University of Virginia Library

42. CHAPTER XLII.
BATTLE OF EUTAW.

With these terrible words — this threat, in which all that
was horrible in the conjecture of imagination seemed to be embodied
— Inglehardt left his captives — not together, exactly,
for the impassable walls stood between them still; but to commune
together, face to face — sad solace! — in such mournful
thoughts and fancies as were natural to their fears and situation.
We must leave them for a while also, to their gloomy
comparison of notes — leave them to such solace as Heaven
alone may vouchsafe them. There seems to be no present help
from man!

We must proceed to more general interests. The affairs of
the country — the natural progress of events in the military
world — require us to attend those more stirring and stormy
fields of debate upon which hang the fortunes of a whole people.
The affair of grand armies is approaching; and the circumstances
which require that Inglehardt, leaving his swamp-fastness,
should now take a downward instead of an upward route,
indicate the necessity which governs us also in shaping our
course in a like direction. His orders carry him to Eutaw, and
to the country below it. His selfish interests suggest the necessity
of seeing Griffith and other agents, who have been his emissaries,
if not his associates, in the business of peculation. He
has exhausted the resources of the Edisto; he would now try
those of Cooper river and Santee. Under cover of the British
army at Eutaw, and the lower posts which they have again
occupied, he calculates largely on the spolia opima. He has no
notion that Greene's army has left the banks of the Congaree;

and never dreams that the affair of grand armies will open before
the cool breezes of October shall set in.

We are, of course, better advised. But not so the British
general. He had planted himself at Eutaw, as we have seen;
and, regarding his position, justly, as one of some strength, and,
unaware of any movement of the American army, his attitude
was that of one perfectly confident in his security. Stewart
seems to have been a person of easy character, of the methodical
old school, lymphatic and of very moderate ability. So
effectually had our partisans cut off all his communications with
the country above him, and so careless did he seem in respect
to the acquisition of intelligence, that not a scout, not a patrol,
not an agent of any sort advised him of Greene's movements
until his artillery was already sounding in his ears. It can not
be doubted that he was remiss in seeking intelligence, and that
he was in some degree the victim of a surprise. The only
patrol he is known to have sent out, was captured. The fact is
that, so long as he believed the brigade of Marion to be below
him, on the Santee, he felt no occasion for apprehension. He
could not believe that Greene, with inferior numbers, wanting
in munitions, and his men not yet recovered from their debilitating
marches, and the effects of the season, would venture an
action without calling in all his parties. Without Marion's
command, he felt very sure that he would not; and he had
every reason to believe that no junction of Marion with the
grand army had yet taken place. The skirmish, so recently
had, between his flanking parties, and the little squad under
Sinclair — which was driven below — was enough to assure him
on this head. But Marion's movements were those of light.
Stewart, rather slow himself, did not anticipate that the famous
partisan would, by a forced march, in a single night, wind about
him, steal above him, and unite with the descending columns of
Greene. Yet such was the case.

The approach of Stewart to the Congaree had set Greene's
army in motion. It would have greatly favored the prospects
of victory to the Americans, if they could have brought the
British to action upon that river, where, remote from their convoys
and base of operations, any disaster would have proved
fatal to their arms. But the rapid retreat of Stewart, who felt

this very danger, lessened Greene's motives for activity; and
he proceeded on his advance with steps of greater leisure than
when he set out. This deliberation also contributed to the
encouragement of the British commander, to whom it suggested
the idea of a deficient confidence, and lack of resources, on the
part of the Americans, which would keep him harmless for
awhile.

In one respect he was correct. The resources of the American
army were exceedingly inferior. There seemed to be a singular
fatality, about this time, attending all the calculations of its
commander. Not only did Congress fail to furnish adequate
supplies, leaving the army lacking in all the necessary material
and munitions of war, to say nothing of clothes, tents, and camp
utensils; but there was a sad failure in its anticipated personnel,
which no present effort could supply. The army had recruited
in health, and improved in moral, during its temporary respite
upon the salubrious hills of Santee; but it had improved in no
other respect. Greene, during all this period, had been vexing
the echoes with calls, north and west, for supplies and reinforcements
without receiving any more solid response than echo
could impart. He had been promised eight hundred Pennsylvanians,
but, when the call was made for them, they were no
more available than the tributary spirits whom Owen Glendower
kept in his employ, but whom he summoned in vain from
regions of the vasty deep. Wayne, with his Pennsylvanians,
was diverted from the Carolinas, to help in the siege of Yorktown;
where, in spite of the grand armies registered at this day
on the pension, and other pay-lists, the whole force of continentals
under Washington did not exceed seven thousand men. Greene
had been assured, by Shelby and Sevier, of the succor of seven
hundred gallant mountaineers of the West; such as had conquered
Ferguson at King's Mountain; and the brave fellows
were actually advancing to his support, when they were met by
false tidings of his successful march below — and that he had
already driven the British into Charleston. The report had grown
out of the dashing foray of the dogdays, by the mounted men and
cavalry of the army. But, however idle, it was mischievous.
The mountaineers, taking for granted, that nothing now remained
for them to do, quietly travelled back to their hill-slopes.

