Chapter XIII: Part 13

Miss Sherrill was already somewhat distinguished for nerve, fleetness of foot, and decision of character. Although at other times she proved herself to "know no fear," and could remain unmoved when danger threatened, yet on this occasion she admits that she did run, and "run her best." She was very tall and erect, her whole appearance such as to attract the especial notice of the savages, who pursued her with eagerness; and, as they intercepted the direct path to the gate of the fort, she made a circuit to reach its inclosures on another side, resolved, as she said, to "scale the palisades." In this effort, some one within the defenses attempted to aid, but his foot slipped, or the object on which he was standing gave way, and both fell to the ground on opposite sides of the wall. The Indians were coming with all speed, firing and shooting arrows repeatedly. "Indeed," she said, "the bullets and arrows came like hail. It was now leap the palisades or die, for I would not live a captive." She recovered from the fall, and in a moment was over and within the defenses, and "by the side of one _in uniform_."

This was none other than Captain John Sevier, and this the first time she ever saw him—the beginning of an acquaintance destined in a few years to ripen into a happy union which endured for nearly forty years. "The manner in which she ran and jumped on that occasion was often the subject of remark, commendation and laughter."

In after life she looked upon this _introduction_, and the manner of it, as a providential indication of their adaptation to each other—that they were destined to be of mutual help in future dangers, and to overcome obstacles requiring the peculiar strength of both. And she always deemed herself safe when by his side. Many a time she said:

"I could gladly undergo that peril and effort again, to fall into his arms, and feel so _out of danger_. But then," she would add, "it was all of God's good providence."

Captain Sevier was then a married man, his wife and younger children not having yet arrived from Virginia.

In 1777, Captain Sevier received a commission from the State of North Carolina, and was thus decidedly enlisted in the cause of American Independence; not long after this he was honored with the commission of Colonel, bearing the signature of George Washington. Two years later, his wife died, leaving him ten children. The following year he married Miss Sherrill, who devoted herself earnestly to all the duties of her station, and to meet the exigencies of the times.

It may well be supposed that the women spun, wove and made up the most of the clothing worn by these backwoods people. Girls were as well skilled in these arts, as were the boys to those belonging to their circle of duties. It was always a source of much gratification to Mrs. Sevier, and one of which she fondly boasted, that, "among the first work she did, after her marriage, was to make the clothes which her husband and his three sons wore the day they were in the memorable and important battle of King's Mountain." And she would remark: "Had his ten children been sons, and large enough to serve in that expedition, I could have fitted them out."

Mrs. Sevier was often left alone to manage domestic affairs, not only within doors, but without. The life of Colonel Sevier was one of incessant action, adventure and contest. The calls of his fellow-citizens, and the necessities of the times, withdrew him frequently from home. No commander was more frequently engaged in conflicts with the Indians, with equal success and such small loss of men. Yet it is a notable fact that he enjoyed, to a remarkable extent, the respect of the tribes and chiefs with whom he contended. It is an historical fact that he took to his own home, on the Chucka, a number of Indian prisoners, where they were treated with so much kindness by his wife and family, that several of them remained for years, although they performed very little work, and this wholly at their own option. The influence of Mrs. Sevier was intentionally and happily exerted upon these captives, that it might tell, as it did, upon their friends within the nation; and the family, no doubt, enjoyed more immunities than otherwise they could have expected.

The Colonel acquired a sobriquet among the Indians, which was some evidence of their familiarity with, and attachment to him. As long as he lived they called him "Chucka Jack." They had one, also, for Mrs. Sevier, but it has not been preserved. She usually remained at the farm, and never would consent to be shut up in a block-house, always saying:

"The wife of John Sevier
Knows no fear."

"Who would stay out if his family _forted_?"

This was the spirit of the heroine—this was the spirit of Catherine Sevier. Neither she nor her husband seemed to think there could be danger or loss when they could encourage or aid others to daring, to duty and to usefulness. Colonel Sevier at one time advised her to go into the fort, but yielded to her respectful remonstrance. At one time the Tories, who were worse and more troublesome enemies than the savages, came to her house, and demanded her husband's whereabouts, finally avowing their intention was to hang him on the highest tree in front of his house, but that if she would tell them where he was, she and her children should be safe. Of course she refused to give the information. One man drew a pistol, threatening to blow her brains out if she did not tell, or, at least, give up all the money she had.

"Shoot, shoot!" was her answer; "I am not afraid to die! But remember, while there is a Sevier on the face of the earth, my blood will not be unavenged!"

He dared not—did not shoot. The leader of the gang told the man to put up his pistol, for "such a woman was too brave to die."

Would it not be a good thing to make the study of the biography of such heroines as Mrs. Sevier a part of the "course" in the accomplishment of the fastidious young ladies of to-day?

