King's Mountain (21 page)

I thought that some of Ben Cleveland's ordeals in the wilderness over the mountain might have had a good deal to do with turning him into a leader, and perhaps into the pitiless foe that he had become. Everyone who has ever spent any time on the frontier has lived through something that haunts him. I should know. I'll warrant that Cleveland could tell many a harrowing tale that would put the harvest story in the shade. Anyhow, that hapless young farmer of twelve years ago was gone now, and in his place was a man who was keeping score against the world. For every wrong the Tories did in his bailiwick, Cleveland struck back. He would hang them all if he could.

I looked again toward the house. Time was short, and the others would be joining us soon. “Setting aside all these fine pleasantries, sirs, there is something else we need to settle, though for my sense of honor I could wish we were standing on someone else's land while we talk about it.”

Shelby caught my meaning at once. “Charles McDowell.”

“Yes. He is taking it for granted that he will be in command.”

Campbell shifted uneasily, glancing back toward the door. “Well, he is the senior officer.”

We were all silent for a moment, contemplating that unpleasant fact.

At last Campbell said, “Is there any way around it, gentlemen?”

Shelby sighed. “McDowell is a staunch patriot. An honest man. A steadfast soldier, but…”

“He won't do,” I said. “He is too old and slow. He drinks too much, and he is indecisive when he ought to be bold. This foray is our last, best chance to end this, and we cannot risk it in the hands of the man who turned back after Musgrove Mill, and who did not post pickets at Earles Ford on the Pacolet.”

“We've been alternating command thus far,” said Shelby. “Perhaps…”

“Yes, and I suppose we could simply hope that when we find Ferguson and begin the battle, it will not be on McDowell's day.”

“Well, no, of course we must—”

Campbell put a restraining hand on Shelby's shoulder. “We must talk about this later. They are just coming out now.” He left us under the tree, and walked a little way out into the meadow, waving to the McDowells and Cleveland, motioning for them to join us.

With a last glance back at the closed door, Ben Cleveland stumped down the steps and ambled toward us, with both the McDowell brothers and another officer following in his wake. The men who had carried the injured fellow into the house hurried back to join their comrades in the pasture. The smell of cooked meat filled the air, and here and there we could hear the strains of a merry tune. The set-to with the Tories was yet to come, but the men obviously felt that they had won the battle with the mountains. After the snows of the Roan, it was pleasant for them to rest in a summery meadow, however briefly.

Cleveland was red-faced and huffing when he reached us, and though he shook hands all around, it was plain that his thoughts were still elsewhere. “Do you know Major Winston here? Surry militia. Good man. I had the honor of fighting at his side in Alamance, and again when we went after a hornet's nest of Tories on the New River.”

We hastily greeted Joseph Winston, a somber-looking fellow near my own age, but it was impossible to divert one's attention for long from Cleveland in his agitated state. Still, the big man made an effort to be congenial. “Congratulations are in order for the major, gentlemen. May I tell them your news, sir?”

Joseph Winston finally managed a smile and a brief nod. “Just as you like, Colonel.”

“Mistress Winston has just recently given birth to three fine sons, and all are thriving. Is it not a marvel, gentlemen? The major here will be going home to a ready-made family. And I hope they may all live a long time in perfect happiness.”

We made suitable noises of congratulations, but Cleveland was still distressed, and finally he burst out, “They shot my brother. The Tory vermin.” Now he was pacing back and forth under the tree, flushed again with anger.

“Robert?” said Campbell, who had also ridden with Cleveland heretofore.

“No. Robert is well. That was him riding alongside the wagon, and he's out in the field somewhere, making camp. It's our younger brother Larkin. They shot him.”

“This is grave news,” said Campbell. “When did this happen?”

