Alexander Key - A Whip for the Colonel.pdf - Alexander Key - widez2

A Whip for the Colonel

By Alexander Key author of “Fortune Has Horns”

A tale of the days when Tarle-ton's Redcoats rode roughshod through Carolina.

IT SEEMS like yesterday, but my grandfather got it from his grandfather, who was there that night at the

stag at McQueen's and who watched how the tide of history was turned because a little man wouldn't

down a drink.

They say he was a hard-bitten young devil, my grandfather's grandfather, quick with his fists and

his tongue, freckled and sandy and with the same blue glitter in his eye that all the James men have; a

captain in the Second Militia at twenty-two, and he could ride horse with men like Morgan and Harry

Lee. He knew them all, those great ones of the Revolution that you never hear tell about—Black

McDonald and. Crabstick, John Laurens and the Horry boys, and George Dennison who sang ballads

he'd made up in the swamps at night. Gavin was in the Brigade with the rest of them.

But it started at McQueen's. The house stood just around the corner on Tradd Street, and when

old Alec McQueen -gave one of. his dinners—they the talk of Charles Town, as people still know the

place—he'd lock the doors and windows, give each guest what he liked, and have him under -the table

by cock's crow. He'd keep a servant or two to boot back and forth to the tap room, and as long as he

was he'd waddle around, discarding peruke, ruffles or waistcoat with every other drink, and all the while

his sly eyes would be on the lookout for gentle sipper. A man learned to drink McQueen’s.

I can see the place as if I'd been there with young Gavin: the spring night outside fragrant with

honeysuckle and magnolias, and the city strangely quiet after three weeks of cannonading; the big

drawing room reeking of pomatum and. spirits; a hundred food odors drift-ing from the littered dining

room, thickening a staleness already too thick from sputtering tapers and tobacco.

And there was the clink of glass and mug and demijohn; the low, satisfied murmur of a score of

fine gentlemen preparing to forget a blackguard named Clinton and become properly insensible before

morning….

GAVIN JAMES was uneasy. It was not so much that the room was too hot, and that he was the only

young man present. The thing was something he couldn't put his finger on, and it had crept in from the

sweet night be-yond the barred windows. He sprawled in a corner, keeping one eye on the clock and the

other on his colonel across the room, and wished he didn't have to mind his liquor. He'd promised,

without realizing what it meant, to have the colonel back to the batteries, sober, by midnight. Sober from

this place—with every door and window locked and old McQueen pouring the stuff faster than a man

could swallow it

It was a wonder how the colonel could hold so much and still keep his feet. He stood in the

opposite corner near the ample figure of Mr. Bee, a dark, quiet little man in a militia uni-form so stained

and powder-blackened that McQueen's Negro servant wouldn't have worn it. A noggin of rum was

always at his lips. He should have been drunk, but his black eyes were awake, watchful, and queerly

troubled.

Gavin saw him glance at the clock as McQueen was filling his noggin again. When McQueen

turned to look after Poyas Bee, the mystery of the colonel's sobriety was suddenly explained. McQueen,

looking slyly back over his shoulder, saw the thing at the same time. It was the beginning, as Gavin

realized later, of a curious chain of incidents that was to affect the lives of everyone in the room.

The colonel was caught in the act of tossing five fingers of the best rum in Carolina into the

fireplace.

McQueen stared at him. "Bless me!" he muttered, and waddled to the colonel's side. "I say, are

ye daft on yere feet? Ye'll he needin' 0' that an' more to fight the fevers an' the British!"

Mr. Bee chuckled. "You can't put 'im on the floor, Alec. I've told you 'e's not a drinkin' man!"

'E's 'ere, Poyas, an' 'e'll 'ave to drrrink!" McQueen blinked foggily and without recognition at the

colonel while he refilled the noggin. "Come, come, sorrr; the night's afore us! 'Ave a snifter in the right

place—a toast to General Ben Lincoln!"

