University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.

The victory was complete in all respects. The
army of Gates was dispersed—that general, a melancholy
wanderer, hopeless of fortune, and, with a proper
self-rebuke, dreading the opinion of his country. The
loss of the Americans in this battle was heavy. Of
the continentals but six hundred escaped; and as their
number was but nine hundred in all, they necessarily
lost, in killed, wounded, and prisoners, one third of their
entire force. The whole number slain of the American
army must have been six hundred men—a large proportion,
in a small body of three thousand and fifty-two.
The loss admitted by the British commander, was
three hundred killed and wounded—an amount certainly
unexaggerated, and showing conclusively what
must have been the result of the contest had the militia
done their duty,—had they but stood the first round,
—had they but returned the fire of the foe. The
continentals alone bore the brunt of the conflict, and
they were victorious until isolated and overborne by
numbers.

The prisoners, among whom is included Colonel
Walton, were roped by the command of Tarleton, and
formed not the least imposing portion of the triumphal
procession of the victor, on his return to Camden. De
Kalb died a few days after in the arms of Du Buysson,
his aide. His last words were those of eulogy upon the
gallant troops whom he had so well trained, and who,
justifying his avowed confidence in them, had stood
by him, in the previous struggle, to the last.

“My brave division!” These, in broken accents and

imperfect English, were his last words. While expiring,
his eye blazed up for a moment, as if the ardour
of the strife was again burning in his soul, and then its
light went out for ever. His name can never be erased
from the history, nor his memory forgotten by the people
in whose cause he perished.

A different fate awaited the other prisoners, to many
of whom a like death would have been a glad reprieve.
The revengeful feelings of Lord Cornwallis were yet
to be satisfied. The banquet of blood which the late
battle had afforded, had quickened and made ravenous
the appetite, which, at the same time, it had failed to
satisfy. There was much in the circumstances of the
period to provoke this appetite in the British commander,
though nothing to justify its satiation to the
gross extent to which it carried him. He had seen
much of his good labours in the province entirely overturned.
Deeming the country utterly conquered, such
had been the amount of his communications to his
king. The work had now to be begun anew. The
country, so lately peaceable and submissive, was now
everywhere in arms. The swamps on every side of
him began to swarm with enemies; and his own victory
over Gates and the continentals, though unqualified
and conclusive, was burdened with tidings of the
great success of Sumter on the Wateree, of Marion on
Black river, and of many other leaders not so distinguished
as these, but highly promising for the future
in the small successes of the beginning. These tidings
gave just cause of irritation to the mind which,
having first flattered itself with an idea of its complete
success, now discovers that all its labours have been
taken in vain. He grew vindictive in consequence,
and persuading himself that a terrible example was
necessary, if not for justice, at least for his cause, he
ordered a selection to be made from among the prisoners
in his possession, who were doomed to expiate
the guilt of patriotism upon the gallows.

The streets of Camden were filled with lamentations
the day upon which this determination was made

public. This was three days after the battle,—time
enough, surely, having intervened for the subduing of
his sanguinary temper. Twenty victims were chosen
for the sacrifice, and among them was Colonel Walton.
They were chosen either for their great popularity, or
for their reputation of especial malignity. The former
class was selected in order that the example might
be an imposing one; the punishment of particular offences
was the ground upon which the others were
“to be justified.” Yet reasons, if “plenty as blackberries,”
were not readily furnished, or cared for, on the
occasion. Even the trial which preceded their execution
was of a most summary and nominal character.
The stern commander himself presided, with a general
officer on either hand. The prisoners were brought
before him singly.

“Why has this man been chosen?” was the inquiry
of Cornwallis to Lord Rawdon.

“Violation of protection, my lord: this man is one
Samuel Andrews, who was quiet and pacific enough
—full of professions—until the rebel army came to
Lynch's creek. He was taken on the field.”

“Take him away, marshal,” was the immediate
order. “To the tree with him!” The man was removed.
“Who are these?”

“Their names are”—Lord Rawdon, in reply, read
from a paper which he held in his hand—“Richard
Tucker, John Miles, Josiah Gayle, Eleazar Smith,
Lorimer Jones—”[1]

“No more,” cried Cornwallis, interrupting the reader.
“Enough of that. They are all brought up under the
same charge—are they?”

“All but one: the man Gibson, there, in the blue
stripes, is little better than an outlaw. The charge
against him in particular is, that he shot Edward Draper,
a soldier in the `Queen's Guards,' across the
Wateree river, and was subsequently taken alone, without
connection with any military body whatsoever.”

“The insolent scoundrel! Advance him, guard—
bring him forward.”

