Cherokee Ford.

Romantic Mountain Gorge.

Passage of King's Creek

CHAPTER XVII.

"Ours are no hirelings train'd to the fight,

With cymbal and clarion, all glittering and bright;
No prancing of chargers, no martial display;

No war-trump is heard from our silent array.

O'er the proud heads of freemen our star-banner waves;
Men, firm as their mountains, and still as their graves,
To-morrow shall pour out their life-blood like rain:

We come back in triumph, or come not again !"-T. GRAY.

T noon I crossed the Broad River at the Cherokee Ford, and turning to the southeast, pressed on toward Yorkville and the interesting fields of conflict beyond, near the waters of the Catawba and its surname, the Wateree, where the chivalrous partisans of the South, scorning the Delilah lap of ease, retained their strength and battled manfully with the Philistines of the crown. The river at the ford is about eight hundred yards wide, and upon the firm pathway, which has been constructed at considerable expense, the average depth of

in this vicinity, that it is quite unnavigable, except in a few places.

Soon after leaving the ford, I passed through a gorge of a spur of King's Mountain, which here comes down in a precip itous ridge to the Broad River. The scenery within this gorge was the most romantic I had observed in the South

ern country. From a ravine, just wide enough for the passage of a small stream and the high-way, the hills rise almost perpendicularly to a considerable altitude. They were covered with the various evergreens which give beauty to Southern forests in winter; and from the fissures of the rocks, where the water-fountains were bursting forth, hundreds of icicles were glittering in prismatic beauty wherever the sun shed its rays upon them. It was truly a gorgeous scene. Along this sinuous mountain stream, rock-bound on either side, the road continued to an iron establishment, where it ascends the steep margins of the hills, presenting a surface of deep adhesive red earth. Descending the eastern side of the eminence, I crossed King's Creek, a dozen miles below the place where I passed it two days before when on my way to the Cowpens. Soon again I was among the rough hills, and so bad was the road, that at sunset I

had traveled only ten miles from the Cherokee Ford. MOUNTAIN GORGE NEAR THE CHEROKEE FORD.

This view is from the east bank of the river. Toward the extreme right is seen the dam, made to supply water-power for the iron-works delineated toward the left of the picture. The fording-place, which crosses a small island in the middle of the stream, is indicated by the slight fall toward the left.

A Night on the Mountains.

Contentment.

Mule Driving.

Yorkville.

Catawba Indians.

I discovered that the temporary repairs of my wagon had not been sufficient to withstand the rough usage of the way, and that more thorough work was necessary before I could pursue my journey with safety. Yorkville, the nearest place in advance where a smith could be found, was fourteen miles distant, so I was compelled to halt for the night at a small log-house, of forbidding aspect, among the mountains. The food and shelter was of the plainest kind imaginable. There was no "light in the dwelling," except the blaze of pine wood upon the hearth, and I wrote a letter by the glare of a resinous knot, brought from the "wood pile" for the purpose. Lying in bed, I could count the stars at the zenith; while the open floor below afforded such ample ventilation, that my buffalo robe, wrapped around me, was not uncomfortable on that keen frosty night. But generous, open-handed hospitality was in that humble cabin, which made amends for trifling discomforts, and I felt satisfied.

"Out upon the calf, I say,

Who turns his grumbling head away,
And quarrels with his feed of hay,
Because it is not clover.

Give to me the happy mind,
That will ever seek and find

Something fair and something kind,

All the wide world over."

Our hungry eyes may fondly wish

To revel amid flesh and fish,
And gloat upon the silver dish
That holds a golden plover

Yet if our table be but spread
With bacon and with hot corn-bread,
Be thankful if we're always fed

As well, the wide world over."

