Book: The Life of General Francis Marion

M >> Mason Locke Weems >> The Life of General Francis Marion




"Then truly," said I, "if that were the case, I made a lucky escape,
sure enough."

"And where were you," he asked again, "when general Marion
so completely surprised our guard at Nelson's old fields: were you there?"

I told him I was not, but that my brother, Hugh Horry, was.

"Well," continued he, laughing heartily, "that was MY lucky day.
I had a command there that morning of about thirty men, as an advance.
We had not left the guard more than five minutes before the Americans charged
and swept all. The moment we heard the firing and the cries of our people,
we squatted in the high grass like so many rabbits, then running on the stoop,
till we gained the woods, we cleared ourselves." I laughed,
and asked how many men he supposed Marion had that morning."

He replied, he really did not know, but supposed he must have had
three or four hundred.

"Well, sir," said I, "he had exactly thirty."

The reader may perhaps conceive Ferguson's astonishment:
I cannot describe it.

Soon as the dishes were removed, we were presented with a spectacle
to which our eyes had long been strangers, a brave parade of excellent wine:
several hampers of which had been received at the fort the very day
before we commenced the attack. To poor soldiers like us,
who, for years, had hardly quenched our thirst on any thing better
than water or apple brandy grog, this was a sight immensely refreshing.
Whether it was owing to the virtues of this noble cordial,
with the recollection of our late glorious victories;
or whether it was the happy result of our generosity to the enemy,
and of their correspondent politeness to us, I do not know;
but certain it is, we were all very gay. But in the midst of our enjoyments,
which none seemed to relish with a higher glee than general Marion,
a British soldier came up and whispered to one of their officers,
who instantly coming round to the general, told him in a low voice,
that the Americans were hanging the tories who had been taken in the fort!

In a moment he sprang up, in a violent passion, and snatching his sword,
ran down towards our encampment. We all followed him, though without
knowing the cause. On turning the corner of the garden which had concealed
their cruel deeds, we discovered a sight most shocking to humanity,
a poor man hanging in the air to the beam of a gate, and struggling hard
in the agonies of death. "Cut him down! cut him down!" cried the general,
as soon as he had got near enough to be heard, which was instantly done.
Then running up, with cheeks as red as fire coals, and half choked with rage,
he bawled out, "In the name of God! what are you about,
what are you about here!"

"Only hanging a few tories, sir," replied captain Harrison of Lee's legion.

"Who gave you a right, sir, to touch the tories?"

To this, young M'Corde, of the same corps, replied, that it was
only three or four rascals of them that they meant to hang;
and that they had not supposed the general would mind that.

"What! not mind murdering the prisoners. Why, my God!
what do you take me to be? do you take me for a devil?"

Then, after placing a guard over the tories, and vowing to make an example
of the first man who should dare to offer them violence,
he returned with the company to Mrs. Motte's table.

Of the three unfortunate tories that were hung dead, one was named
Hugh Mizcally. The name of the person so timely cut down was Levi Smith,
a most furious tory. This title produced him such respect
among those degenerate Britons, that they appointed him
gatekeeper of Charleston, a circumstance that operated much against
the poor whigs in the country. For Smith soon broke up a pious kind of fraud,
which the wives and daughters of the tories had for some time carried on
at a bold rate.

To the immortal honor of the ladies of South Carolina, they were much more
whiggishly given than the men; insomuch that though married to tories,
they would be whigs still.

These fair ladies, in consequence of their relation to the tories,
could, at pleasure, pass into Charleston; which they never left
without bringing off quantities of broad cloth cut and jumped into petticoats,
and artfully hid under their gowns. The broad cloth, thus brought off,
was for regimentals for our officers. -- Things went on swimmingly
in this way for a long time, till Smith, getting one day
more groggy and impudent than usual, swore that some young women
who were going out at the gate, looked much bigger over the hips
than they had need, and insisted on a search. The truth is,
these fair patriots, preparing for a great wedding in the country,
had thus spoiled their shape, and brought themselves to all this disgrace
by their over greediness for finery. But Mr. tory Smith affected
to be so enraged by this trick, which the girls had attempted to play on him,
that he would never afterwards suffer a woman to pass
without first pulling up her clothes.

He carried his zeal to such length, as one day very grossly to insult
a genteel old lady, a Mrs. M'Corde.

