Hurricane Hurry

W.H.G. Kingston (continued 13)

Reading edition

The master’s mate told me that, notwithstanding the circumstances Nol had described, he could scarcely restrain him and the other men from shoving off to get aboard the frigate. The inconvenience we suffered, the loss of our things, was not to be compared to our regret for the destruction, (for her rate), of one of the finest ships in the Navy. Scenes almost indescribable of distress and death, misery and suffering, now crowd around us on every side.

This evening the enemy, having mounted more of his artillery, totally silenced Number 5 battery commanded by the first lieutenant of the Charon, the shot and shells having torn up his platforms and dismounted his guns. He, with his men, was therefore obliged to quit it. At ten o’clock at night the enemy under cover of their guns made a general attack from the centre to the left, but were again repulsed. Twice I witnessed the Hessians give way before the enemy in front of my works. The cannonade continued all night with a warmth hitherto unsurpassed. The slaughter in all parts of the town was very great. We were occasionally employed in restoring the works which the enemy had knocked down. Not a moment was there for rest; every man was employed either in fighting or toiling with pickaxe or shovel. Many parts of the town were set on fire, a lurid glare being cast over the whole scene, exposing to sight the falling buildings, the brave garrison working their guns or labouring in the trenches, the wounded carried off on litters, the dead strewed about in every direction; the whole to my idea presenting a picture more awful and terrific than any I had ever yet beheld; yet I had seen, as may be remembered, in my day a good deal of hard fighting.

11th.—No words of mine can properly describe the dreadful condition to which our small but brave garrison was reduced. The enemy this evening began their second parallel by which they advanced three hundred yards nearer to us. Their fire continued incessant from heavy artillery and mortars, and we opened fresh embrasures to flank their works, keeping up a constant fire from all the howitzers and small mortars were possessed. Upwards of a thousand shells were thrown into the works this night, and every spot alike became dangerous. To talk of the thundering of the cannon, the cries of the wounded, and the shrieks and distressing gestures of the inhabitants, whose dwellings were in flames, and knew not where to seek for safety, will but give a faint picture of what was taking place. Yet amidst all this havoc, destruction, and suffering, the known scarcity of everything necessary to prolong the siege, no murmuring was heard. Not a wish was expressed to give up the town while the most distant hope remained of our being relieved. On the contrary, our gallant little army, taking example from their chief, exhibited the most undaunted resolution, and hourly gave proof of their attachment to the noble general who had so often led them on to victory in the field. One man there is, and one only, who may well tremble at the result. Often do I think of him and what his fate will be if the place is taken by assault. Yet, strange to say, he appears as cool and fearless as the rest. On this night the enemy burnt several transports with red-hot shot and sunk two others from a battery on the left. The inhabitants who still remained in the town, and other non-combatants, were now living in holes under the cliffs or along the shore by the river side. Even there, however, they were not safe, the shot finding them out in their places of refuge and destroying numbers of them. My great anxiety was for Colonel Carlyon. He was recovering from his wounds, but I dreaded lest a stray shot or shell might penetrate the hospital, and that he might share the fate of so many of our own people. I sent him a message whenever I had an opportunity, and received many kind expressions from him in return.

12th.—At eight o’clock this morning the enemy sunk one of the fire-ships from a fresh battery thrown up during the night. All day a hot fire was kept up from it which almost completed the destruction of the shipping intended for the defence of the town against an attack by sea.

At nine o’clock the chief officer of artillery waited on the commodore with a message from Lord Cornwallis, requesting that the lieutenants of the navy with their men should move on from the right into the hornwork on the left, which the crews of the transports had quitted in consequence of the heavy fire to which it was exposed. It was every instant expected that the enemy would storm the works. Hearing this, I immediately volunteered to work this battery, and set off for it accordingly, with a midshipman and thirty-six seamen, it being understood that I was to be relieved in eight hours by the first lieutenant. In fifty-two minutes after my arrival in the hornwork the enemy silenced the three left guns by closing the embrasures, and shortly afterwards they dismounted a twelve-pounder, knocked off the muzzles of two eighteens, and for the last hour and a half of the time I had undertaken to hold the post left me with one eighteen-pounder. Although even a part of its muzzle also was shot away, I kept up a fire with it, determining to hold out to the last. My poor fellows were falling thick around me. Numbers had been wounded; scarcely one had escaped; eight had been killed. Tom Rockets had received a bad injury on one arm; still he worked away with the other, helping as best he could to load and fire the gun. The midshipman, Nol Grampus, and I were the only men in the battery uninjured. Old Nol stood as upright and undaunted as ever. The gun had just been loaded; he held the match in his hand; he was about to fire. At that instant I saw a shell pitching into the battery. Our gun went off. Its roar seemed louder than before. At the same instant there was the noise of the bursting of the shell. I was covered with dust and smoke. It cleared away, but when I looked out for Grampus, expecting to see him at the gun, he was gone. A little way off lay a mangled form. I ran up. It was that of my old faithful follower and friend. He knew me, but he was breathing out his last.

