Chapter IV: Appendix: 233 (3)

“Well, Mr. Kennedy,” says Lee, “you have told us of your victories,—have you always been victorious—have you always had the luck on your side,—where did you lose your arm?” The old man took a long and deliberate survey of the horizon ahead of us, apparently not well pleased with a dark cloud just beginning to lift itself above its edge; but whatever inferences he drew from it he kept to himself, and having relieved his mouth from the quid, and replenished the vacuum by a fresh bite of the pig-tail, he leisurely turned to us again, and replied with some emphasis—‘Them as fights the English, fights men—and though it’s been my luck to be taken twice by them, once’t in the unlucky Chesapeake, and once’t on the lakes, and though I owes the loss of my flipper to a musket marked G.R., I hopes I bears them no more grudge than becomes a true yankee sailor. Now, speaking of that, I’ve always obsarved, since the war, when our ships is in the same port, that however much we always fights, when we falls in with each other, that the moment the English or Americans gets into a muss with the French, or the Dutch, or the Spaniards, that we makes common cause, and tumbles in and helps one another—but I’m blest! but that Chesapeake business was a bad affair. They took the ship;—let them have the credit of it, say I;—but no great credit neither; for half the men was foreigners in a state of mutiny, and none of the men know’d their officers. I hearn Captain Lawrence say himself, after he was carried below, that when he ordered the bugle-man to sound, to repel boarders, the cursed Portuguese was so frightened, or treacherous, that no sound came from the bugle, though his cheeks swelled as if in the act; and I hearn a British officer say to one of our’n, that Captain Lawrence owed his death to his wearing a white cravat into action, and that a sharp-shooter in their tops picked him off, knowing as how, that no common man would be so dressed. I don’t complain of their getting the best of it, for that’s the fortune of war; but they behaved badly after the colours was hauled down. They fired down the hatches, and“—lifting his hat, and exhibiting a seam that measured his head from the crown to the ear—”I received this here slash from the cutlash of a drunken sailor, for my share, as I came up the main-hatch, after she surrendered—My eyes! all the stars in heaven was dancing before me as I tumbled back senseless on the gun-deck below; and when they brought the ship into Halifax, she smelt more like a slaughter-house nor a Christian man-of-war. Howsomever, they whipt us, and there’s an end of the matter—only I wish’t our gallant Lawrence might have died before the colours came down, and been spared the pain of seeing his ship in the hands of the enemy. It was what we old sailors expected, though. She was an unlucky ship, and that disgraceful affair between her and the Leopard, was enough to take the luck out of any ship. Now if it had been “Old Ironsides,”[1] or the “Old Wagon,”[2] I’m blessed! but the guns would have gone off themselves, had the whole crew mutinied and refused to come to quarters, when they heard the roar of the British cannon—aye, aye, Old Ironsides’ bull-dogs have barked at John Bull often enough, aye, and always held him by the nose, too, when they growled—but the Chesapeake’s colours was hauled down, while the Shannon’s was flying.—That’s enough—we had to knock under—let them have the credit of it, say I.—They’d little cause, except in that ere fight, to crow over the Yankee blue jackets. They whipt us, and there’s an end of the matter, and be damned to ’em.—But that ain’t answering your question, as how I lost my larboard flipper. It wasn’t in that ere unfortunate ship, altho’ if it would have saved the honour of the flag, Bill Kennedy would willingly have given his head and his arms too—but it was under Old Chauncey on Lake Ontario. It was in a boat expedition on that ’ere lake, that I first got a loose sleeve to my jacket, besides being made a pris’ner into the bargain. You see, Sir James was shut up in Kingston, and beyond the harbour there was a long bay or inlet setting up some three or four miles. Now, the Commodore thought it mought be, there was more of his ships in that same bay; so he orders Lieutenant ——, him as the English called the ‘Dare-devil Yankee,’—the same as went in with a barge the year before and burned a heavy armed schooner on the stocks, with all their stores, and came away by the light of it—at—at—I misremember the place—he orders him to proceed up the bay to reconniter—to see whether there was any of the enemy’s ships at anchor there—to get all the information he could of his movements, and to bring off a prisoner if he could catch one—that the Commodore mought overhaul him at his leisure. So the lieutenant takes a yawl as we had captured some days before, having Sir James’s own flag painted upon her bows, with midshipman Hart, and eight of us men, and pulls leisurely along shore, till we made the entrance of the bay. It was a bright summer afternoon, and the water was as calm as the Captain’s hand-basin—not a ripple to be seen. Well, the entrance was narrow, and somewhat obstructed by small islands; but we soon got through them, never seeing two heavy English men-of-war barges, as was snugly stowed in the bushes; but about three miles up, we spies a raft of timber, with two men on it. We gave way, and before long got up abreast of it. When we got close aboard the raft, the lieutenant hailing one of the men, calls him to the side nearest the boat, and says—‘My man, what are you lying here for, doing nothing—the wind and tide are both in your favour—don’t you know we are waiting down at Kingston for this here timber for his Majesty’s sarvice—what are you idling away your time for here?’ The feller first looks at Sir James’s flag painted upon the bows of the yawl; and then at the lieutenant, and then again at the flag—and then at the lieutenant—and then opens his eyes, and looks mighty scarey, without saying anything, with his mouth wide open,—‘I say,’ says the Lieutenant agin, ‘I say, you feller with the ragged breeches, do you mean to swallow my boat—why don’t you answer—what the devil are you doing here?’ The feller scratches his head, and then stammers, ‘I—I—_I_ know _you_—you are him as burnt Mr. Peter’s schooner last year.’ ‘Well,’ says the Lieutenant, ‘what are you going to do with this here timber.’ ‘I’m carrying it down for a raising,’ says he. ‘What!’ says the Lieutenant, ‘do you use ship’s knees and transom beams for house raising in this part of the country? It won’t do, my man. Bear a hand, my lads, and pile all the boards and light stuff in the centre, and we’ll make a bonfire in honour of his most sacred Majesty.’ So we set fire to it, and took the spokesman on board the yawl,—towing the other man in their skiff astarn, intending to release them both when we had got all the information that we wanted out of them. We returned slowly down the bay again, the blazing raft making a great smoke; but as we neared the outlet, what does we see, but them two heavy barges pulling down to cut us off. We had to run some distance nearly parallel with them, an island intervening—so we every moment came nearer to them, and soon within speaking distance. The men gave way hearty—in fear of an English prison, but as we came nearer each other, some of the officers in the English boats recognises Lieutenant ——, cause why—they had been prisoners with us—and hails him—“G——,” says they, ‘you must submit, it’s no use for you to resist, we are four to your one. Come, old feller, don’t make any unnecessary trouble, but give up—you’ve got to knock under.’ The Lieutenant said nothing,—but he was a particular man, and had his own notions upon the subject, for, bidding the men give way, he coolly draws sight upon the spokesman with his rifle, and most sartin, as he was a dead shot, there would have been a vacant commission in His Majesty’s Navy, hadn’t the raftsman, who was frightened out of his wits, caught hold of him by the tails of his coat and dragged him down into the bottom of the boat. The Lieutenant drops his rifle, and catches the feller by his legs and shoulders and heaves him clear of the boat towards the skiff—while we men, dropping our oars, gave them a volley with our muskets, and then laid down to it again. We had taken them by surprise, but as we dashed along ahead, they returned our fire with interest, peppering some of our lads and killing Midshipman Hart outright, who merely uttered an exclamation as his oar flew up above his head, and he fell dead in the bottom of the boat. Well, we see’d the headmost barge all ready, lying on her oars and waiting for us, and as there was no running the gauntlet past her fire, we made for another opening from the bay as didn’t appear to be obstructed, but as we nears it, and just begins to breathe free, three boats full of lobsters, of red-coats, shoots right across, and closes the entrance effectually on that side. We was in a regular rat-trap. We had been seen and watched from the moment we had got inside of the bay, burning the raft and all. ‘Well, my lads,’ says the Lieutenant, ‘this will never do—we must go about—hug the shore close, and try to push by the barges.’ So about we went, but as we neared the shore, there was a party of them ’ere riflemen in their leggins and hunting-shirts, all ready for us, waiting just as cool and unconsarned as if we was a parcel of Christmas turkies, put up for them to shoot at. ‘Umph,’ says the Lieutenant again, ‘’twon’t do for them fellers to be cracking their coach-whips at us neither—we’ve nothing to do for it, my boys, but to try our luck, such as it is, with the barges.’ So as we pulled dead for the entrance of the bay, they lay on their oars, all ready for us, and as we came up, they poured such a deadly fire into that ere yawl as I never seed before or since. There was nineteen wounds among eight of us. The Lieutenant was the only one unhurt, though his hat was riddled through and through, and his clothes hung about him in tatters. How he was presarved, is a miracle, for he was standing all the while in the starn-sheets, the most exposed of any on board. They kept firing away, as if they intended to finish the business, and gin no quarter, the men doing what little they could to pull at the oars; but a boat of wounded and dying men couldn’t make much headway. Our men was true Yankee lads, tho’—and no flinching.

