CHAPTER XI
HOW TOM MET WITH A BLINDFOLD ADVENTURE
IN the fall Marion defeated a large body of the enemy at the Black Wingo. News had filtered its way into Carolina that General Greene had succeeded Gates and was advancing with fresh recruits and the remnant of the fugitives who survived the fatal battle of Camden. Marion was most anxious to show Greene and his Continentals that there was a spirit in the state, so he became more than usually active.
He recruited his force at Williamsburg and was marching to attack Colonel Harrison, who was in force upon Lynch’s Creek; but his progress in this direction was suddenly arrested one afternoon when Tom and Cole dashed back from a scout and informed him that there was a large gathering of Tories in and about Salem and the fork of the Black River. Colonel Tynes, who commanded this force, had brought with him large supplies of the materials of war and comfort-things in which Marion’s riders stood very much in need. Tom drew pictures of new English muskets, broadswords, bayonets, pistols, saddles and bridles, powder and ball, and large stores of hard money which Tynes had also brought to tempt new levies.
His men wanted so much for all these things that Marion could not resist the boy’s eloquence. Harrison, for the time, was forgotten; and the half-naked brigade was headed for Tarcote, in the forks of the Black River. Crossing the lower ford of the northern branch of the river, at Nelson’s plantation, Marion came upon the camp of Tynes at midnight. A hurried survey revealed the fact that the Tories had made no preparation to ward off an attack. Most of them were asleep; but many were grouped about the camp-fires.
Hastily collecting his men, Marion struck like lightning. The surprise was complete; the panic universal. Marion lost not a single man, and gained a great store of clothing, arms and ammunition, as Tom had predicted he would.
One after another these victories came; they were small in themselves but they gave the patriots courage; they revived spirits that had drooped since the taking of Charleston and the burnings and hangings by Tarleton and his fierce dragoons. As the leaves yellowed and fell, and long before the Christmas season set in, the cause of liberty once more grew bright in Carolina.
Cornwallis was quick to feel this; his parties were continually under arms; his columns were ever scouring the country for the elusive but dangerous foe. But Marion had taught his countrymen how to fight their powerful enemy; surprise, ambuscades, night marches, rapid retreats—that was the story of his work, and it brought the British, as far as results were concerned, almost to a standstill.
On December 30, 1780, Cornwallis, from his camp at Winnsborough, wrote to Sir Henry Clinton at New York:
“Colonel Marion has so wrought upon the minds of the people ... that there is scarcely an inhabitant between the Santee and Peedee that is not in arms against us. Some parties have even crossed the Santee and carried terror to the gates of Charleston.”
The daring expedition of which the British general wrote was led by Tom Deering. For a long time he had been brooding upon the words of Mark Harwood spoken that day at the Foster mansion. Laura was to be forced by Jarvis Harwood to marry Lieutenant Cheyne at Christmas. This, together with his inability to do anything for his imprisoned father weighed heavily upon him; he could not sleep at night, and during the day his helplessness to carry relief to those he cared most for in the world preyed constantly upon him, allowing him no rest. Oh, if he could only strike a blow for them; if he could only liberate his father from the hulks in Charleston harbor—for he felt almost sure, by this, that it was there he would find him—and save Laura from Jasper Harwood, he would be happy and content.
He sat one night upon a cottonwood stump at the camp-fire brooding over these things, with Cole stretched full length beside him, when Marion, who was going the rounds of the camp, stopped to look at him.
“There is something,” said the commander, seating himself beside him on the stump, “that has been upon your mind for some weeks past. What is it?”
It was not often that Colonel Marion invited a confidence; he was as kind and gentle a man as could be, but, as a rule, he treated his men not too familiarly. So, his question proved his interest to Tom at once.
The lad told him of Laura, and of what was to happen at Christmas. Marion listened and his dark, deep-set eyes kindled.
“The villains,” said he, warmly. “They would make this poor girl the wife of a man whom she does not care for, in order to create an influence that will enable them to possess themselves of your father’s property.”
He paused for a moment, then turned suddenly upon his young scout.
“If I had not the cares and responsibilities of this command resting upon me,” said he, “I would ask nothing better than to beard them under their own guns and take this poor child from them.”
“Oh, if I could only make the attempt!” cried Tom. “I could learn something of my father, too, perhaps. If I only had the force, I would dare it.”
“Would any of your friends in the brigade volunteer for the adventure, do you think?”
“A score of them!” exclaimed the youth.
“You have my permission to take them out on the enterprise,” said Marion, kindly. “It will not only be doing the young lady a service if you succeed, but will demonstrate to the enemy that we can penetrate even into his most powerful towns.”
