 | A SCENE OF THE REVOLUTION. The book of my lady |  |
A SCENE OF THE REVOLUTION.
Happening at the city of Charleston, in South Carolina,
some few years ago, and in the course of my
examination of all the peculiarities of that interesting
region, I took advantage of the first pleasant summer
afternoon, to pay a visit to Sullivan's Island, the site of
one of the earliest and best fought battles of our revolution.
I stepped, at the proper hour, on board the
little steamer plying between the city and the island,
amidst a large assemblage of elegantés and negligées,
infants and invalids. Some were in search of fresh air,
some health, some pleasure and relief from business,
and not a few for Point-house punch and billiards. My
object differed something from these, as these severally
from each other; but though differing thus, all seemed
most harmoniously to agree in the desire of escape from
the suffocating heats of the city; and a general feeling of
good nature came over us all as the ringing of the last
bell prefaced our hurried departure from the wharf. At
the moment of our departure, a like movement by the
rival boat from the wharf below us, promised a handsome
race, as the boats went off evenly together. The interest
excited by such a contest, the fresh breeze winding
freely around us as we rushed fairly into the
beautiful bay, that swells boldly and broadly before the
city, together with the general picturesque grouped out
gave a lively charm to the scene, that relieved the invalid,
and aroused the indolent and indifferent into an
emotion very like that of a pleasure. We rapidly passed
in succession the vessels at their moorings, the packets
on their flight, the rival steamer, Castle Pinckney, with
its brick walls, shelvy beach and dismounted cannon,
and in thirty-five minutes were at the island cove, without
finding our voyage of some five miles and a half
either very long or very tedious.
I strolled with the more youthful and sportive of our
fellow passengers up to the house at the inner point of
the island, and facing the city, called the Point House,
and,
“as was my custom of an afternoon,”
green cabanna, I discussed with a very fair amount of
self-satisfaction. The public, however, rapidly growing
filled with the living and laughing cargo of both steamers,
and as I detest a squeeze where more than two are
concerned,
From out my pocket's avaricious nook,
Some certain coins of silver,”
For helping me thus far,—“I paid my shot,”
“Want a hack, mosser,” cried the obsequious whip,
standing, reins in hand before me.
“To be sure I do, Jupiter Ammon,”
following the direction given by the dozen like vehicles
that skirted over the fine drive along the beach, from
which the tide was rapidly retiring. This is a magnificent
drive, and yields at the same moment a pleasing
view of the city in the distance; the sea, which spreads
out in mighty volume before you, and the scattering but
lively village, about which you wind.
It may be advisable, though perhaps not altogether
necessary, to inform the reader, that the modern is by no
means the ancient Fort Moultrie, so famous in our revoluntionary
annals for the fine defence which it made,
even before our declaration of independence, against
the British fleet under Sir Peter Parker. We know it
in history as a rude structure of palmetto logs, the
growth of the island, and all that it can produce, morticed
clumsily together in squares, and filled in and up
with sand. This is not the case with the structure now--a-days.