A peculiar incident is connected with the formidable attack upon Bryant's station, Kentucky, made by six hundred savage warriors, headed by the infamous renegade, Simon Girty. Having been forewarned of the contemplated attack, the garrison was already under arms when Girty and his savage band appeared. Supposing, by the preparations made to receive them, that their actual presence in the vicinity was known, a considerable body of Indians were placed in ambush near the spring, which was at some distance from the fort, while another and smaller body was ordered to take position in full view of the garrison, with the hope of tempting them to an engagement outside the walls. Had this stratagem been successful, the remainder of the forces was so posted as to be able, upon the withdrawal of the garrison, to storm one of the gates, and cut off their retreat to the fort. Unconscious of the snare which had been laid for them, and unaware of the full strength of the enemy, the garrison were about to sally out, having already opened one of the gates for this purpose, when they became alarmed by a sudden firing from an opposite direction, and hastily falling back, they closed and secured the gates.

One difficulty they had, however, to encounter—the want of water. It was an oppressive day in the middle of August, and the want was soon aggravated to an intolerable degree by the heat and thirst consequent upon their exertions. To perish by thirst was as cruel as to die by the rifle and tomahawk. Under these circumstances, a plan was proposed, calculated to try the heroism of the women within the fort. Acting on the belief that, although there might be an ambush at the spring, yet the Indians, in desiring to effect the capture of the fort by stratagem, would not unmask themselves to the women, these were urged to go in a body to the spring, and each of them bring up a bucket full of water.

They would hardly have been human had they not quailed a little at this daring proposition; but, upon listening to the arguments of the men, a few of the boldest declared their readiness to brave the danger, and the younger and more timid, rallying in the rear of the elderly matrons, they all marched down to the spring, a valiant company, each dipping her bucket, within point blank shot of five hundred Indian warriors. Not a shot was fired. They filled their buckets with the precious water, and regained the shelter of the fort in safety. How their blood must have turned cold, as they reached the dangerous spring, and how it must have thrilled and tingled in their veins, as they turned their backs to the concealed enemy, unarmed and perfectly helpless as they were! How long the distance to the gate! How sweet the relief when their buckets of crystal comfort were set down within the enclosure!

Had this thing occurred in the days of the old Roman glory, it would have won immortality for the maids and mothers who participated in it.

When General Greene was retreating from the Catawaba, an incident occurred which indicates the self-sacrificing spirit of the American women. On the line of his retreat he stopped at a house for repose and refreshment. He had ridden all day in a severe rain storm; he was wet, fatigued, and he was oppressed by gloomy forebodings. His landlady observed his despondency, and, upon asking him about his condition, he replied that he was tired, hungry and penniless. Refreshments were provided for him, and, after he had partaken of them, the woman drew him into a private apartment, where she placed in his hands two bags of specie, saying:

"Take these; I can do without them, and they are necessary to you."

Let us imagine that this noble act cheered the saddened heart of the General in the hour of his trouble.

In one district, during the war, the young women, at harvest-time, formed themselves into a company of reapers, going to all the farms of the neighborhood, and, if the reply to the question "Is the owner out with the fighting men?" was in the affirmative, they would set to, and cut and garner all the grain. It was no small undertaking, as five or six weeks of unceasing toil were necessary to complete their rounds. Similar companies were formed in New York and Long Island. A Whig paper of July 25th, 1776, says:

"The most respectable ladies set the example, and say they will take the farming business on themselves, so long as the rights and liberties of their country require the presence of their sons, husbands and lovers, in the field."

Pride in such ancestors is an ennobling sentiment.

During the siege of Augusta, two ladies, Grace and Rachel Martin, residing in the ninety-sixth district, South Carolina, learning, upon one occasion, that a courier, under the protection of two British soldiers, was to pass their residence, bearing important dispatches, resolved, by a well-planned stratagem, to surprise the party, and deprive the courier of the papers. Disguising themselves in male attire, and provided with arms, they concealed themselves in a thicket on the roadside, and patiently awaited the approach of the enemy. It was twilight, and the darkness favored their plan. They had not remained long in their concealment, when the courier and the escort made their appearance. They were riding carelessly along, when suddenly two figures sprang from a bushy covert, loudly demanding the dispatches, and at the same time presenting their pistols. Bewildered and alarmed, the surprised party yielded, without attempting resistance.

The ladies then placed them on parole, and, hastening home through a short route by the woods, had hardly arrived there, and divested themselves of their male attire, when the same trio came riding up to the door, requesting accommodations. The mother of the heroines admitted them, asking why they had returned, after passing her house but a short time before. They replied by exhibiting their paroles, and stating that they had been taken prisoners by "two rebels." The young ladies, unsuspected by their guests, rallied them on their unfortunate adventure, asking "why they did not use their arms?" to which they replied that they were fallen upon so sudden, they had not time. During their stay, they were as severely overcome by the malicious wit and raillery of the ladies, as they had before been by their superior bravery and cunning. The dispatches obtained in the heroic manner described, were sent to General Greene, and proved of importance.

These ladies should have had the rank of "Sergeant," at least, conferred upon them, in acknowledgment of their bravery, wit, and the good service rendered!

In the commencement of the American Revolution, when one of the British king's thundering proclamations made its appearance, the subject was mentioned in a company in Philadelphia; a member of Congress, who was present, turning to Miss Livingstone, said:

"Well, Miss, are you greatly terrified at the roaring of the British lion?"