“There was one man named Patterson, as pulled on the same thwart with me, and of all the men I’ve ever sailed with, he showed most of what I calls real grit. At their first volley, he gets a shot through his thigh, shattering the bone so that it hung twisted over on one side, but he pulls away at his oar as if nothing had happened. Presently another passes through his lungs, and comes out at his back—still he pulls away, and didn’t give in;—at last, a third takes him through the throat, and passes out back of his neck;—then, and not till then, did he call out to the lieutenant—‘Mr. G—, I’m killed, sir;—I’m dead;—I can’t do no more.’ So the lieutenant says—‘Throw your oar overboard, Patterson, and slide down into the bottom of the boat, and make yourself as comfortable as you can.’ Well—what does Patterson do, as he lays in the bottom of the boat bleeding to death, what does he do but lifts his arm over the gunwale, and shaking his fist, cry, ‘Come on, damn ye, one at a time, and I’m enough for ye as I am.’ Aye, aye, Patterson was what I calls real grit. He was a good, quiet, steady man, too, on board ship; always clean and ac_tyv_e, and cheerful in obeying orders. Howsomever, his time had come, and in course there was an end of his boat duty in this world.

“Well—they continued to fire into us as fast as they could load, cause why, they was aggravated that so small a force should have fired into them; but the lieutenant takes off his hat and makes a low bow, to let them know as how he had surrendered, and then directs me to hold up an oar’s blade; but they takes no notice of neither, and still peppered away; but just as we concludes that they didn’t intend to give no quarter, but meant to extarminate us outright, they slacks firing, and, taking a long circuit, as if we’d have been a torpedo, or some other dangerous combustible, pulled up aboard. There wasn’t much for them to be afeard on though, for with the exception of the lieutenant, who was untouched, there was nothing in the boat but dead and wounded men. They took us in tow, and carried us down to Kingston, and mighty savage was Sir James;—he said that it was unpardonable that so small a force should have attempted resistance, and he and the lieutenant getting high, and becoming aggravated by something as was said between them, Sir James claps him in a state-room under arrest, and keeps him there under a sentry, with a drawn baggonet, for nigh on two months. After that he sends the lieutenant to Quebec, and then to England, where he remained till the close of the war; but them of us men as didn’t die of our wounds was kept down in Montreal, until——” Here the old man broke off abruptly, and taking another long look at the horizon, said, “If I a’nt much mistaken, Master Tom, there’s something a-brewing ahead there, as will make this here craft wake up, as if she was at the little end of a funnel, with a harricane pouring through the other—and if I knows the smell of a Potomac thundergust, we’ll have it full blast here before we’re many minutes older.”

[1] Frigate Constitution.

[2] Frigate United States.

LEE’S PARTISAN LEGION.

Old Kennedy quietly proceeded to make the necessary preparations to encounter the tempest. His peacoat was got out of the locker, and tightly buttoned about him, and his tarpaulin well secured by its lanyard to his button-hole. The mainsail and foresail were stowed and secured, and nothing but the jib, the bonnet of which was reefed down, was allowed to remain spread upon our dark and graceful schooner.

The cloud in the horizon began to extend itself, increasing and gradually rising and covering the sky, and the old man’s prediction was evidently about to be fulfilled. A dead calm lay upon the river, and a preternatural stillness clothed in a sort of stupor the whole face of nature around us; while low muttering rolls of thunder from the dark cloud, and the frequent, sudden, crinkling lightning, glittering across its surface, warned us that we were about to encounter one of those violent and terrible thunder-storms which not unfrequently occur in this part of the country.

The distant muttering in the horizon rapidly became louder, and the perfect stillness of the forest was broken. The melancholy sighs of the coming blast increased to wails,—the boughs of the trees rubbed against each other with a slow, see-saw motion, and, as the storm increased, grated with a harsh and continued groaning. The lightning became quick and incessant, and blindingly vivid, and the dark gloom of the forest was rendered still darker by its rapid glare. The river itself soon was lashed into foam behind us, and in a few moments more, accompanied by huge clouds of dust, the tempest came roaring upon us. The cultivated fields and cheerful plantations which were but now smiling in quietness and repose, on the other side of the river, were now instantly shut out by the deep gloom. As the gust struck the schooner, she checked for a moment as if in surprise, and then shot forward with the speed of an arrow from the bow, swept on in the furious tempest as if she had been a gossamer or feather, enveloped in dust and darkness, the rain and hail hissing as it drove onwards, and the terrific thunder, now like whole broadsides of artillery, now quick and incessant peals of musquetry, roaring with frightful violence around her, while the deep black forest, lit up by the blue lightning, bellowed incessantly with the hollow echoes. As we swept forward with frantic swiftness, a quivering white flash struck the top of an immense oak, and ere the crashing, deafening roar of the thunder followed, it was torn and splintered, shivered and burning, hurled on by the blast.

As soon as the squall struck us, we ensconced ourselves below, in full confidence of our safety with Old Kennedy at the helm; and a fine subject would the old seaman have been for a painter, as he sat amid the fury of the storm, stern and erect, the tiller under the stump of his left arm, and the jib-sheets with one turn around the cleet in his right hand—the usual surly expression of his countenance increased into grim defiance, as he steadily and unmovingly kept his eyes fixed into the gloom ahead. At one time we darted by a sloop at anchor, which had let go every thing by the run, her sails over her side in the water, on which, if the yacht had struck, she would have been crumpled up like a broken egg-shell; but thanks to our old Quartermaster’s care, we dashed by in the gloom, his eyes never even for a moment turning on her as we passed.

