The count D'Estang, with the French fleet, arrives to attack Savannah — our army marches and joins him — fatal effects of D'Estang's politeness — biographical dash of young colonel Laurens — curious dialogue betwixt him and the French general — unsuccessful attack on Savannah — the brave Jasper mortally wounded — is visited by the author in his last moments — interesting conversation — dies like a Christian soldier.

Could the wishes of our army have availed, those gallant soldiers, (Jasper and Newton) would long have lived to enjoy their past, and to win fresh laurels. But alas! the former of them, the heroic Jasper, was soon led, like a young lion, to an evil net. The mournful story of his death, with heavy heart I now relate.

Scarcely had he returned from Georgia, laden, as aforesaid, with glory, when an express came into camp, and informed that the count D'Estang was arrived off Tybee. Instantly we struck our tents and marched for the siege of Savannah. On arriving near that fatal place, we found that the French troops, with their cannon and mortars, had just come up. Oh! had we but advanced at once to the attack, as became skilful soldiers, we should have carried every thing before us. The frighted garrison would have hauled down their colors without firing a shot. This I am warranted to say by the declaration of numbers of their officers, who afterwards fell into our hands. But in place of an immediate `coup de main', the courtly D'Estang sent a flag, very politely inviting the town to do him the extreme honor of receiving their surrender.

The British commander was not much behindhand with the count in the article of politeness, for he also returned a flag with his compliments, and requested to be permitted four and twenty hours to think of the matter.

If the ASKING such a favor was extraordinary, what must the GRANTING of it have been? But the accomplished D'Estang was fully equal to such douceurs for he actually allowed the enemy four and twenty hours to think of surrendering!

But instead of THINKING, like simpletons, they fell to ENTRENCHING, like brave soldiers. And being joined that very day by colonel Maitland from Beaufort, with a regiment of Highlanders, and assisted by swarms of negroes, decoyed from their masters under promise of freedom, they pushed on their works with great rapidity. According to the report of our troops who were encamped nearest to them, nothing was heard all that night, but the huzzas of the soldiers, the lashes of cow-hides, and the cries of negroes.

I never beheld Marion in so great a passion. I was actually afraid he would have broke out on general Lincoln. "My God!" he exclaimed, "who ever heard of any thing like this before! — first allow an enemy to entrench, and then fight him!! See the destruction brought upon the British at Bunker's Hill! and yet our troops there were only militia! raw, half-armed clodhoppers! and not a mortar, nor carronade, nor even a swivel — but only their ducking guns!

"What then are we to expect from regulars — completely armed with a choice train of artillery, and covered by a breast-work! For my own part, when I look upon my brave fellows around me, it wrings me to the heart, to think how near most of them are to their bloody graves."

In fact, Marion was so outrageous, as indeed were all of us, that we at length begged colonel Laurens to speak to the count D'Estang.

And here I must beg the reader's pardon a moment, while I inform him that this colonel Laurens (son of President Laurens) was a very extraordinary young Carolinian.

On a trip to London, he fell in love with, and married a celebrated belle of that city. It would seem that he was very much taken with his English relations, and they with him, for after his marriage, they would not suffer him to revisit his parents, who doted on him, being their only son, but detained him with them in London, as gay as a young man well could be, in the gayest city in the world, moving every day in the highest circles of society, and every night encircled in the fond arms of a beauteous wife.

But soon as the war against America broke out, his gaiety all forsook him. The idea of a ruffian soldiery overrunning his native land, preyed incessantly on his spirits, and threw him into those brown studies which cost his lady full many a tear. Unable to bear his disquietude, he fled at length from his wife and infant family, to fight for his country. He presented himself before the great Washington, who was so struck with the fire that beamed from his eyes, that he made him handsome offers of rank in the army. But his favorite service was to lead `forlorn hopes', and the daring bands that are destined to carry the enemy's works by storm. Washington often gave him letters to this effect to his generals. And this was his object at Savannah, where a regiment of choice infantry was immediately put under his command. But instead of being permitted his favorite pleasure of seeing his ardent warriors mounting the enemy's works, and rushing down streams of fire, followed by the bayonet, he was doomed to fret and pine in the humble office of interpreter between count D'Estang and general Lincoln.