The man was singled out from the group. His arms
were lashed behind him with cords, but he moved forward
as if perfectly unbound, and no figure could have been
more erect. He had on neither coat nor jacket; his
shirt was torn, bloody, and open at the breast, displaying
beneath the fair bosom of a youth, but the full
muscular development of the man. He approached
the table unshrinkingly, striding boldly forward to
Cornwallis, and, with an upward eye, met the stern
glance of his judge, intended to be an overwhelming
one, with a corresponding look of defiance.

“Stand where you are, sir!—we desire you no
closer,” cried his lordship. “You hear the charge
against you?”

The man did not stand where he had been ordered,
but continued to approach until the table only intervened
between himself and his lordship. The latter
repeated his inquiry.

“You hear the charge against you?”

“I do—it is the truth. I shot Edward Draper, a
corporal in the Queen's Guards, across the Wateree.”

“With what purpose?”

“To kill him.”

“Ay, we suppose that—but what did you propose
to gain by it?”

“Justice.”

“Justice!—what had he done?”

“Beat my mother.”

“Why did you not apply for justice at the first station,
instead of taking it into your own hands?”

“I did;—Lord Rawdon, there, will tell you why I
took it into my own hands.”

“Well.”

“He denied it to me.”

“It is false, my lord,” exclaimed Lord Rawdon;
“Draper was severely reprimanded.”

“My mother was beaten, and the man who beat her

was—reprimanded! I did not think that enough of
justice, and I shot him.”

The evident discrepancy between the original wrong
and its punishment by Rawdon, could not but appear to
all parties; and Cornwallis himself was almost disposed
to look favourably upon the offender. But
example—a terrible example—was supposed to be
necessary; and with this belief, he was determined to
shield no victim from his fate, who exhibited any thing
like a strong and decisive character. Still, as the offence
was rather of a private than of a public nature,
the commander proposed to the prisoner the usual
British alternative of safety at that period, and under
like circumstances.

“If I pardon you your crime, Gibson, will you at
once take arms for his majesty?”

“Never!” was the quick and firm response; “I'll
see him d—d first.”

“Take him forth, marshal, with the rest. See that
they suffer instantly. Away with him!”

The stern voice of Cornwallis rang like a trumpet
through the assembly; and as the sounds died away,
another voice, yet more thrilling, sent forth a scream
—a woman's voice—a single scream, and so shrill, so
piercing, so wo-begone and sad, that it struck through
the assembly as something ominous and unearthly. A
woman rushed forth from behind the group, and threw
herself before the merciless commander. It was his
mother.

“My son—my only son—he is all I have, my lord!
Oh—spare him—spare him to his widowed mother!
I have none on earth but him!” was all she said,—her
eyes bent upon Cornwallis, while her finger pointed to
the tall and manly youth beside her.

“Take him away! It is too late, my good woman,
—you should have taught him better. Take him
away!” was the stern and only answer.

The prisoners were hurried forth; the woman, doomed
so soon to be childless, clinging to her son, and shrieking
all the while. There was yet another victim.

Rawdon whispered the commander, and from an adjoining
apartment, Colonel Walton was brought before
his judge. Cornwallis rose at his approach with a
show of respectful courtesy, then again gently resumed
his seat.

“Colonel Walton, I am truly sorry to see you thus
—truly sorry,” was the considerate speech of his excellency,
as the prisoner approached. Walton bowed
slightly in return, as he replied—

“I am grateful for your lordship's consideration, but
cannot withhold my surprise that you should regret
your own successes. The fortune of war has made
you the victor, and has given me into your power.
The prisoner of war must not complain when he encounters
the risks, which should have been before his
eyes from the beginning, no more than the victor should
regret the victory which he sought from war.”

“The prisoner of war! I am afraid, Colonel Walton,
we cannot consider you in that character.”

“Your lordship will explain.”

“Colonel Walton, a subject of the King of Great
Britain, found in arms against his officers, is a rebel to
his authority, and incurs the doom of one.”

“No subject of the King of Great Britain, sir! I
deny the charge. I am not his subject, and no rebel
therefore to his authority. But this is not for me to
argue now. To what, may I ask your lordship, does
all this tend?”

“The consequences are inevitable, Colonel Walton
—the traitor must bear the doom—he must die the
death of the traitor.”

“I am ready to die for my country at any hour, and
by any form of death. The prisoner, sir, is in your
hands. I will simply protest against your decision, and
leave it to the ripening time and to the arms of my
countrymen to avenge my wrongs.”

“I would save—I would save your life, Colonel
Walton—gladly save it, would you but allow me,” said
Cornwallis earnestly.

“My dissent or assent, my lord, on such a subject,

and under present circumstances, is surely unnecessary.
The mockery of such a reference is scarcely agreeable
to me, and, certainly, not becoming on the part of
the conqueror. The power is in your hands, my lord,
to work your pleasure.”

