The horseman appeared somewhat ill at ease as he approached the settlement of Orangeburg. It was late afternoon, and despite being extremely weary after a two-day journey from Charles Town, he tried to sit erect in the saddle. He appeared to hold his head proudly, facing straight down the widening trail, but his eyes shifted uneasily from side to side. His clothing, somewhat mixed between that of an English gentleman and an off-duty military officer—which is what he was—contrasted sharply with the homespun shirts, leather trousers, and bare feet or Indian-style moccasins of the men whom he saw in the fields or near small cabins. All of them looked at him closely, more than the normal perusal of a stranger coming into Orangeburg from the southeast. Since all of them were somewhat familiar with weapons, they noticed the good quality of his musket and the sword by his side. His mount was superb, a roan stallion, and the man rode him with ease. He was aware of the eyes on him and responded to remarks of welcome, mostly “Ev’nin’,” with a polite nod of his head.

Although he was only sixty miles east of his home, he had never taken this route before. There was a small fort and only a few houses in the village, so he had no trouble finding the tavern, which he approached with studied nonchalance. A little stream ran one hundred feet in front of it, coming from a spring that seemed to be the watering place for the dozen or so families in the village. He stopped his horse well below the boarded-in pool, dismounted, removed the somewhat ornate saddle and bridle, and led the animal to the stream by the halter rope. After the horse had its fill, the man tied him to a low bush, removed a silver cup from the saddlebag, and drank several drafts from the spring. Only then did he turn toward the tavern.

Six men were on the front porch, now speaking softly or in whispers, their normal conversation quieted by the horseman’s arrival. Although they were ordinarily somewhat crude, were not especially hospitable to strangers, and enjoyed ribald jokes at the expense of others, there was something about the approaching horseman that kept his observers quiet and seemingly respectful, or at least wary. They noticed that, although it was early August and their shirts were damp with sweat, the man seemed to be impervious to the heat. He stepped on an adze-flattened log and then onto the low porch, and looked coolly at each of the men around him. They were not accustomed to looking directly at anyone for more than a moment, but none of them could fail to notice the strange intensity of his gaze. His face seemed to be expressionless, but his eyes, almost completely devoid of color, had a disturbing effect, as though they penetrated what they observed.