Her son, who was a dragoon in Lee's legion, swore vengeance
against Smith, and would, as we have seen, have taken his life,
had not Gen. Marion interposed.

In the Charleston papers of that day, 1781, Smith gives
the history of his escape from Marion, wherein he relates an anecdote,
which, if it be true, and I see no reason to doubt it, shows clear enough
that his toryism cost him dear.

In his confinement at Motte's house, he was excessively uneasy.
Well knowing that the whigs owed him no good will, and fearing
that the next time they got a halter round his neck, he might find no Marion
to take his part, he determined if possible to run off.
The tories were all handcuffed two and two, and confined together
under a sentinel, in what was called a `bull-pen', made of pine trees,
cut down so judgmatically as to form, by their fall, a pen or enclosure.
It was Smith's fortune to have for his yoke-fellow a poor sickly creature
of a tory, who, though hardly able to go high-low, was prevailed on
to desert with him. They had not travelled far into the woods,
before his sick companion, quite overcome with fatigue,
declared he could go no farther, and presently fell down in a swoon.
Confined by the handcuffs, Smith was obliged to lie by him in the woods,
two days and nights, without meat or drink! and his comrade frequently
in convulsions! On the third day he died. Unable to bear it any longer,
Smith drew his knife and separated himself from the dead man,
by cutting off his arm at the elbow, which he bore with him to Charleston.

The British heartily congratulated his return, and restored him
to his ancient honor of sitting, Mordecai-like, at the king's gate,
where, it is said, he behaved very decently ever afterwards.

Smith's friends say of him, that in his own country (South Carolina)
he hardly possessed money enough to buy a pig, but when he got to England,
after the war, he made out as if the rebels had robbed him of
as many flocks and herds as the wild Arabs did Job. The British government,
remarkable for generosity to their friends in distress,
gave him money enough to return to South Carolina with a pretty
assortment of merchandise. And he is now, I am told, as wealthy as a Jew,
and, which is still more to his credit, as courteous as a christian.




Chapter 28.

The author congratulates his dear country on her late glorious victories --
recapitulates British cruelties, drawing after them, judicially,
a succession of terrible overthrows.



Happy Carolina! I exclaimed, as our late victories passed over
my delighted thoughts; happy Carolina! dear native country, hail!
long and dismal has been the night of thy affliction: but now rise and sing,
for thy "light is breaking forth, and the dawn of thy redemption
is brightening around."

For opposing the curses of slavery, thy noblest citizens have been branded
as `rebels', and treated with a barbarity unknown amongst civilized nations.
They have been taken from their beds and weeping families, and transported,
to pine and die in a land of strangers.

They have been crowded into midsummer jails and dungeons,*
there, unpitied, to perish amidst suffocation and stench;
while their wives and children, in mournful groups around the walls,
were asking with tears for their husbands and fathers!

--
* All Europe was filled with horror at the history of
the one hundred and twenty unfortunate Englishmen that were suffocated
in the black hole of Calcutta. Little was it thought that
an English nobleman (lord Rawdon) would so soon have repeated that crime,
by crowding one hundred and sixty-four unfortunate Americans
into a small prison in Camden, in the dogdays.
--

They have been wantonly murdered with swords and bayonets,*
or hung up like dogs to ignominious gibbets.

--
* A brother of that excellent man, major Linning, of Charleston, was taken
from his plantation on Ashley river, by one of the enemy's galleys,
and thrust down into the hold. At night the officers began
to drink and sing, and kept it up till twelve o'clock,
when, by way of frolic, they had him brought, though sick, into their cabin,
held a court martial over him, sentenced him to death,
very deliberately executed the sentence by stabbing him with bayonets,
and then threw his mangled body into the river for the sharks and crabs
to devour.
--

They have been stirred up and exasperated against each other,
to the most unnatural and bloody strifes. "Fathers to kill their sons,
and brothers to put brothers to death!"

Such were the deeds of Cornwallis and his officers in Carolina!
And while the churches in England were, everywhere, resounding with
prayers to Almighty God, "to spare the effusion of human blood,"
those monsters were shedding it with the most savage wantonness!
While all the good people in Britain were praying, day and night,
for a speedy restoration of the former happy friendship
between England and America, those wretches were taking the surest steps
to drive all friendship from the American bosom, and to kindle the flames
of everlasting hatred!

