Madam Constantia

Haybittle dragged me out. From the porch I had a last view of the room. It showed me the table set for a feast, as I had left it, the old lady seated in her chair, Constantia on her feet, motionless, and gazing after us. Was it fancy or did I read something besides scorn and defiance in the girl’s eyes as they followed me; a shadow of fear, of appeal, of unutterable sorrow? I could not tell, and I had no time to dwell on the fancy. In a twinkling I was half-lifted and half pushed into the saddle of a troop-horse, the reins were thrust into my hand, the word was given, we moved off, the lighted windows faded as by magic. I had one glimpse of Mammy Jacks’ face amid a knot of staring negroes, a moment in which to press my purse—once before given and returned—into her hand, and we had left all behind, and were filing down the field road, amid the jingle of bits, the trampling of hoofs, the curt orders, all the familiar sounds of a troop of horse on the march.

I was among my own people, Paton’s cheery tones cried, “Hark Forrard!” in my ears, his kind hand had knotted my spare rein to his saddle. I was free, with friendly hands and voices round me, and a good horse between my knees. I should have been jubilant, I should have been happy, I should have been content at least; and Heaven knows I was wretched. It was not only that we were parted, but in the moment of parting the girl had judged me unfairly and hurt me wantonly, God only knew why! She had flung my thanks in my face and poured scorn on the affection of which—for she was a woman—she must at least have had some suspicion.

Sore with the pain of parting, I cried out passionately against her injustice: that injustice which, had I been indifferent to her, must still have been cruel. As it was I loved her; and at this our last interview, when I had been on the point of telling her, hurried and ill-timed as the moment was, something of what I felt, she had—oh, but it was cruel! For I might never—I might never see her again. This might be my last memory of her.

Yet at this moment her stricken face, her eyes, wells of grief and appeal, rose up before me, and gave me a strange bewildering certainty that I was loved. That I was loved! She might pour contempt on me, she might insult me; but the very violence of her language proved that there was something in her heart akin to that which swelled in mine. There was a bond between us. Miles might part us, but her eyes followed me, and her heart. For, here was the old mystery, the old puzzle. But of pain is born knowledge; and with her reproaches in my ears, and every pace of my horse carrying me farther from her—and never perhaps should I see her again!—I was sure at last that I had touched her heart.

Yes, out of my wretchedness I came suddenly to that knowledge. The eyes that had followed me had given the lie to the eyes that accused me. There was a mystery still, but—at this point Paton broke in upon my thoughts.

“Major, rouse yourself!” he cried in my ear. “Come, you’ve cheated the Jews and bilked the sponging house, and you’re as mum as one of these confounded trimmers who are neither on one side nor the other! Cheer up! Your heart will be whole as soon as your arm,

There I’ll say no more! But you’ve never asked how we came to find you? It was due to me, my lad, due to me! One of Ferguson’s men came in a week ago. He’d been hiding by day and walking by night. He heard from some loyalists—few enough in this part!—who sheltered him, that there was a wounded officer lying at a plantation not far from King’s Mountain. Greene had let us know you were alive—quite a courteous message it was—and putting two and two together with the help of a man who knew the district we fixed upon the place where we found you. But we did not say a word—far too much has crept out lately. I saw Tarleton and he consented to push ten miles up Fishing Creek, and to lie there thirty hours. He gave me Carroll and twenty men, but—in your ear, Major—Carroll’s too much given to burning and harrying for my taste, and I insisted on having Haybittle as well, who’s a good fellow, though not thorough-bred. And here we are!”

“How’s my lord?” I asked, forcing myself—it was no small effort—to take an interest in things.

“He has gone down the country for his health for ten days; he has left my other lord in charge.”

“Rawdon?”