"Not at all, sir, for I have learned from natural history that _that beast roars loudest when he is most frightened_!" was her quiet reply.

The Chieftain's Appeal.—_Page_ 9.
]

TALES,

TRADITIONS AND ROMANCE

OF

BORDER AND REVOLUTIONARY TIMES.

THE CHIEFTAIN S APPEAL.
THE IMPLACABLE GOVERNOR.
Mrs. SLOCUMB AT MOORE'S CREEK.
BRADY'S LEAP.

NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND COMPANY, PUBLISHERS,
118 WILLIAM STREET.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the Year 1864,
by BEADLE AND COMPANY, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of
the United
States for the Southern District of New York.

THE
CHIEFTAIN'S APPEAL.

Sullivan's campaign into the Indian country, in the fall of 1779, realized none of the anticipations regarding it; for, although the severity of the ensuing winter, and the privations they suffered from the destruction of their homes and their crops, kept the Indians from making any predatory excursions upon the settlements, yet, on the opening of spring, they swept over the country in clouds, burning with revenge, and breathing vengeance against the pale-faces.

Early in April, a party of forty or fifty Indians and Tories, under the command of Captain Brandt, the Mohawk chief, made an incursion against Harpersfield, which they surprised and destroyed. Most of the inhabitants, however, had, owing to their exposed situation, left the place, and nineteen prisoners and a small amount of plunder was all that graced their triumph. On his way from Niagara, Brandt had detached a party of eleven Indians, under a young chief called Cheyendowah, to attack the settlement at Minisink, and bring in some prisoners. This was successfully accomplished, and five of its male inhabitants were led captive into the wilderness, as far as Tioga Point. Here, however, they rose upon their captors while asleep, and in a few moments nine of them lay in the agonies of death, while the other two fled, one being mortally wounded. At the time that Harpersfield was destroyed, a party of fourteen militiamen, under command of Captain Alexander Harper, were in the woods making maple-sugar for the garrison at Old Schoharie. Not dreaming of the proximity of an enemy, they were attacked by the party under Brandt, and two of their number shot down before they could seize their arms; and when they attempted to reach them, they found themselves completely cut off and surrounded. Nothing remained, therefore, but to surrender. The Tories composing a part of Brandt's party, were opposed to taking prisoners, and wished to kill them at once, that they might not be an incumbrance at the attack of the Schoharie Fort, which was one object of the expedition. A frightful massacre would have ensued, without doubt, had not Brandt's forethought prevented it. He had raised his tomahawk to strike Captain Harper, which would have been the signal for the death of the others, when, thinking he might get valuable information from him, he lowered his weapon, and, looking the other sternly in the eye, he asked: "How many regular troops are there in the fort?" Harper saw the object of the chief, and, without any hesitation or prevarication, told him that three hundred Continentals had arrived but a few days before to garrison the forts. This was not true, but the manner in which Harper told it imposed upon the chief, who, by the way, had been a schoolmate of his, and, although the circumstance disconcerted his plans, yet he was induced to believe him. One of Harper's men, fearing that the Indians would put them all to death if they should discover the fraud, informed the chief of the true state of the case; but he, thinking it a ruse to lead him into danger, and thus facilitate the escape of the prisoners, put no faith in his story, but, on the contrary, was the more convinced of Harper's truthfulness. A conference was held between Brandt and his subordinate chiefs in regard to the disposal of the prisoners. The former was in favor of taking them to Niagara, but the latter, disappointed at the failure of the main part of their enterprise, and thirsting for blood, were for massacring them at once. During the controversy, the prisoners, bound hand and foot, were thrust into a pen of logs, where they were kept under guard of the Tories and their leader, an infamous wretch by the name of Becraft. The pen was near enough to the council to hear what was going on, and Harper understood enough of the Indian language to catch the import of their "talk." Becraft took pains, too, to inform them of the wishes of the majority of the Indians, and in abusive language told them that they would "all be in hell before morning." The influence of Brandt—at all times powerful—enabled him to prevent bloodshed, and the others were induced to forego their bloodthirsty desires, for the present, at least. In the morning, Harper was again brought before the chief and interrogated. With great presence of mind he reasserted his story, and, although the other eyed him with the most searching gaze, he betrayed no evidence of indecision; and at length the chief, convinced, apparently, of the truth, gave the order to commence their march for Niagara. The prisoners were not allowed to reach their destination, without passing through fearful ordeals. One day they stopped at a mill kept by a Tory, who, with both of his daughters, counseled Brandt to destroy "the infernal Whigs." This coinciding with the desires of the Tories and a majority of the Indians, the chief found it difficult to restrain them, and prevent the sacrifice. On another occasion they met a loyalist, who was well acquainted with Brandt and Harper, who told the former that he had been deceived—that there were no troops at Schoharie. This led to another searching inquiry, but Harper persisted in his story with so much apparent candor as again to elude detection. But when the party reached the Chemung River, they had to pass a still more fearful trial. On reaching this point, Brandt and his warriors raised a whoop, as is customary with the Indians when they have prisoners—it was answered by a single _death yell_! In a few moments a single Indian made his appearance, who proved to be the young chief Cheyendowah. His story was soon told. Of the eleven who started for the Minisink settlement, he alone was left so tell the tale of their massacre at the hands of their prisoners. The others had gathered about him, excited listeners to the melancholy narrative, and the effect of the recital upon these already implacable warriors was fearful in the extreme. "Revenge!" seemed to leap from every tongue, and their faces were wrought into an expression of the fiercest determination to immolate the unhappy prisoners on the spot. Every hand sought a weapon simultaneously, and the glittering tomahawk and keener scalping-knife leaped into the air, while their eyes glared ferociously upon Harper and his companions, who, conscious that their fate was inevitable, awaited it with what composure they could command. With one accord, the savages rushed in a tumultuous throng, with uplifted weapons, upon their victims. Brandt had no power to control the storm, and did not attempt it. As well might he attempt to stay the whirlwind in its fury, or beat back the mountain torrent in its course; the doom of the white men was apparently sealed, It was to the magnanimity of one from whom they could least anticipate such forbearance, that they were indebted for their lives. Rushing between the infuriated warriors and their anticipated prey, the young chief Cheyendowah waved back the crowd with an imperious gesture which commanded attention. When silence was restored, he surprised his auditors by an urgent appeal in behalf of the prisoners. "It was not they," he said, "who had killed their brethren, and to take the lives of innocent men would not punish the guilty. The Great Spirit would be angry with them if they should do this wicked thing." Pointing upward, in words of majestic eloquence, he told them that "Manitou was looking upon them, and would send his thunders to destroy their families, their homes, and themselves, if they sacrificed the white men in their vengeance." He told them it was cowardly to kill men who could not defend themselves, and none but squaws would take such an advantage. Appealing thus alternately to their fears, their humanity, and their superstition, he wrought upon their better nature, and was successful in inducing them to forego their anticipated vengeance. One by one their weapons were returned to their accustomed places, and with subdued and less excited feelings, they recommenced their onward march to Niagara, which they reached at length; not, however, without the severest suffering by the way.

