For myself. On the fifth of October of that year ’80, I was sent from Charlotte—whither my Lord Cornwallis had advanced on his way into North Carolina—with important orders to Colonel Ferguson, who at the time was covering the left flank with a strong body of royalists. On the sixth, accompanied by Simms, my orderly, and after a perilous ride, I reached Ferguson’s camp on King’s Mountain. He knew that the enemy were in strength in the neighbourhood, and, after falling back some distance, he had taken up a strong position on a ridge, which rose above the forest—a more active and able officer was not in the service. But this time he had either under-valued his opponents, sturdy hunters and settlers from the Backwaters, or he had over-estimated the strength of his position; and the lamentable issue of the fight on the following day is well known. After a fierce struggle Ferguson’s men were out-flanked and surrounded, and he himself fell, striving bravely to the last, while the greater part of his force was captured or cut to pieces. Of the few who had the good fortune to break through the ring I was one. Nor was I only fortunate for myself, for I carried off poor Simms on my crupper. From this point my relation starts. CHAPTER II UNDER KING’S MOUNTAIN _But Major Ferguson by endeavoring to intercept the enemy in this retreat unfortunately gave time for fresh bodies of men to pass the mountains and to unite into a corps far superior to that which he commanded. They came up with him and after a sharp action entirely defeated him. Ferguson was killed and all his party either slain or taken._ RAWDON CORRESPONDENCE. I was riding my grey, Minden, on that day, and I never wish to ride a better nag. But the weight of two heavy men is much for the staunchest horse, and when it fell, as it did a few yards short of safety, it came to the ground so heavily that the shock drove the breath out of my body. For a moment I did not know what had befallen me. I lay and felt nothing. If I thought at all, I supposed that the horse had stumbled. Then, coming to myself I tried to rise, and sank with the sweat starting from every pore. Simms, three or four yards from me, lay still. The horse lay as still, but on my right shoulder, pinning me down and it needed no more to tell me that my sword-arm was broken, and that I was helpless. The next thing that I remember, a man was standing some paces from me and covering me with one of their Deckhard rifles. Instinct speaks before reason. “Don’t shoot!” I cried. “Why not?” he answered. “D—n you, your time is out! It was your turn at the Waxhaws and it’s little quarter you gave us there! It’s our turn to-day!” Instinct prevailed once more. I knew that I could not rise, but I tried to rise. Then I fainted.