King's Mountain (23 page)

“Just like Major Tarleton then?” We had all heard about the Waxhaws, and I was sorry for the poor rebels who died like that, but it did not make me want to cast my lot with them. “Were you sorry your Scotch friends lost their battle?”

He shook his head. “I suppose we were sorry to hear of such horrors being inflicted upon our fellow Scots, but as good Protestants, we were not sorry the Catholic Highlanders lost, nor were we much surprised. Anyone who would face muskets and bayonets with great unwieldy swords and useless cannons is ultimately past saving, I'd have thought. It cheered me to think that I had joined the side that had fought with the muskets and bayonets.”

“You could still get killed, for in this war the other side has guns, same as you do.”

“Just remember which army I've joined. Surely we are a match for any fighting force on earth.”

“Even good armies lose soldiers.”

“But I am an officer, Sal.” Then his voice took on an odd note, and he said, “Of course, so was General Wolfe.”

Well, I didn't know who that was, but he had got out of the mood of talking now, and he turned to me again, kissing me on the neck, and unfastening the glass beads. “We wouldn't want to break your necklace with our sporting, Sal. You may have it back—after.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

October 2, 1780

We had hoped that the storm would pass during the night, but when the light thickened at daybreak there was only an unbroken sea of clouds in a clabbered sky, and the rain was still falling like pellets of lead from a shot tower. My brother Robert, who had bedded down near us the night before, crawled out of his damp bedroll and peered up at the sky. “Well, the storm didn't pass. Do you think we'll move out in this weather, anyhow, Jack?”

I shook my head. “I doubt it, but I won't know for sure until I talk to the others. My head must be waterlogged—I can't even remember offhand whose day it is to be in command. You keep an eye on things here while I hunt them up.”

As I went in search of the other commanders, one of my men called out, “I hope you officers ain't aiming to make us drill in this foul weather, Colonel! 'Cause I reckon we wouldn't!”

I gave him a brief stare until he turned his gaze away from mine, and then I quickened my pace. The problem with this army is that it wasn't any such thing. These men had taken no oath to the nation, received no training, and no pay. They had simply come on this mission because they were asked to by leaders that they trusted, and although most of us were trying our best to act like military men, the fact is that we weren't. We were old Indian fighters, and our trust and obedience was based on our personal knowledge of those who fought alongside us. That acquaintance would be lacking for us in this expedition when we'd have to fight in the company of strangers. The longer this expedition lasted, and the more unpleasant conditions became, the more likely we were to have problems among the ranks. The men were tired, cold, and sore from their journey over the mountains, and the more time they had to think about going up against a trained enemy force, the more fractious some of them would become. It worried me.

I said as much to the others when we stood together in a thicket of trees, which was as much shelter from the downpour as we could find. “I hope we find Ferguson soon,” I told them, “before this whole army falls apart around us. Our several militias are like squares of a quilt, but held together only with basting stitches. The fabric will not hold for long, and it will not take much pressure to pull it apart.”

“Agreed,” said Campbell, “but I see no sign yet that this storm is breaking up. If we tried to march the men out of here today, we might lose more in illness than we gain in discipline. We cannot fight with sick soldiers.”

“More than that,” said Shelby. “The mud will slow us down. The streams might be too swollen to ford, and, above, all, we cannot risk the gunpowder. If the powder is ruined, it destroys our mission. I think we had better wait another day before we set off again.”

“Ferguson will keep,” said Andrew Hampton. “I doubt that he will change his position in such weather, either.”

I saw the force of their arguments, and, though it did not suit me to sit about idly while our enemy was still abroad in the land, waiting was the reasonable course. So we sat out Monday, doing what chores we could despite the rain, and when Tuesday, October 3, proved no better, we remained in camp for another frustrating day, while Ferguson ranged about heaven-knows-where, and we crept one day closer to winter, when such foul weather would be a commonplace.

