King's Mountain (20 page)

“No. McDowell turned up again last night. His scouts report that Ferguson is still in the vicinity of Gilbert Town, well southwest of here.”

“Good.” Campbell smiled. “As anxious as I am to settle accounts with Ferguson, I am happy to have a few more days to join with the other militias, and to rest a bit at McDowell's plantation before we seek him out. Did McDowell have a skirmish with him?”

I took a deep breath before I answered, willing myself to keep my answer light and neutral. “If the British officer happened to drop by Quaker Meadows for a spirited game of cards, Colonel McDowell did not mention it.” I savored Campbell's look of amazement for a moment, before I went on. “Our comrade spent his scouting days comfortably at home, while he sent others out to do the reconnoitering for him. They assured him that the Loyalists were still in the territory around Gilbert Town, well away from here.”

Campbell was quiet for a moment. “I see,” he said at last. “Well, leaving that aside for the nonce, I had better tell you about what little transpired last night with our militia. On our way down to Turkey Cove, some of my men stopped at the cabin of a man named Gillespie, and they questioned him about the particulars of Ferguson's movements.”

“What did he tell you?'

“Nothing. My men say that Gillespie knew nothing, and that he cared not at all about the war in general. Living as he does in the wildwood, with few possessions and no society, I suppose it is all the same to him who rules the country. He means to wait out the war on his little patch of land, without getting involved any more than he can help. Well, if the Loyalists should happen that way, I expect that they will find him as unhelpful as we did. We stopped at the new farm of William Wofford as well. Have you heard of him?”

I nodded. “He is lately relocated from South Carolina, for the Loyalists destroyed his foundry there.”

“On the Pacolet, yes. Now he has built a gristmill on his new holdings, and he is resolved to regain his prosperity in his new situation. Wofford wished us well on our journey, but he had no information about our quarry, either, barring the fact that they had not been in the area for some time. I don't doubt that he is glad of that.”

“McDowell did offer one bit of cheering news,” I said. “He reports that the militias of Benjamin Cleveland and Joseph Winston are on their way south to join us at Quaker Meadows.”

“That is heartening news. And the South Carolinians? Are they on the way as well?”

“He assures us they are.”

Campbell smiled. “Well, then, let us just reach McDowell Brothers' plantation, and join all our forces together, and then Ferguson can come as he pleases. We are as ready as we'll ever be.”

*   *   *

We must have traveled nearly twenty-three miles that day, and Campbell's Virginians nearer to thirty, but the land was gentle here past the mountains, mere rolling hills, instead of the precipitous peaks over which we had toiled to get here. And with our descent into the green valley, summer had returned to grace our progress. After the cutting winds and the snow we had trampled underfoot on Bright's Trace, now we rode once more past green woodlands in full leaf, cloaked in bright sunshine. Heaven was smiling down on us, and I took it as an omen.

The sun was low in the sky by the time we reached Quaker Meadows. Those broad fertile fields were a welcome sight, and, though we would still be sleeping rough on the ground, the air was mild and promised a good night's rest.

Maj. Joseph McDowell, the colonel's younger brother, rode out to meet us, and welcomed us to Quaker Meadows. He was a young man, only twenty-four, but he was a brave and steady soldier, as kindly to his friends as he was formidable to his foes. I found him a more congenial soul than his brother.

“Camp where you will,” McDowell told us, indicating the green pastures enclosed by board fences. “Your men will be exhausted from the day's journey, so don't bother about trying to scour for firewood among the trees. Use the fences to build your cooking fires.”

“That's uncommonly kind of you, Major,” said Campbell. “Are you sure?” Shelby and I murmured similar sentiments.

Joseph McDowell smiled. “Quaker Meadows' workers can always build more fencing. And if your troops leave here well rested, they are more likely to win the battle. That in turn lessens the chance that Ferguson and his men will burn this whole place to the ground one day. I call it a bargain, gentlemen.”

