King's Mountain (19 page)

Now it was my turn to stare into the firelight. “He needs to grow up, Joe. Your mother is gone, and Mrs. Sevier has all she can do to look after the little ones. It's time for James to start becoming a man, and the only way he can do that is if we let him act like one. Sure, he will put a foot wrong at the outset, maybe more times than we'd care to count, but he's got the chance to watch the rest of us, and see how men behave. I don't know of any other way for him to learn.”

“All right,” said Joseph, still not happy about it.

“And you need to learn something, too, son. I see you becoming a leader, and that means being able to control all manner of men that come under your command—the weak, the lazy, the timid, and the reckless. And you need to be able to look after a man who needs help, even if it means putting your life at risk. There's a lot of trust in soldiering. Your life depends on them and theirs on you. Do you understand?”

He nodded unhappily.

“Good. Then the sooner you can settle your brother down and make a useful soldier out of him, the closer you are to having troops of your own to oversee. And someday the skills you learn from looking after James may be worth something to you.” I handed Joseph my flask of spirits, and nodded for him to take a swig. “This journey is a test for both you boys. You see that, don't you?”

The boy nodded, and looked away. “Reckon so,” he said in a voice gruff from the raw spirits, or perhaps from tears. “But I swear, Daddy, James would try the patience of St. Peter.”

I laughed. “If I remember my Bible, son, St. Peter wasn't known for patience any more than you are. Didn't he cut off the ear of a Roman soldier in Gethsemane? Well, do your best, anyhow. We have a long way to go, and it's too late for any of us to turn back now.”

*   *   *

The night was so chilly and the cold ground so uncomfortable that I scarcely minded when the dark blanket of stars above my head gave way to the first gray streaks of dawn. I had no wish to linger there in an effort to sleep. The sooner we got down the mountain, the sooner we could settle our score with the enemy and go home. Then, in a warm feather bed with my dearest Kate, I would sleep.

We made a hasty breakfast of some of our rations, packed up our gear, and, still together as an army, we headed up the valley of Grassy Creek to the Gillespie Gap. The trek up the valley to the gap was a good ten miles, mostly uphill, and I threaded my way carefully along the trail, for I knew my horse was tired after the past few days' arduous journey across the Yellow Mountains, and I did not want his strength to give out when we were half a day's ride from the gentle grasslands of the broad Catawba Valley.

When we reached the gap, we paused there in the September sunshine looking at the ripple of mountains stretching away into a blue haze of clouds on the horizon, so that at times it was hard to tell where the ridges stopped and the mist began. I was looking at the mountain as I had looked at clouds when I was a boy, turning their shapes into familiar images in my mind—the face of an old man, or the round hump of a buffalo's back—when the procession of riders parted, and William Campbell guided his horse up beside mine. He did not spare a glance for the sprawl of hills around us, and, though he looked a bit worn down from the hard ride, I could see that he only had thoughts for the mission at hand.

“It is time to part ways,” he said. “Have you a preference for a trail?”

“Why don't you head down through Turkey Cove?” I said. “If you can make it as far as Colonel Wofford's fort tonight, you should be able to reach McDowell's sometime the day after. Shelby and I will go down Catawba Creek.”

Campbell nodded. “So you and Shelby's militias will be going along one side of Bald Mountain, and my men will be going down the other.”

“Yes. We won't be many miles apart, but with a mountain between us, no army will catch us both at once. We'll reunite again before Quaker Meadows, if nothing goes amiss. Cleveland will be following the Yadkin River, and I'd expect him to camp near Fort Crider tomorrow night and meet us at McDowell's on Saturday as well, don't you think?”

“I hope so,” said Campbell. “I am looking forward to a decent meal at the house of Colonel McDowell, and a proper night's sleep before we get underway again.”

*   *   *

They headed off then, and before long the hills and the forest enfolded them, and we went eastward down the mountain by the trail along the North Cove of Catawba Creek, within earshot at first, but gradually the paths diverged to skirt around the mountain, and they were gone. If an enemy force should beset us now, they would be unaware of it. We were on our own.

