Let us hasten to the conclusion. On the 29th of September, Washington ordered a Board of Inquiry, consisting of six major and eight brigadier generals. After a full hearing of the facts, the Board reported that Major Andre ought to be considered as a spy, and, according to the laws and usages of nations, to suffer death.

The decision, though just, was painful—painful to Washington—to the Board—to the officers of the American army—but more painful, if possible, to Sir Henry Clinton and the companions of Andre in arms.

Efforts, and such as did honor to Clinton, were made to reverse the doom of Andre. Intimations were given from Washington, that upon one condition—the surrender of Arnold—Andre might be released; but to this, Clinton thought he could not in honor yield—while in the scale of affection, Andre would have outweighed a thousand traitors like Arnold. A deputation from Clinton repaired to Robinson's house under a flag, to urge the release of Andre, but no change could be effected in the mind of Washington.

Sentence of execution issued, and five o'clock, of the 1st day of October, was appointed for carrying it into effect. On the morning of that day, Andre addressed a letter to Washington, requesting that he might be allowed a soldier's death.

"Tappan, 1st October, 1780.

"Sir: Buoyed above the terror of death, by the consciousness of a life devoted to honorable pursuits, and stained with no action that can give me remorse, I trust that the request I make to your excellency, at this serious period, and which is to soften my last moments, will not be rejected.

"Sympathy towards a soldier will surely induce your excellency, and a military tribunal, to adapt the mode of my death to the feelings of a man of honor.

"Let me hope, sir, that if aught in my character impresses you with esteem towards me—if aught in my misfortune marks me as the victim of policy, and not of resentment—I shall experience the operations of those feelings in your breast, by being informed that I am not to die on a gibbet.

"I have the honor to be your excellency's most obedient and most humble servant,

"John Andre."

To this request, Washington could not consistently accede, but to avoid needless pain, he omitted to make a reply.

The execution finally took place October 2d, at twelve o'clock—a delay having been occasioned by pending negotiations, which could not be terminated in season the previous day.

Dr. Thatcher, in his 'Military Journal,' has given the closing particulars of this tragic scene. It follows:

"The principal guard-officer, who was constantly in the room with the prisoner, relates, that when the hour of his execution was announced to him in the morning, he received it without emotion; and while all present were affected with silent gloom, he retained a firm countenance, with calmness and composure of mind. Observing his servant enter the room in tears, he exclaimed, 'Leave me till you can show yourself more manly.' His breakfast being sent to him from the table of General Washington, which had been done every day of his confinement, he partook of it as usual; and having shaved and dressed himself, he placed his hat on the table, and cheerfully said to the guard-officers, 'I am ready at any moment, gentlemen, to wait on you.' The fatal hour having arrived, a large detachment of troops was paraded, and an immense concourse of people assembled; almost all our general and field officers, excepting his excellency and his staff, were present on horseback; melancholy and gloom pervaded all ranks; the scene was affecting and awful.

"I was so near during the solemn march to the fatal spot, as to observe every movement, and participate in every emotion which the melancholy scene was calculated to produce. Major Andre walked from the stone house, in which he had been confined, between two of our subaltern officers, arm in arm; the eyes of the immense multitude were fixed on him, who, rising superior to the fear of death, appeared as if conscious of the dignified deportment which he displayed. He betrayed no want of fortitude, but retained a complacent smile on his countenance, and politely bowed to several gentlemen whom he knew, which was respectfully returned. It was his earnest desire to be shot, as being the mode of death most conformable to the feelings of a military man, and he had indulged the hope that his request would be granted. At the moment, therefore, when suddenly he came in view of the gallows, he involuntarily started backward, and made a pause. 'Why this emotion, sir?' said an officer by his side. Instantly recovering his composure, he said, 'I am reconciled to my death, but I detest the mode.'

"While waiting, and standing near the gallows, I observed some degree of trepidation; placing his foot on a stone, and rolling it over, and choking in his throat, as if attempting to swallow. So soon, however, as he perceived that things were in readiness, he stepped quickly into the wagon, and at this moment he appeared to shrink; but instantly elevating his head with firmness, he said, 'It will be but a momentary pang;' and taking from his pocket two white handkerchiefs, the provost-marshal with one loosely pinioned his arms, and with the other, the victim, after taking off his hat and stock, bandaged his own eyes with perfect firmness, which melted the hearts, and moistened the cheeks, not only of his servant, but of the throng of spectators. The rope being appended to the gallows, he slipped the noose over his head, and adjusted it to his neck, without the assistance of the executioner. Colonel Scammell now informed him that he had opportunity to speak, if he desired it. He raised the handkerchief from his eyes, and said: 'I pray you to bear me witness, that I meet my fate like a brave man.' The wagon being now removed from under him, he was suspended, and instantly expired."

Thus was cut off in the morning of life a man full of promise and expectation—one to whose personal attractions were added accomplishments, rich, varied, and brilliant—destined, but for an untimely sacrifice of himself, under the impulse of a forbidden ambition, to have reached the goal of his wishes—honor and renown. His death at the hands of the Americans, according to the usage of war, was just; but to Arnold, the pioneer in the base transaction, the news of his execution must, it would seem, have been as the bitterness of death.

But no:—Arnold had no such feelings. Conscience was seared; the generous sympathies of our nature were extinct; even the honor of a soldier, dearer to him than life itself, had expired. The long-cherished, deep-rooted, sordid passion of his soul—avarice—alone lived; and now, while Andre, who might almost be said to be the victim of that nether spirit, was mouldering in an untimely and dishonored grave, he demanded his pay. What must Clinton—the friend and patron of the high-souled and magnanimous Andre—have felt when he told out to Arnold six thousand three hundred and fifteen pounds, as the reward of his treachery!