“The same—and gallant old Webster to nurse him. Poor Ferguson’s death has set us back damnably. You left us at Charlotte—Gates was then at Hillsborough a long way north. Now we’re back at Winnsboro’ and Greene, in Gates’s place, and worth six of him, the devil take him! is at Charlotte. Sumter is out on the Broad, west of us, and Davy is across the Catawba east of us, and it was no small feat, Major, to slip in between them; they’re no fools at the business. And we’re not out of the trap yet. However, if you can ride through the night in spite of your bad arm, we shall be with Tarleton by daybreak. He’s lying, as I said, on Fishing Creek where he defeated Sumter a couple of months ago, but he has a party out watching the fords of the Catawba and Davy will be clever if he surprises him.”

“Where’s Marion?” I asked. My curiosity was natural.

“Who can say?” Paton answered, shrugging his shoulders. “Wemyss has been hunting him on Lynch’s Creek but to no purpose. Tarleton fancies that he’s back on the Pee Dee now and far to the right of us. I hope it is so. He’s a wily old fox, if you please.”

“Well, I must do my best,” I said, “but why have you let Davy and Sumter push in so close to us. That’s not Tarleton’s ordinary fashion.”

“Because they’ve more friends than we have,” Haybittle answered dryly. He had reined his horse back to us. “They don’t know when they’re beaten, these Southerners. Since we broke them up at Camden, hanged if things are not worse instead of better! Every hand is against us and some of the hands are in our dish. If we bring you off safe—which way is that fool of a guide turning?” He broke off to shout, “Look out, Carroll, where you are going!—it will be because we have kept a still tongue—a still tongue, Major, and told no one except Tarleton what we were doing!”

“Haybittle’s right,” Paton said. “Every movement we’ve made during the last month has been known to Sumter and Davy before we made it!”

“Aye, there’s a leak in the vessel somewhere,” Haybittle growled. “And it’s one that nothing but a halter will stop—six feet of hemp is what is needed. My lord is altogether too easy. He is hail-fellow-well-met with too many of these loyalists. There is one or other of them at his ear from morning till night, and not a plan is made but, in place of keeping it to himself, he must needs discover the lie of the land from some Jack Tory or other. My lord learns a little and the Tory learns more, and it is my opinion, he does not keep his knowledge to himself. It’s either that, or we have a Benedict Arnold on our side. And then, the sooner we catch their André and hang him up the better. Sergeant!” raising his voice, “pass on to Lieutenant Carroll to be careful that he takes the right fork at the next ford, and loses no time in crossing that strip of hill! The moon is shining on it.”

Trot, trot, trot, trot, through the mud, and up the slope! There is something in a night march across a hostile country, something in the caution which is necessary, in the low curt orders, and the excitement, which appeals strongly to the spirit of a soldier. In spite of the sudden halts and jolting starts which many a time put my fortitude to the test, in spite of sad thoughts—for surely to be misread by one we love is sharper than a serpent’s tooth!—I began to take pleasure in what was passing. Whether we wound quickly over the flank of a hill with moonlight gleaming on spur and bit, or tracked the course of a stream through a fern-clad ravine, where the mimosas and the yellow jessamine scented the spray, or plunged knee-deep through a quaking bog where the clamor of the frogs covered the splashing of the horses, I owned the charm. Regret began to give place to ambition. Since I was free I longed also to be hale and strong. I yearned to be in the field once more. After all, life held war as well as love; war that on such a night puts on its fairest face, its garb of Border story; love that on such a march seems sad and distant, bright and pure, as the star that gleams through the wrack of clouds above us.

The sun was an hour high when, a long line of crawling horses and weary men, we surmounted the last ridge and sighted far to the south of us the dark head of Rocky Mountain. Fishing Creek, the bridge, and the distant valley of the Catawba lay below us, and by and by we espied Tarleton’s pickets thrown far out as was his custom. I could endure the shaking no longer, and at this point I slid from the saddle, and trudged down the last mile on my feet. From the Camp below rose presently a sound of cheering voices! The men had counted our number as we descended the face of the hill, and they had made us one more than had started on the expedition the day before. Ten minutes later the old flag waved over our heads, I was safe as well as free. Tarleton, with the courteous insouciance which was natural to him and which could at need give place to an unsparing energy, came forward to welcome me to his camp.

