“Well, madam, allowing all this, it appears to me that what is expected of us, is the delivery, to the Rebel Commissioners, of all the negroes claimed as fugitives—”

“Let me interrupt you, Colonel Moncrieff. The Commissioners are employed only to represent the absent. I am here present. I can identify my negroes—I have done so—and now I demand of you their re-delivery,”

“But, why of me, madam?”

“For the best of reasons, sir. They are entered in the Hulk-book in your name.”

“The devil they are, madam!”

“I forgive your irreverence, Colonel Moncrieff, to myself; but regret that your tone should be so disrespectful to his Satanic Majesty.”

Moncrieff could not forbear a laugh.

“Begad, madam, you have me! By what names do you distinguish these negro subjects of yours?”

“Here is the list;—they have been identified by my overseer as well as myself.”

“But, madam, I am somewhat curious—pray how did you—yet, no matter! You say, Mrs. Eveleigh, that you have, yourself, seen these negroes at the Hulk?”

“I have, sir, and spoken with them.”

“Then there can be no doubt! But—” Here he paused, looked hurriedly over a pile of memoranda before him, bit the tip of his goose quill, and seemed, for a few moments, to meditate; then turning to his former companion, he said—

“McKewn, I must confer with you. Will Mrs. Eveleigh excuse me for a few moments?”

The lady bowed her head, and the two gentlemen left the apartment. The brave widow was left alone.

“McKEWN!” said the lady in an under tone. She appeared to muse for awhile. Then, looking up, her eyes seemed to become interested in the furniture of the apartment, which, as it was that of a military bachelor, was somewhat curious and contradictory in its character. The floor of the room was cumbered with chests, trunks and boxes. The walls were hung with pistols and sabres. Interspersed among these, were sundry articles of unmentionable clothing, to say nothing of military, parade, service and undress coats;—Moncrieff was something of a carpet-knight.—Great boots lay sprawling beneath the table. An elegant chapeau bras rested upon it; and, in near neighbourhood, protruding from beneath a pile of papers, was a pair of pistols of extraordinary beauty and finish. The widow possessed some rather curious tastes for a lady. She rose, took up the pistols, and examined them without any of that shuddering feeling which most ladies would exhibit at the contemplation of such implements. They might well attract the attention of a person not an amateur. The weapons of that day were of much more curious and costly workmanship than ours. There was an antique richness in the ornaments of the pistols which was calculated to gratify the eye. The stocks were quaintly inlaid with fleurs de lis and vines, done in filagree of variegated gold. The butts were capped with gold, in the centre of which was an elaborately wrought eye, with a small amethyst forming the pupil. The barrels were plain, but exquisitely polished. They were of rifle-bore—the duelling pistol in fact,—a weapon more in use then than now, and in the workmanship of which much more care and ornament were expended. The inspection of these beautiful tools of murder seemed to afford considerable interest to our widow. She finally laid them down in their places. As she did so, her eye was arrested by a paper which lay open beside the weapons. Her own name caught her glance. She uttered a slight ejaculation of surprise, and caught up the paper, which was one of those enormous sheets of dingy foolscap which were in common use at that period. Her interest increased as she examined the writing, and she felt justified in reading it. It afforded her some curious intelligence in regard to the very business in which she was engaged; containing, in fact, a long catalogue of names, evidently those of slaves—Sam, Tom, Peter, Dick, Pomp, Cudjoe, Dembo, Cush, Binah, Bess, Bathsheba, and a hundred more—and all parcelled off in sections, embraced in brackets, opposite to each of which were the names, also, of their respective owners. To some, the names of places, or estates, were appended. There she beheld her own name in connection with the slaves she claimed. There was something further. A memorandum, against each column, contained a reference to the source from which they had been obtained. She read the name of “McKewn” as that of the person who had put her negroes possession of Moncrieff. There was Moncrieff's acknowledgment and signature. There were McKewn's memoranda with his own handwriting as she supposed, and rightly; and other matters, all in detail, which she saw, in a moment, comprised a large body of conclusive testimony that might be very useful.

This, then, was the document which the British Colonel and his companion had been studying when she came in. She laid the paper down in its place. But her lips became rigid with resolution. She hastily seized the document and folded it.

“I am dealing,” she said to herself, “with enemies. This document may become necessary yet to secure my property. The villains! Shall I scruple when I am in such hands? Shall I suffer them to defraud my son of his rights, when it is in my power to prevent them? Away with such childish scruples. It is war between us, perhaps, and I owe them no courtesies, no forbearance.”

She put the paper into her pocket.

“McKewn! McKewn!” she muttered. “Where have I heard that name before?”

She heard footsteps approaching from without, and hastily resumed her seat and her composure. Her face on the instant became one of singular calm and simplicity. She was a woman evidently of equal good sense and nerve, and seemed totally unconcerned and unemployed, as the outer door was thrown open. The orderly, Waldron, again made his appearance, followed by another person. He looked about the room for his superior.

“He is not here—the Colonel?” he remarked inquiringly.

“He is within,” answered the widow, pointing to the chamber to which Moncrieff and McKewn had retired. As she spoke, she observed that the person who followed Waldron, started, and seemed disposed to retire. Her eye quickened with intelligence, but she ceased to look at the new party. A single glance had sufficed. Waldron advanced, calling to his companion to follow.