The storm swept us on in its fury for some time, when it gradually abated in violence, and began to subside. The heavy clouds, flying higher and higher in detached masses in the heavens, by and bye lifted themselves in the western sky, and through the ragged intervals the setting sun poured his last rays over the dripping forest, bronzing the dark sides of our little schooner as he sunk and disappeared beneath the horizon. As the evening wore on, a star here and there discovered itself struggling amid the scud flying over it, and presently the moon shone out with her broad and silver light, and every vestige of the storm had disappeared.

As we glided gaily on, with a fresh, fine breeze, towards our cottage home past the deep forest, the silence was broken by a long, melancholy howl, which I supposed was that of a solitary wolf, but Lee said that it was more probably from some one of the large breed of dogs which are found on most of the plantations. Lee’s mind was of a sad and pensive, although not at all of a gloomy cast; and like most men of that character, he required strong excitement to arouse him; but when aroused, of all delightful companions that I have ever met, he was the man. The excitement of the storm had been sufficient stimulus, and giving the reins to his wild spirits and excited feelings, he entertained us with an incessant stream of anecdote and adventure. The howl of the wolf had recalled to mind an incident in the life of his ancestor, Lieutenant-Colonel Lee, and in connection, he related it with many other adventures of the celebrated Partisan Legion. I will not attempt to use his beautiful and spirit-stirring language, but will confine myself to a few disjointed anecdotes, of the many which he related of the dashing corps, as they happen to recur to my memory.

The Legion, intended to act independently or conjointly with the main army, as circumstances might require, was composed of three companies of infantry, and three troops of cavalry, amounting in all to three hundred and fifty men, commanded by Lieutenant-Colonel Henry Lee, who, every inch a soldier, had won for himself in the Southern campaigns, and particularly in the masterly retreat of Green, before Cornwallis, the honourable distinction of being called “the eye of the Southern army.” He was Green’s confidential adviser and constant friend:—a stern disciplinarian, he was nevertheless beloved by his officers and men, and so careful was he of the interests of the latter, that while the rest of the army were suffering, the Legion by his exertions was always retained in the highest state of personal appearance and discipline. The horses were powerful and kept in high condition;—indeed Lee has been accused of being more careful for their safety than for that of his men. The cavalry in the British army mounted on inferior horses, could not stand a moment before them; and armed with their long heavy sabres, Lee’s troopers were considered full match for double the force of the enemy.

The Legion infantry were well equipped, and thoroughly disciplined men, and acted in unison with the cavalry. They were commanded by Captain Michael Rudolph, a man of small stature, but of the most determined and daring courage, and of great physical strength. He always led in person the “forlorn hope,” when the Legion’s services were required in the storm of posts, and he was so completely the idol of his men, that it was only necessary that he should be detailed on duty of the most desperate character, that the infantry, to a man, were anxious to be engaged in it. The leading captain of the cavalry, James Armstrong, was almost precisely his counterpart in person, in strength, in undaunted courage and heroic daring, beloved by his men, ahead of whom he was always found in the charge. O’Neal, also of the cavalry, was a bold and gallant man, who fought his way up from the ranks; for no carpet knight had consideration in the corps. In an early part of his career, he came near cutting off in the bud, Cornwallis’ favourite cavalry officer, Lieutenant-Colonel Tarleton; for this officer, whatever his merits or demerits, endeavoured to enter a window at which O’Neal was posted, when the latter, dropping his carabine, snapped it within an inch of his head, but the piece missing fire, Tarleton very coolly looked up at him with a smile, and said, “You have missed it for this time, my lad,” and wheeling his horse, joined the rest of his troop, who were on the retreat.

It were perhaps difficult to select the brave from a body of men who were all brave, but it is not invidious to say, that there was not a man of more fearless courage in the corps than Lieutenant Manning of the Legion infantry. At the battle of Eutaw, commanding his platoon to charge, he rushed on in his usual reckless manner, without stopping or looking behind him, until he was brought up by a large stone house, into which the Royal York Volunteers under Lieutenant-Colonel Cruger, were retiring. The British were on all sides, and no American soldier within two hundred yards of him. Without a moment’s hesitation, he threw himself upon a British officer, and seizing him by the collar, wrested his sword from his grasp, exclaiming, in a harsh voice, “You are my prisoner, sir.” Interposing him between the enemy and himself, as a shield from the heavy fire pouring from the windows, he then very coolly and deliberately backed out of danger: the prisoner, who was not deemed by his brother officers a prodigy of valour, pompously enumerating his rank and titles, which Manning occasionally interrupted with, “You are right—you are right—you’re just the man, sir,—you shall preserve _me_ from danger, and rest assured I’ll take good care of _you_.”