In addition to this pecuniary reward, Arnold received the commission of brigadier-general in the British army. But, after his infamous attack on New London, and his inhuman conduct to the brave Ledyard and his garrison in Fort Trumbull, finding himself neglected by the British officers, he obtained permission to retire to England, for which he sailed in 1781 with his family.

The life of Arnold was prolonged twenty years beyond this date. But although the king and a few others in office felt compelled to notice him for a time, yet they, at length, were willing to forget him, while others despised and shunned him. Colonel Gardiner says, that when a petition for a bill authorizing a negotiation of peace was presented to the king, Arnold was standing near the throne. Lauderdale is reported to have declared, on his return to the House of Commons, that, however gracious the language he had heard from the throne, his indignation could not but be highly excited at beholding, as he had done, his majesty supported by a traitor. And on another occasion, Lord Surrey, rising to speak in the House of Commons, and perceiving Arnold in the gallery, immediately sat down, exclaiming: "I will not speak while that man (pointing to him) is in the house."

Not long after the war, Arnold removed to St. John's, in New Brunswick, where he engaged for a time in the West India trade. Subsequently, he returned to England, where he resided to the time of his death, which occurred in London, June 14th, 1804.

XIII. CONCLUDING SCENES OF THE REVOLUTION.

Theatre of War changed to the South—Siege of Savannah—Siege of Charleston—Battle of Camden—Battle of Cowpens—Retreat—Subsequent Movements—Battles of Guilford, Kobkirk's hill, Ninety-Six, and Eutaw Springs—Battle of Yorktown—Treaty of Peace—Cessation of Hostilities—Army disbanded—Departure of the British Army—Final Interview between Washington and his Officers—Resigns his Commission—Retires to Mount Vernon.

We must hasten to the closing scenes of the long and sanguinary contest between Great Britain and America.

The capture of Burgoyne, in 1777, was hailed, by a portion of the American people, as indicative of a speedy termination of the war. But, in these anticipations, they were destined to be disappointed. For several years following, although the contest was still continued, but little advance was made towards the termination. Battles were indeed fought, naval engagements occurred, and predatory enterprises were planned, and executed with various success; but neither power could be said at any one period to be decidedly in the ascendant. In 1779, the theatre of war was changed from the northern to the southern section of the confederacy. To this change, the British were invited by the prospect of an easier victory. That portion of the country was rendered weak by its scattered population, by the multitude of slaves, and by the number of tories intermingled with the citizens.

Partial success to the British arms was the consequence. Savannah was taken possession of, which gave the enemy, for a time, the power in Georgia. In like manner, Charleston fell into their hands, and with it, a considerable portion of the state of South Carolina. In the progress of this southern warfare, battles occurred at Camden—at the Cowpens—at Guilford Court-house—and at Eutaw Springs.

1. SIEGE OF SAVANNAH.

In the autumn of 1778, Savannah fell into the hands of the British. At that time, Colonel Campbell, with a force of two thousand men, was dispatched by Governor Clinton from New York against that city. The American garrison, under General Howe, consisting of but six hundred continental troops and a small body of militia, was inadequate to resist so formidable a force; and at the expiration of a spirited action, in which the Americans suffered severely, the latter surrendered, and with that surrender, the British took military occupation of the capital itself.

The succeeding year, D'Estaing, with a French fleet, destined to cöoperate with the Americans for the recovery of Savannah, arrived on the coast of Georgia. This intelligence having been communicated to General Lincoln, who was in the vicinity of Charleston with a small force, he immediately broke up his camp, and marched to assist in the disembarkation of the French troops.

Before the arrival of Lincoln, D'Estaing had sent a "haughty summons" to Prevost, the English commander, to surrender. The safety of the former depended upon rëinforcements, which he was daily expecting; and, in order to attain a delay, he required twenty-four hours to consider the question of a capitulation. Unfortunately, D'Estaing acceded to this demand. This proved fatal to the expedition; for, meanwhile, Prevost was not idle. He succeeded in mounting nearly one hundred cannon, and, moreover, the expected rëinforcement arrived, swelling his force to three thousand men; upon which, he replied to the French commander, that he was resolved to hold out to the last.

The original plan of attempting the place by storm was now prudently abandoned, and the slow process of its reduction by siege was resolved upon. The combined forces numbered between six and seven thousand men. The siege was commenced. Trenches were opened, and, by the 4th of September, a sap had been pushed to within three hundred yards of the abbatis. In the course of a another month, batteries had been erected, and other preparations were ready.

On the evening of October 4th, the tragical scene commenced, and a heavy cannonade was kept up during the night. In the morning, that scene became terrific. Thirty-seven cannon and nine mortars were opened upon the city, while sixteen heavy guns from the fleet added their uproar to the thunder of the former. The response to these was still louder and more appalling. Nearly one hundred guns, which had been mounted by Prevost, as we have said, gave back their tremendous explosions. Carcasses, filled with all manner of combustibles, were hurled into the town, setting on fire the houses, and spreading consternation among the inhabitants. Shells came down from the sky, bursting like meteors, and scattering their death-dealing fragments in every street and in the neighborhood of every dwelling. All that day, and, indeed, for four succeeding days and nights, this mutual tremendous firing was maintained. Savannah and its neighborhood became covered with a dense, dark cloud of smoke, through which the rays of the sun could scarcely penetrate by day, and which, as that set, served as a pall to increase the gloom and darkness of the night.

