HOW TOM DEERING SERVED WITH GENERAL GREENE
ABOUT a week later the Defence ran into Charleston harbor, and Tom
Deering and his friends, after bidding the skipper good-bye, were put
ashore. The journey back to the district across the Santee was made on
foot. It was a long and wearisome one, and being made at night caused
it to seem all the more difficult. The first day they passed at the
Indian’s Head; and in three nights more they found themselves back in
the camp of the Americans.
It was shortly after their return that Marion retired to Snow’s Island,
which is to this day pointed out as “the camp of the Swamp-Fox.” He
had concluded that the place would be a safe depot for his arms,
ammunition, prisoners and invalids--difficult of access, easily
guarded and close to the scene of his most active operations.
Snow’s Island lay at the confluence of Lynch’s Creek and the Peedee. On
the east was the latter river; on the west was Clarke’s Creek, issuing
from Lynch’s, a deep stream which small vessels might ascend; Lynch’s
Creek lay on the north, but was choked by rafts, logs, and refuse
timber. The island was large; thick woods covered the elevated tracts,
dense cane-brakes the lower.
It was here that Marion made his fortress. He secured all the boats in
the neighborhood, destroying those which he could not use.
Where the natural defenses of the place seemed to require strengthening
he labored upon them; by cutting down bridges and obstructing the
ordinary pathways with timber he contrived almost perfectly to isolate
the section of country under his command. From this fortress his
scouting parties were sent forth nightly in all directions to report
on the doings of the British at Nelson’s Ferry and Scott’s Lake.
Here Marion and his men lived like the Robin Hood of old, and his
generous outlaws of Sherwood forest. Nature herself seemed to be with
them; the dense woods and interminable growth screened them from the
enemy; the vine and briar guarded the passes; the swamp was their moat;
their bulwarks were the deep ravines, which, watched by sleepless
riflemen, were quite as impregnable as the castles of the Rhine.
Tom Deering and Cole were kept busy those first days at Snow’s
Island; for General Greene, a soldier of great firmness, prudence and
forethought had some time before assumed command of the army of the
South, and the young scout carried all the despatches between the two
camps. One day at the Continental camp Tom was summoned to the tent of
the commanding officer. The sentry passed him in, and he stood at the
flap of the tent, his hand at the salute, waiting to be addressed.
A number of officers were with General Greene, and they seemed to be
deeply interested in some maps which lay upon the table before them.
General Greene at length looked up.
“Deering,” said he, “I have sent for you because you are well
acquainted with this country in every direction and because you are
very well spoken of by General Marion,” for the American leader had now
attained that rank.
“Yes, general,” answered Tom, wondering what was to come.
“As you have probably heard,” continued the officer, “General Morgan
is operating in the western section of the state; it is positively
necessary that I, in person, reach his force without delay.”
“I can guide you, general,” said Tom promptly. “I have been over the
ground many times.”
“Very well,” said Greene, briefly. “See that your mount is rubbed down,
fed and well rested; and get some sleep yourself. We start in the
morning at daylight.”
Tom saluted and left the tent to communicate the intelligence to
Cole. The General Morgan of whom Greene had spoken was in command of
a corps of light infantry, of the Maryland line, numbering over three
hundred men, two hundred Virginia militia, and the cavalry force that
had, under Lieutenant-Colonel Washington, just beaten the British at
Clermont. Sumpter had been wounded in the fight at Blackstock and was,
as yet, unable to leave his bed, so his force, also, joined itself to
Morgan’s.
Cornwallis had been on the point of advancing into North Carolina; but
being unwilling to leave Morgan’s brigade in his rear, he despatched
Colonel Tarleton against him. Morgan had, at first, retreated before
the superior numbers of the British; but being closely pursued, he
halted at a place called the Cowpens, and arranged his men in the order
of battle. Tarleton’s headlong dragoons rushed upon him; the militia
had given way and the regular troops followed. Just when it seemed
that Morgan was beaten, he succeeded in reforming his scattered ranks
and ordered a general charge. Shamed, and eager to show their gallant
leader that his faith in them had not been misplaced, the Americans
dashed at the astounded enemy and sent them flying in all directions.
Upon receiving intelligence of Tarleton’s repulse, Cornwallis left
the banks of the Broad River, after destroying his heavy baggage, and
commenced one of his rapid marches toward the fords of the Catawba,
hoping to reach there in time to intercept the retreat of Morgan, who
would, of course, know that he would now be pursued by the main body of
the enemy.
This was the news which General Greene had just received, and which
made him so anxious to go to Morgan and personally see that no rash
measures were attempted that would endanger the brigade. He, with Tom
Deering, Cole and a half dozen mounted infantry, started next morning.
After a hard ride of almost two days they reached Morgan where he had
encamped upon the Catawba. He had reached the fords about two hours
before Cornwallis; the camp-fires of the latter could be seen across
the river, for the British general had put off the crossing until
morning, being sure that he would overtake his adversary then.
But, as fate willed it, the Catawba rose rapidly during the night; and,
to Cornwallis’ consternation, was impassable for two days.
Greene now took command of Morgan’s division in person; Tom was sent
out with a party to watch the movements of the enemy who, as soon as
they could cross the river, were once more in hot pursuit. It was a
race for the Yadkin, now; the Americans were weighted down with baggage
and their progress was slow; the British carried nothing, practically,
but their arms, and their march was made at great speed.
