er, they exercised
themselves in cutting off his patrols and picquets. To save himself
from these annoyances, Watson retreated a little higher up the river and
pitched his camp at Blakeley's plantation, in the most open field that
he could find. Here he remained for ten days almost environed by his
adroit and active enemy. Night and day was he kept in a condition of
alarm and apprehension. The cavalry beat up his quarters when he
slept, while the riflemen picked off his men the moment they exposed
themselves. It was while he was in this situation that the brave Capt.
Conyers presented himself daily before the lines of the enemy, either as
a single cavalier, or at the head of his troop, demanding an opponent.
The anecdote has been already narrated in another chapter.

The temper of Watson was very much subdued by this sort of warfare. His
next letter to Marion was of very different tone from that sent but
a few days before. He now solicits a pass from his enemy for Lieut.
Torriano and others wounded, whom he desired to send to Charleston.
This was promptly granted. Meanwhile he employed a negro from Chevin's
plantation to carry a letter to the commandant at Georgetown. In
endeavoring to make his way, the negro was killed and the letter fell
into the hands of Marion. It contained a woful complaint of the
unfair mode of fighting pursued by the partisans, and implored a
reinforcement.* In fact Watson was literally besieged. His supplies were
cut off, his progress arrested, and so many of his men perished in the
continual skirmishing, that he is reported by tradition to have sunk
them in Black river in order to conceal their numbers. He was finally
compelled to decamp. If his path was beset with dangers, it was death
to remain in his present situation. Making a forced march down the
Georgetown road, he paused when he reached Ox swamp, six miles below
the lower bridge. His flight had been harassed by light parties of the
Americans; but here he found them prepared for, and awaiting him. The
road through which he was to pass, was skirted by a thick boggy swamp,
and before him the causeway was covered with trees which had been felled
to obstruct his passage. The bridges were destroyed, and Marion lay
directly in his path, prepared for a final encounter. Watson shrunk from
the prospect, and determined upon another route. Wheeling to the right
he dashed through the open pine woods, for the Santee road, about
fifteen miles. When ov