If the besiegers were steady to their purpose, the besieged were no less resolute and successful in their resistance. Little or no impression had hitherto been made upon the enemy's works, and how long they would continue to hold out, the Americans had no means of judging. They had reason, indeed, to believe that a reduction might at no distant day be effected, as the supplies were cut off, and the inhabitants must be suffering intensely. But D'Estaing began to fear for the safety of his fleet, exposed, as it was, on an open coast. In this posture, he proposed to Lincoln to attempt the place as originally contemplated—by storm. This the latter deemed extremely hazardous; but submitting to the higher authority of the count, an assault was fixed for the 9th of October.

At one o'clock of the morning of that day, the Americans were up, and ready for the fearful contest. The French unwisely delayed for some two or three hours; but at length, led on by D'Estaing and Lincoln, the combined forces—the French in three columns and the Americans in one—proceeded to the attack.

Taking a position at the head of the first column, D'Estaing led them forward to the very walls of the English works. It was a fatal approach. Of a sudden, and when the French commander was congratulating himself that he was taking the enemy by surprise, the blaze of a hundred cannon filled him and his troops with amazement, while the balls and grape-shot mowed down their ranks, as did the fire of the Americans at Bunker's hill. Still, D'Estaing ordered the remainder to advance, he himself heroically leading the way. But it was only to death and defeat. Soon wounded, D'Estaing was borne from the spot, while his brave troops remained to meet a still severer destiny. They were mowed as grass by a new-ground scythe. The few who survived, now made good their retreat to an adjoining wood, leaving room for the second column, pressing forward, to supply their place.

These, passing over the fallen bodies of their brave companions, succeeded in mounting the walls; and there they stood—and there, with almost superhuman strength and determination, they fought. But it was not even for such bravery and such perseverance to succeed. If the struggle was now fearful, the carnage was still more so. One after another, and by tens and twenties, they fell side by side, companions in death of their brave precursors. A remnant only was left; and as that remnant succeeded in securing a retreat, the third and last column of the French troops came into action. A similar contest awaited them, which they entered into with even greater ardor and more excited passion; but it was followed by a similar, and perhaps still more fatal, result. The chivalrous Laurens, at the head of the Americans, now made his appearance; and directing his entire force against the Spring-hill redoubt, attempted to scale its ramparts. But it was a vain attempt. The parapets were too high to be reached, and the assailants fell as they appeared, shot down with equal certainty and rapidity. Among the Americans, at this memorable contest, was that Carolina regiment which, at the siege of Fort Moultrie, had so distinguished itself, and which, as a reward for its valor, Mrs. Elliott had presented two standards, as we had occasion to notice, when describing the noble defence of the old "slaughter pen." Nothing daunted by the fate of their companions, this regiment pressed furiously forward; and now, for a brief period, was witnessed a spectacle, which lighted up gladness in every eye: two American standards—the very standards which we have named—were seen waving on the English ramparts. And there, too, was the noble-hearted Jasper himself, with those standards, which he loved better than life itself. But it was a momentary floating to the breeze, and these standards had for ever done their duty. They soon fell, and with them fell the brave and patriotic Jasper. He grasped his standard as he fell into the ditch, and there the flag covered him as a winding-sheet of glory. He had told Mrs. Elliott that he would surrender his flag only with his life, and he was true to his word. Jasper's name—heroism—patriotism—will descend with the lapse of years; nor will they be remembered but to be honored, while the records of American valor shall have an existence.

The issue may be told in few words. The Americans failed, and retired. Many a noble heart had shed its blood; many an arm, which had that day

was folded on the breast in death. And among those who fell nobly, there was one—a high-souled Polander—the chivalric Pulaski—a volunteer in the American service; he fell at the head of two hundred horsemen, urging on their way amid fire and smoke, until a swivel-shot struck the gallant soldier to the earth.

The contest lasted a little more than an hour; and yet, in that brief space, six hundred and thirty-seven French, and four hundred and fifty Americans, were mangled—bleeding corpses on the ground—more than one thousand! Rapid work! It should seem that Moloch might have been satisfied with the victims offered on that day's altar.

D'Estaing retired soon after with his fleet. He had gained no praise: on the contrary, he was censured for his haste in demanding the surrender of Savannah before the arrival of Lincoln; and then, by allowing Prevost so long a time to deliberate, in truth giving him ample opportunity to prepare for defence. The result was inglorious, and served to perpetuate, and even strengthen, the cause of the English at the South.

2. SIEGE OF CHARLESTON.

Charleston had long been an object of cupidity on the part of the British. We have already had occasion to speak of an expedition under Sir Peter Parker and Generals Cornwallis and Howe, destined against that city, and the summary check they received at Fort Moultrie—that "old slaughter-pen"—every one of whose garrison was a hero, and the record of whose combined resistance can never be remembered but to the honor and praise of American valor. That repulse was not forgotten by the British, and, when next an attempt should be made, it was to be expected that preparations would be commensurate with the magnitude and difficulties of the enterprise.

It proved so. In the spring following the siege of Savannah, General Clinton left New York with ten thousand men, intent on the capture of Charleston. Lincoln was still at the head of the American troops in the South. But they were altogether inadequate to defend the city against so numerous and formidable a force as now appeared against him. For his own credit, as well as for the honor of the American arms, clearly he should have avoided a collision. But, over-persuaded by Governor Rutledge and other prominent citizens, and, moreover, reluctant to abandon a place which contained large public stores, or seem to yield where there was hope of success, he consented to remain, and accomplish whatever human wisdom, combined with American valor, could do.

