[Illustration: _TWO FIGURES BOUNDED UPON THE WALLS_]
FIGHTING
KING
GEORGE
_by_
John T M^cIntyre
Illustrated
_by_
J A Graeber
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
M C M V
COPYRIGHT 1905 BY THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
Contents
I HOW FORT JOHNSON FELL 7
II HOW TOM DEERING MADE A NAME 31
III HOW THE BRITISH SHIPS RAN FROM CHARLESTON HARBOR 57
IV HOW TWO MEN BURIED A CHEST OF GOLD 84
V HOW TOM JOINED MARION’S BRIGADE 101
VI HOW FRANCIS MARION HEARD GOOD NEWS FROM WILLIAMSBURG 123
VII HOW TOM DEERING FOUGHT WITH GATES AT CAMDEN 140
VIII HOW TOM BRAVED THE TORIES 148
IX HOW TOM DEERING HELD THE STAIRCASE 174
X HOW MARION’S MEN LAY IN AMBUSH AND WHAT CAME OF IT 200
XI HOW TOM MET WITH A BLINDFOLD ADVENTURE 213
XII HOW TOM TOOK PART IN A MYSTERIOUS CONSULTATION 245
XIII HOW THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENED ON CHRISTMAS EVE 261
XIV HOW THE BRITISH LOST SOME PRISONERS 283
XV HOW TOM DEERING FOUGHT HIS FIRST FIGHT UPON THE SEA 306
XVI HOW TOM DEERING SERVED WITH GENERAL GREENE 322
XVII HOW A TRAITOR TO HIS COUNTRY WAS TAKEN AND LOST 337
XVIII HOW TOM DEERING RODE WITH WASHINGTON AT YORKTOWN 350
Illustrations
PAGE
TWO FIGURES BOUNDED UPON THE WALLS _Frontispiece_
MARION TOOK THE PACKET 62
“THEY ARE RARE GOOD LADS, ALL OF THEM,” SPOKE THE BURGESS 134
STEP BY STEP HE WAS BEATEN BACK 194
“THIS GENTLEMAN,” SAID CORNWALLIS, “WILL INTRODUCE YOU” 252
“WELL AIMED,” PRAISED MR. JOHNSON 316
THE OFFICER SPRANG FORWARD 344
Fighting King George
CHAPTER I
HOW FORT JOHNSON FELL
“THE wind’s changing again, Cole,” said Tom Deering, as he threw his
rudder handle to leeward in order that the sheet might catch the full
benefit of the breeze.
The person to whom he spoke was a negro, young in years but of
colossal size; as he sat amidships in the skiff, with the sheet rope
in his hand, his sleeveless shirt showing his mighty arms bare to the
shoulder, he resembled a statue of Hercules, cut out of black marble.
Tom Deering was about sixteen, and the son of a rich planter, just
below Charleston; he was a tall, strongly built boy for his years,
but beside the giant negro slave he looked like an infant. Cole had
been born upon Tom’s father’s plantation and was about five years the
elder; the two were inseparable; where Tom went the huge black followed
him like a shadow.
When he had the sail drawing nicely, Tom continued:
“I wonder, Cole, how all this is going to end?”
Cole shook his woolly head and grinned; then suddenly his face changed
and he held up one hand as though bidding his young master to listen.
From across the bright stretch of water between them and the shore
came a drum beat; the evening sun slanted down upon the white crests
and upon the meadow-lands below the city. No one was in sight, but the
hollow rub-a-dub of the drum continued. Seeing his master had caught
the sound Cole turned and silently pointed out into the bay.
Two armed vessels, flying the British flag, were standing on and off
Sullivan’s Island. From where he sat in the stern of the skiff, Tom’s
keen eyes noticed that an unusual air of alertness hung about the
vessels; and the wind now and then carried toward them the sound of an
officer’s command sharply spoken through a trumpet.
“It’s the Tamar and the Cherokee,” said Tom. “They’ve been lying in
Rebellion Roads for the last couple of days. When I saw them up anchor
an hour ago I thought something was going to happen, and I was right.
Perhaps Colonel Moultrie is going to strike a blow for liberty and
South Carolina at last.”