The eloquence of the red-man is proverbial. Many a time has the captive trembled when it has been exercised against him; and thrilled with joy, when it was exerted in his behalf. In the swift future, when all traces of his existence, who was once the master of this mighty continent, is swept away, and our children's children read of him, as an ancient and perished myth, the records of his eloquence shall be left alive. One of the best specimens of Indian rhetoric, is the speech of Tecumseh, at the grand council of the Creeks. One, who was present, and heard it as it fell from his lips, General Dale, says:

"I have heard many great orators, but I never saw one with the vocal powers of Tecumseh, or the same command of the muscles of the face. Had I been deaf, the play of his countenance would have told me what he said. Its effect on that wild, untutored, superstitious, and warlike assemblage, may be conceived: not a word was said, but stern warriors, the 'stoics of the wood,' shook with emotion, and a thousand tomahawks were brandished in the air. Even the big warrior, who had been true to the whites, and remained faithful during the war, was, for the moment, visibly affected, and more than once I saw his huge hand clutch, spasmodically the handle of his knife."

But, to the speech:

"In defiance of the white warriors of Ohio and Kentucky, I have traveled through their settlements, once our favorite hunting-grounds. No war-whoop was sounded, but there is blood upon our knives The pale-faces felt the blow, but knew not whence it came.

"Accursed be the race that has seized on our country and made women of our warriors. Our fathers, from their tombs, reproach us as slaves and cowards. I hear them now in the wailing winds.

"The Muscogee was once a mighty people. The Georgians trembled at your war-whoop, and the maidens of my tribe, on the distant lakes, sung the prowess of your warriors, and sighed for their embraces.

"Now, your very blood is white; your tomahawks have no edges; your bows and arrows were buried with your fathers. Oh! Muscogees, brethren of my mother, brush from your eyelids the sleep of slavery; once more strike for vengeance—once more for your country. The spirits of the mighty dead complain. Their tears drop from the skies. Let the white man perish.

"They seize your land; they corrupt your women; they trample on the ashes of your dead. Back, whence they came, upon a trail of blood, must they be driven.

"Back! back, ay, into the great waters whose accursed waves brought them to our shores.

"Burn their dwellings! destroy their stock! Slay their wives and children! The red-man owns the country, and the pale-face must never enjoy it.

"War! war! War forever! War upon the living! War upon the dead! Dig their very corpses from the grave. _Our_ country must give no rest to a white man's bones.

"This is the will of the Great Spirit, revealed to my brother, his familiar, the Prophet of the Lakes. He sends me to you.

"All the tribes of the North are dancing the war-dance. Two mighty warriors across the seas will send us arms.

"Tecumseh will soon return to his country. My prophets shall tarry with you. They will stand between you and the bullets of your enemies. When the white men approach you, the yawning earth shall swallow them up.

"Soon shall you see my arm of fire stretched athwart the sky. I will stamp my foot at Tippecanoe, and the very earth shall shake."

