CHAPTER XIII
HOW THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENED ON CHRISTMAS EVE
AT Christmas time, in the year 1780, the British had no very great occasion for rejoicing, so far as their affairs of government were concerned, at least. They were at war with three European nations—France, Holland and Spain; their colonies in North America were waging a desperate war for independence that seemed as though it would never end, and their attempt to gain possession of West Point, on the Hudson, through the treachery of the infamous Benedict Arnold, had just failed.
However, the army under Cornwallis, or at least the officers, did not seem to take their country’s misfortunes very much to heart. The winter season was long remembered for its many gaieties; the loyalists of the town had thrown open their houses and vied with each other as to who could do the most for the king’s scarlet-coated dandies. And among them all not one entertained upon the scale of Jasper Harwood; he seemed determined to prove his loyalty to the crown by his lavish expenditures; but in reality, as the reader knows, he had another reason.
The Harwood place was a large one. Hundreds of acres of land were planted with cotton and tobacco; scores of slaves toiled upon the plantation to enrich their master; his mules, oxen and horses were very many. Then, too, he had the Deering place under cultivation; the slaves upon it already addressed him as master; the revenues that came in he appropriated to his own use, which little piece of knavery the authorities overlooked in so good a citizen.
His plan to marry his ward Laura to Lieutenant Cheyne, of Tarleton’s regiment of horse, had long been in his mind; but now he was to carry it into effect. All preparations had been made; the Deering mansion, which Harwood now occupied, it being nearer to the city than his own, was brilliantly lighted; the grounds, for the South Carolina December is not severe, were also brightly illuminated, and were thronged by large crowds of guests, all en masque, laughing, chattering and getting all the enjoyment out of the situation possible.
The sounds of music, softly played, came from the mansion; splendidly attired officers and gorgeously dressed maskers now and then passed the windows or thronged down the steps. Here and there was gathered a knot of the young blades of the army, both foot and horse, masked, but wearing their uniforms. They talked and laughed loudly; the campaign was largely the subject of their conversation, and they recounted their personal deeds vaingloriously.
“If the louts would only stand and fight,” said one youthful, but strapping dragoon. “How is a fellow to do anything satisfactory when the beggars do nothing but dart in and out among the swamps like a lot of gnats.”
“You are right,” said another; “it is quite disappointing when one has a body of them almost in one’s hand, and then, in a moment—presto, they are gone.”
“And this rascal Marion is the most elusive of the lot,” said the first speaker. “He positively will not stand up and fight fairly. It’s most distressing, when one is going at the head of a party, along a dark path through the swamps, to have this fellow, the Swamp-Fox, as Tarleton has named him, suddenly spring out from ambush and pour a fire into one.”
A laugh greeted this complaint; it was well known to all that the speaker had suffered in this way not long before.
“Campbell must have been asleep in his saddle that night,” remarked one.
“Then all whom the Swamp-Fox has surprised have been dozing,” flared Campbell.
“It’s not exactly because of the surprise,” said the other, “but what you saw afterward.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if what you told me you saw in the fight were not the visions of a dream, I’ll give up.”
“Oh, you mean the black!” exclaimed the stalwart young dragoon. “But he was no vision; he was a stern reality, as some of my fellows have cause to remember.”
“Tell us about it, Campbell,” said another. “Prove to us that you were not slumbering upon the occasion spoken of.”
“It’s not much of a story,” said Campbell, “it only shows how startled a man can be by something out of the ordinary when it comes upon him suddenly.
“You see, awhile back, Tarleton sent me out with thirty men across the Santee to destroy some stores that the rebels had been accumulating on an island in one of the swamps. I had crossed the river and, as it was coming on night, was looking for a dry spot to encamp. Suddenly, without a moment’s warning the air was filled with the crash of rifle and pistol-shots and the most infernal yelling that I have ever listened to. Then out from behind bush, thicket, trees and everything else that could possibly hide a man, poured the rascally band of this rebel, Marion.”
“Nothing extraordinary in that, that I can see,” said the young officer who had asked for the story. “As you have just said yourself a moment ago, it’s a favorite device of the Swamp-Fox.”
