This, as the reader may have imagined, was Marion’s celebrated camp at Snow Island. It was a piece of high river swamp, nearly altogether enclosed by water, and defended by its natural position from surprise and siege alike. Here, after his famous expeditions, he was accustomed to retire and recruit his men, exhausted by the long and rapid marches, often sixty miles a day, which they had been called on to endure. Perhaps the great secret of this renowned partisan’s success, next to his indomitable courage, which reminds us of that of a knight of chivalry, was the care which he took to give his followers sufficient rest between his enterprises. His maxim was to lie low and feed high until the hour came to strike; but then his motions were as rapid, and the blow he struck as decisive as the thunderbolt.
The present occasion was one of those on which his men, having returned from a successful expedition, were resigning themselves, like true soldiers, to the pleasure of the moment. The sentinels were indeed posted at the outskirts: but inside the camp itself was universal wassail and song. The reins of discipline seemed, for the time, to have been relaxed. The different messes were gathered together over their meals: the cheerful cup circulated from hand to hand: and many a merry jest was told, or lyric of war or love was sung by those jovial boon companions.
One of these groups seemed even more merry than the rest. It was composed of about a dozen men, prominent among whom was Preston’s serjeant, Macdonald, who acted as the director of ceremonies for the time being, and saw especially to the circulation of the cup.
“Keep it up, boys.” he said, handing around the bottle, “it isn’t often we get such real old stuff as this, for it’s not every day we have the rifling of a rich Tory’s cellars, as we had last week. A short life and a merry one, is my motto. Hillo! my excellent friend, Jacob, why don’t you drink? You needn’t sit showing us your teeth all the time, though they are so handsome. Comrades, here’s the health of Jacob Snow—that’s you, my old chap, I suppose—he serves as pretty a mistress as there is in the thirteen colonies, and boasts a shin-bone that curves like a reaping-hook. Jacob Snow, standing, egad!”
“Lor, Massa Macdonald, I’m deeply obligated for dis honor,” said the old butler, for it was indeed he. “I am discumfounded for words to distress my feelings.” Here he laid his hand on his heart.
“That’s it—blaze away, old fellow,” said the serjeant, slapping him on the back, “I knew you could talk as glib as a parson. So you were at Mrs. Blakeley’s when we were before that place, were you? You remember my sending in for my baggage!”
“Gor Amighty, yes!” said old Jacob, full of reverential admiration. “And you’se de gentleman too dat shot Lieut. Torriano at three hundred yards. Yaw! yaw! yaw! dat made ’em furious. Major Lindsay said you were an Injun, and no better dan a cannon-ball—he, yaw!”
“Ha! ha! A cannibal, you mean, my old brave, I suppose. But that hitting of the lieutenant was a trifle to the way I served Major Gainey. Wasn’t it, lads?”
“Ay, was it!” echoed half a dozen voices, “Tell it to him—tell it.”
“Shall I?” said the serjeant, addressing Jacob with something of drunken gravity; for the whole party, by this time, had done ample justice to their flagons.