Book: The Life of General Francis Marion

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Crookshanks yielded himself our prisoner; but we paroled him on the spot,
and left him to those delicious sentiments which he must have felt
in the arms of an elegant young woman, who had saved his life
by an effort of love sufficient to endear her to him to all eternity.

It was told us afterwards of this charming girl, that as soon as we were gone,
and, of course, the danger past and the tumult of her bosom subsided,
she fell into a swoon, from which it was with difficulty
that she was recovered. Her extreme fright, on being waked
by the firing and horrid uproar of battle in the house,
and her strong sympathy in her lover's danger, together with the alarm
occasioned by finding herself in his arms, were too much
for her delicate frame.

There is a beauty in generous actions which charms the souls of men!
and a sweetness, which like that immortal love whence it flows, can never die.
The eyes of all, even the poorest soldiers in our camp, sparkled with pleasure
whenever they talked, as they often did, of this charming woman,
and of our generosity to major Crookshanks; and to this day,
even after a lapse of thirty years, I never think of it but with pleasure;
a pleasure as exquisite, perhaps, as what I felt at the first moment
of that transaction.

And it is a matter of great satisfaction to me, to think how nobly different
in this respect was our conduct from that of the British.
I speak not of the British nation, which I hold most magnanimous;
but of their officers in Carolina, such as Cornwallis, Rawdon, Tarleton,
Weymies, Brown, and Balfour, who instead of treating their prisoners
as we did Crookshanks, have often been known to butcher them in cold blood;
though their fathers, mothers and children, on bended knees,
with wringing hands and streaming eyes, have been imploring pity for them.

There was Mr. Adam Cusac, of Williamsburg district; this brave man,

"This buckskin Hampden; that, with dauntless breast,
The base invaders of his rights withstood,"

was surprised in his own house by major Weymies, who tore him away
from his shrieking wife and children, marched him up to Cheraw court-house,
and after exposing him to the insults of a sham trial,
had him condemned and hung! The only charge ever exhibited against him was,
that he had shot across Black river at one of Weymies' tory captains.

There was that gallant lad of liberty, Kit Gales, with his brave companion,
Sam Dinkins: these two heroic youths were dogged to the house
of a whig friend, near the hills of Santee, where they were surprised
in their beds by a party of tories, who hurried them away to lord Rawdon,
then on his march from Charleston to Camden. Rawdon quickly had them,
according to his favorite phrase, "knocked into irons",
and marched on under guard with his troops. On halting for breakfast,
young Gales was tucked up to a tree, and choked with as little ceremony
as if he had been a mad dog. He and young Dinkins had, it seems,
the day before, with their horses and rifles, ventured alone,
so near the British army, as to fire several shots at them!
For such heroic daring in defence of their country, in place of receiving
applause from lord Rawdon, Gales, as we have seen, received his bloody death.
His gallant young friend, Dinkins, was very near drawing his rations
of a like doleful dish, for lord Rawdon had him mounted upon the same cart
with the halter round his neck, ready for a launch into eternity,
when the tories suggested to his lordship their serious apprehensions
that a terrible vengeance might follow: this saved his life.

Everybody has heard the mournful story of colonel Lee's little bugler,
and how he was murdered by colonel Tarleton. This "poor beardless boy",
as Lee, in his pathetic account of that horrid transaction, calls him,
had been mounted on a very fleet horse; but to gratify a countryman
who had brought some news of the British, and was afraid of falling
into their hands, Lee ordered the boy to exchange his horse, a moment,
for that of the countryman, which happened to be a miserable brute.
This Lee did in his simplicity, not even dreaming that any thing
in the shape of civilized man could think of harming such a child.
Scarcely had Lee left him, when he was overtaken by Tarleton's troopers,
who dashed up to him with looks of death, brandishing their swords
over his head. In vain his tender cheeks, reminding them of their own
youthful brothers, sought to touch their pity; in vain, with feeble voice,
and as long as he was able, he continued to cry for quarter.
They struck their cruel swords into his face and arms,
which they gashed with so many mortal wounds that he died the next day.