But, blessed be God, the tears of the widows and orphans
have prevailed against them, and the righteous Judge of all the earth
is rising up to make inquisition for the innocent blood which they have shed.
And never was his hand more visibly displayed in the casting down
of the wicked, than in humbling Cornwallis and his bloody crew.

At this period, 1780, the western extremities were the only parts of the state
that remained free. To swallow these up, Cornwallis sent Col. Ferguson,
a favorite officer, with fourteen hundred men. Hearing of
the approach of the enemy, and of their horrible cruelties,
the hardy mountaineers rose up as one man from Dan to Beersheba.
They took their faithful rifles. They mounted their horses,
and with each his bag of oats, and a scrap of victuals,
they set forth to find the enemy. They had no plan, no general leader.
The youth of each district, gathering around their own brave colonel,
rushed to battle. But though seemingly blind and headlong
as their own mountain streams, yet there was a hand unseen
that guided their course. They all met, as by chance,
near the King's mountain, where the ill-fated Ferguson encamped.
Their numbers counted, made three thousand. That the work and victory
may be seen to be of God, they sent back all but one thousand chosen men.

A thousand men on mountains bred,
With rifles all so bright,
Who knew full well, in time of need,
To aim their guns aright.

At parting, the ruddy warriors shook hands with their returning friends,
and sent their love. "Tell our fathers," said they, "that we shall
think of them in the battle, and draw our sights the truer."

Then led on by the brave colonels Campbell, Cleveland, Shelby,
Sevier, and Williams, they ascended the hill and commenced the attack.
Like Sinai of old, the top of the mountain was soon wrapped
in smoke and flames; the leaden deaths came whizzing from all quarters;
and in forty minutes Ferguson was slain, and the whole of his party
killed, wounded or taken.

To avenge this mortifying blow, Cornwallis despatched colonel Tarleton
with thirteen hundred and fifty picked troops, against Morgan,
who had but nine hundred men, and these more than half militia.
At the first onset, the militia fled,* leaving Morgan with only four hundred
to contend against thirteen hundred and fifty, rushing on furiously
as to certain victory. What spectator of this scene must not have given up
all for lost, and with tears resigned this little forlorn,
to that unsparing slaughter which colonel Tarleton delighted in?
But, contrary to all human expectation, the devoted handful
stood their ground, and, in a short time, killed and captured
nearly the whole of their proud assailants!

--
* While Weems' exaggerations have been left largely unremarked in this text,
the disservice done to those militia who fought bravely at Cowpens
compels me to note that this description is inaccurate. -- A. L., 1997.
--

Raging like a wounded tiger, Cornwallis destroys all his heavy baggage,
and pushes hard after Morgan. The pursuit is urged with unimaginable fury:
and Cornwallis gains so fast upon the Americans, encumbered with
their prisoners, that on the evening of the ninth day he came up
to the banks of the Catawba, just as Morgan's rear had crossed at a deep ford.
Before the wished-for morning returned, the river was so swollen
by a heavy rain, that Cornwallis could not pass. Adoring the hand of Heaven,
the Americans continued their flight. On the morning of the third day,
Cornwallis renewed the pursuit with redoubled fury, and by the ninth evening,
came up to the banks of the Yadkin, just as Morgan's last rifle corps
was about to take the ford. Presently the rain came rushing down in torrents,
and by the morning light the furious river was impassable!
Who so blind as not to acknowledge the hand of God in all this?

Soon as he could get over, the wrathful Cornwallis renewed the pursuit;
but before he could overtake them at Guilford Courthouse, the Americans,
joined by their countrymen, gave him battle, and killed one third of his army.
Cornwallis then, in turn, fled before the Americans; and as he had
outmarched them before, he outran them now, and escaped safely to Wilmington.
With largely recruited force he returned to Virginia, where four hundred
deluded men, (tories) under colonel Pyles, came forward to join him.
On their way they fell in with Col. Lee and his legion.
Mistaking them for Tarleton and his cavalry, they wave their hats and cry out,
"God save the king! God save the king!" Lee encourages the mistake,
until they are all intermixed with his dragoons, who at a signal given,
draw their swords and hew the wretches to pieces. Only one hundred
make their escape. These fall in, the next day, with colonel Tarleton,
who, mistaking them for what he called "damned rebels", ordered his troops
to charge, which they did; and regardless of their repeated cries,
that "they were the king's best friends," put most of them to death.