*   *   *

The men were weary after five days of hard traveling over rough terrain, and we decided that it would be fitting to celebrate our success in reaching this point without incident. We were greeted by some of the Burke County men who had stayed behind when Colonel McDowell and some of his militia left in the summer to camp on the Watauga. Anticipating our arrival, they had rounded up some of the cattle that had been hidden in the upcountry coves to protect them from Ferguson. They slaughtered the beeves, and even now they were being parceled out to the many cooking fires in the meadows. No one would go hungry tonight. I had not yet eaten, but I checked on my boys, Joseph and James, and found them settled in by a campfire with Valentine and Robert, and with my sons' uncle John Crockett, the husband of their late mother's sister. I hoped to get back to them later, and bade them save me some of the meat.

One thing still troubled us, though. Before the major turned to go, Shelby called out, “What of the other militias? We had farther to come than they did.”

Major McDowell smiled again. “They'll be here by nightfall, gentlemen. We sent word for them to hasten along, and we received a response this afternoon by rider. Colonel Cleveland and the Wilkes County militia and Major Winston with the Surry County men are traveling along the road that runs south along the Yadkin River. They mustered on Wednesday, and camped last night at Fort Defiance, the home of William Lenoir, who rides with them today. If there have been adventures along the way, I doubt not you'll hear it from them when they arrive.”

His words were borne out before the sun had set, when a great cry went up through the pastures, and the men at their cooking fires stood up and waved their hats. I turned and saw a procession of riders making their way up the path toward the main house. I hurried that way myself, so that we all could meet with Cleveland and Winston, once they had got their troops settled in, but as I neared the McDowell house, I saw that there were further complications to their arrival.

Close to the front of the procession was an open wagon, surrounded by grim-faced riders as if they formed an honor guard. I mounted to the porch and looked down into the wagon. A burly young man lay there on a bed of straw with a blood-soaked bandage bound around his thigh. He was pale and grimacing with pain, but he did not cry out.

Ben Cleveland, colonel of the Wilkes militia, rode at the head of the formation. I recognized him at once, for tales of him were passed throughout the Whig militias as if they were tuneless ballads. He was a giant of a man, both tall and great in girth, but no less vigorous for his size. He seemed to belie the tradition of fat men being jolly and mild in nature, for many of the tales about Ben Cleveland centered on the hangings of the Tories that he pursued so relentlessly in the Yadkin Valley.

Joseph McDowell hurried forward to greet Cleveland, and seeing that Shelby, Campbell, and I had reached the porch, he made hasty introductions, but Cleveland barely spared a glance for us, so intent was he upon seeing to the wounded man.

“A casualty already?” murmured Colonel Campbell, nodding toward the wagon.

Benjamin Cleveland, swinging down from his horse, called out. “My brother. He has been shot by those murderous villains. I hope we kill them all.”

From what I had heard of Colonel Cleveland, for his fame preceded him, he had made a good start on that task already.

“Bring him inside,” said Joseph McDowell, throwing open the door.

We all moved to help, but Cleveland waved us away, and we saw that the men who had accompanied the wagon were more than equal to the task of removing the injured man and conveying him into the house.

“Perhaps we'd better wait out here,” I said to Campbell and Shelby. “Let them see to the wounded first.”

Shelby nodded toward a spreading oak tree within sight of the house. “We can wait there, and talk a bit. From there we can see them when they come out again.”

We threaded our way through the clumps of militiamen resting upon the ground, heading for the great oak, which as yet had no one making camp beneath it.

“Good man, Cleveland,” said William Campbell. “I rode with him in the summer, chasing Tories. He came from Virginia originally, you know. Married Mary Graves, whose sister Susannah is the new wife of Gen. Joseph Martin. The Martins live next to Leatherwood, the plantation of my brother-in-law. Great friends of ours.”

Neither Shelby nor I said
“Patrick Henry,”
when Campbell casually mentioned his brother-in-law, but I'll warrant we were both thinking it. Fortunately before I could remark that we had no need of a pedigree, as we weren't thinking of using Colonel Cleveland for breeding purposes, Shelby said, “I believe Martin is our best hope for the safety of our families back over the mountain. He has connections with the Cherokee nation, and he is using his influence to keep them from attacking our settlements while we are away.”

