing, had particularly recommended him to the duty to be performed; and he is, at least, entitled to the commendation of having acquitted himself with great promptitude and efficiency in the principal objects of his appointment. He was now at the head of between eleven and twelve hundred men, of which about one hundred and fifty were regulars of the British line, the remainder consisting of the disorderly and untamed population of the frontier.

Gilbert-town was a small village, composed of a number of rather well-built and comfortable log-houses. It was situated in a mountainous but fertile district of North Carolina, about the centre of Rutherford country. And I may venture to add (which I do upon report only), that although its former name has faded from the maps of the present day, under that reprehensible indifference to ancient associations, and that pernicious love of change which have obliterated so many of the landmarks of our revolutionary history, yet this village is still a prosperous and pleasant community, known as the seat of justice to the county to which it belongs.

When the troop having charge of Butler and his companions arrived, they halted immediately in front of one of the largest buildings of the village, and in a short time the prisoners were marched into the presence of Ferguson. They were received in a common room of ample dimensions, furnished with a table upon which was seen a confused array of drinking vessels, and a number of half-emptied bottles of spirit surrounding a wooden bucket filled with water. Immediately against one of the posts of the door of the apartment, the carcass of a buck, recently shot and now stripped of its skin, hung by the tendons of the hinder feet; and a soldier was at this moment employed with his knife in the butcher-craft necessary to its preparation for the spit. Ferguson himself, conspicuous for his robust, athletic, and weather-beaten exterior, stood by apparently directing the operation. Around the room were hung the hide and antlers of former victims of the chase, intermingled with various weapons of war, military cloaks, cartridge-boxes, bridles, saddles, and other furniture denoting the habitation of a party of soldiers. There was a general air of disorder and untidiness throughout the apartment, which seemed to bespeak early and late revels, and no great observance of the thrift of even military housekeeping. This impression was heightened to the eye of the beholder, by the unchecked liberty with which men of all ranks, privates as well as officers, flung themselves, as their occasions served, into the room and made free with the contents of the flasks that were scattered over the table.

The irregular and ill-disciplined host under Ferguson's command lay in and around the village, and presented a scene of which the predominating features bore a sufficient resemblance to the economy of their leader's own quarters, to raise but an unfavorable opinion of their subordination and soldier-like demeanor: it was wild, noisy, and confused.

When M'Alpine entered the apartment, the words that fell from Ferguson showed that his mind, at the moment, was disturbed by a double solicitude—alternating between the operations performed upon the carcass of venison, and certain symptoms of uproar and disorder that manifested themselves amongst the militia without.

"Curse on these swaggering, upland bullies!" he said, whilst M'Alpine and the prisoners stood inside the room, as yet unnoticed. "I would as soon undertake to train as many wolves from the mountain, as bring these fellows into habits of discipline. Thady, you cut that haunch too low—go deep, man—a long sweep from the pommel to the cantle—it is a saddle worth riding on! By the infernal gods! if these yelping savages do not learn to keep quiet in camp, I'll make a school for them with my regulars, where they shall have good taste of the cat! nine hours' drill and all the camp duty besides! Ha, M'Alpine, is it you who have been standing here all this while? I didn't observe it, man—my quarters are like a bar-room, and have been full of comers and goers all day. I thought you were but some of my usual free-and-easy customers. Damn them, I am sick of these gawky, long-legged, half-civilized recruits! but I shall take a course with them yet. What news, old boy? What have you to tell of the rebels? Where is my pretty fellow, Clarke?"

"Clarke is still in the woods," replied M'Alpine. "It would take good hounds to track him."

"And Cruger, I hope, has nose enough to follow. So, the cunning Indian hunter will be caught at last! We have him safe now, M'Alpine. There is but one path for the fox to come out of the bush, and upon that path Patrick Ferguson has about as pretty a handful of mischievous imps as ever lapped blood. The slinking runaway never reaches the other side of the mountains while I am awake. With Cruger behind him—our line of posts upon his right—the wild mountains, as full of Cherokees as squirrels, upon his left—and these devils of mine right before him—we have him in a pretty net. Who have you here, captain?"

"Some stray rebel game, that I picked up on my road, as I came from Ninety-Six. This gentleman, I learn, is Major Butler of the Continental army, and these others, some of his party."

"So, ho, more rebels! damn it, man," exclaimed the commandant, "why do you bring them to me? What can I do with them"—then dropping his voice into a tone of confidential conference, he added, "but follow the fashion and hang them? I have got some score of prisoners already—and have been wishing that they would cut some devilish caper, that I might have an excuse for stringing them up, to get clear of them. A major in the regular Continental line, sir?" he asked, addressing himself to Butler.

Butler bowed his head.

"I thought the cuffs your people got at Camden had driven everything like a daylight soldier out of the province. We have some skulking bush-fighters left—some jack-o'-lantern devils, that live in the swamps and feed on frogs and water-snakes—Marion and Sumpter, and a few of their kidney: but you, sir, are the first regular Continental officer I have met with. What brought you so far out of your latitude?"

"I was on my way to join one," replied Butler, "that but now you seemed to think in severe straits."

"Ha! to visit Clarke, eh? Well, sir, may I be bold to ask, do you know where that worshipful gentleman is to be found?"

"I am free to answer you," said Butler, "that his position, at this moment, is entirely unknown to me. On my journey I heard the report that he had been constrained to abandon Augusta."

"Yes, and in haste, let me tell you. And marches in this direction, Major Butler, as he needs must. I shall make his acquaintance: and inasmuch as you went to seek him, you may count it a lucky accident that brought you here—you will find him all the sooner by it."

"Doubtless, sir, Colonel Clarke will feel proud to see you," returned Butler.

"Well, M'Alpine," said Ferguson, "I have my hands full of business; for I certainly have the wildest crew of devil's babies that ever stole cattle, or fired a haystack. I am obliged to coax them into discipline by a somewhat free use of this mother's milk"—(pointing to the bottles)—"to which I now and then add a gentle castigation at the drum-head, and, when that doesn't serve, a dose of powder and lead, administered at ten paces from a few files of grenadiers. I have shot a brace of them, since you left me, only for impertinence to their officers! This waiting for Clarke plays the devil with us. I must be moving, and have some thought of crossing the mountains westward, and burning out the settlements. Faith! I would do it, just to keep my lads in spirits, if I thought Clarke would give me another week. How, now, Thady?—that buck should have been half roasted by this time. We shall never have dinner with your slow work. Look at that, M'Alpine, there is something to make your mouth water—an inch and a half of fat on the very ridge of the back. Give over your prisoners to the camp major—he will take care of them: and, hark you, captain," he added, beckoning his comrade aside, "if you choose, as you seem to think well of this Major Butler, you may bring him in to dinner presently, with my compliments. Now, away—I must to business."

The prisoners were conducted to a separate building, where they were put in charge of an officer, who performed the duties of provost-marshal over some twenty or more Whigs that had been captured in the late excursions of the Tories, and brought into camp for safe keeping. The place of their confinement was narrow and uncomfortable, and Butler was soon made aware that in the exchange of his prison at Musgrove's mill for his present one, he had made an unprofitable venture. His condition with Ferguson, however, was alleviated by the constantly-exciting hope that the events which were immediately in prospect might, by the chances of war, redound to his advantage.