We kept a close eye on our men that day, to ensure that they did not while away this dreary day interval of inactivity with excessive drinking or fighting. Boredom was an enemy in itself.

That evening, as the rain continued to fall in leaden sheets, we made the best of our rations for a soggy repast, and then set off from our respective encampments to confer at the headquarters of Charles McDowell. Finding that I had arrived somewhat in advance of the others, I resolved to spend the time until they arrived in making pleasant conversation with Colonel McDowell.

His men had managed to rig a makeshift canvas cover under a spreading oak tree. Its abundant foliage helped to divert the rain, and the colonel himself looked relatively dry, seated in the opening of the tent before a sputtering fire. I bade him good evening and sat down beside him on a pile of clothing and blankets.

“I hope your family is faring well back home,” he said. “You've had no word, I suppose?”

I shook my head. “I tell myself that I'd have heard if anything were amiss. Robertson would get word to us.”

“I envy you your fine family,” he said. “I have heard, of course, of your recent marriage, and I offer you my heartiest congratulations. Even my envy at such domestic happiness, for I have never married, you know. And the tale of your daring rescue of your good lady at the Watauga siege of '76 is a wonder to hear. She is a brave woman, your bride.”

“Yes, she is,” I said, smiling at the memory of her, as I wiped a droplet of windblown rain off my cheek.

“I know of another such woman,” said McDowell. “They are as rare as double rainbows, but what a treasure it is to find one.”

I looked around. The others had not yet arrived, and McDowell's men were busy with their rations. We could not make plans without the presence of my fellow commanders, so I decided to humor him in his choice of subject, sentimental as it was. “And have you found a rainbow of a woman, Colonel?”

He smiled. “I have, indeed. She is a kinswoman of mine, Mistress Grace Greenlee Bowman, whose mother is a McDowell. But she is in deep mourning still over her husband, who was one of our officers. He fell at Ramsour's Mill, back in June. When word was sent to her that he was mortally wounded, Grace saddled a horse, put their infant child on the saddle in front of her, and rode the forty miles to the battlefield—heedless of her own safety, heedless of the enemy soldiers who might still have been in the vicinity. She stayed there on the field and tended Captain Bowman until he departed this life. A handsome woman, as brave as any soldier I have.”

“Well, she has the McDowell mettle in her bloodline,” I said. It had begun to rain in earnest now, and the campfire sputtered out into smoldering ashes. I thought it might be some time before the others joined us.

The colonel smiled. “Yes, that mettle is evident in her mother as well. Once Mary McDowell was offered a horse by her neighbors if she would retrieve their daughter from the Indians—which she did. She was so clever and able that some of the people thereabouts said she was a witch.” Charles McDowell chuckled. “As for young Grace, that fighting spirit was evident in her from an early age. Back in Virginia, where they had settled then, her father was anxious for her to make an advantageous marriage, so that the family could advance socially. He fixed it up for her to marry a wealthy planter, an elderly man. She said not a word when they told her she had to go through with it, and hauled her into the church for the wedding ceremony.”

“To marry this Captain Bowman?”

“No, indeed. A much older gentleman. When the parson got to the part about ‘Do you take this man for your lawfully wedded husband?'—quite clearly and firmly, in front of the entire congregation, my cousin Grace said that she did not. They asked her more than once, but she was quite obstinate. She would say nothing except ‘No,' and at last they gave up, and she was not required to wed the elderly planter. Instead, she made a match of it with young John Bowman, and they came to Carolina along with her brother James and his wife to start a new life in the Yadkin Valley.”

“And Bowman was killed at Ramsour's Mill, you say? How sad that their happiness was so brief.”

“Indeed. Her life has not been easy, but she has lost none of her courage. I had word of her recently, for all our family and some of Bowman's comrades are looking out for her whenever possible. I would have been at her service myself, except that I had to flee over the mountains into your territory.”

“Is she faring well?”

