 | Selected poems by William J. Grayson |  |
IV.—THE SCOUT
Foremost of all the band to tell
The wild adventures loved so well,
A veteran scout the time beguiles,
With tales of fights and forest wiles;
Of Indian fights and border feuds—
A veteran scout, but vigorous still
To track, in pathless solitudes,
Savage, or deer, with matchless skill;
A Pee-Dee man, Old Peter Slade.
Amid the pines' unbroken shade,
By Reedy Creek, his cabin stood,
Of logs unhewed and daubed with clay;
Around, his pale white-headed brood,
And grim old dame, at work or play;
While he, unbought by gold or fame,
To fight his country's battles came.
He came in hunting shirt arrayed,
And moccasins of buckskin made,
And coon-skin cap, the brush behind,
To guard his neck from cold or wind:
Smoke-dried, he seemed, with dingy spots
From sooty fires of light wood knots;
Broad-shouldered, wiry, straight and tall,
Ready at race, or wrestler's fall;
His gray eyes twinkled keen and bright,
Like star-eyes in a frosty night;
His ample chest and shaggy head,
And sinewy hand and arm were spread
With coarse strong hair of grizzly red;
His throat with beard or whisker fringed,
His lips and teeth tobacco tinged;
Prompt as a boy at jest or play,
He threw the well-worn quid away,
And by the camp-fire where he lay,
Told the young yeomen gathered round,
Of many a bloody border strife;
The midnight fire, the captive bound,
The war-whoop and the reeking knife;
Of scalps in savage triumph spread,
From children torn and woman's head;
Strange, stirring tales, an ample store,
Old stories often heard of yore,
But ever welcome as before.
The wild adventures loved so well,
A veteran scout the time beguiles,
With tales of fights and forest wiles;
Of Indian fights and border feuds—
A veteran scout, but vigorous still
To track, in pathless solitudes,
Savage, or deer, with matchless skill;
A Pee-Dee man, Old Peter Slade.
Amid the pines' unbroken shade,
By Reedy Creek, his cabin stood,
Of logs unhewed and daubed with clay;
Around, his pale white-headed brood,
And grim old dame, at work or play;
While he, unbought by gold or fame,
To fight his country's battles came.
He came in hunting shirt arrayed,
And moccasins of buckskin made,
99
To guard his neck from cold or wind:
Smoke-dried, he seemed, with dingy spots
From sooty fires of light wood knots;
Broad-shouldered, wiry, straight and tall,
Ready at race, or wrestler's fall;
His gray eyes twinkled keen and bright,
Like star-eyes in a frosty night;
His ample chest and shaggy head,
And sinewy hand and arm were spread
With coarse strong hair of grizzly red;
His throat with beard or whisker fringed,
His lips and teeth tobacco tinged;
Prompt as a boy at jest or play,
He threw the well-worn quid away,
And by the camp-fire where he lay,
Told the young yeomen gathered round,
Of many a bloody border strife;
The midnight fire, the captive bound,
The war-whoop and the reeking knife;
Of scalps in savage triumph spread,
From children torn and woman's head;
Strange, stirring tales, an ample store,
Old stories often heard of yore,
But ever welcome as before.
He told of wars—in martial pride,
When Grant his Highland heroes led,
And gallantly, and side by side,
The Briton and Provincial bled;
When promptly, at their chief's command,
Young Marion led the foremost band
Against the ambushed Cherokee;
Where hidden in the dark ravine
By Shugaw Town or Etchoee,
The rifle's flash alone was seen,
While the red warrior grimly stood
Concealed amid the gloomy wood,
And sent his messengers of death
In showers upon the foe beneath.
No bolder heart than Marion's there,
Drove the fierce Indian from his lair;
But when the routed braves were driven
For distant fastnesses to fly,
And stern command by Grant was given
To burn and waste—no soldier's eye
Like Marion's saw, with pitying tear,
The wigwam blaze, the autumn cheer
Of maize consumed, and savoury bean,
In fields where foot-prints still were seen
Of little children, wont to stray
Among the tassel'd stalks at play,
Whose mothers now in grief and fear
Saw in the waste of battle there,
Famine and sickness and despair.