There was a fine body of recruits, some hundred and fifty,
raised by Colonel Jackson, in Georgia. Jackson was a brave
fellow, and a man of talents. Greene relied confidently on this
force, at least; yet, to his horror, and that of their captain, the
camp of the Georgians was entered by the pestilence, at the very
moment when they were about to repair to the main army; the
whole force of one hundred and fifty men, were seized with
small-pox, at the same time, and more than fifty of them perished
under this horrid disease.

In brief, of all the anticipated reinforcements, none came
but some few hundred levies from North Carolina; and the
whole force of the Americans, at the reopening of the campaign,
consisted of twenty-five hundred combatants, all told. The
main strength of the army, in which it excelled the British, lay
in its cavalry and mounted men. In regulars, it was numerically
inferior — inferior in artillery as well as in the number
of its bayonets. But we must not anticipate these details which
events will sufficiently develop.

Greene, fully conscious of his weakness, meditated a discontinuance
of the pursuit of Stewart, as he felt it likely that the
latter would fall too far back upon his base of operations, to
leave it possible for him to make any successful demonstration.
He crossed the Congaree, moved slowly down the south bank,
intending to take post at Motte's, and wait events and reinforcements.
Lee, with the legion cavalry, was, meanwhile,
pushed down upon the steps of Stewart, to watch his movements;
while General Pickens, in command of the state troops, was sent
forward to observe, and damage, if he might, the garrison which
Stewart had left in Orangeburg.

With the approach of Pickens, this garrison hurried down
after Stewart, and joined him seasonably at Eutaw; while the
troops from Fairlawn, five hundred in number, reinforced him
about the same time, from the opposite quarter. When apprized
by Pickens and Lee of these proceedings of Stewart, and of
the concentration of his chief strength at Eutaw, Greene resolved
to give him battle; the post at Eutaw being sufficiently
far from Charleston, to assure the American general against a
too easy recovery by the British from disaster, should he be
successful in obtaining any advantages from the conflict. It

also assured him against any ill consequences, to himself, other
than he might suffer from the conflict with the one army with
which he was to contend. Satisfied now, that Stewart was not
unwilling to measure swords with him, he resumed his march
accordingly, with the determination to fight!

On the 5th of September, we find that Marion, supposed by
Stewart, to be still below him, has, by a night march, thrown
his brigade seventeen miles above; and is stationed at Laurens's
plantation, waiting the arrival of Greene. The latter
reached the same point the same evening. Here the State
troops under Pickens, joined also. The 6th of September was
devoted to rest and preparation. On the evening of the 7th,
the army had reached Burdell's tavern, on the Congaree road,
seven miles above Eutaw. Here it bivouacked for the night,
Greene taking his sleep beneath a China (pride of India) tree,
one of its bulging roots answering for a pillow. His suite, and
officers generally, were similarly couched. The night was mild
and pleasant — the open air more grateful than salubrious; and
the stars watched the sleepers without shedding any of those
fiery signs over the heavens, which in olden time, were supposed
to give auguries of a bloody morrow.

Up to this moment the British general had no notion of the
near approach of his antagonist. Nor, through the night, did
he receive any tidings of his presence. In the morning, so little
were the British prepared to suspect the propinquity of the
Americans, that a rooting party, of a hundred men, were sent
up the road, to gather supplies of sweet potatoes from the farms
and plantations along the river. They had been some time
gone, when two deserters from the American camp found their
way to the British post, and gave the first intimation to Stewart
of his danger. He immediately despatched Coffin with his cavalry
to protect and bring back his foragers, and reconnoitre and
retard the American advance.