“Just a few hours ago, as we were making our way here. I reckon some of the local Tories had heard of our progress, and they were determined to make mischief. They hate me, y'know. I think they may have mistook my brother for me. We look rather alike, especially at a distance.” He patted his ample girth, but there was no humor in the gesture. “Anyhow, we had left Lenoir's house—Fort Defiance, it's called—and we were perhaps ten miles from Crider's fort on our way here. We were crossing the river at Lovelady Ford. There are heights on both sides of the Catawba there, and the blackguards were hidden up there in the rocks, waiting to ambush us. I'd like to know who told them of our movements.”

His voice left us in no doubt about what would befall the traitor if Cleveland should discover his identity.

“So there was Larkin, fording the stream, and they got him in the thigh, shattered the bone. Once he fell, some of my men went up the rocks after the shooters, but they were too quick for us. Got clean away. We shall hang them someday, if I have my way. Anyhow, Larkin could not ride, so our brother Robert and one of the men set off in a canoe with him, and the rest of us continued the march here by road. They met us near here. Larkin only came in the wagon up from the river. Just as well. He was in pain enough without rattling eight miles along the rutted road.”

“He is upstairs with my mother now,” said Joseph McDowell. “And he will have every care that Quaker Meadows can offer while we are gone. It is a serious wound, but he is young and strong, and I think he will overcome it.”

“We Clevelands are big enough targets, I grant you, but we are hard to kill. And if it is not his time, he will not be called from this life. Gentlemen, I believe that.”

“So do I,” said Joseph McDowell. “One of the South Carolina soldiers told me a tale about their colonel Edward Lacey. 'Tis said that when he was a boy, a gypsy fortune-teller told him that he need have no fear of battles, for he was fated to die by drowning. She has proved right so far for he has come through many a skirmish unscathed. You heard about the taking of the blasphemous Tory Huck back in June? He was in that company.”

“I'll bet he takes care when he is fording rivers,” I said. But I, too, had nearly drowned in my boyhood. I was rescued from the stream by two young girls, who managed to pull me out. They say that those who escape such perils are born to be hanged; I hoped that would not prove true in my case.

*   *   *

There was a sudden silence, for all of us were mindful that time was short and the day of reckoning was near. All the commanders were now assembled under the great oak: Campbell, Shelby, Cleveland, the McDowell brothers, Joseph Winston, and myself. The troops from the south would rendezvous with us elsewhere, but when we broke camp in the morning and set out on the last leg of the journey, we must be ready to face the enemy at any given hour. We talked for a while about what we knew—that Ferguson was in the vicinity of Gilbert Town, and that before we encountered him, we expected to meet up with additional forces from South Carolina and Georgia. And we knew that before we set out to do battle we must choose a commander, because an army must have a fixed chain of command, and not simply someone who is in charge for the day. We resolved little except that we would set out toward Gilbert Town in the morning, still passing the mantle of command back and forth among ourselves.

“What we need is a spy,” said Campbell. “Someone who can venture out ahead of the army, and bring us back information on the whereabouts of Ferguson. Someone who doesn't look like a militiaman.”

Charles McDowell nodded. “That would be a great help, certainly. I've heard Major Hampton speak of such a fellow. Tomorrow, let us take up the matter with him.”

We spoke a while longer about matters connected to supplies and such, and then we all shook hands and wished one another well, before retiring to our respective encampments for an evening's rest. If anyone went to the house to share a fine dinner at table with the McDowells, I did not take note of it, though it was only to be expected that Ben Cleveland would go back to see to his wounded brother.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

October 1, 1780

The next day, the Lord's Day, and the first of October, dawned clear and fine. The roads would be dry and flatter than the terrain we had crossed to get here, and the men were rested and eager to get on with the mission. We would make better progress from now on than we had thus far. Gilbert Town lay nearly thirty miles southwest of our present position at Quaker Meadows, and it would take us several days to reach it—if, indeed, we got there at all without encountering Ferguson's troops somewhere in between.

The South Mountains lay along our route, just when many of us thought we had done with steep terrain, but there were valleys and passes cut by the streams and rivers traversing it, and we reckoned that we could thread our way through those passages without having to make another arduous ascent.