The room quieted. The colonel frowned and his well-cut lips tightened. He raised the noggin

slowly, "To Lincoln," he said fervently. "God help him; he needs more than a toast. Another week and

he'll be forced to capitulate!"

"Eh?" rasped McQueen. "Capit-ulate? Nonsense! Twice the bloody Britons came yapping'

around us an' we' fired their breeches. Now we have Lincoln an' his whole damned arrrmy to hold the

beggars!"

The colonel's gentle-strong face hardened until it was hawk-like his black eyes flicked over the

room with a steel thrust that drove it to dead si-lence. Gavin could hear every watch ticking.

"Mister McQueen; gentlemen," the colonel said quietly, "the devils are at our doorstep. Sir

Henry's regulars are on the Ashley and the Neck, and the moment wind and tide favor, Arbuthnot's fleet

will be up the channel. Mark me, seh, his guns will blow the city out of the rnarsh. I warn you all to leave

while there's still time!"

MCQUEEN'S jaw clicked. "Damn Arbuthnot an' Clinton!" he roared. "Gad, sorr, 'tis no night to turn

alarmist! The war's nigh over, an' while we have honor we'll hold the city! Drrink an' drrrown your fears!"

He was purpling and he wanted to say more, but the colonel had set off a spark and they were all talking

now. Poyas Bee was on his feet shouting.

"Whash dish, Franshis!" cried the burly Poyas—Mr. Poyas Bee, Master of Hounds, who had

known the colo-nel for forty years. "Dash treashun, Franshis! Treashun!" He careened over the rug, his

wig awry and one thick fist shaking a turkey leg in the colonel's face. "Dishonor'ble talk, Franshis. Don't

become your pash rec-ord. No Ca'liny gentleman would run from a li'l noise an' follow the ladies to the

country. Why, there's e 'en been Whigs advish Lincoln to retreat an’ let the scoundrels have the city!"

"I was one of them," retorted the colonel. "And, by Harry, if I were in command I'd retreat

tonight and least save the army!"

"We're glad you're not in command," rasped McQueen, abruptly sober. He shrugged. "But

come, drink, we have the night-"

" I’ll give him a drink!” snapped Poyas. "Then I'm done with him." He flung the contents of his

glass into colonel's face.

The little man stood rock-still. Whether he was angry or not Gavin could not tell; but he could

see the stinging hurt in him.

"Poyas," he spoke finally. "You're drunk. I forgive you."

"Now, now," muttered McQueen,' coming between them, "We be all good Whigs. I beg you,

there's nought to pull hair about. Mister Bee was a bit hasty, an our militiaman no doubt has the interests

0' Ca'liny at heart. Come, gentlemen, three whiskeys to patch the matter, an' a demijohn to seal it. Mister

Bee, please…”

But Poyas had lumbered away, and young Gavin saw he was beyond conciliation. The clock

struck. Gavin caught the colonel's eye and slid to his feet. He approached the colonel and began reciting

the little reminder the two had planned between them. "You have the night inspection at twelve, sir, and

there's that matter of more sandbags for the south wall. We'd best hurry." It was beyond Gavin, why the

colonel should have taken the stand he did when all knew there was nothing to worry about, and why any

man, with twenty-four hours leave and in his right mind, would want to leave with so much good liquor

untasted. But the colonel had not been himself for a week.

My respects, Mister McQueen," the colonel finished. "If you will pardon our haste-"

"Haste bedamned!" McQueen was indignant. "Faith, old Ben Lincoln knows where ye are; he'd

have been here himself if he hadn't had too much of his own rum. Rotten stuff! Gad, sorr, do ye ask me

to unlock my doors an’ allow ye to leave cold sober? By my faith, I've ne'er done such a thing in thirty

years! The keys are hid an' ye can't get out. 'Ere-" He thrust forth a bottle. "Drrrink, Major, an' I'll make

a real Whig 0' ye by dawn!"