Thus wonderfully did God baffle lord Cornwallis, and visit a sudden
and bloody destruction upon those unnatural wretches, who were going forth
to plunge their swords into the bowels of their own country.

After this, being joined by all the British troops in that quarter,
he rolled on like an angry flood to Williamsburg and York, where God sent
his servant Washington, who presently captured him and his fleet and army,
near ten thousand strong.




Chapter 29.

The British evacuate Charleston -- great joy of the citizens --
patriotism of the Charleston ladies.



As when a lion that has long kept at bay the fierce assaulting shepherds,
receives at last his mortal wound, suddenly the monster trembles
under the deadly stroke; and, sadly howling, looks around with wistful eye
towards his native woods. Such was the shock given to the British,
when the sword of heaven-aided justice struck down the bloody Cornwallis.
With him fell the hopes of the enemy throughout our state.

In Charleston, their officers were seen standing together in groups,
shaking their heads as they talked of the dreadful news.
While those who had marched up so boldly into the country,
now panic-struck, were every where busied in demolishing their works,
blowing up their magazines, and hurrying back to town in the utmost dismay.
Hard pressing upon the rear, we followed the steps of their flight,
joyfully chasing them from a country which they had stained with blood,
and pursuing them to the very gates of Charleston. As we approached the city,
our eyes were presented with scenes of desolation sufficient to damp
all hearts, and to inspire the deepest sense of the horrors of war.
Robbed of all animal and vegetable life, the neighboring plantations
seemed but as dreary deserts, compared with what they once were,
when, covered with sportive flocks and herds, and rice and corn,
they smiled with plenteousness and joy. In the fields, the eyes beheld
no sign of cheerful crops, nor in the woods any shape of living beast or bird,
except a few mournful buzzards, silently devouring the unburied flesh
of some poor wretched mortals, who had fallen in the late rencontres
between the English and Americans. Indeed, had those days continued,
no flesh could have been saved; but blessed be God, who shortened them,
by chastising the aggressors (the British) as we have seen.

On the memorable 14th of December, 1782, we entered and took possession
of our capital, after it had been two years seven months and two days in
the hands of the enemy. The style of our entry was quite novel and romantic.
On condition of not being molested while embarking, the British had offered
to leave the town unhurt. Accordingly, at the firing of a signal gun
in the morning, as agreed on, they quitted their advanced works,
near the town gate, while the Americans, moving on close in the rear,
followed them all along through the city down to the water's edge,
where they embarked on board their three hundred ships, which,
moored out in the bay in the shape of an immense half moon,
presented a most magnificent appearance.

The morning was as lovely as pure wintry air and cloudless sunbeams
could render it; but rendered far lovelier still by our procession,
if I may so call it, which was well calculated to awaken
the most pleasurable feelings. In front, were the humble remains
of that proud army, which, one and thirty months ago, captured our city,
and thence, in the drunkenness of victory had hurled menaces and cruelties
disgraceful to the British name: -- And close in the rear, was our
band of patriots, bending forward with martial music and flying colors,
to play the last joyful act in the drama of their country's deliverance;
to proclaim liberty to the captive; to recall the smile
on the cheek of sorrow; and to make the heart of the widow leap for joy.
Numbers, who, for years, had been confined to a single room
in their own elegant houses, could now throw open their long-locked doors,
and breathe and walk at large in these beloved apartments,
from which they had been so long excluded. Numbers, who, for years,
had mourned their separation from children, wives, and sires,
were now seen rushing, with trembling joy, to the long-coveted embrace.
Oh! it was a day of jubilee indeed! a day of rejoicing never to be forgotten.
Smiles and tears were on every face. For who could remain unmoved,
when they saw the little children running with outstretched arms
to embrace their long absent fathers; when they saw the aged trembling
with years and affection, clasping their warrior sons, glorious in arms,
and those sons, with pleasure-sparkling eyes, returning the pious embrace,
and congratulating the deliverance of their fathers;
while all along the streets, as we moved in clouds of joy-rolling dust,
nothing was to be heard but shouts of, LIBERTY and AMERICA FOREVER;
and nothing was to be seen but crowds of citizens shaking hands
and thanking God for bringing them to see that happy day.
And to crown all, on both sides of us, as we marched in shining rows,
stood our beauteous countrywomen, mingling their congratulations.
The day was precious to all, but none I believe enjoyed it so highly
as did the ladies of Charleston. Being, great numbers of them at least,
women of fortune and liberal education, they had early discovered
the deformity of lord North's enslaving principles, "unconditional taxation",
which they abhorred worse than the yaws; and hating the measure,
they could not but dislike the men who were come to execute it.
In common with their sex, they were sufficiently partial to soldiers of honor.
But alas! they were not permitted the pleasure to contemplate the British
in that prepossessing light. On the contrary, compelled to view them
as mere `fighting machines', venal wretches, who for pay and plunder,
had degraded the man into the brute, the Briton into the buccaneer,
how could they otherwise than detest them?

