Our story takes us back to the summer of 1780, a summer of
war, suffering, and outrage in the States of the South.
General Gates, at the head of the army of the South, was
marching towards Camden, South Carolina, filled with
inflated hopes of meeting and defeating Cornwallis. How this
hopeful general was himself defeated, and how, in
consequence, the whole country south of Virginia fell under
British control, history relates; we are not here concerned
with it.
Gates's army had crossed the Pedee River and was pushing
southward. During its march a circumstance occurred which
gave great amusement to the trim soldiery. There joined the
army a volunteer detachment of about twenty men, such a
heterogeneous and woe-begone corps that Falstaff himself
might have hesitated before enlisting them. They were a
mosaic of whites and blacks, men and boys, their clothes
tatters, their equipments burlesques on military array,
their horses--for they were all mounted--parodies on the
noble war-charger. At the head of this motley array was a
small-sized, thin-faced, modest-looking man, his uniform
superior to that of his men, but no model of neatness, yet
with a flashing spirit in his eye that admonished the amused
soldiers not to laugh at his men in his presence. Behind his
back they laughed enough. The Pedee volunteers were a
source of ridicule to the well-clad Continentals that might
have caused trouble had not the officers used every effort
to repress it.
As for Gates, he offered no welcome to this ragged squad.
The leader modestly offered him some advice about the
military condition of the South, but the general in command
was clothed in too dense an armor of conceit to be open to
advice from any quarter, certainly not from the leader of
such a Falstaffian company, and he was glad enough to get
rid of him by sending him on a scouting expedition in
advance of the army, to watch the enemy and report his
movements.
This service precisely suited him to whom it was given, for
this small, non-intrusive personage was no less a man than
Francis Marion, then but little known, but destined to
become the Robin Hood of partisan warriors, the celebrated
"Swamp-Fox" of historical romance and romantic history.
Marion had appeared with the title of colonel. He left the
army with the rank of general. Governor Rutledge, who was
present, knew him and his worth, gave him a brigadier's
commission, and authorized him to enlist a brigade for
guerilla work in the swamps and forests of the State.
Thus raised in rank, Marion marched away with his motley
crew of followers, they doubtless greatly elevated in
dignity to feel that they had a general at their head. The
army indulged in a broad laugh, after they had gone, at
Marion's miniature brigade of scarecrows. They laughed at
the wrong man, for after their proud array was broken and
scattered to the winds, and the region they had marched to
relieve had become the prey of the enemy, that modest
partisan alone was to keep alive the fire of liberty in
South Carolina, and so annoy the victors that in the end
they hardly dared show their faces out of the forts. The
Swamp-Fox was to pave the way for the reconquest of the
South by the brave General Greene.
No long time elapsed before Marion increased his
disreputable score to a brigade of more respectable
proportions, with which he struck such quick and telling
blows from all sides on the British and Tories, that no nest
of hornets could have more dismayed a marauding party of
boys. The swamps of the Pedee were his head-quarters. In
their interminable and thicket-hidden depths he found
hiding-places in abundance, and from them he made rapid
darts, north, south, east, and west, making his presence
felt wherever he appeared, and flying back to shelter before
his pursuers could overtake him. His corps was constantly
changing, now swelling, now shrinking, now little larger
than his original ragged score, now grown to a company of a
hundred or more in dimensions. It was always small. The
swamps could not furnish shelter and food for any large body
of men.
Marion's head-quarters were at Snow's Island, at the point
where Lynch's Creek joins the Pedee River. This was a region
of high river-swamp, thickly forested, and abundantly
supplied with game. The camp was on dry land, but around it
spread broad reaches of wet thicket and canebrake, whose
paths were known only to the partisans, and their secrets
sedulously preserved. As regards the mode of life here of
Marion and his men, there is an anecdote which will picture
it better than pages of description.
A young British officer was sent from Georgetown to treat
with Marion for an exchange of prisoners. The Swamp-Fox
fully approved of the interview, being ready enough to rid
himself of his captives, who were a burden on his hands. But
he was too shrewd to lay bare the ways that led to his camp.