At McQueen's a gentleman must at least pretend to drink. The colonel tipped the bottle up, and

in ten minutes it was half empty and he was staggering with the others. Whether most of the liquor went

down his throat or into the urn behind him, Gavin never learned, but when McQueen left for the taproom

the colonel nodded sharply and slipped through the hall to examine the rear door. Gavin followed.

The rear door was locked and before they could try the windows Gavin heard McQueen

coming. They hurried up the servants' stairway to the upper hall.

Both gallery doors were locked and the colonel swore. But the sewing-room door was ajar; he

entered and eased open a window. He was leaning out of it, drinking in the sweet air when Gav-in asked

him if he wasn't making a mistake by wanting to quit such good company and leave the trouble with Mr.

Bee unsettled.

The colonel grunted. "Mistake, lad?" He pointed across the Battery and the harbor where the

lights of Arbuthnot's fleet were winking on the horizon.

"There's an inshore wind, if you know the meaning of it. I'm confounded if I'll be caught drunk

and napping when all hell's getting ready to pop. I'd hoped to open the eyes of that crowd

below—they're important men and that sot Lincoln will do what they say. But there was no chance to

talk. They're all daft and blind."

"But, sir, we've been tasting Clin-ton's medicine. It hasn't harmed us. See, they've stopped

wasting powder—and the fleet will never dare sail past the fort."

The colonel pulled down a curtain, fastened it to a table leg and heaved it over the sill. "They'll

sail if the wind holds. Out with you! There's a power of work ahead before we're ready for them. Would

to God I were a bigger man.”

GAVIN reached the curtain's end, dropped the remaining few yards to the ground. He had gained his

feet when he heard an oath, and was just in time to see the colonel's spare body falling like a plummet,

torn curtain clutched in his fingers. He landed in a heap, and there was a queer sound as if some one had

stepped upon a dry stick in the woods. The colonel groaned, lay still a moment, then bunt into a cold fit

of cursing. He seldom cursed.

He had snapped an ankle bone. As Gavin remembered it, it was as if all the colonel's world and

hopes had sud-denly come to an end. He sat there, striking his leg with a clenched fist and shaking his

head, such a look of futility on his face as Gavin had never seen. And all at once Gavin understood.

He was a small man, with only a colonel's stripes on his jacket, but Caro-lina was in his heart and

his mind and he'd been carrying the weight of her on his shoulders. For a week he'd fought to be listened

to—and they'd I told him such talk didn't become a man who'd cut a name in the Cherokee wars and

been cited for valor in the last siege. Liquor from a lost friend smarted in his eyes. He was a terrier

barking at shadows, and now all he had for his trouble was a cracked leg bone. He'd lost his last right. A

man can't get out and fight with a broken leg.

Gavin understood, though he did not agree, and he failed to see the writ-ing on the wall until it

was too late.

He got the colonel to his rooms, fetched and helped the surgeon, and at the colonel's order went

over to headquarters to report.

It was after twelve and he was ex-pecting to see no one there but the night officer. But when the

guard ad-mitted him he found that the pot was on the fire, boiling, with much history waiting to be

decided. The staff and the engineers were muttering over charts, disheveled and showing the fatigue of

weeks; beyond them was a hasty dele-gation of merchants all talking at once and talking loudly, as if they

could banish fears with high words and strong opinions. Old Ben Lincoln sat facing them, only half sober,

sweat dripping from the turtle creases of his neck. He seemed amused, and his big lower lip was pursed

as usual, hold-ing back his thought as well as his quid. Uncertainty showed only in his eyes.

Sir Henry had sent his summons: surrender within twelve hours, or he would blow the town out

of sight.

Gavin listened, watching Lincoln vacillate between the frowns of his en-gineers and the insistence

of the dele-gation. What the engineers advised Gavin didn't know, but the delegation was dear enough.