“Come this way,” said the orderly. The person addressed, hesitated for a moment, then, rapidly moving to the side of Waldron, put him between himself and the widow. They crossed the room together, and, without reserve, entered the inner apartment, the door of which they closed behind them. Mrs. Eveleigh followed them with a careless but intelligent glance. When they had passed from sight, she muttered—

“I see it now! Bostwick has been the creature of McKewn in this business, as McKewn is the creature of Moncrieff. The ungrateful wretch; and I have fed his family for years; his wife and child—when they were sick and starving. Oh! what a frightful, fiendish thing is Poverty, when it is linked with ingratitude!”

The widow had discovered, in the new comer, the squatter on a plantation which adjoined her own. The single glance which she had given him, had sufficed to identify him; and she was too circumspect to allow him to perceive that she had made the discovery. She was satisfied to look no farther. His slight form, sidelong gait, low, swarthy features, and long black hair, which hung down heavily upon his cheeks and shoulders, were not to be mistaken. She smiled sadly as she mused upon the ingratitude, which had been fed at her hands without thanks, and which had robbed her of her property without remorse. Let us leave her for awhile, and become parties in the conference between Moncrieff and McKewn.

“He was drunk, I reckon! He was the last man to have been trusted with them. I feared it. But, it strikes me that we might run the negroes without committing you.”

“How so? Remember, my honour as a British officer—”

“May be kept safely, if we can prove that they broke out of keeping and took boat up the river.”

“Indeed! Half-a-dozen of negroes break away from a score of Hessian guards—”

“All being drunk.”

“Unchain themselves—secure a boat, and make their way up the river through a fleet of three hundred vessels of all sizes! No! no! McKewn! That won't do! Old Leslie is too shrewd a soldier to listen to such a story. My answer would be an arrest and a court of Inquiry. You must think of something better.

McKewn remained sulkily silent.

“You are gravelled!” said the other. “So am I! I do not see but that we shall have to make a merit of necessity, and the sooner we do so, the better. If we delay about it, we shall have a host of other claimants; and the danger will be, not only that they will prove three hundred slaves in our keeping, but that something will come out showing how they came into our keeping.—You, for example, might be required to explain some queer histories. My notion is, that we must yield handsomely to the handsome widow—a devilish fine looking woman, by the way, with a head of her own!—and, by promptness in her case, avoid the danger of other visitors. We must discharge her chattels, and transfer the rest to the “Tartar” before day, to-morrow. By the way, does this woman know you?”

“I think not. Her husband did. I have seen her repeatedly, and have been on her plantation. In fact, I am somewhat interested in an estate in her neighbourhood. But this need not concern us now. It is a matter of some concern with me, as I am to remain in the country, that she should not know me in connection with this affair. I shall avoid showing myself when you return to her.”

“You see no means, then, of evading the surrender?”

“None, but that already hinted.”

“That is out of the question,” said Moncrieff, rising. “I will take the physic without wry faces. But, as soon as she goes, do you see to the transfer to the ‘Tartar.’ ”

“It will be well, too,” added McKewn, “if you put them under some better keeper than that drunken Hessian.”

“It shall be done. Well! How now, Waldron?”

At this moment, Waldron entered the room, followed by Bostwick, the Squatter, At his entrance, McKewn looked disquieted. Waldron was immediately dismissed.

“You here?” said McKewn to Bostwick. “Did you see the lady?”

“The widow,—Eveleigh?—Yes!”

“Did she see you?”

“Don't think! Jest as I caught the shine of her eyes, I dodged ahind the Sargeant. Don't think she made me out at all.—Did'nt look as ef she did.”

“Do you know what she comes about?” demanded Moncrieff.

“Reckon I does, Colonel. She's been to the ‘Hulk’ and see the niggers herself.”

“Remain here, both of you, till she is gone. Take care that she sees no more of either of you. If she has made you out, Master Bostwick, your best course will be to get into His Majesty's transport, as soon as you can, or she will hang you when the Rebels take possession here.”

“She hain't seen me yit, I reckon,” answered the Squatter, though a dubious expression darkened his swarthy visage as he spoke. Moncrieff, meanwhile, proceeded, rather reluctantly, though hurriedly, to give his answer to the widow's requisition. McKewn resumed the subject with Bostwick.

“Pardon me, madam; I do not forget. But you do not know these Hessians. If they have had the audacity to enter these negroes in my name, they will not scruple at doing worse. They will be very apt to hide them elsewhere, the moment they suspect that they are in danger of detection.”

“So much the more important, Colonel Moncrieff, that I should have the order for them promptly, and before they get wind of their danger. But, in fact, there is no chance of their doing as you suppose; for, before I came here, apprehending this very danger, I procured the assistance of three vigilant friends, who are now watching every movement at the ‘Hulks,’ and will follow the negroes wherever they go.”

“Then, madam,” answered the British Colonel, with evident chagrin, “I may as well give you the order out of hand.”

“I shall thank you, sir.”

“I trust, madam, that your requisitions stop here; for, though very happy to oblige the ladies, and to do justice, my interference will make me many enemies among these rascally Hessians.”

“Oh! sir, you will survive that danger. But this is the extent of my demands. I have no doubt that there are many other slaves, about to be fraudulently taken from their owners, but I can advance no proof to this effect.”