“I knowed it would be so, Mr Hurry,” he whispered, as I stooped down over him. “When I saw the old barkie go I knowed that the days of many on us was numbered. I’d have like to have seen the war ended, and you, Mr Hurry, made happy. Bless you, my boy, bless you! You’ve always showed your love for the old seaman. Well, it’s all right. I don’t fear to die. He who rules up aloft knows what’s best. He will have mercy on a poor ignorant sailor who trusts on One who came on earth to save him. That’s my religion. You stick to that, boy! I can’t see. I’m cold, very cold.”

I took my old friend’s hand. He pressed it faintly. “Thank ye, thank ye,” I thought he said. His lips moved for a few moments, then suddenly he fell back. A shudder passed through his frame, and he was gone. A better or a braver seaman than Nol Grampus never died fighting for his sovereign’s cause.

I had to spring up and help work the gun, for another of my poor fellows was just knocked over. I looked at my watch. It was the time my relief should arrive, and time it was, for the midshipman and I were the only two now remaining unhurt. Out of the thirty-six men who followed me into the battery nine lay dead, eight more were breathing out their last on the ground, and of the nineteen others most had lost either an arm or a leg.

At last my brother-officer with some men appeared. He stood aghast, as well he might, at the spectacle presented to him. As he was approaching me a shell fell in the space between us, sending its fragments in every direction. I felt that I was wounded, and, staggering back, I fell to the ground. My brother-officer ran to lift me up. I found that I had been struck on the right leg and received a severe contusion on the head, but in a few minutes I was able to stand. The midshipman also was wounded in the arm by the same shell, and he and I were the only two people able to walk out of the battery. Of the others several died before they were removed. I left it at a quarter-past six, and on my way past the redoubt, where he had been the greater part of the time, I received the thanks of my Lord Cornwallis for what he was pleased to call my gallantry and determination.

13th.—Too clearly does it appear that a struggle in which we can scarcely hope to be the victors is approaching. The besiegers have greatly augmented the number of their guns and mortars in the works of their second parallel, while our lines, it is evident, are becoming every hour more and more defenceless. Even the most sanguine begin to despair of the arrival of relief in time to save the garrison from a surrender, although the commander-in-chief at New York sends us assurance that he will come to our aid; but he has not started, and any hour may seal our fate.

At five this evening, in spite of my wound, I again quitted my battery on the right, having volunteered to command two eighteen-pounders on the left. I kept up a constant fire with them all night on the enemy’s works. By the morning the battery was masked, and I and my people returned to our own works.

14th.—Our works were now in every direction reduced almost to heaps of ruins, and incapable of withstanding the tremendous fire poured into them by the enemy’s artillery, which, from want of ammunition, we had no power of silencing. Considerable breaches were made in our strongest batteries and redoubts; indeed, it was too evident that they were no longer tenable. Early this morning the enemy sunk another fire-ship and two transports; at seven in the evening they attempted to storm the flanking redoubts to the right, but were repulsed with considerable loss. We were all kept on the qui vive, for it was evident that they had not done with us yet. This was proved at nine o’clock, when we were warned that they were advancing against us with a force believed to be not less than 17,000 men. From right to left they came on, with drums beating and loud huzzas, and attempted to storm our works. We opened on them with all our guns from one end of our works to the other. They replied with their musketry, and it may well be supposed how terrific appeared that blaze of fire extending throughout the whole length of that wide-stretching line. It was a sight which, although many are the battles I have seen, I shall never forget. Then there were the burning houses, the bursting shells, the roar of the artillery, the rattle of the musketry, the crashing of falling buildings, the blowing-up of mines, the cries of the combatants, the shrieks of the wounded, the loud clang of the martial bands, the wild huzzas of the stormers, the defiant shouts of our gallant fellows,—all these must be thrown in, and yet after all no adequate conception can be formed of that midnight scene of slaughter and destruction. Our men fought fiercely and desperately; soldiers and sailors vied with each other in their feats of gallantry. Bravely they stood at the breaches in our crumbling works; the sick and wounded rushed to the trenches. I heard a voice near me which I recognised as that of Tom Rockets.

