8 Julia’s Revenge

We walked for nearly an hour, and during the last three-quarters of it kept straight to the northwest, in which direction I thought Morgan, with his little army, lay, or rather marched. At last the bush became thinner and the trees stood farther apart. I inferred that we were approaching the end of the forest, and I was not sorry, as the travelling was hard, and I believed that we had lost our pursuers. Presently we came into the open, and I let the girl’s hand drop.

“Which way are we going now?” she asked.

“Wait a moment,” I said.

I put two fingers to my lips and blew between them a whistle, soft and long and penetrating.

“Why do you do that?” asked the girl in a fright, coming towards me. “You will bring them upon us again.”

“Wait,” I repeated, and I blew the whistle a second time. We stood motionless for two minutes, and then I heard a faint crush, crush, as of approaching footsteps.

“They are coming!” cried the girl, seizing my arm. “Let us run into the wood again.”

“Wait,” I said for the third time.

The footsteps approached rapidly, and a figure, gigantic and formidable in the gray light, appeared through the trees. The girl cried aloud in a panic of terror and gripped my arm.

“Don’t be alarmed, Julia dear,” I said. “See who it is!”

Old Put walked up to me, gave his glad, familiar whinny, and rubbed his nose on my disengaged arm. Then he started back, and his eyes flamed with wrath.

“Don’t be angry, old comrade,” I said. “It is true I wear a red coat, but it is only a disguise, a ruse, and I will get rid of it as soon as I can.”

He wagged his head as a sign that my apology was sufficient, and made no further protest. I slipped the bridle on him, and the girl broke into a nervous laugh of relief.

“Did you think Old Put would desert a comrade?” I asked.

“Wait here just a moment,” I continued. I led Old Put a little distance and, gathering up some dry leaves, wiped the stains off his hoofs. Then I returned with him to her and told her to jump upon his back, but the horse shied away from her, showing aversion and anger.

“Never mind, Old Put,” I said. “It is all right. She won’t beat you again. She likes us both.”

“It seems to me that you are rather inclusive in your statements,” she said.

“Get up,” I ordered, and, giving her a hand, I assisted her to jump upon the back of Old Put, who had received my explanation with perfect confidence and assumed a protecting air towards her.

“And now once more for Morgan,” I said.

“Which, of course, means Tarleton in the end,” she said. “And I want to say, Mr. Marcel, that when the rebel army is taken I shall not forget the service that you have done me at a great risk to yourself. My father has influence with Colonel Tarleton, and I shall ask him to secure your good treatment while in captivity.”

She spoke with quite an English—that is to say, quite a patronizing —air.

“You are very kind,” I replied, “but Morgan has not been caught yet, has he, Old Put?”

Women think it their right to abuse a man and receive nothing but chivalry in return.

The old horse shook his head defiantly, and I felt encouraged. We had entered a good country for travelling and at last came into something that was meant evidently for a road, but it very much more resembled a gully washed out by the rains. It led in the right direction, and I followed it, despite my persuasion that we were now in territory practically occupied by the British, and were much more likely to meet them in the road than in the fields or forest. But I was tired of such difficult travelling, and, being extremely anxious to rejoin Morgan, I chose the course which promised the best speed.

Old Put carried the girl, and I walked on before, holding his bridle in my hand. I sank into a kind of walking doze—that is, I slept on my feet and with my feet moving. I was but dimly conscious, but I knew that I could put my trust in Old Put and that he would warn me if she made any attempt to escape. Whether the girl was asleep or wide awake I knew not, for my brain was too tired and dull then to tell me, but, looking back once, she seemed to be awake. She had slept well in the hut, while only a short nap had fallen to me.

We were in the darkest hours, those that stretch out their length between midnight and dawn, and I walked on over a dim and shadowy world. Sometimes I was not conscious that my feet touched anything but air. This queer feeling that I was walking on nothing lasted for nearly an hour, and then my half-sleep took another phase. I came back to earth, and the red clay of the road took on for a while the color of blood. The trees by the roadside raced past, rows of phantoms, holding out withered arms and making gestures that I did not understand. Once the dead face of Crowder rose up out of the road and confronted me, but when I said, “You were a murderer and worse, and compelled me to kill you,” and walked boldly at him he melted away like so much smoke, and I laughed aloud at such a poor kind of ghost that would run at the first fire.