It appears that the wily orator had been informed by the British that a comet was shortly to appear; and the earthquake, of 1811, had commenced as he came through Kentucky; so that, when the arm of fire was actually stretched forth, and the earth did shake under old Tippecanoe, his auditors attributed it to Tecumseh's supernatural powers, and immediately took up arms.

We think the speech of Weatherford, one of the Creek war-chiefs, engaged against General Jackson, an equally fine example of their oratory, while it illustrates the remarkable dignity of mind which enabled him to support his humiliating position with such grandeur. It was after our doughty General had nearly annihilated the tribes in his department, the Indians, seeing all resistance at an end, came forward and made their submission; Weatherford, however, and many who were known to be desperate, still holding out.

General Jackson, determined to test the fidelity of those chiefs who had already submitted, ordered them to deliver, without delay, Weatherford, bound, into his hands, to be dealt with as he deserved. When they made known to the sachem what was required of them, his high spirit would not submit to such degradation; and, to hold them harmless, he resolved to give himself up without compulsion.

Accordingly, he proceeded to the American camp, unknown, until he appeared before the commanding General, to whose presence, under some pretence, he gained admission. Jackson was greatly surprised when the chief said:

"I am Weatherford, the chief who commanded at the capture of Fort Mimms. I desire peace for my people, and have come to ask it."

The General had doubtless resolved upon his execution, when he should be brought, bound; but, his unexpected appearance in this manner, saved him; he said to the chief that he was astonished at his venturing to appear in his presence, as he was not ignorant of the warrior having been at Fort Mimms, nor of his inhuman conduct there, for which he richly deserved to die.

"I ordered," continued the General, "that you should be brought to me bound; had you been brought as I ordered, I should have known how to treat you."

In answer to this, Weatherford replied:

"I am in your power; do with me as you please; I am a soldier. I have done the whites all the harm I could. I have fought them, and fought them bravely. Had I an army, I would yet fight—I would contend to the last; but, I have none. My people are all gone. I can only weep over the misfortunes of my nation."

Jackson was of too audacious a nature himself, not to be pleased with this fellow, and told him that he would take no advantage of his present situation; that he might yet join the war-party, and contend against the Americans, if he chose, but to depend upon no quarter, if taken; and that unconditional submission was his, and his people's only safety. Weatherford rejoined, in a tone both dignified and indignant:

"You can safely address me in such terms, now. There was a time when I could have answered—there was a time when I had a choice—I have none now. I have not even a hope. I could once animate my warriors to the battle—but I can not animate the dead. My warriors can no longer hear my voice. Their bones are at Talladega, Tallashatches, Emucklaw, and Tohopeka. I have not surrendered myself without thought. While there was a single chance of success, I never left my post nor supplicated peace. But my people are gone; and I now ask it, for my nation, not for myself. I look back with deep sorrow, and wish to avert still greater calamities. If I had been left to contend with the Georgian army, I would have raised my corn on one bank of the river and fought them on the other. But your people have destroyed my nation. You are a brave man. I rely on your generosity. You will exact no terms of a conquered people, but such as they should accede to. Whatever they may be, it would now be madness and folly to oppose them. If they are opposed, you will find me among the sternest enforcers of obedience. Those, who would still hold out, can be influenced only by a mean spirit of revenge. To this, they must not, and shall not, sacrifice the last remnant of their country. You have told our nation where we might go and be safe. This, is good talk, and they ought to listen to it. They shall listen to it."

Weatherford is described as having possessed a noble person and a brilliant intellect. After peace was declared, he settled amid the whites, and General Dale, who had fought against him often, had the pleasure of standing as groomsman at his wedding.

THE IMPLACABLE GOVERNOR.