"Is your name Wiley?" said one of Tarleton's captains, whose name was TUCK,
to Mr. John Wiley, sheriff of Camden, who had lately whipped and cropped
a noted horse thief, named Smart. "Is your name Wiley?" said captain Tuck
to the young man, at whose door he rode up and asked the question. --
"Yes, sir," replied Mr. Wiley. "Well, then, sir, you are a d--n-d rascal,"
rejoined captain Tuck, giving him at the same time a cruel blow
over the forehead with his broadsword. Young Wiley, though doomed to die,
being not yet slain, raised his naked arm to screen the blow.
This, though no more than a common instinct in poor human nature
in the moment of terror, served but to redouble the fury of captain Tuck,
who continued his blows at the bleeding, staggering youth,
until death kindly placed him beyond the reach of human malice.

All this was done within a few hundred paces of lord Cornwallis,
who never punished captain Tuck.

But poor Peter Yarnall's case seems still more deplorable.
This hard fated man, a simple, inoffensive quaker, lived near Camden.
Having urgent business with a man, who, as he understood,
was with general Sumter, on the opposite side of the Catawba,
he went over to him. The man happened, at that moment, to be keeping guard
over some tory prisoners. A paper which Yarnall wanted to see was, it seems,
in a jacket pocket in the man's tent hard by. "Hold my piece a moment, sir,"
said he to Yarnall, "and I'll bring the paper." Yarnall, though averse,
as a quaker, from all killing of enemies with a gun, yet saw no objection
to holding one a moment. The next day, a day for ever black
in the American calendar, witnessed the surprisal of general Sumter
and the release of the tory prisoners, one of whom immediately went his way
and told colonel Tarleton that he had seen Peter Yarnall, the day before,
keeping guard over the king's friends, prisoners to the rebels.
The poor man's house was quickly surrounded by the British cavalry.
Vain were all his own explanations, his wife's entreaties,
or his children's cries. He was dragged to Camden, and thrust into prison.
Every morning, his wife and daughter, a girl of about fifteen,
rode into town in an old chair, to see him and to bring him milk and fruits,
which must have been highly acceptable to one crammed, in the dogdays,
into a small prison, with one hundred and sixty-three half-stifled wretches.
On the fourth day, an amiable young lady, Miss Charlton,
living near the prison, had heard of poor Yarnall's fate that morning.
Soon therefore as she saw Mrs. Yarnall and her daughter coming along as usual,
with their little present to their husband and father, she burst into tears.
Mrs. Yarnall alighted at the door of the jail, and begged to see her husband.
"Follow me," said one of the guard, "and I'll show you your husband."
As she turned the corner, "There he is, madam," said the soldier,
pointing to her husband as he hung dead on a beam from the window.
The daughter sunk to the ground; but her mother, as if petrified at the sight,
stood silent and motionless, gazing on her dead husband
with that wild keen eye of unutterable woe, which pierces all hearts.
Presently, as if braced up with despair, she seemed quite recovered,
and calmly begged one of the soldiers to assist her to take down the corpse
and lay it in the bottom of the chair. Then taking her seat,
with her daughter sobbing by her side, and her husband dead at her feet,
she drove home apparently quite unmoved; and during the whole time
she was preparing his coffin and performing the funeral duties,
she preserved the same firm unaltered looks. But soon as the grave
had shut its mouth on her husband, and divorced him for ever from her sight,
the remembrance of the past rushed upon her thoughts with a weight too heavy
for her feeble nature to bear. Then clasping her hands in agony,
she shrieked out, "Poor me! poor me! I have no husband, no friend now!"
and immediately ran raving mad, and died in that state.

There was young M'Coy: the eye of humanity must weep often,
as she turns the page that tells how this amiable youth was murdered.
His father was one of the most active of our militia captains.
As none better understood American rights, so none more deeply
resented British aggressions, than did captain M'Coy.
His just views and strong feelings, were carefully instilled into his boy,
who, though but fifteen, shouldered his musket, and, in spite of
his mother's tears, followed his father to war. Many a gallant Englishman
received his death at their hands. For, being well acquainted with the river,
and bravely supported by their friends, they often fired upon
the enemy's boats, killing their crews and intercepting their provisions.
This so enraged colonel Brown, the British commander at Augusta,
that he made several attempts to destroy captain M'Coy.
Once, in particular, he despatched a captain and fifty men to surprise him.
But M'Coy kept so good a look out, that he surprised and killed
the captain and twenty of his men. The rest, by giving good `leg bail',
made their escape. Young M'Coy fought by the side of his father
in this and many other rencontres, in one of which he had
the great good fortune to save his father's life.