When Grant his Highland heroes led,
And gallantly, and side by side,
The Briton and Provincial bled;
100
Young Marion led the foremost band
Against the ambushed Cherokee;
Where hidden in the dark ravine
By Shugaw Town or Etchoee,
The rifle's flash alone was seen,
While the red warrior grimly stood
Concealed amid the gloomy wood,
And sent his messengers of death
In showers upon the foe beneath.
No bolder heart than Marion's there,
Drove the fierce Indian from his lair;
But when the routed braves were driven
For distant fastnesses to fly,
And stern command by Grant was given
To burn and waste—no soldier's eye
Like Marion's saw, with pitying tear,
The wigwam blaze, the autumn cheer
Of maize consumed, and savoury bean,
In fields where foot-prints still were seen
Of little children, wont to stray
Among the tassel'd stalks at play,
Whose mothers now in grief and fear
Saw in the waste of battle there,
Famine and sickness and despair.
“You'd not have thought,” old Peter said,
“His heart so soft, with flashing eye,
And lip compressed and battle-cry,
When in the fierce attack he led,
At Dollard's house, or when he stood
At bay, resolved, by Benbow's wood,
To wait and brave the fierce attack
Of Tarleton's legion on his track.”
“His heart so soft, with flashing eye,
And lip compressed and battle-cry,
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At Dollard's house, or when he stood
At bay, resolved, by Benbow's wood,
To wait and brave the fierce attack
Of Tarleton's legion on his track.”
Now, changed the theme, he told the tale
Of subtle arts that never fail
To hit the Tory's cunning trail,
As surely as the hound pursues
The flying buck through tainted dews.
Boasted how, near the British host,
He shot the sentry at his post;
Or climbing high, or creeping near
In brakes, contrived to see and hear.
Of subtle arts that never fail
To hit the Tory's cunning trail,
As surely as the hound pursues
The flying buck through tainted dews.
Boasted how, near the British host,
He shot the sentry at his post;
Or climbing high, or creeping near
In brakes, contrived to see and hear.
He told of marches made by night,
How foes had trembled at their sight,
When in the Tory camp they came,
Like hunter on his midnight game,
That stand with glaring eyes and gaze
Upon the torch's sudden blaze,
Powerless to move, until they fall
Beneath the rifle's fatal ball.
How foes had trembled at their sight,
When in the Tory camp they came,
Like hunter on his midnight game,
That stand with glaring eyes and gaze
Upon the torch's sudden blaze,
Powerless to move, until they fall
Beneath the rifle's fatal ball.
'Twas thus, of late, they found the foe,
By Nelson's Ford, from Camden's plain,
Advancing carelessly and slow,
A hundred prisoners in their train.
Fearing no more the rebel crew,
A vanquished, scattered, heartless few,
Prompter to fly than to pursue,
They slumbered idly on the way,
The noontide of an August day;
And little dreamed that Marion's men
Were ambushed in the forest glen—
Waked by the sudden shot, the shout,
The wild huzza, the headlong rout,
Stopt all retreat, no succor nigh,
No chance to fight, or way to fly,
Quickly the luckless Britons learn
How soon the smiles of Fortune turn
To sneering frowns, and sadly yield
The trophies of a happier field.
By Nelson's Ford, from Camden's plain,
Advancing carelessly and slow,
A hundred prisoners in their train.
Fearing no more the rebel crew,
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Prompter to fly than to pursue,
They slumbered idly on the way,
The noontide of an August day;
And little dreamed that Marion's men
Were ambushed in the forest glen—
Waked by the sudden shot, the shout,
The wild huzza, the headlong rout,
Stopt all retreat, no succor nigh,
No chance to fight, or way to fly,
Quickly the luckless Britons learn
How soon the smiles of Fortune turn
To sneering frowns, and sadly yield
The trophies of a happier field.
A young recruit with eager ears
And heart of fire, the story hears:
Late to the camp the stripling came,
Ardent and emulous of fame—
“And where the men released?” he cried.
“Snatched from the fate they knew so well,
The prison ship, a floating hell,
They surely joined our leader's side,
And, eager to wipe out the stain
Of Camden, took the field again!”
“Not so,” the cooler scout replied,
“Defeat had crushed their martial pride,
No faith had they in Marion's art—
His ready wit and dauntless heart;
They found no stores to tempt them here,
Yielded, like dastards, to despair,
And sought their homes; the men you see
Are those who won the victory.”