Unwilling to risk a journey to Yorkville in my broken buggy, I hired a team of mules and a lumber-wagon from my host, to convey myself and baggage thither; and placing Charley and the vehicle in charge of his son, a lad of fourteen years, we started for the distant village at daybreak the next morning. All the way over that rough road I had practical evidence that mules are, like facts, "stubborn things." I was furnished with a hickory goad as long as an angler's rod, and with this I labored faithfully, full half of the way, to whip the animals into a trot where a level space occurred. But I made no visible impression; walk they would, until they reached the brow of a hill, when they would descend with the vehemence of the swine of old, who, filled with devils, ran down into the sea. Down three long hills, rocky and gullied, they ran, while my energies were fully occupied in pulling at the reins with one hand, and securing my seat upon a loose board, covered with a sheepskin, with the other. I reached Yorkville in safety at a little past meridian, resolved never again to play postillion with mules or donkeys, whether biped or quadruped.

Yorkville, the capital of York District, in South Carolina, almost two hundred miles from Charleston, is a very pleasant village of about eight hundred inhabitants, situated in the midst of a high plain, on the dividing-ridge between the waters of the Broad and Catawba Rivers. Sheltered from the northwest winds by the mountains, the climate is mild in winter; elevated far above the low country of the Carolinas, it is salubrious in summer. The streets of the village are regularly laid out, and adorned with beautiful Pride of India trees, filled, when I was there, with clusters of fruit. I saw some elegant mansions; and in the gardens, fine palmettoes, the first I had seen, were growing. I passed the Sabbath pleasantly in Yorkville, and left it early on Monday morning, with the impression that not a lovelier village flourishes in the "upper country" of the South. Leaving the great highway to Columbia on the right, I traversed the more private roads in the direction of the Catawba, to visit the scenes of valor and suffering in the vicinity of that stream. The weather was fine, and the roads generally good. Soon after leaving Yorkville, I passed through a part of the Catawba reservation, a narrow tract of land on the Catawba River, near the southeast corner of Yorkville District. The Catawba tribe, once so powerful, have dwindled down to the merest remnant. For their general adherence to the patriots during the Revolution, they have always received the fostering care of the state. Their number now does not exceed one hundred, and in a few years that once great rival tribe of the Five Nations will be extinct.' So the aborigines pass away, and the few survivors in our land may chant in sorrow, The Catawbas spoke a language different from any of the surrounding tribes. They inhabited the

I crossed the Fishing Creek at sunset; and at the house of a young planter, a mile beyond, passed the night. There I experienced hospitality in its fullest degree. The young husbandman had just begun business life for himself, and, with his wife and "wee bairn," occupied a modest house, with only one room. I was not aware of the extent of their accommodations when I asked for a night's entertainment, and the request was promptly complied with. It made no difference to them, for they had two beds in the room, and needed but one for themselves; the other was at my service. The young man was very intelli gent and inquiring, and midnight found us in pleasant conversation. He would accept no compensation in the morning; and I left his humble dwelling full of reverence for that generous and unsuspecting hospitality of Carolina, where the people will give a stranger lodg ings even in their own bedrooms, rather than turn him from their doors.

a Jan. 15,

1849.

"Plain and artless her sons ; but whose doors open faster
At the knock of the stranger or the tale of disaster?
How like to the rudeness of their dear native mountains,
With rich ore in their bosoms, and life in their fountains."

GASTON

My journey of a day from Fishing Creek to Rocky Mount, on the Catawba, was delightful. The winter aira was like the breath of late April in New England; and the roads, passing through a picturesque country, were generally good. Almost every plantation, too, is clustered with Revolutionary associations; for this region, like Westchester county, in New York, was the scene of continual partisan movements, skirmishes, and cruelties, during the last three years of the war. Near the mouth of the Fishing Creek (which empties into the Catawba two miles above the Great Falls), Sumter suffered defeat, after partial success at Rocky Mount below; and down through Chester, Fairfield, and Richland, too, Whigs and Tories battled fearfully for territorial possession, plunder, and personal recountry south of the Tuscaroras, and adjoining the Cherokees. In 1672, the Shawnees made settlements in their country, but were speedily driven away. In 1712, they were the allies of the white people against the Corees and Tuscaroras; but in 1715, they joined the other tribes in a confederacy against the Southern colonies. In 1760, they were auxiliaries of the Carolinians against the Cherokees, and ever afterward were the friends of the white people. Their chief village was on the Catawba, twenty-four miles from Yorkville. The following eloquent petition of Peter Harris, a Catawba warrior during the Revolution, is preserved among the colonial records at Columbia, in South Carolina. The petition is dated 1822:

"I am one of the lingering survivors of an almost extinguished race. Our graves will soon be our only habitations. I am one of the few stalks that still remain in the field where the tempest of the Revolution has passed. I fought against the British for your sake. The British have disappeared, and you are free; yet from me have the British took nothing; nor have I gained any thing by their defeat. I pursued the deer for subsistence; the deer are disappearing, and I must starve. God ordained me for the forest, and my ambition is the shade. But the strength of my arm decays, and my feet fail me in the chase. hand which fought for your liberties is now open for your relief. In my youth I bled in battle, that you night be independent; let not my heart in my old age bleed for the want of your commiseration.”

The

This petition was not unheeded; the Legislature of South Carolina granted the old warrior an annuity of sixty dollars.

Great Falls of the Catawba.

Mount Dearborn.

Cotton Factory.

Rocky Mount and its Associations.

venge. Some of these scenes will be noticed presently. Turning to the left at Beckhamville,' I traversed a rough and sinuous road down to the banks of the Catawba, just below the Great Falls. Here yet remain the foundations of a projected United States military establishment, to be called Mount

Dearborn, which was abandoned; and upon the brink of the foaming waters stands a cotton-mill, the property of Daniel M Cullock, operated by white hands, and devoted chiefly to the production of cotton-yarns. At this place, in the midst of a fine cotton-growing country, almost inexhaustible water-power invites capital and enterprise to seek good investment, and confer substantial benefit upon the state. The place is wild and romantic. Almost the whole volume of the river is here compressed by a rugged island into. a narrow channel, between steep, rocky shores, fissured and fragmented, as if by some powerful convulsion.

There are no perpendicular falls; but down a rocky bed the river tumbles in mingled rapids and cascades, roaring and foaming, and then subsides into comparative calmness in a basin below.

It was late in the afternoon when I finished my sketch of the Falls, and leaving Mount Dearborn, crossed Rock Creek and reined up in front of the elegant mansion of Mrs. Barkley, at Rocky Mount. Her dwelling, where refined hospitality bore rule, is beautifully situated upon an eminence overlooking the Catawba and the surrounding country, and within a few rods of the remains of the old village and the battle-ground. Surrounded by gardens and ornamental trees, it must be a delightful summer residence. Yet there was grief in that dwelling and the habiliments of mourning indicated the ravages of death. The husband and father had been an honored member of the Legislature of South Carolina, and

1 Here was the scene of exciting events during the early part of the summer of 1780. Rocky Mount was made a royal post. Captain Houseman, the commander, sent forth hand-bills, calling the inhabitants together in an "old field," where Beckhamville post-office now stands, to receive protection and acknowledge allegiance to the crown. One aged patriot, like another Tell, refused to bow to the cap of this tiny Gesler. That patriot was Joseph Gaston, who lived upon the Fishing Creek, near the Catawba. In vain Houseman, who went to his residence with an armed escort, pleaded with and menaced the patriot. His reply was, "Never !" and as soon as the British captain had turned his back, he sent his sons out to ask the brave among his neighbors to meet at his house that night. Under Captain John M'Clure, thirty-three determined men were at Judge Gaston's at midnight. They were clad in hunting-shirts and moccasins, wool hats and deer-skin caps, each armed with a butcher-knife and a rifle. Early in the morning, they prepared for the business of the day. Silently they crept along the old Indian trail by the margin of the creek, and suddenly, with a fearful shout, surrounded and discomfited the assembled Tories upon the "old field," at Beckhamville. The British soldiers in attendance fled precipitately to their quarters at Rocky Mount. Filled with rage, Houseman sent a party to bring the hoary-headed patriot, then eighty years of age, to his quarters; but they found his dwelling deserted. His wife, concealed in some bushes near, saw them plunder the house of every thing, and carry off the stock from the plantation. Nothing was left but the family Bible-a precious relic, yet preserved in the family.

