ther side, meaning that the so-called rebels and his majesty
might come together in friendship once more.

But when this "prancing" began; when Colonel Tarleton rode rough-shod
over our people of Virginia without seeming to understand the meaning of
the word "humanity," then it was that even those who had hoped against
hope that the colonies might remain in peace and harmony with the mother
country, began to realize it was no longer possible.

It had required five long, weary years, during which our Americans in
the North had borne nearly all the brunt of this struggle against the
king, and I dare not say how much of friendship, to persuade those few
in Virginia who strove to hold some shred of loyalty to the king, that
the time had come when they must take sides with those who had the best
interests of the country at heart, no longer looking to royalty for
relief.

Saul Ogden is my cousin, being but three days younger than I, who was,
in August of 1781, just turned fifteen, and although it may seem strange
to the lads of New England that we two Virginians knew so little
concerning what was being done in this America of ours, it is true that
until the engagement at Spencer's Ordinary there had never been a
thought in our minds that we might be called upon, or that it would be
possible for us to take any part in the bloody struggle which had been
prolonged until it seemed of a verity that the people of New York and
Boston must have come to an end of all their resources, so far as
struggling against the king's soldiers was concerned.

It is true Saul and I had heard now and then that even boys in
Massachusetts and in New York were enrolled, or had agreed among
themselves, to act as Minute Boys, ready to do whatsoever they might, at
any time, regardless of all things else save the proving of that
Declaration of Independence to the satisfaction of the whole wide world.

It was on the day before the action at Spencer's Ordinary that I,
Fitzroy Hamilton, and Saul, my cousin, met for the first time a little
French lad by name of Pierre Laurens, who had come up from New Orleans
with his widowed mother to visit at my home, after having spent a summer
in Boston.

A companionable sort of a lad was this little French boy who waved his
hands and shrugged his shoulders when he talked, as if they were in some
way connected with his tongue; one who was able to tell many an
entertaining story, and who had seen so much of this land