“My lord Rawdon’s compliments, sir, and he will be glad if you will report yourself at his quarters.”

“Very good,” I said. “Does his lordship wish to see me at once?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“Very good, Tomkins. I will be with his lordship as soon as I can borrow a sword.”

The order reached me early on the morning after my arrival at Winnsboro’. But owing either to the fatigue of the ride—though I had rested six hours at Fishing Creek—or to other causes, I had already begun to experience, early as the hour was, the lassitude and ennui which await the man, who after startling adventures returns to a dull routine. The scarlet of the King’s uniform, peeping here and there through the trees that shaded the village street, the smart sentries who paced the walk before this door or that, the Twenty-Third drilling in an open space with their queues and ribbons and powdered heads, the old flag flying above Headquarters—these were sights pleasant enough. And the greetings of old friends were welcome; the camaraderie of an army campaigning abroad is a thing by itself. But when that was said, all was said. A camp is a camp, and the older it is the worse it grows. After the life of the Bluff, with its primitive cleanliness, its great spaces, its comfort and its stillness, the close air and squalor of billets, the shifts and dirty floors, the sharp orders and sounds of punishment, even the oaths and coarse talk to which custom had once inured me, jarred on me unspeakably. Nor was the distaste with which I looked about me, as I passed along the village street, lessened by the thought that for some time to come my wound would withhold me from action and confine me to the narrow bounds of the camp.

I had not many minutes to spare for these or for any reflections. It was but a short distance, the length of a measured stroll, from the lodging where Paton had taken me in, to where my Lord had his headquarters, nearly at the end of the village. I soon arrived at the place, a low white house, set back a little from the street and separated from it by a row of fine shade trees which sheltered a rough table and some benches. There was the usual throng about the door, but I pushed my way through it, and the orderly who had summoned me, and who was on the look-out, ushered me without delay into my Lord’s presence.

A man of my own age, twenty-seven or twenty-eight, was seated at the head of a table strewn with papers and maps. Webster, who commanded the Twenty-Third, sat at the foot of the table and between the two were ranged five or six men of varying ages, of whom one or two were not in uniform. I saw as much as this at a glance, as I crossed the threshold. Then my Lord rose and came forward to meet me with a cordiality that sat well on his years without derogating from his rank.

“My dear Craven,” he said, shaking me by the hand, “welcome back to life! Tarleton has done some good work, but he has never done His Majesty’s cause a greater service than by restoring you to it. Your arm? How is it?”

“Doing well, my lord,” I murmured. And I thanked him.

“Excellent! Well, an express went to your father three weeks ago enclosed in the Commander-in-Chief’s despatches, which told him of your safety. You will dine with me to-night and tell me about poor Ferguson’s affair. Poor fellow! Poor fellow! But there, sit down now! No, gentlemen, you must keep your congratulations until later. Time presses and the matter we are on brooks no delay. Brigadier,” he continued, addressing Webster, “find room for Major Craven beside you—and have a care of his arm. He is here just in time to be of service to us, and now—” He broke off, his attention diverted by a movement at the table. “What is it?” he asked, turning sharply in his chair, and extending his arm so as to bar the way to the door.

One of the men in civilian dress, who had risen from his seat at my entrance, muttered something. He would be glad of his lordship’s permission to—and with a murmur and a low bow, he was for leaving the room.

But my lord stopped him. “No, sir,” he cried peremptorily. “Sit down!” And without deigning to hear the man’s reasons, he motioned him back to his chair. “Sit down, sir! Sit down! Nonsense, man we shall not be fifteen minutes, and your matter can wait. We may need you, we shall almost certainly need you. Now Major Craven, I require your attention. Am I right in saying that about three months ago you rode across the country that lies between the forks of the Congaree—from the Enoree to the Broad River? That is so, is it not?”

“I did, my lord,” I said. “I spent three days in the district, mainly on the Tiger River.”

“About the level of Fishdam?”

“Yes, my lord, and a little farther north—as far as Brandon’s Camp.”