In this situation Butler remained for several days. For although Ferguson found it necessary to keep in almost constant motion, with a view to hover about the supposed direction of Clarke's retreat, and, conformably to this purpose, to advance into South Carolina, and again to fall back towards his present position, yet he had established a guard at Gilbert-town which, during all these operations, remained stationary with the prisoners, apparently waiting some fit opportunity to march them off to Cornwallis's army, that was now making its way northwards. That opportunity did not present itself. The communications between this post and the commander-in-chief were, by a fatal error, neglected; and in a short time from the date of the present events, as will be seen in the sequel, a web was woven which was strong enough to ensnare and bind up the limbs of the giant who had, during the last five months, erected and maintained the Tory Ascendency in Carolina.

MILDRED TURNS HER STEPS HOMEWARDS.

I have seen a generous and brave boy defied to some enterprise of terror,—such as, peradventure, to clamber in the dark night, alone, up many a winding bout of stair-case to the garret,—and he has undertaken the achievement, although sore afraid of goblins, and gone forth upon his adventure with a lusty step and with a bold tardiness, whistling or singing on his way—his eyes and ears all the time fearfully open to all household sights and sounds, now magnified out of their natural proportions; and when he had reached the furthest term of his travel, I have known him to turn quickly about and come down three steps at a leap, feeling all the way as if some spectre tracked his flight and hung upon his rear. Calling up such a venture to my mind, I am enabled, by comparison with the speed and anxiety of the boy, to show my reader with what emotions Mildred, her mission being done, now turned herself upon her homeward route. The excitement occasioned by her knowledge of the critical circumstances of Butler, and the pain she had suffered in the belief that upon the courageous performance of her duty depended even his life, had nerved her resolution to the perilous and hardy exploit in which we have seen her. But now, when matters had taken such a suddenly auspicious turn, and she was assured of her lover's safety, not even the abrupt joy which poured in upon her heart was sufficient to stifle her sense of uneasiness at her present exposed condition, and she eagerly prepared to betake herself back to the Dove Cote.

The scenes around her had wrought upon her nerves; and, although she was singularly fortunate in the courtesy which she had experienced from all into whose hands she had fallen, yet the rude licentiousness of the camp, and the revolting acts of barbarity which were ever present to her observation, appalled and distressed her. Besides, she now saw the fixed purpose with which Cornwallis was preparing to march forward in his course of invasion, and thought with alarm upon the probable event of soon having the theatre of war transferred to the neighborhood of her native woods.

Robinson's advice seconded her own alacrity. It was to hasten, with all despatch, in advance of the invading army; and as this body was now about taking up its line of march, no time was to be lost. Accordingly, but a brief delay took place after Cornwallis and his suite had departed from head-quarters, before our party set forward, accompanied by the small guard of cavalry that had been ordered to attend them. The troops were just wheeling into column on the ground where they had been lately reviewed, when Mildred and her attendants galloped past, and took the high road leading to the town of Charlotte, in North Carolina, towards which it was understood the invaders were about to direct their journey. In less than an hour afterwards they had left behind them the line of baggage wagons and the small military parties of the vanguard, and found themselves rapidly hastening towards a district occupied by the friends of independence.

The sergeant had now occasion for his utmost circumspection. In pursuing the destined route of the invasion, he had reason to expect an early encounter with some of the many corps of observation, which the opposite party were certain to put upon the duty of reporting the approach of their enemy. And so it fell out; for, towards the middle of the day, whilst the travellers were quietly plying their journey through the forest, the discharge of a pistol announced the presence of a hostile body of men; and almost instantly afterwards a small handful of Whig cavalry were seen hovering upon the road, at the distance of some three or four hundred paces in front. Robinson no sooner recognised this squad than he took the lady's handkerchief and hoisted it on a rod, as a flag of truce, and, at the same moment, directed the escort to retreat, apprising them that their presence was no longer necessary, as he had now an opportunity to deliver his charge into the hands of friends. The British horsemen, accordingly, took their leave; and, in the next moment, Horse Shoe surrendered to a patrole, who announced themselves to be a part of the command of Colonel Davie, of the North Carolina militia—a gallant partisan, then well known to fame, and whose after exploits fill up no inconsiderable page of American history.

It does not enter into the purpose of my story to detain my reader with a minute account of Mildred's homeward journey; but having now transferred her to the protection of a friendly banner, it will suffice to say that she arrived the same evening at Charlotte, where she spent the night in the midst of the active, warlike preparations which were in progress to receive Cornwallis.

It was towards sunset on the following day, when, wearied with the toil of a long and rapid journey, our travellers arrived in front of a retired farm-house, on the road leading through the upper districts of North Carolina. The cultivation around this dwelling showed both good husbandry and a good soil, and there was an appearance of comfort and repose which was an unusual sight in a country so much alarmed and ravaged by war, as that over which the wayfarers had lately journeyed. The house stood some short distance apart from the road, and in the porch was seated an elderly man of a respectable appearance, to whom a young girl was, at this moment, administering a draught of water from a small, hooped, wooden vessel which she held in her hand.

"I am parched with thirst," said Mildred, "pray get me some of that water."

"The place looks so well, ma'am," replied the sergeant, "that I think we could not do better than make a stop here for the night. Good day, neighbor! What is the name of the river I see across yon field, and where mought we be, just at this time?"

"It is the Yadkin," answered the man, "and this county, I believe, is Iredell—though I speak only by guess, for I am but a stranger in these parts."

"The lady would be obligated," said Horse Shoe, "for a drop of that water; and, if it was agreeable, she mought likewise be pleased to put up here for the night."

"The people of the house are kind and worthy," replied the old man, "and not likely to refuse a favor. Mary, take a cup to the lady."

The girl obeyed; and, coming up to the party with the vessel in her hand, she suddenly started as her eye fell upon Horse Shoe, and her pale and wan countenance was seen bathed in tears.

"Mr. Robinson!" she exclaimed, with a faltering voice; "you don't know me?—me, Mary Musgrove. Father, it is our friend, Horse Shoe Robinson!" Then placing the vessel upon the ground, she ran to the sergeant's side, as he sat upon his horse, and leaning her head against his saddle, she wept bitterly, sobbing out: "It is me, Mary Musgrove. John—our John—that you loved—he is dead—he is dead!"

In an instant Allen Musgrove was at the gate, where he greeted the sergeant with the affection of an old friend.

This recognition of the miller and his daughter at once confirmed the sergeant in his determination to end his day's journey at this spot. In a few moments Mildred and her companions were introduced into the farm-house, where they were heartily welcomed by the in-dwellers, consisting of a sturdy, cheerful tiller of the soil, and a motherly dame, whose brood of children around her showed her to be the mistress of the family.

