hieves, and
passers of counterfeit money. He hunted them down with a furious zest,
and did his work with merciless thoroughness, firm in the belief that he
thus best served the Lord and the nation. One or two of his deeds
illustrate admirably the grimness of the times, and the harsh contrast
between the kindly relations of the border folks with their friends, and
their ferocity towards their foes. They show how the better
backwoodsmen, the upright, church-going men, who loved their families,
did justice to their neighbors, and sincerely tried to serve God, not
only waged an unceasing war on the red and white foes of the State and
of order, but carried it on with a certain ruthlessness that indicated
less a disbelief in, than an utter lack of knowledge of, such a virtue
as leniency to enemies.

One Sunday Campbell was returning from church with his wife and some
friends, carrying his baby on a pillow in front of his saddle, for they
were all mounted. Suddenly a horseman crossed the road close in front of
them, and was recognized by one of the party as a noted tory. Upon being
challenged, he rode off at full speed. Instantly Campbell handed the
baby to a negro slave, struck spur into his horse, and galloping after
the fugitive, overtook and captured him. The other men of the party came
up a minute later. Several recognized the prisoner as a well-known tory;
he was riding a stolen horse; he had on him letters to the British
agents among the Cherokees, arranging for an Indian rising. The party of
returning church-goers were accustomed to the quick and summary justice
of lynch law. With stern gravity they organized themselves into a court.
The prisoner was adjudged guilty, and was given but a short shrift; for
the horsemen hung him to a sycamore tree before they returned to the
road where they had left their families.

On another occasion, while Campbell was in command of a camp of militia,
at the time of a Cherokee outbreak, he wrote a letter to his wife, a
sister of Patrick Henry, that gives us a glimpse of the way in which he
looked at Indians. His letter began, "My dearest Betsy"; in it he spoke
of his joy at receiving her "sweet and affectionate letter"; he told how
he had finally got the needles and pins she wished, and how pleased a
friend had been with the apples she had sent him. He urged her to buy a
saddle-horse, of which she had spoken, but to be careful that it did not
start nor stumble, which were bad faults,