The Life of General Francis Marion Part 1

The Life of General Francis Marion.

by Mason Locke Weems.

Preface.

"O that mine enemy would write a book." -- This, in former times, pa.s.sed for as sore an evil as a good man could think of wishing to his worst enemy. -- Whether any of my enemies ever wished me so great an evil, I know not. But certain it is, I never dreamed of such a thing as writing a book; and least of all a 'war book'.

What, I! a man here under the frozen zone and grand climacteric of my days, with one foot in the grave and the other hard by, to quit my prayer book and crutches, (an old man's best companion,) and drawing my sword, flourish and fight over again the battles of my youth.

The Lord forbid me such madness! But what can one do when one's friends are eternally teasing him, as they are me, and calling out at every whipst.i.tch and corner of the streets, "Well, but, sir, where's Marion? where's the history of Marion, that we have so long been looking for?"

'Twas in vain that I told them I was no scholar; no historian.

"G.o.d," said I, "gentlemen, has made 'many men of many minds;'

one for this thing and another for that. But I am morally certain he never made me for a writer. I did indeed once understand something about the use of a broadsword; but as to a pen, gentlemen, that's quite another part of speech. The difference between a broadsword and a pen, gentlemen, is prodigious; and it is not every officer, let me tell you, gentlemen, who can, like Caesar, fight you a great battle with his sword to-day, and fight it over again with his pen to-morrow."

"Burn Caesar!" replied they, "and his book too. If it were written in letters of gold, we would not read it. What have honest republicans like us to do with such an ambitious cut-throat and robber? Besides sir, your reasoning about scholarship, and fine style, and all that, does not, begging your pardon, apply at all to the case in hand.

Small subjects indeed, require great writers to set them off; but great subjects require no such artificial helps: like true beauties, they shine most in the simplest dress. Marion is one of this sort: great in his simplicity. Then give us Marion -- plain, brave, honest Marion; that's all we want, sir. And you can do this better than any other man.

You have known him longest; have fought closest by his side: and can best tell us of his n.o.ble deeds. And surely now, after all, you can't bear to let him die, and all his great actions, and be forgotten forever."

This, I confess, went to the quick, and roused me completely.

"What! Marion forgotten?" I exclaimed, "Marion forgotten! and by me!"

No, never! never! while memory looks back on the dreadful days of the revolution; when a British despot, not the NATION, (for I esteem them most generous,) but a proud, stupid, obstinate, DESPOT, trampling the HOLY CHARTER and const.i.tution of England's realm, issued against us, (sons of Britons,) that most unrighteous edict, TAXATION without REPRESENTATION! and then, because in the spirit of our gallant fathers, we bravely opposed him, he broke up the very fountains of his malice, and let loose upon us every indescribable, unimaginable curse of CIVIL WAR; when British armies, with their Hessian, and Indian, and tory allies, overran my afflicted country, swallowing up its fruits and filling every part with consternation; when no thing was to be seen but flying crowds, burning houses, and young men, (alas! too often,) hanging upon the trees like dogs, and old men wringing their withered hands over their murdered boys, and women and children weeping and flying from their ruined plantations into the starving woods! When I think, I say, of these things, oh my G.o.d!

how can I ever forget Marion, that vigilant, undaunted soldier, whom thy own mercy raised up to scourge such monsters, and avenge his country's wrongs.

The Washington of the south, he steadily pursued the warfare most safe for us, and most fatal to our enemies. He taught us to sleep in the swamps, to feed on roots, to drink the turbid waters of the ditch, to prowl nightly round the encampments of the foe, like lions round the habitations of the shepherds who had slaughtered their cubs.

Sometimes he taught us to fall upon the enemy by surprise, distracting the midnight hour with the horrors of our battle: at other times, when our forces were increased, he led us on boldly to the charge, hewing the enemy to pieces, under the approving light of day.

Oh, Marion, my friend! my friend! never can I forget thee.

Although thy wars are all ended, and thyself at rest in the grave, yet I see thee still. I see thee as thou wert wont to ride, most terrible in battle to the enemies of thy country.

Thine eyes like b.a.l.l.s of fire, flamed beneath thy lowering brows.

But lovely still wert thou in mercy, thou bravest among the sons of men!

For, soon as the enemy sinking under our swords, cried for quarter, thy heart swelled with commiseration, and thy countenance was changed, even as the countenance of a man who beheld the slaughter of his brothers.

The basest tory who could but touch the hem of thy garment was safe.

The avengers of blood stopped short in thy presence, and turned away abashed from the lightning of thine eyes.

O that my pen were of the quill of the swan that sings for future days!

then shouldst thou, my friend, receive the fulness of thy fame.

The fathers, of the years to come, should talk of thy n.o.ble deeds; and the youth yet unborn should rise up and call thee blessed. Fired at the charm of thy virtues, they should follow thee in the path of thy glory, and make themselves the future Marions of their country.

Peter Horry.

Chapter 1.