The scene that ensued after the party were seated in the house was, for some time, painfully affecting. Poor Mary, overcome by the associations called up to her mind at the sight of the sergeant, took a seat near him, and silently gazed in his face, visibly laboring under a strong desire to express her feelings in words, but at the same time stricken mute by the intensity of her emotions.

After a long suspense, which was broken only by her sobs, she was enabled to utter a few disjointed sentences, in which she recalled to the sergeant the friendship that had existed between him and John Ramsay; and there was something peculiarly touching in the melancholy tone with which, in accordance with the habits inculcated by her religious education, and most probably in the words of her father's frequent admonitions, she attributed the calamity that had befallen her to the kindly chastisement of heaven, to endure which she devoutly, and with a sigh that showed the bitterness of her suffering, prayed for patience and submission. Allen Musgrove, at this juncture, interposed with some topics of consolation suitable to the complexion of the maiden's mind, and soon succeeded in drying up her tears, and restoring her, at least, to the possession of a tranquil and apparently a resigned spirit.

When this was done, he gave a narrative of the events relating to the escape of Butler and his subsequent recapture at the funeral of John Ramsay, to which, it may be imagined, Mildred and Henry listened with the most absorbed attention.

This tale of the recapture of Butler, so unexpected, and communicated at a moment when Mildred's heart beat high with the joyful hopes of speedily seeing her lover again in safety, now struck upon her ear with the alarm that seizes upon a voyager who, fearing no hidden reef or unknown shoal, hears the keel of his ship in mid ocean crash against a solid rock. It seemed at once to break down the illusion which she had cherished with such fond affection. For the remainder of the evening the intercourse of the party was anxious and thoughtful, and betrayed the unhappy impression which the intelligence just communicated had made upon the feelings of Mildred and her brother. Musgrove, after the travellers had been refreshed by food, and invigorated by the kind and hearty hospitality of the good man under whose roof they were sheltered, proceeded to give the sergeant a history of what had lately befallen in the neighborhood of the Ennoree. Some days after the escape of Butler, the miller's own family had drawn upon themselves the odium of the ruling authority. His mill and his habitation had been reduced to ashes by a party of Tories who had made an incursion into this district, with no other view than to wreak their vengeance against suspected persons. In the same inroad, the family of David Ramsay had once more been assailed, and all that was spared from the first conflagration was destroyed in the second. Many other houses through this region had met the same fate. The expedition had been conducted by Wemyss, who, it is said, carried in his pocket a list of dwellings to which the torch was to be applied, and who, on accomplishing each item of his diabolical mission—so still runs the tradition—would note the consummated work by striking out the memorandum from his tablets.

In this general ravage, the desolated families fled like hunted game through the woods, and betook themselves with a disordered haste to the more friendly provinces northward. Musgrove had sent his wife and younger children, almost immediately after the assault upon him, to the care of a relative in Virginia, whither they had been conducted some days previous to the date of his present meeting with Horse Shoe by Christopher Shaw; whilst he and Mary had remained behind, for a short space, to render assistance to the family of Ramsay, to whom they felt themselves affined almost as closely as if the expected alliance by marriage had taken place. When this duty was discharged, and Ramsay's family were provided with a place of refuge, Musgrove had set forward with his daughter to rejoin his wife and children in their new asylum. It was upon this journey that they had now been accidentally overtaken by our travellers.

The disclosure of the motives of Mildred's expedition to Mary and her father, as may be supposed, warmed up their feelings to a most affectionate sympathy in her troubles. They had often heard of Butler's attachment to a lady in Virginia, and were aware of her name, from the incidents that had occurred at the trial of Butler, and from the nature of Horse Shoe's mission to Virginia. Mary had nursed in her mind a fanciful and zealous interest in behalf of the lady who was supposed to have engrossed Butler's affections, from the earnest devotion which she had witnessed in his demeanor, first at Adair's, and often afterwards during his captivity. The effect of this preconceived favor now showed itself in her behavior to Mildred; and, in the gentle play which it gave to her kindly sentiments, a most happy change was wrought in her present feelings. She at once warmly and fervently attached herself to Mildred, and won her way into our lady's esteem by the most amiable assiduities. In these offices of love, the poignancy of her own grief began to give way to the natural sweetness of her temper, and they were observed, in the same degree, to enliven Mildred's feelings. Mary hung fondly about her new acquaintance, proffered her most minute attentions of comfort, spoke often of the generous qualities of Butler, and breathed many a sincere prayer for future happiness to him and those he loved.

As Mildred pondered over the new aspect which the tidings of this evening had given to her condition, her inclination and duty both prompted her to the resolve to make an effort to join Butler, instead of returning to the Dove Cote. She was apprised by Musgrove that the prisoner had been conducted to Ferguson, who, she was told, was at this time stationed in the neighborhood of Gilbert-town, not a hundred miles from her present position. She had ventured far in his services, and she could not, now that she had so nearly approached him, consent to abandon the effort of reaching the spot of his captivity. She thought with alarm over the dangers that might await him in consequence of his previous escape, and this alarm was increased by her remembrance of the tone of bitter resentment with which Cornwallis, in a moment of unguarded feeling, had referred to the event in her late conference with that officer. Above all, it was her duty—such was her view of the matter—and whatever might befal, he was the lord of her heart, and all dangers and difficulties, now as heretofore, should be cast aside in her determination to administer to his safety or comfort. Her decision was made, and she so announced it to her companions.

Neither the sergeant nor Henry made the opposition to this resolve that might have been expected. To Horse Shoe it was a matter of indifference upon what service he might be ordered; his thoughts ran in no other current than to obey the order, and make the most thrifty and careful provision for its safe execution. To Henry that was always a pleasant suggestion which was calculated to bring him more into the field of adventure. Allen Musgrove, on this occasion, added an opinion which rather favored the enterprise.

"It was not much out of the way," he said, "to go as far as Burk Court House, where, at least, the lady was likely to learn something of the plans of Ferguson, and she might either wait there, or take such direction afterwards as her friends should advise."

Mary begged that whatever route Mildred thought proper to pursue, she might be allowed to accompany her; and this request was so much to the liking of Mildred, that she earnestly implored the miller's consent to the plan. With some reluctance Musgrove acquiesced; and, feeling thus doubly interested in the fortunes of the party, he finally determined himself to attend them in their present enterprise.

These matters being settled, the wearied travellers parted for the night, happy, at least, in having found the weight of their personal afflictions relieved by the cheerfulness with which the burden was divided.

SIGNS OF A GATHERING STORM.—MUSTER OF THE BACKWOODSMEN.

In gathering up the ends of our story, as we draw towards a conclusion, we are forced, after the fashion of a stirring drama, to a frequent change of scene. Accordingly, leaving Mildred and her friends to pursue their own way until we shall find leisure to look after their footsteps, we must introduce our reader to some new acquaintances, whose motions, it will be seen, are destined greatly to influence the interests of this history.