When the infamous Tryon succeeded Arthur Dobbs, as Colonial Governor of North Carolina, in 1766, he found the inhabitants of the upper part of the State in the highest state of excitement—almost in open rebellion—on account of the passage of the Stamp Act, which, to them, was like piling Pelion upon Ossa, for they had suffered for years from the rapacity of public officers, the oppression of the courts, and exorbitant taxes levied to support a venal government. They had petitioned the Governor and Council for a redress of grievances, until they found that each petition was followed by increased extortion—until their situation became so oppressive, that they resolved to take matters into their own hands. A solemn league was thereupon formed, called the "REGULATION," and the members of it "_Regulators_." The leader of this movement was Herman Husband, a quaker, a man of strong mind and great influence. These Regulators resolved to pay no more taxes, unless satisfied of their legality; to pay no more fees than the strict letter of the law allowed; to select the proper men to represent them, and to petition for redress until their object—a retrenchment of the exorbitant expenditure of the Government, and the consequent high rate of taxes—was obtained. The exasperated feelings of the people were somewhat calmed by the repeal of the odious Stamp Act; but soon after that event, which had quieted and put to rest the stormy, riotous assemblies of the "Sons of Liberty," as the Regulators were sometimes called, Governor Tryon succeeded in obtaining, first, an appropriation of twenty-five thousand dollars to erect a gubernatorial palace, "suitable for the residence of a Colonial Governor," and a further sum of fifty thousand dollars to complete the same. This, together with the expense of running the boundary line between the State and the Cherokee nation, which was incurred by the vanity of the Governor in calling out the militia, and marching at their head into the Cherokee country, with the ostensible object of protecting the surveyors, and that, too, in time of peace, had the effect to excite the indignation of the Regulators, and they determined to resist the imposition of the tax for these objects. Tryon, observing the threatening storm, sent a proclamation by his Secretary, David Edwards, and a lawyer named Edmund Fanning, to be read and enforced among the people. Fanning was a man who was detested by the Regulators, for his extortions; but he managed to cajole them into the belief that justice was about to be done them, and they agreed to meet him, to heal all difficulties and settle the existing differences. While waiting the time of meeting, however, they were astonished and highly exasperated by the arrest of Husband and a number of friends, who were thrown into jail by Fanning's orders. A rising of the people followed, and a large body of Regulators marched to Hillsborough to release the prisoners. They were induced, however, by the solemn assurance of Edwards, that their grievances should be redressed, to retire without committing any overt act. From this time forward, the temporizing policy of the Governor, and the rankling hatred of the Regulators, caused frequent and serious outbreaks, until the former, determined to crush the spirit of disaffection, collected the militia, and marched into the disaffected district. He was met by a large body of the Regulators, and a serious battle was fought, in which nine of the Regulators and twenty-seven of the militia were killed, and a great number on both sides wounded. The Regulators had no acknowledged leader, and all was confusion after the first fire from the militia, every man fighting on his own account, and in his own way. The result was a victory for the Governor, who took a number of prisoners, upon whom he vented the implacable revenge which was as a consuming fire within him. His conduct was more like that of a small-minded, vain, and vindictive man, than that of a Royal Governor.

Among others whom fortune had thrown into his hands, was Captain Messer, one of the most influential of the Regulators, and the father of an interesting family. Tryon could not wait the tardy course of trial for this man, but sentenced him to be hung the day after the battle. He must sate his desire for revenge in the blood of some of his victims, or his victory would be incomplete. Messer begged to see his family before he died; but this boon was denied him, and he was told to prepare for death. Information of his captivity, however, was conveyed to his wife by the fugitives from the field, and she repaired at once to the spot, with her eldest boy, a lad ten years old, to comfort him in his confinement. She did not know that he had been condemned to die, until she reached the scene of the late encounter, where she was informed of it by seeing the preparations made for his execution. In an agony of mind which threatened to unseat her reason, she flew to Tryon, and besought him on her knees to spare her husband's life. Every argument and appeal which her affection could command, was used in vain; the stony heart of the victorious Governor was not to be touched, and he spurned her from him in disdain, telling her that her husband should die, though the _King_ should intercede in his behalf. The poor woman fell weeping to the ground, while her little son, with the spirit of his father beaming in his eyes, endeavored to console her by assuring her that Tryon would yet relent. While this was passing, the Captain was led forth to die. Mrs. Messer, on seeing her husband in the hands of the executioner, uttered a shriek of agony, which seemed to sever the cords of her heart, and swooned away. The noble-hearted boy at her side, instead of giving way to grief, determined to make another appeal to Tryon, who stood near viewing the proceedings. Throwing himself at the Governor's feet, he said:

"Sir, hang me, and let my father live."

"Who told you to say that?" asked Tryon.

"Nobody," was the reply.

"And why do you ask it?"

"Because," replied the lad, "if you hang father, my mother will die, and the children will perish."

The Governor's heart was touched, and he replied:

"Your father shall not be hanged to-day."

The execution was stayed; while the noble boy went to his mother, and restored her to consciousness by the news.

The unfeeling tyrant, however, annexed a condition to his reprieve, which was, that Messer should be set at liberty only on condition that he should arrest and bring before him the person of Husband, who had fled before the battle commenced. Reflecting that success might attend his efforts, and, at worst, he could but suffer if he failed, he consented, while his wife and son were detained as hostages for his fidelity. He pursued Husband to Virginia, where he overtook him, but could not persuade him to return, and was obliged to surrender himself again to the tender mercies of his captor. He was bound in chains with the other prisoners, and in this condition was marched through the various towns and villages on the route toward Newbern. At Hillsborough, a court-martial was held, and twelve of the captive Regulators were sentenced to be hung. Six of these were reprieved, and the others suffered death on the scaffold. Among the latter was Captain Messer, who met his fate with the resignation of one who felt that he died in the cause of liberty. His broken-hearted wife returned to her home, now rendered desolate by her husband's death; while the tyrannical Governor marched in triumph to Newbern, from whence he was soon after called to the head of colonial affairs in New York.