At last Tom had the chance he had so often prayed for. Overjoyed, he went to work next day sounding his most intimate friends in the brigade; he went to the younger men from choice, for it was to these that the boldness of the proposed attempt would appeal. Without the slightest difficulty he secured the eager consent of the required number; and all day they prepared for the expedition by polishing and cleaning rifles and pistols and looking to the edges of sabres. At dusk, well-mounted and armed, and with high, hopeful hearts they set forth. The brigade waved their caps and gave them three silent cheers, for Marion had forbidden noise in the camp.
The camp of Marion at this period was in the midst of a dense cane-brake in the district between Fort Watson and Georgetown; he had not as yet settled into his famous base at Snow’s Island, and was conducting his operations from many different points.
The party under Tom Deering forded the Santee in safety, and by hard riding and no mishaps made Monks Corner, on the west bank of the Cooper River, by daybreak the next day. Of course they did not enter the town, but remained some distance outside, encamped upon a small creek. At nightfall they resumed their journey; now and then they met a rider or a carriage in the road; but they were too far into the enemy’s country for any one to suspect them of being anything else than king’s men, so boldly and confidently did they push forward.
The coming of day found them in the suburbs of Charleston; the houses began to appear more frequently along the road, and when the sun at last showed itself in the east they were trotting along a wide road toward a small inn which stood, together with a stable and some other outbuildings, just a trifle to one side.
“This is Natchez’s place,” said Tom; “we stop here.”
Natchez, it was thought, was an Indian of at least quarter blood; he had kept the inn by the roadside for many years, and was a queer, silent sort of an old man and an unquestioned though secret friend of the patriot cause. Marion had, at times, occasion to send a spy into Charleston; and it was always at the Indian’s Head—for so the inn was called—that the venturesome one found shelter.
When our friends drew rein before the inn door, Natchez, who seemed always to be stirring, came out. Tom gave him a quick signal and the old man peered up at him from under his bushy eyebrows, in surprise.
“So many of you!” he exclaimed, holding up his hands.
“We must remain here until dark,” said Tom.
“It is not an attack upon the city?” asked the old man, eagerly. “Where is Marion?”
“Back in the swamps, across the Santee. We are upon a secret errand.”
“It is dangerous to hide so many,” said Natchez, complainingly. “You will have to be satisfied with the barn; I cannot have you in the house.”
“The barn will answer very well,” agreed Tom. “But open the doors and let us put up our horses; we have had a hard ride, Natchez; man and beast, both, are hungry and tired.”
The barn was a good-sized one and very well able to accommodate their mounts. They climbed into the loft, themselves; there were great piles of sweet-smelling hay there, and after Natchez and an old negro slave had served them with a plentiful breakfast, they curled up and slept soundly through the long day.
Late in the afternoon Tom awoke; the others were still sleeping; so he climbed down the ladder, and after giving a careful look at the horses to see that they had been well provided for, he made his way to the inn.
“Well, Natchez,” said he. “Any news?”
“Maybe,” grunted the old man. He was sitting upon a wooden bench that ran along in front of the inn, his legs crossed and his hands clasped around his knee.
“There is something?” Tom looked at him, questioningly.
“A man was here,” said Natchez. “I think he look for you.”
“A man, looking for me!” Tom was startled, and darted a quick look all about. “You must be mistaken.”
Natchez shook his head.
“No,” said he positively; “he look for you. He come here once, twice, three times. And every time he look for you.”
Tom sat down upon the bench and looked at the old man. There was no one, save his own party, who knew that he was at the Indian’s Head—but, stay; perhaps Marion desired to convey some word to him, and suspecting that he would halt at the inn, had sent a rider after him. However, this could soon be ascertained.
“Did the man have the signal?” asked he.
“No,” answered Natchez, “no signal.”
That put the question at rest; the man was not from Marion.
“What sort of a man was he?” asked he, at length.
“Old man—gray hair—one eye—wooden leg.”
At this catalogue of infirmities Tom burst into a laugh.
“Well, he must be a peculiar looking person, to be sure,” remarked he. “What did he say?”
“Him have paper,” said Natchez. “Him read it. The paper have you on, sure.”
Tom was puzzled; the whole affair seemed very queer; perhaps the British had learned—but no; if they knew of his and his companions’ presence at the Indian’s Head, they would have made the fact known by means of a company of dragoons, and not in this way.
“He was here three times, you say,” he said to Natchez.
The old man nodded.
“And he say he come once more,” said he.
“Ah!” Tom looked surprised. “Well, in that case I can find out just who and what he is and what he wants.”