Manning had retreated some distance from the house, when he saw his friend Captain Joyett, of the Virginia line, engaged in single combat with a British officer. The American was armed with his sword, while the Briton was defending himself with a bayonet. As the American approached, the Englishman made a thrust with the bayonet, which Joyett successfully parried with his sword, when both of them dropping the arms which they could not wield in so close an encounter, simultaneously clinched, and being men of great and nearly equal bodily strength, they were soon engaged in a desperate and deadly struggle. While thus engaged, an English grenadier seeing the danger of his officer, ran up and with his bayonet made a lounge, which luckily missing Joyett’s body, passed only through the skirts of his coat, but the bayonet becoming entangled in the folds, upon its withdrawal dragged both of the combatants together to the ground. The soldier having disengaged it, was about deliberately to transfix Joyett by a second thrust, when Manning, seeing the danger of his friend, without being sufficiently near in the crisis to assist him, called out as he hurried up in an authoritative tone, “You would not murder the gentleman, you brute!”—The grenadier supposing himself addressed by one of his own officers, suspended the contemplated blow and turned towards the speaker, but before he could recover from his surprise, Manning cut him across the eyes with his sword, while Joyett disengaging himself from his opponent, snatched up the musket, and with one blow laid him dead with the butt;—the valiant prisoner whom Manning had dragged along, and who invariably asserted that he had been captured by “Joyett, a huge Virginian,”—instead of Manning, who was a small man—standing a horror-struck spectator of the tragedy. An equally brave man was Sergeant Ord, of Manning’s company;—in the surprise of the British at Georgetown, when a company of the Legion infantry had captured a house with its enclosures, the enemy made an attempt to regain it; the commanding officer calling out to his men, “Rush on, my brave fellows—they are only militia, and have no bayonets;”—Ord placing himself in front of the gate as they attempted to enter, laid six of them in succession, dead at his feet, accompanying each thrust with—“Oh! no bayonets here—none to be sure!”—following up his strokes with such rapidity that the party were obliged to give up the attempt and retire.

But perhaps there could have been no two characters in the corps more the perfect antipodes of each other, than the two surgeons of the cavalry, Irvine and Skinner, for while Irvine was entirely regardless of his person, and frequently found engaged sword in hand, in the thickest of the fight, where his duty by no means called him, Skinner was as invariably found in the rear, cherishing his loved person from the threatened danger. Indeed he was a complete counterpart of old Falstaff;—the same fat and rotund person—the same lover of good cheer and good wine—and entertaining the same aversion to exposing his dear body to the danger of missiles or cuts;—not only was he a source of fun in himself, “but he was the cause of it in others.” He asserted that his business was in the rear—to cure men, not to kill them; and when Irvine was wounded at the charge of Quinby’s bridge, he refused to touch him, until he had dressed the hurts of the meanest of the soldiers, saying that Matthew Irvine was served perfectly right, and had no business to be engaged out of his vocation. At the night alarm at Ninety-six, Colonel Lee, hastening forward to ascertain the cause, met the Doctor in full retreat, and stopping him, addressed him, with—“Where so fast, Doctor—not frightened I hope,”—“No, Colonel,” replied Skinner—“not frightened—but I confess, most infernally alarmed.” His eccentricities extended not alone to his acts, but to every thing about him. Among other peculiarities, he wore his beard long, and unshorn, and upon being asked by a brother officer why he did so, he replied, that “that was a secret between Heaven and himself, which no human impertinence should ever penetrate.” Like Falstaff, and with similar success, he considered himself the admired of the fair sex,—“Ay!” said he, to Captain Carns, of the infantry, “Ay, Carns, I have an _eye_!” Yet Skinner was by no means a man to be trifled with, for he was not devoid of a certain sort of courage, as he had proved in half a dozen duels, in one of which he had killed his man. When asked how it was, that he was so careful of his person in action, when he had shown so plainly that he was not deficient in courage,—he replied, “That he considered it very arrogant in a surgeon, whose business it was to cure, to be aping the demeanour and duty of a commissioned officer, and that he was no more indisposed to die than other gentlemen, but that he had an utter aversion to the noise and tumult of battle,—that it stunned and stupified him.” On one occasion, when the Legion was passing through a narrow defile, the centre was alarmed by the drums of the infantry beating to arms in front,—Skinner, with the full sense of what was due to himself, whirled about, and giving his horse a short turn by the bridle, brought him down on his back in the middle of the defile, completely blocking it up, and preventing either egress or ingress—relief or retreat. The infantry and cavalry which had passed the gorge, immediately deployed on the hill in front, while the remainder of the Legion, galloping up, were completely severed by this singular and unexpected obstruction, until Captain Egglestone dismounting some of his strongest troopers, succeeded in dragging the horse out of the defile by main force. It turned out that the alarm was false, otherwise the doctor’s terror might have caused the destruction of one-half of the corps.