The rear-guard of the patriots was about crossing the Yadkin when the
van of the British came up. Greene had put Tom in charge of a small
party which was detailed to protect some baggage wagons; the wagons got
stuck in the soft and badly cut ford and the enemy galloped forward
with cheers to cut them off.
“Stand, men!” called Tom, calmly. “Steady! Don’t give an inch! We’ll
make these fellows pay dearly for the baggage. Hold your fire until I
give the word.”
So he talked to them as they stood, waist deep, in the stream; the
British rode forward firing their pieces and then plunged into the
ford. The rear-guard at the word from Marion’s young scout raised their
rifles and poured a steady volley into them which emptied many saddles.
General Greene rode down to the edge of the stream about this time.
Tom saluted.
“I’m afraid we cannot save the wagons, general.”
“Get more horses,” ordered Greene, who disliked leaving behind supplies
of which his soldiers were so much in need.
Fresh horses were hitched to the wagons, the teamsters cracked their
whips and shouted like madmen; but it was no use.
“The wheels are too deeply sunk in the mud, general,” reported Tom.
“Cut the traces,” directed General Greene, regretfully; “we must leave
them, I suppose.”
While the traces were being cut another charge was made by the enemy’s
horsemen. The rear-guard under Tom had crossed the ford, and met the
charge with steady courage. The deadly rifles spoke with flaming
tongues, and once more the dragoons fell back. This time, however, they
had approached nearer, and as they were scattering to run Tom caught
sight of a face which caused him to start with surprise and then clap
spurs to Sultan in reckless pursuit.
It was Mark Harwood, in a British uniform, dismounted by the rifle
fire and racing desperately to escape. But a dozen bounds of the big
chestnut placed Tom alongside his enemy; with a drawn pistol held to
his head Mark paused, his face deathly white.
“Mercy,” he gasped. “Tom, have mercy.”
“You are my prisoner,” said Tom, sternly.
“No, no,” cried Mark. “Morgan or Greene would hang me. Let me go. I’ll
do whatever you say. I’ll tell you where your father is--I know you’ve
been anxious about him.”
“Where is he?” Tom’s heart beat hard. Since the night of the battle in
the bay he had heard nothing of his father and had spent many hours and
days brooding upon his fate.
“Promise you’ll let me go free,” demanded the Tory, “and I’ll tell you.”
“I promise,” said Tom.
“He was taken on board the frigate Benbow, which sailed for New York
some time ago.”
“Are you speaking the truth?”
“Upon my honor.”
“Your honor!” Tom laughed with scorn. “But go, I give you a minute to
get out of my sight.”
Mark dashed for the bush and disappeared like magic; Tom turned
Sultan’s head and rode back to his comrades.
“I thought you were about to take a prisoner,” said General Greene. “We
cannot bother with them now.”
“It was a Tory cousin of mine, general,” said the scout. “He gave me
some valuable information about the whereabouts of my father, and,
knowing that you wanted no prisoners anyway, I let him go.”
“Quite right. I am glad to hear that you’ve had news of your father. I
have heard how he was taken prisoner; he was a brave man. Perhaps we
can secure his exchange.”
“If we only could,” cried Tom, eagerly. “I would give anything to see
him at liberty once more.”
And from that time on there was not an hour that he was not planning a
way by which his father was to breathe free air again.
“If I could only get to New York,” he repeated constantly. “If I only
could get to New York. I might be able to do something, then. But here
I am helpless.”
Some nights later the opposing armies were once more encamped with only
a stream between them. And again, remarkable as it seems, the water
rose suddenly in the night, making the ford impassable.
This afforded Greene time to put a goodly distance between himself
and Cornwallis; but the latter continued the chase with unabated
determination, as soon as he had made the crossing; Greene was
retreating toward Virginia; and having abandoned some of his baggage
was making better progress. Once more they approached a river, this
time the Don; Greene’s army crossed it just as, for the third time,
the British reached the opposite bank. Disheartened by these continued
disappointments after such desperate efforts, Cornwallis here gave up
the chase, and marching south, established himself at Hillsboro.
Greene lay on the Don for some little time, resting the weary brigade
and recruiting.
The defense of Virginia was at this time in the competent hands of the
Marquis de Lafayette who was encamped not far from Petersburg. Desiring
to communicate with him before marching back into Carolina, General
Greene one day sent for Tom.
“I am going to give you a chance to set your father free,” said he.
Tom’s eyes sparkled with joy; he could scarcely hold himself in, so
great was his delight.
“Do that, general,” he cried, “and there is nothing that I will not do
in return.”
“In giving you this opportunity,” said Greene, “I am also sending you
upon a dangerous mission. I want you to carry some important dispatches
to General Washington, who is somewhere in the neighborhood of New
York.”
“Very well, sir.” Tom stood saluting in the doorway.
“These papers contain the reports of the army of the South, and are to
be forwarded to Congress. I tell you this in order that you might know
the value of your charge and guard it accordingly. When you go out,
tell the sentry to request General Morgan to come to me. That is all.”
Tom saluted and left the tent. All that day Greene and Morgan were in
consultation; the result was a goodly packet of papers strongly tied
and securely sealed, which were handed Tom next day as he sat upon
Sultan’s back before the commander’s headquarters, with his faithful
Cole at his side.
“Make your best speed,” said General Greene, “and guard your dispatches
with your life. And now, God bless you.”
The hands of the young swamp-rider and his faithful servant went up in
a smart salute. Then they touched Sultan and Dando with the spur and
went dashing away toward the north, Tom’s heart throbbing with joy at
the prospect of at last rendering his father aid.