On the 30th of March, General Clinton commenced the siege. He proceeded with a caution, to be explained only by the lesson taught the British at the siege of Fort Moultrie, and a determination not to be under the necessity of meeting with another such disastrous result. In another place, it should have been noted, that Fort Moultrie, in the present invasion, made no resistance, the contest, it being intended, should be on the mainland, and in the immediate vicinity of the city, where such defences had been erected as the authorities were able to provide.

On the 10th of April, the first parallel was completed, and Lincoln was summoned to surrender. To this summons, he replied: "that he felt it to be his duty, and it was also his instruction, to defend the place to the last extremity." Ten days elapsed, during which a second parallel was finished, and a second summons made and declined. A heavy and formidable cannonade was now opened by Clinton, which was kept up, with scarcely any remission, for several days. Meanwhile, Lincoln was almost constantly on duty—straining every muscle to resist the steady, but apparently fatal, advance of his foe. It is related of him, that "one day he was ten hours in the saddle, without once dismounting—riding hither and thither, with his great heart filled with anxious foreboding; and, the last fortnight, he never took off his clothes to rest. Flinging himself, in his uniform, on a couch, he would snatch a few moments' repose, and then again be seen riding along the lines."

Meanwhile, his defences became weakened, and his troops exhausted with labor and fatigue. They had little time to sleep, and even the supply of provisions was limited. Yet, Lincoln continued, day after day, to inspire them with courage and hope. All that a brave commander could do, he did—concealing the apprehensions which harrowed his inmost soul, and for which there were reasons; all that men could do, his noble few did—suffering privations seldom experienced during the revolutionary contest. It was a brave defence! It was a long, protracted, painful struggle! But it was in vain. At length, the batteries of the enemy had reached within eighty yards of the American defences, and preparations were making for a general storm. Thus environed by a formidable force, both by sea and land,

it was the dictate of humanity, both in respect to the inhabitants of the city, and the brave, but exhausted, remnant of his devoted army, to capitulate. Accordingly, overtures were made to General Clinton, which were at length accepted. Charleston fell, and the entire army laid down arms. By the terms of capitulation, the garrison were to march out, and deposit their arms in front of the works; but, as a mark of humiliation, the drums were not to beat an American march, nor their colors to be displayed. This was severe; but the humiliation was remembered, when, eighteen months afterwards, Lord Cornwallis surrendered at Yorktown, and "waters of a full cup were wrung out" to him.

3. BATTLE OF CAMDEN.

The fall of Charleston opened the south to Cornwallis, nor was he slow to take advantage of the opportunity of strengthening the royal cause. Baron de Kalb had been sent from the main army to the assistance of Lincoln; but the latter having surrendered before his arrival, the former assumed the command of the forces opposed to Cornwallis. Shortly after, however, Gates, the "hero of Saratoga," arrived, having been appointed to occupy the place of General Lincoln.

The reputation which Gates had acquired in his contest with Burgoyne, had preceded him, and served to stay the despondency and gloom which was extensively pervading the South. The militia responded to his call, and came flocking to his standard. Thus rëinforced, he proceeded towards Camden, the rendezvous of Lord Rawdon. But his haste was ill-judged. Besides, by reason of a serious lack of provisions for his troops, which he had neglected to provide, they were compelled to subsist for several days on green apples, corn, and other vegetables; their strength, also, was still more diminished for want of needful rest. On reaching the vicinity of Rawdon, instead of an immediate attack, before the latter could receive rëinforcements, and when he was more on an equal footing with the enemy, he wasted several days in skirmishes, which served to darken rather than brighten his chance of success. In this interval, Cornwallis arrived with the troops under his command, thus adding to the strength of the enemy, and greatly increasing their confidence and courage.

Indeed, Cornwallis was not slow in deciding to hazard an engagement, although he knew that the contest would still be unequal. Gates had superior numbers. But a retreat would be to abandon all that he had gained in South Carolina and Georgia; and in effect would be the ruin of the royal cause.

The American army occupied a post at Rugely's mills. On the 11th of August, at ten o'clock in the night, the English began their march. Ignorant of this movement, Gates had put his army in motion at the same time, and with similar intent. What was their mutual surprise, when at two o'clock in the morning, the advanced-guard of the British suddenly came in contact with the head column of the Americans! A brief skirmish ensued—but soon ended, as if by mutual consent—neither commander being willing to hazard a nocturnal rencounter.

At a council of war summoned by Gates, the Baron de Kalb advised a retreat to their former encampment, as in their present position they were between two marshes, while at Rugely's mills they would have the decided advantage as to position. In this, however, he was overruled by Gates, who decided to wait the approach of the enemy where they were.