"But, Monsieur le count," said Laurens to D'Estang, "the American officers say they are afraid you have given the English too long time to think."

At this, as Laurens told us afterwards, the count put on a most comic stare, and breaking into a hearty laugh, replied, "De Engleesh think! ha, ha, ha! By gar dat one ver good parole! De Engleesh tink, heh, Monsieur le colonel! By gar, de Engleesh never tink but for deir bellie. Give de Jack Engleeshman plenty beef — plenty pudding — plenty porter, by gar he never tink any more, he lay down, he go a sleep like vun hog."

"But, Monsieur le count," continued Laurens, "the English are doing worse for us than thinking. They are working away like horses, and will soon get their defences too high for us to scale."

"Eh, heh, Monsieur le colonel! you think-a so? Well den, by gar you no need for tink-a so — by gar my French-a-mans run over de fence just like vun tief horse run over de cornfield fence — mind now I tell-a you dat, Monsieur le colonel."

"Well, but Monsieur le count, the British sometimes fight like the d—-l."

"Sacre Dieu!" replied the nettled count, starting and gaping as though he would have swallowed a young alligator — "de Briteesh fight like de diable! Jaun foutre de Briteesh! when they been known for fight like de diable? Ess, ess, dat true enough; dey fight de Americans like de diable — but by gar dey no fight de French-a-mans so — no no, by gar dey no make one mouthful for my French-a-mans — Morbleu! my French-a-mans eat dem up like vun leetle grenoulle."

"Green Owl!" exclaimed one of general Lincoln's aids —
"Oh my God! who ever heard of a `green owl' before?"

Here Laurens, smiling at the officer's mistake, replied, "not `green owl', sir, but `grenouille', grenouille, sir, is the French for frog."

"Aye, sure enough, sure enough, frog," continued the count, "frog; grenouille is frog. By gar, Monsieur le colonel, you be vun dam good interpret, I set dat well enough. Well den, now, Monsieur le colonel, you hear-a me speak — my French-a-mans eat dem Jack Engleesh all same like vun leetle frog."

"Oh to be sure! — no doubt of all that, Monsieur le count — but before we eat them up, they may kill a great many of our soldiers."

"Dey kill-a de soldier!" replied the passionate count — "well what den if dey do kill-a de soldier! Jaun foutre de soldier! what dey good for but for be kill? dat deir trade. You give-a vun poor dog soldier, two, three, four penny a day, he go fight — he get kill. Well den, what dat? By gar he only get what he HIRE for."

"But pardon me, Monsieur le count, we can't spare them."

"Vat! no spare de soldier! de GRAND MONARQUE no spare de soldier? O mon Dieu! Vy, Monsieur le colonel — for why you talk-a so? Well den, hear-a me speak now, Monsieur le colonel — you see de star in de sky; de leaf on de tree; de sand on de shore — you no see all dat, heh? Well den, by gar, Monsieur le colonel, de GRAND MONARQUE got soldier more an-a all dat — ess, sacra Dieu! more an-a all dat, by gar."

"Well but, Monsieur le count, is it not CRUEL to kill the poor fellows notwithstanding?"

"Pooh!" replied the count, throwing back his head, and puffing out his cheeks as when a cigar sucker explodes a cataract of smoke from the crater of his throat; "cruel! vat cruel for kill-a de soldier! by gar, Monsieur le colonel, you make-a de king of France laugh he hear-a you talk after dat fashong. Let-a me tell you, Monsieur le colonel, de king of France no like general Washington — by gar, general Washington talk wi' de soldier — he shake hand wi' de soldier — he give de soldier dram — By gar, de GRAND MONARQUE no do so — no, sacra Dieu! he no LOOK AT de soldier. When de king of France ride out in de coach royale wid de supeerb horses, and harness shining so bright all vun like gold, if he run over one soldier, you tink he going stop for dat? No, sacra foutre! he ride on so, all one like if nothing at all been happen. Jaun foutre de soldier! let him prenez garde for himself; by gar the grand Monarque no mind dat. De grand Monarque only tink of de soldier `commes des chiens', like de poor dam dog for fight for him."