Beneath their Whig fervor and talk of fight was the fear of Lincoln ordering a retreat and leaving Clinton

to count spoils.

Lincoln spat, delivering himself of tobacco and words. "All right—all right! If ye don't mind a li'l

more shell an' noise, we're standing pat! I'm not runnin’ like Washington did at N' York. We’ll show 'em

who has mettle!”

A faint cheer, and the place quieted to the uneasy whisperings of new fears. Lincoln saw Gavin.

"Where's yuh colonel?" he asked.

Gavin told him. Lincoln wagged his head in groggy sympathy that con-tained a measure of relief.

He had a big man's tolerance for the little colonel, though he had found him annoying.

“ 'Stoo bad, but thas what he gets for turnin' down McQueen's likker. 'Ere—" He scrawled

something on a piece of paper. "Pash. In mornin' send 'im out the city, his plantashun. Recu-perate. Thas

order, unnerstan'? The fightin' will keep till 'e gets well. Run along now."

GAVIN hurried away, dazed, eager. He was on a dark stage then, be-fore a black curtain that would

draw aside at any moment. He could see nothing, though he could sense an ap-proach of something he

couldn't grasp. But a fire was in his veins and he vis-ioned more sorties beyond the lines, his men

whooping it up like demons as they clashed with some of Sir Henry's cavalry. Gavin loved war like wine.

There was a glory in it then, and honor, and a man was either a clod or a soldier.

The colonel sat propped in bed, bloodless lips compressed, eyes points of hard jet in the

candlelight. He heard Gavin through without a word, stared so long at Lincoln's pass that he seemed to

be sleeping. It was weeks afterward before Gavin had an inkling what was taking place in his mind.

Abruptly, sharp as a rapier thrust: “Lad, help me up. Help me dress."

But sir, you—you're unable to now! Tomorrow-“

“HeIp me up, I say. Then call for my horse."

Gavin could only stare at him. Your—horse?"

“My horse," snapped the colonel. He struggled to rise, wincing with each movement of his bound

leg. "I'm leaving Charles Town tonight."

"But, sir, I-I beg you-"

"My horse. And get yours. You're coming with me."

"I-" Gavin was speechless. Leave the city, its excitement, its parties, its open doors to young

gentlemen in uni-form—leave it for a bachelor's dull plantation house where the nearest thing in petticoats

lived ten miles across the swamp? He'd had enough of that back home on the Waccamaw. (Gavin had

been raised by a brother and had grown up a wild hellion in buckskins. Charles Town was life, and

though he still had a thing or two to learn of polish, he'd been accepted by virtue of his recklessness and

the James blood in him.)

Gavin straightened, clicked his heels together. There was his company to look after, and there

was fighting ahead. The colonel must be mad. "Sir, I beg to remind you that I am an of-ficer in the militia

and that I cannot possibly leave my company at this criti-cal time."

"Captain James, seh," the colonel answered softly, "I beg to remind you that I am your superior

officer. I order you, seh, to do as I say without another moment's delay!"

Gavin said no more. With dis-appointment bitter in him, and uneasi-ness heavier in his mind, he

and the colonel's servant helped the colonel in-to his clothes and onto his saddle, and rigged a sling from

the pommel so the broken leg could ride the easier. Sir Henry's men held every ferry on the Ashley and

with a strong sea com-ing in, the mile-wide Cooper was too rough to be crossed. Gavin was aston-ished

to learn that His Majesty's Dra-goons had not only taken over the Dorchester highway, but controlled

nearly all of Charles Town Neck. Only the Cooper River road remained open.

Sir Henry had evidently not deemed this road worthy of notice. It ran down through marsh and

thickets of sweet myrtle, hip-deep in muck from the spring rains. Gavin cursed it and went floundering

ahead to pick the way. Alone he would have used the main route, and devil take whomever he met.