The time was about the second of October, when a considerable body of troops were seen marching through that district which is situated between the Allegany mountain and the head waters of Catawba, in North Carolina. This force might have numbered perhaps something over one thousand men. Its organization and general aspect were sufficiently striking to entitle it to a particular description. It consisted almost entirely of cavalry; and a spectator might have seen in the rude, weather-beaten faces, and muscular forms of the soldiers, as well as in the simplicity of their equipments, a hastily-levied band of mountaineers, whose ordinary pursuits had been familiar with the arduous toils of Indian warfare and the active labors of the chase. They were, almost without exception, arrayed in the hunting shirt—a dress so dear to the recollections of the revolution, and which, it is much to be regretted, the foppery of modern times has been allowed to displace. Their weapons in but few instances were other than the long rifle and its accompanying hunting-knife.

It was to be observed that this little army consisted of various corps, which were in general designated either by the color of the hunting-shirt, or by that of the fringe with which this cheap and simple uniform was somewhat ostentatiously garnished. Some few were clad in the plain, homespun working-dress of the time; and here and there, an officer might be recognised in the blue and buff cloth of the regular Continental army. The buck-tail, also, was an almost indispensable ornament of the cap, or usual round hat of the soldiers; and where this was wanting, its place was not unfrequently supplied by sprigs of green pine or holly, or other specimens of the common foliage of the country.

The men were mounted on lean, shaggy, and travel-worn horses of every variety of size, shape, and color; and their baggage consisted of nothing more cumbersome than a light wallet attached to the rear of their saddles, or of a meagrely supplied pair of saddle-bags. The small party on foot were in no wise to be distinguished from the mounted men, except in the absence of horses, and in the mode of carrying their baggage, which was contained in knapsacks of deer-skin strapped to their shoulders. These moved over the ground with, perhaps, even more facility than the cavalry, and appeared in no degree to regret the toil of the march, which was so far the lighter to them, as they were exempt from the solicitude which their companions suffered of providing forage for their beasts.

The officers in command of this party were young men, in whose general demeanor and bearing was to be seen that bold, enterprising, and hardy character, which at that period, even more than at present, distinguished the frontier population. The frequent expeditions against the savages, which the times had rendered familiar to them, as well as the service of the common war, in which they had all partaken, had impressed upon their exteriors the rugged lines of thoughtful soldiership.

The troops now associated, consisted of distinct bodies of volunteers, who had each assembled under their own leaders, without the requisition of the government, entirely independent of each other, and more resembling the promiscuous meeting of hunters than a regularly-organized military corps.

They had convened, about a week before the period at which I have presented them to my reader, at Wattauga, on the border of Tennessee, in pursuance of an invitation from Shelby, who was now one of the principal officers in command. He had himself embodied a force of between two and three hundred men, in his own district of the mountains; and Colonel Campbell, now also present, had repaired to the rendezvous with four hundred soldiers from the adjoining county in Virginia. These two had soon afterwards formed a junction with Colonels M'Dowell and Sevier, of North Carolina, who had thus augmented the joint force to the number which I have already mentioned as constituting the whole array. They had marched slowly and wearily from the mountains into the district of country which lay between the forks of Catawba, somewhere near to the present village of Morgantown—and might now be said to be rather hovering in the neighborhood of Ferguson, then advancing directly towards him. The force of the British partisan was, as yet, too formidable for the attack of these allies, and he was still in a position to make his way in safety to the main army under Cornwallis—at this time stationed at Charlotte, some seventy or eighty miles distant. It was both to gain increase of force, from certain auxiliaries who were yet expected to join them, as also, without exciting suspicion of their purpose, to attain a position from which Ferguson might more certainly be cut off from Cornwallis, that the mountain leaders lingered with such wily delay upon their march.

Ferguson was all intent upon Clarke—little suspecting the power which could summon up, with such incredible alacrity, an army from the woods fit to dispute his passage through any path of the country; and, profiting by this confidence of the enemy, Shelby and his associates were preparing, by secret movements, to put themselves in readiness to spring upon their quarry at the most auspicious moment. In accordance with this plan, Colonel Williams, who yet preserved his encampment on the Fair Forest, was on the alert to act against the British leader, who still marched further south—at every step lengthening the distance between himself and his commander-in-chief, and so far favoring the views of his enemy. Shelby and his comrades only tarried until their numbers should be complete, designing as speedily as possible after that to form a junction with Williams, and at once enter upon an open and hot pursuit of their adversary.

Their uncertainty in regard to the present condition of Clarke added greatly to their desire to strike, as early as possible, their meditated blow. This officer had, a few weeks before, commenced his retreat from Augusta through Ninety-Six, with some five hundred men, closely followed by Brown and Cruger, and threatened by the Indian tribes who inhabited the wilderness through which he journeyed. The perils and hardships of this retreat arose not only from the necessity Clarke was under to plunge into the inhospitable and almost unexplored wilderness of the Allegany, by a path which would effectually baffle his pursuers as well as escape the toils of Ferguson; but they were painfully enhanced by the incumbrance of a troop of women and children, who, having already felt the vengeance of the savages, and fearing its further cruelties, and the scarcely less ruthless hatred of the Tories, preferred to tempt the rigors of the mountain rather than remain in their own dwellings. It is said that these terrified and helpless fugitives amounted to somewhat above three hundred individuals.

There were no incidents of the war of independence that more strikingly illustrated the heroism which grappled with the difficulties of that struggle at its gloomiest moment, than the patient and persevering gallantry of these brave wanderers and their confederates, whom we have seen lately assembled in arms. History has not yet conferred upon Clarke and his companions their merited tribute of renown. Some future chronicler will find in their exploits a captivating theme for his pen, when he tells the tale of their constancy, even in the midst of the nation's despair; until fortune, at length successfully wooed, rewarded their vigilance, bravery, and skill, by enabling them to subdue and destroy the Tory Ascendency in the south.

The enemy, swarming in all the strong places, elate with recent victory, well provided with the muniments of war, high in hope and proud of heart, hunted these scattered, destitute, and slender bands, with a keenness of scent, swiftness of foot, and exasperation of temper, that can only be compared to the avidity of the bloodhound. This eagerness of pursuit was, for the present, directed against Clarke; and it is one of the most fortunate circumstances that belong to the events I have been relating, that this purpose of waylaying our gallant partisan so completely absorbed the attention of Ferguson, as to cause him to neglect the most ordinary precautions for securing himself against the reverses of the war.

In this state of things, Shelby and his compatriots waited for the moment when they might direct their march immediately to the attack of the British soldier—their anxiety stimulated to a painful acuteness by the apprehension that Clarke might be overpowered by his enemies, or that Cornwallis might receive information of the gathering bands, and make a timely movement to reinforce or protect his outpost. It was in this moment of doubt and concern that we have chosen to present them in the course of our narrative.