It was the fourteenth of September, in the year 1775. Because of the
oppressive acts of the mother country, the British colonies in North
America had risen in protest. But their words had been mocked and
jeered at by King George and his counselors; and the heavy burdens
of the afflicted colonies were only added to. This was more than a
spirited people could stand; so from words the colonists proceeded to
deeds; in the April before the first shot of the Revolution had been
fired at Lexington; and now South Carolina was about to follow the
glorious example of her sister state in New England.
If the people of Boston had a “tea party” in Massachusetts Bay, so had
the residents of Charleston one in the Cooper river. The public armory
of the town was broken open during one dark night and eight hundred
stand of arms, two hundred cutlasses, besides cartouches, flints and
other material of war were seized by the patriots. Another party
possessed itself of the powder at a town near by; while still another
emptied Cochran’s magazine.
An army of two thousand infantry and four hundred horse had been raised
by the colony. This force was divided into three bodies; the second
regiment was placed under the command of Colonel Moultrie, a gallant
Indian fighter who had served with credit in the campaigns against the
Cherokee nation.
The tap of the drum from the town came to the boys’ ears every little
while; the wind was blowing freshly and the sail of the heavy skiff
bellied to it, causing her bow to cut through the water at a great rate.
“We’ll soon be on the ground, Cole,” said Tom, peering under the boom
to see how far they were away from their usual mooring-place when they
sailed up to Charleston. “If it’s Colonel Moultrie’s men being summoned
together for service perhaps the hour is at hand when you can settle
your account with those who treated you so inhumanly.”
The giant held up one great arm, its huge muscles standing out in
knots; the fist clinched and was shaken at Fort Johnson, on James
Island, whose guns grinned wickedly across the calm water and whose
sentries could be seen pacing backward and forward on the bastions.
There was an expression of hate in the face of the slave; he turned
to Tom, a strange sound coming from his throat, the forefinger of his
left hand pointing to his open mouth. Tom reached forward and pressed
Cole’s hand and his dark eyes glowed as he swept his glance toward the
British flag which flowed from the tall staff at Fort Johnson.
Cole, by a horrible act of brutality, had been rendered dumb!
A year before, during one of the spasmodic outbreaks of indignation
which had become so frequent, the authorities had occasion to suspect
Tom Deering’s father of some act against the government.
A party of dragoons were sent to his plantation to secure evidence
against him; the leader of this party was a young and arrogant
lieutenant, noted for his cruelty even to his own men. The colossal
size of Cole at once attracted the officer’s attention when the slaves
were summoned to testify against their master.
“We’ll have this fellow out,” cried he, pointing to Cole. “He’s the one
that will tell us what we want to hear. He knows; I can see it in his
face.”
In vain Cole protested his ignorance of anything his master had done.
“You know, you black hound,” thundered the dragoon. “Tie him up, men;
we’ll make him talk fast enough.”
Cole was bound to a cottonwood-tree in front of his master’s door;
he continued to protest that he knew nothing, but in vain. The elder
Deering and Tom were detained by a sergeant and a file of men inside
the house and consequently had no knowledge of what was going forward
without.
They heard the angry voice of the young lieutenant raised now and
then in a shower of horrible oaths, apparently urging his men to the
commission of something which they were reluctant to do. At length a
dreadful scream sounded--a sharp, agonizing cry that caused the planter
and his son to turn pale and stare at one another with eyes filled with
horror. Then the sergeant and his file were hurriedly called from the
house; as they were mounting in the yard, Tom and his father rushed
out; Cole hung limp against the ropes that bound him to the tree,
covered with blood. As the hoofs of the dragoons’ chargers grew faint
down the road, it was discovered what had occurred. Wild with rage
at what he considered Cole’s defiance the brutal officer had had the
slave’s jaws pried open, and had cut his tongue with the point of his
sabre.
The great strength of the giant negro and his superb condition carried
him through the effects of this barbarous act; in a remarkably short
time he had recovered; but he was deprived of speech forever; it was
only in gestures such as that which he had made against Fort Johnson
that he could convey the longing that filled him, to come to hand-grips
with those who had treated him so inhumanly.