The wilderness is wide, though, and for an enemy to find us on the march would be like finding a gob of spit in the rapids of a roaring creek—not likely. Anyhow, we met no hostile forces on our way.

We made camp that night in the woods alongside the Catawba, near the mouth of a stream called Honeycutt's Creek by those who live nearby. The men were still building the campfires and breaking out their evening rations, when Joseph emerged from the trees with an armful of wood, and called out, “Colonel McDowell's on his way, looking to find you, sir!”

I stood up, and set down my tin plate on my bedding. “Well, then, reckon I'll make it easy for him,” I said. “Bid your brother to go and fetch Colonel Shelby and bring him here to the fire. He'll be wanting to see McDowell as well.”

I started walking off in the direction that Joseph had come from, looking for McDowell. Farther along the path of the creek, I spied him, still astride his horse, with a couple of his men behind him. I waved him over toward our campfire, and he turned to the others and told them to go and make camp among the rest. Then McDowell dismounted and led his horse over to where Robert and Joseph were tending the fire.

“Have a seat, Colonel McDowell,” I said. “My boy James has gone to fetch Shelby, and you can have a bite of supper while we wait on them to get back, so you won't have to tell your tale but once.”

We gave him a hunk of beef and settled him near the fire, talking of inconsequential matters to pass the time. He told us that there had been a killing frost the other night down near Gilbert Town. Then the colonel turned to Joseph and asked how he liked soldiering.

Joseph shrugged and looked down at his food. “All right, I guess, sir. Ain't done much of it yet. Just riding trail, mostly.”

McDowell smiled. “Your father and I could tell you from experience that being a soldier mostly is a matter of riding and waiting, with only a little dollop of fighting every now and again. It's just that when soldiers grow old and get to telling tales about their wars, they mostly forget all the tedium and they talk about the exciting bits. It gives folks the wrong idea, I expect, but men have been making a glory of war for two thousand years, and every generation of boys has to learn different for themselves.”

“Shouldn't be much longer now, though,” I said. “Another day will see us into the Catawba Valley, and then we'll stop traveling and go to stalking our quarry.”

McDowell nodded. “I believe I can tell you where to find him.”

It was full dark by then, but I could tell James by the shape of him, a shadow in the dark between the circle of campfires. Behind him was the taller, heavier silhouette of Colonel Shelby. Joseph and I stood silently, waiting for them to join us, a courtesy we thought proper for his rank, but McDowell stayed where he was by the campfire, and bolted down the last bits of his meal. Shelby took no notice of this, but shook hands all round, and took his place next to Joseph while we waited for a report on the whereabouts of Ferguson.

Finally, when he had taken a pull from his flask, and settled himself a bit closer to the fire, Charles McDowell looked around at our expectant faces, and nodded that he was ready to begin.

“Well then,” he said. “Here's your report on the enemy's movements. I said I'd find him, and by god I did.”

Shelby leaned forward, his face aglow with firelight. “Well done, sir! You saw him then?”

McDowell shook his head. “Not to say
saw
him, exactly, but I have had reliable reports.”

Shelby and I glanced at one another, and I was glad that the darkness obscured our expressions. “Oh, have you?” said Shelby, his voice carefully neutral.

“Yes. There was quite a lot to manage, so I thought I wouldn't waste my time riding all over creation, looking for Ferguson. Instead I sent out some men to make inquiries.”

“Where were you, Colonel?” I said.

“Well, I went along home to Quaker Meadows, to dispatch a message to Benjamin Cleveland and his men, telling them to hurry along to my plantation as quick as they could, for we all aimed to meet there on Saturday. Got ambushed for his trouble, too, poor old Blair. Some blasted Tory was lying in wait along the road, and he put a load of shot in Blair as he passed by. Didn't kill him, though. He'll be all right, presently.” He took another pull from his flask, and smiled, pleased that he was able to impart such happy news.

