ON the 9th of November, which was but a few days previous to Tom Deering’s adventure with the British, the Provincial Congress of South Carolina resolved “by every military operation to oppose the passage of any British armament”; and this order was issued to the commandant at Fort Johnson, Colonel Moultrie. The fort itself was strengthened, more men were enlisted, and bills of credit were issued. The blow for which all had been waiting seemed now about to be struck; the redcoats and patriots were about to grapple in that fierce struggle which was to last eight long years and set a continent free. Colonel Moultrie had taken up his headquarters at Haddrill’s Point, which was being fortified; it was here that the training of his men was going forward, and the place had the appearance of quite a formidable camp. The eastern sky was beginning to gray under the hand of approaching morning, when the sentinel on guard at the upper road caught the sound of flying hoofs rapidly approaching him. His musket quickly came around and he stood ready to receive friend or foe. “Halt!” he cried. The galloping horse was pulled up so quickly as to almost throw him back upon his haunches. “Who goes there?” demanded the sentry. “A friend,” came the voice of Tom Deering. “Advance, friend, with the countersign.” Tom walked his snorting horse forward. “I have not received the countersign,” said he. “But I have urgent business with Colonel Moultrie, and must see him at once.” “Against orders,” said the sentry. “I’ll call out the sergeant of the guard, though, and leave him to settle it with you.” In a few moments the sergeant had presented himself. Tom was led forward into the light of a camp-fire, where the sergeant carefully questioned him. “I can answer no questions,” said the boy, “unless asked by Colonel Moultrie or----” “Captain Marion, perhaps,” said a voice behind him. Tom turned quickly; within a foot of him was the small, dark officer with the aquiline nose and the burning black eyes, whom he had carried across the river in his skiff on the night when Fort Johnson was taken. Francis Marion was, at this time, past his fortieth year. He had been a planter, his only previous military experience having been in the war with the Cherokees some years before; in this he had gained some fame as a leader of a “forlorn hope” at the battle of Etchoee, in which the Carolinians had defeated the French and Indians. Then he had been a lieutenant in the regiment of Middleton. Colonel Moultrie, who was in command of the patriot forces, had been captain of the company in which Marion served at that time. “So,” said Marion, “you would like to see Colonel Moultrie, would you, my lad?” Tom, holding the bridle of his horse with one hand, raised the other in salute. “Yes, captain,” answered he promptly.