At the head of some gallant friends, they fell in with
a strong party of tories, near Brier creek, commanded by a British officer.
As usual, an obstinate and bloody contest ensued. The combatants
quickly coming to close quarters, M'Coy grappled with the officer;
but not possessing strength equal to his courage, he was overpowered
and thrown on the ground. The youth, who had just fired his piece
into the bosom of a tory, seeing his father's danger, flew to his aid,
and with the butt of his gun knocked out the brains of the officer,
at the very instant he was lifting his dirk for the destruction of his father.

In a skirmish, in which his party were victorious, captain M'Coy
was mortally wounded, and died exhorting his son still to fight undauntedly
for the liberties of his country. After the death of his father,
young M'Coy joined the brave captain Clarke. In an expedition
against colonel Brown, Clarke was defeated, and young M'Coy made prisoner.
Hearing of his misfortune, his mother hastened to Augusta,
but arrived only in time to meet him with colonel Brown and a guard,
carrying him out to the gallows. With gushing tears, she fell upon his neck,
and bitterly mourned her lot, as wretched above all women,
in thus losing her husband and only son.

The behavior of young M'Coy, it is said, was heroic beyond his years.
Instead of melting with his disconsolate mother, he exhorted her
like one who had acted on principle, and now felt its divine consolations
stronger than death.

He entreated his mother not to weep for him, nor for his father.
"In the course of nature, mother," said he, "we were to part.
Our parting indeed, is early; but it is glorious. My father was like a lion
in battle for his country. As a young lion, I fought by his side.
And often, when the battle was over, did he embrace and call me his boy!
his own brave boy! and said I was worthy of you both. He has just
gone before, and I now follow him, leaving you the joy to remember,
that your son and husband have attained the highest honor on earth;
the honor of fighting and dying for the rights of man."

Anxious to save the life of so dear a son, poor Mrs. M'Coy fell on her knees
to colonel Brown, and with all the widowed mother agonizing in her looks,
plead for his life. But in vain. With the dark features of a soul
horribly triumphant over the cries of mercy, he repulsed her suit,
and ordered the executioner to do his office! He hung up the young man
before the eyes of his mother! and then, with savage joy,
suffered his Indians, in her presence, to strike their tomahawks
into his forehead; that forehead which she had so often pressed to her bosom,
and kissed with all the transports of a doting mother.

Who, without tears, can think of the hard fate of poor colonel Haynes
and his family?

Soon as the will of heaven had thrown Charleston into the hands
of the British, lord Cornwallis, famed for pompous proclamations,
began to publish. The tenor of his gasconade was, that Carolina was now,
to all intents and purposes, subjugated; that the enemies of his lord the king
were all at his mercy; and that though, by the war rubrick
for conquered rebels, he had a right to send fire and sword before him,
with blood and tears following in his course; though he had a right
to feed the birds of heaven with rebel carcasses, and to fatten his soldiers
with their confiscated goods, yet he meant not to use that dreadful right.
No, indeed! Far from him were all such odious thoughts. On the contrary
he wished to be merciful: and as proof of his sincerity, all that he asked
of the poor deluded people of his majesty's colony of South Carolina was,
that they should no longer take part nor lot in the contest,
but continue peaceably at their homes. And that, in reward thereof,
they should be most sacredly protected in property and person.

This proclamation was accompanied with an instrument of neutrality,
as an "outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace,"
in my lord Cornwallis towards the Carolinians; and which instrument
they were invited to sign, that they might have a covenant right to
the aforesaid promised blessings of protection, both in property and person.

The heart of colonel Haynes was with his countrymen, and fervently did he pray
that his hands could be with them too. But, these, alas! were bound up
by his wife and children, whom, it is said, he loved passing well.
Helpless and trembling as they were, how could they be deserted by him
in this fearful season, and given up to a brutal soldiery?
And why should he insure the destruction of a large estate,
when all opposition seemed hopeless? In short, with thousands of others,
he went and signed an instrument, which promised security
to his family and fortune. But alas! from that fatal moment
he never more enjoyed peace. To hate the ministerial measures as he did,
and yet thus tamely to have submitted to them; to love his country
as heartily as he did, and to know that she was now fighting,
with her all at stake, and yet thus to have deserted her!

