Act 5 — CHAPTER XI.

We must briefly retrace our steps. We left Richard Coulter, in ambush, having so placed his little detachments as to cover most of the groups of dragoons—at least such as might be immediately troublesome. It was with the greatest difficulty that he could restrain himself during the interval which followed the entry of Elijah Fields into the house. Nothing but his great confidence in the courage and fidelity of the preacher could have reconciled him to forbearance, particularly as, at the point which he occupied, he could know nothing of what was going on within. Meanwhile, his eyes could not fail to see all the indignities to which the poor old Dutchman was subjected. He heard his groans and entreaties.

“I am a goot friend to King Tshorge! I was never wid de rebels. Why would you do me so? Where is de captaine? I have said dat my darter shall be his wife. Go bring him to me, and let him make me loose from de rope. I’m a goot friend of King Tshorge!”

“Good friend or not,” said the brutal lieutenant, “you have to hang for it, I reckon. We are better friends to King George than you. We fight for him, and we want grants of land as well as other people.”

“Oh, mine Gott!”

Just then, faint sounds of the scuffle within the house, reached the ears of those without. Clymes betrayed some uneasiness; and when the sound of the pistol-shot was heard, he rushed forward to the dwelling. But that signal of the strife was the signal for Coulter. He naturally feared that his comrade had been shot down, and, in the some instant his rifle gave the signal to his followers, wherever they had been placed in ambush. Almost simultaneously the sharp cracks of the fatal weapon were heard from four or five several quarters, followed by two or three scattered pistol-shots. Coulter’s rifle dropt Clymes, just as he was about to ascend the steps of the piazza. A second shot from one of his companions tumbled the provost, having in charge old Sabb. His remaining keeper let fall the rope and fled in terror, while the old Dutchman, sinking to his knees, crawled rapidly to the opposite side of the tree which had been chosen for his gallows, where he crouched closely, covering his ears with his hands, as if, by shutting out the sounds, he could shut out all danger from the shot. Here he was soon joined by Brough, the African. The faithful slave bounded toward his master the moment he was released, and hugging him first with a most rugged embrace, he proceeded to undo the degrading halter from about his neck. This done, he got the old man on his feet, placed him still further amongst the shelter of the trees, and then hurried away to partake in the struggle, for which he had provided himself with a grubbing hoe and pistol. It is no part of our object to follow and watch his exploits; nor do we need to report the several results of each ambush which had been set. In that where we left the four gamblers busy at Old Sledge, the proceeding had been most murderous. One of Coulter’s men had been an old scout. Job Fisher was notorious for his stern deliberation and method. He had not been content to pick his man, but continued to revolve around the gamblers until he could range a couple of them, both of whom fell under his first fire. Of the two others, one was shot down by the companion of Fisher. The fourth took to his heels, but was overtaken, and brained with the butt of the rifle. The scouts then hurried to other parts of the farmstead, agreeable to previous arrangement, where they gave assistance to their fellows. The history, in short, was one of complete surprise and route—the dragoons were not allowed to rally; nine of them were slain outright—not including the captain; and the rest dispersed, to be picked up at a time of greater leisure. At the moment when Coulter’s party were assembling at the dwelling, Brough had succeeded in bringing the old couple together. Very pitiful and touching was the spectacle of these two embracing with groans, tears, and ejaculations—scarcely yet assured of their escape from the hands of their hateful tyrant.

But our attention is required within the dwelling. Rapidly extricating himself from the body of the loyalist captain, Coulter naturally turned to look for Frederica. She was just recovering from her swoon. She had fortunately been spared the sight of the conflict, although she continued long afterward to assert that she had been conscious of it all, though she had not been able to move a limb, or give utterance to a single cry. Her eyes opened with a wild stare upon her husband, who stooped fondly to her embrace. She knew him instantly—called his name but once, but that with joyful accents, and again fainted. Her faculties had received a terrible shock. Coulter himself felt like fainting. The pain of his wounded arm was great, and he had lost a good deal of blood. He felt that he could not long be certain of himself, and putting the bugle to his lips, he sounded three times with all his vigor. As he did so, he became conscious of a movement in the corner of the room. Turning in this direction, he beheld, crouching into the smallest possible compass, the preacher, Veitch. The miserable wretch was in a state of complete stupor from his fright.

“Bring water!” said Coulter. But the fellow neither stirred nor spoke. He clearly did not comprehend. In the next moment, however, the faithful Brough made his appearance. His cries were those of joy and exultation, dampened, however, as he beheld the condition of his young mistress.

“Fear nothing, Brough, she is not hurt—she has only fainted. But run for your old mistress. Run, old boy, and bring water while you’re about it. Run!”

“But you’ arm, Mass Dick—he da bleed! You hu’t?”

“Yes, a little—away!”

Brough was gone; and with a strange sickness of fear, Coulter turned to the spot where Elijah Fields lay, to all appearance, dead. But he still lived. Coulter tore away his clothes, which were saturated and already stiff with blood, and discovered the bullet-wound in his left side, well-directed, and ranging clear through the body. It needed no second glance to see that the shot was mortal; and while Coulter was examining it, the good preacher opened his eyes. They were full of intelligence, and a pleasant smile was upon his lips.

“You have seen, Richard, the wound is fatal. I had a presentiment, when we parted this morning, that such was to be the case. But I complain not. Some victim perhaps was necessary, and I am not unwilling. But Frederica?”

“She lives! She is here; unhurt but suffering.”

“Ah! that monster!”

By this time the old couple made their appearance, and Frederica was at once removed to her own chamber. A few moments tendance sufficed to revive her, and then, as if fearing that she had not heard the truth in regard to Coulter, she insisted on going where he was. Meantime, Elijah Fields had been removed to an adjoining apartment. He did not seem to suffer. In the mortal nature of his hurt, his sensibilities seemed to be greatly lessened. But his mind was calm and firm. He knew all around him. His gaze was fondly shared between the young couple whom he had so lately united.

“Love each other,” he said to them; “love each other—and forget not me. I am leaving you—leaving you fast. It is presumption, perhaps, to say that one does not fear to die—but I am resigned. I have taken life—always in self-defense—still I have taken life! I would that I had never done so. That makes me doubt. I feel the blood upon my head. My hope is in the Lord Jesus. May his blood atone for that which I have shed!”

His eyes closed. His lips moved, as it were, in silent prayer. Again he looked out upon the two, who hung with streaming eyes above him. “Kiss me, Richard—and you, Frederica—dear children—I have loved you always. God be with you—and—me!” He was silent.

Our story here is ended. We need not follow Richard Coulter through the remaining vicissitudes of the war. Enough that he continued to distinguish himself, rising to the rank of major in the service of the state. With the return of peace, he removed to the farm-house of his wife’s parents. But for him, in all probability, the estate might have been forfeited; and the great love which the good old Dutchman professed for King George might have led to the transfer of his grant to some one less devoted to the house of Hanover. It happened, only a few months after the evacuation of Charleston by the British, that Felix Long, one of the commissioners, was again on a visit to Orangeburg. It was at the village, and a considerable number of persons had collected. Among them was old Frederick Sabb and Major Coulter. Long approached the old man, and, after the first salutation, said to him—“Well, Frederick, have we any late news from goot King Tshorge?” The old Dutchman started as if he had trodden upon an adder—gave a hasty glance of indignation to the interrogator, and turned away ex-claiming—“D—n King Tshorge! I don’t care dough I nebber more hears de name agen!”