The execution of Colonel Isaac Hayne, which took place later in the history of the Carolinas, presents a still more touching picture of the devotion of a child and the tyranny of a British minion. After Charleston had fallen into the hands of the British, many of the Whigs of South Carolina were induced to take the protections which were offered by Lord Cornwallis. They were led to this step by the belief that in the South the cause was hopeless, and were promised, by virtue of these protections, to be allowed to remain quietly in their homes and take no part in the contest. Their surprise was great, when, soon after, they were called upon to take up arms under the British commanders and against their countrymen. Conceiving that faith had been broken with them, and their promises of neutrality no longer binding, they tore up their protections, and at once ranked themselves under the Continental leaders. Among those was Colonel Hayne, a man of unblemished reputation, fine talents and lofty patriotism. Indignant at the course pursued by the British, he hastened to the American army, and began to take active part in the contest. Unfortunately, he fell into the enemy's hands, was conveyed to Charleston, submitted, by order of Rawdon, to a mock trial, and, to the horror of all, was condemned to death. He received his sentence with calmness, but the whole country was horrified. Both English and Americans interceded for his life, and the ladies of Charleston immortalized themselves by the spirited address which they framed and delivered to his captors in his behalf. All was of no avail. The cruel heart of Rawdon could not be moved; not even the captive's motherless children, with bended knees and tearful prayers, could move his obdurate nature.

Hayne's eldest child was a boy of thirteen, who was permitted to remain in prison with him up to the time of his execution. This boy was actuated by an affection for his father of the most romantic earnestness and fervor. Beholding him loaded with irons and condemned to die, he was overwhelmed with consternation and sorrow; nothing could alleviate his distress. In vain did his parent endeavor to console him by reminding him that this unavailing grief only heightened his own misery—that he was only to leave this world to be admitted into a better—that it was glorious to die for liberty. The boy would not be comforted.

"To-morrow," said the unhappy father, "I set out for immortality. You will accompany me to the place of my execution, and when I am dead, take my body and bury it beside your poor mother."

In an agony of grief the child fell weeping on his father's neck, crying:

"Oh, my father, my father, I die with you!"

The chains which bound the prisoner prevented his returning the embrace, but he said, in reply:

"Live, my son—live to honor God by a good life—live to take care of your brothers and sisters."

The next morning the son walked beside his father to the place of execution. The history of the war scarcely affords a more heart-rending incident. There was not a citizen of Charleston whose bosom did not swell with anguish and indignation. There was sorrow in every countenance, and when men spoke with each other, it was in accents of horror.

The Implacable Governor.—_Page_ 14.
]

When the two came within sight of the gallows, the parent strengthened himself, and said to the weeping boy:

"Tom, my son, show yourself a man! That tree is the boundary of my life and all my life's sorrow. Beyond that the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. Don't lay too much at heart our separation—it will be short. 'Twas but lately your mother died; to-day I die; and you, though young, must shortly follow."

"Yes, my father," replied the broken-hearted boy, "I shall soon follow you; for, indeed, I feel that I can not live long."

And this melancholy anticipation was fulfilled in a manner far more dreadful than is implied in the mere extinction of life. When his father was tom from his side, his tears flowed incessantly, and his bosom was convulsed with sobs; but when he saw that beloved parent in the hands of the executioner, the halter adjusted to his neck, and then his form convulsively struggling in the air, the fountain of his tears was suddenly stanched, and he stood transfixed with horror. He never wept again. When all was over he was led from the scene, but there was a wildness in his look, a pallor in his cheek, which alarmed his friends. The terrible truth was soon made known. His reason had fled forever. It was not long before he followed his parents to the grave, but his death was even sadder than his father's. In his last moments he often called the beloved name in accents of such anguish that the sternest hearted wept to hear him. But the merciful all-Father took him home and restored him forever to the side of that parent, the shock of whose rude death sundered the tender strings of a child's heart.

Lord Rawdon should have been proud of this noble feat. He was one of those who

"Stand, to move the world, on a child's heart."

The outrageous oppression of Governor Tryon and Lord Rawdon were only a few among many instances of the spirit shown by Government officials, until the people of the Colonies were driven to that universal rebellion which resulted in the establishment of our independence. And when that struggle was begun, British arrogance and cruelty asserted itself, in her officers and minions, in those equivocal shapes which ought to make British history blush with shame along the ensanguined record. It has been truly said that a wrong begun is only maintained by a wrong continued.

The first contest of England with America sprang from tyranny; she was the aggressor, the offending party: and it seems to have been a moral consequence, that a war, thus unrighteous, should have been characterized by a violation of every humane and honorable purpose. The extent to which British cruelty was carried in the memorable contest of the Revolution, is scarcely appreciated by us. Nothing equals the vindictive, bloodthirsty fury which characterized it in some quarters of the Union. It was almost a war of extermination in the South. There, lads were often shot down, that they might not live to be full-grown rebels, and mothers murdered, that they might bring forth no more enemies to the king. Among the people in villages, and in the open country, existed the greatest suffering, and often was manifested the loftiest patriotism and the grandest fortitude. With such ferocity were they pursued by the British soldiery, that their only retreat became the army. At no moment were they safe. Neither in their beds, nor by their firesides, nor on the highways. Daily and nightly murders frightened the time with their atrocities. Reckless marauders traversed the country in all directions, sparing neither sex, age, nor infancy. Nightly, the red flame glared on the horizon, and houseless children hung over the desecrated, butchered forms of their parents.

But of all atrocities, those committed in the prisons and prison-ships of New York were most execrable; there is nothing in history to excel the barbarities there inflicted. It is stated that nearly twelve thousand American prisoners "suffered death by their inhuman, cruel and barbarous usage on board the filthy and malignant prison-ship, called the _Jersey_, lying in New York."