But to recur to the incident brought to mind by the howling of the wolf. When the Legion was on its march to form a junction with Marion, on the little Pedee, it one night encamped in a large field on the southern side of a stream, with the main road in front. The night passed on very quietly, until about two or three in the morning, when the officer of the day reported that a strange noise had been heard by the picquet in front, on the great road, resembling the noise of men moving through the adjoining swamp. While he was yet speaking, the sentinel in that quarter fired his piece, which was immediately followed by the bugle calling in the horse patroles, the invariable custom upon the approach of an enemy. The drums instantly beat to arms, and the troops arranged for defence. The sentries on being questioned, all concurred in the same account, “and one patrol of horse asserted that they had heard horsemen concealing with the greatest care their advance.” Lee was in great perplexity, for he knew that he was not within striking distance of any large body of the enemy, and that Marion was at least two days distance in advance; but soon a sentinel in another direction fired, and the same report was brought in from him; and it was apparent, however unaccountable, that the enemy were present. A rapid change in the formation of the troops was made to meet the attack in this quarter, but it was hardly accomplished before the fire of a third sentinel in a different direction, communicated the intelligence of danger from another quarter. Feelings of intense anxiety were now aroused, and preparations were made for a general assault, as soon as light should allow it to be made. The picquets and sentinels held their stations, the horse patrols were called in, and the corps changed its position in silence, and with precision upon every new communication, with the combined object of keeping the fires between them and the enemy, and the horse in the rear of the infantry.

While thus engaged, another and rapid discharge by the sentinels, on the line of the great road, plainly indicated that the enemy were in force, and that with full understanding of their object, they had surrounded them. It was also evident that there must be a large body of the enemy, from their covering so large a segment of the circle around them. It was equally apparent that they could expect no aid from any quarter, and relying upon themselves, the corps awaited in extreme anxiety, the scene which the day was to usher upon them.

Lee passed along the line of infantry and cavalry, in a low tone urging upon them the necessity of profound silence, reminding them that in the approaching contest they must sustain their high reputation, and expressing his confidence, that with their accustomed bravery, they would be able to cut their way through all opposing obstacles, and reach the Pedee. His address was answered by whispers of applause, and having formed the cavalry and infantry into two columns, he awaited anxiously the break of day, to give the signal for action. It soon appeared, and the columns advanced on the great road; infantry in front, baggage in the centre, and cavalry in the rear. As soon as the head of the column reached the road, the van officer proceeding a few hundred yards received the same account that had been given from the sentinel that had fired last.

The enigma remained unexplained, and no enemy being in view, there could be but little doubt that the attack was to be from ambushment, and the column moved slowly on, expecting every moment to receive their fire. But the van officer’s attention having been accidentally attracted, he examined, and found along the road, the tracks of a large pack of wolves. The mystery was now solved; it was evident that the supposed enemy was no other than the pack of wild beasts, which, turned from their route by the fire of the sentinels, had passed still from point to point in a wide circuit, bent upon the attainment of their object. A quantity of provisions had been stored some time previously on their line of march, but having become spoiled, it was abandoned in the vicinity of the night’s encampment, and the wolves had been disturbed by the videts, in the nightly progress to their regale. The agitation instantly subsided, and wit and merriment flashed on all sides, “every one appearing anxious to shift the derision from himself upon his neighbour, the commandant himself coming in for his share; and as it was the interest of the many to fix the stigma on the few, the corps unanimously charged the officer of the day, the guards, the patrols and picquets, with gross stupidity, hard bordering upon cowardice:” nevertheless, they were none the less relieved by the happy termination of an adventure attended by so many circumstances naturally alarming, and it long passed as an excellent joke in the Legion, under the title of the “Wolf reconnoitre.”

The music sounded merrily, and the column marched on, elate with the fun and novelty of the adventure, and of the buglers none blew a more cheery strain than little Jack Ellis the bugler of Armstrong’s troop. He was a fine boy, small and intelligent, as well as young and handsome, and a general favourite in the Legion. Poor little fellow! he met his death under circumstances peculiarly tragic and cruel, not long after. When the Southern army, under Green, was slowly making its masterly retreat before Cornwallis, the Legion formed part of the rear-guard, and was consequently almost continually in sight of the van of the enemy, commanded by Brigadier-General O’Hara. The duty devolving upon it, severe in the day, was extremely so in the night, for numerous patrols and picquets were constantly required to be on the alert, to prevent the enemy from taking advantage of the darkness to get near the main army by circuitous routes, so that one half of the troops of the rear guard were alternately put on duty day and night, and the men were not able to get more than six hours sleep out of the forty-eight. But the men were in fine spirits, notwithstanding the great fatigue to which they were subjected. They usually, at the break of day, hurried on, to gain as great a distance in advance as possible, that they might secure their breakfast, the only meal during the rapid and hazardous retreat. One drizzly and cold morning, the officers and dragoons, in pursuance of this custom, had hurried on to the front, and just got their corn cakes and meat on the coals, when a countryman, mounted on a small and meagre pony, came galloping up, and hastily asking for the commanding officer, he informed him that the British column, leaving the main line of march, were moving obliquely in a different direction, and that, discovering the manœuvre from a field where he was burning brush, he had run home, caught the first horse he could lay his hands upon, and hurried along with the information. Unwilling to believe the report of the countryman, although he could not well doubt it, and reluctant to disturb so materially the comfort of the men, as to deprive them of the breakfast for which they were waiting with keen appetites, Lee ordered Captain Armstrong to take one section of horse, accompanied by the countryman, to return on the route, and having reconnoitred, to make his report.