“I thought you had been in your bed, Tom,” said I.

“So I was, sir,” he answered; “but I couldn’t stay there when this sort of fun was going on, so as I’d yet one arm at liberty I thought as how I’d come and use it alongside you, Mr Hurry; I knew you wasn’t over well to do either.”

Tom had no jacket on, and his arm was bound up just as it had been when he managed to make his escape from the hospital. Although in most directions we drove the enemy back, they managed to carry two of our flanking redoubts on the left, which had hitherto retarded their approaches, when nearly all the poor fellows in them were, as is generally the case when a post is taken by storm, put to the bayonet.

15th.—The enemy lost no time in throwing up a line of communication between the two flanking redoubts, which they perfected before daylight. The consequence of this to us was most disastrous, for they would now rake the whole of our lines. Still we persevered and returned, though it must be owned but feebly, the vigorous fire they kept up on us.

16th.—At half-past four in the morning, Lord Cornwallis directed a sortie to be made in order to destroy or to spike the guns in one of the enemy’s batteries which was causing us most annoyance. The party consisted of about a hundred and fifty men from the guards, the light infantry and the 80th regiment. Never have I seen a more spirited or dashing affair. Away they went, nor stopped till they had surmounted the enemy’s works, which were found to be occupied by French troops, upwards of a hundred of whom were bayoneted. Eleven guns were spiked and in five minutes they were back again within our lines with the loss only of twelve killed and wounded. Scarcely anything took place in the garrison with which the enemy were not made acquainted. The general, therefore, never allowed any of his intentions to transpire till the moment of execution. It was therefore without much surprise that I heard at midnight that boats were in readiness to convey the troops over to the Gloucester side, and that the seamen were to keep up as heavy a fire as we could, to deceive the enemy. When the troops had passed over we were to make a rush for the boats and get across to follow them as best we could. What was then to be done we were left to divine. The sick and wounded and prisoners, and our guns and stores, were of course to be abandoned. Scarcely had I heard of the proposed plan before I found that the embarkation had commenced. The night had been threatening, and now a storm with wind and rain, thunder and lightning, such as I had not often witnessed, commenced and increased in fury. It made our work easier in deceiving the enemy, though our artillery seemed but a mockery of the thunder of the skies. Our gallant seamen felt that the safety of the army depended on their exertions, and in spite of the showers of shot and shell falling among us all night, most nobly did they stand to their guns. The time was approaching when I expected to receive orders to call them off from the lines, that we might commence our retreat. O’Driscoll was engaged in the embarkation of the troops. He was to come when they had crossed, to assist me in managing the retreat of the seamen. At length I heard his voice in my battery.

“All right,” I exclaimed. “One shot more and we’ll make a run for it.”

“Not at all right,” was his answer. “The plan has failed, and if the enemy discover our condition we are done for. I came to stop you from leaving your guns.”

“What has happened?” I exclaimed.

“The larger part of the army were got across in safety when the gale increased so much that I began to doubt the possibility of passing over any more. Even the empty boats could scarcely make head against it. I was going to represent this to the commodore, when I found that two of the boats full of troops had drifted down the river before the gale. If the poor fellows in them have escaped drowning, they will by daylight fall into the hands of the enemy. This settled the question; the further embarkation of the troops has been stopped, and now I must hurry away to endeavour to get the main body back again before our manoeuvre is discovered.”

The troops remaining on the York side once more returned to the lines, and the night passed away, as had many previous nights, both sides keeping up a heavy cannonade with the addition of the fearful storm which raged till long after the sun had risen on the scene of slaughter and destruction.

The plan formed by our noble general was worthy of him, desperate as it may appear, and would, I believe, have succeeded had not the elements been against him. Sallying from the lines at Gloucester Point as soon as all the army had crossed over, he intended to attack the camp of the French cavalry, mount the infantry on their horses, and push on by rapid marches towards the north, till he could form a junction with such forces as Sir Henry Clinton might send out to his support. Part of the navy and a small body of troops were to be left behind to arrange terms for the inhabitants as well as for our poor wounded and sick men, who could not be moved. The baggage also of course was to have been abandoned. Had the plan succeeded, it would have been looked upon as one of the most gallant exploits on record. Still many lives might have been sacrificed and no adequate object obtained, so I doubt not that events turned out for the best.