The officer was blindfolded, and led by devious paths
through canebrake, thicket, and forest to the hidden camp.
On the removal of the bandage from his eyes he looked about
him with admiration and surprise. He found himself in a
scene worthy of Robin Hood's woodland band. Above him spread
the boughs of magnificent trees, laden with drooping moss,
and hardly letting a ray of sunlight through their crowding
foliage. Around him rose their massive trunks, like the
columns of some vast cathedral. On the grassy or moss-clad
ground sat or lay groups of hardy-looking men, no two of
them dressed alike, and with none of the neat appearance of
uniformed soldiers. More remote were their horses, cropping
the short herbage in equine contentment. It looked like a
camp of forest outlaws, jovial tenants of the merry
greenwood.
The surprise of the officer was not lessened when his eyes
fell on Marion, whom he had never seen before. It may be
that he expected to gaze on a burly giant. As it was, he
could scarcely believe that this diminutive, quiet-looking
man, and this handful of ill-dressed and lounging followers,
were the celebrated band who had thrown the whole British
power in the South into alarm.
Marion addressed him, and a conference ensued in which their
business was quickly arranged to their mutual satisfaction.
"And now, my dear sir," said Marion, "I should be glad to
have you dine with me. You have fasted during your journey,
and will be the better for a woodland repast."
"With pleasure," replied the officer. "It will be a new and
pleasant experience."
He looked around him. Where was the dining-room? where, at
least, the table, on which their mid-day repast was to be
spread? Where were the dishes and the other paraphernalia
which civilization demands as the essentials of a modern
dinner?--Where? His eyes found no answer to this mental
question. Marion looked at him with a smile.
"We dine here in simple style, captain," he remarked. "Pray
be seated."
He took his seat on a mossy log, and pointed to an opposite
one for the officer. A minute or two afterwards the camp
purveyor made his appearance, bearing a large piece of bark,
on which smoked some roasted sweet potatoes. They came from
a fire of brushwood blazing at a distance.
"Help yourself, captain," said Marion, taking a swollen and
brown-coated potato from the impromptu platter, breaking it
in half, and beginning to eat with a forest appetite.
The officer looked at the viands and at his host with eyes
of wonder.
"Surely, general," he exclaimed, "this cannot be your
ordinary fare?"
"Indeed it is," said Marion. "And we are fortunate, on this
occasion, having company to entertain, to have more than our
usual allowance."
The officer had little more to say. He helped himself to the
rural viands, which he ate with thought for salt. On
returning to Georgetown he gave in his report, and then
tendered his commission to his superior officer, saying that
a people who could fight on roots for fare could not be, and
ought not to be, subdued, and that he, for one, would not
serve against them.
Of the exploits of Marion we can but speak briefly; they
were too many to be given in detail. His blows were so
sharply dealt, in such quick succession, and at such remote
points, that his foes were puzzled, and could hardly believe
that a single band was giving them all this trouble. Their
annoyance culminated in their sending one of their best
cavalry leaders, Colonel Wemyss, to surprise and crush the
Swamp-Fox, then far from his hiding-place. Wemyss got on
Marion's trail, and pursued him with impetuous haste. But
the wary patriot was not to be easily surprised, nor would
he fight where he had no chance to win. Northward he
swiftly made his way, through swamps and across deep
streams, into North Carolina. Wemyss lost his trail, found
it, lost it again, and finally, discouraged and revengeful,
turned back and desolated the country from which he had
driven its active defender, and which was looked on as the
hot-bed of rebellion.
Marion, who had but sixty men in his band, halted the moment
pursuit ceased, sent out scouts for information, and in a
very short time was back in the desolated district. The
people rushed, with horse and rifle, to his ranks. Swiftly
he sped to the Black Mingo, below Georgetown, and here fell
at midnight on a large body of Tories, with such vigor and
success that the foe were almost annihilated, while Marion
lost but a single man.
The devoted band now had a short period of rest, the British
being discouraged and depressed. Then Tarleton, the
celebrated hard-riding marauder, took upon himself the
difficult task of crushing the Swamp-Fox. He scoured the
country, spreading ruin as he went, but all his skill and
impetuosity were useless in the effort to overtake Marion.
