“No, sir.” Tom answered the question quickly enough; then the actions of the two vessels came back to him, and he added, a light breaking upon him: “But they seemed as though they’d like to; it was just as though they were waiting for a signal.”
“And that,” cried Colonel Moultrie, “is just exactly what they are waiting for. And Lord Campbell is now on his way to give it. Gentlemen,” turning to his officers, “we must cross the river and make the attempt upon the fort at once; otherwise we will have two war vessels scattering cannon shot among us in our passage.”
The orders were quickly given; the patriot force was soon at the water’s edge, embarking in the boats which Captain Deering had collected. Small as their numbers were, the boats were too few to accommodate them, and a good quarter were forced to remain behind. The attacking party had pushed off and was already pulling toward the fort through the quickly gathering darkness, when the small, dark officer who had spoken so coolly to Lord Campbell, came hurrying along. He had been making a disposition of the companies remaining behind and now seemed destined to be left also. He dashed out waist deep in the river in an effort to catch the last galley, but too late. At that moment Tom Deering’s skiff passed slowly by; there was room for another, and Tom called eagerly:
“Climb in, captain. We’re going, too; and we’ll land you there ahead of any of them.”
With a hasty word of thanks the officer scrambled into the boat and took up a position in the bow, from which point he could see all that was going forward.
This was Tom Deering’s first meeting with Francis Marion, afterward to become the great partisan chief of the Revolution and be known to the world as the Swamp-Fox.
Within an hour the attacking party had arrived at James Island and deployed in the darkness before the walls. Marion had sprung ashore as soon as the prow of the skiff grated upon the sand; Tom and Cole were left alone, for they had touched at a point slightly further down than Colonel Moultrie’s men.
“I’m glad Uncle Dick did not cross in our skiff,” said Tom to Cole, as they drew the boat up on the sand. “Now we can look into things on our own account.”
While the militia was arranging, front and rear, for the attack, the boy and his companion were stealing through the bush that grew thickly about the walls of the fort, and wondering at the silence within. It required a half hour for Moultrie to get everything in readiness; and at last, just as he was about to give the word for the attack to begin, two figures bounded upon the walls from inside the fort; one was a handsome youth of seventeen; the other was a giant negro slave. Each waved a blazing torch above his head exultantly.
“Colonel Moultrie,” cried Tom Deering, “the place belongs to you. The British have fled to their ships.”