“What on earth are you laughing at?” demanded the girl from the horse’s back.

I awoke with a jerk and replied,—

“At your gratitude.”

But I was on the verge of sleep again in five minutes, and the trees and the hills and the bushes were playing new tricks with me. The bushes were especially impudent, nodding to me and then to each other and then saying aloud:

“Here he goes! Look at him—making a fool of himself and wasting his time over an English girl who hates him and all his countrymen!”

I picked up a stone, threw it at one excessively impudent bush, and shouted at the top of my voice,—

“It’s a lie!”

“For Heaven’s sake, Mr. Marcel,” cried the girl, “what’s the matter? Have you a fever?”

“I was dreaming,” I said confusedly, and I made no further explanation, for she asked no more, merely saying that she hoped it was not worse than that.

The trees and bushes did not cease to nod at me and waggle their heads at each other and make jeering remarks about me, but I paid no further attention to them, treating them with the lofty scorn of silence, which is supposed to be the most effective of all replies. The road led into hilly country, but I tramped on in my dream, becoming dimly conscious that it was growing light. Afar off there in the east, just where the sky touched the earth, was a bar of light. As I looked it broadened and began to roll up like a great wave of molten silver. On the horizon the hills and trees rose out of the darkness.

Old Put turned his face to the daylight and whinnied approval. An answering whinny came as twenty cavalrymen galloped around a hill, opening in two lines and closing up again, with us in the centre.

“Wake up! Wake up, man! Why, you’ll walk into a river or over a cliff if you sleep on in this way,” said one of the cavalrymen, leaning over and slapping me vigorously on the shoulder.

I awoke and looked up at his bewhiskered English face and his be-striped English coat, and was filled with confusion and dismay.

“Why, he isn’t awake even yet!” said the officer, with a laugh. “Are you from Cornwallis?”

His tone, though eager, was friendly, and the reason for his question flashed upon me. It was the red coat that I wore, Crowder’s coat, which had served me one good turn already.

“Yes,” I said, “my name’s Hinkle, and I’m from Cornwallis with an important message for Tarleton. I was pursued last night by a gang of rebels, who shot my horse, but I escaped them in the wood. An hour ago I overtook Miss Howard here, who also has an important despatch for Tarleton, and I am trying to pilot myself and her to him at the same time.”

The officer raised his hat to Miss Howard and regarded her with open admiration.

“Your bravery and loyalty equal your beauty, Miss Howard,” he said. “England can never suffer when we have such as you. Don’t you remember me? I’m Lieutenant George Cuthbert, and I had the honor of an introduction to you at Lord Cornwallis’s ball in Charleston some months ago.”

“Indeed I do,” she said in a tone of recognition, “and I hope that we shall meet again soon under such peaceful circumstances, but now I must hasten on, for my message will not wait, and so must this kind soldier, who has been such an assistance and protection to me. Can you direct us by the best road to Tarleton?”

“Keep straight in the way you are going,” replied the officer, “and if you hurry you ought to overtake Tarleton before noon. Have no fear of the rebels. Tarleton is driving them all ahead of him, except one small party to the south of here, for which we are looking. I’d give you an escort into Tarleton’s camp, but I need all my troopers for the task I have in hand.”

“I thank you for your courtesy and information, Lieutenant Cuthbert,” she replied, “and I hope that we shall meet again soon in Charleston when all these rebels are taken.”

“And that will not be long, Miss Howard,” he said with a gallant bow.

He gave the word to his troopers, and they galloped on.

During this ordeal the behavior of Old Put was something wonderful to see. Though he hated a redcoat as a cat hates a snake, he seemed to understand that he had a part to act and that he must act it well. All his true character disappeared. He was a shambling, drooping horse, with his head down and ready to submit to anything, just an ordinary, oppressed British horse of the lower classes, not a proudspirited American horse, conscious of the Declaration of Independence and the truth that all men and horses are born free and equal.