They had reached the wharf and were running in alongside; Cole loosed
the halyard and lowered the sail. While he was furling it, he stopped
suddenly, and by his gestures, which Tom could read very plainly, he
called the attention of his companion to a strange stillness on the
river.
Tom gazed up and down the stream for a moment and his eyes snapped.
“All the shipping has dropped down the river,” cried he. “That can only
mean one thing! Colonel Moultrie is about to attack----”
“Belay there, nevvy,” growled a rough voice, almost in his ear. “Not
quite so slack with the jaw tackle.”
“Uncle Dick,” exclaimed Tom, in surprise.
“Yes, it’s the old sea-horse,” responded the owner of the voice, from
above them on the wharf.
“You frightened me,” laughed Tom, as he climbed up over the wharf log.
“My frightening you, nevvy,” said the other, “will be nothing to the
scare you’ll get if any of Governor Campbell’s spying swabs heard what
you were just now going to say.”
Uncle Dick, or as the world knew him, Capt. Richard Deering of the
schooner Defence, nodded in a friendly fashion to Cole, who grinned
back, from his seat in the bow of the skiff. The captain of the Defence
was a sturdy-looking man of about fifty, with his long, gray hair
gathered in a cue, sailor-fashion; his weather-tanned face was smoothly
shaven; he wore a round, glazed hat, a short pilot coat with metal
buttons and long leather boots.
“What is going on, Uncle Dick?” asked Tom, seating himself at the old
salt’s side. “I heard a drum beat while we were sailing in the shallows
below the town and noticed the Cherokee and the Tamar standing up and
down, with all hands ready.”
Captain Deering spat carefully over the wharf log into the water; and
then looked up and down the river.
“There is going to be something happen on this river to-night,” said
he, “that in the days to come they’ll write in their history books.
See all them boats pulled up on the sand, above there?”
There was a long line of galleys and barges and other heavy boats lying
half out of the water, under guard of some half dozen men.
“Behind them trees, further up,” continued Captain Deering, “is the
whole of Colonel Moultrie’s command--or, at least, all of them as can
be got together at short notice.”
“Then it is coming at last,” breathed Tom, his eyes aglow. “South
Carolina is to strike for her liberty as those in the north struck,
months ago.”
“She is,” cried Captain Deering, catching some of his nephew’s
enthusiasm. “Blow my tarry tops, lad, we can’t let those Lexington
fellows beat us in the cause. The first shot out of the locker is to
be the capture of Fort Johnson; I know, for I collected the boats up
there; the attacking party is going to cross the river in them. Those
chaps keeping watch are from the crew of the Defence.”
“When is the affair to begin?” asked Tom, hardly able to keep still,
so excited was he.
“As soon as it is dark enough to conceal the approach of the boats.
There don’t seem to be any unusual goings-on in the fort, so I don’t
think they suspect anything; but them two war craft, down in the roads,
look bad; they must have had news from somewhere.”
Scarcely had the old sailor ceased speaking when there came a sudden
rattle of hoofs; turning they saw a party of scarlet-coated dragoons
wheel around a corner and, at a sharp gallop, proceed up the river
road. A tall, burly man rode in the midst of them; his red face was
angry and fierce looking, and he carried one hand upon his sword in a
manner that told his thoughts as plainly as words.
“It’s Lord William Campbell, the new governor!” exclaimed Tom, with a
gasp, “and they are on their way to the place where Moultrie’s men are
assembled.”
The captain of the Defence arose to his feet.
“There is likely to be trouble,” remarked he. “You climb back into your
boat, nevvy, and make sail for the plantation.”
“Not I!” Tom Deering drew himself up proudly. “If there is anything to
be done, I am going to help.”
Uncle Dick looked at him sharply for a moment; then he uttered a short
laugh, that had a satisfied ring in it.
“Good lad!” cried he. “Blow my tarry old hulk, but there never was a
Deering yet that wasn’t always on hand when wanted.” He clapped the boy
proudly on the back as he spoke. “Well, come along; we’ve got no time
to lose; the breeze is fresh and straight up the river. What kind of a
sailer is that craft of yours?”