These keen self-condemning reflections harrowed every root of quiet
from his soul. If he went to his couch, it was only to groan,
sleepless and tossing, all the restless night. If he got up,
it was but to sit, or walk to and fro in his family,
with dark and woeful looks, like one whom trouble had overcome.

In the midst of these anguishing reflections, which appeared to be
wearing him fast to the grave, a respite was afforded, and by a hand
from which it was least expected. Lord Cornwallis, having by
his first proclamation, obtained to the instrument of neutrality aforesaid,
the signatures of many thousands of the citizens of South Carolina,
then came out with a SECOND proclamation, in which he nominates
the paper above not an instrument of neutrality, but a bond of allegiance
to the king, and calls upon all who had signed it, to take up arms
against the rebels! -- threatening to treat as deserters those who refused!

This fraud of my lord Cornwallis, excited in all honest men
the deepest indignation. It completely revived colonel Haynes.
To his unspeakable joy, he now saw opened a door of honorable return
to duty and happiness. And since, contrary to the most solemn compact,
he was compelled to fight, he very naturally determined to fight the British,
rather than his own countrymen. He fled to his countrymen,
who received him with joy, and gave him a command of horse.
He was surprised and carried to Charleston, where lord Rawdon,
then commandant, ordered him, in his favorite phrase,
to be `knocked into irons'. A mock trial, dignified with
the name of `court martial', was held over him, and colonel Haynes
was sentenced to be hung. Everybody in Charleston,
Britons as well as Americans, all heard this sentence with horror,
except colonel Haynes himself. On his cheek alone, all agree,
it produced no change. It appeared that the deed which he had done,
signing that accursed paper, had run him desperate. Though the larger part,
even of his enemies, believing that it was done merely from sympathy
with his wife and children, felt the generous disposition to forgive him,
yet he could never forgive himself. It had inflicted on his mind
a wound too ghastly to be healed.

To their own, and to the great honor of human nature,
numbers of the British and loyalists, with governor Bull at their head,
preferred a petition to lord Rawdon in his behalf. But the petition
was not noticed. The ladies then came forward in his favor with a petition,
couched in the most delicate and moving terms, and signed
by all the principal females of Charleston, tories as well as whigs.
But all to no purpose. It was then suggested by the friends of humanity,
that if the colonel's little children, for they had no mother,
she, poor woman! crushed under the double weight of grief and the small-pox,
was just sunk at rest in the grave. It was suggested, I say,
that if the colonel's little children, dressed in mourning, were to fall
at the knees of lord Rawdon, he would pity their motherless condition,
and give to their prayers their only surviving parent.
They were accordingly dressed in black, and introduced into his presence:
they fell down at his knees, and, with clasped hands and tear-streaming eyes,
lisped their father's name, and begged his life: but in vain.

So many efforts to save him, both by friends and generous foes,
could not be made, unknown to colonel Haynes. But he appeared
perfectly indifferent about the result! and when told that they
had all failed, he replied with the utmost unconcern -- "Well, thank God,
lord Rawdon cannot hurt me. He cannot be more anxious to take my life
than I am to lay it down."

With his son, a youth of thirteen, who was permitted to stay with him
in the prison, colonel Haynes used often to converse, in order to fortify him
against the sad trial that was at hand. And indeed it was necessary,
for seldom has a heavier load been laid on a tender-hearted youth.
War, like a thick cloud, had darkened up the gay morning of his days:
the grave had just closed her mouth on a mother who doted on him;
and he now beheld his only parent, a beloved father,
in the power of his enemies, loaded with irons, and condemned to die.
With cheeks wet with tears, he sat continually by his father's side,
and looked at him with eyes so piercing and sad, as often wrung tears of blood
from his heart.

"Why," said he, "my son, will you thus break your father's heart with
unavailing sorrow? Have I not often told you, that we came into this world
but to prepare for a better? For that better life, my dear boy,
your father is prepared. Instead then of weeping, rejoice with me, my son,
that my troubles are so near an end. To-morrow, I set out for immortality.
You will accompany me to the place of my execution; and when I am dead,
take and bury me by the side of your mother."

The youth here fell on his father's neck, crying, "Oh my father! my father!
I will die with you! I will die with you!"

