He answered, with tears in his eyes, that he had a good hope he was going
where he should not do what he had been obliged to do in this world.

"I've killed men in my time, major, but not in malice, but in what I thought
a just war in defence of my country. And as I bore no malice against

those I killed, neither do I bear any against those who have killed me.
And I heartily trust in God for Christ's sake, that we shall yet, one day,

meet together, where we shall forgive and love one another like brothers.
I own, indeed, major, that had it so pleased God, I should have been glad

to stay a little longer with you to fight for my country. But however,
I humbly hope that my death is of God; which makes it welcome to me,

and so I bow me to his blessed will. And now, my good friend, as I feel
I have but a little time to live, I beg you will do a few things for me

when I am dead and gone."
I could not speak; but gathering my answer from my tears, and the close press

I gave his hand, he thus went on, but it was in a low voice and laborious.
"You see that sword? -- It is the one which governor Rutledge presented to me

for my services at Fort Moultrie -- give that sword to my father,
and tell him I never dishonored it. If he should weep for me,

tell him his son died in hope of a better life. If you should see
that great gentlewoman, Mrs. Elliot, tell her I lost my life

in saving the colors she gave to our regiment. And if ever
you should come across poor Jones and his wife, and little boy,

tell them Jasper is gone; but that the remembrance of the hard battle
which he once fought for their sakes brought a secret joy to his heart

just as it was about to stop its motion for ever."
He spoke these last words in a livelier tone than usual,

but it was like the last kindling of the taper in its oil-less socket --
for instantly the paleness of death overspread his face,

and after a feeble effort to vomit, with convulsions,
the natural effect of great loss of blood, he sunk back and expired.

From this victim of D'Estang's madness, I went with a heavy heart on parade,
to take a review of the sad remains of the battle. The call of the roll

completed the depression of my spirits. To every fourth or fifth name
there was no answer -- the gloomy silence which ensued, told us

where they were. About twelve o'clock we sent in a flag to the garrison
for permission to bury our dead. Curiosity led me to accompany the party

destined to this mournful duty. I had prepared myself for a sorrowful sight;
but ah! what words can express what I then saw and suffered!

A scattered few lay here and there on the utmost verge of the field,
killed by cannon shot, and so mangled, that in some instances, it was hard

to tell who they were. As we advanced, they lay thicker and thicker.
Some, not quite dead, were constantly crying, "Water! water! --

Oh! for God's sake, a little water!" -- Others lay quite dead,
but still their lifeless visages retained the dark frowns of war.

There, on the side of the enemy's breast-work, lay the brave ensign Boushe,
covering with his dead body, the very spot where he had fixed

the American standard. His face was pale and cold as the earth he pressed,
but still it spoke the fierce determined air of one whose last sentiment

towards those degenerate Britons was, "There d--n you!
look at the stripes of liberty."

Close by ensign Boushe, lay that elegant young man, Alexander Hume, Esq.
with his sword still grasped in his stiffened fingers.

My heart bled within me, when I looked on young Hume, where he lay
in all the pale beauties of death. He was to have been married

the week following, to a charming woman; but such was his zeal
to serve his country, that he came a volunteer to our camp,

and met his death the next morning after he joined us.
Gifted with a pretty taste for painting, he had tried his skill,

and very successfully too, in sketching the likeness of his lovely mistress.
For on opening his bosom, was found, suspended by a blue ribband,

(the happy lover's color) a fine likeness of the beautiful Miss ----:
the back of the portrait was stained with his blood;

but unconscious of her lover's fate, she still wore the enchanting smile
with which yielding beauty views the youth she loves.

We then proceeded to bury our dead; which was done by digging large pits,
sufficient to contain about a hundred corpses. Then taking off their clothes,

with heavy hearts, we threw them into the pits, with very little
regard to order, and covered them over with earth.

"Poor brothers, farewell! the storm of your last battle has long ago ceased
on the field, and no trace now remains on earth that you ever lived.

The worms have devoured your flesh; and the mounds raised over your dust,
are sunk back to the common level with the plain. But ah!

could your mournful story be read, the youth of America would listen
to the last words of Washington, and `study the art of war,'

that their countrymen might no more be murdered by military quacks.
As a hint to American officers, I think it my duty to state

the following fact: -- Our fatal attack on Savannah was made
very early in the morning. A few hours previous thereto,

a council of war was held; and while it was deliberating, a deserter and spy
had the address to bear a musket, as sentinel at the door of the marquee!!

On hearing where the attack was to be made, he ran off in the dark,
and gave such intelligence to the enemy, as enabled them very completely

to defeat us. The fellow was afterwards taken at the battle of Hobkirk Hill,
near Camden, and hung.

Scarcely had we finished burying the dead, before the count D'Estang
hurried on board his ships with his troops and artillery, while we,

passing on in silence by the way of Zubley's ferry, returned to Carolina,
and pitched our tents at Sheldon, the country seat of general Bull.

The theatre of war being, from this period, and for some time at least,
removed to the northern states, the governor and council were pleased

to reduce the regiments, and dismiss the supernumerary officers.
To some of my brethren in arms, this was matter of serious alarm.

But for myself, possessing, thank God, a liberal fortune in the country,
and feeling no ATTRACTION to the camp, except when drawn thither

by public danger, I was quite happy to hear of this new arrangement,
and waited on his excellency to return my commission.

Perhaps some may say it was pride in me, and that I did not like
the idea of being `unfrocked'. Why, as to that matter,

it is not for me to boast of my standing among my superiors in those days.
But this I must needs say, that it is joy enough, and glory enough too,

for me to know, that I was always the favorite of the great Marion;
and that he seldom ever asked the lightning of any other sword than mine,

to lead his squadron to the charge. However, the moment I heard, as above,
that it was in agitation to reduce the regiments, I waited on the governor,

and begged that, as there was nothing doing, he would allow me
to return to my plantation. To my plantation I DID return,

and there continued till spring, 1780, when Charleston was taken
by the British; at which time, and for some weeks before,

I was grievously afflicted with the rheumatism. Thus by a providence,
which, I confess, I did not at that time altogether like,

I was kindly saved from being kidnapped by the enemy, and also introduced
into a field of some little service, I hope, to my country,

and of no great dishonor to myself. However, be this as it may,
the reader shall soon see, and then let him judge for himself.

Chapter 9.
Providential escape of Marion out of Charleston --

the British fleet and army invest and take that place --
Tarleton and the British officers begin to let out -- young Scotch Macdonald

comes upon the turf -- extraordinaryanecdote of him --
plays a very curious trick on a rich old tory.

How happy it is for man, that the author of his being loves him
so much better than he loves himself; and has established so close a connexion

between his duty and his advantage. This delightful truth
was remarkably exemplified in an event that befell Marion about this time,

March, 1780. Dining with a squad of choice whigs, in Charleston,
in the house of Mr. Alexander M'Queen, Tradd street, he was so frequently

pressed to bumpers of old wine, that he found himself in a fair way
to get drunk. 'Twas in vain he attempted to beat a retreat.

The company swore, that that would never do for general Marion.
Finding, at last, that there was no other way of escaping a debauch,

but by leaping out of one of the windows of the dining-room,
which was on the second story, he bravelyundertook it. It cost him,

however, a broken ankle. When the story got about in Charleston,
most people said he was a great fool for his pains; but the event soon proved

that Marion was in the right, and that there is no policy
like sticking to a man's duty. For, behold! presently Charleston was invested