King's Mountain (24 page)

“Just as we have been,” I said. “We will all meet every evening to discuss the day's events and to decide how to proceed, and we will continue with an officer of the day, to be given command by our general consent.”

Shelby scowled at me. I knew he wanted more decisive measures. “Do you know where we are, Colonel Sevier? Perhaps sixteen miles away from Gilbert Town. We could encounter Ferguson's men at any hour, or at any given place within the next mile. We don't know. Discipline is already becoming a problem. Our supplies are limited. We cannot hang about waiting for word from the general, but neither can we weaken our forces by changing leaders every day. We need to choose one.”

“But Gates must be consulted,” said McDowell.

It occurred to me then that, as useless as Gates was, he might do us a service, after all.

“Why, you must go and report to him, Colonel McDowell,” I said. “You are senior among us, and it is fitting that you should be the one to confer with him and to explain our position.”

Shelby took my meaning at once, and warmly supported my suggestion.

McDowell hesitated. “But my men … the Burke County militia.”

“Surely your brother Joseph can take your place until you return,” said Cleveland. “As young as he is, he is an able fellow.”

Several of the others murmured their assent. Despite his youth, Joseph McDowell was a good soldier, and he was well liked by those who had served with him.

Charles McDowell was silent for a moment, thinking it over. “Yes,” he said at last. “As senior officer here, it is my duty to go. I will leave at once. Joseph is indeed a capable leader, and in my absence the men will follow him. Let me have a word with him, and then I'll be off.”

“Not just yet,” said Cleveland. “Perhaps we should compose a joint letter to General Gates, explaining our position and our requirements. You can, of course, elaborate on the particulars when you see him, Colonel McDowell, but the letter will let him know that we are all acting in unison in this matter. Whether Gates assists us or not, we will have discharged our duty regarding the chain of command.”

All of us agreed that this was a good idea, and we spent the better part of an hour deciding on the wording and the form of the missive, while Joseph Winston made notes of the phrases, so that when we were satisfied with it, he could make a fair copy for us to sign. After much discussion, we arrived at a draft that satisfied all of us. Joseph Winston read it aloud one last time for final comments.

Sir,

We have collected at this place about fifteen hundred good men, drawn from Washington, Surry, Wilkes, Burke of North Carolina, and Washington County, Virginia, and expect to be joined in a few days by Colonel Williams of South Carolina with about a thousand more. As we have at this place called out Militia without any order from the executives of our different States, and with a view of expelling out of this part of the country the enemy, we think such a body of men worthy of your attention and would request you to send a General Officer immediately to take the command of such troops as may embody in this quarter. Our troops being Militia, and but little acquainted with discipline, we would wish him to be a gentleman of address, and be able to keep a proper discipline without disgusting the soldiery. Every assistance in our power shall be given the Officer you may think proper to take command of us. It is the wish of such of us as are acquainted with General Davidson and Colonel Morgan (if in service) that one of these Gentlemen may be appointed to this command.

We are in great need of ammunition, and hope you will endeavor to have us properly furnished.

Colonel McDowell will wait on you with this, who can inform you of the present situation of the enemy, and such other particulars respecting our troops as you may think necessary.

Your most obedient and very able servants,

Benj. Cleveland

Isaac Shelby

John Sevier

Andrew Hampton

Wm. Campbell

Jo. Winston

We nodded to one another when Winston had finished reading it. It was a good letter: very forthright.

“That's very well said,” I remarked to Shelby.

He nodded and murmured, “Yes. Very … plausible.”

I took his meaning at once. On the face of it, the letter seemed quite logical and modest, humbly asking the general to send us a commanding officer. I hoped that neither McDowell nor Gates would trouble themselves to read it more carefully. Both Morgan and Davidson were fine soldiers, and most capable of leading an army, but it wasn't going to happen.

