University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

The clouds were gathering fast—the waters were
troubled—and the approaching tumult and disquiet of
all things in Carolina, clearly indicated the coming of
that strife, so soon to overcast the scene—so long to
keep it darkened—so deeply to impurple it with blood.
The continentals were approaching rapidly, and the
effect was that of magic upon the long prostrated energies
of the South. The people were aroused, awakened,
stimulated, and emboldened. They gathered in
little squads throughout the country. The news was
generally abroad that Gates was to command the expected
army—Gates, the conqueror at Saratoga, whose
very name, at that time, was a host. The successes of
Sumter in the up-country, of Marion on the Peedee, of
Pickens with a troop of mounted riflemen—a new species
of force projected by himself—of Butler, of Horry,
James, and others, were generally whispered about
among the hitherto desponding whigs. These encouraging
prospects were not a little strengthened in
the parishes by rumours of small successes nearer at
hand. The swamps were now believed to be full of
enemies to royal power, only wanting imbodiment and
arms; and truly did Tarleton, dilating upon the condition
of things at this period in the colony, give a
melancholy summary of those influences which were

crowding together, as it was fondly thought by the
patriots, for the overwhelming of foreign domination.

“Discontents”—according to his narrative—“were
disseminated—secret conspiracies entered into upon
the frontier—hostilities were already begun in many
places, and every thing seemed to menace a revolution
as rapid as that which succeeded the surrender of
Charlestown.” The storm grew more imposing in its
terrors, when, promising himself confidently a march
of triumph through the country, Gates, in a swelling
proclamation, announced his assumption of command
over the southern army. It was a promise sadly disappointed
in the end—yet the effect was instantaneous;
and with the knowledge of his arrival, the entire Black
River country was in insurrection. This was the
province of Marion, and to his active persuasion and
influence the outbreak must chiefly be ascribed. But
the influence of events upon other sections was not
less immediate, though less overt and important in
their development. The fermenting excitement, which,
in men's minds, usually precedes the action of powerful,
because long suppressed, elements of mischief, had
reached its highest point of forbearance. The immediately
impelling power was alone wanting, and this is
always to be found in that restless love of change,
growing with its facilities, which forms so legitimate a
portion of our original nature. There is a wholesome
stir in strife itself, which, like the thunderstorm in the
sluggish atmosphere, imparts a renewed energy, and a
better condition of health and exercise, to the attributes
and agents of the moral man.

These old woods about Dorchester are famous.
There is not a wagon track—not a defile—not a clearing—not
a traverse of these plains, which has not
been consecrated by the strife for liberty; the close
strife—the desperate struggle; the contest, unrelaxing,
unyielding to the last, save only with death or conquest.
These old trees have looked down upon blood and
battles; the thick array and the solitary combat between

single foes, needing no other witnesses. What tales
might they not tell us! The sands have drunk deeply
of holy and hallowed blood—blood that gave them
value and a name, and made for them a place in all
human recollection. The grass here has been beaten
down, in successive seasons, by heavy feet—by conflicting
horsemen—by driving and recoiling artillery.
Its deep green has been dyed with a yet deeper and a
darker stain—the outpourings of the invader's veins,
mingling with the generous streams flowing from
bosoms that had but one hope—but one purpose—the
unpolluted freedom and security of home; the purity
of the threshold, the sweet repose of the domestic
hearth from the intrusion of hostile feet—the only
objects, for which men may brave the stormy and the
brutal strife, and still keep the “whiteness of their
souls.”

The Carolinian well knows these old-time places;
for every acre has its tradition in this neighbourhood.
He rides beneath the thick oaks, whose branches have
covered regiments, and looks up to them with regardful
veneration. Well he remembers the old defile at the
entrance just above Dorchester village, where a red clay
hill rises abruptly, breaking pleasantly the dead level
of country all around it. The rugged limbs and trunk
of a huge oak, which hung above its brow, and has been
but recently overthrown, was of itself his historian. It
was notorious in tradition as the gallows oak; its
limbs being employed by both parties, as they severrally
obtained the ascendency, for the purposes of
summary execution. Famous, indeed, was all the
partisan warfare in this neighbourhood, from the time
of its commencement, with our story, in 1780, to the
day, when, hopeless of their object, the troops of the invader
withdrew to their crowded vessels, flying from the
land they had vainly struggled to subdue. You should
hear the old housewives dilate upon these transactions.
You should hear them paint the disasters, the depression
of the Carolinians! how their chief city was
besieged and taken; their little army dispersed or cut

