Chapter II

In Southern Carolina
Cornwallis settled down;
And Forguson twelve hundred led,
In pride from Gilbert Town.

For Gates was crushed at Camden,
And only Marion’s band
Lay, but a remnant of itself,
Within the low swamp-land.

The cause was hid in darkness,
And few expected dawn,
For strength had fled, and fire was dead,
And even hope was gone.

Then spoke old Evan Shelby
To Campbell and Sevier—
“Shall base maurauders revel thus,
As we sit idle here?

“Up steep and stern King’s Mountain
Went Forguson, I learn;
Should men take heart to deal a blow,
He never would return.

“Out then and scour the counties,
Our forces shall combine,
And, ready for the battle, cross
The Carolina line.”

Said gallant William Campbell—
“I’m with you there, old friend;
Though borne by numbers to the earth,
We will not break nor bend.

“Three hundred western hunters
I volunteer to bring,
All loyal to their country’s cause,
Though rebel to the king.

“All hardy western hunters,
Who serve for love, not hire;
Each prompt to mark the foeman dark,
And drop him when they fire.”

Sevier was in their counsel—
“Three hundred I can bring
To meet these savage myrmidons
Of George, our former king.

“Each man is firm and fearless,
Each uses rifle well;
Nor sabre-stroke, nor musket-ball,
Upon our ranks may tell.

“From home or over ocean
They fear no haughty foes—”
’Twas thus he boasted of his band,
And I was one of those.

Then word went out that Shelby,
With Campbell and Sevier,
Against the common enemy
Would lead the mountaineer.

With moccasons corked, and rifles
New flinted every one,
Right soon a thousand brave and strong
Were gathered at Doe Run.

To them came Cleaveland’s forces,
When once they left the glen,
And mounted on their own good steeds
Rode sixteen hundred men.

Campbell, as chief commander,
The centre column led;
And with him Shelby’s regiment,
With Shelby at its head.

The left was led by Cleaveland,
The right obeyed Sevier;
And like the sky which bent o’erhead
Each brow was calm and clear.

Then this laconic order
Was passed both left and right—
“_Tie overcoats, pick touch-holes, prime,
And ready be for fight!_”

We neared where they stood waiting,
And cleft our force in three;
And then dismounting, to the limbs
Tied horses silently.

The centre up the mountain
Pressed eager to the fight,
While round the base, to gain his rear,
The wings swept left and right.

In calm and deadly silence,
With firm and steady tramp,
On pressed our three divisions towards
The centre of their camp.

Then came their muskets’ rattle,
And comrades at my side,
Whom I had known for many years,
Were stricken down, and died.

Uriah Byrne, of Black Fork,
A younger man than I—
His hot blood spurting in my face—
Fell at my feet to die.

And swarthy Robin Harper,
Whose house was nigh to mine,
Pierced by a bullet, fell and left
A wife and orphans nine.

And golden-haired John Bowen,
A boy scarce past sixteen—
I knew his mother ere his birth,
And few so fair I’ve seen—

A woman fair and stately,
Who loved her husband well,
And mourned, nor ever wedded more,
When he in battle fell.

She sent with us this stripling,
And thus to him she said,
“Return with honor to your home,
Or stay among the dead.

“You are the stay and comfort
Of my declining years;
That I am loath to part with you,
Witness these bitter tears.

“But now these foul invaders
Sweep hill and valley o’er,
Go! drive them from these mountains free,
Or see my face no more!”

And there I saw his ringlets
Lie, bloody, on his cheek;
I caught his eye, and stooped to hear
The words that he might speak.

“A message to my mother,
If you survive the day:
And say her darling son was still
The foremost in the fray.

“My spirit to my Maker
I yield, and trust that He
Forgives my sins for sake of Him
Who died upon the tree.

“Yet ’tis a thing of terror,
When youthful hopes are bright,
And youthful blood flows full and free,
To bid the world good-night.

“Go, comrade, to your duty,
And leave me here to die—”
His pulses stopped, I turned away,
I had no time to sigh.

But filled with sudden fury,
I joined the strife again,
Nor paused to watch the fight around
Till I three foes had slain—

One for my early schoolmate,
One for my neighbor old,
And one for him with golden hair
That lay so stark and cold.

The foe raised shouts exulting;
We answered not at all;
But still with steady coolness poured
Our rain of rifle-ball.

But hark! a voice is ringing
As clearly as a drum—
’Tis Forguson’s—“Charge bayonet!
And drive the rebel scum!”