Chapter III

And there was arming in hot haste.

Byron.

The war meanwhile went on with increased ferocity. The tide of battle, which at first ran in Marion’s favor, had now turned, and his enemies were everywhere in the ascendant. The army of Greene was in North Carolina, occupied in watching Cornwallis. Lord Rawdon held Camden with a strong force. All the other important posts were in the hands of the British. Marion, for the first time disheartened, talked of retiring behind the mountains. Armed bodies of Tories, in the mean time, traversed the country, plundering at will, and hanging, without even the form of a trial, those of their unfortunate prisoners they had found in arms.

Mr. Mowbray had long contemplated rising in favor of his country again, and no time seemed to him so proper as the present, when all others were becoming disheartened. His daughter he knew to be in safety with her aunt, who had always maintained a strict neutrality: so there was nothing to withhold him longer from his purpose. He had accordingly secretly exerted himself to raise a troop among the young men of his neighborhood, and his recruiting had been attended with such success, that their rising only waited the removal of a large body of armed Tories who had lately infested the vicinity. On the first signal from Mr. Mowbray, they were to rendezvous at the Hall.

Mowbray Hall was one of those fine old mansions a few of which linger in South Carolina, fast fading monuments of the departing splendors of her old provincial nobility. The building stood at the head of a long avenue of trees, and was a large double house, with an immense hall in the centre. The outhouses had suffered considerably since the war began, and many of the fields lay bare and uncultivated; but the mansion itself was still in a remarkably fine state of preservation, and the architectural boast of the county.

It was a fine, clear morning when Mr. Mowbray stood on the steps of his house, to welcome the recruits who, in obedience to his long expected signal, were on that day to repair to the rendezvous. His feelings, as one stout yeoman after another rode up, were those of exultation, dashed a little perhaps with regret for having ever despaired of his country.

“How fortunate that Capt. Ball, with his Tories, has moved up the river,” said his lieutenant, who stood beside him. “We shall have time to discipline our men, and rally a greater number to our ranks. Our twenty tall fellows, though brave enough, could scarcely make head against his hundred troopers. We have a good week before us.”

“Very true; and we have assurances of nearly thirty more, provided we display our banner. Three days of quiet is all I ask. Then, I hope, we shall be able to give a good account of ourselves even if Ball’s Tories return,” said Mr. Mowbray.

“If we are gone when he comes back, my dear sir, he will wreak his vengeance, I fear, on our homes,” said the other, with something of a sigh.

“I hope you do not think of drawing back,” replied Mr. Mowbray. “In this cause a man must be willing to sacrifice father and mother, house and land, good repute, and all else he holds dear in the world. God help us!”

“I am with you till death,” said the lieutenant, thinking at that moment how much more his superior had to lose than himself: and affected by such heroic and self-sacrificing patriotism.

At this instant a horseman was seen galloping furiously down the avenue, and as he came onward, he waved his cap as if desirous to call their attention to something in the road which he had left. Mr. Mowbray looked in that direction, but a clump of woodland shut out the highway from sight; however, after a moment’s delay, the voice of one of the recruits called his attention to what seemed a cloud of dust rising above the tree tops. Almost at the same instant a number of troopers appeared at the head of the avenue. The approaching horseman now had reached the lawn.

“We are betrayed,” he cried, almost exhausted. “Ball’s Tories are behind, and have chased me for two miles. To arms—to arms!”

The time was too short to allow of barricading the house; but the great hall was speedily turned into a fortification. The doors at either end were closed, barred, and further defended by chairs and tables piled against them; while the entrances into the parlors were closed effectually in the same way. The great window at the head of the staircase, and the one at the other extremity of the upper hall were guarded by a proper force. These dispositions had scarcely been completed when the Tories galloped up to the lawn, on which they dismounted with loud shouts, and began instant preparations for the attack.

When Mr. Mowbray’s scanty troop was mustered, it was found to contain but ten exclusive of himself, for nearly half of the expected recruits had not yet had time to arrive. It was evident there had been treachery somewhere among them; for none but those who had enlisted knew of this rendezvous; and the sudden disappearance of the enemy two days before, it was now apparent, had been a feint. However, nothing remained but to sell their lives as dearly as possible.

Mr. Mowbray walked around among his men, and himself saw that every thing was ready. He exhorted them, in a few words, to do their duty manfully. His short harangue was brought to a speedy conclusion by a loud cheer on the part of the assailants, and by a shower of bullets aimed at the hall window, as they advanced to the attack.

“Fire coolly—and waste no shot!” he said, sternly, himself handling a musket.