“The names, if you please, madam, of the negroes, whom you claim for this rebel, Porpoise!”

“Porgy, sir,” was the correction, with a quiet smile, as the lady beheld the evident chagrin of her companion.

“Well, madam—Porgy—though both names are sufficiently fishy, and of the two, the Porpoise is decidedly the most dignified.”

“But less fit for the table, sir,” answered the widow, as she proceeded to give the names of the negroes. Moncrieff wrote as she spoke. A few moments were thus consumed; then he threw down his pen, looked at the lady, then among his papers, rose at length with a dissatisfied air, and hurried again to the inner room where he had left McKewn and Bostwick. In a few seconds he again returned, still with a manner of some disquiet. Again he stirred up, and glanced over the papers upon his table, but without seeming to satisfy his search. Resuming his seat and pen, at length, he finished the order for the delivery of Porgy's negroes, and rising, handed it with great politeness to the widow, expressing at the same time, in very stately language, the profound delight which he felt in being able to comply with the wishes of a lady whom General Leslie was so well pleased to honour. The widow was not to be outdone in conventional graces. She answered him in terms equally polite and profound; and, with smiles and courtesies, took her departure. He waited upon her to the entrance. When the door had fairly closed behind her, he gave full expression to his chagrin in a burst of wrath and denunciation.

“The d—d cool and confident creature! Hark you, within there, McKewn, come out!—and you, too, Master Bostwick!—that I may have somebody to curse 'till I am comfortable. We are handsomely bedevilled, i' faith, and by a woman. But such a woman! In truth, she is a woman, and worth half the men I know.”

“And it's a mighty large one too, I reckon;” was the answer of Bostwick, with a grin that seemed to show that he was fully conscious of the sarcasm contained in his reply.

“You are right, my handsome fellow—many rascals in it, no doubt, but no one, by —, who seems so little grateful for little favours as yourself. But, where, the d—l, are these memorandums? Have you seen them, McKewn?”

“You mean those of the negroes?”

“Yes; to be sure! I had them here but a while ago;” and as he spoke, Moncrieff looked suspiciously at Bostwick. He tumbled over the papers on his table, but without effect. He failed to find what he sought. McKewn interested himself also in the search.

“Could the widow have laid hands upon them?” he suddenly asked, with some anxiety.

“No! Impossible!” said Moncrieff, and his eyes again glanced at Bostwick, who sate sullenly beside the fire-place, looking down upon the hearth. McKewn also glanced in the same direction; but his mind reverted again to his former suspicion.

“If the widow has laid hands on them, it will be a bad business,” said he, apprehensively.

“Pshaw! she wouldn't have touched them for the world. A lady, McKewn—a lady.”

“If she did take them, there's no way of getting them from her.”

“I should certainly be the last man to think of demanding them. But, continue the search, McKewn. Look among the papers in the other room. I must hurry off to Dort, and see to this business.”

When he was gone, McKewn exclaimed—

“Lady or no lady, I'll lay my life, that woman has pocketed the papers!”

“What papers?” asked Bostwick, indifferently.

“The papers that will hang you like a dog, fool! The memorandums of all the negroes brought in during the last month, and who brought them, and whence they were taken. My name and yours are both upon the paper.”

“Who put 'em there? I can't write. You must ha' done it.”

“So I did. I had to keep your accounts as well as my own, with Moncrieff. Look you, Bostwick, we must find out if she's got them, and if she has, we must get them from her, or the country will be too hot to hold us.”

“I don't see. There's a paper, you say, with your name and my name; but any body can write my name, and I'm not answerable if I don't write it myself. I reckon, if there's anybody in danger, you're the man.”

“You reckon so, do you?—as if my evidence won't convict you, should the paper convict me;—for I must show how the negroes came into my hands. Don't be a fool, Bostwick. We must get those papers!”

“Well,—how? I'm agreeable to any thing.”

“I'm glad to hear you say so, and to make the necessity seem more reasonable to you, let me hint that we must not only get the papers back, but the negroes. They're as good to you as ready money.”

“How can it be done?” asked the Squatter.

“I must find out when the widow and the slaves leave town. You can easily pick up half-a-dozen of the fellows of Huck's gang, can't you?”

“For good pay, and the guineas in hand, I reckon.”

“You shall have them. If we can find out when she leaves town, you can intercept her and recover the papers and the negroes. We shall have a transport sloop at the mouth of the Edisto, off and on, for the next two weeks. In that time the negroes must be off for the plantation, as they will be wanted pretty soon for breaking up the rice land. If you can recover them, you can push down the Edisto in boats, where Barton and Drummond will be on the lookout for you. Do you see?”

“Yes—cl'ar enough. But there's no gitting the boys, without the guineas in hand. I'm rather owing them something now, and they won't b'lieve me unless I kin show them the gould.”

“You shall be provided. Leave it to me to procure the necessary information, while you go and pick up the refugees. Half-a-dozen stout fellows, in all, will probably answer, and you, yourself, can make the sixth man. The fewer the better. They are more manageable, and the pay will be larger to each. When you have engaged your men, promise the cash, and come to me for the money.”

Waldron at that moment entered.

“The Colonel says all's clear, Mr. McKewn.”

“Then I'm off;” said Bostwick. “I know where Dick Norris and Rafe Burke keep, and they can show me the other men. I'll come to you at your own place to-night, Mr. McKewn.”