Thus ended the dialogue between colonel Laurens and the count D'Estang.

The next day, the memorable twenty-four hours being expired, a flag was sent into town to know the determination of the British officer, who very politely replied, that having consulted his pillow, he had made up his mind to defend the place. A regular siege was then commenced, and continued for three weeks: at the end of which an attack was made, and with the success which Marion had all along predicted. After a full hour's exposure to the destructive rage of grape shot and musketry, we were obliged to make a precipitate retreat; leaving the ground covered with the mingled carcasses of 400 Americans and 800 Frenchmen. Marion's corps fighting with their usual confidence, suffered great loss; himself did not receive a scratch. Colonel Laurens raged like a wounded lion. Soon as the retreat was ordered he paused, and looking round on his fallen men, cried out, "Poor fellows, I envy you!" then hurling his sword in wrath against the ground, he retired. Presently, after we had reached our encampment, he came to my marquee, and like one greatly disordered, said, "Horry, my life is a burden to me; I would to God I was lying on yonder field at rest with my poor men!"

"No! no! none of that, colonel," said I, "none of that;
I trust we shall live to pay them yet for all this."

And so it turned out. And though for humanity's sake, I ought not to BOAST of it, yet we did live to pay them for it, and often too: and in the same bloody coin which they gave us that day. And although in that fiery season of my days, and when my dear country was in danger, it was but natural for me to rejoice in the downfall of my enemies, yet I was often witness to scenes, which to this day I can never think of but with sorrow — as when, for example, after dashing upon an enemy by surprise, and cutting one half of them to pieces and chasing the rest, we returned to collect the horses and arms of the slain. Who, I say, without grief could behold those sad sights which then offered themselves, of human beings lying mangled over the crimson ground — some stone dead, some still alive and struggling, with brains oozing from their cloven skulls — and others sitting up, or leaning on their elbows, but pale with loss of blood, running in streams from their mortal wounds, and they themselves looking down, the while, sadly thinking of home and of distant wives and children, whom they shall never see again.

Such thoughts, if often cherished, would much abate the rancor of malice in the hearts of those whose sad destiny it is to kill one another; especially if it were known how short sometimes are the triumphs of the victor. It was remarkably so in the present case: for colonel Maitland, of the Highlanders, who had contributed a large part to this very unexpected victory, was so elated by it, that he took to hard drinking, and killed himself in a single week, and the sickly season coming on, the greater part of the garrison perished of the yellow or bilious fever!!

Thus friends and foes the same sad fortune shar'd,
And sickness swallowed whom the sword had spar'd.

Many gallant men were the victims of count D'Estang's folly in this affair; among the number was that impetuous Polander, the count Polaski.

But none fell more universally lamented than the heroic Jasper. Every reader must wish to hear the last of this brave and generous soldier. And they shall have it faithfully, for I happened to be close by him when he received his death's wound; and I was with him when he breathed his last.

Early in the action, the elegant colors presented by Mrs. Elliot, had been planted on the enemy's works; and the fury of the battle raged near the spot where they waved. During the whole of the bloody fray, Jasper had remained unhurt. But on hearing the retreat sounded, he rushed up to bear off his colors, and in that desperate act, was mortally wounded. As he passed by me, with the colors in his hands, I observed he had a bad limp in his walk.

"You are not much hurt, I hope, Jasper," said I.

"Yes, major," he replied, "I believe I have got my furlough."

"Pshaw," quoth I, "furlough indeed, for what?"

"Why to go home," he answered, "to go to Heaven, I hope."

"Pooh!" said I, and having, as the reader must suppose, a good deal to attend to, I turned off and left him. However, his words made such an impression on me, that soon as duty permitted, I went to see him, and found too true what he had predicted; the ball had opened a blood vessel in the lungs which no art could stop, and he was bleeding to slow but certain death.