I felt my muscles tighten, but I resolved to ignore the slurring of McDowell's words, and to put my questions to him as civilly as I could, but my patience was wearing thin. “I'm sorry to hear that your man was injured, Colonel, and I hope that in due time we can make the enemy pay for their treachery, but right now we are so anxious for you to tell us what you know of Ferguson's whereabouts that we can hardly think of anything else.”

I glanced over at Shelby, and he nodded in agreement.

McDowell took another pull on his flask. “Long ride today, gentlemen. The fact is, I sent out my men to collect information, and I kept myself at Quaker Meadows to be sure that I received their reports.”

The unspoken thought hovered above us that Colonel McDowell had not only received reports while staying comfortably at home, but also: clean clothes, hot dinners, a feather bed to sleep on at night; a new supply of spirits for his flask, and a fresh horse to make the return journey to our position. No wonder he had volunteered so readily to scout ahead for us, though I think we differed on the meaning of the term.

Shelby took a deep breath, and said quietly, “And did your informants provide you with anything useful?”

“He's somewhere near Gilbert Town. Has been for some time now. We can go after him there or take him when he is headed back to join Tarleton and Cornwallis in Charlotte Town. I have even better news than that, though, gentlemen. Not only is Cleveland making his way down from the Yadkin to meet us, but he is bringing forces under Major Winston from the Moravian settlements. And my riders to the south brought back the news that we will soon be joined by militias from our South Carolina neighbors. Militias under colonels Edward Lacey and James Williams are making their way toward us, and by the time we confront Ferguson, we should have twice as many men as we had reckoned on at the outset.”

“That is good news, sir,” said Shelby in the same calm voice as before.

McDowell chuckled in the darkness. “Yes, when the battle comes, I shall indeed have a mighty force at my command.”

No one made any reply to this sally of Colonel McDowell's, and for what seemed a long time, it was so quiet that we could hear the crackle of the fire, and the distant notes of a sad song carried on the wind.

CHAPTER TEN

September 30, 1780

With the dawning of Saturday morning, both the hardest and the easiest part of our journey had ended. The steepest terrain lay behind us, and all that remained was a quick scramble down the last hills and into the Catawba Valley, but when we left the high country behind us, we also relinquished the safety of the mountains. Even an army of a thousand men would be hard to find in the coves and woods we had come from, but once we reached the plain, with its sprawl of farms and villages, everyone in our path would know of our progress, and soon enough the news would reach the ears of the enemy. Well, let them seek us out, though. Let them find us. We had come to fight, after all.

We broke camp early Saturday morning, but before we resumed our march, Shelby, McDowell, and I gathered beneath a spreading beech tree, and we decided to carve our names on its trunk.

“This is an historic occasion,” McDowell declared, scoring a long
M
into the bark. “Here we are commanding an army to oust the king's forces from our lands. Let us record the moment for posterity.”

As he went on carving his name, Shelby and I, drawing our own blades, glanced at one another. “I hope we are not tempting fate here,” said Shelby.

I hoped not, too, but I said, “I hear that fortune favors the brave, so let us say that this is a show of courage, proof that we are fixed in our resolve.”

“And good luck to us all,” said Shelby, cutting the
I
of his first name into the beech tree. “May we all live to pass this way again.”

*   *   *

After that impromptu ceremony, commemorating our passage toward the battle to come, we climbed one last mountain before heading down Paddy Creek, whose waters would lead us downstream to the Catawba River. We had not gone far along the creek path before we saw movement in the bordering woods, and then mounted figures emerged from the trees. For a flash of a moment, my gut felt as if it were full of cold creek water, but then the riders hailed us. It was William Campbell's Virginia militia, coming to reunite with us after going their separate way down the mountain. They looked none the worse for wear; perhaps their night had been as peaceful as ours.

I trotted across the clearing to meet them, and presently Colonel Campbell himself, catching sight of me, rode up to the fore, and we let our horses amble along the verge of the creek for a bit so that we could confer.

“Quiet night?” I asked. “You seem as hale and hearty as when last we met.”

William Campbell nodded. “It was not entirely without incident, but we did make our way down the trail unchallenged. I do not believe that the enemy force is in these parts.”