17th.—At length the storm began to abate, but great was our anxiety lest the enemy should discover our situation and attack us. Happily they did not come on, and by noon we were able to bring back that part of the army which had crossed the river. Our generals held a council of war, and it became known that the sad hour had arrived when we must sue for terms with the enemy, or undergo all the dangers of an assault with the certainty of being defeated at last. With feelings of sorrow and regret we saw the flag of truce depart. We waited the result with anxiety. Whatever were the terms proposed they were peremptorily refused by the enemy, and our brave general determined to hold out for one day more on the bare possibility of relief arriving from New York. The fire accordingly re-commenced on both sides with greater fury than before.

18th.—During the whole morning the fire from all the batteries continued with unabated warmth, though one after the other our guns were becoming useless. I continued working away at mine with gloomy desperation. I was suffering from my wounds, from fatigue, and from hunger too, for our provisions had almost failed us. I could have gone on, however, as long as a man remained alive to help me work my guns. At last a shot came through the embrasure at which was a gun I was on the point of firing. Suddenly I felt my arm jerked up—the match dropped from my nerveless arm, and I fell. At that moment the signal was given to cease firing. Another flag of truce was going forth. I felt that I was desperately wounded—I believed that my last hour had come.

It was just then four o’clock. This was nearly the last shot fired during that hateful and fratricidal war. Angels were rejoicing that blood had ceased to flow, though proud British hearts were sad and humbled at the thoughts of their defeat. That hour struck the knell of England’s supremacy in the West, and gave forth the first glad notes of the establishment of American Independence. Directly afterwards the cannonade from the side of the enemy ceased along the whole extent of their line.

My men, when they saw me on the ground, lifted me up, and placed me on a litter already deeply stained with blood. O’Driscoll arrived, and sincere was the sorrow and commiseration he expressed when he saw me. I inquired for Colonel Carlyon, and entreated that I might be conveyed to where he was.

I felt a longing desire to see Madeline’s father once more, and to send by him, should he survive, my last message of love and devotion to her. I thought that he would not hesitate about delivering them.

“I will inquire where your friend the colonel is,” answered O’Driscoll. “He was removed, I know, for the house where he lay was too much battered to be longer tenable. I am uncertain to what quarters he has been removed.”

My heart sank within me when I heard these words, for I fully believed that Colonel Carlyon had been killed, and that O’Driscoll was unwilling to wound my feelings by the information. My men now moved on with me through the town. I need not again describe the scenes I witnessed—the dead scattered about, piles of ruins, houses battered and blackened, the remnant of the inhabitants wandering about looking for their lost friends, maimed and wounded soldiers and seamen—gaunt, pale and starved—others still unhurt, looking angry and sullen at the thought of our defeat. Officers were standing about in groups, greeting each other with vexed and sorrowful looks. I was suffering too much physically to feel deeply on the matter, but my sensations were of a very mixed character, and I do not feel that it was derogatory to my character, as a loyal subject of his Majesty, or as a British officer, to say that I heartily prayed that the war might be over, even though the proposed humiliating surrender might be the last great event connected with it. After I had been conveyed through several ruined, half-burned streets, my bearers at length stopped at a house where O’Driscoll told me he believed Colonel Carlyon was to be found.

Such was the case. Though sitting up, he was unable to walk. The expression of sorrow and commiseration which lit up his countenance, and the kind words with which he greeted me, gave me the assurance that I was regarded by him in the light I desired. It was some time before a surgeon could attend me—so many more urgent cases demanding the care of the medical men in every direction. In the meantime notice was brought us that a cessation of arms had been agreed on, and which time was afterwards increased till the following day.

Like a father or a fond brother did Colonel Carlyon tend me all that night, refusing to lie down till my wounds had been dressed, and I had sunk into the slumber I so much needed.

19th.—The day—painful, though scarcely to be called humiliating, to the brave army which had so heroically endured that desperate if not protracted siege—at length arrived. Lord Cornwallis, finding that our enemies had resolved to grant us alone the terms which they had previously offered—that we had not as yet experienced the effect of the fire from the flanking redoubts, armed with numerous pieces of heavy artillery ready to open on us—that our garrison was now reduced to scarcely three thousand effective men, in want both of provisions and ammunition—felt that the only course open to him, to prevent the horrors of an assault, and to save the lives of the remainder of his troops, was to accept them. Accordingly, at noon, the army surrendered prisoners-of-war to the United States of America, while the navy became prisoners by arrangement to the Compte de Grasse. At one o’clock a regiment of American troops, followed by one of French, took possession of the works, with drums beating and colours flying, when the British flag was struck, and that of America displayed in its stead. At three o’clock the British troops marched out, with drums beating and colours cased, towards the enemy’s lines. There in a wide field were drawn up the armies of the allies, with the generals ready to receive them. Proud and happy, indeed, must Washington and his brethren-in-arms have felt at this, to them, glorious termination of the struggle.