“Very good, only be sure and keep sober. You will need all your senses.”

“I'll walk a crack with you any day,” answered the other, as he hurried out of the room with Waldron. For a moment after his departure, McKewn sate musing. Then, appearing to recover his thoughts, he proceeded anew to search for the missing papers among the piles which lay upon the table.

“I'll look,” he muttered, “but something tells me that woman has got them. She may do mischief with them, and, unluckily, it's just in her neighbourhood now that most of my interest lies. There's that estate of Porgy: my mortgage covers his land.—There's Gillon's, which I've bought out and out—all, as I may say, alongside of her. If she has the papers, though they may absolutely prove nothing certain, they prove too much. She will hardly make use of them now. The British going out, and the Americans coming in, will cause a stir for sometime, and she'll be quiet 'till all the hubbub's over. Then!—But that will give us time, and time is half the capital of a wise man. She's a monstrous fine woman. What an eye she carries in her head! What a head! I must see her again! She has fine estates, almost joining those I got of Gillon.”

We need not follow him in his musings. Enough to say that his search was fruitlessly continued, for some time longer, after the missing papers.

“I see that you have nothing farther for me, Colonel;” was the only answer of McKewn.

“No, my good fellow, nothing. Take yourself off, now, while I make my toilet. There is the morning gun. You can see me on the march if you desire it; but i' faith, the ceremony of parting is usually so dismal and distressing, that I do not know but we may well dispense with it. At all events, for the present, McKewn, good morning—good morning.”

“The selfish and narrow-minded scoundrel!” muttered McKewn, as he slowly wound his way down the staircase.

“What a bore!” exclaimed Moncrieff, as the other disappeared. “With his d—d memoranda! What do I care if they do hang him! That he should presume to know the laws of honour for gentlemen or lady. He deserves to be hanged for that, if nothing else. Ho! there, Waldron!”

And ringing his bell furiously, our excellent Colonel entered upon the duties of his toilet.

Meanwhile, the business of the day was fairly begun in the American camp, and within the lines of the garrison. By a plan previously agreed upon between General Leslie of the one, and General Greene of the other army, the British column was to be in motion at the firing of the morning gun, withdrawing from the lines, near Shubrick's farm, and moving through the city to the wharves. At the same moment, the advance of the Americans, under General Wayne, who had been slowly approaching from Ashley Ferry where Greene's army lay, was to follow slowly upon their footsteps, until the city, abandoned by the one, should be fully occupied by the forces of the other. The Fleet of the British, more than three hundred sail, lay at anchor in the roads, stretching, in a beautiful crescent, from Fort Johnson to Five Fathom Hole. “It was a grand and pleasing sight,” says old Moultrie, who accompanied Greene in his triumphal entry. Not less pleasing to the war-worn and returning patriots, and the brave and glorious Dames, who cheered them in their weary struggle, was the progress of the troops of the conqueror, sullenly retiring from their places of pleasure and pasturage. The windows, balconies, housetops, in all the principal streets, were crowded with happy smiling faces, beholding with equal joy the departure of the one dynasty, and the reäppearance of the other. At an early hour of the day the embarcation of the British began, but it was not till near 11 A.M., when the rear guard began to file, with measured steps, through the centre of the city. Wayne's detachment, consisting of three hundred Light Infantry, twenty artillery with two six pounders, and eighty of Lee's cavalry, following them at an interval of two hundred yards only, constituted the advance of the American army. It was a novel situation for both parties to approach to such propinquity, yet forbear from blows; and the British evinced no small feeling of disquiet, as, in the impatience of the former, to obtain possession of that city for which they had so long been striving, they pressed forward at a pace which promised to unite the two armies in one indistinguishable mass.

“This must not be,” cried a British officer, riding up to the head of the Americans, “you are too fast upon us, gentlemen—you press upon us too closely.”

The American General was compelled to call a halt—and then the shouts rose from the housetops and the balconies, while trumpets blared, and a thousand palmetto banners were flung out in air as the cry went up—

“Welcome, welcome home, brave hearts! God bless you, gallant gentlemen!”

“How the brutes howl!” muttered Moncrieff to one who at that moment jogged his elbow. “Ah! is it you, McKewn. You are just in time to say farewell.”

“But I shall not say it, sir;” was the reply, in a tone, and with a manner which at once drew the astonished attention of the British officer.

“I have; and I must consult you in regard to it and him. But not now. I see that he approaches.”

The companion of Mrs. Eveleigh was, in that day, a very celebrated Carolina lawyer, and, subsequently, the widow unfolded to him the discoveries which she had made.

“I am not at all surprised at it,” was the reply. “It is certain that McKewn has grown wealthy. He is proprietor of several large estates, or rather has liens upon them, for advances made at enormous interest. A foreclosure of these mortgages, at this moment, when there is no money in the country, would give him these estates at his own prices. These papers which you possess would be fatal to him. But, unless he proceeds to extremities with his debtors, it may be well not to use them.”

“Should he not be made to disgorge?”

“Yes, if there be any good whig who suffers by him. But in all probability most of his debtors are tories, and they will scarcely oppose his action.”

The good widow shook her head.