The troops had halted about the middle of the day, to take some refreshment. The ground they had chosen for this purpose was a narrow valley or glen, encompassed by steep hills, between which a transparent rivulet wound its way over a rough, stony bed. The margin of the stream was clothed with grass of the liveliest verdure, and a natural grove of huge forest trees covered the whole level space of the valley. The season was the most pleasant of the year, being at that period when, in the southern highlands, the hoar frost is first seen to sparkle on the spray at early dawn. The noon-tide sun, though not oppressively warm, was still sufficiently fervid to render the shade of the grove, and the cool mountain brook in the deep ravine, no unpleasant objects to wearied travellers. Here the whole of our little army were scattered through the wood; some intent upon refreshing their steeds in the running water, many seated beneath the trees discussing their own slender means, and not a few carelessly and idly loitering about the grounds in the enjoyment of the mere exemption from the constraint of discipline. The march of the troops on this day had not exceeded ten or twelve miles:—they might have been said to creep through the woods. Still, however, they had been in motion ever since the dawn of day; and as they measured the ground with their slow but ceaseless footfall, there was a silent disquiet and an eagerness of expectation, that were scarcely less fatiguing than more rapid and laborious operations.

"Cleveland will certainly join us?" said Shelby, as, in the vacancy of the hour, he had fallen into company with his brother officers, who were now assembled on the margin of the brook. "It is time he were here. I am sick of this slow work. If we do not make our leap within the next two or three days, the game is lost."

"Keep your temper, Isaac," replied Campbell, who, being somewhat older than his comrade, assumed the freedom indicated in this reply, and now laughed as he admonished the fretful soldier. "Keep your temper! Williams is below, and on the look-out; and most usefully employed in enticing Ferguson as far out of reach of my lord Buzzard, there at Charlotte, as we could wish him. Ben Cleveland will be with us all in good time: take my word for that. You forget that he had to muster his lads from Wilkes and Surry both."

"And Brandon and Lacy are yet to join us," said M'Dowell.

"Damn it, they should be here, man!" interrupted Shelby again; "I hate this creaking of my boots upon the soft grass, as if we had come to fish for gudgeons. I am for greasing our horses' heels and putting them to service."

"You were always a hot-headed devil," interrupted Campbell again, "and have wasted more shoe-leather than discretion in this world, by at least ten to one. You are huntsman enough to know, Isaac, that it is sometimes well to steal round the game to get the wind of them. Your headlong haste would only do us harm."

"You!" rejoined Shelby, with a laugh, excited by Campbell's face of good humor. "Verily, you are a pattern of sobriety and moderation yourself, to be preaching caution to us youngsters! All wisdom, forecast, and discretion, I suppose, have taken up their quarters in your wiry-haired noddle! How in the devil it came to pass, William, that yonder green and grey shirts should have trusted themselves with such a piece of prudence at their head, is more than I can guess."

At this moment a soldier pressed forward into the circle of officers:

"A letter for Colonel Shelby," he said, "brought by a trooper from Cleveland."

"Ah, ha! This looks well," exclaimed Shelby, as he ran his eyes over the lines. "Cleveland is but ten miles behind, and desires us to wait his coming."

"With how many men?" asked one of the party.

"The rogue has forgotten to tell. I'll warrant, with all he could find."

"With a good party, no doubt," interrupted Sevier. "I know the Whigs of Wilkes and Surry will not be backward."

"From this despatch, gentlemen, I suppose we shall rest here for the night—what say you?" was the interrogatory proposed to the group by Shelby.

The proposition was agreed to, and the several officers repaired to their commands. As soon as this order was communicated to the troops, everything assumed the bustle incident to the preparation of a temporary camp. Fires were kindled, the horses tethered, guards detailed, and shelters erected of green wood cut from the surrounding forest. In addition to this, a few cattle had been slaughtered from a small herd that had been driven in the rear of the march; and long before night came on, the scene presented a tolerably comfortable bivouac of light-hearted, laughing woodsmen, whose familiar habits at home had seasoned them to this forest-life, and gave to their present enterprise something of the zest of a pastime.

In the first intervals of leisure, parties were seen setting out into the neighboring hills in pursuit of game; and when the hour of the evening meal arrived, good store of fat bucks and wild turkeys were not wanting to flavor a repast, to which a sauce better than the wit of man ever invented, was brought by every lusty feeder of the camp.

At sundown, a long line of woodland cavalry, in all respects armed and equipped in the same fashion with those who already occupied the valley, were seen winding down the rugged road which led from the high grounds to the camp. At the first intimation of the approach of this body, the troops below were ordered out on parade, and the new-comers were received with all the military demonstrations of respect and joy usual at the meeting of friendly bodies of soldiers. Some dozen horns of the harshest tones, and with the most ear-piercing discord, kept up an incessant braying, until the alarmed echoes were startled from a thousand points amongst the hills. In spite of the commands of officers, straggling shots of salutation were fired, and loud greetings of individual acquaintances were exchanged from either ranks, as the approaching body filed across the whole front of the drawn-up line. When this ceremony was over, Colonel Cleveland rode up to the little group of officers who awaited his report, and, after a long and hearty welcome, announced his command to consist of three hundred and fifty stout hearts, ready and tried friends to the issues of the war.

The force of the confederates, by this accession, now amounted to about fourteen hundred men. It became necessary, at this juncture, to give to these separate bands a more compact character, and with that view it was indispensable that the command of the whole should be committed to one of the present leaders. In the difficulty and delicacy of selecting an individual for this duty, the common opinion inclined to the propriety of submitting the appointment to General Gates. A messenger was accordingly despatched on that night, to repair to the American head-quarters at Hillsborough, to present this subject to the attention of the General. In the meantime, Shelby, whose claim, perhaps, to the honor of leading the expedition was most worthy of consideration, with that patriotic and noble postponement of self which occurs so frequently in the history of the men of the Revolution, himself suggested the expediency of conferring the command upon his friend Campbell, until the pleasure of Gates should be known. The suggestion was heartily adopted, and Colonel William Campbell was accordingly, from this moment, the chosen leader of our gallant and efficient little army.

On the following day the troops were in motion at an early hour—designing to advance, with a steady pace, towards Gilbert-town, and thence on the track of the enemy across the border into South Carolina. In the course of the forenoon, the vanguard were met by a small body of horsemen, whose travel-worn plight and haggard aspects showed that they had lately been engaged in severe service. They were now in quest of the very party whom they had thus fortunately encountered upon the march; and it was with a lively demonstration of joy that they now rode with the officer of the guard into the presence of Campbell and his staff. Their report announced them to be Major Chandler and Captain Johnson, of Clarke's party, who, with thirty followers, had been despatched from the western side of the Allegany, to announce to the confederated troops the complete success of that officer's endeavor to reach the settlements on the Nolachuckie and Wattauga rivers. Their tidings were immediately communicated to the army; and the deep and earnest interest which officers and men took in this agreeable intelligence, was evinced in a spontaneous acclamation and cheering from one extremity of the column to the other. The messengers proceeded to narrate the particulars of their late hazardous expedition, and fully confirmed the most painful anticipations which the listeners had previously entertained of the difficulties, toils, and sufferings incident to the enterprise. Clarke's soldiers, they further reported, were too much disabled to be in condition immediately to recross the mountain and unite in the present movement against Ferguson; but that, as soon as they should find themselves recruited by needful rest, they would lose no time in repairing to the scene of action.