“Just a moment,” said Campbell, with a wave of the hand. “I have not yet reached the point of my narrative. When the ambuscade broke cover there rushed upon me a giant negro. He looked,” and the young dragoon gazed about him, “he looked about the thickness of that big cottonwood; I am tall, but he simply towered above me as though I were a dwarf.”
“Campbell’s eyes were magnifying that night,” cried one, amid a burst of laughter from his companions. “He saw giants—possibly it was the genius of the swamp.”
“You may laugh,” protested Campbell, “that is what Blake did when I first told him. But it’s a fact, I tell you. When he rushed at me it would have gone hard with me had it not been for Sergeant Humphries, who took the first sweep of the black’s sabre upon his own. Humphries is no boy in weight, but, gentlemen, the force of the blow almost knocked him from the saddle.”
While Campbell was speaking, Mark Harwood, who formed one of the party, had been listening eagerly. Now he spoke.
“Did you notice,” he asked of Campbell, “a companion with this giant negro?”
“Well, Mr. Harwood,” laughed the strapping young dragoon, “he had a great many companions. We went flying, helter-skelter, through the swamp, with the whole lot of them hot at our heels.”
“But, I mean, was there not a person—a young man of about my age, but more of your size—whom the negro stuck to a great deal?”
Campbell looked thoughtfully at the speaker for a moment, then said:
“Come to think of it, there was. It seemed a great deal like master and man.”
“And that,” cried Mark Harwood, “was exactly what they were. The white youth was my rebel cousin, Tom Deering.”
“Your cousin,” said Campbell, surprised. “Well, if that is so, you have for a cousin one of the most remarkable masters of the sabre that it has ever been my lot to see. Gentlemen,” turning to the others, “the way that lad handled his weapon. It was marvelous. The blade seemed to be a thing of life!”
The young officers forming the group seemed disposed to laugh at this also; for Ensign Campbell’s experiences upon the night in question had long formed a subject for the exercise of wit. But Mark Harwood spoke again.
“I haven’t the slightest desire to praise Tom Deering, gentlemen,” said he, bitterly, “but what Campbell says is so. This rebel is a most remarkable swordsman. It was he, in the end assisted by this same giant slave, who kept the staircase against a party of loyalist gentlemen some time since.”
An immediate hush fell upon the group; they had heard of this exploit and had marveled at it. Maskers in various splendid or grotesque costumes strolled about the grounds chattering and laughing at the antics of those who had most given themselves up to the spirit of the occasion. About the time Campbell began to tell his story of the black giant, a masker, attired as a Carolinian backwoodsman, had paused near them and, as he listened, stood leaning against a tree. He wore a black mask upon the upper part of his face; a heavy sabre was hanging at his side, and he carried a rifle in his hands. His dress was an unusual one, and hardly the thing to be chosen in Charleston at that time; for it was of the kind worn by those who were in arms against the king.
Nevertheless, to the slight surprise of a great many who noted the fact, there seemed to be men in much the same costume, and all wearing black masks, scattered about the grounds. They did not seem to mingle with any of the other merrymakers, neither did they seem to be acquainted with one another.
The woodsman who stood near to the spot where the British officers were gathered seemed desirous of attracting no attention; he stood very quietly, listening, but never once venturing to speak.
“Ah, yes,” spoke the man whom Campbell had addressed as Blake, “we have heard of that little affair of the staircase. It took place at the Foster plantation, did it not?”
“Yes,” replied Mark Harwood. “A nest of traitors to the king which I had long striven to break up.”
“The family consisted of one half-grown girl and her father, who was an invalid,” said Ensign Campbell, quietly. “Not a very desperate gathering of partisans, one would think.”
This was greeted by a slight laugh. Cold looks were directed at Mark; the Tories were little liked by the British soldiery; they felt that contempt for them which is bound to arise in the breasts of brave men against those who prove false to their own kind. And among all the loyalists in Charleston Mark Harwood was liked the least; his sly, cunning manner and his mirthless smile made him hated among the frank young soldiers of the king’s forces; they avoided his company as much as possible, but, of course, to-night they could not but tolerate him.
Mark felt the sting which the quiet words of young Campbell contained and a dark flush stained his cheeks.