“He has other victims. I know of one at least, a true patriot—a strange creature—of many eccentricities, but of many noble qualities and of much real talent. He has been the loser already by this McKewn. I recovered half-a-dozen slaves for him, when I got my own out of the Hulk.”

“You mean Porgy?”

“Yes!”

“Oh! we must save Porgy;—we will! But, for the present, keep perfectly quiet. We are yet in the storm. Government is only nominally established—we know not what may follow; keep an eye on the fellow—that is enough for the present—and with these papers, we can bring him up with a short cord at any moment.”

Enough of this conversation—which took place the day after the party at Mrs. W—'s. To that let us now return. The approach of McKewn to the place where Mrs. Eveleigh sate, followed very soon after the moment when she discovered his presence in the assembly. He appeared to see her suddenly; but, we may state, from our own knowledge, that his motive for appearing in that particular assembly, that night, was the result of his previous knowledge that he should be sure to meet her there. He had taken sufficient pains to satisfy himself on this point. His object in desiring to see her should be obvious to the reader. He was deeply interested in knowing whether she had possessed herself of the missing paper which so greatly compromised him. His notion was that, as a woman, she would in some way betray her knowledge—by look, word, manner—and thus enable him to determine upon the necessity before him, and the game which he would need to play. But the widow Eveleigh was no ordinary woman. She was a good whist player, and when you find a good whist player among women, be sure that she knows how to keep a secret. Her trumpet never announces the number or the value of her trump cards.

A smile and bow—a look and manner—of the profoundest courtesy—mingled with that sort of triumphant pleasure which might be supposed to appear in the faces of all good citizens at such a moment—distinguished the address of Mr. McKewn, as he stood before Mrs. Eveleigh. The lady acknowledged his address with a courtesy sufficiently decided to make no revelations. McKewn took the seat beside her, which her late companion had just vacated, and, in the current phrase of the hour, congratulated her on the grateful change which the country had undergone. She answered him in a manner of perfect good faith, avoiding with care every look or word which the most jealous nature might construe into suspicion or sarcasm.

“It is certainly an event at which every good citizen should rejoice, Mr. McKewn, Our people have gone through a terrible trial. They have shown themselves worthy of the liberties they have won. It is to be hoped that they will now prove themselves worthy to retain them.”

“A more difficult matter. But we must hope, my dear madam. It is something in proof of their capacity to keep, that they have shown the capacity to win. I found you lately engaged in a somewhat unpleasant business. I trust you were successful in getting back your negroes.”

“I was, sir.”

“You were then much more fortunate than some of your neighbours. I had much trouble with Col. Moncrieff in removing some of my own, and was only in part successful.”

“Indeed.”

“Yes; I have lost a number, and was quite satisfied not to have lost all. The British have had their emissaries all over the country, and some of these creatures, madam, were such as we should little suspect. When you found me with Col. Moncrieff, I was endeavouring to procure some clues to their detection, for it is impossible but that some of these wretches will still remain in the country.”

“Were you successful in your inquiries, sir?”

“Not altogether; but I fancy I have some clues in regard to one or more of our neighbours. You are aware, madam, that I have become the proprietor of an estate near yours on the Ashepoo?”

“No, sir, I was not! whose pray?”

“Gillon's.—I took it for a debt; shall send up negroes to work it, and hope to find myself one of your neighbours in the spring, if not before.”

The lady bowed rather stiffly, but said nothing. The wily McKewn construed her manner into a confirmation of his suspicions. If it had been her object to baffle his scrutiny in regard to the missing paper, she had lost a point in the game. There was a brief pause in the conversation, which McKewn, at length, resumed by returning to the subject of his interview with Moncrieff. He told a very pretty little story of the ingenious processes by which he had succeeded in recovering his negroes, and concluded by stating that Moncrieff and himself had quarrelled finally.

“But I had the last word, Mrs. Eveleigh, and one that he will remember. I was compelled to bear his insolence while the British garrison was yet in possession, but, in the moment of his departure, and when he could no longer exercise his power, I gave him my opinion of his character.”

He then told of the final passage already detailed between himself and Moncrieff. The note which he had put into the hands of the latter, he described as full of the most stinging insult. The lady could not forbear the sarcasm, which she yet uttered very quietly, and with a seeming unconsciousness of its latent meaning.

“Certainly, a very daring proceeding, Mr. McKewn. But, if I recollect rightly, Wayne's advance was within a hundred yards of you at the moment. Of that, however, you were unaware.”

A slight flush tinged the dark cheeks of McKewn; but he answered calmly.

“No, indeed, Mrs. Eveleigh—I knew it well enough: and knew that, were it otherwise, I should have perilled my neck to have done what I did. There would have been no sense or even courage in speaking freely, what I thought of the scoundrel, at a time when I should have no power to contend with him. I did all that I properly could in expressing my sense of his rascality.”

The lady appeared to hear him indifferently. He discovered this, and soon after withdrew from her side.

“Fool!” thought Mrs. Eveleigh, as he moved away. “Does he think to delude me with his inventions?”

“She has the paper!” muttered McKewn, at the same moment; “and now to ascertain when she leaves town.”

His spies were set accordingly; and instructed to watch every movement of the widow. They did their duty faithfully. The very next day, the Squatter, Bostwick, was in attendance upon his employer.

“Well Bostwick, have you got the fellows?”