“Then just take that map—give it him, Haldane—and describe for us the nature of the country west of Fishdam Ford. It’s high ground, isn’t it? A sort of spine? Sumter is lying in that neighborhood, as you probably know. If you don’t, it is the fact, and we propose, all being well, to surprise him to-night.”

“To-morrow night, by your leave, my lord,” some one interjected.

“To-night,” Rawdon replied dryly and with emphasis; and he withered the interrupter with a look. “That is a detail,” he continued, “which I confess I have kept from you, gentlemen,—with the exception of the Brigadier and Major Wemyss—until this moment. A mounted force of the 63rd has gone forward, and should be already beyond Mobley Meeting House. Major Wemyss who is to command them rides express from here within the hour. The attack will be made to-night, or in the small hours of the morning, but it entirely depends for its success on surprise. Our numbers are not large and General Sumter is in some strength, with reinforcements not far off—Triggs, Clarke, and their irregulars. If he has warning he may turn the tables on us. That being so, gentlemen, and because so many of our plans have been disclosed of late—God knows how!—I have advanced the time of the attack to to-night.”

There was a general murmur of assent and approval.

“Now, Major Craven,” my lord continued, “will you detail for us the nature of the country as you remember it, and as precisely as you can. We have other information, of course, but I wish to see if it tallies with yours. Your return to-day is a piece of good fortune.”

I explained with the map before me the main features, as I remembered them. My former journey had been made at some risk just before Gates’s advance to Camden and with a view to an advance on our side. What I detailed seemed to confirm the information already in our possession as well as the report of Sumter’s position. Wemyss, who was naturally the most deeply concerned, and who followed my explanation with great care on another map, put a number of questions to me; and in this he was seconded by Webster. When I had answered these questions to the best of my power, Wemyss addressed the man on my right—the same who had risen and sat down again.

I should explain that Webster, the Brigadier, was on my left hand, sitting at the end of the table. I could apprehend by this time who were there. There were seven altogether, five soldiers and two civilians.

“What I want to know is this, Mr. Burton,” Wemyss asked. “Are you sure that Triggs and Clarke, with the southern rebels, have not joined Sumter? This is a point of the utmost importance. It is life or death to us. Are you clear about it?”

“Yes, Mr. Burton, let us hear you on that,” my lord said.

The question was put at an unlucky moment for my neighbor had just taken a pinch of snuff which set him sneezing. With difficulty he managed to say that—tishoo! on that point he was—tishoo! clear—quite clear, my lord!

“And just one point more, my lord,” Wemyss insisted. “Are you sure, Mr. Burton, that Triggs and Clarke are not near enough to join Sumter to-day? Before the time of my attack, sir, do you see? Because that is just as important.”

“Yes, we want no more mistakes,” my lord chimed in. “Let us be certain this time. What do you say to that, Mr. Burton?”

Mr. Burton, a stoutish man in brown, with a neat well-floured head—I could see so much of him, but little more, as he was next to me—sneezed again and violently. It was all he could do to answer in a half-strangled voice that—’tishoo! he was sure of that also—quite sure, my lord!

One or two laughed at his predicament, but my lord was not pleased. “If you can’t take snuff without sneezing,” he said sharply, “why, the devil, man, do you take it! Why do you take it? Now, Wemyss, have you all the information you need, do you think? Are you sure? Don’t be hurried. You must not let Sumter get the better of you, as Marion did.”

I think that Wemyss was not well pleased with the reminder that he had not been lucky on the Pee Dee. At any rate he did not take the hint to ask further questions. He was already on his feet and he answered that he thought that he now had all that he wanted. “If I don’t do it with what I know,” he continued rather sulkily, “I shall not do it at all. And by your leave, my lord,” he continued, moving towards the door, “I will lose no more time. My horses are outside and it will be as much as I can do to overtake my men. We can’t go by the cross-cuts and wood-roads that these d—d fellows use.”

“Nor by the marshes,” some one said, hinting slyly at his Pee Dee campaign.

“No, we are not web-footed,” Wemyss grunted.