All that it retains of the olden time is the name,
and, of course, the ever-glorious prœteritorium memoria
eventorum, of which nothing can deprive it. The palmettos
are all gone from the fort, and, nearly from the
island, having been found a lucrative source of trade,
and having given way to a rage for building summer
dwellings in that salubrious region of retreat. The modern
battlements are composed chiefly of brick, presenting
a somewhat imposing, and at the present day, a
rather martial appearance, having recently undergone
is small, and scarcely more than adequate to a salute
upon the national holiday. There is little more about
them at present to strike the spectator, and but for the
ever-grateful association which they must still maintain
in the mind of the American, along with the thousand
altar-places of liberty in our country, they might for
ever have been unknown and untrodden by me. But
under that hallowing and inspiring influence, having first
discharged Jupiter Ammon and his hack, I sat myself
down upon one of the old twenty-four-pounders that
looked grimly from the battlements, and yielded myself
to the thousand far-searching fancies that grew upon
the situation. One thought after another came crowding
upon me, and I lingered, stretched at length, upon
the engine of war, looking up from sea to sky; on both
of which, the rich and mellowing hues of an evening
southern sun, were spread out lavishly and light, like
the almost living garments of heavenly looms. Below
me, scattered here and there along the beach, strolled
the various crowds, late my fellow passengers, employed
in the endeavour to make the most of the brief interval
of time allotted them between the arrival and the
departure of the steamers. Gradually, however, as the
light began to grow more delicate and faint, and therefore
more surpassingly beautiful, in the western heavens,
and as the airs of evening came more freshly, and spoke
in louder tones of muttering from the booming waters,
their numbers grew less; and finally, but here and there
could the straggling wayfarer be perceived, darkening
with the shadow of a giant the white and tapering shore
of sand, that spread, far as the eye could reach, in the
little while, and I was left alone to those musings which
bring more added satisfaction when enjoyed in the most
perfect solitude. The scene, of which I now seemed to
be the sole partaker, was certainly of that character,
which, if not interrupted in its influence, will never fail
to win the heart and all its thoughts to a highly refined
and touching, but still pleasing melancholy. All things
contributed to this end: the far city, like a broken cloud
in the distance, gilded gently by the last smiles of the
sun; the unceasing, low and monotonous beatings of
the sea, spread out before me in the undefinable and
dim distance, like our ideas of eternity; the soothing
softness and gentle murmurings, in its most mysterious
tones, of the evening breeze, gathering itself up from the
bosom of the waters—not forgetting the high and inspiriting
associations brought by the genius loci—all
conspired to infuse into my mind, naturally given to
such wanderings, a dreamy kind of insensibility, that
at length wrought within me a total forgetfulness of
my whereabouts, time, place and circumstance, and
lifted me into those regions of romance, so inspiring at
all periods of time, but so foreign to the matter-of-fact
of ours.
Gradually the whole scene underwent a change before
my view—so gradually, indeed, that, until the
transition was complete in all its parts, I remained
perfectly unconscious of its going on. Strange lights
were before me—strange noises in my ears, and faces
glancing to and fro within my sight to which I was entirely
unfamiliar. The fort itself seemed to have been
changed. In place of the level plat of folding and
my form, capping the regularly and scientifically
built battlements, I saw little more than
huge masses of sand. The twenty-four pounder, too,
upon which, won by its pacific appearance, I had seated
myself ere while, now appeared to have put on an
aspect the most antique and ferocious. The works
around gave no token of a very extended degree of
civilisation in the art of war; and presented, on the
contrary, the appearance of just such an enclosure as
one would expect to see raised in the forest, by the
pioneer, for temporary protection from the onslaught
of the Indian. All was heavy, elaborate, and unscientific.
The great body of the fort was composed of
palmetto trees, the tops stricken off, and the trunks
roughly hewn and dovetailed at their extremities one
into the other, forming a square, of some ten or twelve
feet or more, the spaces between being filled up with
sand, either in huge sacks, or shovelled in without.
There was something foreign—exclusively foreign—
in the flag itself, which surmounted the incongruous
fortification. There were no stars, nor stripes, nor
eagles, but a banneret of a blue ground, with a silver
crescent in one corner. Centrally, however, the word
“Liberty” appeared neatly worked upon it, as by the
hands of a fair lady. The interior of the fort presented
a prospect fully as picturesque as this. Forming a
triangle, three palmetto trees, still in verdure, waved
their pliant umbrella tops above four rows of white
tents, from which, at intervals, and without any order,
issued numerous small bodies of militia-men in various
guises, half military, half civil. Some of them wore
and of fox and 'coon skins. Others again, aspiring to
something more of uniform in their arrangements, had
on head dresses, of the glazed leather now familiarly
known, on which the word “liberty” was imprinted in
huge yellow capitals. Groups of officers, here and
there upon the battlements, gazed intently through
telescopes at some distant objects upon the sea, to
whose appearance and approximation we were evidently
indebted for all the excitement and commotion
afoot. Martial music rung out cheerily, at intervals,
along the old battlements, infusing a sentiment of life
and animation into all around, and of the increasing
influence of which, I felt my own spirit momentarily
partaking. As yet, however, I could not exactly realise
the nature of my situation or of the things about
me. I knew none of the faces which I then saw—they
had an ancient, if not a foreign air; and their dress, in
comparison with my own, was of the most antique fashion.