Meanwhile, the American army had been put in motion
marching down, in four columns, in the following order: The
South Carolina state troops and Lee's legion, formed the advance,
under Colonel Henderson: the militia of the two Carolinas,
under Marion followed next. Then came the regulars
under General Sumner, and the rear was brought up by Wash

ington's cavalry and the Delawares. They were thus arranged
in reference to the order of battle, in which they were to be
formed upon the field.

The American advance of Henderson and Lee encountered
Coffin. He charged them with a singular audacity, not seeming
to suspect that the main army was at hand. Of course he was
made to recoil. The firing drew the foragers out of the woods
and farms, and they all fell into the hands of the Americans.
Coffin's audacity, in the charge, led Greene to believe that
Stewart was nigh to sustain him. He called a halt accordingly,
gave his troops a sup of Jamaica all round[1] and then
displayed in order of battle. The militia of the two Carolinas
formed his first line, Marion leading the right, Pickens the left,
Malmedy the centre. Henderson, with the South Carolina
state troops covered the left of this line, and Lee, with the legion,
the right. The regulars displayed in one line also; the
North-Carolinians under Sumner, on the right; the Marylanders,
under Otho Williams, the left; the Virginians, under Campbell,
the centre. Two three-pounders, under Captain Gaines,
moved centrally in the road with the first line; two six-pounders,
in the same order, under Captain Brown, with the second.
Colonel Washington, in cover of the woods, formed the reserve.
The militia force of foot, under Marion and Pickens, was about
six hundred, Malmedy's North-Carolinians were one hundred
and fifty: the line of regulars numbered three hundred and
fifty North Carolinians, two hundred and fifty Virginians, and
two hundred and fifty Marylanders. The cavalry and mounted
men were relatively more numerous; and there were covering
parties, and a force in charge of the baggage (which had been
left forty miles in the rear), the numbers of which are not given,
and hardly now to be determined by any estimate. At the
utmost Greene had probably twenty-five hundred men, rank
and file.

In this order the troops marched forward — moving slowly, as
the whole country, both sides of the road, was in woods. The
first American line drove Stewart's advanced parties before
them, until they found shelter in their own line of battle. There

was no faltering in this progress. The militia of the Carolinas,
when led by Marion and Pickens, never faltered, so long as the
order was heard to fight!

Stewart had drawn up his troops in a single line, extending
from the Eutaw creek, beyond the Congaree road. The creek
effectually covered his right; his left was “in air,” to use the
military language — i. e., not covered — and was supported by
the cavalry of Coffin, and a strong body of infantry, which
were, in turn, under cover of the forest. The ground which the
British army occupied was altogether in wood; but, a small
distance in the rear, was a cleared field, extending west, south,
and east of the dwelling-house which formed his castle of refuge,
and bounded north by the Eutaw spring — thickly fringed
with brush, and a stunted growth of forest. But we have already,
in a previous chapter, indicated the characteristics of the
spot, the house, grounds and garden. South and west of the
house, it may be well to mention here, an old ffeld was occupied
by the British camp, all the tents being left standing
when the battle joined. The house commanded these tents
and the camp, and was important to Stewart, as a rallying point
in the event of disaster. Major Sheridan was, accordingly, instructed
to occupy it on the first sign of misfortune. For further
security, Stewart had posted Major Marjoribanks, with three
hundred picked troops, in the dense thickets which border the
Eutaw creek. The artillery of the British — five pieces — covered
the main road.

The skirmishing parties had done their work with spirit —
had melted away on both sides, and yielded to heavier battalions;
and the artillery of the first line, and the militia of the
two Carolinas, all under Marion, went into the melée with the
fierce passions of individual ardor, and the stubborn and desperate
resolve of veterans. Very obstinate and very bloody was
the struggle, and singularly protracted. The artillery was
worked admirably, and continued to belch forth its iron rages,
until both of the three-pounders of the Americans, and one of
the British, were disabled. Nor did the militia fail the artillery.
Never perhaps had militia done better — never perhaps quite
so well. The regulars looked on with equal surprise and admiration,
as they beheld these brave fellows, whom it is so customary

to disparage, as they rushed forward into the hottest of
the enemy's fire, totally unmoved with the continual fall of their
comrades around them.

“The veterans of Frederick of Prussia, never showed themselves
better fire-eaters!” was the ejaculation of Greene. “Regulars,
you must look to your laurels!”