Circumstances, however, strengthening him in the belief that the information of the countryman was correct, he took a squadron of cavalry, and followed on to the support of Armstrong, whom he overtook at no great distance ahead. Perceiving no sign of the enemy, he again concluded that the countryman was mistaken. He therefore directed Armstrong to take the guide and three dragoons, and to advance still further on the road, while he returned with the squadron to finish their breakfast. The countryman mounted on his sorry nag, protested against being thus left to take care of himself, asserting that though the dragoons on their spirited and powerful horses were sure of safety, if pursued—he, on his jaded hack, was equally sure of being taken. Lee acknowledged the danger of the friendly guide, dismounted the little bugler, and giving the countryman his horse, he placed Ellis upon the hack, sending him on in front to report to the commanding officer. After having returned a short distance, the squadron entered the woods, on the road side, and the dragoons leisurely proceeded to finish their breakfast—but they had hardly got it out of their haversacks, when a firing of musketry was heard, and almost immediately after the clatter of horses’ hoofs coming on at full gallop. The next moment, Armstrong, with his dragoons and the countryman came in sight, pursued by a troop of Tarleton’s dragoons, at the top of their speed.

Lee saw Armstrong with his small party well in front and hard in hand, and felt no anxiety about them, as he knew that their horses were so superior to those of the enemy that they were perfectly safe, but the danger of the bugler, who could be but little ahead, immediately caused him serious uneasiness. Wishing however, to let the British squadron get as far from support as possible, he continued in the woods for a few moments, intending to interpose in time to save the boy. Having let them get a sufficient distance, and assuring himself that there was nothing coming up to their support, he put the squadron in motion and appeared on the road, but only in time to see the enraged dragoons overtake and sabre the poor little suppliant, as he in vain implored for quarter. Infuriated at the sight, he gave orders to charge, and the English officer had barely time to form, when Lee’s squadron was upon them like a whirlwind—killing, prostrating, and unhorsing almost the whole of the force in an instant, while the captain, and the few left unhurt endeavoured to escape. Ordering Lieutenant Lewis to follow on in pursuit, with strict orders to give no quarter, an order dictated by the sanguinary act that they had just witnessed, he placed the dying boy in the arms of two of the dragoons, directing them to proceed onwards to the camp, and immediately after pushed on to the support of Lewis, whom he soon met returning with the English captain and several of his dragoons, prisoners—the officer unhurt, but the men severely cut in the face, neck, and shoulders. Reprimanding Lewis on the spot for disobedience of orders, he peremptorily charged the British officer with the atrocity that they had just witnessed, and ordered him to prepare for instant death. The officer urged that he had in vain endeavoured to save the boy, that his dragoons were intoxicated, and would not obey his orders, and he begged that he might not be sacrificed, stating that in the slaughter of Lt. Col. Buford’s command, he had used his greatest exertions, and succeeded in saving the lives of many of the Americans. This, in some measure mollified Lee, but just then overtaking the speechless and dying boy, expiring in the arms of the soldiers, his bright and handsome face, changed in the ghastly agony of death, he returned with unrelenting sternness to his first decision and informed the Englishman that he should execute him in the next vale through which they were to pass, and furnishing him with a pencil and paper, desired him to make such note as he wished to his friends, which he pledged him his word should be sent to the British General. The ill-fated soldier proceeded to write, when the British van approaching in sight, the prisoner was sent on to Col. Williams in front, who, ignorant of the murder, and of Lee’s determination to make an example of him, in his turn, forwarded him on to head quarters—thus luckily saving his life. Eighteen of the British dragoons fell in the charge, and were buried by Cornwallis as he came up, but the American’s had time to do no more than lay the body of the poor little bugler in the woods on the side of the road, trusting to the charity of the country people to inter it, when they were obliged to resume their retreat. It should be borne in mind that Lee’s humane disposition could only be excited to such summary vengeance by the cruel and unwarrantable murder that they had just witnessed, and by the frequent acts of atrocity which had been repeatedly enacted by this same corps.