Unwittingly, however, though I could comprehend
nothing of the true meaning of the scene, I had
engaged along with others in the performance of its
duties. As I did this, I began to make acquaintances.
Some, I appeared as intimate with as if I had known
them a thousand years; and while I felt, all at once,
perfectly at home, I knew so little of the matter I was
engaged in, that I could not avoid making a comparison
of my own pursuit with that of the soldier, to whom
all causes were the same so that he got the fighting,
who frequently changed sides during an engagement,
returned as found by the one and missing by the other.
But I had no reason for doubt long. An increased
and standing at a gun with hundreds of others, the
whole truth burst at once upon my understanding.
There came, in fearless pomp, a well appointed armament.
Ship after ship, a strong array, armed with
storm and thunder. It was the red cross of old England
that came on to the assault—it was the infant
phalanx of Carolina, as a colony, that prepared to
contend with her. I felt—I saw the whole mystery,
in a moment, as by some familiar instinct; and awe,
delight, a wild, sweet anxiety—all struggled confusedly
in my bosom. I felt the inspiration of battle
—the rapture of the strife. The faces around, each
differing in general expression, had also the same feature
of enthusiasm with mine. There was one stern,
strong man that had us in command. That was Moultrie.
There was no child's-play in his features, though,
except when roused, they wore a decidedly apathetic
expression. His face was broad, large, and comprehensive—his
forehead, high and comprehensive—his
lips compressed with the concentrated energies of a
character strikingly distinguished for its firmness. He
came and spoke to us, and but few words. But they
were words of might—of a man. We cheered him, as
he spoke, without knowing it, and he went from group
to group, and from gun to gun, and there was no
flinching spirit after he had spoken. As the danger
grew more evident and unavoidable, anticipation found
increased expansion and activity, as night, on the approach
of day, puts on her darker and more imperial
aspect. Our magazine was now thrown open—
our arms in readiness—our flag run up on the heights.
rude embrasure, through which we thrust, well-shotted,
an English eighteen pounder, not doubting, that, like
ourselves, it would have no unwillingness to do duty
against its former proprietors—and, indeed, to do it all
possible justice, throughout the whole of the contest,
from beginning to end, it exhibited not the slightest
reluctance. And now we stood—and this was the
moment of fear and anxiety—awaiting the awful moment.
It is not often that men grow impatient at the
approach of the enemy, and yet, I feel, such was our
enthusiasm, that there were but few, if any, among us,
who, however conscious as were we all that the time
was big with events, not only of moment, but for
which we were almost entirely unprepared, yet felt any
apprehension of its consequences, or any great desire
to get away from them. But we were not suffered to
remain long in suspense. On came the foe, in a regular
line, to the struggle. First, leading the van, came
the Active, of twenty-eight guns, keeping her way, till
within four hundred yards of our little fortress, then
anchoring, with springs on her cables, giving us a
broadside which went clear over us. Following the
same course, came the flag ship Bristol, of fifty guns,
under the command of Sir Peter Parker, himself—then
the Experiment of fifty, the Solebay, the Syren, the
Acteon, all of twenty-eight guns—the Sphinx, the
Friendship, each of twenty-six—the Thunder bomb,
and a host of supernumeraries—a formidable armament,
to be sure, and one well calculated to provoke misgivings
in the minds of those having the highest possible
opinion of British valour and a British fleet, and
we involuntarily bent our eyes to where lay our fair
and lovely city, rising, almost like another Venice,
from the bosom of the sea—when we saw the crowd of
friends and fellow citizens—the thousands covering its
battlements—temporarily made like our own—watching
anxiously the manner of our performances—when, too,
under the influence of an imagination, ever obedient
to the excited sense, and assuming, on such an occasion,
the powers of a winged spirit—we could perceive
the emotions of their souls in visible array upon their
faces—and could see the hope, the fear, and that worst
agony of all, the dreadful suspense which gave to these
antagonist elements the full sway of the heart for their
warfare—painting visibly their deep interest in our
fight—there was no shrinking among us. Our struggle
was literally for them—I do not believe we thought
of ourselves at that moment. How long they were to
remain unemployed, was problematical; but, according
to the most currently received opinions of British
prowess, the overture of our palmetto fortress, was
held only preparatory to the mightier issue of the
main; and with a hope, which was yet as much a
doubt as a hope, that we should be able to do something
towards taking the sting from the invader, we
braced our souls to the strife, and looked fearlessly
forth upon our enemy.