“Five of the best bloodhounds in the country. But I must have money for 'em. I'm at great expense in keeping 'em. Jest simple meat and drink won't answer to keep 'em quiet. You must soak 'em and stuff 'em;—ef you leave a vacant place in 'em, they begins to be good and religious-like, and to talk about sins and sich like matters.”

“Pshaw!”

“It's mother-truth, I'm telling you. There's no keeping 'em properly sinful for your wants, onless I'm a drenching and stuffing 'em. It's something's a-wanting from morning to night. They wants everything they sees or thinks about, and they say they've a right to all I can git.”

“But you forget—you agreed with them for a certain price.”

“Yes! that was the pay when the work was done. But I was to keep them in the meantime, you know, and it's mighty hard work. They're all asleep now at Broddus's, up the path. They was most etarnally drunk last night, broke all the windows, and killed Broddus's dog—so them's to be paid for. Broddus says the windows is two dollars, and the dog cost him two guineas.”

“The devil! And you expect me to pay me this fellow?”

“In course—it's only reason—seeing as how these boys is in your keeping.”

“But I'll do no such thing.”

“You'll hev' to, McKewn, so it's no use to kick agin it. They will git drunk, and when they're drunk, they will splurge and shine. There's no hendering 'em.”

“And you?”

“Oh! I must drink with them, you know—”

“And splurge and shine too, I suppose; break windows, kill dogs, and expect me to square the bill.”

WE must now change the scene of operations, and introduce new parties to our drama. Let us present ourselves at the Camp of Marion, at the head of Cooper river. The reader will, perhaps, have observed that, in speaking of the departure of the British forces from the city of Charleston, and the grand entry of the American troops at their heels, we said nothing of the militia, the rangers, the famous Partisans, cavalry and foot, of Marion, Sumter, Maham, and the many other brilliant cavaliers, whose sleepless activity, great audacity, and frequent successes, had, perhaps more than any other cause, kept alive the hopes, and maintained the cause of liberty in Carolina, at a period when Fate seemed to have decreed the utter subjugation of the country by the enemy. The fact is, none of these gallant spirits were permitted to be present at the rëoccupation of the metropolis by the patriot army! They had shared the usual fortune of modest merit; had served their purpose, and had survived their uses. The work done, the game won, they had been thrown aside, as the orange sucked of its contents, with no more scruple or concern. It will scarcely be believed, but such is the fact, that the militia of the country, were especially denied the privilege of being spectators of the departure of that enemy, against whom none had battled more ceaselessly, more fearlessly, or with better success, than themselves. It might have been that they were too nude to be seen on such a brilliant occasion. They were, verily, very nigh to utter nakedness. They were mostly in rags. Their rents of garment were closed by bandages of green moss. Their shoulders and hips were thus, in like manner, padded, as a protection against abrasion by the belts which they had to wear, bearing their arms and ammunition. They were commonly shoeless and hatless. Raw hides made the shoes of many, wrought roughly, moccasin fashion, into mere troughs for the feet, the seams running down, and gathering up the edges of the leather, from the instep to the toes. A fragment of coarse cotton, or a ragged handkerchief, wound about like a turban, was the substitute with many for a hat; while, with a still greater number, the skins of ‘coon or possum,’ untanned, untrimmed, and with the tail jauntily stuck out on the side, made caps of every pattern, and of fashions the most extraordinary.—Their weapons were of similar diversity; from the long ducking gun of the planter, to the short fusee of the German Yager; the heavy tower musket of George the Third, to the long rifle of the mountain rangers from that section of the Apalachian slopes, which divides, or rather unites, the States of North and South-Carolina and Georgia. Sabres, wrought from mill-saws, with handles of common wood, graced the thighs of half the dragoons.

Such equipments would scarcely have made a brilliant showing in a scene so brilliant as that witnessed at the recovery of Charleston. Whether it would not have been most noble and impressive, as illustrating the true worth and honest patriotism of the Partisans, is a matter which the reader will take into consideration. It, certainly, was not considered by the ruling powers at that period, or considered only as calculated to subtract from the splendours of the triumphal pageant. But the reasoning by which the militia were excluded from the scene was really of a more offensive and objectionable character. An unworthy fear—a dread of the power of a body of troops who were supposed to be less easily brought under the control of authority,—who were known to be dissatisfied, and who, it was felt had just cause for discontent and dissatisfaction—was the true secret of their exclusion from the scene. Badly armed and worse clad, fighting for years amidst thousand other privations, without pay, and almost without thanks or acknowledgment, their achievements slurred over and disparaged, as they have been too frequently since,—while the deeds of others were exaggerated and clothed with a false lustre;—it was apprehended that, with the withdrawal of the enemy, they might be disposed to assert their rights, and do justice to themselves. It is possible they might have done so; since humanity is not to be supposed capable, always, of forbearing the exhibition of a just indignation, under continued wrong and provocation. But the possibility was still a very faint one. They had given no reason for the suspicion. Nay, they had been called in, and kept ready, more than once, under Marion, to suppress the apprehended outbreaks and insurrections of some of those very continental troops who had been deemed worthy to be present, at the event, which they were denied to behold.

