# War Drums (Sass)/Chapter 15

THE beach upon which they had been cast lay not more than thirty miles down the coast from Charles Town. Scarcely a mile away opened Edisto Inlet, and at Lachlan's suggestion they walked the strand until the calm blue waters of the inlet halted them. In an hour or so they saw a large plantation pettiauger coming down the river to the inlet mouth to fish. They signalled the boat and she came to them where they waited on the smooth sandy shore.
While the gaping negro oarsmen looked on in wondering silence, Falcon told the white man in charge—a plantation overseer—a story of how the Good Fortune had been wrecked in the blow of the night before. There were food and drink on the pettiauger and an hour's row up the inlet and the river behind it brought them to Mr. Paul Hamilton's plantation house. Hamilton received them hospitably, provided them with clothing, ordered his eight-oared cypress barge manned, and, holding the tiller himself, brought them through the winding, marsh-bordered inner waterways to Charles Town.
He set them ashore and, being busy with his crops, cast off at once for the return trip. Lachlan stood ​watching as the black oarsmen pulled away, then turned to find Falcon's eyes fixed upon him.
"You will not forget, sir," said Falcon slowly, "our conversation on the beach?"
"I shall remember it," Lachlan answered, "and certain other things."
They bowed stiffly and went separate ways.
Lachlan had slept throughout the long row through the placid inland marsh-creeks from Edisto to Charles Town. He had intended finding Almayne immediately but walked first to his lodging to get into a suit of his own clothes. In his room irresistible weariness came upon him suddenly, the cumulative effect of physical and mental strain. He lay down on the bed for a ten-minute rest and slept for twelve hours.
It was near ten o'clock of the following morning, therefore, when he sat down with Almayne at Marshall's tavern and told as much of his story as he was free to tell. Almayne, of course, already knew all that had happened in Falcon's cabin during Lachlan's first visit to the brig; and Lachlan, mindful of his subsequent pledge to Falcon, bade the hunter keep these matters to himself. Almayne sat silent for some moments when Lachlan had finished, his lips puckered under their thin white moustache, his long brown fingers drumming on the table.
"By Zooks!" he exclaimed. "An astonishing bird, this Falcon!"
Lachlan nodded. "On the brig," he said, "I would ​have died for him. On the beach, if I had had a pistol, I could have shot him down."
"In that case," said Almayne glumly, "I am sorry you had no pistol."
Lachlan arose.
"We must move quickly," he said, "for Barradell's rescue. I must see Mistress Jolie Stanwicke at once."
"If you see her, you will be more fortunate than I have been," Almayne growled.
"What do you mean?" Lachlan asked quickly.
"That I am denied access to her," the hunter answered; "that I am forbidden to speak with her. But I had best start at the beginning. I have a story to tell also."
He told it, briefly. Towards noon on Sunday he began to wonder where Lachlan was. He looked for him at his lodging, in the streets, at the house of Mr. O'Sullivan, Lachlan's former tutor, at a cabin outside the town's boundary that the two Muskogee warriors, Striking Hawk and Little Mink, occupied as a temporary lodging. Then the hunter went to the Stanwicke house. The negro servant, to whom he announced his wish to speak with Mistress Jolie Stanwicke, returned in a few minutes to say that the lady was ill and could not be seen.
He wandered about the town for some hours, his anxiety growing, returning at intervals to his lodging to see whether Lachlan had called there. The fact that early in the forenoon Falcon's brig had weighed ​anchor and stood out of the harbour strengthened a suspicion which had already taken root in him. That Lachlan was on the brig seemed a remote possibility, but less remote than any other theory that the hunter could devise.
Next morning he made another attempt to see Jolie Stanwicke. Her father, Edward Stanwicke of Stanwicke Hall, met him at the door, forbade any further communication with Jolie, and all but ordered him from the house.
Almayne, though well aware that Stanwicke disapproved of the search for Gilbert Barradell, was surprised at the man's sudden violence. He reminded Stanwicke that Richard Barradell had engaged his, Almayne's, service in behalf of Mistress Jolie, whereupon Stanwicke informed him hotly that Richard Barradell was, fortunately, on his way back to England, that he, Stanwicke, was responsible for his daughter, and that Almayne's services were no longer required. He then tried to shut the door in the hunter's face.