After a time Natchez went into the inn to attend to some duties; Tom remained upon the bench, playing with a lively pointer pup, which had approached him in a friendly manner. His companions showed no signs of having awakened; the sun was going down behind a wooded rise in the ground and the long, wide road stretched away toward the city dusty and deserted.
“If my peculiar looking friend wants me he had better hurry,” muttered Tom. “It’s almost time for us to take the road once more.”
He had barely ceased speaking when he noticed, far down the road, where all had been deserted a few moments before, the figure of a man slowly approaching.
“Can this be he?” Tom pushed the frolicking puppy from him, and looked long and earnestly toward the figure. The man came nearer and nearer; his pace was very slow and he walked with the assistance of a cane. “Yes!” suddenly, “it is he. There is his wooden leg—and his hair is gray—and he has but one eye!”
The man continued to slowly advance; when he reached a point in the road directly in front of the inn, he paused. His remaining eye seemed very dim of sight, for at first he did not seem to see Tom. But when, at last, he did make him out, he came nearer and peered at him with great anxiety. He was a stout man with a fat, flabby, white face; his single eye squinted through a steel-rimmed glass; his breath was being drawn fast and with some difficulty, for his walk seemed to have exhausted him.
He was forced, in order to see Tom plainly, to come very close; he said nothing, but only looked. Tom sat, silently awaiting the outcome of the inspection. At length a look of satisfaction spread over the man’s face; he grinned with delight, and a chuckling seemed to shake him all over.
He put his hand into his breast pocket and took out a folded paper; unfolding it with great care, he adjusted his glass and proceeded to read:
“Young man—tall—brown hair—gray eyes—not very well dressed,” he lowered the paper and fastened the youth on the bench with his single eye. “That’s you, is it not?”
“It describes me pretty well,” said Tom.
“It describes you exactly,” said the one-eyed man with the wooden leg. Then he turned his attention to the paper once more. “Will be at the Indian’s Head just outside the city, on the evening of December 23d.” He looked up at Tom, once more. “This is the Indian’s Head, is it not?”
“And this is the evening of December 23d?”
“It is.”
“And you are here?”
Tom laughed; and the one-eyed man looked hurriedly at the paper.
“It does not say anything about your laughing,” he informed Tom, at last, “but I suppose it’s all right. But, let us get down to business. Here are,” and he drew out a bulky packet, “your instructions.” He handed the packet to Tom without more ado, and drew out another paper; this one had an official look and bore a large seal. “And here,” went on the man, “is your permit to enter the city and leave it as you will, without fear and without question, and to have what helpers you require bear you company.”
He handed the permit to Tom; then he turned and began stumping away on his wooden leg and cane, without another word. Tom arose hastily; the papers were not for him, he was confident of that. He was about to call to the man to return; but the permit—the free and unquestioned entry into Charleston—was too much; he sank back into his seat and watched and watched the wooden-legged man until he disappeared down the long, dusty road.
Then he looked at the passport carefully. It bore the signature and seal of Cornwallis and, as the man had said, permitted the bearer to pass in and out of the city at all hours and with whatever company rode with him. It bore no name other than that of the signature, and Tom grew puzzled and disturbed.
“Perhaps,” muttered he, “it is for me, after all. Some one in the city might have known of my desire to save Laura, and my father and——”
But the thing was too improbable. It was, indeed, impossible. The packet which the man had said held instructions lay upon his knee; it was not sealed, the several documents which it contained were merely laid loosely together. Tom thought for some time over the right and wrong of looking into this packet; it could not have been meant for him; therefore would it be right to examine it?
It took but a few moments, however, for him to decide; it was perfectly right to gain information from the enemy by intercepting his despatches; and these papers might be something of that nature. His mind once made up he was soon acquainted with the secrets that the papers held. They were written in a large, flowing hand; but, just like the passport, none of them contained the name of the person for whom they were intended. And, in this case, the name of the writer was lacking, also! Opening the first Tom read:
“Your venture has become known to us in a rather strange way. It is dangerous, but may do great good. In any case, you may depend upon us to do all that we can for you. The passport which I send you will admit you into the city. Come to-night, and alone; as the clock strikes ten stand in front of the king’s statue near Lord Rawdon’s headquarters. I will have a person there to conduct you to me.”
The other papers contained names of persons and references to things that Tom did not understand; but a footnote upon one of them read:
“These may not seem very clear to you, but all will be explained later.”