Let us survey the conflict. Let us witness the young
giant in his morning throw. Let us see if he bears
himself manfully as becomes the cause for which he
encounters such visible odds. The ships of the enemy
advance in heavy array to the battle, like so many
all the calmness that might be supposed
the result of a perfect consciousness of certain victory.
Playfully, the blue waters break away from before their
prows—how silent—how awfully serene is the prospect.
Can they come for the purposes of strife.
Where are the ensigns of battle—where is the fury—
the storm—the thunder? Yet, the very silentness of
their approach indicates their object. Though calm
and winning their gallant bearing—though the waters
and the sky are unruffled, terror, muffled up in clouds,
rides threateningly in the distance. Yet, where is
their enemy, and with whom would they contend?
What foe stands forth for the conflict—what ensign
floats royally in the air—what trumpet speaks the defiance
of a rival, confident in prowess, and well known
in the slaughter field of nations? Thus free, to all
appearance, from any opposition, did the fleet of old
England advance to the attack upon her refractory
colony. The eagle had not yet spread forth her wings
amongst the stars, and the banner of Carolina, in her
first field, was a simple strip of blue cloth, bearing a
silver crescent. This little ensign waved silently over
the palmetto battlements, humbly proportionate to
itself. Few were the hearts, and anxiously did they
beat, within that enclosure; but they were firm and
fearless, and gallantly devoted to the danger. As yet,
little appears to indicate the approaching conflict—no
bugle calls to arms—no knightly challenge is heard.
Death is the bearer of his own summons, and he comes
in silence to his repast. God of the battle-storm, how
terrible art thou!
It was at this moment of repose, that my attention
was called to one of my comrades, whose name was
M`Daniel. As I turned to the salutation, I could not
help being struck with the contradictory expression of
a countenance, scarcely yet marked with the imposing
lines of manhood. His appearance was, indeed, remarkably
boyish, even for his years, which were few;
and his face was full of blood, and softly and attractively
rounded. Still, his person was of the most manly
make—sturdy, broad-chested, and athletic. As he
spoke there was a degree of tremulous sadness in the
tone of his voice, prevailing above the studied gaiety
of his address. There was too, a dewy suffusion upon
his long eye-lashes, which was sadly at variance with
what might be looked for in the expression of a soldier.
His object in addressing me was curiously melancholy.
It was to make one of those contracts, not unfrequently
entered into by soldiers upon the eve of an engagement,
when a presentiment of death warns them to a
testament of their last wishes and effects. In the
trade of blood, such events are of frequent occurrence,
and add another to the thousand testimonies against a
profession, deriving its character and importance entirely
from the miseries of humanity.
“I shall fall,” said he, mournfully. “I know it. I
have had my warning, and there's no use to argue with
me upon the matter. I am as perfectly convinced that
I shall perish in this day's fight, as if I had seen it
written upon the heavens.”
“And what is the warning you have had—what
shape did it assume; and from what testimonies would
you infer its authority thus to prepare you?”