Almayne, in a fury at this insult, kicked the door open before the latch caught and delivered himself of considerable strong language before realizing that he was making a mistake. In the afternoon came a summons requesting his presence at the Governor's Mansion. His Excellency (with whom he was already on bad terms because of certain matters relating to the trade in peltries) looked him coldly up and down, informed him that complaint had been lodged against ​him by Mr. Edward Stanwicke of Stanwicke Hall, and forbade him to approach the Stanwicke house or have any communication with its occupants.
Almayne had already considered laying the matter of Lachlan's disappearance before the Governor. He had decided against this, however, because he did not believe that anything would come of it. Seeing that Stanwicke had the Governor's ear and that he himself was more than ever out of favour—knowing, too, that Falcon was well thought of by His Excellency—Almayne kept his troubles to himself and left the Governor's presence to seek out Striking Hawk and Little Mink.
They had learned nothing. Neither had Mr. O'Sullivan. Lachlan had vanished without a trace.
Monday afternoon passed and Monday night. On Tuesday morning Almayne saw a chaise draw up at the front door of the Stanwicke house. Immediately Jolie Stanwicke, her father, and a dark, thick-set man, the plantation overseer at Stanwicke Hall, entered it. They drove to a small-boat landing on the western waterfront of the town, where the plantation barge, manned by six negro oarsmen, awaited them. Almayne kept out of sight until they had embarked and then, as though by accident, walked out to the head of the wharf. The barge had cast off and the negroes were bending to the oars, but Jolie Stanwicke, seated at the stern, saw him and recognized him. Immediately she rose in her seat.
"Why have you not answered my message?" she ​cried across the widening space of water. "Is he safe?"
"I got no message," Almayne shouted. "Tell me quickly, do you know aught of Lachlan McDonald?"
She uttered an exclamation of amazement, then shot a swift angry glance at her father, who sat beside her, apparently dumb with surprise.
"He was set upon by three Indians in my garden," she cried in a high, clear tone that carried far. "They——"
By now Stanwicke had recovered his wits. He spoke a quick word to the negro oarsmen, and at once their voices rose in unison, chanting the unintelligible words of one of those barbaric rowing songs with which the black boatmen of the coast plantations were accustomed to lighten their labours. The loud melodious chime of their voices blotted out the voice of the girl. Almayne could hear no more of what she tried to tell him.
He saw her turn with a gesture of furious protest upon her father, who sat grim-faced and silent, staring straight ahead. The barge crossed the Ashley and entered the mouth of Wappoo Creek, evidently heading for Stanwicke Hall, Edward Stanwicke's country seat on Stono River.
"There's little more to tell," Almayne concluded. "I spent the rest of the day running in circles on a false scent, and I should have gone to the Governor this morning, much as I dislike him, had you not reappeared."
​He rapped on the table for the black attendant and ordered more ale.
"Well, what next, lad?" he asked gruffly.
"Her message," said Lachlan, frowning thoughtfully. "She sent you a message which you did not receive—evidently a message telling you that I had been attacked in her garden."
"Aye," Almayne answered.
"Stanwicke suppressed that message, letting her think that it had been delivered."
"Aye," said Almayne again. "So I figured it."
"He is Falcon's tool," Lachlan continued. "He is against her. And he is in Falcon's power—you remember Falcon told me that he held Stanwicke in the hollow of his hand. She will be in danger at Stanwicke Hall with those two men."
Almayne spread his hands in a gesture of irritation.
"That is not my business," he said impatiently. "My business is to get Gilbert Barradell and bring him back to Charles Town. Jock Pearson's pack train is starting for Fort Prince George. I shall ride with them to the Fort and then push on to Chief Concha's town—it is best to take the upper route because the rivers to the south are in flood. You'll be starting for Tallasee, no doubt, and since your road is the same as ours, you had best ride with us."
Lachlan nodded absently. "Good," he replied, "but there's work to be done here first."
For some moments he was silent, frowning and tapping on the table with his fingers.
​"Does Pearson's wife still ride with the pack train?" he asked presently.
"Always," Almayne growled. "Ugly Meg is Jock's right-hand man—be damned to her, though she's better than most women."
Lachlan smiled. "You were always a hater of women, Almayne," he said, "which is unfortunate, seeing that there will be two women with us on this journey."
"Two women!" the hunter exclaimed. "Meg Pearson and who else?"
"Mistress Jolie Stanwicke," Lachlan answered.
Almayne's eyes widened with amazement.
"Eh, lad, are you daft? In the first place, she would not come. In the second place, how do you propose to get her out of Stanwicke Hall? And in the third place——"
"She will come," Lachlan interrupted. "As for the other problem, we must find a way."
"So!" said the hunter dryly, and shouted to the black boy to bring the ale.