For a long time Tom pondered over all this. Was it possible, after all, that some one had learned of his enterprise and was about to help him in the accomplishment of it? The person, whoever it was, must be high in the favor of the British; for such a passport as that which he held was not an easy thing to secure.
And then, again, it might be all a ruse; it might be a trap—a snare, set to catch him and those who rode with him. In a short time the others were awake and he placed the matter before them. To say that they were astonished would be putting it mildly. But, to a man, they thought it all right. Because, they argued, and Tom thought with reason, if it were the enemy who sent the papers, why did they trouble to do it? A squadron, surrounding the barn as they slept, would have been a safer and much more simple way of capturing them.
“If I were you I’d see it out,” said Nat Collins, decidedly.
“And I! and I!” cried the others.
Cole was the only one who seemed at all dubious; but as the white youths seemed to be so firm in their belief that everything was right, he said nothing; and when Tom told him to saddle Sultan he did so without a word.
“I’ll return some time to-morrow,” said the young scout as he settled himself in the saddle. “Natchez will take care of you all. Don’t expose yourselves to the view of any one coming along the road; but lay low. And now I’m away!” He shook the rein. “Good-bye, boys; good-bye, Cole.”
With this he set off at a sharp gallop toward the city. Darkness had come on some time before, but the road was excellent and he had no fear of accidents. As he drew close to the town a sentry halted him. But the passport of the Earl of Cornwallis met with an instant salute and he was allowed to proceed. This occurred several times; but always with the same result. And, at last, he rode into the city’s streets at about the hour of nine. It had been many long months since he had last been in Charleston; everything remained the same, however, except for the flaunting of the British flag which hung from every flagstaff, and the many redcoats to be seen on the streets, swaggering dragoons and stalwart grenadiers, who seemed to look with contempt upon the townsfolk, loyalist and patriot alike.
Tom put Sultan up at a neighboring hostelry, and then wandered about the city to pass the time between that and the hour at which he was to meet the guide who was to lead him to the person who had sent the papers. He had his sabre strapped to his side and carried a heavy pistol in his breast; people would frequently stop and look after him as he passed, his hunting-shirt, worn leather leggings and the rest of his attire attracting their attention. Quite often a dragoon, or foot soldier would pause and stare into his face rudely as though they had seen his like before and had their suspicions of him; but his steady eyes and confident bearing drove from their minds any intention they may have had of stopping him.
As ten o’clock struck in the tower of a near-by church, he stopped before the statue of King George, near the governor’s headquarters. At the same instant a man came out of a shadow immediately across the way and approached him.
“Are you awaiting any one?” asked the newcomer.
“I am,” said Tom.
“For me?” inquiringly.
“Perhaps so.”
“What word do you bring?”
“I bring no word.”
The man looked at him for a moment, sharply.
“That is very strange,” said he.
Tom drew out the message making the queer appointment.
“Will this do?” he asked.
The man gave it a quick glance and looked relieved.
“Ah!” said he, “why did you not show it at first?”
“You asked for a word.”
“True, I did. But it is all right. Are you,” looking at the lad suddenly, “prepared to follow me?”
“I am.”
“Good. Where is your horse?”
“As it happens,” said the man, “my mount is at the same place.”
As they bent their steps toward the inn where Sultan had been put up, Tom looked at his companion carefully. He was a very tall and very spare man, but his shoulders were wide and his chest deep. He was attired in sober black; his hair was dark, his complexion swarthy, and an angry looking scar crossed his right cheek. Thinking it as well to secure what information he could from the guide Tom asked,
“Where are you about to take me?”
“I am not,” answered the man, “permitted to give information of any kind.”
“But,” protested the youth, “the person who wrote this paper must at least——”
“We will not speak of any person or persons, if you please,” put in the man, curtly. “My instructions were to conduct you to a certain spot. What else is going forward is not my affair; I can say nothing.”
Surprised at this, and rather startled at the increased mystery, Tom stepped along at the man’s side in silence, until they reached the hostelry where the horses were. A groom saddled them quickly and brought them out; the man who was to act as guide for Tom at once sprang upon the fine gray horse which was led up to the block. Tom mounted Sultan slowly; the groom seemed to know the dark man with the scar; this interested our young swamp-rider, and he would have given a good deal for a quiet word before they rode away.
But this was impossible; the guide never took his sharp eyes from the youth; he seemed to be expecting some such attempt; and of course while he watched, Tom could not make it. They set off through the city by much the same route as Tom had entered it. When they reached a quiet spot the man with the scar pulled up.
“Young, sir,” said he gravely; “if I am not mistaken this errand means much to you and—and—well, others.”
“It does,” answered Tom, his mind reverting to Laura.