Colonel Haynes would have returned the strong embrace of his son;
but, alas! his hands were loaded with irons. "Live," said he, "my son,
live to honor God by a good life; live to serve your country;
and live to take care of your brother and little sisters!"

The next morning colonel Haynes was conducted to the place of execution.
His son accompanied him. Soon as they came in sight of the gallows,
the father strengthened himself and said -- "Now, my son, show yourself a man.
That tree is the boundary of my life, and of all my life's sorrows.
Beyond that, the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.
Don't lay too much to heart our separation from you; it will be but short.
'Twas but lately your dear mother died. To-day I die. And you, my son,
though but young, must shortly follow us."

"Yes, my father," replied the broken-hearted youth, "I shall shortly
follow you: for indeed I feel that I cannot live long."
And so it happened unto him. For on seeing his father
in the hands of the executioner, and then struggling in the halter,
he stood like one transfixed and motionless with horror.
Till then he had wept incessantly; but soon as he saw that sight,
the fountain of his tears was staunched, and he never wept more.
It was thought that grief, like a fever, burnt inwardly,
and scorched his brain, for he became indifferent to every thing around him,
and often wandered as one disordered in his mind. At times,
he took lessons from a fencing master, and talked of going to England
to fight the murderer of his father. But he who made him had pity on him,
and sent death to his relief. He died insane, and in his last moments
often called on the name of his father, in terms that brought tears
from the hardest hearts.

I hope my reader will not suppose, from these odious truths
which I have been telling him about the British and tories,
that I look on them as worse than other men; or that I would have him bear
an eternal hatred against them. No, God forbid. On the contrary,
I have no doubt on my mind, that the British and tories
are men of the same passions with ourselves. And I also as firmly believe,
that, if placed in their circumstances, we should have acted just as they did.
Upon honor this is my conviction now; but it was not always so:
for I confess there was a time, when I had my prejudices against them,
and prejudices, too, as strong as those of any other man,
let him be who he would. But thank God those prejudices,
so dishonorable to the head, and so uneasy to the heart,
are done away from me now. And from this most happy deliverance,
I am, through the divine goodness, principally indebted to my honored friend,
general Marion, of whose noble sentiments, on these subjects,
I beg leave to give the reader some little specimen in the next chapter.




Chapter 26.

Short and sweet -- or, a curious dialogue between
general Marion and captain Snipes, on retaliation.



"No radiant pearls that crested fortune wears,
No gem that sparkling hangs in beauty's ears;
Not the bright stars that night's blue arch adorn,
Nor opening suns that gild the vernal morn,
Shine with such lustre as the tear that flows
Down virtue's manly cheeks, for others' woes."


What gigantic form is that which stalks thus awfully before
the eyes of my memory; his face, rough and dark as the cloud of winter,
and his eyeballs burning like coals of fire? 'Tis the impetuous
captain Snipes. He is just returned from the quarter house near Charleston,
where he and captain M'Cauley, with Macdonald and forty men,
have recently surprised and cut to pieces a large party of the enemy.
He looks as if the fury of the battle had not yet subsided
in his wrathful countenance. His steps are towards Marion,
and as he presents a packet, he exclaims in an angry tone, "There, sir,
is a Charleston paper. You'll see there how those villains are going on yet.
Not satisfied with all the murders they had committed before,
they have gone now and murdered colonel Haynes." Here he gave
the heads of that disgraceful act, seasoning his speech every now and then,
as he went along, with sundry very bitter imprecations on lord Rawdon.

"Ah shame! shame upon him!" replied the general with a sigh,
and shaking his head; "shame upon lord Rawdon!"

"Shame!" answered captain Snipes, his eyes flashing fire; "shame!
I hope something heavier than shame will light upon him for it soon.
The American officers have sworn never again to give quarter
to the British or tories."

Marion. God forbid that my countrymen should have taken such an oath as that!

Snipes. Why, general Marion, would you have the enemy go on at this rate,
and we take no revenge?

M. Revenge? O yes, to be sure, sir; revenge is sweet,
and by all means let us have it; but let it be of the right kind.

S. Of the right kind, sir! what do you call revenge of the right kind?

M. Why, sir, I am for taking that kind of revenge which will make our enemies
ashamed of their conduct, and abandon it for ever.

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