But this was vinegar to him. Give him his company now, a free hand, and he'd mop up the

highway soon enough. Instead he was sneaking away by the side door, running, playing nursemaid to a

man who had evidently lost all reason. Lincoln was right. There'd been no sense in leaving McQueen's.

Leaving Charles Town was even more ridiculous.

Oscar, the colonel's Negro, barked at him once to slow down, for the colo-nel's sake, and

added that the road may have been left open as a trap. Gavin looked back, stifling oaths and feeling his

neck burn. In the clear starlight he could see the colonel's white horse slid-ing through muck and water

with a queer, halting walk as if he knew every movement brought pain. The colonel rode without a

murmur, hands braced on the saddle and chin on chest; he seemed crushed and entirely oblivious of

himself. Oscar, a little man like his master, rode beside him, scolding the horses and scolding McQueen,

the night and the sucking mud. Gavin swal-lowed suddenly.

There was a pounding off to his left where Sir Henry's men were probably placing mortars, and

for awhile he traveled warily; but the way remained clear, and after an hour he heard only the frogs

shrilling.

THE FALSE dawn had come when they reached the St. James parish road. They had seen no one.

Gavin dozed. The salt marshes and the war lay behind, one eternal, the other al-ready a part of

yesterday. He was spec-ulating on the dullness that lay ahead when the roar of the colonel's pistol

brought him violently back to the pres-ent.

The next hour until dawn was some-thing he never remembered clearly, for it only presaged a

black tide that was to sweep every former thought from his mind. He saw the road ahead blocked with

the vague, cross-belted figures of horsemen, heard the hoarse shouts of still others closing in behind, and

slogging hoofbeats in the mud. A trap, certainly, and no way out of it.

He dazedly emptied his pistol, hurled it at another rider, and then he was in a mad vortex of

cursing shadows, the taste of hot blood in his mouth and his saber clanging sparks. And he thought: This

is impossible; two of our own companies were stationed out here to keep the way open! What's

happened to them?

He'd been praying for a fight. He fought now in bewilderment, and Oscar and the colonel fought

beside him; the colonel sitting crookedly in his saddle, clubbing with his pistol while his

sword parried flicking steel. Oscar a screaming lunatic with a cutlass, a crazed old hen driving hawks

from a chick.

There were too many of them and the colonel should have cried for quarter. But he was in no

mood for quarter that night. He cut a path ahead, barking for Gavin to come on. For Caro-lina. It didn't

make sense then, but the name rose in Gavin's mind as it were a bright Andromeda calling. It may have

been McQueen’s liquor.

Gavin's saber went spinning; he roweled his horse, crashed into a dragoon, drove his fist into

another's face. Ahead he caught glimpses of the colonel's thoroughbred, plunging, kicking, teeth bared

like a wild thing at the other horses. Then they were through, colonel's horse a white flying bird with his

tail plumed straight and the colonel an arched feather on his back.

A little man with a broken leg. It'll never knit right, thought Gavin. See, he's up in the

stirrups—he'll be a cripple if he lives. But they can't catch us. We have the horses. Even Oscar's filly can

throw mud in their eyes.

After awhile the colonel's horse took a ditch and vanished in the timber. It was dawn now, and

when Gavin came up with him the colonel's horse was standing rigid as if he were afraid to move, and the

colonel was slumped across his neck in a dead faint.

Gavin helped lift him to the ground. They were all three bleeding; Oscar, gnarled fingers

trembling, went over the colonel carefully before he paid any attention to his own hurts. "Nary bad cut on

'im," be mumbled finally. "Hit his laig ail 'im most. We tote 'im over to Mis' Singleton's 'cross de bot-tom.

Mebbe she loan us gig to fotch 'im home."

There was a gig at the Singletons', but no harness animals left to pull it. Colonel Tarleton, of His

Majesty's horse had already seen to that. Gavin swore. It was incomprehensible—the scoundrel riding

Alexander Key - A Whip for the Colonel.pdf

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