Before taking up arms here in North Carolina, William Davidson had fought the war in the north: he saw action at Germantown and Saratoga; he froze at Valley Forge, and of late he had been second in command to General Rutherford here in Carolina. But Davidson had been gravely wounded back in July at Colson's Mill, and he had been out of action ever since. He would not be taking command of anything for a good while to come.

And we had said in the letter that we wanted a “gentleman of address.” Daniel Morgan, stalwart old warrior that he was, was not quite that. He came of humble Welsh stock from Pennsylvania, or perhaps New Jersey, and he had very little in the way of education, though there were few men more skilled in gambling and toping. Back in the war against the French, Morgan had served as a mule skinner with the forces of General Braddock, and he managed to survive a punishment of 499 lashes for the insubordination of striking an officer. The hatred for the British army kindled upon that occasion turned Morgan into the most ardent of patriots. I knew him in Lord Dunmore's War, and deemed him an excellent soldier, but he was not a man of tact or social graces. Despite all his service, he was passed over for promotion in favor of men who had less combat experience but more powerful friends. Morgan might have risen to the rank of brigadier if he had courted the favor of Congress, or troubled to cultivate friendships with his superiors, but he could not or would not do so. That was a great pity, for he would have made a better job of Commander of the Southern Department than the craven Horatio Gates. We all wished they had given the supreme command to Morgan instead. And rumor had it that Morgan himself, infuriated by being passed over while others were honored, had resigned his commission and gone home to his farm. Gates could hardly appoint a commander who had withdrawn from service.

All that was perhaps beside the point, though. Morgan was not
here
. That's what mattered. And General Gates was two hundred miles away in Hillsborough, while we were less than twenty miles from Gilbert Town, where Ferguson was reported to be.

By the time Charles McDowell rode from here to Hillsborough, conferred with Gates, and rode the two hundred miles back to wherever we would be by then, with or without an accompanying commander, our campaign would be over. One way or another, it would be all over.

So the contents of that letter to Gates, although entirely courteous and well reasoned, in actuality signified nothing. We had requested two men who could not possibly accept the commission, and in sending the letter we had rid ourselves of a third nominally qualified leader in the person of Charles McDowell. We meant to go on as we were, no matter what we had said or wrote to the contrary.

*   *   *

One by one we signed our names to the document. Then Charles McDowell stretched out his hand, and, with a deferential nod, Joseph Winston handed him the letter.

“I'd best be off soon,” McDowell said. “It's a long way to Hillsborough. I make it nigh on two hundred miles.” He looked around for confirmation, and Cleveland and Winston, who knew that part of North Carolina, nodded in agreement.

“Yes, I thought so. Two hundred miles. I'm glad my horse has had a bit of a rest.” He reached for his saddlebag, and slid the letter inside it, wrapping leather breeches around it to protect the ink from the rain. Then he stood up, and pushed his way out of the makeshift shelter. The rain had slacked off again, and the rest of us followed him outside, and away from the dripping branches of the tree, but we did not disperse. We wished him Godspeed, and watched him stride away, calling out for his horse to be saddled and for someone to find his brother so that he could transfer the command of his troops.

“Well, that was easy enough,” Shelby said to me, in a quiet aside not meant to be overheard, and then he turned back to the others, and in a louder voice he announced to the company, “Now, gentlemen, let us choose a real commander.”

William Campbell blinked at the abruptness of this sally. “Without McDowell?”

Shelby nodded. “Oh, yes. He is well away, and we won't be waiting for word from him. There's not a moment to spare, and we must have a real leader before we proceed. Mind you, Charles McDowell is a fine, loyal fellow, and a good soldier, but he won't do for command overall. I fear he is too … well, too
old …
to be entrusted with that responsibility.”

At this last utterance, the others stared at Shelby in amazement. Charles McDowell was thirty-seven years old, only two years past my own age. That made McDowell five years younger than Benjamin Cleveland, who was forty-two, and, even with his enormous girth, no one would dare suggest that the relentless Colonel Cleveland was unfit for command. I knew what Shelby meant, though, even if he forebore to say it. McDowell was not a satisfactory choice for commander, and age was as good an excuse as any, for the truth was considerably more awkward.