We shall not enter into the details of this unfortunate battle. It was sad and sanguinary. General Gates misjudged as to position; but still greater was his error in attempting to change the order of battle almost at the moment when the battle began. Of this latter mistake, Cornwallis was not slow to take advantage, but at once ordered his troops to charge. Unprepared for an attack so sudden and so furious, the American column gave way—the Virginians actually betaking themselves to flight. All was soon confusion and uproar. De Kalb threw himself at the head of the regular troops, and, infusing into them the fire and indignation which animated his own bosom, led them on. They advanced firm—calm—determined. But the contest was now unequal. They could not resist the impetuous torrent which came thundering upon them. They could not save the battle. And at this time—their ranks thinned—their path obstructed—the cavalry of Tarleton came bearing down upon them with the impetuosity of a whirlwind. "Shot after shot had struck the Baron de Kalb, and the blood was pouring from his side in streams; yet, animated by that spirit which has made the hero in every age, he rallied his men for a last charge, and led them at the point of the bayonet on the dense ranks. Striking a bayonet from his breast, and laying the grenadier that held it dead at his feet, he pressed forward, and, in the very act of cheering on his men, fell with the blood gushing from eleven wounds. His aids immediately covered him with their bodies, exclaiming, 'Save the Baron de Kalb! save the Baron de Kalb!'"

De Kalb survived his wounds but a short time. He was able, however, to dictate a brief letter to the patriotic band of soldiers at whose head he had planted himself, and who nobly sustained him up to the moment of his fall. He died in the cause of liberty—regretted by all who knew his worth as a man and a soldier—and honored by congress, which directed a monument to be erected to his memory at Annapolis.

The battle at Camden was sanguinary, and had the effect to spread a gloom over the face of American affairs. The loss of the patriots exceeded six hundred in killed; the wounded and prisoners thirteen hundred. The British stated their loss to be only three hundred in killed and wounded.

Cornwallis was the victor—but the British cause had now reached its culminating point. Elated at their successes, the conquerors grew insolent and rapacious; the Americans, resolute and determined.

4. BATTLE OF COWPENS.

Never did a service require an able and efficient commander more than the American service at the South, following the disastrous defeat of Gates at the battle of Camden. Fortunately, the precise man was found in General Greene, "who, next to Washington, was the ablest commander in the Revolutionary army"—an officer of large experience, and distinguished for two qualities, which were more important, at this juncture, than all others—"great caution and great rapidity." To these were added a wonderful fortitude and as wonderful perseverance.

On assuming the command, Greene found the army reduced to two thousand men, of whom not more than eight hundred were fit for service. The officers, however, had few equals—and no superiors. There were Morgan, Lee, Marion, Sumpter, and Washington (Lieutenant-colonel), men, whose heroic achievements have justly placed them high on the rolls of military fame. Had the army borne any comparison to its officers, either in point of numbers or in discipline, energy, and enthusiasm, the royal cause, in the South, would have met a still earlier doom than it did. But the army was not only greatly reduced in numbers, but so destitute was it of arms, ammunition, food, and clothing, that it seemed a matter of presumption to attempt entering the list with Cornwallis, who, to a well-disciplined and powerful army, added every desirable materiel of war. But it often occurred during the Revolutionary struggle, that "the race was not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong."

The first measure adopted by Greene was unusual—he separated his forces, small as they were, into several divisions, and stationed them at different points. For this he has been censured, as contrary to military rule; but the sequel proved the wisdom of the measure. It served greatly to dismay Cornwallis, who scarcely knew in what direction to proceed, or which one to attack—whether Morgan, Marion, or Lee, who, with their respective detachments, were threatening him from different points.

At length, however, he decided to begin with Morgan, who was stationed at Cowpens, with an available force of less than a thousand men. The plan proposed by Cornwallis was, that Tarleton, with eleven hundred men, should assail him in front, while he himself, with the main army, would attempt to prevent his retreat. On the appearance of Tarleton, Morgan retired; but being, at length, hotly pressed, a contest became inevitable. The first onset of Tarleton was terrible—the Americans gave way, and the victorious British were anticipating the utter rout of their foes. But, at a critical moment of the action, Colonel Washington, who had been watching the various movements of the respective armies, gave orders to his bugler to sound a charge. It was nobly done! Nothing could withstand the impetuosity, the fire, the fury of the assailants. The infantry, which was pressing on to victory, were, as in a moment, borne down, and scattered like chaff before the whirlwind. Morgan had time to rally his repulsed force; and, with such an example as had been set them, they now sped their way to victory. It was a brief, but a stirring, sanguinary scene. Tarleton lost of his eleven hundred, seven hundred—besides two cannon, eight hundred muskets, and a hundred dragoons.

Immediately following the battle of Cowpens, Greene directed his course towards Guilford, which he had appointed as the rendezvous of his army. This was a perilous undertaking; and the more so, as his route lay across the Catawba, the Yadkin, and the Dan—each of which was liable to be suddenly swelled, and thus prevent his passage; and at a time, perhaps, when Cornwallis would be pressing upon him. Besides, the winter was a most unpropitious season for such an enterprise. The soldiers were poorly clad; many of them were barefoot; blankets were greatly needed, and even provisions were scarce. But there was no safe alternative. Greene's force was inadequate to maintain a position against so formidable a force as Cornwallis had under his command. It was not indeed certain that a retreat so distant, and so fraught with difficulties, could be effected in safety. But it was decided to run the hazard, and towards the accomplishment of his plans, Greene now put forth all his energy and skill.

We shall not follow him minutely in the various steps of his remarkable and successful enterprise. Often did the English advance columns press upon his rear; and so determined were the former—with such rapidity did they urge their pursuit—that the fugitives were able in some instances to rest but three hours out of the twenty-four, and to secure but one meal a-day. Their fatigue—their deprivations—their sufferings, penetrated the very heart of their sympathizing leader. His own anxiety was deep and wasting; yet he had a smile and a word of encouragement as he rode up, and hurried forward his exhausted columns.