As I entered the tent, he lifted his eyes to me, but their fire was almost quenched; and stretching his feeble hand, he said, with perfect tranquillity, "Well, major, I told you I had got my furlough."

"I hope not," I replied.

"O yes!" said he, "I am going — and very fast too; but, thank God,
I am not afraid to go."

I told him I knew he was too brave to fear death, and too honest to be alarmed about its consequences.

"Why, as to that matter, sir," said he, "I won't brag: but I have my hopes, notwithstanding I may be wrong, for I know I am but a poor ignorant body, but somehow or other, I have always built my hopes of what God may do for me hereafter, on what he has done for me here!"

I told him I thought he was very correct in that.

"Do you, indeed?" said he. "Well, I am mighty glad of that — and now major, here's the way I always comfort myself: Fifty years ago, (I say to myself,) I was nothing, and had no thought that there was any such grand and beautiful world as this. But still there was such a world notwithstanding; and here God has brought me into it. Now, can't he, in fifty years more, or indeed in fifty minutes more, bring me into another world, as much above this as this is above that state of nothing, wherein I was fifty years ago?"

I told him that this was, to my mind, a very happy way of reasoning; and such, no doubt, as suited the greatness and goodness of God.

"I think so, major," said he, "and I trust I shall find it so; for though I've been a man of blood, yet, thank God, I've always lived with an eye to that great hope. My mother, major, was a good woman; when I was but a child, and sat on her lap, she used to talk to me of God, and tell how it was he who built this great world, with all its riches and good things: and not for himself, but for ME! and also, that if I would but do his will in that only acceptable way, a good life, he would do still greater and better things for me hereafter.

"Well, major, from the mouth of a dear mother, like her, these things went so deep into my heart, that they could never be taken away from me. I have hardly ever gone to bed, or got up again, without saying my prayers. I have honored my father and mother; and, thank God, been strictly HONEST. And since you have known me, major, I believe you can bear witness, that though a strong man, I never was quarrelsome."

I told him, nothing afforded me more satisfaction, than to remember that, since he was now going to die, he had always led so good a life.

He answered, with tears in his eyes, that he had a good hope he was going where he should not do what he had been obliged to do in this world. "I've killed men in my time, major, but not in malice, but in what I thought a just war in defence of my country. And as I bore no malice against those I killed, neither do I bear any against those who have killed me. And I heartily trust in God for Christ's sake, that we shall yet, one day, meet together, where we shall forgive and love one another like brothers. I own, indeed, major, that had it so pleased God, I should have been glad to stay a little longer with you to fight for my country. But however, I humbly hope that my death is of God; which makes it welcome to me, and so I bow me to his blessed will. And now, my good friend, as I feel I have but a little time to live, I beg you will do a few things for me when I am dead and gone."

I could not speak; but gathering my answer from my tears, and the close press
I gave his hand, he thus went on, but it was in a low voice and laborious.

"You see that sword? — It is the one which governor Rutledge presented to me for my services at Fort Moultrie — give that sword to my father, and tell him I never dishonored it. If he should weep for me, tell him his son died in hope of a better life. If you should see that great gentlewoman, Mrs. Elliot, tell her I lost my life in saving the colors she gave to our regiment. And if ever you should come across poor Jones and his wife, and little boy, tell them Jasper is gone; but that the remembrance of the hard battle which he once fought for their sakes brought a secret joy to his heart just as it was about to stop its motion for ever."

He spoke these last words in a livelier tone than usual, but it was like the last kindling of the taper in its oil-less socket — for instantly the paleness of death overspread his face, and after a feeble effort to vomit, with convulsions, the natural effect of great loss of blood, he sunk back and expired.

From this victim of D'Estang's madness, I went with a heavy heart on parade, to take a review of the sad remains of the battle. The call of the roll completed the depression of my spirits. To every fourth or fifth name there was no answer — the gloomy silence which ensued, told us where they were. About twelve o'clock we sent in a flag to the garrison for permission to bury our dead. Curiosity led me to accompany the party destined to this mournful duty. I had prepared myself for a sorrowful sight; but ah! what words can express what I then saw and suffered!