Four men fell at that first discharge; and, mad with rage and shame, the assailants strove to climb up the pilasters of the hall door; but they were beaten thence by the butts of the defenders’ muskets. The men, however, who achieved this were severely wounded by the rifles of the Tories, who, keeping watch, aimed wherever a head appeared. An effort was now made to break in the hall door. An axe was brought, and, after several blows, one of the heavy panels gave way. But the moment the wood fell crashing in, a volley poured through the aperture drove back the assailants, who, thus foiled at every point, retreated to the cover of the outhouses, as if to hold a consultation.

The little garrison was now mustered. One of its members had been shot dead at the great hall window, and several were wounded. The hurts were bandaged as well as possible, and the stock of ammunition was distributed more equally. Their slight successes had inspirited the men; they began now to talk of foiling the enemy; and when notice was again given of his approach they repaired to their posts with alacrity and exultation.

The Tories now seemed to have resolved trying a combined attack on all parts of the house. One party advanced toward the hall door in front—another made the circuit of the mansion to assail the one in the rear—and a third remained at one angle, as if contemplating an assault on the side when the rest should be fully engaged. Mr. Mowbray’s heart forewarned him of the result when he saw these preparations.

“They are breaking into the parlors,” exclaimed one of the men, rushing up the staircase, at the very instant that a new volley was discharged on the house from the assailants.

Mr. Mowbray listened and heard the dull crash of an axe, followed by the breaking of glass. The parlor shutters had merely been barred, and the parlors once gained it was only necessary to break down the doors leading to the entry, which were comparatively weak, and slightly barricaded. To desert the hall up stairs would be to seduce the Tories in front and rear from their cover, and throw open an entrance to them by the way they had first essayed. It became necessary, therefore, to divide his already small force, and, leaving a few to maintain the old positions, defend the threatened door with two or three trusty arms.

“We must sell our lives dearly,” he said, as he took his station behind the door, posting a man on each side.

The enemy was now heard leaping into the parlor, and simultaneously a general attack began on all sides. The bullets rattled against the wall; shouts and cries of encouragement rose on both sides. From the quick firing overhead Mr. Mowbray knew that his men in that quarter were actively engaged. The axe was now heard against the parlor door before him, and the frail wood quivered under every blow. Another stroke and the panel gave way. Instantly the musket of Mr. Mowbray was aimed through the aperture at the man who wielded the axe, who fell dead at the explosion. But another promptly seized the instrument, and, posting himself with more caution at the side of the opening, dealt such vigorous strokes that the door speedily fell in. As the planks crashed to the floor there was a general rush on the part of the Tories in the parlor, toward the aperture.

“Meet them bravely!” shouted Mr. Mowbray. “Strike home, and we drive them back.”

He fired a pistol as he spoke at the foremost assailant; but the Tory knocked up the weapon, and the ball lodged in the ceiling.

“Hurrah! we have them now,” shouted this man, who was their leader. “Revenge your comrades!”

“Stand fast!” cried Mr. Mowbray, the lion of his nature aroused.

For a few seconds the melee was terrific. Now that the foe had effected an entrance, the defence of the other posts was no longer necessary, and the followers of Mr. Mowbray crowded to his assistance. On the other hand the Tories poured into the parlor, and thence struggled to make their way into the hall. Inch by inch they fought their road with overpowering numbers; and inch by inch, with desperate but unavailing courage, the Whigs gave ground. The clash of swords, the explosion of pistols, the shouts of either party were mingled in wild disorder with the oaths and shrieks of the wounded and dying. Swaying to and fro, now one party, now the other giving ground, the combat raged with increasing fury. But numbers at last prevailed. When most of his followers had fallen, Mr. Mowbray, however, still remained, wounded yet erect, struggling like a noble stag at bay.

“Surrender, and we give quarter!” shouted the Tory leader, who, throughout the conflict, had seemed desirous rather of taking him prisoner than slaying him.

Mr. Mowbray thought of his child and faltered: but remembering that the enemy never showed clemency he said, striking at his adversary,

“Never, so help me God!”

But that moment of indecision sealed his fate. The Tory leader made a sign to his followers, two of whom rushed in on the old man; and, as he spoke, his sword was knocked from his hand, and himself overthrown and bound.

Two days after he was led in triumph into the streets of Georgetown, nor was it concealed from him that his life had been spared only that he might expiate his rebellion on the scaffold.

His captor immediately repaired to Major Lindsay’s quarters, where he remained for nearly an hour. When left alone, Major Lindsay exclaimed, “My information was true, then; he has been caught with arms in his hands. So far all goes well. That proud beauty is now mine, for she will marry me to save her father’s life.”

[To be continued.