A deep feeling of indignation, naturally enough, was awakened among our partisans at this ungenerous exclusion. But it did not declare itself, and could not, while under the leader who had so nobly conducted them throughout the war; and now they were about to be disbanded—to separate from their leaders—to pay the last honours of salute to the colours they had so often watched in the heady storms and vicissitudes of battle, and to retire to their homes—such homes as a war of seven years had left them—homes in ruins;—and to sink unhonoured into an obscurity, which held forth little promise of distinction in the future, and still less of improving fortunes.

It was in that tract of country, so often distinguished by his active enterprise, lying near the head waters of Cooper River, that Marion assembled his brigade for the purpose of dissolving his connection with them, and their existence as a military society. Their number did not much exceed four hundred men, infantry and horse. At an early hour of the morning, the stir of preparation was begun, and, by nine o'clock, the rolling drums and sharp clamours of the bugle, summoned them to the area of a noble wood of ancient cedars in which they were to take leave of their well-beloved chieftain. At ten, the General appeared among them, attended by all his staff. He was received in deep silence,—a silence expressive of emotions too solemn for shouts or words. His face, usually grave, wore a still graver expression than was its wont. His words, always few, were scarcely more copious now, when so much was to be said, even if much was to be left unspoken. There was more than his usual hesitation, in his manner, as he addressed them. His tones slightly trembled, and thus spoke directly to their own feelings. He spoke of their long services, their fidelity to himself and country; the honourable termination of their labours in the field, and the necessity of now sinking back to the no less honourable duties of the citizen. He assured them that, in him, his old soldiers should always find a personal friend, who, whatever might be the changes of the future, could never forget his sympathy and connection with the past. At the close, they gathered about him, each eager to seize his hand in friendly gripe. Nor was he the man to insist upon the dignities and formalities of his position at such a moment. The commander was forgotten in the friend, and the leave-taking was such as might be expected, at the breaking up and dispersion of the members of an ancient and loving household. It was midday before he left them, riding slowly away, attended by his suite, and escorted by a small detachment of cavalry. Night found the scene of the encampment silent—no drums rolled—no trumpets sounded—no fires were lighted. The cedars at Watboo, were as lonely, as if they sheltered the graves only of the brave fellows to whose living heads they had so long afforded the most grateful protection!

We cannot follow the fortunes of our scattered partisans, pursuing, as they did, a score of different routes, each with his thought and heart turned upon some special home and object. Bands of fifty might be seen, on horse or a-foot, taking the route for Orangeburg; other groups went northward, bound for Waccamaw and Peedee; others again moved down the river, taking one or other of the two routes conducting to Charleston, while sundry squads sped directly southward, aiming for the Ashley, the Edisto, the Ashepoo and the Savannah rivers; from all of which regions they had severally been drawn. We will accompany one of these parties, a group consisting of four persons, all well mounted, and, comparatively speaking, all well armed and caparisoned. Two of them, in fact, are officers. One of these is a stout, and somewhat plethoric gentleman; full, and smooth, and florid of face, with indubitable signs of a passion for the good things of this life. His features are marked and decisive, with a large capacious nose, a mouth rather feminine and soft, and a chin well defined and masculine. But for the excessive development of the abdominal region, his figure would have been quite worthy of his face. He rode a noble gray, of great size and strength, good blood and bottom, and with his fires but little subdued by hard service. Beside this person, whose epaulettes showed him to have held a Captain's commission, rode a youth, who could not have been more than nineteen years of age. He is slender and tall, but wirey and agile; with features rather pleasing and soft, than expressive; and which might have seemed somewhat lacking in manliness but for the dark bronzing which they had taken from the sun, He was well mounted also, tolerably well dressed, and wore the equipment of a cavalry Ensign. The third person of this party was a man of altogether inferior appearance, short, massive and awkward, with features harsh and irregular, redeemed only by a certain frankness and honesty of expression, which was derived from a large and gentle eye of hazel, and a broad good-natured mouth. He carried an enormous beard almost of lemon colour, and his hair streamed down his shoulders in waving masses, that faintly reminded you of a falling mountain torrent. A stout chunk of a horse, of frame not unsuited to his own, bore his weight. He wore no other uniform than the common blue frock, or hunting shirt of the rangers, a cap of coon skin, and, for weapons, a broadsword, of immense dimensions as from the primitive forges of a son of Anak, and a pair of common pistols. These weapons, we may add, he could use with the left hand only—the right being wanting. He was one of the few who, in the miserable deficiency of the militia service, had survived a hurt which had completely shattered the limb. His safety was due to his own stout heart, and the unflinching promptness of the friend and superior whom he followed. His right arm, torn into strips by a brace of bullets from a musket held within a few paces, was stricken off at his entreaty, by his Captain, and the bleeding stump was thrust instantly into hot, seething tar. The wounds healed, Heaven knows how, and he recovered. But for this prceeding he must have perished. At that time, there was not a surgeon in Marion's Brigade, and every hurt which affected the limbs of the victim was certain to end in death. Sergeant Millhouse, the man in question, became the devoted adherent of a superior, who had the firmness to comply with the stern requisition of the patient, and himself perform the cruel operation, which the sufferer bore without a groan.