“You would laugh, perhaps, were I to undertake
to array them to your mind, because, to the common
thought all evidence not conclusive and substantial,
would necessarily be rejected. But I am disposed to
believe that there is a higher connection between the
worlds of humanity and spirits, than we are generally
willing to assert or acknowledge. I am satisfied too, that
the soul sometimes asserts its freedom long before its
escape from the clay, and taking, in anticipation, the
wings to which it shall shortly lay claim, arrives at the
conviction of the truth, in advance of its own presence.
Perhaps this is now my case, for, beyond the irresistible
mental conviction, and one or two positive, but as you
will say, trifling circumstances, I have no other reason
for the strong faith that is within me.”
“And what are these other circumstances?”
He took his watch from his fob, and pointing to the
shattered chrystal, replied—
“As I left my quarters this morning, I took this
watch, the gift of my father, from my pocket, simply
to ascertain the hour. As I looked upon it, a film
overspread my own vision—a sudden dizziness, as it
were,—and when objects became again distinct, as in
a moment after they did, I found the glass shattered,
without stroke or blow, in the manner in which it now
appears. This you will, of course, hold a trifle. It
may be so, but it has its influence upon me, and leads
me to the belief that it is ominous of my approaching
fate. If I fall, therefore, which I myself doubt not,
carry my farewell to my poor mother, and give her
this little bag containing a sum of money, which,
though small in itself, will, nevertheless, be an item of
yourself, in return for another favour, which, after
death, I shall need at your hands. Have me taken to
the city for burial, if that be possible.—I would not like
to be thrust rudely into these sand-hills, burrowed after
by birds, or laid bare by tempests.”
I found all argument vain; and, indeed, we had not
time for much, if any. I received his little deposite at
last, and he was satisfied. Our colloquy was discontinued,
as we were now called to the performance of
our several duties. We were both stationed at the
same gun, and many were the glances which I cast
upon his countenance, but it had now nothing dispirited
in it. The enthusiasm of strife had removed all
trace of gloom from his features. The settled determination
of true courage, alone, was there to be seen,
in the contracted brow, the compressed lip, the distended
nostril.
The signal is at last given—the suspense is over—
the action is begun, and one wild interminable terror
shakes the late peaceful waters. The iron rattles upon
our tottering fabric, whose voice is scarce heard in reply.
It is almost silenced, for such is our poverty, that
an adequate quantity of powder had not been, and
could not be, provided, without too greatly subtracting
from the defence of the city. A stern old officer came
to us in the wildest of the confusion.
“How now,” he exclaimed—“you use up powder
as if it were punch; have you no more respect for
the enemy than to give them so much powder and so
little ball? Your discharges are quite too frequent—it
will not do. You must shoot more truly and more
discharge, he sighted it himself, and watched its effect,
as it unerringly drove through the thick ribs of the
huge vessel riding before us. “That will do,” said he,
as he left us, proceeding in like manner to each cannonier
along the battlements. Who would have known
the stern, almost apathetic, Moultrie, in the easy, the
almost playful alacrity of the veteran who had just left
us.
We now regulated the piece by turns—M`Daniel
and myself. It was for my comrade to perform
this office. He bent himself along the gun, slightly
varied its range, and as he drew his form up to its
height, our whole fort reeled beneath a general broadside
from the entire fleet of the enemy. Our gun, undischarged,
rushed back from the embrasure, throwing
me, with several others, upon the rugged platform,
some feet below us. A sudden cry of dismay ran like
fire along the line. “The flag is shot away—it is
down—all is over.” I bent my eyes instinctively to the
merlin on which it rested. It was indeed gone. I
felt, I know not how. I was mad—like the wild boar
stung by the serpent; for the loud huzzas of the
British could be distinctly heard, as they witnessed
what they considered our defeat. On a sudden, however,
the flag was again elevated, and waving in the
sight of all. A slight dark from was beheld, amidst
the hottest fire, binding it upon the staff, with the silk
handkerchief which had enveloped his neck. All
knew him by that handkerchief, which, from its peculiarity
had heretofore identified him. It was Jasper—
the daring Sergeant Jasper. He succeeded. The flag
safety, after an exposure of several seconds to the most
dangerous fire. The shouts were vociferous along our
fortress. A faint voice, after all other voices had ceased,
repeated the “huzza” at my side. I shuddered, unconsciously,
as I heard it, and turning, beheld my comrade
almost torn to pieces, “Huzza!” once more exclaimed
the dying man—“huzza!—I am dying, but don't let
the cause of liberty die with me!”[1]
The words run through my veins like electricity. I
shouted them aloud—and in a moment, “Liberty!
liberty or death!” rung terrifically along our battlements.