At length they approached the Dan; that passed, they were safe; but this was the point of their greatest danger. Cornwallis was near at hand, and, like Pharaoh of old, pressing upon the children of Israel at the banks of the Red sea, was confident of their utter extermination—he had resolved to overwhelm and annihilate the American army on the banks of the Dan.

They reached those banks. In the rear, covering their embarkation, and, if possible, keeping in check the advance of the now infuriated enemy, were stationed Lee's legion and Washington's horsemen. It was a noble but perilous enterprise which they had undertaken. Had the forces of Cornwallis reached them, it is impossible to conjecture the issue. They had decided to succeed or perish.

But about noon, a messenger made his appearance upon a swift charger, making the joyful announcement that the army had safely made the passage. The guard now themselves urged their way to the ferry. Greene had not yet crossed. He had delayed through his anxiety for the safety of Lee and Washington, and their brave comrades. Who can describe his exultation as they came dashing on their proud steeds! That was a moment of intense joy; but that joy reached its climax when all were safely on the opposite shore, and the deep waters of the Dan were rolling between his army and their pursuers. The last boat that left, bore the intrepid Lee, and, as it grounded upon the opposite shore, the British van had reached the banks. This was the climax of their disappointment. At the end of a pursuit of two hundred and fifty miles, and during which they had destroyed all their baggage to accelerate their progress, it was their destiny to behold their prey exulting beyond their reach. Of this retreat, it has been well remarked, that "for the skill with which it was planned, the resolution and energy with which it was carried through, and the distance traveled, it stands alone in the annals of our country, and will bear a comparison with the most renowned feats of ancient or modern times. It covered Greene with more glory than a victory could have done, and stamped him at once the great commander."

Soon after the events now recited, the army of General Greene was augmented by the arrival of rëinforcements from Virginia, to five thousand five hundred men. Numerically, his force was larger than that of Cornwallis, but most of the troops were for the first time in a camp. Thus strengthened, Greene decided to hazard an engagement as early as circumstances allowed. With this object in view, after giving his troops some little opportunity to rest, he proceeded, and took post at Guilford.

Here, on the 15th of March, occurred the battle of Guilford Court-house, which on the part of Greene had been so wisely planned as must have issued in the utter discomfiture of Cornwallis, had all the Americans behaved with their accustomed bravery. But, most unfortunately, the terrible aspect of the British army, on its near approach, spread consternation and dismay among the Carolina militia; and, throwing down their guns, knapsacks, and canteens, they precipitately left the scene of action. These were followed by a portion of the Marylanders. It was impossible to rally them, or even to stay their progress. But the Virginians fought nobly, as did the second regiment of the Marylanders. Upon these and the continental troops, the entire force of the battle fell. For a time, even with the loss of the aid of those who so ignobly fled, victory seemed to decide for the Americans. But at length Cornwallis, at a great sacrifice of men, succeeded in getting the ascendancy, and no alternative was left to Greene but to order a retreat, while it could safely be made. The loss of the Americans was about four hundred, in killed and wounded; that of the British reached nearly six hundred. The British claimed the victory, but it was a victory which caused Fox to exclaim, when announced in the British House of Commons, "Another such will ruin the British army."

Following the battle above described, Cornwallis retreated to such a distance from Greene, as to present little inducement to the latter to follow, even had his force been able to cope with that under his lordship's command. It remained, therefore, for him to adopt some new plan, and to look in another direction for some field of usefulness to his country's cause. After much consideration, he decided to lead back his forces into South Carolina, and to fall on the line of the British posts between Ninety-Six and Charleston. It was a bold, original, and hazardous experiment; and the more so, as Cornwallis might also return, and press him with his superior force. But the decision was made; and, taking up his line of march, in twelve days he reached Camden, where Lord Rawdon was strongly intrenched.

Taking a position on Hobkirk's hill, two miles north of Camden, Rawdon in a few days drew out his forces, and appeared in battle array against him. At the time the approach of the enemy was announced, the Americans were deeply engaged in cooking food, of which, for twenty-four hours, they had been destitute. For a moment, there was confusion; but, abandoning their meal, as did Greene his coffee, they soon stood in order of battle. The action opened with promise to the Americans. Greene himself, at the head of a single regiment, fought as a common soldier. His troops appeared firm, and even enthusiastic. Judge his surprise, when, at this critical moment, he perceived the regiment of Gunby, the one upon which, more perhaps than all others, he depended—the one which at Guilford had displayed such bravery—that regiment was giving way—was in the very act of retreating. Greene sped his charger among them—headed them—rallied them; but it was too late: the battle was lost. There was, indeed, more fighting, and every effort was made to recover from the shock caused by the retreat of Gunby's veteran regiment. But it was fruitless, and Greene retreated, in rather a creditable manner, considering the circumstances.

But the regiment, it is recorded—the cause of such deep mortification and utter failure—was after all not to blame. At least, the apology was made for them, that they mistook the order of Gunby, their leader, who had directed them only to halt, for an order to retreat. In the din of arms, his command was not understood, and the consequence was the disastrous result we have named.

The situation of Rawdon, notwithstanding his success, was critical; Greene's was still more critical. For the first time, it is said, the latter became vacillating and despondent. On the one hand, he was in danger from Rawdon; and on the other, it was reported that Cornwallis was marching rapidly against him. His army was small—destitute—discouraged. But it was not Greene's nature long to despond. He rose above the difficulties and perils of his position, and decided to occupy the place which God and his country had assigned him.