And heart of fire, the story hears:
Late to the camp the stripling came,
Ardent and emulous of fame—
“And where the men released?” he cried.
“Snatched from the fate they knew so well,
The prison ship, a floating hell,
They surely joined our leader's side,
And, eager to wipe out the stain
Of Camden, took the field again!”
“Not so,” the cooler scout replied,
“Defeat had crushed their martial pride,
103
His ready wit and dauntless heart;
They found no stores to tempt them here,
Yielded, like dastards, to despair,
And sought their homes; the men you see
Are those who won the victory.”
“Base churls! unworthy to be led
By chief like ours,” the stripling said.
“Vile, craven spirits, that could pause
And falter thus in Freedom's cause!—
What next befel? “The maddened foe
Sought vengeance for the daring blow.
Wemys and Tarleton, sent to plan
The ruin of the partisan,
With force and fraud alike essay
To track his steps, to snare his way.
By numbers forced at last to fly,
Before the storm constrained to bend,
Where Waccamaw's wild sources lie
The scanty troop of yeomen wend
Their weary way, or, scattered, try
Their homes and friends to see once more;
Yet ready at the signal cry
To seek the forest as before.
And soon it came, a flitting bird,
A whistle in the thicket heard,
A distant horn, a long halloo,
Told there was other work to do;
Vengeance for tears from woman wrung,
For homesteads burnt, for comrades hung,
Like brave Cusack—unheeded there,
And scorned the father's earnest prayer;
The mother kneeled and begged for grace,
They slew the son before her face.
Their ears and eyes were deaf and blind
To gray hairs streaming in the wind,
To cries and shrieks, to frenzy wild,
Of weeping wife and maddened child.
'Twas this, the friend, the captive slain,
The cry for quarter made in vain;
This brought the lion from his den,
This fired the hearts of Marion's men.
By chief like ours,” the stripling said.
“Vile, craven spirits, that could pause
And falter thus in Freedom's cause!—
What next befel? “The maddened foe
Sought vengeance for the daring blow.
Wemys and Tarleton, sent to plan
The ruin of the partisan,
With force and fraud alike essay
To track his steps, to snare his way.
By numbers forced at last to fly,
Before the storm constrained to bend,
Where Waccamaw's wild sources lie
The scanty troop of yeomen wend
Their weary way, or, scattered, try
Their homes and friends to see once more;
Yet ready at the signal cry
To seek the forest as before.
And soon it came, a flitting bird,
A whistle in the thicket heard,
A distant horn, a long halloo,
Told there was other work to do;
104
For homesteads burnt, for comrades hung,
Like brave Cusack—unheeded there,
And scorned the father's earnest prayer;
The mother kneeled and begged for grace,
They slew the son before her face.
Their ears and eyes were deaf and blind
To gray hairs streaming in the wind,
To cries and shrieks, to frenzy wild,
Of weeping wife and maddened child.
'Twas this, the friend, the captive slain,
The cry for quarter made in vain;
This brought the lion from his den,
This fired the hearts of Marion's men.
“Not vainly shall the injured wait
For vengeance; with assisting hand
To draw the victim to his fate
Some demon ready seems to stand;
Bide but your time, the fatal power,
That never mortal step can shun,
Shall bring the inexorable hour
That wreaks revenge for injuries done.
By Balfour sent to burn and slay
At Tarcote wood new levies lay,
Born to the soil, but now enrolled
And led by Tynes for British gold.
Nor British gold the only cause:
Some loved their ancient lord and laws,
And, in a nobler spirit, fought
For loftier ends, with purer thought,
Not basely led by lucre bought.
By Tarcote wood secure and gay
They loitered out the roistering day;
Late from the town with loaded train
Of stores, they sought their homes again,
From danger safe—the dreaded foe
To distant wilds compelled to go,
Or scattered round, an easy prey,
Their watchful leader far away.
In wassail deep the day is spent,
On wild carouse and revel bent,
They dance and reel, the night prolong
With cards and dice, with jest and song;
Some slumber by the forest side,
Some tell their boasted deeds, and lied.
The present safe, the future bright,
Away all thought of ills to-night!
‘Drink to the king, and damn the cause
Of traitors that oppose his laws!’
So shouted Campbell, of the band
The fiercest heart, the bloodiest hand.