“We will speak plainly, Colonel Walton, and you will
readily understand us. As you say, mine is the power
to command your instant death: and whether I do so, in
error or in right, it matters not; it will avail you nothing.
I would save you, as your life, properly exercised for
the royal cause—for the cause of your king, sir—will
serve us much more materially than your death. Your
influence is what we want—your co-operation with us,
and not your blood. Twice, sir, has a commission—
an honourable and high commission—in his majesty's
service, been tendered to you from me. Twice has it
been rejected with scorn; and you are now taken in
arms against his majesty's troops, having violated your
solemn pledge to the contrary, which your protection
insisted upon.”

“Wrong, sir!” exclaimed Walton, interrupting him
—“wrong, sir! The contract was violated and rendered
null by the proclamation of Sir Henry Clinton—
not by me.”

“This is your opinion; and I need not say how incorrectly.
But, as I have before said, whether justly
or unjustly you fell a victim, will avail you nothing.
The hanged man heeds nothing of the argument which
proves that he was hung by mistake. I have the
power of life and death over you in my own hands;
and, believe me, Colonel Walton, in opening a door of
safety for you, I am offering you the last, the only alternative.
You shall die or live, as you answer!”

“I am ready, my lord. You somewhat mistake my
character, if you think that I shall fall back from the
truth, because of the consequences which it may happen
to bring with it. Ha! What is this?”

He was interrupted by a sudden blast of the bugle,
a confused hum of voices, and then a shriek. Another,
and another, wild and piercing, rose from the court in

front. At that instant, a soldier entering the apartment
threw open the doors, and gave an opportunity for those
within to behold the awful tragedy that had been going
on the while. A single tree in front of the place bore
twenty human bodies; the limbs were yet quivering in
the air with their agonizing convulsions, and the executioner
was not yet done.

“Close the door, sergeant,” said Cornwallis calmly.
Then, continuing his exhortation to Walton, he made
use of the awful circumstance which they had just
witnessed, the more earnestly to impress his desires
upon the mind of the hearer, and produce a different
determination.

“An awful doom, but necessary. It is one, Colonel
Walton, from which I would gladly save you. Why
will you reject the blessings of life? Why will you
resist the mercies which still seek to prevent the purposes
of justice?”

“Justice!” was the scornful exclamation of the prisoner,
and all that he deigned to reply.

“Ay, sir, justice! The cause of the rightful monarch
of this country is the cause of justice; and its
penalties are incurred by disloyalty before all other offences.
But argument is needless here.”

“It is—it is needless,” said Walton, emphatically.

“And, therefore,” Cornwallis proceeded—“therefore,
sir, I confine myself to the brief suggestion which I
now make you, by the adoption of which you will escape
your present difficulties. Though you have twice
rejected his majesty's terms of favour, he is reluctant
to destroy.”

“The tree attests the reluctance. It bears its own
illustration, your lordship, which your assertion, nevertheless,
does not need. I hear you, sir.”

Somewhat disconcerted, Cornwallis, with a show of
rising impatience, hurried into a conclusion.

“Once more, sir, he offers you safety; once more
he tenders you an honourable appointment in his armies.
Here, sir, is his commission—take it. Go below to
the Ashley and make up your own regiment; choose

your own officers, and do for him what you have hitherto
fruitlessly sought to do for his enemies.”

“Never, sir, never!” was the conclusive reply.

“Yet, a while, bethink you. You know the doom
else—death—the gallows.”

“I know it; I have thought: you have my answer.”

“Then, you die—die like a dog, sir, in the scorn of
all around you.”

“Be it so. I hope, and fear not, to die like a man.
My country will avenge me. I am ready!”

“Your country!” said Cornwallis, scornfully. Then
turning to Rawdon, he gave his order.

“My Lord Rawdon, you will instantly detach an
especial guard for the prisoner, in addition to that which
has been designated to conduct the prisoners of war
taken in the late action to the Charlestown provost. He
shall go with them to Dorchester.”

“For what? with what object? why to Dorchester,
my lord?” was the anxious inquiry of Walton.

“You shall die there, sir, as an example to the
rebels of that quarter. You shall suffer where you are
most known—where your loss would be most felt.”

“Let me die here, rather, my lord! I pray you for
this mercy. Not there—not there—almost in sight of
my child.”

“There, and there only, Colonel Walton. Your
doom is sealed; and, refusing our mercy, you must
abide our penalty. Make out your orders, my Lord
Rawdon, to the officer of the station, Colonel Proctor;
I will sign them. Say to him that the rebel must be
executed at the village entrance, within three days after
the guard shall arrive. Take him away!”

Such was the British jurisdiction; such was the
summary administration of justice under Lord Cornwallis.
These items are all historical; and fiction
here has not presumed to add a single tittle to the evidence
which truth has given us of these events.