Old Kennedy quietly proceeded to make the necessary preparations to encounter the tempest. His peacoat was got out of the locker, and tightly buttoned about him, and his tarpaulin well secured by its lanyard to his button-hole. The mainsail and foresail were stowed and secured, and nothing but the jib, the bonnet of which was reefed down, was allowed to remain spread upon our dark and graceful schooner.
The cloud in the horizon began to extend itself, increasing and gradually rising and covering the sky, and the old man’s prediction was evidently about to be fulfilled. A dead calm lay upon the river, and a preternatural stillness clothed in a sort of stupor the whole face of nature around us; while low muttering rolls of thunder from the dark cloud, and the frequent, sudden, crinkling lightning, glittering across its surface, warned us that we were about to encounter one of those violent and terrible thunder-storms which not unfrequently occur in this part of the country.
The distant muttering in the horizon rapidly became louder, and the perfect stillness of the forest was broken. The melancholy sighs of the coming blast increased to wails,—the boughs of the trees rubbed against each other with a slow, see-saw motion, and, as the storm increased, grated with a harsh and continued groaning. The lightning became quick and incessant, and blindingly vivid, and the dark gloom of the forest was rendered still darker by its rapid glare. The river itself soon was lashed into foam behind us, and in a few moments more, accompanied by huge clouds of dust, the tempest came roaring upon us. The cultivated fields and cheerful plantations which were but now smiling in quietness and repose, on the other side of the river, were now instantly shut out by the deep gloom. As the gust struck the schooner, she checked for a moment as if in surprise, and then shot forward with the speed of an arrow from the bow, swept on in the furious tempest as if she had been a gossamer or feather, enveloped in dust and darkness, the rain and hail hissing as it drove onwards, and the terrific thunder, now like whole broadsides of artillery, now quick and incessant peals of musquetry, roaring with frightful violence around her, while the deep black forest, lit up by the blue lightning, bellowed incessantly with the hollow echoes. As we swept forward with frantic swiftness, a quivering white flash struck the top of an immense oak, and ere the crashing, deafening roar of the thunder followed, it was torn and splintered, shivered and burning, hurled on by the blast.
As soon as the squall struck us, we ensconced ourselves below, in full confidence of our safety with Old Kennedy at the helm; and a fine subject would the old seaman have been for a painter, as he sat amid the fury of the storm, stern and erect, the tiller under the stump of his left arm, and the jib-sheets with one turn around the cleet in his right hand—the usual surly expression of his countenance increased into grim defiance, as he steadily and unmovingly kept his eyes fixed into the gloom ahead. At one time we darted by a sloop at anchor, which had let go every thing by the run, her sails over her side in the water, on which, if the yacht had struck, she would have been crumpled up like a broken egg-shell; but thanks to our old Quartermaster’s care, we dashed by in the gloom, his eyes never even for a moment turning on her as we passed.
The storm swept us on in its fury for some time, when it gradually abated in violence, and began to subside. The heavy clouds, flying higher and higher in detached masses in the heavens, by and bye lifted themselves in the western sky, and through the ragged intervals the setting sun poured his last rays over the dripping forest, bronzing the dark sides of our little schooner as he sunk and disappeared beneath the horizon. As the evening wore on, a star here and there discovered itself struggling amid the scud flying over it, and presently the moon shone out with her broad and silver light, and every vestige of the storm had disappeared.
As we glided gaily on, with a fresh, fine breeze, towards our cottage home past the deep forest, the silence was broken by a long, melancholy howl, which I supposed was that of a solitary wolf, but Lee said that it was more probably from some one of the large breed of dogs which are found on most of the plantations. Lee’s mind was of a sad and pensive, although not at all of a gloomy cast; and like most men of that character, he required strong excitement to arouse him; but when aroused, of all delightful companions that I have ever met, he was the man. The excitement of the storm had been sufficient stimulus, and giving the reins to his wild spirits and excited feelings, he entertained us with an incessant stream of anecdote and adventure. The howl of the wolf had recalled to mind an incident in the life of his ancestor, Lieutenant-Colonel Lee, and in connection, he related it with many other adventures of the celebrated Partisan Legion. I will not attempt to use his beautiful and spirit-stirring language, but will confine myself to a few disjointed anecdotes, of the many which he related of the dashing corps, as they happen to recur to my memory.
The Legion, intended to act independently or conjointly with the main army, as circumstances might require, was composed of three companies of infantry, and three troops of cavalry, amounting in all to three hundred and fifty men, commanded by Lieutenant-Colonel Henry Lee, who, every inch a soldier, had won for himself in the Southern campaigns, and particularly in the masterly retreat of Green, before Cornwallis, the honourable distinction of being called “the eye of the Southern army.” He was Green’s confidential adviser and constant friend:—a stern disciplinarian, he was nevertheless beloved by his officers and men, and so careful was he of the interests of the latter, that while the rest of the army were suffering, the Legion by his exertions was always retained in the highest state of personal appearance and discipline. The horses were powerful and kept in high condition;—indeed Lee has been accused of being more careful for their safety than for that of his men. The cavalry in the British army mounted on inferior horses, could not stand a moment before them; and armed with their long heavy sabres, Lee’s troopers were considered full match for double the force of the enemy.
The Legion infantry were well equipped, and thoroughly disciplined men, and acted in unison with the cavalry. They were commanded by Captain Michael Rudolph, a man of small stature, but of the most determined and daring courage, and of great physical strength. He always led in person the “forlorn hope,” when the Legion’s services were required in the storm of posts, and he was so completely the idol of his men, that it was only necessary that he should be detailed on duty of the most desperate character, that the infantry, to a man, were anxious to be engaged in it. The leading captain of the cavalry, James Armstrong, was almost precisely his counterpart in person, in strength, in undaunted courage and heroic daring, beloved by his men, ahead of whom he was always found in the charge. O’Neal, also of the cavalry, was a bold and gallant man, who fought his way up from the ranks; for no carpet knight had consideration in the corps. In an early part of his career, he came near cutting off in the bud, Cornwallis’ favourite cavalry officer, Lieutenant-Colonel Tarleton; for this officer, whatever his merits or demerits, endeavoured to enter a window at which O’Neal was posted, when the latter, dropping his carabine, snapped it within an inch of his head, but the piece missing fire, Tarleton very coolly looked up at him with a smile, and said, “You have missed it for this time, my lad,” and wheeling his horse, joined the rest of his troop, who were on the retreat.
It were perhaps difficult to select the brave from a body of men who were all brave, but it is not invidious to say, that there was not a man of more fearless courage in the corps than Lieutenant Manning of the Legion infantry. At the battle of Eutaw, commanding his platoon to charge, he rushed on in his usual reckless manner, without stopping or looking behind him, until he was brought up by a large stone house, into which the Royal York Volunteers under Lieutenant-Colonel Cruger, were retiring. The British were on all sides, and no American soldier within two hundred yards of him. Without a moment’s hesitation, he threw himself upon a British officer, and seizing him by the collar, wrested his sword from his grasp, exclaiming, in a harsh voice, “You are my prisoner, sir.” Interposing him between the enemy and himself, as a shield from the heavy fire pouring from the windows, he then very coolly and deliberately backed out of danger: the prisoner, who was not deemed by his brother officers a prodigy of valour, pompously enumerating his rank and titles, which Manning occasionally interrupted with, “You are right—you are right—you’re just the man, sir,—you shall preserve me from danger, and rest assured I’ll take good care of you.”