‘No need’ he cried, ‘with us, for care,
Let Marion's followers think of fear;
Curse on his cunning, may the rope
And hangman prove his only hope;
Curse on the ragged, rebel crew,
The halter be their portion too;
Huzza for George!’—'twas hardly said,
A bullet, from the thicket sped,
Struck in his boast the boaster dead.
And bursting on the startled ear,
The tramp of horsemen thundered near.
Up to their feet the revellers sprung,
Down cup and can and flagon flung;
Then rose upon the startled ear
The scream of terror and despair,
Half waked the dizzy sleepers reel
Beneath the charger's iron heel,
The rifle in the darkness flashed,
Through crouching crowds the trooper dashed—
All thought of battle laid aside,
Wings to the flying fear supplied.
But Tarcote Swamp is deep and drear,
The night was dark, the refuge near,
The scattered bands found shelter there.
Off with the dawn of morning light
The sleepless Chief unwearied flew;
He never lingered to invite
Surprise, nor paused if aught to do
Remained undone—new foes to meet,
With ready arm and judgment true,
Again, on coursers sure and fleet,
He led the stern, determined few;
Nor night from day their service knew,
All times alike—attack, retreat,
Their ready steps where duty drew,
The rapid onset they repeat.
They kept no road nor beaten path,
They sought no bridge on passing stream,
They swam the river in his wrath,
They came, they vanished, like a dream;
Unlooked-for, like the sudden flash
Of summer lightning, and their blow,
Terrific as the thunder crash,
With fear and wonder struck the foe.
With them no flaunting pennon waved,
No cannon lumbering shook the ground,
No trumpet when the battle raved
Or paused, retreat or onset sound;
But silent, like a sprite, they came,
The rifle's flash proclaimed them near,
They swept along like sudden flame
Through forests in the early year.
In march or charge, in field or flood,
Ford, deeper river, still alone
He ever led, he spared the blood
Of all, unsparing of his own.
Vain was the Briton's boasted claim
To conquest, vain the blood it cost,
The unconquered soul remains the same—
While that endures no cause is lost;
It yields while foes too strong prevail,
Resumes the conflict as before,
As saplings bend before the gale,
Erect and strong the tempest o'er.”
For vengeance; with assisting hand
To draw the victim to his fate
Some demon ready seems to stand;
Bide but your time, the fatal power,
That never mortal step can shun,
Shall bring the inexorable hour
That wreaks revenge for injuries done.
By Balfour sent to burn and slay
At Tarcote wood new levies lay,
Born to the soil, but now enrolled
And led by Tynes for British gold.
Nor British gold the only cause:
105
And, in a nobler spirit, fought
For loftier ends, with purer thought,
Not basely led by lucre bought.
By Tarcote wood secure and gay
They loitered out the roistering day;
Late from the town with loaded train
Of stores, they sought their homes again,
From danger safe—the dreaded foe
To distant wilds compelled to go,
Or scattered round, an easy prey,
Their watchful leader far away.
In wassail deep the day is spent,
On wild carouse and revel bent,
They dance and reel, the night prolong
With cards and dice, with jest and song;
Some slumber by the forest side,
Some tell their boasted deeds, and lied.
The present safe, the future bright,
Away all thought of ills to-night!
‘Drink to the king, and damn the cause
Of traitors that oppose his laws!’
So shouted Campbell, of the band
The fiercest heart, the bloodiest hand.
‘No need’ he cried, ‘with us, for care,
Let Marion's followers think of fear;
Curse on his cunning, may the rope
And hangman prove his only hope;
106
The halter be their portion too;
Huzza for George!’—'twas hardly said,
A bullet, from the thicket sped,
Struck in his boast the boaster dead.
And bursting on the startled ear,
The tramp of horsemen thundered near.
Up to their feet the revellers sprung,
Down cup and can and flagon flung;
Then rose upon the startled ear
The scream of terror and despair,
Half waked the dizzy sleepers reel
Beneath the charger's iron heel,
The rifle in the darkness flashed,
Through crouching crowds the trooper dashed—
All thought of battle laid aside,
Wings to the flying fear supplied.
But Tarcote Swamp is deep and drear,
The night was dark, the refuge near,
The scattered bands found shelter there.
Off with the dawn of morning light
The sleepless Chief unwearied flew;
He never lingered to invite
Surprise, nor paused if aught to do
Remained undone—new foes to meet,
With ready arm and judgment true,
Again, on coursers sure and fleet,
He led the stern, determined few;
Nor night from day their service knew,
107
Their ready steps where duty drew,
The rapid onset they repeat.