I held my peace again, but I, too, was well acquainted with the Cherokee, and, though nothing would be said of it here among gentlemen, I also knew that one of Martin's principal connections with the Cherokee was his marriage to Betsy Ward, the daughter of the tribe's Wise Woman, Nancy Ward. Since this Indian marriage was concurrent with his present union with Susannah Graves, I doubted if either Campbell or Cleveland would thank me for mentioning it. I suppose that this alliance with Betsy Ward increased Martin's influence with the tribe, and enabled him to make pacts with them for the benefit of our settlements, but, though I saw the sense of it, I would not do such a thing myself. I had too clear a memory of the attacks on our homes … of seeing poor James Cooper scalped and murdered while we watched helplessly from the fort. And most of all I remembered my new bride—as she is now—running for her life around the wooden walls of Fort Watauga, saved from the same fate only because I was able to grab her hands and lift her up out of harm's way. No, I would not be bringing any Indians into the family fold. Not I.

“Something of a changeling, Martin is,” Campbell was saying. “His father was the son of a wealthy merchant in Bristol. He was sent to the colonies to pursue business interests, but when he told his father that he proposed to marry a Virginia woman, the outraged patriarch disinherited him. He may not have been good enough for the aristocracy of England, but in Virginia he counted the Jeffersons and James Madison as his neighbors, and no doubt Captain Martin envisaged a gentleman's life for his son and namesake.”

I was still watching the house, but no one had as yet emerged. “Perhaps rebelling against a father's expectations runs in the family.”

Campbell smiled. “So it must. Young Joseph was indifferent to schooling, left an apprenticeship, and ran off to the backcountry. He became quite the explorer. He loves to tell the tale of how Daniel Boone, some ten years back, was leading a party of settlers into the Powell Valley, only to find Joseph Martin and his men already there, constructing a fort. I'd love to have seen the look on Boone's face. Anyhow, Martin knows the backcountry as well as anyone. If anyone can keep the peace with the Cherokees, it is he.”

“He is well acquainted with the Indians, certainly,” I said mildly.

“I hope for all our sakes that he succeeds,” said Shelby. “Have you any such stories to tell us about Colonel Cleveland before he joins us?”

Campbell nodded. “I recall a tale or two from his wild days, before he settled down with Miss Mary. He is a steadfast fellow now, but some of Cleveland's exploits before the war are the sort of yarns best suited to fireside tale-telling, shared over brandy.”

“Well, we will have to make do with just the firewood,” I said, tapping the broad trunk of the oak tree, “though I daresay I could fetch you a dram of corn whiskey if you should require it, Colonel.”

He waved away the offer. “The stories themselves are brandy. He is the scourge of the Tories in the Yadkin Valley, you know. They call his militia ‘Cleveland's Devils,' but in his salad days, he was a bit of a devil himself, much more suited for hunting and trapping—and drinking—than farming. But—now this was a dozen years ago, before he moved over the border into North Carolina—Ben Cleveland had a little farm on the Pigg River. He and Joseph Martin were ever the best of friends, and so the pair of them decided to plant a crop of wheat on the farm, but they were not temperamentally suited to agricultural endeavors.”

“Never cared for it overmuch myself,” said Shelby.

Campbell smiled. “No, it is hot, hard work. Especially when a man is young, the fine summer days tend to get away from him. The wheat crop made it to harvest time, suffering somewhat from the indifference of its tenders and perhaps more from want of the fence that Cleveland had neglected to put up around the field to keep the animals out. But still there was a wheat crop to be gathered in, and Cleveland and Martin duly invited all the neighboring farm families over for the harvesting and the celebrations that went with it.”

“That's the best part of farming,” I said. “When you gather the community together for a big barbecue, with all the fiddling and the dancing and the passing of the jug. That's a fine thing, after all the work of harvesting.”

“Yes,” said Campbell with a wry smile. “
After.
Unfortunately, in those days Cleveland and Martin were impetuous young men, and they gave the party before they held the harvesting. What with all the drinking and the dancing and the celebrating, nobody ever did get around to bringing in the sheaves. So Cleveland went back to exploring and land-speculating. Of course, the war has matured him, as it must do for many a man.”