“There is not a better in these waters for the sort of wind that’s
blowing now.”
They clambered into the skiff; Cole shoved the boat clear of the wharf
and hauled up the sail. A few strokes of the paddle brought her out
into the stream, Uncle Dick threw her into the wind, and away she
raced up the river.
The dragoons could still be seen proceeding at their sharp pace along
the river road; the black, lowering figure still rode in the midst of
them, his hand still upon the hilt of his sword.
“It’s good,” said Tom, “that there is a ridge between the road and the
river, just above there; otherwise they’d see the boats, and maybe
would try to scatter them and so break up the attempt on the fort.”
Captain Deering smiled.
“Moultrie is nearer than you think for, nevvy,” said he. “A whistle
from one of my fellows there on shore would bring a hundred men to the
boats in five minutes.” The skiff turned a wooded headland at this
moment. “Look there; what did I tell you?”
Upon a smooth piece of ground, which the trees had hidden until they
rounded the headland, was gathered the slender force of South Carolina;
an awkward-looking body of men, poorly armed, and with a total lack of
soldierly appearance. They were mostly planters, woodsmen and artisans
who had volunteered for service to their country, without hope of
pay. They wore their ordinary dress, though here and there there was
an attempt at military smartness; their weapons were fowling-pieces,
cutlasses, axes and the plunder of the town arsenal. They were drawn up
in order and their officers were putting them through a drill.
The distance by water to this point was much shorter than by road; the
skiff had lowered its sail and run its nose up on the sand before the
dragoons reached the spot. Captain Deering was just about to hail the
militia when there was a flash of red from amidst the green of the
trees and Lord Campbell and his company came into view. So sudden was
their appearance that the untrained militia would have been thrown
into confusion at the bare sight of them had it not been for the sharp
commands of their officers. They dressed ranks at the word and wheeled
to face the dragoons. The latter had their weapons ready as they lined
up on the verge of the woods; Lord Campbell, his face still dark with
anger, rode forward toward a small group of officers who stood apart
within easy hearing distance of where Tom stood at the water’s edge.
“What body of men is this?” demanded the governor.
An officer of commanding appearance stepped forward.
“It is the authorized force of the colony of South Carolina,” said he.
“Authorized!” Lord Campbell’s eyes blazed. “Authorized by whom?”
“By the Provincial Congress,” returned the officer.
“There is no power in the colony to collect armed bodies of men save my
own--under the authority of the king. I command you all in the name of
King George to lay down your arms and disperse!”
His angry glance swept along the gathered patriots before him; his
burly frame was quivering with rage at the idea to their daring to
assemble in defiance of his power and that of his royal master. But
there was no movement to obey; he paused for a moment, and then in a
voice choking with passion he inquired of the officers:
“Which of you is Mr. Moultrie?”
The question was greeted with dead silence. The governor’s face lit up
with triumph; their leader was afraid to proclaim himself; it would be
an easy task to put them down.
“I have had information,” cried he fiercely, “that this insurrection is
under the leadership of a Mr. Moultrie. Let him stand forth.”
A small, dark officer of infantry stepped forward.
“In this command,” said he, “I will venture to say that there is no Mr.
Moultrie. But,” he paused and looked the wrathful governor in the eye
with great coolness, “there is, however, a Colonel Moultrie.”
“Ah!” Lord Campbell stared at the speaker with a bitter sneer. “Then
will Colonel Moultrie have the goodness to step forward?”
The officer who had answered him in the first instance, advanced, a
quiet smile upon his handsome face.
“Colonel Moultrie,” blazed forth the angry king’s man, not giving the
other a chance to speak, “do you or do you not intend to disperse this
gathering?”
“It is not in my power,” answered Colonel Moultrie.
“Do you not command them?”
“I do; under the Council of Safety.”
“Bah!” The governor’s teeth snapped in a fury of rage at this. “That
is all one hears these days--the Provincial Congress, the Committee
General, the Council of Safety. I know nothing and care nothing for
these rebels against the king and their usurped authority. I recognize
none but you in this matter. You are here at the head of an armed
force, in open rebellion; and I call upon you to lay down your arms and
unconditionally surrender yourself, in the king’s name. Refuse and you
must take the consequence of your folly.”