“It is the weakest who are ever the worst,” cried he, noticing the cold glances of dislike leveled at him. “A man like Foster could do as much harm to the cause of the king as Marion himself.”
“Perhaps so,” said Blake, bitingly. “But there is much more credit in matching oneself against Marion; he, at least, can fight back.”
Mark bit his lip savagely at this; he felt the hostility which some of his actions had awakened, now and then; but he could never be made to see the shame of them. His was a mind which recognized no law of right or wrong or fairness where a foe was concerned. It did not matter much to him who or what the foe was, he would set about crushing him as completely as possible; if he were weak it made Harwood all the more resolved, for, as Lieutenant Blake had insinuated, a weak foe could not fight back, and hard fighting was a thing which Master Mark had not much stomach for.
“I have frequently noticed, Harwood,” said Ensign Campbell, “that you always select some such object as Foster for your attacks, when you are left to your own devices.”
Mark turned upon the young dragoon with a snarl.
“You have a reputation, I believe, Campbell,” said he, “for frequently noticing nonexistent things.”
“You mean by that, I suppose,” said the other, composedly, but with a warning sparkle in his eye, “that I am given to stating what is not true.”
Mark caught the look in the dragoon’s eyes; at any other time it would have frightened him; but now he was filled with the recklessness of rage.
“And another thing,” said he viciously, “you yourself admit that you fled before the sword of Tom Deering that night in the swamp; and yet you, almost in so many words, accuse me of cowardice—I who faced him that day at Foster’s.”
“You faced him!”
“Yes—I!” Mark’s face was livid with passion; he knew that these men held his personal courage in contempt, and he had a sort of mad desire to convince them that he was equal to themselves in that respect. “Fannin and Clarage will support me in this,” he continued, knowing that he could depend upon the support of these worthies in anything.
“Well,” said Campbell, in a changed tone, “if you successfully faced this wonderful swordsman I beg your pardon, for anything that I may have said or hinted at.”
“He did not hold his ground long when I sprang up the steps, I assure you,” cried Mark, delighted at the impression which he had created. He at once plunged into a glowing account of what had occurred—colored to suit himself, of course; but he had not spoken a dozen words when a hand was laid on his shoulder, and turning he found himself gazing into a pair of clear gray eyes which looked at him from out the holes of a black mask.
“I beg your pardon,” said Tom Deering, quietly, for the masker was he, “but will you kindly repeat what you have said.”
Mark shook himself free of the clutch upon his shoulder and returned, angrily:
“Who are you, sir? I do not know you. I am speaking to these gentlemen, and am not addressing you.”
“Once more I beg your pardon.” Tom’s voice was still quiet. “But your statement to these gentlemen,” bowing to the young officers, “was what made me interrupt you. I know something of the affair at Foster’s, and would like to correct what you have mis-stated.”
Mark trembled with mingled rage and apprehension.
“Hello,” said Campbell, in a low voice to Blake, “our friend here seems able to put a spoke in Harwood’s wheel. This is most interesting.”
“Who are you?” said Mark, once more.
“Who I am does not matter,” said Tom. “Gentlemen,” he now ignored Mark, “I have met some of those who bore Mr. Harwood company upon that day, and——”
“And they told you the facts of the case,” cried Lieutenant Blake, anxious to see Mark humiliated. “Come, out with it; let us hear what you have to say.”
“I have merely this to say. Mark Harwood did not once have the manhood to place himself within the reach of his cousin’s sabre. He spent his time upon the outskirts of the throng, and his part in the affray consisted entirely of shouting directions to braver men than himself.”
A score of cold, contemptuous eyes turned themselves upon Mark; the scorn they felt for him was unmistakable. Mark, quivering with passion, turned upon Tom, his hand raised to strike—but the next instant he was measuring his length upon the ground, and Tom had vanished amidst the quickly gathering crowd.
The rooms of the Deering mansion were large ones, but the brilliant gathering to-night completely filled them. It was a strange feeling for the young swamp-rider, a half hour or so after his experience with Mark, to stand a stranger—unknown—in his own home.
The crowd had begun to press into the house, for the hour had arrived when Laura was to be made the unwilling wife of Lieutenant Cheyne. Tom would have given anything for a word with her, for Laura had been his mother’s favorite niece, and was a good, brave-hearted girl whom he had always been proud of. But, though he had sought everywhere, he could not catch even a glimpse of her.