We headed for those rugged hills, hoping to pass them by nightfall, but our luck with the weather ran out long before dark, when it began to rain hard. I was riding with my sons at that point, and Joseph wiped the rain from his face with a fearsome scowl. James seemed not to mind the downpour, though. Young as he was, and having had to wheedle his way into the expedition in the first place, I think he would have happily forded streams of molasses in his joy at being allowed to accompany us.

To lighten our spirits, I summoned up a bit of scripture from memory:
“For He maketh His sun to rise upon the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.”

“Amen,” said James, grinning.

“I sure do hope that Ferguson and his Tories are getting as wet as we are,” grumbled Joseph.

“We should be thankful for the good weather the Lord has already given us to get us over the mountains. A little delay now isn't much to complain about. We have come far enough for one day, I think. Let's look for a sheltered campsite.”

*   *   *

The commanders conferred—hastily—for none of us was eager to be drenched in the saddle in order to carry on a prolonged debate. We agreed to call a halt to the march, and the men set about making camp in a gap, near the headwaters of two creeks.

We had no tents and no other protection from the cold rain except for our sodden blankets and whatever shelter was afforded us by rock overhangs and the canopy of trees around us. I was sure that Major Ferguson, wherever he was, would be much better accommodated for the evening, for he had tents, baggage wagons, and servants to dance attendance upon him. We were not even an army, strictly speaking, and we had to make do with what we had, which was precious little. This would not be so pleasant an evening as the one before, but at least it lessened the chances of an ambush. Nobody would be out in this weather unless he had to.

We made camp that evening near the creek, and when we had eaten the evening meal and settled in with what shelter we could manage from the drizzle, Colonel Cleveland appeared, and seeing that my boys and I had not yet bedded down, he eased himself down onto a blanket-covered saddle.

“Too early to sleep,” he said, “especially in this blasted weather. Thought I'd come and pass the time.”

We spent a while in desultory conversation about family and past skirmishes with the enemy, and I could tell by his rapt expression that my younger boy James was fascinated by Cleveland. He had a slight defect in his speech, which probably had kept him out of political life, but his charm was manifest, and this would stand him in good stead as a leader. Finally James got up the courage to ask the colonel a question.

“They say you've hanged men, sir? Have you really?”

Cleveland nodded, recognizing a boy's natural thirst for adventure. “That I have,” he said. “A good many, in fact. It's a consequence of war, you know.”

James shivered. “I don't reckon I could, sir.”

“Well, that's on account of your impulse to kindness. Does you credit, son, but it won't do in wartime. I recall back in Wilkes, when we were hanging that Tory traitor, William Riddle, a crowd gathered to watch the proceedings. Among their number were two young boys, who had thought that the spectacle might afford them a fine day's adventure. They soon decided otherwise, though, for it was a sorry sight, and with tears in their eyes, those boys tugged at my coattails, a-begging me to spare the wretch's life. The fellow had been injured when he resisted capture, and he cut a pitiful figure, standing there with the rope around his neck, sobbing for his life. The tenderhearted lads thought that the prisoner's distress ought to move me to mercy, but I had seen so many hangings by then that I was unmoved by the sorry spectacle. I scarcely remember when the ritual of hanging aroused any feeling at all within my breast, except the desire to have it over with. Death comes to us all sooner or later, and I judge that there are many worse ways to set out for the Hereafter than dangling at the end of a clean rope.”

James nodded. “The Indians burn their captives. I reckon that is worse.”

“A terrible death,” said Cleveland, nodding sagely. “Every now and again you hear of a poor woman who has caught alight when the hem of her gown trailed through hot cinders from the fireplace, so that her dress goes up in flames and she with it. Burning is a terrible lingering death, accompanied by unbearable pain, and I would not wish such a fate upon any sinner in this world. They burned people to death in our mother country in the not-too-distant past, but here in the New World, civilized men do not. They call me cruel for I do not stay my hand at the hanging of a scoundrel, but if his death is warranted, then it must be done, and I can think of few ways as kind as the rope.”