The scenes enacted within the prisons almost exceed belief. There were several prisons in the city; but the most terrible of them all was the Provost (now the Hall of Records), which was under the charge of Cunningham, that wretch, the like of whom the world has not many times produced. He had a love for inflicting torture; it was his passion, his besotted appetite; he seemed to live upon the agony of human beings; their groans were his music, their sufferings his pastime. He took an eager delight in murder. He stopped the rations of the prisoners and sold them, to add to the luxuries of his own table, while his victims were starving to death. They were crowded into rooms where there was not space to lie down, with no blankets to protect them from the cold, to which the unglazed windows exposed them, while they were suffering from fevers, thirst, and hunger. In the summer, epidemics raged among them, while they were denied medicine or attendance, and compelled to breathe the damp and putrid air. But, hear what Cunningham himself says of his acts, in his dying speech and confession, when brought to the gallows, in London, for a forgery of which he was convicted:

"I shudder to think of the murders I have been accessory to, both with and without orders from the Government, especially in New York, during which time, there was more than two thousand prisoners starved in the different prisons, by stopping their rations, which I sold. There were also two hundred and seventy-five American prisoners and obnoxious persons executed, out of all which number, there was only about a dozen public executions, which consisted chiefly of British and Hessian deserters. The mode for private executions, was this: a guard was despatched from the Provost, about half-past twelve, at night, to the barrack, and the neighborhood of the upper barracks, to order the people to close their window-shutters and put out their lights, forbidding them, at the same time, to look out, on pain of death; after which, the unfortunate victims were conducted, gagged, just behind the upper barracks, and hung without ceremony, and there buried by the Black Pioneer of the Provost."

These murders were common, nightly pastime of this monster.

The saddest of the tragedies in which Cunningham bore his ignominious part, was the execution of that glorious young martyr, whose name shall glow brighter and brighter on the record of his country's heroes, as the ages roll away.

The impartial reader will question the justice of history, which has done so much for the memory of André, and left that of Hale in comparative oblivion. And yet we can discover but little difference in their cases. Both were possessors of genius and taste, both were endowed with excellent qualities and attainments, and both were impelled by a desire to serve the cause they respectively espoused, and both suffered a similar death, but under vastly different circumstances. And yet a magnificently sculptured monument in Westminster Abbey, perpetuates the name of the English officer, while none know where sleep the ashes of Hale, and neither stone nor epitaph tells us of the services rendered by him; while the first is honored in every quarter where the English language is spoken, the name of the latter is unknown to many of his countrymen. "There is something more than natural in this, if philosophy could find it out."[3]

Footnote 3:

About ten years since, the ladies of Windham and Tolland Counties,
Conn., caused a handsome monument to be erected to the memory of the
young martyr.

Nathan Hale was not twenty years of age, when the first gun of the revolution broke upon the ears of the colonists. The patriotic cause at once aroused his enthusiastic love for liberty and justice, and without pausing for a moment to consider the prudence of such a step, his ardent nature prompted him at once, to throw himself into the ranks of his country's defenders. Distinguished as a scholar, and respected, by all who knew him, for his brilliant talents, he was at once tendered a Captain's commission in the light infantry. He served in the regiment commanded by Colonel Knowlton, and was with the army in its retreat after the disastrous battle of Long Island.

After the army had retreated from New York, and while it was posted on the Hights of Harlem, the Commander-in-Chief earnestly desired to be made acquainted with the force and contemplated movements of the enemy, and for this purpose, applied to Colonel Knowlton to select some individual capable of performing the hazardous and delicate service. Knowlton applied to Hale, who, on becoming acquainted with the wishes of Washington, immediately volunteered his services. He stated that his object in joining the army, was not merely for fame, but to serve the country; that as yet, no opportunity had offered for him to render any signal aid to her cause, and when a duty so imperative and so important as this was demanded of him, he was ready to sacrifice not only life, but all hope of glory, and to suffer the ignomy which its failure would cast upon his name. His friends endeavored to dissuade him from the undertaking, but lofty considerations of duty impelled him to the step.

Having disguised himself as a schoolmaster, he crossed the Sound at Fairfield, to Huntingdon, and proceeded thence to Brooklyn. This was in September, 1776. When he arrived at Brooklyn, the enemy had already taken possession of New York. He crossed over to the city, his disguise unsuspected, and pursued the objects of his mission. He examined all their fortifications with care, and obtained every information relative to the number of the enemy, their intentions, etc. Having accomplished all that he could, he left the city, and retraced his steps to Huntingdon. While here, waiting for a boat to convey him across the Sound, his apprehension was effected. There are great discrepancies in the various accounts which are given of his arrest, but all agree that it was through the means of a refugee cousin, who detected his disguise. According to one account, while he was at Huntingdon, a boat came to the shore, which he at first supposed to be one from Connecticut, but which proved to be from an English vessel lying in the Sound. He incautiously approached the boat, and was recognized by his Tory relative, who was in the boat at the time. He was arrested, and sent to New York.