Justice will not be defeated. Though Reginald put his shoulder to the wheel of fate, and strove to push it backward, yet for all his boldness and sagacity he was crushed. That for which he toiled, and made himself a villain, the gold of his relative, passed into worthier hands, and his very name became synonym of whatever was bad.
For years, annually did Nat Ernshaw gather around him, in a grand reunion, the former members of the brigade; and to these reunions always came Simon Hunt. No longer Simon the blacksmith. A self-educated man, he was at once true citizen, an upright man, a clear-headed adviser. The States, just escaped from the despotism of foreign and reckless rulers, needed just such men to assist in their counsels. Was it any wonder then, that at one of their reunions Nat Ernshaw introduced the once plain blacksmith as “the Hon. Simon Hunt?”
Under the green turf of Carolina now rest the brave men who once composed Wild Nat’s brigade. Truer hearts never beat, more patriotic bosoms never swelled with the inspiration of liberty. Long in the memories of descendants shall they live, these veritable heroes of the Revolution. Over their graves let us give them our benedictions, and with Percival say:—
Here rest the great and good. Here they repose
After their generous toil. A sacred band,
They take their sleep together, while the year
Comes with its early flowers to deck their graves,
And gathers them again, as Winter frowns.
Theirs is no vulgar sepulcher,—green sods