“Well, very good,” my lord answered indulgently. “Go, by all means, and good luck to you, Wemyss. Catch that d—d fellow Sumter if you can! By G—d, I hope you may, and good luck to you!”

We echoed the wish, one after another. My lord rose from the table, others rose. There was a little confusion. I turned to say a word to my snuff-taking neighbor, but he had turned his shoulder towards me and was already on his feet, speaking to Haldane, the General’s aide, who was between him and the door.

Webster saw that I looked at him. He winked. “A good man that,” he said in a low voice. “He has given us a great deal of information, a vast lot of information. He comes from the other side of the hills on the Tennessee slope. He is a backwaters man, but he knows this country well. A strong King’s man and damned useful to us of late, d—d useful, I can tell you.”

“If he comes from the Tennessee slope,” I said pricking up my ears, “he may know the place I was at. It’s on this side, but not far from the foot of the mountains. The man’s name was Wilmer—the man who took me. He treated me well, too, General, very well! Shall we ask him?”

Webster was still in his seat at the table—a stout heavy man, slow in his movements, but shrewd and a very able soldier. He raised his voice. “Mr. Burton!” he cried. “Hie! I want you.”

But Burton was now within a pace or two of the door. He did not hear, and would have escaped if he had not been forced to give place to the Chief who was in the act of passing out at that moment. This detained Burton, but for an instant only—he seemed to be in a great hurry; and seeing this and that in another moment he would be gone, Webster appealed to Haldane who was also going out.

“Haldane!” he cried. “Stop Mr. Burton! I want to speak to him. Damme, has the man turned deaf all in a minute! What has come to him? Here, bring him back!”

The aide did as he was told, tapping his man on the shoulder, and pointing to us.

“The Brigadier wants you,” he said. “He’s speaking to you.”

“D—n the man, he’s as deaf as a post! Mr. Burton!” Webster cried. “Mr. Burton! One minute! Didn’t you hear me call you? Major Craven wants to ask you a question.”

Webster rose as he spoke. I rose. My lord had disappeared, but could still be heard in the passage speaking to some one. There were only Webster and I, Haldane and Burton left in the room. The civilian, thus summoned—and Webster’s voice had grown peremptory—turned back to us; a big clumsy figure of a man with his head sunk low between his shoulders, an enormous stock, and a thick queue. He looked more like a quaker than a planter, and he seemed to be an inveterate snuffer, for in the act of turning he had his box out again and a pinch raised to his nose. A heavy, good-natured-looking man he seemed; one who might have stepped out of a counting-house in ’Change Alley, and whose appearance would have surprised me more if I had not seen the queer wigs and queues in which the New Hampshire farmers, even in the backwoods, took the field.

“Your servant, sir,” he said, civilly enough, now we had got him.

“You come from the Tennessee slope, Mr. Burton, I understand?” I said.

“There or thereabouts, sir,” he answered in the same tone. And he blew out his cheeks after a clownish fashion.

“Do you know by any chance the man who took me?” I asked. “His plantation lies about four miles east of King’s Mountain and just over the colony line. It’s on Crowder’s creek or one of the small creeks west of the Catawba. They call the place the Bluff and it cannot be very far west of Wahub’s Plantation?”

He pondered, a pinch of snuff at his nose. “Well, I am not sure, sir,” he said slowly, “I think I should know it.”

“His name is Wilmer.”

“Wilmer? Wilmer?” he muttered. “Umph?”

“A tall, lean man,” I said, thinking to assist his memory, which, it was plain, worked sluggishly. “I should say a man of some standing in his district. He treated me well. He could not have treated me better or behaved more handsomely, indeed. In fact, I may say that he saved my life—”

I stopped. I stared at the man, at his short wide face, which would have been jovial if it had not been so heavy, at his powdered head. His fingers, raised to convey the pinch of snuff to his nose covered the lower part of his countenance, but I noted that he had a shaky hand—some of the snuff fell on his stock. He puffed out his cheeks as he prepared to answer, but when he did so, it was only to repeat my last words. “Saved your life, sir, did he?” he murmured. “So I have heard. He took you into his house, I understand?”