“She is in as much peril as any of us in these difficult times, but the last news I had of her indicates that she is equal to the challenge. While I was away over the mountain, the Tories quite overran this part of Carolina. One day, Cousin Grace heard a commotion in the yard, and found a troop of soldiers there, one of them leading her horse out of the barn. Upon seeing her, the Tory said, ‘Madam, the king hath need of your horse.' Her response was to go back inside the house, and to return with her husband's gun, which she aimed at the man holding the reins of her mare. The soldier took a long look at the stalwart lady leveling the gun barrel at his head, and he said, ‘Madam, the king hath no further need of your horse.' They put the animal back in its stall, and rode away, leaving her in peace. For now.”

I smiled politely at this story, but then I said, “Your cousin Mistress Bowman must be quite young and pretty.”

“Indeed, she is. But what makes you say that?”

“Because a woman who was not young and pretty would not have gotten away with such behavior. A stout matron who behaved thusly would have been lucky to lose only her horse. Are you thinking of rescuing this brave lady from her widow's weeds, Colonel McDowell?”

He sighed. “By heaven, I would, if I thought she'd have me. But I keep thinking of the way she spurned the advances of that wealthy old planter. And I fear I am something of a wealthy old planter myself.”

I smiled, choosing to ignore the fact that I was only two years shy of his age myself. “Do not lose hope, McDowell. You are not so old as all that. I fancy the lady will have you.” I forebore to mention the reasons for my believing that, for they were not nearly as romantic as the old fellow's ardor. I was thinking that Mistress Bowman was no longer the headstrong young girl she had been when she refused the old planter in Virginia. The war had made pragmatists of us all. Now, the lady was perhaps a decade older, and with at least one child to consider, and I thought, the offer of wealth and security might be more appealing than they were when she was a maiden. McDowell could offer her a prosperous home, a safe haven for her baby, and the comfort of a family already known to her. One did not have to believe in the true love of storybooks to think that McDowell might get his happy ending. Still, I wished him well.

Someone hailed us just then, and we looked through the curtain of rain to see the other commanders approaching. I saw that Andrew Hampton had joined Cleveland, Shelby, and Winston, and I knew that the very presence of that grieving father would serve as a tacit rejection of Charles McDowell as commander.

It was time for us to decide who would lead our makeshift army into battle, but, as ready as I was to settle the matter, the others shied away from it. At first they found other things to talk about—pressing matters, all of them—but, excepting Colonel Hampton, at the back of their eyes I could see the hesitation. The decision, when it came, would hurt the pride of Charles McDowell, and, much as we all knew that he was not suited to command our forces, we all respected the fellow, and we would have spared his feelings if we could.

It was McDowell himself who ended the desultory conversations and called the council to order, for he was still the senior officer in charge. “I have been thinking this through, gentlemen,” he said. “It is our duty to inform General Gates of our plans. He is the supreme commander in the south, and he may wish to send more troops to join us. Anyhow, he needs to be told.”

Shelby glanced at me, and I knew that a good many harsh thoughts were going through his mind—thoughts of Gates's shameful behavior after the battle at Camden, when he deserted his army, and rode at breakneck speed for the safety of Hillsborough. None of us would set much store by Gates's opinions or his offers to help, but McDowell was right: military protocol required us to apprise him of our plans.

“I agree,” said Campbell. “We are a union of militias from several states—and more on the way, if the South Carolina troops join us. Strictly speaking, none of us has the authority to command the forces from states other than our own. There should be someone with the authority to command, and General Gates has the power to confer that authority. We must consult him.”

“Gates is in Hillsborough,” said Shelby. “If we sit around cooling our heels and awaiting the general's pleasure, it could get us all killed.”

Andrew Hampton gave a quick nod of agreement to this, and I knew he was thinking of earlier battles and opportunities lost.

“That's true enough,” growled Cleveland. “Our greatest advantage is speed and surprise. We must corner Ferguson before he can get reinforcements from Cornwallis. We must proceed.”

Joseph Winston spoke up then. “But how can we proceed without an appointed commander?”