Towards sunset of the succeeding day, our sturdy adventurers entered Gilbert-town. This post had been abandoned by Ferguson, and was now in the occupation of the two staunch Whig leaders, Brandon and Lacy, at the head of about three hundred men, who had repaired thither from the adjacent mountains of Rutherford, to await the arrival of Campbell and his friends. It was manifest that affairs were rapidly tending towards a crisis. Ferguson had hitherto appeared indifferent to the dangers that threatened him and his movements indicated either a fatal contempt for his adversary, or an ignorance of the extent of his embarrassments—each equally discreditable to the high renown which has been attributed to him for careful and bold soldiership.

MILDRED MEETS AN AGREEABLE ADVENTURE.

We left Mildred securely lodged with her new and kind-hearted friends, under the hospitable roof of the farmer, hard by the Yadkin. The reader has, doubtless, found reason in the course of this narrative to marvel much that a lady so delicately nurtured should, with so stout a spirit and with such singular devotion, have tempted so many dangers, and exposed herself to such unwonted hardships, for the sake of the man she loved. Perhaps, I might be able to clear up this matter, by referring to the extraordinary conjuncture of circumstances that surrounded her. It was no secret that she fervently, and with her whole heart,—yea even with a fanatical worship,—loved the man she sought. Her affection had been nursed in solitude, and, like a central fire, glowed with a fervid heat, unobserved at first, silent and steady: and by degrees her enthusiasm spread its coloring over the passion, and raised it into a fanciful but solemn self-dedication. This warmth of feeling might still have been witnessed only within her family precinct, had it not been that, at a most critical moment, when her father's absence from the Dove Cote left her without other resource than her own unaided counsel, she was made acquainted that her lover's life was in imminent peril, and that a word from her might perhaps avert his doom. We have seen with what anxious alacrity she set forth in that emergency upon her pilgrimage of duty; and how, as she became familiar with hardship and danger, her constancy and resolution still took a higher tone, growing more vigorous even with the impediments that lay across her path. This may seem strange to our peace-bred dames,—and little congruous with that feminine reserve and shrinkingness which we are wont to praise: but war, distress, and disaster work miracles in the female bosom, and render that virtuous and seemly, which ease and safety might repel. Nature is a wise and cunning charmer, and, in affliction, makes that forwardness not unlovely, which in tranquil and happy times she would visit with her censure. If these considerations do not suffice to explain the present movements of my heroine, I must beg my reader to have patience to the end, when, peradventure, he will find a still better reason.

When morning came, Mildred was up with the first blush of light. Her thoughts had dwelt with a busy restlessness upon the late intelligence, and she had slept only in short and disturbed intervals. She was impatient to be again upon the road.

Accordingly, as soon as the preparations for their journey could be made, our party, now increased by the addition of Musgrove and his daughter, set forward on their travel towards Burk Court House.

This journey was protracted through several days. The disturbed state of the country, produced by the active hostilities which were now renewed, made it prudent for our wayfarers frequently to halt amongst the friendly inhabitants of the region through which they travelled, in order to obtain information, or wait for the passage of troops whose presence might have caused embarrassment.

The considerate kindness of Allen Musgrove, and the unwearied attentions of Mary, who, softened by her own griefs, evinced a more touching sympathy for the sufferings of Mildred, every day increased the friendship which their present companionship had engendered, and greatly beguiled the road of its tediousness and discomfort.

The journey, however, was not without its difficulties, nor altogether destitute of occurrences of interest to this history. The upper districts of North Carolina present to the eye a very beautiful country, diversified by mountain and valley, and gifted in general with a rich soil. Considerable portions of this region were consequently occupied and put into cultivation at an early period of the history of the province; and, at the era of the revolution, were noted as the most desirable positions for the support of the southern armies. This circumstance had drawn the war to that quarter, and had induced a frequent struggle to retain a footing there, by each party who came into possession of it. Such a state of things had now, as we have before remarked, embarrassed the progress of our friends, and had even compelled them to diverge largely from the direct route of their journey.

It happened, a few days after leaving the Yadkin, that the hour of sunset found our little troop pursuing a road through the deep and gloomy forest, which, for several miles past, had been unrelieved by any appearance of human habitation. Neither Horse Shoe nor Allen Musgrove possessed any acquaintance with the region, beyond the knowledge that they were upon what was called the upper or mountain road that extended from Virginia entirely through this section of North Carolina; and that they could not be much more than fifteen or twenty miles north of Burk Court House. Where they should rest during the night that was now at hand, was a matter that depended entirely upon chance; and stimulated by the hope of encountering some woodland cabin, they persevered in riding forward, even when the fading twilight had so obscured their path as to make it a matter of some circumspection to pick their way. Thus the night stole upon them almost unawares.

There is nothing so melancholy as the deep and lonely forest at night; and why it should be so I will not stop to inquire, but that melancholy, it seems to me, is enhanced by the chilliness of the autumnal evening. The imagination peoples the impenetrable depths of the wood with spectres, which the gibbering and shrill reptiles that inhabit these recesses seem to invest with a voice; the earth beneath the feet, carpeted with "the raven down of darkness," has an indefinite surface that causes the traveller to think of pitfalls and sudden banks, and fearful quagmires; and the grey light of the glow-worm, or the cold gleam of the rotten timber, shine up through the gloom, like some witch-taper from a haunted ground. Then, high above the head, the sombre forms of the trees nod in the night-wind, and the stars,—ineffectual to guide us on our way—are seen only in short and rapid glimpses through the foliage; all these things affect the mind with sadness, but the chattering of the teeth and the cold creep of the blood, rendered sluggish by a frosty atmosphere, make it still more sad.

Mildred and Mary Musgrove experienced a full share of these imaginings, as they now rode in the dark, side by side; and, peradventure, an occasional expression of impatience might have been heard, in whispers, between them. By degrees this feeling extended to Henry, and, in due course of time, seemed also to have reached the sergeant and the miller; for these two, as if suddenly struck with the necessity of making some provision for the night, now came to a halt, with a view to inquire into the comfort of the weaker members of the troop, and to deliberate on what was best to be done. To make a fire, erect a tent, and resort to the contents of their havresacks for supper, were the only expedients which their situation afforded; and as these arrangements were but the customary incidents of travel, in the times to which we refer, they were now resolved upon with but little sense of inconvenience or hardship. It was proper, however, that the party should encamp in some position where they might have water, and, with that object, they continued to move forward until they should find themselves in the neighborhood of a running stream—an event that, from the nature of the country, was soon likely to occur.

"There can be no moon to-night," said the sergeant, as they rode along in quest of their lodging-place, "yet yonder light would look as if she was rising. No, it can't be, for it is westward, as I judge, Allen."

"It is westward," replied Musgrove, looking towards a faint light which brought the profile of the tree-tops into relief against the horizon. "There must be fire in the woods."

The party rode on, all eyes being directed to the phenomenon pointed out by Horse Shoe. The light grew broader, and flung a lurid beam towards the zenith; and, as the travellers still came nearer, the radiance increased, and illuminated the summit of a hill, which, it was now apparent, lay between them and the light.