The patriot leader was not even to be driven from his chosen
region of operations, and he managed to give his pursuer
some unwelcome reminders of his presence. At times Tarleton
would be within a few miles of him, and full of hope of
overtaking him before the next day's dawn. But, while he was
thus lulled to security, Marion would be watching him from
the shadows of some dark morass, and at midnight the British
rear or flank would feel the sharp bite of the Swamp-Fox's
teeth. In the end, Tarleton withdrew discomfited from the
pursuit, with more hard words against this fellow, who
"would not fight like a gentleman or a Christian," than he
had ever been able to give him hard blows.
Tarleton withdrawn, Marion resumed all his old activity, his
audacity reaching the extent of making an attack on the
British garrison at Georgetown. This was performed in
conjunction with Major Lee, who had been sent by General
Greene to Marion's aid. Lee had no little trouble to find
him. The active partisan was so constantly moving about, now
in deep swamps, now far from his lurking-places, that friend
and foe alike were puzzled to trace his movements. They met
at last, however, and made a midnight attack on Georgetown,
unsuccessful, as it proved, yet sufficient to redouble the
alarm of the enemy.
In the spring of 1781 we find Colonel Watson, with a force
of five hundred men, engaged in the difficult task of
"crushing Marion." He found him,--unlike the
predecessors,--but, as it proved, to his own cost. Marion
was now at Snow's Island, whence he emerged to strike a
quick succession of heavy blows at such different points
that he appeared to be ubiquitous. His force met that of
Watson unexpectedly, and a fight ensued. Watson had the
advantage of field-pieces, and Marion was obliged to fall
back. Reaching a bridge over the Black River, he checked
his pursuers with telling volleys long enough to burn the
bridge. Then a peculiar contest took place. The two forces
marched down the stream, one on each side, for ten miles,
skirmishing across the water all the way. Darkness ended the
fight. The two camps were pitched near together. For ten
days Watson remained there, not able to get at Marion, and
so annoyed by the constant raids of his active foe that in
the end he made a midnight flight to escape destruction in
detail. Marion pursued, and did him no small damage in the
flight. Watson's only solace was the remark, already quoted,
that his troublesome foe would not "fight like a gentleman
or a Christian."
Major Lee tells an amusing story of an incident that
happened to himself, on his march in search of Marion. He
had encamped for the night on Drowning Creek, a branch of
the Pedee. As morning approached, word was brought to the
officer of the day that noises were heard in front of the
pickets, in the direction of the creek. They seemed like the
stealthy movements of men. Now a sentinel fired, the bugles
sounded for the horse patrols to come in, and the whole
force was quickly got ready for the coming enemy. But no
enemy appeared. Soon after another sentinel fired, and word
came that an unseen foe was moving in the swamp. The troops
faced in this direction, and waited anxiously for the coming
of dawn. Suddenly the line of sentinels in their rear fire
in succession. The enemy had undoubtedly gained the road
behind them, and were marching on them from that direction.
The line again faced round. Lee went along it, telling his
men that there was nothing left but to fight, and bidding
them to sustain the high reputation which they had long
since won. The cavalry were ordered not to pursue a flying
force, for the country was well suited for concealment, and
they might be tempted into an ambuscade.
When day broke the whole column advanced with great caution,
infantry in front, baggage in centre, cavalry in rear. Where
was the foe? None appeared. The van officer carefully
examined the road for an enemy's trail. To his surprise and
amusement, he found only the tracks of a large pack of
wolves.
These animals had been attempting to pass the camp at point
after point, turned from each point by the fire of the
sentinels, and trying the line on all sides. Great merriment
followed, in which pickets, patrols, and the officer of the
day were made the butt of the ridicule of the whole force.
We shall close with one interesting story in which Marion
played the leading part, but which is distinguished by an
example of womanly patriotism worthy of the highest praise.