And, all this time, these men of Marion, Pickens and Malmedy,
were enduring the fire of nearly twice their number, for
they were opposed to the entire British line. But such a conflict
could not last. The two pieces of artillery were finally
demolished. The British not able to stand their deadly fire,
for every southron was a rifleman, now pressed forward with
the bayonet. This was a weapon which our militiamen did not
use. They were compelled to recoil before it; but not before
every man had emptied his cartouch-box. They delivered
seventeen rounds before they yielded, and retired by the wings
to the covering parties, on either hand. Rutledge who was
on the field with Greene, sobbed like a child with exultation, as
he clasped Marion about the neck when he came out of the
action.

“Our fellows have won immortal honor — immortal honor!”

The issue thus presented, of the bayonet, brought the American
second line into action. The militia, as we have seen, disappeared
away upon the wings, retired into the woods, and
rallied, for future work, upon the flanking-parties.

The regulars, under Sumner, had felt the example of the militia,
and glowed with anxiety to take their place in the struggle.
They rushed forward, keen as lightning; and, at their
approach, Stewart brought the majority of his reserve into line.
The conflict was then renewed, with as much fury as ever.
Leaving these combatants equally matched, or nearly so, let us
look to other parties.

From the first of the action, the infantry of the American
covering parties had shared in it as well as the first line, and
had been steadily engaged. “The cavalry of the legion (Lee's)
being on the American right, had been enabled to withdraw
into the woods, and attend on its infantry, without being at all
exposed to the enemy's fire. Not so, however, the state troops
under Henderson. These had occupied one of the most exposed

situations in the field; for, though the American right, covered
by the legion infantry, extended beyond the British left, the
American left fell far short of the British right. The consequence
was, that the state troops were exposed to the oblique
fire of a large part of the British right, and particularly to that
of the flank battalion under Marjoribanks, which was pushed
under cover of the wood along the banks of the creek. Henderson
implored to be allowed to charge the enemy whom he
could not see; but he could not be spared from the one duty,
that of covering his portion of the line. Never was constancy
more severely tried. Wounded, at length, and carried from the
field, Henderson's place was occupied by Colonel Wade Hampton,
who, admirably supported by Colonels Polk and Middleton,
was compelled to endure for a while the same trials which Henderson
had undergone.”

We must return to the main battle. We have seen Sumner,
with his brigade, taking the place vacated by the militia. He,
at length, yielded to the superior force and fire of the enemy.
As his brigade wavered, shrank, and finally yielded, the hopes
of the British grew sanguine. With a wild yell of victory, they
rushed forward to complete their supposed triumph, and, in doing
so, their line became disordered. This afforded an opportunity
of which Greene promptly availed himself. He had anticipated
this probability, and had waited anxiously for it. He was now
ready to take advantage of it, and gave his order — to Otho
Williams, in command of the Marylanders — “Let Williams
advance, and sweep the field with his bayonets!”

And Williams, heading two brigades — those of Maryland
and Virginia — swept forward with a shout. When within
forty yards of the British, the Virginians poured in a destructive
fire, under which their columns reeled and shivered as if struck
by lightning; and then the whole second line, the three brigades,
with trailed arms, and almost at a trot, darted on to the
savage issue of naked steel, hand to hand, with the desperate
bayonet. The terrible fire of the Virginians, followed up by
the charge of the second line, and seconded, at this lucky juncture,
by the legion infantry, which suddenly poured in a most
destructive fire upon the now exposed flank of the British left,
threw the whole line into irretrievable disorder. But the bayonets

of certain sections were crossed, though for a moment
only; men were transfixed by one another, and the contending
officers sprang at each other with their swords!

The left of the British centre at this vital moment, pressed
upon by their own fugitives, yielded under the pressure, and
the Marylanders now delivering their fire, hitherto reserved,
completed the disaster! Along the whole front, the enemy's
ranks wavered, gave way finally, and retired sullenly, closely
pressed by the shouting Americans.

The victory was won! — so far, a victory was won; and all
that was necessary was to keep and confirm the triumph. But
the day was not over! The battle of Eutaw was a two-act, we
might say a three-act, drama — such were its vicissitudes.