A scattered few lay here and there on the utmost verge of the field, killed by cannon shot, and so mangled, that in some instances, it was hard to tell who they were. As we advanced, they lay thicker and thicker. Some, not quite dead, were constantly crying, "Water! water! — Oh! for God's sake, a little water!" — Others lay quite dead, but still their lifeless visages retained the dark frowns of war. There, on the side of the enemy's breast-work, lay the brave ensign Boushe, covering with his dead body, the very spot where he had fixed the American standard. His face was pale and cold as the earth he pressed, but still it spoke the fierce determined air of one whose last sentiment towards those degenerate Britons was, "There d—n you! look at the stripes of liberty."

Close by ensign Boushe, lay that elegant young man, Alexander Hume, Esq. with his sword still grasped in his stiffened fingers. My heart bled within me, when I looked on young Hume, where he lay in all the pale beauties of death. He was to have been married the week following, to a charming woman; but such was his zeal to serve his country, that he came a volunteer to our camp, and met his death the next morning after he joined us. Gifted with a pretty taste for painting, he had tried his skill, and very successfully too, in sketching the likeness of his lovely mistress. For on opening his bosom, was found, suspended by a blue ribband, (the happy lover's color) a fine likeness of the beautiful Miss ——: the back of the portrait was stained with his blood; but unconscious of her lover's fate, she still wore the enchanting smile with which yielding beauty views the youth she loves.

We then proceeded to bury our dead; which was done by digging large pits, sufficient to contain about a hundred corpses. Then taking off their clothes, with heavy hearts, we threw them into the pits, with very little regard to order, and covered them over with earth.

"Poor brothers, farewell! the storm of your last battle has long ago ceased on the field, and no trace now remains on earth that you ever lived. The worms have devoured your flesh; and the mounds raised over your dust, are sunk back to the common level with the plain. But ah! could your mournful story be read, the youth of America would listen to the last words of Washington, and `study the art of war,' that their countrymen might no more be murdered by military quacks.

As a hint to American officers, I think it my duty to state the following fact: — Our fatal attack on Savannah was made very early in the morning. A few hours previous thereto, a council of war was held; and while it was deliberating, a deserter and spy had the address to bear a musket, as sentinel at the door of the marquee!! On hearing where the attack was to be made, he ran off in the dark, and gave such intelligence to the enemy, as enabled them very completely to defeat us. The fellow was afterwards taken at the battle of Hobkirk Hill, near Camden, and hung.

Scarcely had we finished burying the dead, before the count D'Estang hurried on board his ships with his troops and artillery, while we, passing on in silence by the way of Zubley's ferry, returned to Carolina, and pitched our tents at Sheldon, the country seat of general Bull.

The theatre of war being, from this period, and for some time at least, removed to the northern states, the governor and council were pleased to reduce the regiments, and dismiss the supernumerary officers. To some of my brethren in arms, this was matter of serious alarm. But for myself, possessing, thank God, a liberal fortune in the country, and feeling no ATTRACTION to the camp, except when drawn thither by public danger, I was quite happy to hear of this new arrangement, and waited on his excellency to return my commission.

Perhaps some may say it was pride in me, and that I did not like the idea of being `unfrocked'. Why, as to that matter, it is not for me to boast of my standing among my superiors in those days. But this I must needs say, that it is joy enough, and glory enough too, for me to know, that I was always the favorite of the great Marion; and that he seldom ever asked the lightning of any other sword than mine, to lead his squadron to the charge. However, the moment I heard, as above, that it was in agitation to reduce the regiments, I waited on the governor, and begged that, as there was nothing doing, he would allow me to return to my plantation. To my plantation I DID return, and there continued till spring, 1780, when Charleston was taken by the British; at which time, and for some weeks before, I was grievously afflicted with the rheumatism. Thus by a providence, which, I confess, I did not at that time altogether like, I was kindly saved from being kidnapped by the enemy, and also introduced into a field of some little service, I hope, to my country, and of no great dishonor to myself. However, be this as it may, the reader shall soon see, and then let him judge for himself.