That night, with four gold pieces in his pocket, John Scarborough
left England in a smuggler and was presently fighting Philip of
Spain in the army of the Dutch people.

In 1653 Zachariah Scarborough, great grandson of the preceding,
was a soldier in Cromwell's army. On the night of April
twentieth he was in an ale-house off Fleet Street with three
brother officers. That day Cromwell had driven out Parliament
and had dissolved the Council of State. Three of the officers
were of Cromwell's party; the fourth, Captain Zachariah
Scarborough, was a "leveler"--a hater of kings, a Dutch-bred
pioneer of Dutch-bred democracy. The discussion began hot--and
they poured ale on it.

"He's a tyrant!" shouted Zachariah Scarborough, bringing his
huge fist down on the table and upsetting a mug. "He has set up
for king. Down with all kings, say I! His head must come off!"

At this knives were drawn, and when Zachariah Scarborough
staggered into the darkness of filthy Fleet Street with a cut
down his cheek from temple to jaw-bone, his knife was dripping
the life of a cousin of Ireton's.

He fled to the Virginia plantations and drifted thence to North
Carolina.

His great-grandson, Gaston Scarborough, was one of Marion's men
in his boyhood--a fierce spirit made arrogant by isolated
freedom, where every man of character owned his land and could