Sullen and sad looked our men, I was told, as, with gestures of impatience and vexation, they grounded their arms, and then marched back into the town. At the same time the enemy took possession of all our lines and works. My wounds, though severe, were not dangerous, and I was able to take an interest in all that was going forward, and to receive the visits of friends who came to inquire after me and to offer me assistance. With regard to the condition of the garrison on the day we surrendered, I can state positively that, on a correct muster, we were unable to march out more than two thousand five hundred men. We found, therefore, that we had lost, in killed and wounded, upwards of a thousand, and from sickness four hundred and fifty. From this calculation it will be seen that we had about a hundred and ten killed and wounded every day after the enemy opened their batteries. The remaining troops were at Gloucester, on the other side of the river, the works of which they bravely defended to the last.

The ruinous condition of the town and works, which altogether did not cover half a mile of ground in length and nothing like it in width, may be conceived by the accounts I have already given. I may remark that from one end to the other it was strewed with shot and shell, and had truly the appearance of a ploughed field. I must not close my account of the public events of this memorable period without speaking of the civility and humanity the English prisoners received from the French—so different to that which I experienced when I fell into their hands at Saint Domingo. They showed evident compassion for our condition, and not only rendered us every delicate attention in their power, but gave the officers a captain’s guard of grenadiers to guard them from the insolence and abuse of the American soldiers, who showed, it was said, much disposition to ill-treat and rob them. The excitement and the great exertion made by all had hitherto kept at bay the attacks of sickness from many who now began, their toils over, to succumb to them. Intermittent fevers appeared, and few, I believe, escaped. Among those who died was my gallant friend and brother-officer, Lieutenant Conway, whose name I have before frequently mentioned. For my own part, I received the greatest personal kindness both from Americans and French. Those especially who had at any time received any attention from the English seemed anxious on this occasion to exhibit their gratitude. Among them I must particularly mention Monsieur Clenard who commanded the Compte D’Artois, the French ship we and the Bienfaisant took off Ireland. He now commanded one of the ships of war in the French fleet. He showed the Charon’s, in particular, every mark of esteem and kindness. So did a French officer we took in the Peggy privateer, when we went in search of the French fleet, and whom we had properly treated when he was on board us. Such conduct reflects the highest honour on the French, and authorises them to expect, should any of their people at any time by the chances of war fall into our hands, the same kindness and consideration.

The American officers were not backward in the same liberal and generous conduct. I had on one occasion—I omitted to mention it—an opportunity of showing a favour to the son of a Colonel Matthews in the American army. Colonel Matthews immediately came and offered money, servants and horses, and invited me to his house as soon as I could be moved. Mr Jones also, a gentleman residing at Hampton, whose family I had met there, sent the instant he heard we had been defeated to ascertain how he could best serve me, and wrote to assure me that, should I decide to remain on my parole in America, he would request General Washington to allow me to reside at his house, and that money or anything he had was at my service. Just at the same time I received a similar message from Mrs Langton, whose house was not more than seven miles from York Town. I need scarcely say that, grateful as I felt for all the other offers of kindness I had received. I resolved, should I have the power, to accept hers. The public events which took place on the days subsequent to the surrender may not be considered of general interest. On the 20th the French ships of war came up the harbour, and on the following day the British troops were marched into the country, where they were to be distributed, and kept as prisoners of war till the conclusion of peace. The seamen still remained in the town. On the 21st, paroles of honour were granted to the officers of the Navy, who were to go to Europe in flags of truce with all the seamen and marines. Every exertion was made to fit out the vessels remaining in the harbour for this purpose, but it was not till the 2nd of November that they were ready to take their departure. On the very day we capitulated, Sir Henry Clinton, with a large fleet of line-of-battle ships and frigates, with seven thousand of his best troops, set sail from New York. He did not appear off the Capes of Virginia till the 24th, when, hearing what had occurred, he returned to New York. It was not, however, till the 26th of January, 1782, that a treaty of peace was signed at Paris, the happy news of which reached Philadelphia on the 23rd of March. But I am anticipating events.