Nor were the manners of the British officers at all calculated
to remove those antipathies. Coming to America, under the impression
that the past generation were `convicts', and the present `rebels',
they looked on and treated their daughters only as `pretty Creoles',
whom it was doing great honor to smile on!

But this prejudice against the British officers, founded first
on their sordidness, then, secondly, fed by their insolence,
was, thirdly and lastly, matured by their cruelty. To see the heads
of their first families, without even a charge of crime, dragged from
their beds at midnight, and packed off like slaves to St. Augustine;
to see one of their most esteemed countrymen, the amiable colonel Haynes,
hung up like a dog before their eyes; and to hear continually,
from all parts, of the horrid house-burnings and murders committed
by Rawdon, Tarleton, Weymies, and their tory and negro allies,
filled up the measure of female detestation of the British officers.
They scorned to be seen in the same public walks with them;
would not touch a glove or snuff-box from their hands; and in short,
turned away from them as from the commonest felons or cut-throats.
And on the other hand, to be treated thus by `buckskin girls',
the rebel daughters of convict parents, was more than the British officers
could put up with. The whig ladies, of course, were often insulted,
and that very grossly too; and not only often threatened, but actually thrown
into the provost or bastile. No wonder then that they were highly delighted
to see such rude enemies, after repeated overthrows in the country,
chased back to town, and thence, covered with disgrace, embarking to leave
the country for ever. No wonder that, on hearing of our line of march
that morning, they had decked themselves in their richest habits,
and at the first sound of our drums, flew to their doors, windows,
and balconies, to welcome our return.

Never before had they appeared half so charming. Sweet are
the flowers of the field at every season of the year, but doubly sweet,
when, after long icy winter, they spread all their blossoms
to the spring-tide sun. Even so the daughters of Charleston,
though always fair, yet never seemed so passing fair as now,
when after sustaining the long wintry storms of British oppression,
they came forth in all their patriot charms to greet
the welcome beams of returning liberty. And never shall I forget
the accents of those lovely lips, which, from behind
their waving handkerchiefs, that but half concealed their angel blushes,
exclaiming, "God bless you, gentlemen! God bless you! welcome!
welcome to your homes again!"




Chapter 30.

Marion returns to his plantation -- is appointed a member of the legislature
-- some valuable anecdotes of him -- his marriage -- and retirement.



After the retreat of the British from Carolina, Marion sheathed his sword
for lack of argument, and went up to cultivate his little plantation
in St. John's parish, where he was born. But the gratitude of his countrymen
did not long allow him to enjoy the sweets of that rural life,
of which he was uncommonly fond. At the next election,
he was in some sort compelled to stand as a candidate for the legislature,
to which, by an unanimous voice, he was sent, to aid with his counsel,
the operations of that government, to whose freedom his sword
had so largely contributed. The friends of humanity were all highly pleased
with his call to the legislature. From his well known generosity
to his enemies, during the war, they fondly hoped he would do
every thing in his power to extinguish that horrid flame of revenge,
which still glowed in the bosoms of many against the tories.
Nor did Marion disappoint their hopes. His face was always, and undauntedly,
set against every proposition that savored of severity to the tories,
whom he used to call his "poor deluded countrymen". The reader may form
some idea of general Marion from the following anecdote,
which was related to me by the honorable Benjamin Huger, Esq.

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.