At this juncture, more certain intelligence was received that Cornwallis was on his march to Virginia. This left him at liberty to follow out his original plan.

Meanwhile, Rawdon broke up his encampment at Camden, and moved towards Fort Motte, against which Marion and Lee were pursuing a siege. Before Rawdon could reach it, it had surrendered to the Americans.

There remained now in the hands of the British but one fortress more of importance. This was Ninety-Six, situated one hundred and forty-seven miles north-west from Charleston, and garrisoned by five hundred and sixty men. To the reduction of this, Greene turned his attention. On the 22d of May, he appeared before it, and commenced a siege. While successfully pursuing his design, and daily advancing towards the consummation of his wishes, news arrived of the rapid approach of Rawdon. Indeed, he appeared even earlier than had been anticipated, and Greene had no alternative but to retreat. But, listening to his army, who were intent on a demonstration against the enemy, he consented thereto: but, although they made the assault with admirable firmness, and even enthusiastic zeal, they failed, and orders to retreat were given.

Rawdon followed Greene some fifteen or twenty miles on his retreat; when, returning to Ninety-Six, he ordered its evacuation, and himself took up his march for Charleston.

As the sickly season had now commenced, Greene withdrew his army to a cool and salubrious position on the high hills of Santee. Here, having remained until the 22d of August—his troops resting and recruiting, as much they needed both—he broke up his encampment, and began his march; and on the 7th of September, arrived within seven miles of Eutaw Springs, where the British lay encamped in an open field, under command of General Stewart.

On the following day, putting his army in motion, he proceeded towards the field, where occurred—

6. THE BATTLE OF EUTAW SPRINGS.

Greene took the British commander somewhat by surprise, but he was not slow to put his army in the order of battle. The Americans were the first to commence the contest, and that commencement was auspicious. The militia did themselves greater credit than on some former occasions. Both armies were soon engaged; both contended with a seriousness, a determination, a perseverance, commensurate with the prize at stake. It is not necessary to descend to particulars. Each cause was apparently more than once in the ascendant, but in the sequel neither could claim a decided victory. Yet, the advantage rested with Greene. The English had lost one-quarter of their number in killed, and another quarter were made prisoners. Moreover, he had driven them from the field; but he could not pursue them, on account of his prisoners and wounded, and the exhausted state of his army.

At the close of the contest, the belligerent armies united in burying their dead. What a contrast to the spectacle which had been exhibited a few hours before!

The battle of Eutaw Springs was the last general engagement in the South. Soon after, the British concentrated themselves at Charleston; and here they were for months hemmed in, and watched by the faithful and persevering Greene. But their situation, at length, became so distressing, that they determined to evacuate the city. This was carried into effect on the 13th of December, 1781. At three o'clock of the same day, Greene entered in triumph, to the exultation of its emancipated citizens, and with all the honors which a grateful people could shed upon him. "God bless you! God bless you!" was uttered by hundreds, as he passed along; nor was it a thoughtless, unmeaning prayer, but the warm and ardent desire of warm and ardent hearts. Greene merited it all: he loved his country with an affection which no circumstances could weaken, and served her with a fidelity which no temptation could interrupt. Truthfully, most truthfully, did Washington say of him: "Could he but promote the interests of his country in the character of a corporal, he would exchange, without a murmur, his epaulettes for the knot."

7. BATTLE OF YORKTOWN.

The campaign for the year 1781, as arranged between Washington and the Count de Rochambeau at Wethersfield, Connecticut, had for its object the recovery of New York, still in possession of the British. A French fleet, to arrive in August, was expected to cöoperate. In pursuance of this plan, the allied forces were concentrated at Kingsbridge, fifteen miles above New York.

While these movements were in progress, it was unexpectedly announced that the destination of the French fleet was the Chesapeake, instead of New York; and here the Count de Grasse, at length, arrived with twenty-eight ships of the line, several frigates, and three thousand troops.

This intelligence manifested the necessity of a change of purpose. Without the cöoperation of a fleet, it would be impossible to succeed in the reduction of New York. Besides, there now opened an equally, if not a more important enterprise, in a different quarter.

Lord Cornwallis, who had for some time conducted the military operations of the British at the South, as we have had occasion to notice, had concentrated his forces at Yorktown, in Virginia, which, together with Gloucester Point, he had strongly fortified. His army consisted of ten thousand effective men.

Washington was not long in deciding the course which the interests of his country required him to pursue. He was now ready to follow the indications of Providence: and it was now apparent that a victory over Cornwallis must necessarily forward the triumph of the patriot cause. It was happily ordered that the French fleet should have the Chesapeake for its destination. In that vicinity, the final conflict was to be waged; there, the pride of Britain was to be humbled; there, the last act in the drama was to transpire.

Pursuant to his altered purposes, Washington put his army in motion, and on the 25th of August, the passage of the Hudson was effected.

It being a point of great moment to conceal the real object of this movement, the march of the army was continued until the 31st, in such a direction as to keep up fears for New York; and a considerable degree of address was used to countenance the opinion that the real design was against that place. The letters which had been intercepted by Sir Henry Clinton favored this deception; and so strong was the impression made, that after it became necessary for the combined army to leave the route leading down the Hudson, he is stated to have retained his fears for New York, and not to have suspected the real object of his adversary, until he had approached the Delaware, and it had become too late to obstruct the progress of the allied army towards Virginia. He then resolved to make every exertion in his power to relieve Lord Cornwallis, and, in the mean time, to act offensively in the North. An expedition was planned against New London, in Connecticut; and a strong detachment, under the command of General Arnold, was embarked on board a fleet of transports, which landed early in the morning of the 6th of September on both sides of the harbor, about three miles from the town. The result of this expedition—so infamous to Arnold—so inhuman—so contrary to all the laws governing modern warfare—is too well known to need recital here.