Tom Deering, with a thrill at his heart, saw the small, dark officer,
who had spoken so coolly to Lord Campbell, step back and give a command
to his company in a low voice. The line of the militia closed in a
resolved fashion and the ducking guns were held in instant readiness
for use. Lord Campbell saw it, also; and he saw the determined faces
of those before him; a glance at his own slender company showed him
that smart and soldier-like though they were, they were not a match for
the assembled patriots. He turned to Colonel Moultrie, who still stood
quietly watching him.
“You refuse?”
“Can you doubt it?”
Without a word the governor wheeled his horse and rode back to his men;
another moment and they were going down the river road at the same
sharp gallop with which they had arrived.
Dusk had thrown its shadows across the waters of the river; the lights
at Fort Johnson began to twinkle. Colonel Moultrie and his officers
consulted together. The sharp businesslike departure of Lord Campbell
and his men was not at all to their liking. In a few moments they had
summoned Captain Deering, of the Defence, and after a few questions the
latter turned and beckoned to Tom.
“Captain Deering,” said Colonel Moultrie, smilingly, “tells us that you
are a patriot and a native son of the colony.”
“I am both, sir,” answered Tom, gravely.
“Good! You saw the Cherokee and Tamar under sail in Rebellion Roads a
while ago, I understand.”
“I did, sir,” said the boy.
“Did they seem as though they intended to ascend the river?”
“No, sir.” Tom answered the question quickly enough; then the actions
of the two vessels came back to him, and he added, a light breaking
upon him: “But they seemed as though they’d like to; it was just as
though they were waiting for a signal.”
“And that,” cried Colonel Moultrie, “is just exactly what they
are waiting for. And Lord Campbell is now on his way to give it.
Gentlemen,” turning to his officers, “we must cross the river and make
the attempt upon the fort at once; otherwise we will have two war
vessels scattering cannon shot among us in our passage.”
The orders were quickly given; the patriot force was soon at the
water’s edge, embarking in the boats which Captain Deering had
collected. Small as their numbers were, the boats were too few to
accommodate them, and a good quarter were forced to remain behind. The
attacking party had pushed off and was already pulling toward the fort
through the quickly gathering darkness, when the small, dark officer
who had spoken so coolly to Lord Campbell, came hurrying along. He had
been making a disposition of the companies remaining behind and now
seemed destined to be left also. He dashed out waist deep in the river
in an effort to catch the last galley, but too late. At that moment Tom
Deering’s skiff passed slowly by; there was room for another, and Tom
called eagerly:
“Climb in, captain. We’re going, too; and we’ll land you there ahead of
any of them.”
With a hasty word of thanks the officer scrambled into the boat and
took up a position in the bow, from which point he could see all that
was going forward.
This was Tom Deering’s first meeting with Francis Marion, afterward to
become the great partisan chief of the Revolution and be known to the
world as the Swamp-Fox.
Within an hour the attacking party had arrived at James Island and
deployed in the darkness before the walls. Marion had sprung ashore as
soon as the prow of the skiff grated upon the sand; Tom and Cole were
left alone, for they had touched at a point slightly further down than
Colonel Moultrie’s men.
“I’m glad Uncle Dick did not cross in our skiff,” said Tom to Cole, as
they drew the boat up on the sand. “Now we can look into things on our
own account.”
While the militia was arranging, front and rear, for the attack, the
boy and his companion were stealing through the bush that grew thickly
about the walls of the fort, and wondering at the silence within. It
required a half hour for Moultrie to get everything in readiness; and
at last, just as he was about to give the word for the attack to begin,
two figures bounded upon the walls from inside the fort; one was a
handsome youth of seventeen; the other was a giant negro slave. Each
waved a blazing torch above his head exultantly.
“Colonel Moultrie,” cried Tom Deering, “the place belongs to you. The
British have fled to their ships.”
It was true; the creaking of blocks and the dark loom of a mainsail
showed them a vessel scudding down the river. Fort Johnson had fallen
without firing a shot.