to pieces; and how the invader marched over the country,
and called it his. Anon, they would show you the
little gathering in the swamp—the small scouting squad
timidly stealing forth into the plain, and contenting itself
with cutting off a foraging party or a baggage
wagon, or rescuing a disconsolate group of captives on
their way to the city and the prison-ships. Soon, imboldened
by success, the little squad is increased by
numbers, and aims at larger game. Under some such
leader as Colonel Washington, you should see them,
anon, well mounted, streaking along the Ashley river
road, by the peep of day, well skilled in the management
of their steeds, whose high necks beautifully
arch under the curb, while, in obedience to their rider's
will, they plunge fearlessly through brake and through
brier, over the fallen tree, and into the suspicious
water. Heedless of all things but the proper achievement
of their bold adventure, the warriors go onward,
while the broadswords flash in the sunlight, and the
trumpet cheers them with a tone of victory. And
goodlier still is the sight, when, turning the narrow lane,
thick fringed with the scrubby oak and the pleasant
myrtle, you behold them come suddenly to the encounter
with the hostile invaders. How they hurra, and
rush to the charge with a mad emotion that the steed
partakes—his ears erect, and his nostrils distended,
while his eyeballs start forward, and grow red with
the straining effort; then, how the riders bear down all
before them, and, with swords shooting out from their
cheeks, make nothing of the upraised bayonet and
pointed spear, but, striking in, flank and front, carry confusion
wherever they go—while the hot sands drink in
the life-blood of friend and foe, streaming through a
thousand wounds. Hear them tell of these, and of the
“Game Cock,” Sumter; how, always ready for fight,
with a valour which was frequently rashness, he
would rush into the hostile ranks, and, with his
powerful frame and sweeping sabre, would single out
for inveterate strife his own particular enemy. Then,
of the subtle “Swamp Fox,” Marion, who, slender
of form, and having but little confidence in his own
physical prowess, was never seen to use his sword in
battle; gaining by stratagem and unexpected enterprise
those advantages which his usual inferiority of force
would never have permitted him to gain otherwise.
They will tell you of his conduct and his coolness;
of his ability, with small means, to consummate leading
objects—the best proof of military talent; and of
his wonderful command of his men; how they would
do his will, though it led to the most perilous adventure,
with as much alacrity as if they were going to a
banquet. Of the men themselves, though in rags,
almost starving, and exposed to all changes of the
weather, how cheerfully, in the fastenesses of the swamp,
they would sing their rude song about the capacity of
their leader and their devotion to his person, in some
such strain as that which follows:—

And gallant men they were—taught by his precept
and example, their own peculiar deeds grow famous in
our story. Each forester became in time an adroit
partisan; learned to practise a thousand stratagems,
and most generally with a perfect success. Imbedding
himself in the covering leaves and branches of
the thick-limbed tree, he would lie in wait till the fall
of evening; then, dropping suddenly upon the shoulders
of the sentry as he paced beneath, would drive the
keen knife into his heart, before he could yet recover
from his panic. Again, he would burrow in the hollow
of the miry ditch, and crawling, Indian fashion, into
the trench, wait patiently until the soldier came into
the moonlight, when the silver drop at his rifle's muzzle
fell with fatal accuracy upon his button, or his
breastplate, and the sharp sudden crack which followed
almost invariably announced the victim's long
sleep of death. And numerous besides were the practices,
of which tradition and history alike agree to tell
us, adopted in the war of our revolution by the Carolina
partisan, to neutralize the superiority of European
force and tactics. Often and again have they lain
close to the gushing spring, and silent in the bush,
like the tiger in his jungle, awaiting until the foragers
had squatted around it for the enjoyment of their midday
meal; then, rushing forth with a fierce halloo,
seize upon the stacked arms, and beat down the surprised
but daring soldiers who might rise up to defend
them. And this sort of warfare, small though it may

appear, was at last triumphant. The successes of the
whigs, during the whole period of the revolutionary
contest in the South, were almost entirely the result of
the rapid, unexpected movement—the sudden stroke
made by the little troop, familiar with its ground,
knowing its object, and melting away at the approach
of a superior enemy, like so many dusky shadows,
secure in the thousand swamp recesses which surrounded
them. Nor did they rely always on stratagem
in the prosecution of their enterprises. There were
gleams of chivalry thrown athwart this sombre waste
of strife and bloodshed, worthy of the middle ages.
Bold and graceful riders, with fine horses, ready in all
cases, fierce in onset, and reckless in valour, the
southern cavalry had an early renown. The audacity
with which they drove through the forest, through
broad rivers, such as the Santee, by day and by night,
in the face of the enemy, whether in flight or in assault
the same, makes their achievements as worthy of
romance as those of a Bayard or Bernardo. Thousands
of instances are recorded of that individual gallantry—that
gallantry, stimulated by courage, warmed
by enthusiasm, and refined by courtesy—which gives
the only credentials of true chivalry. Such, among the
many, was the rescue of the prisoners, by Jasper and
Newton; the restoration of the flagstaff to Fort Moultrie,
in the hottest fire, by the former; and the manner
in which he got his death-wound at Savannah, in carrying
off the colours which had been instrusted to him.
Such were many of the rash achievements of Sumter
and Laurens, and such was the daring of the brave
Conyers, who daily challenged his enemy in the face
of the hostile army. These were all partisan warriors,
and such were their characteristics. Let us now
return to the narration of those adventures, which distinguish
the life of some, not unworthy to be ranked
honourably among them.