with his English relations, and they with him, for after his marriage,

they would not suffer him to revisit his parents, who doted on him,
being their only son, but detained him with them in London,

as gay as a young man well could be, in the gayest city in the world,
moving every day in the highest circles of society, and every night

encircled in the fond arms of a beauteous wife.
But soon as the war against America broke out, his gaiety all forsook him.

The idea of a ruffian soldiery overrunning his native land,
preyed incessantly on his spirits, and threw him into those brown studies

which cost his lady full many a tear. Unable to bear his disquietude,
he fled at length from his wife and infant family, to fight for his country.

He presented himself before the great Washington, who was so struck
with the fire that beamed from his eyes, that he made him

handsome offers of rank in the army. But his favorite service
was to lead `forlorn hopes', and the daring bands that are destined

to carry the enemy's works by storm. Washington often gave him
letters to this effect to his generals. And this was his object at Savannah,

where a regiment of choice infantry was immediately put under his command.
But instead of being permitted his favorite pleasure of seeing

his ardent warriors mounting the enemy's works, and rushing
down streams of fire, followed by the bayonet, he was doomed

to fret and pine in the humble office of interpreter
between count D'Estang and general Lincoln.

"But, Monsieur le count," said Laurens to D'Estang, "the American officers
say they are afraid you have given the English too long time to think."

At this, as Laurens told us afterwards, the count put on a most comic stare,
and breaking into a hearty laugh, replied, "De Engleesh think! ha, ha, ha!

By gar dat one ver good parole! De Engleesh tink, heh, Monsieur le colonel!
By gar, de Engleesh never tink but for deir bellie.

Give de Jack Engleeshman plenty beef -- plenty pudding -- plenty porter,
by gar he never tink any more, he lay down, he go a sleep like vun hog."

"But, Monsieur le count," continued Laurens, "the English are doing
worse for us than thinking. They are working away like horses,

and will soon get their defences too high for us to scale."
"Eh, heh, Monsieur le colonel! you think-a so? Well den, by gar

you no need for tink-a so -- by gar my French-a-mans run over de fence
just like vun tief horse run over de cornfield fence --

mind now I tell-a you dat, Monsieur le colonel."
"Well, but Monsieur le count, the British sometimes fight like the d---l."

"Sacre Dieu!" replied the nettled count, starting and gaping
as though he would have swallowed a young alligator --

"de Briteesh fight like de diable! Jaun foutre de Briteesh!
when they been known for fight like de diable? Ess, ess, dat true enough;

dey fight de Americans like de diable -- but by gar dey no fight
de French-a-mans so -- no no, by gar dey no make one mouthful

for my French-a-mans -- Morbleu! my French-a-mans eat dem up
like vun leetle grenoulle."

"Green Owl!" exclaimed one of general Lincoln's aids --
"Oh my God! who ever heard of a `green owl' before?"

Here Laurens, smiling at the officer's mistake, replied,
"not `green owl', sir, but `grenouille', grenouille, sir,

is the French for frog."
"Aye, sure enough, sure enough, frog," continued the count,

"frog; grenouille is frog. By gar, Monsieur le colonel,
you be vun dam good interpret, I set dat well enough. Well den, now,

Monsieur le colonel, you hear-a me speak -- my French-a-mans
eat dem Jack Engleesh all same like vun leetle frog."

"Oh to be sure! -- no doubt of all that, Monsieur le count --
but before we eat them up, they may kill a great many of our soldiers."

"Dey kill-a de soldier!" replied the passionate count -- "well what den
if dey do kill-a de soldier! Jaun foutre de soldier! what dey good for

but for be kill? dat deir trade. You give-a vun poor dog soldier,
two, three, four penny a day, he go fight -- he get kill. Well den, what dat?

By gar he only get what he HIRE for."
"But pardon me, Monsieur le count, we can't spare them."

"Vat! no spare de soldier! de GRAND MONARQUE no spare de soldier?
O mon Dieu! Vy, Monsieur le colonel -- for why you talk-a so? Well den,

hear-a me speak now, Monsieur le colonel -- you see de star in de sky;
de leaf on de tree; de sand on de shore -- you no see all dat, heh?

Well den, by gar, Monsieur le colonel, de GRAND MONARQUE got soldier
more an-a all dat -- ess, sacra Dieu! more an-a all dat, by gar."

"Well but, Monsieur le count, is it not CRUEL to kill
the poor fellows notwithstanding?"

"Pooh!" replied the count, throwing back his head, and puffing out his cheeks
as when a cigar sucker explodes a cataract of smoke from

the crater of his throat; "cruel! vat cruel for kill-a de soldier!
by gar, Monsieur le colonel, you make-a de king of France laugh

he hear-a you talk after dat fashong. Let-a me tell you, Monsieur le colonel,
de king of France no like general Washington -- by gar,

general Washington talk wi' de soldier -- he shake hand wi' de soldier --
he give de soldier dram -- By gar, de GRAND MONARQUE no do so --

no, sacra Dieu! he no LOOK AT de soldier. When de king of France
ride out in de coach royale wid de supeerb horses, and harness shining

so bright all vun like gold, if he run over one soldier,
you tink he going stop for dat? No, sacra foutre! he ride on so,

all one like if nothing at all been happen. Jaun foutre de soldier!
let him prenez garde for himself; by gar the grand Monarque no mind dat.

De grand Monarque only tink of de soldier `commes des chiens',
like de poor dam dog for fight for him."

Thus ended the dialogue between colonel Laurens and the count D'Estang.
The next day, the memorable twenty-four hours being expired,

a flag was sent into town to know the determination of the British officer,
who very politely replied, that having consulted his pillow, he had

made up his mind to defend the place. A regular siege was then commenced,
and continued for three weeks: at the end of which an attack was made,

and with the success which Marion had all along predicted. After a full
hour's exposure to the destructive rage of grape shot and musketry,

we were obliged to make a precipitateretreat; leaving the ground covered
with the mingled carcasses of 400 Americans and 800 Frenchmen.

Marion's corps fighting with their usual confidence, suffered great loss;
himself did not receive a scratch. Colonel Laurens raged like a wounded lion.

Soon as the retreat was ordered he paused, and looking round
on his fallen men, cried out, "Poor fellows, I envy you!"

then hurling his sword in wrath against the ground, he retired.
Presently, after we had reached our encampment, he came to my marquee,

and like one greatly disordered, said, "Horry, my life is a burden to me;
I would to God I was lying on yonder field at rest with my poor men!"

"No! no! none of that, colonel," said I, "none of that;
I trust we shall live to pay them yet for all this."

And so it turned out. And though for humanity's sake, I ought not
to BOAST of it, yet we did live to pay them for it, and often too:

and in the same bloody coin which they gave us that day. And although
in that fiery season of my days, and when my dear country was in danger,

it was but natural for me to rejoice in the downfall of my enemies,
yet I was often witness to scenes, which to this day I can never think of

but with sorrow -- as when, for example, after dashing upon an enemy
by surprise, and cutting one half of them to pieces and chasing the rest,

we returned to collect the horses and arms of the slain. Who, I say,
without grief could behold those sad sights which then offered themselves,

of human beings lying mangled over the crimson ground --
some stone dead, some still alive and struggling, with brains oozing

from their cloven skulls -- and others sitting up, or leaning on their elbows,
but pale with loss of blood, running in streams from their mortal wounds,

and they themselves looking down, the while, sadly thinking of home
and of distant wives and children, whom they shall never see again.

Such thoughts, if often cherished, would much abate the rancor of malice