Here yet remain the foundations of a projected United States military establishment, to be called Mount Dearborn, which was abandoned; and upon the brink of the foaming waters stands a cotton-mill, the property of Daniel M'Cullock, operated by white hands, and devoted chiefly to the production of cotton-yarns. At this place, in the midst of a fine cotton-growing country, almost inexhaustible water-power invites capital and enterprise to seek good investment, and confer substantial benefit upon the state. The place is wild and romantic. Almost the whole volume of the river is here compressed by a rugged island into a narrow channel, between steep, rocky shores, fissured and fragmented, as if by some powerful convulsion.
There are no perpendicular falls; but down a rocky bed the river tumbles in mingled rapids and cascades, roaring and foaming, and then subsides into comparative calmness in a basin below.
It was late in the afternoon when I finished my sketch of the Falls, and leaving Mount Dearborn, crossed Rock Creek and reined up in front of the elegant mansion of Mrs. Barkley, at Rocky Mount. Her dwelling, where refined hospitality bore rule, is beautifully situated upon an eminence overlooking the Catawba and the surrounding country, and within a few rods of the remains of the old village and the battle-ground. Surrounded by gardens and ornamental trees, it must be a delightful summer residence. Yet there was grief in that dwelling and the habiliments of mourning indicated the ravages of death. The husband and father had been an honored member of the Legislature of South Carolina, and
* Here was the scene of exciting events during the early part of the summer of 1780. Rocky Mount was made a royal post. Captain Houseman, the commander, sent forth hand-bills, calling the inhabitants together in an "old field," where Beckhamville post-office now stands, to receive protection and acknowledge allegiance to the crown. One aged patriot, like another Tell, refused to bow to the cap of this tiny Gesler. That patriot was Joseph Gaston, who lived upon the Fishing Creek, near the Catawba. In vain Houseman, who went to his residence with an armed escort, pleaded with and menaced the patriot. His reply was, "Never!" and as soon as the British captain had turned his back, he sent his sons out to ask the brave among his neighbors to meet at his house that night. Under Captain John M'Clure, thirty-three determined men were at Judge Gaston's at midnight. They were clad in hunting-shirts and moccasins, wool hats and deer-skin caps, each armed with a butcher-knife and a rifle. Early in the morning, they prepared for the business of the day. Silently they crept along the old Indian trail by the margin of the creek, and suddenly, with a fearful shout, surrounded and discomfited the assembled Tories upon the "old field," at Beckhamville. The British soldiers in attendance fled precipitately to their quarters at Rocky Mount. Filled with rage, Houseman sent a party to bring the hoary-headed patriot, then eighty years of age, to his quarters; but they found his dwelling deserted. His wife,= concealed in some bushes near, saw them plunder the house of every thing, and carry off the stock from the plantation. Nothing was left but the family Bible—a precious relic, yet preserved in the family. This movement of Justice Gaston and his neighbors was the first effort to cast back the wave of British rule which was sweeping over the state, and threatening to submerge all opposition east of the mountains. Judge Gaston had nine sons in the army. When they heard of the massacre of the patriots on the Waxhaw, by Tarleton, these young men joined hands, pledged themselves thenceforth never to submit to oppression, and from that time they all bore arms in defense of liberty.—See Mrs. Ellett's Domestic History of the Revolution, pages 169—174, inclusive.
** This view is from the west side of the Catawba, looking northeast, toward Lancaster District.
A Night at Rocky Mount.—The Battle-ground.—Sumter again in Arms.—His Compatriots.
in the midst of his useful public life he was thrown from his gig and killed. Yet the light of hospitality was not extinguished there, and I shall long remember, with pleasure, the night I passed at Rocky Mount.