The mansion of Mrs. Rebecca Motte, a rich widow of South
Carolina, had been taken possession of by the British
authorities, she being obliged to take up her residence in a
farm-house on her lands. The large mansion was converted
into a fort, and surrounded by a deep ditch and a high
parapet. A garrison of one hundred and fifty men, under
Captain McPherson, was stationed here, the place being
re-named Fort Motte.
This stronghold was attacked, in May, 1781, by Marion and
Lee, then in conjunction. Lee took position at the
farm-house, and posted his men on the declivity of the plain
on which the fort stood. Marion cast up a mound, placed on
it the six-pounder they had brought with them, and prepared
to assail the parapet while Lee made his approaches.
McPherson had no artillery.
Their approaches were made by a trench from an adjacent
ravine. In a few days they were near enough to be justified
in demanding a surrender. McPherson refused. The same
evening word reached the Americans that Lord Rawdon was
approaching. On the following night the light of his
camp-fires could be seen on the neighboring hills of the
Santee. The garrison saw them as well as the assailants, and
were filled with renewed hope.
What was to be done? The besiegers must succeed quickly or
retreat. Lee was not long in devising an expedient. The
mansion of Mrs. Motte was shingled and the shingles very
dry. There had been no rain for several days, and the sun
had poured its rays warmly upon them. They might be set on
fire. Lee suggested this to Mrs. Motte, with much dread as
to how she would receive it. Her acquiescence was so
cheerful that his mind was relieved. The patriotic woman
expressed herself as ready to make any sacrifice for her
country.
Lee told his plan to Marion, who warmly approved it. It was
proposed to do the work by means of arrows carrying flaming
combustibles. As it proved, however, the only bows and
arrows they could find in the camp were very inferior
articles.
"They will never do," said Mrs. Motte. "I can provide you
with much better. I have in the house an excellent bow and a
bundle of arrows, which came from the East Indies. They are
at your service."
She hastened from the room, and quickly returned with the
weapons, which she handed to Lee as cheerfully as though she
looked for some special benefit to herself from their use.
Word was sent to McPherson of what was intended, and that
Rawdon had not yet crossed the Santee. Immediate surrender
would save many lives. The bold commandant still refused.
At midday, from the shelter of the ditch, Nathan Savage, one
of Marion's men, shot several flaming arrows at the roof.
Two of them struck the dry shingles. Almost instantly these
were in a flame. The fire crept along the roof. Soldiers
were sent up to extinguish it, but a shot or two from the
field-piece drove them down.
There was no longer hope for McPherson. He must surrender,
or have his men burned in the fort, or decimated if they
should leave it. He hung out the white flag of surrender.
The firing ceased; the flames were extinguished; at one
o'clock the garrison yielded themselves prisoners. An hour
afterwards the victorious and the captive officers were
seated at an ample repast at Mrs. Motte's table, presided
over by that lady with as much urbanity and grace as though
these guests were her especial friends. Since that day Mrs.
Motte has been classed among the most patriotic heroines of
the Revolution.
This is, perhaps, enough in prose, but the fame of Marion
and his men has been fitly enshrined in poetry, and it will
not be amiss to quote a verse or two, in conclusion, from
Bryant's stirring poem entitled "Song of Marion's Men."
Our band is few, but true and tried
Our leader frank and bold:
The British soldier trembles
When Marion's name is told.
Our fortress is the good greenwood,
Our tent the cypress-tree;
We know the forest round us,
As seamen know the sea.
We know its walls of thorny vines,
Its glades of reedy grass;
Its safe and silent islands
Within the dark morass.
Well knows the fair and friendly moon
The band that Marion leads,--
The glitter of their rifles,
The scampering of their steeds.
'Tis life to guide the fiery barb
Across the moonlit plain;
'Tis life to feel the night wind
That lifts his tossing mane.
A moment in the British camp,--
A moment,--and away
Back to the pathless forest
Before the peep of day.
Grave men there are by broad Santee,
Grave men with hoary hairs;
Their hearts are all with Marion,
For Marion are their prayers.
And lovely ladies greet our band
With kindliest welcoming,
With smiles like those of summer,
And tears like those of spring.
For them we wear these trusty arms,
And lay them down no more
Till we have driven the Briton
Forever from our shore.