I stared at him. “That was so,” I said. Where had I seen some one—some one? My heart began to beat quickly.

He sneezed. “Of Wilmer’s Bluff?” he muttered. “Well, I think I should know him, Major, I b’lieve I know him. And he saved your life, sir, did he? He saved your life?”

We stared at one another. Haldane, summoned by a voice from the passage turned to leave the room. Webster laughed—evidently the man’s oddities were known to him and he saw nothing out of the common in his manner. “Gad, Craven! You look surprised,” he said with a chuckle. “But Mr. Burton has a vast deal of information. He knows what is passing as well as any man, by Gad! Well, I must be going. See you at dinner? You had better be going soon, for the Chief is coming back, and he likes to have the room to himself.”

Sharp as the shock had been, the moment of time that Webster’s words gained for me, helped me to collect myself. Before he was out of the room I spoke. “Yes, Mr. Burton,” I said, “we had better be going!”

His eyes questioned me.

“We’ll go to my quarters—in the first place,” I said.

He had still a hope I think that I had no more than suspicion in my mind—that I did not know; for he fenced with me, his eyes on my face. “In an hour, sir,” he said, “I can be at your service. Heartily at your service, sir.”

“In an hour,” I replied gravely, “it will be too late for either of us to be of service to the other. You know many things, Mr. Burton,” I continued, “but I know one thing. You will be wise to give me your arm and to come with me to my quarters at once. Will you go before me?”

I made way for him and followed him closely from the room and the house. Outside I saw Paton seated on one of the benches before the door. “Paton,” I said, “come with me. I want you.”

My tone surprised him, and reinforced by a glance at my face put him on the alert. He rose at once and joined us. By this time I had a pretty good notion what I should do, and when we had walked a few yards in silence, “Paton,” I said, “Mr. Burton is going to give me some information and we want no listeners and no interruption. I am going to take him to our quarters and I want you to keep the door below and to see that no one comes in or goes out while we are together. Do you understand?”

Paton looked at me and looked at Burton and no doubt he saw that the thing, whatever it was, was serious. He whistled softly. “I understand!” he said. And then, “There is my man,” he added, “would you like him too?”

“Yes, I would,” I said. “Bid him be within call.”

Burton maintained an easy silence as he moved beside me, and in this fashion, followed by Paton’s man who had fallen in at a sign from his master, we walked up the village street, threading the motley crowd of blacks and whites who thronged it. Soldiers, leaning against garden fences or lounging under the trees, saluted us as we passed. Sutlers’ carts went by in a long train. In an interval between two houses the drums were practicing. Here an awkward squad was at drill under a rough-tongued sergeant, whose cane was seldom idle, there a troop of the 14th Dragoons were drawn up awaiting their officer. A shower had fallen earlier in the day, but the sun had shone out and the lively scene, the white frame-houses, the bowering foliage around them, the bright uniforms, the movement, formed one of the cheerful interludes of war.

In other eyes than mine. For my part I walked through it, execrating, bitterly execrating it all—the sunshine, the leaves just touched by autumn, the fleecy sky—all! And fate. The mockery of it and the irony of it, overcame me. Of what moment are the bright hues of the trap to the wild creature that is caught in it?

However, lamentations must wait for another season. I had but a few moments, and I must act, not think. A very short walk brought us to Paton’s house in which he had secured for me the sole use of a tiny attic, the only room above stairs in what was but a small cottage. On the threshold I turned to him. “You will keep the door,” I said. “No one is to be allowed to go in or out, Paton, until you see me. You understand? Has your man his sidearms?”

Paton looked askance at my companion. “I understand,” he said. “You may depend upon me, Major.”

“Now, Mr. Burton,” I said. “I will follow you, if you please. I think that we can soon despatch this matter.”

We went in. I pointed to the narrow staircase—it was little better than a ladder—and he went up before me. The room was a mere cock-loft lighted by a tiny square window on the level of my knee and looking to the rear. But it was private and we could just stand upright in the middle of the floor. I closed the door, and turned to him.