At the moment when the British line gave way, had it been
pressed without reserve by the legion cavalry, the disaster must
have been irretrievable. But this seems not to have been done.
Why, can not now be well explained, nor is it exactly within
our province to undertake the explanation. Lee himself was at
this moment with his infantry, and they had just done excellent
service. It is probable that Coffin's cavalry was too much for
that of the legion; and this body, sustained by a select corps of
bayonets, protected the British in the quarter which was first
to yield. It now remained for the Americans to follow up their
successes. The British had been driven from their first field.
It was the necessity of the Americans that they should have no
time to rally upon other ground, especially upon the ground so
well covered by the brick-house, and the dense thicket along
the creek which was occupied by Marjoribanks.

But a pursuing army, where the cavalry fails in its appointed
duty, can never overtake a fugitive force, unless, emulating
their speed, it breaks its own order. This, if it does, it becomes
fugitive also, and is liable to the worst dangers from the smallest
reverse. This is, in truth, the very error which the Americans
committed, and all their subsequent misfortunes sprang entirely
from this one source.

The British yielding slowly from left to right — the right
very reluctant to retire — and the Americans pressing upon
them just in the degree in which the two sections yielded, both
armies performed together a half-wheel, which brought them

into the open grounds in front of the house. In this position
the Marylanders were brought suddenly under the fire of the
covered party of Marjoribanks, in the thicket. This promised
to be galling and destructive. Greene saw that Marjoribanks
must be dislodged, or that the whole force of the enemy would
rally; and Colonel Washington was commanded to charge the
thicket. He did so very gallantly; was received by a terrible
fire, which swept away scores of men and horses. Deadly as
was this result, and absurd as was the attempt, the gallant
trooper thrice essayed to penetrate the thickets, and each time
paid the terrible penalty of his audacity in the blood of his
best soldiers. The field, at one moment, was covered with his
wounded, plunging, riderless horses, maddened by their hurts.
All but two of his officers were brought to the ground. He
himself fell beneath his horse, wounded; and, while such was
his situation, Marjoribanks emerged with his bayonets from his
thickets, and completed the defeat of the squadron. Washington
himself was narrowly saved from a British bayonet, and
was made prisoner. It was left to Hampton, one of his surviving
officers, who was fortunately unhurt, to rescue and rally
the scattered survivors of his gallant division, and bring them
on again to the fruitless charge upon Marjoribanks. Hampton
was supported in this charge by Kirkwood's Delawares; but
the result was as fruitless as before. The very attempt was
suicidal. The British major was too well posted, too strongly
covered, too strong himself in numbers and the quality of his
troops, to be driven from his ground, even by shocks so decided
and frequently repeated, of the sort of force sent against him.

Up to this moment, nothing had seemed more certain than
the victory of the Americans. The consternation in the British
camp was complete. Everything was given up for lost, by a
considerable portion of the army. The commissaries destroyed
their stores, the loyalists and American deserters, dreading the
rope, seizing every horse which they could command, fled incontinently
for Charleston, whither they carried such an alarm,
that the stores along the road were destroyed, and the trees
felled across it for the obstruction of the victorious Americans,
who were supposed to be pressing down upon the city with all
their might.

Equally deceived were the conquerers. Flushed with success,
the infantry scattered themselves about the British camp, which,
as all the tents had been left standing, presented a thousand
objects to tempt the appetites of a half-starved and half-naked
soldiery. Insubordination followed disorder; and they were
only made aware of the danger of having victory changed into
a most shameful defeat, by finding themselves suddenly brought
under a vindictive fire from the windows of the brick house,
into which Major Sheridan had succeeded in forcing his way,
with a strong body of sharp-shooters.

He had not done this, however, but with great difficulty. Closely
pressed, particularly by the legion infantry, a desperate struggle
took place at the very entrance of the dwelling. The pursuers
nearly succeeded in forcing their way in, pell-mell, with the fugitives;
and when the latter finally succeeded in securing possession,
the former had made so many prisoners — some of rank —
that they covered their own retreat from the fire of the building,
by the interposition of their captives. It was on this occasion,
and thus, that Lieutenant Manning, of the legion, carried off
Major Barry, the wit and poet par excellence of the British
army. Barry, though a man of considerable self-esteem, was
of diminutive dimensions; and tradition describes Manning as
taking him off on his back.

“Sir,” said the captive, “do you know who I am? Set me
down immediately! I am Major Harry Barry, sir, adjutant-general
of the British army!”

“Very glad, indeed, to hear it,” answered Manning. “The
very person I have been so anxious to see!”

And hoisting him upon his back, he carried him off, at a trot,
the British musketeers not daring to fire at the captor lest they
should hurt his distinguished prisoner!