Colonel Carlyon was sufficiently recovered two days after the surrender of York Town to be removed to Mrs Langton’s, but several days elapsed before I was able to follow him, when I obtained permission from the commodore as well as from the Compte de Grasse, to remain in America till my health was restored. I had an affectionate parting with O’Driscoll and with my old follower, Tom Rockets, who were the bearers of many messages from me to my family.

“Tell them, O’Driscoll,” said I, “that though I am a loyal subject of King George, I see no reason why I should not win the hand, as I believe I have the heart, of a daughter of America.”

“You’re right, my dear boy,” he answered. “You’ll be doing the most loyal thing in your power, for you’ll be winning back a subject who would otherwise be lost, and gaining many little subjects too, maybe, old fellow,” he added, with a poke in my wounded ribs which almost upset me.

At length a litter was brought into my room, and I was carried in it on men’s shoulders to the house of my friends. What words of mine can do justice to the generous kindness and the delicate attention with which I was treated by all the family, and the marks of tender affection I received from one who was there to welcome me? When I first looked up, after I had been placed on the bed prepared for my wounded form, Madeline stood by my side. My wounds healed. I rapidly recovered my strength, and then the depressing feeling of my poverty, of my utter inability to support a wife as I desired that Madeline should be maintained, came over me. She ascertained the cause of my despondency.

“But papa can obtain employment for you,” she remarked. “Why not, when there is peace, leave the British Navy and enter that of the United States? Surely it is equally honourable!”

Little did she know, when she said that, how, with all its faults, I loved the glorious Navy of England: I perhaps scarcely knew myself, till the sensations which the suggestion conjured up in my bosom told me. Even the idea of quitting the sea and following some occupation on shore had not the attraction for me which might have been supposed. Still I had resolved to adopt the latter alternative if her father would bestow her hand on me. He had been absent for some time, attending to public affairs. At length he returned. I explained to him my position. I thought he looked grave and sad as I went on speaking.

“I have been under a mistake,” he observed. “I thought that you were in the expectation of receiving a good property, and that you would have the means of supporting my dear child. This war has ruined my estate, and I am but little able to leave her anything. It will be better for you both to part; I grieve that you should have again met.”

These words pierced me to the heart, and overthrew all the bright visions I had conjured up. They were so unlike, too, what I expected to hear from him. I pressed my hands on my face and groaned. I dared not meet Madeline. I thought that, too probably, he would prohibit me from seeing her again. I sat the picture of despair. Just then a negro servant entered the room, and gave a packet of letters to the colonel. He handed me one with a black seal. Another blow. Some other member of my family dead. It is too bitter. I cannot stand this. I’ll go to sea again, and hope that in mercy I may lose that life which has become too burdensome to bear. Such thoughts, (wrong and impious I know they were), passed through my mind as I kept the letter in my hand before breaking the seal. I looked at the superscription. It was from my dear sister Jane. I tore it open. The contents soon riveted my attention. It was not long. One passage ran thus:—

“Some weeks ago, our old relation, Sir Hurricane Tempest, much to our surprise, sent to ask one of us to go and nurse him, saying that he was, he believed, on his death-bed, and beseeching us to have compassion on a friendless, childless old man. The lot fell on me. I found him very different to what I expected, and interested in all matters concerning us. Do you remember, Hurry, rescuing an old gentleman from the mob in London during the Lord George Gordon riots? That was Sir Hurricane himself. He knew you; and when I told him about you, and that you had fallen in love with an American lady, the daughter of a rebel, and that you had no means of marrying her, he answered, ‘But he shall have the means. I’ll give them to him. I like his spirit. I like her. Her friends have espoused the right side—the side of liberty. They were not afraid to stand up boldly against tyranny and injustice. Tell him I shall be happy to welcome the little rebel as my niece, if I live, and, at all events, to know that her children will inherit my property.’ Soon after this our kind old uncle died, and he has left you, as far as I can understand, fully three thousand a year.”

How my heart bounded when I heard these words! I handed the letter to Colonel Carlyon. He rose and took my hand.

“I had not intended to be very stern when, just now, I spoke to you,” he said, and I knew that he spoke the truth. “I wished to ascertain whether your affection for my daughter was as great as I was assured it is. I know that you are eager to give her, before she hears it from others, the satisfactory information you have received. Go and tell her.”

I did. A few days subsequent to the news of peace being received, we were married. After a tour in the States she accompanied me to England, and my American bride won golden opinions from all the relatives and friends to whom I had the happiness of introducing her. A dutiful and affectionate wife she has always been to me, and I have had just cause to be thankful that I married the Little Rebel.