"We must rest here for a while," said the sergeant, reining up his horse in a dark and narrow ravine; "the fire is just across this hill in front. It would be wise to reconnoitre a little; there may be travellers camping on the t'other side, or troops for aught we know; or it may be an old fire left by the last persons who passed. You, Allen Musgrove, stay here with the women, and I will ride forward to look into the matter."

Henry accompanied the sergeant, and they both galloped up the hill. When they came to the top, a rich and strange prospect broke upon their sight. Some three or four hundred yards in advance, at the foot of the long slope of the hill, a huge volume of flame was discovered enveloping the entire trunk of a tall pine, and blazing forth with sudden flashes amongst the withered foliage. The radiance cast around from this gigantic torch penetrated the neighboring forest, and lit up the trees with a lustre more dazzling than that of day; whilst the strong shades brought into such immediate proximity with the sharp, red light, as it glanced upon every upright stem or trunk, gave a new and grotesque outline to the familiar objects of the wood. The glare fell upon the sward of the forest, and towards the rear upon a sheet of water, which showed the conflagration to have been kindled on the bank of some river. Not less conspicuous than the local features of the scene were the figures of a considerable party of soldiers passing to and fro in idle disarray through the region of the light, and a short distance from them a number of horses attached to the branches of the neighboring trees. Horse Shoe and his young companion stood gazing for some moments upon the spectacle, the sergeant in silent conjecture and perplexed thoughtfulness as to the character of the persons below, Henry intent only upon the novel and picturesque beauty of the view.

The light shone directly up the road, and fell upon the persons of our two friends, a circumstance to which the sergeant seemed to give no heed, until Henry pointed out to him a horseman, from the direction of the fire, who was now advancing towards them.

"Sergeant, turn back into the shade," cried Henry; "that man is coming after us."

"Keep your ground," replied Horse Shoe; "he has no ill-will to us. He wears the dress of an honest man and a good soldier."

"Who goes there?" called out the horseman, as he now came within speaking distance. "Stand and tell me who you are!"

"Friends to the hunting-shirt and buck-tail," replied Robinson.

"I am glad to hear you say so," rejoined the scout, as he advanced still nearer. "Where from, and in what direction do you travel?"

"That should be William Scoresby's voice of the Amherst Rangers," shouted Henry, with animation; "as I live, it is the very man!"

"Who have we here!" returned the horseman. "Henry Lindsay! our deputy corporal! Why, man, where did you spring from?" he added, in a tone of joyful surprise, as he offered Henry his hand.

"Ho, sister Mildred—Mr. Musgrove!" exclaimed Henry, calling out at the top of his voice to his friends, who were waiting behind for intelligence. "Come up—come up! Here's good luck!"

And with a continued vociferation, he galloped back until he met his sister, and conducted her to the top of the hill, whence, following the guidance of William Scoresby, the party descended to the bivouac of the Amherst Rangers.

Henry eagerly sought out Stephen Foster, and, having brought him into the presence of Mildred, received from him a narrative of the course of events which had led to this fortunate meeting.

The Rangers had marched from Virginia a few days after Mildred had left the Dove Cote. They had fallen in with Gates's shattered army at Hillsborough, where, after tarrying almost a fortnight, they were furnished an opportunity to take some active share in the operations of the day by the enterprise of Shelby against Ferguson, the knowledge of which had reached them at Gates's head-quarters, whither a messenger from Shelby had come to ask for aid. The Rangers had accordingly volunteered for this service, and, with the permission of the general, were now on their way towards Burk Court House, there hoping to receive intelligence that would enable them to join the allies.

They had for some miles been marching along the same road taken by our travellers, not more than two hours ahead of them; and having reached the Catawba near sundown, had determined to encamp there for the night. The soldiers, unaccustomed to exact discipline, had, in sport, set fire to a tall pine which some accident of the storm had killed, and produced the conflagration that had lighted Horse Shoe and his charge to the scene of the present meeting.

It may be imagined that this incident afforded great satisfaction to Mildred and her party, who were thus brought into connexion with a numerous body of friends, with whom they determined henceforth to pursue their journey. The first good result of this encounter was immediately experienced in the comfortable though rude accommodation which the prompt and united efforts of the Rangers supplied to Mildred and her friend, Mary Musgrove, in enabling them to pass a night of sound and healthful sleep.

On the following day, the Rangers and their new companions arrived at Burk Court House. They were here made acquainted with the fact that the mountain troops were at this time moving towards Gilbert-town. They accordingly, after a night's rest, resumed their march, and by a toilsome journey through a rugged mountain district, succeeded on the third evening in reaching the little village which had but a short time since been the head-quarters of Ferguson and the spot of Arthur Butler's captivity.

They were now in advance of Campbell and his mountaineers; and, in waiting for these troops, they were afforded leisure to recruit themselves from the effects of their late fatigues. Good quarters were obtained for Mildred and her companions. She required repose, and profited by the present opportunity to enjoy it.

The village at this moment was full of troops. Brandon and Lacy, with their followers, whom we have referred to in the last chapter, were already there, in daily expectation of the arrival of the confederates; and amongst these men, Sergeant Robinson and his companion, the miller, found the means of relieving the tediousness of delay, to say nothing of Henry, who had now become so decidedly martial in his inclinations, that the camp was to him a scene of never-fading interest.

In two days Campbell's army entered the village, after a march of which we have already given a sketch to our reader. It was a duty of early concern, on the part of Allen Musgrove and the sergeant, to apprise him of the presence of Mildred and her brother, and to communicate to him the singular purpose of her mission. The effect of this was a visit by Campbell, Shelby, and Williams, to the lady on the evening of their arrival. The two latter of these officers had already been personally active in the behalf of Arthur Butler, and all felt the liveliest interest in his fortunes. The singular relation in which Mildred seemed to stand to the captive officer and the extraordinary zeal which her present mission betrayed in his cause, drew forth a warm sympathy from the generous soldiers around her, and there was even a tincture of the romance of chivalry in the fervor with which, on the present visit, they pledged themselves to her service. With the delicacy that always belongs to honorable and brave hearts, they refrained from inquiry into the special inducements which could so earnestly enlist the lady in the service of their fellow-soldier, and sedulously strove to raise her spirits into a cheerful and happy tone by the hopes they were able to inspire.

FERGUSON ADVANCES SOUTH.—HE HAS REASON TO BECOME CIRCUMSPECT.—ARTHUR BUTLER FINDS HIMSELF RETREATING FROM HIS FRIENDS.

