"Well, you shall hear. A man named Joe Bates told me how he had been
used by the enemy, and how he had been revenged. He joined the southern
army when Greene first took command of it, leaving his wife and two
children at his farm on the banks of the Santee River. His brother, John
Bates, promised to take care of the family and the farm. You see, John
used to help Marion's band whenever he could spare the time--he was so
anxious to do something for the good of his country, and he didn't know
how else he could do it than by going off on an occasional expedition
with Marion. Well, some how or other, Major Wernyss, the commander of
the royalists in the neighborhood, got wind of John's freaks, and also
of those of some other whig farmers, and he said he would put a stop
to them. So he sent a detachment of about twenty-five men to burn the
houses of the people who were suspected of being the friends of Marion.
John Bates heard of their coming, and collected about ten or a dozen
whigs to defend his house. He hadn't time to send the wife of Joe and
his children away to a safer place, or else he thought there was no
better place. However it was, they remained there. The house was barred
up, and everything fixed to give the red-coats a warm reception, should
they attempt to carry out their intention. The time they chose for it
was a moonlight night. The neighbors could see their houses burning
from the upper windows of the one where they were posted, and they kept
muttering curses and threats of vengeance all the time."

"Why didn't each man stay at home, and take care of his own house?"
enquired Mrs. Harmar.

"Of what use would that have been?" returned old Harmar. "By so doing,
they could not have saved any house, and would have lost the chance
of punishing the red-coats for their outrages. I forgot to tell you,