However, as he stood by the door leading to the main hall, there came a sudden stir among the ladies. A party had just come in; splendidly attired women, officers glittering with orders and gold lace, gentlemen of civil life in powdered wigs and frills starched to a snowy whiteness. And in the midst of them was Laura, looking sad and red-eyed with weeping.
Tom started forward, but the thronging crowd was too great and he was forced back to the quiet spot near the door which he had occupied before. And, as fate willed it, in a few moments poor Laura, who had crept out of the chattering, laughing, exclaiming crush to cry, stood at his side.
“Laura,” said he eagerly. “Laura.” His tone was low, but the sound reached her; and she looked at him, frightened and surprised.
“Laura,” said he. “Don’t you know me?”
“Cousin Tom,” whispered she, delight mixed with fear. “Oh, what are you doing here? You have placed yourself in great danger; why did you come?”
“To see you.”
“To see me!”
“And to ask you if this, which is to take place here to-night, is with your free will.”
Laura did not answer, but sobbed.
“I see it is not,” proceeded Tom in the same low voice. “Laura, my mother always thought as much of you as if you had been her own daughter. And I will do and dare for you what I would do and dare for my own sister.”
“Tom, what do you mean?”
He had no chance to answer, for at this moment Jasper Harwood came hastily up and, with a searching, suspicious look at Tom, drew Laura away. Lieutenant Cheyne had come in accompanied by a crowd of young officers; Tarleton and Lord Cornwallis glittered among the gathering in their splendid uniforms; not a thing was wanting, in Tory Harwood’s mind, to make the occasion one of the utmost pomp and display.
The burly old Tory stood, with Laura, in the midst of his glittering guests.
This ceremony was all that was needed to place the Deering plantation well within his possession, and the thought filled him with great satisfaction. Some, in the mansion’s great rooms, had removed their masks, but most had not; and, among others the numerous body of maskers in the costumes of backwoodsmen, who had grouped in a solid mass near the door, still kept their faces covered.
The music was playing softly as Harwood raised his voice.
“Here, Cheyne,” said he, “come this way.”
Lieutenant Cheyne stepped forward, but to the surprise of all he was shouldered aside by a rough-looking youth in a black mask.
“What now, sir!” exclaimed Cheyne, angrily.
“Stand aside,” said Tom Deering, sharply. He pushed his way to the centre of the room, all falling back in surprise; Cornwallis and Tarleton, from the far end of the room, had recognized him as their mysterious visitor of the night before, and were staring eagerly to see what he was about to do.
“What do you mean by this offensive conduct, sir?” demanded Jasper Harwood, his face growing a deep purple and his wicked little eyes snapping with anger. “This is my house and——”
“Hold,” cried Tom in a voice that rang through the room like the blast of a bugle. “You speak falsely, Jasper Harwood. I am master here.”
“Master!” Harwood started and a shade of pallor crept into his face. “What do you want here?”
“To take this poor girl, and place her among friends,” he pointed to Laura as he spoke.
“Am I, her uncle, not her friend?” Jasper Harwood advanced upon Tom, but the masked young swamp-rider looked him fearlessly in the eye. “Who are you, sir?” the older man demanded, furiously, “who are you, I say?”
Tom turned and held up his hand with a proud gesture.
“Stand out, my gallant lads,” he cried, his eye flashing.
The masks were torn from the faces of the backwoodsmen, and they stood forth with musket, pistol and naked sabre, facing the startled guests of Jasper Harwood.
“These!” cried Tom, his glance sweeping the brilliant throng of officers who stood, their swords half drawn, looking at him astounded, “these are Marion’s men.”
“And you?” shouted Jasper Harwood.
Tom plucked the covering from his face.
“Look,” said he.
As Jasper Harwood looked into his gallant nephew’s face, there came a sudden crash of falling metal; the great candellabrum, which had been the sole means of lighting the room, had been dashed to the floor by Cole, and the place was left in complete darkness. Women screamed and men shouted; but when lights were once more secured, the swamp-riders, with Laura in their midst, were gone; and the hoof-beats of their horses rang out from far down the road.