Penny Dreadfuls, 1916 · page 185 of 400
Tom Anderson, Dare-Devil: A Young Virginian in the Revolution — page 185: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a page of running prose from a Victorian penny dreadful titled "The Black Dragoons" (page 167). The text describes a violent military engagement during what appears to be the American Revolutionary War, focusing on a character named Tom fighting against British cavalry (Tarleton's Legion, called the "Black Dragoons") near a creek in the Carolinas. The passage emphasizes the chaos and brutality of hand-to-hand combat, with Tom desperately fighting mounted soldiers while defending horses that his regiment has brought hundreds of miles.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
Tue Brack Dracoons 167 five miles in advance of the army, making for South Caro- lina. Rumors of disaster to the Southern arms met them at every step. At length they overtook Buford’s Regi- ment, of the Virginia Line. Buford had withdrawn into North Carolina. But on hearing of the surrender of the Capital, he had turned back. The ill-fated four hundred were marching southward. Tom’s blood was running like a mill-race. “What’s to be done with the horses? Confound the beasts! We’ve brought ’em hundreds of miles; fought for ’em — nearly swung for “em!— and now — the British have bagged the army |” He gave two of the horses to somebody in the Mecklen- burg Settlement on condition that the balance of the herd should be pastured, and driven into the swamp when the Tories came about. And then — two volunteers enlisted in Buford’s Regiment. On the 29th of May, having made one hundred and five miles in fifty-four hours, Tarleton’s Legion, without warning, fell upon the four hundred Rebels. The Black Dragoons! Never to his dying day did Tom forget that hour! They crashed down upon Buford like a herd of buffalo: men in red coats, riding splendid black horses. One stood up in his stirrups. His sword made lightnings in the sun. Tom fired. He saw an empty saddle. Down went his musket. He drew his pistol. He was fighting like a demon now: up to his waist in the creek. Men, screaming for quarter, were put to the sword all around him. A British broadsword — somehow! — was in his hand now. It was “worse than a scythe,’ men said afterward. “Make an end of him!” shouted a dragoon, trying to ride down “‘the black fellow.’’ His horse received a slash that made him rear and fall backwards. Another black horse and red coat! Another, and another! “Shoot him, Unaka!” yelled Tom desperately. One more man pitched forward, hanging by his stirrup, his head in the creek. Tom slashed the knee of the nearest dragoon. A head appeared above the bloody water; the CORNICLOOO® eS (C(O) m