Every voice repeated it; and in that moment
of the most savage terror, I felt that we all realised the
“rapture of the strife”—an enjoyment not peculiar to
Alaric. Every gun was discharged with the shout, and
with an effect the most fearful and decided. The vessel
of the commodore was almost lifted from the water;
her stays were shot away, and she swung round, with
her bowsprit directly upon the guns of the fort. A
voice went up from the line—all heard it, yet none
knew whence it came. “Look to the commodore, my
boys—remember M`Daniel.” Every gun that could be
made to bear upon this fated ship attested the warm
recognition given to the direction, and three successive
discharges went through her before she could be righted.
She was raked fore and aft. Her quarter deck
was cleared of every officer but Sir Peter Parker himself,
and he fell severely wounded. She was bored in
every direction by the bullets, and the blood ran smoking
upon the black and reeling waters around her. Vainly
does the gallant chief, bleeding and almost alone, call
upon his followers for the honour of old England. The
courage of desperation is in his eye—he cheers, fights,
soothes, and imprecates, but in vain. They will hear,
they will obey him no longer—dead or dying around
him, even the name of old England—the recollections
of past glory—the recollections of their homes—will
arouse them no more. God of battles, how terrible art
thou!
The cloud is gone from above the fearful scene.
Can it be true? Have the warriors of Britain deserted
the combat, shorn of glory and victory, by such young
adventurers in the race of fame? Look again! The
sight is grateful to freedom. What fitter offering for
her shrine than the blood of the oppressor—what incense
more grateful than the burning fleets of invasion.
They sunk before us as the prairie grass before the fire
—they took no laurels on that consuming field. The
sling of the shepherd had overthrown the gladiator of
war!
Seldom, O! Victory, hath thy bird of triumph settled
down upon the banners of the just. Thou hast followed,
with ungenerous spirit, in the wake of empire and
aggression. Thy beak hath been whetted upon the
hearts of the free, and thy talons are yet dripping with
the life-blood of freedom. Thou hadst no wing for
liberty. Thou hast carried no weapon for the avenging
of human wrong. Thou hast been the ally of bold
Tyranny and consuming Carnage, and hast drunken of
human suffering as of an ocean, until the old world has
it for man and humanity that in the New thou art endeavouring
to retrace thy path, and redeem the errors of
the Old. There is now a better hope for the nations,
since, long obedient to the dictates of usurpation, thou
hast deserted him at last. Thou hast given in this, a
new guarantee of life and liberty to man, and a new pledge
of a more elevated, and a more lasting glory!
“They have fled—they are gone!” I shouted aloud
triumphantly. “Ay, ay, sir, both the “Charleston”
and “Macon”[2]
have gone three hours ago, and you'll
not find a packet now, on any terms;” was the somewhat
unceremonious, and certainly unlooked for, speech
of a tall fellow in the United States uniform, who now
stood before me. I rubbed my eyes, and as I looked
upon the broad sheet of water before me, on which the
moon had spread a thin and beautiful garment of fretted
silver, I saw through the whole mystery.
“Sir!” said I, half stupid and scarcely well awake,
arising from the grassy mound upon which I had lain.
“Ay, sir, the boats have all left you full three
hours ago. You will have to sleep on the island to-night,
though, to be reasonable, your nap has been
something long already. You seemed to enjoy it so
well that I could not find it in my heart to wake you.”
“Too polite by half,” was my involuntary exclamation,
as I set off to look out lodgings for the rest of the
night.
| A SCENE OF THE REVOLUTION. The book of my lady | |