Short sketch of an extraordinary French couple, viz., the grandfather and mother of our hero -- their early and happy loves -- cruel persecution of the priests -- final expulsion from their native country -- providential settlement in South Carolina -- their prosperous and exemplary lives -- singular will of old Marion -- and birth of his grandson, Francis.

Immortal may their memory be Who fought and bled for liberty.

One thousand seven hundred and thirty-two was a glorious year for America.

It gave birth to two of the n.o.blest thunderbolts of her wars, George Washington and Francis Marion. The latter was born in St. John's parish, South Carolina. His father also was a Carolinian, but his grandfather was a Huguenot or French Protestant, who lived near Roch.e.l.le, in the blind and bigoted days of Louis XIV.

The priests, who are the persecutors in all countries except America, could not bear that he should worship G.o.d in his own way, or dream of going to heaven but in their leading strings, and therefore soon gave him to understand, that he must either "recant or trot"; that is, quit his heresy or his country.

Too brave to play the hypocrite, and too wise to hope for happiness with a "wounded spirit", he quickly made up his mind, and, like faithful Abraham, forsook his country, to wander an exile in lands unknown.

The angel who guides the footsteps of the virtuous, directed his course to South Carolina; and as a reward for his piety, placed him in a land where mighty deeds and honors were ripening for his grandson.

Nor did he wander alone. A cherub, in the form of a lovely wife, followed his fortunes, and gave him to know, from happy experience, that where love is, there is no exile.

Previous to his expulsion, the priests had, for some time, suspected young Marion of what they called "heresy".

But, learning that he was enamoured of the beautiful and accomplished Mademoiselle Louisa D'Aubrey, and like to win her affections, they withheld for a while, their sacred thunders, hoping, that through fear of them, and love of her, he might yet return to the bosom of the Catholic Church, to which she belonged.

Young Marion's suit to his fair mistress, was fortunate to the full extent of an ardent lover's wishes. The charming girl repaid his pa.s.sion with such liberal interest, that, in a short time after the commencement of their delicious friendship, she received him for her husband, in spite of all that wealthier wooers could promise, or frowning friends could threaten.

The neighboring clergy now marked the conduct of Marion with a keener eye; and discovering in him no symptoms that pointed to recantation, they furiously pressed the bishop to enforce against him the edict of banishment.

At this time, Marion with his lovely Louisa, were living on a small farm in the vicinity of Roch.e.l.le. As he walked one afternoon in the main street of that city, he was very rudely accosted by a couple of officers of the holy inquisition, whose looks and dress were as dark and diabolical as their employment.

"Vous etes nommes Marion?" said they; that is "your name is Marion?"

"Yes, gentlemen, that is my name."

Upon this, they rudely thrust a letter into his hand, and turned away, but with such looks as tigers throw at a tender lambkin, whose well-guarded fold forbids their access. On opening the letter he found as follows:

"Your d.a.m.nable heresy, well deserves, even in this life, that purgation by fire which awfully awaits it in the next.

But, in consideration of your youth and worthy connexions, our mercy has condescended to commute your punishment to perpetual exile. -- You will, therefore, instantly prepare to quit your country for ever.

For, if after ten days from the date hereof, you should be found in any part of the kingdom, your miserable body shall be consumed by fire, and your impious ashes scattered on the winds of heaven.

"Pere Roch.e.l.le."*

-- * I forewarn all my friends from thinking me capable of charging this vile persecuting spirit on the "Old W---e of Rome" exclusively.

No, thank G.o.d, I have not so learned human nature. And they who are yet to learn, may, by reading the "Catholic Layman", soon get satisfied, that the PRIESTS are as apt to abuse power as the PEOPLE, and that, when "clad with a little brief authority," protestants as well as papists, have committed those cruelties which make milder devils blush.

[By way of a note on a note, I would observe, that the "Catholic Layman", is a very sensible and spirited pamphlet; the production, it is said, of Mathew Carey, Esq., of Philadelphia, who though a Roman Catholic, has printed more protestant Bibles and Testaments than half the preachers and printers in America put together.]

(Mathew Carey was also Weems' publisher. -- A. L., 1997.) --

Had this dreadful letter been presented to Marion even while a bachelor, it would have filled him with horror; for the heart naturally cleaves to the spot where it awoke into being, and quits, with tearful eyes, the scenes among which were spent the first and happiest days of life.

But ties stronger than those of nature bound Marion to his country.

His country was the country of his Louisa. How could he live without her?

And how could he hope that she would ever consent to leave her parents and friends to wander and die with him in hopeless exile?

But though greatly dejected, yet he did not despair. He still trusted in that parent-power who smiles even under frowns, and often pours his richest showers from the blackest clouds. Cheered with this hope, he put the letter into his pocket, and set out to seek his Louisa.

With arms fondly interlocked, she had accompanied him that morning to the gate on the back of the garden, through which he generally pa.s.sed when he went to Roch.e.l.le. Soon as his horse was led up, and he about to mount, she s.n.a.t.c.hed the bridle, and laughing, vowed he should not go until he had promised her one thing.

"Well, charmer, what's that?"