Perhaps the fated destiny which frequently appears to await the soldier, hanging over him like a shield while he passes through the most desperate danger, until the appointed hour arrives, was never more apparent than in the case of Lt. Col. Webster, of the British army in this same retreat. When the rear of the American army, composed as has been observed principally by the Legion, had passed the Reedy Fork, the British van under the command of Webster, endeavoured to ford the river and bring them into action, a point which Cornwallis was anxious to attain, but which was entirely foreign to the plan of Greene, whose object was to wear out his pursuers. Under the cover of a dense fog, the British had attained a short distance of the Legion before they were discovered. They made their appearance on the opposite bank of the river, and after halting a few moments, descended the hill and approached the water, but receiving a heavy fire of musketry and rifles, they fell back and quickly reascending, were again rallied on the margin of the bank. Col. Webster rode up, calling upon the soldiers in a loud voice to follow, and rushing down the hill, at their head, amid a galling fire poured from the Legion troops, he plunged into the water. In the woods occupied by the riflemen, was an old log schoolhouse, a little to the right of the ford. The mud stuffed between the logs had mostly fallen out, and the apertures admitted the use of rifles with ease. In this house Lee had posted five and twenty select marksmen from the mountain militia, with orders to forego engaging in the general action, and directions to hold themselves in reserve for any particular object which might present. “The attention of this party being attracted by Webster, as he plunged into the water, they singled him out as their mark. The stream being deep, and the bottom rugged, he advanced slowly, the soldiers, some of them, holding on by his stirrup-leathers,—and one by one they discharged their rifles at him, each man sure of knocking him over, and, having re-loaded, eight or nine of them, emptied their guns at him a second time, yet strange to relate, neither horse nor rider received a single ball. The twenty-five marksmen were celebrated for their superior skill, and it was a common amusement for them to place an apple on the end of a ramrod and hold it out at arm’s length, as a mark for their comrades to fire at, when many balls would pass through the apple, yet the British officer, mounted on a stout horse, slowly moving through a deep water course, was singled out and fired at thirty-two or three times successively, and yet remained untouched, and succeeded in effecting a lodgment on the bank, where he formed his troops under a heavy fire.” This gallant officer, and polished gentleman, the favourite of Cornwallis, subsequently fell at the battle of Guilford Court-House, not more regretted by his brother soldiers, than admired by those of the American army.

There is nothing more true, than that in war as in love, much depends upon accident, and an alarm is frequently conveyed and a victory won, by circumstances entirely the act of chance. As a case in point. In the retreat of the British after the battle of Monks’ Corner, Lt. Col. Stuart ordered all the arms belonging to the dead and wounded to be collected, and when the retreating enemy had marched on, they were set fire to by the rear guard. As many of the muskets were loaded, an irregular discharge followed, resembling the desultory fire which usually precedes a battle. The retreating army immediately supposed, that Greene was up and had commenced an attack on their rear—and the dismay and confusion was so great, that the wagoners cut the traces of their horses and galloped off, leaving the wagons on the route. The followers of the army fled in like manner, and the terror was rapidly increasing, when the cessation of the firing quelled the alarm.

But the most exciting incident that our fellow voyager related, and one which would well merit the attention of the painter, was the spirited affair at Quinby’s Bridge. When the British army in their turn were retreating, Sumpter, Marion and Lee frequently were able to act in concert. The 19th British Regiment, Lt. Col. Coates, having become isolated at Monks’ Corner, Marion and Lee determined to fall upon it, and cut it off by surprise before it could obtain relief. The British officer having taken the precaution to secure the bridge across the Cooper river by a strong detachment, it became necessary for them to make a long circuit, through the deep sands in the hottest part of the summer, before they could form a junction with Sumpter, whose aid was required in the intended attack. The junction was not effected until evening, and the attack was necessarily deferred until the following morning; but about midnight the whole sky becoming illuminated by a great conflagration, it was evident that the enemy had taken the alarm. They had set fire to the church to destroy the stores, and had decamped in silence. By the neglect of the militia, who had deserted a bridge at which they were stationed, the enemy had been able to draw off, and obtain a considerable distance in advance, before their retreat was discovered. Lee immediately followed on with the cavalry in pursuit of the main body, but was unable to come up with it, until he had arrived in the neighbourhood of Quinby’s Bridge, about eighteen miles from Monks’ Corner. Upon his first approach, he discovered the baggage of the regiment under a rear guard of about one hundred men, advancing along a narrow road, the margin of which was bordered by a deep swamp on both sides. As soon as the cavalry came in view, the British officer formed his men across the road, which they had hardly effected, when the charge was sounded, and the Legion cavalry rushed upon them with drawn swords at full gallop. The voice of the British officer was distinctly heard: “Front rank,—bayonets—second rank,—fire!”—and as no discharge immediately followed, the cavalry officers felt extreme solicitude, lest its reservation was meant to make it the more fatal on their near approach, for on the narrow road, and in the close column in which they were rushing on, a well-directed fire would have emptied half of their saddles—but happily the soldiers, alarmed by the formidable appearance of the cavalry, threw down their arms and supplicated for quarter, which the cavalry were most happy to grant them. The prisoners being secured, the main body of the cavalry pushed on under Armstrong for the bridge, which was still about three miles in front, in the hope of cutting off the enemy before they should succeed in reaching it. As Armstrong came in sight, he found that Coates had passed the bridge, and that he was indolently reposing on the opposite side of the river, awaiting his rear guard and baggage. He had, by way of precaution, taken up the planks from the bridge, letting them lie loosely on the sleepers, intending as soon as the rear should have crossed, to destroy it. Seeing the enemy with the bridge thus interposed, which he knew was contrary to the commandant’s anticipations, Armstrong drew up, and sent back word to Lee, who was still with the prisoners, requesting orders, never communicating the fact that the bridge was interposed. Lee’s adjutant soon came galloping back with the laconic answer:—“The order of the day, sir, is to fall upon the enemy, without regard to consequences.”