We return for a moment to look after Butler. As near as my information enables me to speak—for I wish to be accurate in dates—it was about the 23d of September when our hero arrived at Gilbert-town, and found himself committed to the custody of Ferguson. His situation, in many respects uncomfortable, was not altogether without circumstances to alleviate the rigor of captivity. Ferguson, though a rough soldier, and animated by a zealous partisanship in the royal cause which imbued his feelings with a deep hatred of the Whigs, was also a man of education, and of a disposition to respect the claims of a gentleman fully equal to himself in rank and consideration—even when these qualities were found in an enemy. His intercourse, of late, had been almost entirely confined to the wild spirits who inhabited the frontier, and who, impelled by untamed passions, were accustomed to plunge into every excess which the license of war enabled them to practise. He had, accordingly, adapted his behavior to the complexion of this population, and maintained his authority, both over his own recruits and such of the opposite party as had fallen into his hands, by a severe, and not unfrequently by even a cruel bearing. Following the example set him by Cornwallis himself, he had more than once executed summary vengeance upon the Whigs whom the chances of war had brought into his power; or, what was equally reprehensible, had allowed the Tory bands who had enlisted under his banner, to gratify their own thirst of blood in the most revolting barbarities. Towards Butler, however, he demeaned himself with more consideration—and sometimes even extended to him such little courtesies as might be indulged without risk to the principal purpose of his safe custody. A separate room was provided for the prisoner, and he was allowed the occasional services of Harry Winter and the other companions of his late misfortune. Still, the familiar scenes of suffering and death which Butler was constrained to witness amongst his compatriots, and the consciousness of his own inability to avert these calamities, greatly weighed upon his spirits. His persuasion, too, that Ferguson was now aiding, by what seemed to be a most effectual participation, in the plan for the capture of Clarke, and his belief that this blow would sadly afflict, if not altogether dishearten the friends of independence in the South, added to his private grief. He knew nothing of the mustering of the mountaineers, and saw no hope of extrication from the difficulties that threatened to overwhelm his cause.

Such was the condition of Butler during the first four or five days of his captivity at Gilbert-town. At the end of this period, circumstances occurred to raise in his bosom the most lively excitement. Suddenly, an order was issued for the immediate movement of the army southwards—and the prisoners were directed to accompany the march. It was apparent that information of importance had been received, and that some decisive event was at hand. When, in pursuance of this command, the troops were marshalled for their journey, and Butler was stationed in the column, along with all the other prisoners of the post, he was startled to observe the dragoon, James Curry, appear in the ranks, as one regularly attached to the corps. Butler had seen nor heard nothing of this man since he had parted from him at Blackstock's after the battle of Musgrove's mill; and his conviction, that, acting under the control of some higher authority, this individual had been the principal agent in his present misfortunes, gave him a painful anxiety in regard to the future. This anxiety was far from being diminished, when he now discovered that the same person, with a party of dragoons, was specially intrusted with his guardianship. Winter and the other troopers who had, until this moment, been allowed to keep him company, were now directed to take a station amongst the common prisoners, and Butler was furnished with his horse, and commanded to submit to the particular supervision of the dragoon. These arrangements being made, the march of Ferguson commenced.

The army moved cautiously towards the upper sections of the district of Ninety-Six. It was evident to Butler, from the frequent hints dropped in conversation by the royalist officers, that Ferguson supposed himself to be getting every moment nearer to Clarke. In this state of suspense and weariness the first day's march was concluded.

The second was like the first. Ferguson still moved south, slowly, but steadily. Every man that was met upon the road was questioned by the commanding officer, to ascertain whether there was any report of troops westward. "Had any crossed Saluda—or been heard of towards the mountains!"—was an invariable interrogatory.

None, that the person questioned knew of—was the common reply.

"Tush! the devil's in it, that we can hear nothing of the fellow!" exclaimed Ferguson, after the fifth or sixth wayfarer had been examined. "Clarke and his beggars are flesh and blood—they travel by land, and not through the air! Faith, I begin to think Cruger has saved us trouble, and has got his hand on the runaway's croup! James Curry."

The dragoon rode to the front and bowed.

"You left Fort Ninety-Six only on Wednesday?"

"I did."

"Where was Cruger then?"

"Marching towards Saluda, with Brown—following Clarke, as it was supposed—but on rather a cold scent as one of the couriers reported."

"Humph! I must get still nearer to the mountains," said Ferguson, as he clenched his teeth and seemed absorbed in thought.

In a short time after this, the column diverged from their former course by a road that led westward.

Thus ended the second day.

During the next two days, Ferguson had become manifestly more circumspect in his movement, and spent the greater portion of this interval upon a road which was said to extend from Ninety-Six, to the Allegany mountain. Here he remained, with the wariness of the tiger that prepares to spring upon his prey; and it was with a petulant temper that, after this anxious watch for forty-eight hours, he turned upon his heel and summoned his officers around him, and announced his determination to penetrate still further into the forest. Like a man perplexed and peevish with crosses, he soon changed his mind, and ordered a lieutenant of cavalry into his presence.

"Take six of your best appointed men," he said, "and send one half of them up this road towards the mountains—the other half southwards—and command them not to stop until they bring me some news of this night-hawk, Clarke. Let them be trusty men that you can depend upon. I will wait but twenty-four hours for them. Meantime," he added, turning to another officer present, "I will send a courier after Cruger, who shall find him if he is above ground."

The following day—which brings us to the third of October—a decisive change took place in the aspect of affairs. Before either of the scouts that had been lately despatched had returned, a countryman was brought into Ferguson's camp, who, being submitted to the usual minute examination, informed the questioners, that some thirty miles, in the direction of Fort Ninety-Six, he had met upon the road a large party of cavalry under the command of Colonel Williams—and that that officer had shown great anxiety to learn whether certain Whig troops had been seen near Gilbert-town. The informant added, that "Williams appeared to him to be strangely particular in his inquiries about Ferguson."

This intelligence seemed suddenly to awaken the British partisan from a dream. He was now one hundred miles south of Cornwallis; and, both east and west of the line of communication between them, it was apparent that hostile parties were assembling, with a view to some united action against him. It struck him now, for the first time, that an enemy might be thrown between the main army at Charlotte and his detachment, and thus cause him some embarrassment in his retreat—but it was still with the scorn of a presumptuous soldier that he recurred to the possibility of his being forced to fight his way.

"They are for turning the tables on me," he said, in a tone of derision, "and hope to pounce upon my back while I am taken up with this half-starved and long-legged fellow of the mountains, But I will show them who is master yet!"

In this temper he commenced his retreat, which was conducted slowly and obstinately; and it may be supposed that Butler, as he involuntarily followed the fortunes of his enemy, contemplated these movements with an anxious interest. The common report of the camp made him acquainted with the circumstances which had recommended the retreat, and he, therefore, watched the course of events in momentary expectation of some incident of great importance to himself.

At night Ferguson arrived at the Cowpens, just twenty-four hours in advance of his enemies. Whilst resting here he received intelligence of the stout array that had lately assembled at Gilbert-town, and which, he was now told, were in full pursuit of him. It was, at first, with an incredulous ear that he heard the report of the numbers of this suddenly-levied mountain-army. It seemed incredible that such a host could have been convened in such brief space and with such secret expedition; and even more unworthy of belief, that they could have been found in the wild and thinly-peopled regions of the Allegany. His doubt, however, yielded to his fear, and induced him to accelerate his pace.

His first care was to despatch, on that night, a courier to Cornwallis, to inform the general of his situation and ask for reinforcements. The letter which bore this request is still extant, and will show that even in the difficult juncture in which we have presented the writer of it, his boastful confidence had not abandoned him.