McDowell had a sense of caution bordering on timidity, and the poor management of his campaigns made him seem like a pettifogging old woman. I knew, too, that Andrew Hampton would never forgive Charles McDowell for the incident on the Pacolet, when he had neglected to post pickets, and Hampton's son had died that night in the attack. Although he had said very little during our discussion of the matter, he and his men might well have refused to proceed under the general command of Charles McDowell. No one disputed Shelby's objection to McDowell. He was right in the spirit of his objection, if not accurate in his complaint of the colonel's age as the excuse for it.

There was a moment of silence, while we all considered this proposition. Then Benjamin Cleveland looked around the circle, weighing his choices: Shelby, Winston, Campbell, Hampton, and myself. Even though he would now assume command of the Burke militia, Joseph McDowell would not be considered for the job of chief commander. Joseph McDowell was a fine fellow, and as a leader he was a great improvement over his brother, but he was a mere twenty-four years of age. In his case, age most certainly was the deciding factor to disqualify him.

“It had better be you, Campbell,” Cleveland said at last.

William Campbell looked startled, as well he might. Many of the rest of us were old comrades in battle, with closer ties to one another than to him. “What? Me?” he said. “But why? Surely, it is Colonel Shelby who should be chosen to lead us. Please take my name out of contention, gentlemen. I have no claim to such a primacy above the rest of you.”

Shelby shook his head. “No, no, sir. Colonel Cleveland is right. You are the best and most logical choice, Campbell, though your modesty does you credit. Perhaps any one of us would do as well as you in the overall command, but there are other considerations beyond that. First of all, I contend that we must not hurt Charles McDowell's feelings any more than we have to. Agreed?”

We all nodded. There was no malice in our wish to replace Charles McDowell as leader, only our grave concern for the success of the enterprise. The presence of Joseph McDowell among the commanders would also make it imperative that we act with the utmost tact in making our decision.

“Right,” said Shelby. “We are agreed on that point. Well, then, that being the case, I believe I am the last person you should consider. I am the youngest of all of you, and I have served under McDowell. If you should promote me over McDowell, I fear he would take offense.”

“I believe you are the least objectionable choice, Campbell,” said Ben Cleveland. “The rest of us are all from Carolina, and to elevate one of us in McDowell's absence would be … unwise. But you are a Virginian. Your appointment would be less of a direct challenge to his authority. And I daresay none of us would object to your election.” He looked around at the rest of us. “Gentlemen?”

We all nodded. The force of Shelby's logic had won us over. Campbell was indeed the sensible choice, and it was a choice that we could all live with. Fair enough.

We put the matter to an informal vote—a show of hands—but that was merely for form's sake. The Virginian commander William Campbell would lead our combined forces from now until the battle with Ferguson was over. And if anyone remembered how hard Shelby had to beg in order to persuade Campbell to join our enterprise in the first place, no one remarked on it.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

October 4, 1780

We passed a quiet night, with only the rain to break the silence of the woods, and much to our relief the day dawned clear and fine. We began to break up camp, making ready to go on with the march, when word went around the camp that Old Roundabout wanted to address the men before we got under way. I wondered what Cleveland wanted to tell them. Leaving James and Joseph to pack up our gear, I went along to find the other commanders. The men from each of the militias were beginning to congregate around a clearing, and a little apart from the crowd I saw Cleveland conferring with Shelby, with the other officers grouped nearby.

When they caught sight of me, they waved me over.

“I mean to talk to the troops,” said Cleveland, after we had dispensed with the initial formalities. “They have got a bit wild with all this idleness, and too much time to think before a battle can wear away a man's resolve. We need to ginger them up, and I'm the man to do it. Speechmaking doesn't come naturally to me, on account of this infernal halt in my way of talking, but, being descended from Oliver Cromwell and all, I reckon I can summon up the spirit to rally them to the cause.”