“You would risk much to carry it through, would you not?”
“I am risking much as it is,” answered Tom, quietly.
“True; so you are. But there is one thing of which I wish to inform you before we proceed further. He who follows me to-night, must follow blindfolded!”
Tom flashed him a quick look; for a moment the proposition staggered him. Had he come too far? was he about to enter a snare, or could it be that he was already in one! The dark man noticed his hesitation and a smile glimmered across his hawk-like face.
“You are not afraid?” asked he; and there was something like a sneer lurking in his even tones.
“Not I,” said Tom, proudly. “I am here for a purpose; if it is necessary for me to be blindfolded to carry it through, then blindfolded I will be. I have faced sterner things than darkness and a single man, sir, many times.”
The scarred-faced man laughed.
“They told me that you were not lacking in courage,” said he; “and I find that they were right. But come,” he took a large black kerchief from his pocket, “we have no time to lose.”
He urged his big gray horse alongside Sultan; in a moment the black kerchief was tightly tied about Tom’s eyes; the lad could not see anything—all was dark—black—unknown!
“I will ride slightly ahead,” said the man quietly when his task was done. “Give your horse a free rein; he will follow mine, and in that way you need have no fear of his carrying you into danger.”
Tom said nothing in reply; he was not quite as sure of this as the guide seemed to think he should be. It was a strange experience to be riding through the enemy’s country, under the guidance of a stranger and upon an errand whose every element breathed mystery; he did not know at what moment a quick, deadly blow might fall upon him; his hand rested upon the butt of his pistol, ready to draw it forth at a moment’s notice; his ears were constantly strained to catch the slightest sound that might portend danger.
They rode for a long time, then suddenly turned off the road, and headed across a plantation which lay to the left. They continued across this for some time, then turned off another road, and this time to the right. Within the next half hour they turned and twisted in many directions; Tom realized that the purpose was to confuse him; the place where he was to meet the writer of the strange message was to remain a mystery, it was considered necessary to prevent his knowing the way there did he ever desire to repeat the visit.
At last the hoofs began to ring upon harder ground; the guide drew up, and from the creaking sound, Tom knew that he was opening a gate. He was cool and collected, but he could not help his breath coming a little quicker; he was almost at the end of the adventure; in a few moments he would know all. They rode inside and the gate closed behind them. Tom heard some low, guarded words addressed to his companion, but could not catch their meaning. Then came the quick command:
“Dismount!”
He slid to the ground and stood leaning against Sultan’s shoulder, unable to take a step in safety because of the blinding kerchief. A hand was placed upon his shoulder, and a new voice, rather less brusque than that of the man with the scar on his face, said:
“Now, my friend, I am going to lead you to the person you desire to see. Under no circumstances attempt to remove the bandage from your eyes until told; this affair is a most dangerous one, and the utmost secrecy must be maintained. You understand that, of course.”
“Yes,” said Tom. Of course, he thought, it would not do for the writer of the message to be suspected of having assisted him, a member of Marion’s Brigade, into the city. That was, then, the reason for all this secrecy.
He was led quickly up a flight of stone steps; a heavy door opened and closed behind him. They then passed down a long corridor, and entered a room where, as Tom could perceive even through the thick bandage, there were a great many brilliant lights.
“Now,” said the person who had conducted him, “I am going to leave you here. Wait the space of a full minute; then you may remove the bandage.”
Tom heard his footstep cross the floor and the door softly close behind him. All was then silent; his ears were straining to catch any sound that would indicate the presence of any one else in the apartment; he longed to tear the blinding kerchief from his eyes. He could hear a great, solemn clock in the room slowly ticking off the seconds, each of which seemed an age; but, at last, unable any longer to bear the suspense, he pulled the bandage away with a sudden jerk, and glared about him.
Many candles were burning upon tables, stands and in brackets on the wall. As he gazed at his surroundings a strange sense of familiarity came to him; the furnishings, the shape of the room, the position of the windows and doors, the pictures upon the walls.
“There can be no mistake,” he whispered to himself, a strange chill creeping over him. “I am standing in my father’s house.”
Wonder possessed him; the thing was strange beyond his dreams of strangeness; he could, try as he would, make nothing of it. Then footsteps sounded—heavy, commanding footsteps that approached the door leading into the room from the main hall. Tom stood in the middle of the apartment bathed in the full glare of the lighted candles, waiting; the door opened and two British officers entered, each big, red-faced and imperious-looking, and each bearing upon the breast of his scarlet coat many glittering orders and decorations.
They were Lieutenant-Colonel Tarleton and the Earl of Cornwallis!