But there were many far less fortunate than Manning. The
American officers, eagerly striving to disentangle their men from
the tents in which they were revelling, became conspicuous
objects for the aim of the fusileers from the house. The fire
from this quarter grew, momentarily, more and more destructive,
while everywhere about the field the confusion was predominant.
Lee's dragoons, under Major Eggleston, meanwhile,
charged Coffin's cavalry, without success, and were compelled

to retire. Coffin and Marjoribanks, both having succeeded in
baffling their immediate assailants, made simultaneous movements
upon the field. The American troops, scattered among
the tents, fastening upon the liquors, had grown unmanageable.
Greene beheld his danger, and vainly ordered a retreat. Coffin,
during this time, had made his way to the rear of the tents, and
the sabres of his cavalry were teaching lessons of terror to the
refractory, to whom their officers had failed to teach subordination.
Here he was encountered by Hampton, leading the remnant
of Washington's command, and sustained by a detachment
from the mounted men of Marion. A sharp passage followed,
which emptied a good many saddles; and it was on this occasion
that Sinclair caught sight of Inglehardt, as he swept with
his squad over a group of fugitives emerging from the tents.
With a wild cheer, our partisan colonel darted after his quarry,
making sure of his prey. He descended like lightning, unexpectedly,
upon the enemy he sought. The strife was of the
shortest. The powerful form of Sinclair, as he rose in his stirrups,
and swung aloft his claymore, expecting, the next moment,
to cut down the loyalist captain, seemed, on a sudden, to the
eyes of Inglehardt, like that of some terrible angel commissioned
for his destruction. His instincts got the better of his
manhood. He recoiled from the collision, and whirled behind
a tent, which, as Sinclair dashed after him, was overthrown in
the rush, and fell partly upon the head and neck of our dragoon's
horse. Before he could extricate himself, Inglehardt had
disappeared from the scene — from the field; for, believing
everything lost — ignorant of the rally of Marjoribanks as well
as Coffin, and seeing the latter driven before the dragoons of
Hampton, he obeyed only the counsels of his own fear, and led
the remnant of his troop into the deep thickets, whence he
made his way into the nearest swamp harborage.

The field now presented an appearance of indescribable terror
and confusion. Small squads were busy in separate strifes,
here and there; the American officers vainly seeking to rally
the scattered regulars; the mounted partisans, seeking to cover
the fugitives; while, from the house, the command of Sheridan
was blazing away with incessant musketry, telling fearfully
upon all who came within their range. Meanwhile, watchful

of every chance, Marjoribanks had changed his ground, keeping
still in cover, but nearer now to the scene of action, and with a
portion of his command concealed behind the picketed garden.
In this position he subjected the American cavalry to another
severe handling, as they approached the garden, delivering a
fire so destructive, that, according to one of the colonels on
Hampton's left: “He thought every man killed but himself!”
It was in the midst of this confusion that Peyre St. Julien
caught sight of Lord Edward Fitzgerald, at the head of a small
body of volunteer cavalry. To sweep toward him with what
remained of his own corps, was the instant impulse of our
partisan. Fitzgerald saw him approach, and, nowise loath,
gallantly applied the spurs to his steed to shorten the space
between them. The followers of both leaders, meanwhile,
dashed to the encounter headlong, and but a few moments sufficed
for St. Julien's dragoons to ride over the few volunteer
gentlemen, whom Fitzgerald had drawn together, with the view
to a diversion in the field, at the proper moment. They were
anything but a match for the vigorous, well-mounted dragoons
of Sinclair. But, though they melted away, Fitzgerald, himself,
drew firmly and fiercely toward his assailant. And St.
Julien spurred forward to the encounter. Already his sabre
was uplifted, already had he risen in his stirrup prepared to
smite and hew down! But, suddenly, he paused; lowered his
sabre, making the graceful salute, instead of the savage stroke;
and said, bowing gracefully:—

“My lord, you are hurt! You are wounded. Let me help
you out of this melée.”

“No! never a prisoner, sir, never!” answered Fitzgerald,
very faintly, and still showing fight. But he was sinking from
a still bleeding wound. He was growing faint and dizzy.

“By no means, sir! As a friend, as a gentleman, my lord, I
propose to help you. Give me your hand, sir, my honor goes
with it. There, sir. Keep up but a few moments, now, till we
can get safely into the wood!”