The fourth party in this group is a negro,—a native African—the slave of the Captain: a fellow of flat head and tried fidelity; of enormous mouth, but famous as a cook; of a nose that scarcely pretended to elevate itself on the otherwise plain surface of an acre of face; but of a genius for stews that commended him quite as much as any other of his virtues to the confidence and regards of his master. Tom, had a reputation in camp, for his terrapin soups, which made him the admiration of the whole Brigade. He well knew his own merits, and was always careful to be in condition to establish them. The sumpter horse which he rode was covered, accordingly, with a variety of kitchen equipage. Pots and kettles were curiously pendant from the saddle, strapped over the negro's thighs, or hanging from his skirts. A sack, which exhibited numerous angles, carried other utensils, to say nothing of pewter plates, iron spoons, knives and forks, and sundry odds and ends of bread and bacon. Tom was really buried in his kitchen baggage. But this seemed to offer no impediment, nor to be felt as an incumbrance. He kept close to the heels of his master, and had as ready an ear for all that was spoken, as any of his superiors. He was not wanting, also, in the occasional comment—the camp-life having done much towards perfecting the republicanism of all the parties.

Our company had ridden a couple of hours from the time of their withdrawal from the ‘Cedars,’ and the separation from their ancient comrades; and had compassed, perhaps, eight or ten miles in this interval. Yes, but little conversation had taken place among them, and, though they rode together, they maintained comparative silence. Our Captain, who bore the name of Porgy, was almost the only speaker. He was one, in fact, who claimed a liberal endowment of the gift of language, and greatly delighted, on ordinary occasions, in his own eloquence. But he, too, was influenced, in some degree, by the scene through which they had so recently gone;—by thoughts which were now, perforce, required to meditate the future, and by the sterile country through which they were passing—reaped by the greedy sickles of the enemy, and sending up no cheerful smokes from the homesteads of welcoming friends. The day itself, from being bright at sunrise, had become overcast with clouds. Chilly, without being cold, it added to the feeling of chill which the circumstances of the day had naturally occasioned in their hearts. Nor did the solemn, stately, and ever murmuring and monotonous pine-forests through which they rode—by no means enlivened by occasional tracts of scanty oak, stript wholly of its foliage, or by the ruins of ancient farms, and decaying fences—contribute to lessen the feeling of melancholy which sensibly possessed our little group of travellers.

At length, however, Capt. Porgy broke the silence, as he alone had hitherto done, by something that sounded monstrously like an oath, but which we may render into more innocent language.

“By St. Bacchus, Lance, I must drink—I must eat—I must be guilty of some fleshly indulgence! Let us get down here. There is a branch before us, the water of which I have tried before. We have still a bottle of Jamaica. Tom must knock us up a fry, and we must eat and drink, that we may not grow stupid from excessive thinking. If one must think, its most agreeable exercise, to my experience, is over toast and tankard. Tom, 'light, old fellow, and get out your cookables. Lance, you carry that Jamaica;—I would see if it loses any of its colour in these dark and drowsy times.”

The command was instantly obeyed: though, to descend out of his piles, to fling off straps to which hung pot and kettle, bread and bacon, &c., was, to Tom, a sort of performance which needed equal discretion and deliberation. He was extricated, at last, though only with the assistance of Corporal Millhouse; and, having relieved his horse of its luggage, he adjusted himself to his tasks. Very soon, his box of tinder, flint and steel, were in requisition, and he had kindled a pleasant blaze within twenty steps of the running water. To this, Captain Porgy, accompanied by Lance, his Lieutenant—Lance Frampton being the full name—had at once proceeded; and already had he brightened the clear, but rather unmeaning complexion of the water, with the rich, red liquid of Jamaica. A pewter mug, of moderate dimensions, sufficed for the embraces of the separate fluids, and having first, with his nostrils, inhaled the fragrance of the rum, our Captain held it to his eye for a moment, surveying it with a glance of decided complacency, before he carried it to his lips. He drank, smacked his lips with a sense of cordial satisfaction, and offered the cup and bottle to Frampton. But the latter declined the liquor respectfully, and, stooping to the brooklet, drank directly from the running stream. Millhouse, the Sergeant, was more easily persuaded, and Capt. Porgy, as he beheld him pour with liberal hand into the cup, might have entertained some reasonable doubts of the propriety and wisdom of suffering a man, with but one hand, to adjust his own measures, particularly where the source of supply was so distressingly small. But he suffered the soldier to help himself, and, retiring a few paces, let himself down—no easy matter—at the foot of a pine, where the straw of previous seasons afforded a couch of tolerable softness. Hither, when the horses were fastened, came the Ensign, Frampton, while the Sergeant, Millhouse, bestowed himself more particularly upon Tom, the cook. A hoarse sigh, that, issuing from a plethoric chest, might have been held a groan, betrayed, in Captain Porgy, a more than usually serious sense of his situation. The Ensign, who had thrown himself down on the opposite side of the tree, modestly remarked—

“I think, Captain Porgy, you are more sorrowful than I ever saw you before. Indeed, I can't say that I ever saw you sorrowful 'till now.”

“Well: quite likely, Lance;—I have reason for it. Othello's occupation's gone.”

“Othello, Captain? Was the gentleman a soldier?”

“Ay, indeed, a Moorish solider!—a Blackamoor—a negro—of whom, it is quite likely, you have never heard—of whom you will, probably, hear no more than I shall tell you. He was a famous fighter in his day; but there came a day when his wars were ended—like ours—and then!—”

“And then?”

“He swallowed his sword through an artificial mouth!”

“What? How? Swallowed his sword?”

“In other words, cut his throat!”