The progress of Washington could not consistently be arrested by such an incursion, ready, as in other circumstances he would have been, to have hastened to the defence of his fellow-citizens, against so vindictive a monster as that traitor had shown himself to be. Momentous results were now depending upon accelerated movements; and, accordingly, he urged his troops forward to the extent of their power.

Having made the necessary arrangements for the conveyance of his army down the Chesapeake, Washington, accompanied by several distinguished officers, French and American, hastened forward to Williamsburg, where, in an interview with the Count de Grasse, a system of operations for the contemplated siege was devised.

On the 25th of September, the last division of the allied troops arrived in James' river, and were disembarked at the landing near Williamsburg. On the 30th, the combined armies, twelve thousand in number, moved upon Yorktown and Gloucester, at which time the fleet of Count de Grasse proceeded up York river, with the double object of preventing the retreat of Cornwallis, and intercepting his supplies.

The village of Yorktown lies on the south side of York river. Its southern banks are high. In its waters a ship-of-the-line could ride with safety. Gloucester Point projects far into the river on the opposite shore. Both these posts were occupied by Cornwallis—the main body of the army being at York, under the immediate command of his lordship; Lieutenant-colonel Tarleton was stationed at Gloucester with a detachment of about six hundred men. Every possible effort had been made to fortify these posts. The interests involved were of incalculable magnitude. A failure now, Cornwallis could not but perceive, would put to hazard the royal cause. Every expedient, therefore, was adopted, which was calculated to secure his success, and give victory to the British arms.

Washington was equally impressed with the greatness of the enterprise in which he had embarked. The eyes of his countrymen were turned with intense interest to the issues of the impending contest. Nor can it be doubted that supplications went up from thousands of family altars, and from private closets, that the God of the Pilgrim Fathers would interpose for the salvation of a people, who, from their first landing on these shores, had regarded his honor as their highest object, and the enjoyment of rational liberty as their greatest privilege.

The preparations having now been completed, Yorktown was invested, upon which Cornwallis, abandoning all his advanced works, retired behind his principal fortifications. The former were immediately occupied by the besiegers.

It is not important to detail the events of each succeeding day, as this siege progressed. Washington, calm and collected, continued to extend his batteries towards the principal works of the enemy. The cannonade from the British line of defences was furious and incessant. On the 16th, a fierce sortie was made by the British, an American battery was stormed—the artillerists were overpowered, and seven cannon spiked; but the Americans rallied, and succeeded in recovering all that was lost.

Finding his situation extremely critical, Cornwallis now decided on abandoning his sick, together with his baggage, and, crossing to Gloucester, to attempt an escape to New York. In pursuance of this plan, boats, prepared under various pretexts, were held in readiness to receive the troops at ten in the evening, and convey them over the river. The arrangements were made with such secresy, that the first embarkation arrived at the Point unperceived, and part of the troops were landed, when a sudden and violent storm interrupted the execution of this hazardous plan, and drove the boats down the river. The storm continued till near daylight, when the boats returned. But the plan was necessarily abandoned, and the boats were sent to bring back the soldiers, who were rëlanded on the southern shore in the course of the forenoon without much loss.

On the morning of the 17th, several new batteries which had been completed were opened, and a more appalling, and, if possible, destructive fire, was commenced upon the British works. It could no longer be withstood. Cornwallis became convinced of the folly of protracting a contest which was only weakening his forces, and sacrificing the lives of his troops. It was a most unwelcome and humiliating necessity, but that necessity existed, and at ten o'clock he ordered the British lines to beat a parley. This was immediately followed by a proposed cessation of hostilities for twenty-four hours, with reference to a settlement of terms of capitulation. Washington, in his reply, expressed his desire to stay the effusion of blood, but not one moment could he lose in fruitless negotiations. His lordship might transmit his proposals, and two hours would be given to consider them. These were transmitted, but they proved unsatisfactory. Washington now himself dictated the terms; and they were the same as given to Lincoln at the fall of Charleston. At the appointed time, the conquered army, with colors cased, and drums silent, marched out, and laid down their arms. Lincoln was appointed to receive the sword of Cornwallis—an honor which he deserved—and a service doubtless the more grateful from the circumstance that, eighteen months before, he had been compelled to surrender his sword to an English commander. It was an imposing spectacle. To the British, the more humiliating, as it cast a shade over all their prospects of success in the land of rebellion—to the Americans, the more grateful, as it was a presage of an end to their toils and hardships. The conduct of Cornwallis, on the occasion of surrender, was unbecoming the firm and high-minded officer. He was not present, but appointed another to tender his sword in his place. There are men who can participate in the honors of victory, and claim their full portion—but who are too proud to share with their fellow-officers and soldiers the mortification of defeat. Cornwallis was one.

To Washington and his army the issue of this contest was most joyful; and in token of that joy, orders were issued that all under arrest, should forthwith be set at liberty. But this was not enough. A public recognition of the Divine goodness seemed befitting; accordingly, in his public orders, in terms most solemn and impressive, he directed that divine service should be performed in the different brigades and divisions. All the troops not on duty were recommended to be present, and to assist in the solemn and grateful homage paid to the Benefactor of the nation.