But when the last of the British troops had disappeared around the hill and the gallop of their horses had sunk into a mere echo, Old Put resumed his former and true character—his figure expanded, he held up his head once more. He was the true patriot, equal to all. I was glad to see the change, for that was the character in which I liked him best.

We went on for a long time in silence, barring a request from the girl that I ride and let her walk in my place. I declined abruptly, saying I was a cavalryman, with such few opportunities for walking that I intended to enjoy one when I had it.

The sun, following the new light in the east, had appeared above the hills. The far crests and forests flamed with red gold, and we trod silently on in the shining light of the morning. “Why did you not take your opportunity,” I asked at length, “and return to your own people? Why did you not tell them back there who and what I was?”

She remained silent, and I looked back at her.

“Julia,” I said, and she did not seem to notice that I had called her by her first name again despite her command, “why did you not tell them who I was and let them take me a prisoner?”

“I have called you a rebel with a noose around your neck, and it is true. The noose is always there, and it was pressing very close at that moment. For you to have been taken a prisoner then meant your death. I could have taken the chance of returning to my own people then only by hanging you.”

“How? I do not understand you.”

“Look at the red coat you wear. ‘A spy,’ says Tarleton, who knows no mercy. ‘Hang him at once!’ and you are hanged.”

I had forgotten the coat, which, having served me well twice, might serve me very ill the third time.

“I must get rid of this coat soon,” I said. Then I added as an afterthought: “But what is it to you were I hanged? It would be only one more wicked rebel meeting the fate that he deserves. Why should you put yourself to trouble for me?”

I looked back over my shoulder, though I may not have had the appearance of looking. I saw a flush as of the morning that was around us overspread her face, and she gazed afar over my head, her eyes shining with something I had not seen there before. I asked her no more, but the morning continued to grow into a splendor and radiance passing all previous knowledge of mine.

The sun crept up, and the light reached all the earth, west as well as the east. We were still in the red-clay road, winding among lone hills and deserted fields and patches of primitive forests. We came to a brook of cool, clear water, babbling over the stones.

“Here we rest,” I said, “and eat breakfast. Jump down, Julia.”

She sprang down, and all three drank at the brook—Julia, Old Put, and I. Then we ate the remains of our provisions, while the horse found some tender stems of grass by the brookside.

“I think we had better leave the road now,” I said, “for this is the enemy’s country, and I do not want to meet any more of Tarleton’s men.”

It was my purpose to make a circuit around Tarleton and join Morgan, and she made no objection, but suggested that she walk with me.

“I am tired of riding,” she said, “and it will be good for the horse too.”

I threw the bridle-reins over Old Put’s head, told him to follow us, and we started on our great curve around Tarleton. Being a Charleston man, I knew very little of that part of the country, but in my campaigning with Greene and Morgan I had obtained some idea of the lay of the land, and I knew the general course I ought to follow. Besides, I felt very good, and I was full of enthusiasm. But little of the country had been cultivated, and as the forest was not dense there was nothing to stay our progress. We marched steadily on, and what impressed us most was the desolation of the land. But thinly peopled in the first place, everybody here, as in the country through which we had travelled the day previous, had fled before the advance of the armies. We passed two abandoned cabins in the scanty fields, but saw no other sign of human habitation. Yet it did not sadden me. The sunshine was beautiful, and the old world was fresh and young.

“In a few years, Julia,” I said, “when the last of Tarleton’s raiders is sent across the sea or to his final home, and we win our freedom, all this will be peaceful and populated.”

She said nothing—nothing about the valor of the English and the speedy destruction of the rebels—but looked abroad over the country with kindling eyes. It was fair to see, even in winter, with its rolling hills and sloping valleys and streams of sparkling water, a fit place for the growth of a noble race of freemen. But just then it was the most unhappy part of all our continent. Neither man nor woman could expect mercy where Tarleton’s raiders came, and all the books will tell you—and tell you rightly—that the war was more ferocious in the South than in the North, and most ferocious of all on the soil of South Carolina. Where partisan bands ravage and fight, and the people of the soil themselves are set and embittered against each other, then war is seen at its worst.

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