They kept no road nor beaten path,
They sought no bridge on passing stream,
They swam the river in his wrath,
They came, they vanished, like a dream;
Unlooked-for, like the sudden flash
Of summer lightning, and their blow,
Terrific as the thunder crash,
With fear and wonder struck the foe.
With them no flaunting pennon waved,
No cannon lumbering shook the ground,
No trumpet when the battle raved
Or paused, retreat or onset sound;
But silent, like a sprite, they came,
The rifle's flash proclaimed them near,
They swept along like sudden flame
Through forests in the early year.
In march or charge, in field or flood,
Ford, deeper river, still alone
He ever led, he spared the blood
Of all, unsparing of his own.
Vain was the Briton's boasted claim
To conquest, vain the blood it cost,
The unconquered soul remains the same—
While that endures no cause is lost;
It yields while foes too strong prevail,
Resumes the conflict as before,
108
Erect and strong the tempest o'er.”
“What glorious sport!” with flashing eyes
And flushing cheeks, the youth replies;
“But tell me of the conflict, when
With twenty picked of Marion's men —
With twenty matched, in open field,
You forced the enemy to yield.
Which are the gallant men you chose
To meet the challenge of your foes?”
“One near, with busy hands you see,
Cleaning the rifle on his knee;
Broad-chested, like a bull, his hair,
Black, glossy, like an autumn bear;
A bolder heart or stronger hand
Rode never yet in Marion's band.
Another leans on yonder bay,
In hunting shirt and leggings gray,
With folded arms and hunter's eye,
Watching the wild ducks whizzing by;
Straight as a sapling, strong and tall,
And apt alike, in festive hall,
In dance, or danger's sudden call.
Another by the camp-fire stands,
Busy among the blazing brands;
Some dainty for his dinner there,
The product of his trap or snare,
Squirrel or rabbit, asks his care;
A raw-boned, iron man, his frame
Nor time can bend, nor labors tame;
No scout like him! By night, by day,
He tracks the deer or foeman's way;
No quicker eye, no surer aim,
For battle-field or forest game.
Vanderhorst their leader, on they went,
To meet the challenge of the foe.
No guests on feast or wedding bent
With lighter step or spirits go.
The field at hand, with sudden cheer
They forward rush—the place is bare,
On silent wing the bird is flown,
Brave McIlraith has wiser grown;
Withdraws his chosen men and flies,
Rushes from wood to wood, and foils,
By rapid march, the hunter's toils,
And—lost his laurels—gladly tries
In distant garrison to meet
The triumph of a safe retreat.”
And flushing cheeks, the youth replies;
“But tell me of the conflict, when
With twenty picked of Marion's men —
With twenty matched, in open field,
You forced the enemy to yield.
Which are the gallant men you chose
To meet the challenge of your foes?”
“One near, with busy hands you see,
Cleaning the rifle on his knee;
Broad-chested, like a bull, his hair,
Black, glossy, like an autumn bear;
A bolder heart or stronger hand
Rode never yet in Marion's band.
Another leans on yonder bay,
In hunting shirt and leggings gray,
With folded arms and hunter's eye,
Watching the wild ducks whizzing by;
Straight as a sapling, strong and tall,
And apt alike, in festive hall,
In dance, or danger's sudden call.
Another by the camp-fire stands,
Busy among the blazing brands;
109
The product of his trap or snare,
Squirrel or rabbit, asks his care;
A raw-boned, iron man, his frame
Nor time can bend, nor labors tame;
No scout like him! By night, by day,
He tracks the deer or foeman's way;
No quicker eye, no surer aim,
For battle-field or forest game.
Vanderhorst their leader, on they went,
To meet the challenge of the foe.
No guests on feast or wedding bent
With lighter step or spirits go.
The field at hand, with sudden cheer
They forward rush—the place is bare,
On silent wing the bird is flown,
Brave McIlraith has wiser grown;
Withdraws his chosen men and flies,
Rushes from wood to wood, and foils,
By rapid march, the hunter's toils,
And—lost his laurels—gladly tries
In distant garrison to meet
The triumph of a safe retreat.”
| Selected poems by William J. Grayson | |