And, under the shelter of St. Julien, Lord Edward reached
the wood, and about three hundred yards from the field of
battle they found a hut, in which a negro crouched, trembling

with terror at their approach. St. Julien helped Fitzgerald
from his horse, and into the hovel. He said to the negro:—

“What's your name, boy?”

“Tony, maussa!”

“Get some water, Tony — quick.” The negro brought his
bucket. Fitzgerald drank. St. Julien laid him down upon the
floor, bound up his wound, which was in the thigh — a sword
thrust — deep in the flesh, but not serious; exhausting only from
the great flow of blood. This done, and as he could no more,
St. Julien prepared to leave him.

“This is very generous, sir,” said Fitzgerald.

The other smiled — “It is what you would do, my lord.”
Then, addressing the negro —“Tony — take care of this gentleman!
Wait on him well! Do all that he tells you, and you
will be rewarded. If you do not I will hang you! Do you
understand that?”

“Oh! yes, mass cappin!”

“Very well! Remember what I say!”

“I yerry maussa! I guine do jes' wha' you tell me.”

“I must leave you for the present, my lord. I can do no
more.”

“Oh! thanks, thanks! You have done much. You have
saved my life, I believe.”

“If mine is spared me,” said the other, “I will try to come
to you. If we keep the field, I will surely do so.”

He wrung the hands of Fitzgerald warmly, as he hurried
away. In half an hour after, Colonel Washington, wounded,
and a prisoner to the British, was brought to the shelter of the
very same hovel; and subsequently, by the curious caprice of
Fortune, Fitzgerald became his custodian, when they were both
removed to the city.[2]

St. Julien, returning to the field, found all in confusion as before.
The two six-pounders of the Americans, which had accompanied
their second line, were brought up to batter the
house. But, in the stupid ardor of those having them in charge,
they had been run up within fifty yards of the building, and
the cannoneers were picked off by Sheridan's marksmen as fast
as they approached the guns. The whole fire from the windows
was concentrated upon the artillerists, and they were either all
killed or driven away. This done, Marjoribanks promptly sallied
forth from his cover into the field, seized upon the abandoned
pieces and hurried them under cover of the house before
any effort could be made to save them. He next charged the
scattered parties of Americans among the tents, or upon the
field, and drove them before him. Covered, finally, by the
mounted men of Marion and Hampton, the infantry found safety
in the wood, and were rallied. The British were too much
crippled to follow, and dared not advance from the immediate
cover of their fortress.

No more could be done. The laurels won in the first act of
this exciting drama were all withered in the second. Both parties
claimed a victory. It belonged to neither. The British
were beaten from the field at the point of the bayonet; sought
shelter in a fortress, and repulsed their assailants from that fortress.
It is to the shame and discredit of the Americans that
they were repulsed. The victory was in their hands. Bad
conduct in the men, and bad generalship, sufficed to rob them
deservedly of the honors of the field. But most of the advantages
remained in their hands. They had lost, it is true, severely;
twenty-one of our officers perished on the field: and
the aggregate of killed, wounded, and missing, exceeded one
fourth of the number with which they had gone into battle.
Henderson, Pickens, Howard, and many other officers of distinction,
were among the wounded. They had also lost two of

their field-pieces, and had taken one of the enemy; and all
these losses, and the events which distinguished them, were
quite sufficient to rob them of the triumph of the day. But, on
the other hand, the losses of the British were still greater. The
Americans had chased them from the field at the point of the
bayonet; this was a moral loss; plundered their camp; and at
the close held possession of the field. Stewart fled the next
day, his retreat covered by Major M`Arthur, with a fresh brigade
from Fairlawn, which had been called up for his succor.
Marion and Lee made a fruitless attempt to intercept this re-inforcement.
But the simultaneous movement of Stewart and
M`Arthur enabled them to effect a junction, and thus outnumber
the force of Marion. Stewart fled, leaving seventy of his wounded
to the care of his enemies. He destroyed his stores, broke
up a thousand stand of arms, and, shorn of all unnecessary baggage,
succeeded in getting safely to Fairlawn. His slain,
wounded, and missing, numbered more than half the force with
which he had gone into battle. The Americans carried off four
hundred and thirty prisoners, which, added to the seventy taken
in the morning, made an aggregate of five hundred. One of
the heaviest of the British losses occurred after the battle, in
the death of Marjoribanks, who had unquestionably saved the
whole British army. He died, not long after, on the road to
Charleston.[3]