This movement of Justice Gaston and his neighbors was the first effort to cast back the wave of British rule which was sweeping over the state, and threatening to submerge all opposition east of the mountains. Judge Gaston had nine sons in the army. When they heard of the massacre of the patriots on the Waxhaw, by Tarleton, these young men joined hands, pledged themselves thenceforth never to submit to op pression, and from that time they all bore arms in defense of liberty.-See Mrs. Ellett's Domestic History of the Revolution, pages 169-174, inclusive.

This view is from the west side of the Catawba, looking northeast, toward Lancaster District.

A Night at Rocky Mount.

The Battle-ground.

Sumter again in Arms.

His Compatriots. in the midst of his useful public life he was thrown from his gig and killed. Yet the light of hospitality was not extinguished there, and I shall long remember, with pleasure, the night I passed at Rocky Mount. Accompanied by Mrs. Barkley's three daughters, and a

VIEW AT ROCKY MOUNT.1

young planter from "over the river," I visited the battleground before sunset, examined the particular localities indicated by the finger of tradition, and sketched the accompanying view of the principal place of conflict. Here, in the porch, sitting

with this interesting household in the golden gleams of the declining sun, let us open the clasped volume of history, and read a brief but brilliant page.

Almost simultaneously, three distinguished partisans of the South appeared conspicuous, after the fall of Charleston ;a Marion, between the Pedee and Santee; Sumter, a May 12, 1780. upon the Catawba and Broad Rivers; and Pickens, in the vicinity of the Saluda and Savannah Rivers. With the surrender of Charleston, the hopes of the South Carolina patriots withered; and so complete was the subjugation of the state by the royal arms, that on the fourth of June, Sir Henry Clinton wrote to the ministry, "I may venture to assert that there are few men in South Carolina who are not either our prisoners or in arms with us." Many unsubdued patriots sought shelter in North Carolina, and others went up toward the mountains and gathered the cowed Whigs into bands to avenge the insults of their Tory oppressors. Early in July, Sumter (who had taken refuge in Mecklenburg), with a few chosen patriots who gathered around him, returned to South Carolina.

Already Whigs between the Catawba and Broad Rivers, led by Bratton, M'Clure, Moffit, Winn, and others, had smitten the enemy at different points. The first blow, struck at Beckhamville, is noticed on the preceding page. To crush these patriots and to band the

1 This view is from the garden-gate at Mrs. Barkley's, looking northeast. On the left is seen part of a store-house, and on the right, just beyond the post with a pigeon-house, is a hollow, within which are the remains of houses. At the foot of the hill may still be seen the foundations of the house mentioned in the text as having been occupied by the British when attacked by Sumter. The small log buildings across the center, occupying the slope where the conflict occurred, are servants' houses.

Richard Winn was a native of Virginia. He entered the service early, and in 1775 was commissioned the first lieutenant of the South Carolina rangers. He served under Colonel William Thomson, in General Richardson's expedition against the Tories, in the winter of that year. He had been with Thomson in the battle on Sullivan's Island. He afterward served in Georgia, and was in command of Fort M'Intosh, on the north side of the Santilla River. He was subsequently promoted to colonel, and commanded the militia of Fairfield District. He was with Sumter at Hanging Rock, where he was wounded. He was active during the remainder of the war, and at the conclusion, was appointed a brigadier, and finally a major general of militia. He represented his district in Congress from 1793 to 1802. He removed to Tennessee in 1812, and died soon afterward. Winnsborough, the present seat of justice of Fairfield District, was so named in his honor, when he was colonel of that district in 1779.