King's Mountain (25 page)

I said that a speech to the men was a fine idea, and that I looked forward to hearing it myself.

Even without a platform or a pulpit, Benjamin Cleveland was an imposing man—tall and corpulent, with a girth that was already more fat than muscle, but despite the jesting nicknames like “Old Roundabout,” the men knew that he was no buffoon. There were a goodly number of Tories hanging lifeless from trees attesting to the fact that Ben Cleveland was a deadly serious man. They would follow his every word, and, even if he stumbled over a few of them, no one would mock him for it.

A hush fell over the assembly, and the men stood in a semicircle waiting to hear what Colonel Cleveland would say. He was still for a moment, letting his gaze go from one upturned face to the next, and then with a deep breath he began.

“Well, my brave fellows, I have come to give you the news. The enemy is at hand, and we must up and have at them. Now is the time for every man here to do a priceless service for his country—one that will cause your children to rejoice in the fact that their fathers aided in the conquest of the hated Ferguson. When the time comes, rest assured that I shall be with you. But if any of you have misgivings about sharing in the battle and the glory to come, why you may now have the opportunity to withdraw from this company. You may leave if you choose to, and we shall permit you a few moments to think the matter over.”

He fell silent then, but his eyes never wavered from the company, and not a man among them moved.

In the stillness, Maj. Joseph McDowell called out, “Those of you thinking of backing out, what kind of story will you tell your families when you get back home?”

More silence, except that William Campbell standing beside me murmured, “Shakespeare's Henry the Fifth, is it not?
Gentlemen in England now abed shall hold their manhood cheap while any speaks who fought with us…”

The moments allotted for a decision had now elapsed, and it was Shelby who urged the men to take a stand. He called out, “Right. Those who want no part of this campaign will upon my mark retreat three paces to the rear of the company.”

After another pause, Cleveland himself barked out the order, and we waited. Some of the soldiers looked around at one another and smiled, but to a man they stood their ground. When they all realized that no one had chosen to desert the cause, a great cheer went up from the ranks, and the officers exchanged sheepish grins that were equal parts pride and relief.

Now that we knew we had faithful soldiers, with no cowards or traitors among them, Shelby offered a few words of counsel regarding the battle to come. “We don't know when we may encounter the enemy, but it will be soon, and when we do, you need not wait for a word of command to proceed. Every one of you will be his own commander. If we are fortunate enough to be able to fight them in the woods, then we must give them Indian play: hide behind the trees, and do not let them get a clear shot at you. But if the enemy yields to us, then you must be alert and wait for an officer's orders.”

He spoke a bit longer, more of the same, gingering up the men so that they would be spoiling for a fight by the time we found Ferguson. Then to celebrate our unity of purpose, Major McDowell produced a barrel of spirits that he must have brought by wagon from his home near Quaker Meadows. One of the men doled out a cupful to each of the soldiers, and there was much banter and boasting as they partook of it. Then each man was told to pack two days' rations in his kit, for we would be on the move again directly.

When we judged that the morale of the company was running high and strong, Campbell gave the order for the militias to make ready to break camp. The horsemen mounted, and the foot soldiers fell in behind them, laden with weapons and blankets.

My oldest boy threaded his way around the other riders, and Major Tipton edged away so that he could come up beside me. “Do you think we'll find Ferguson today, sir?”

“I hope so, Joseph. We are all fed and rested, and as fit as we're going to be. Where is your brother?”

“Oh, I got tired to playing nursemaid to that young'un, so I fobbed him off on Uncle Robert. They're riding together awhile to give me a rest.”

“All right, but James is your responsibility. I expect you to look out for him. I can't command this militia and ride herd on you boys at the same time.”

Joseph hung his head, and it struck me that he was in many ways still a boy. True, I had been married and a father when I was his age, but he was still living at home, so perhaps he'd had less of an opportunity to mature. I wished he could take his time in coming to manhood, but war has a way of making boys grow up whether they mean to or not.

We snaked our way along the banks of Cane Creek, heading in the direction of Gilbert Town. We figured we would reach the town by nightfall. The tension in the air put me in mind of a summer thunderstorm, but it wasn't the weather causing that feeling: it was us. There was no singing or shouts of laughter, no raucous calling from one group to the next, as there had been now and again in the early days of our march. Now we were in enemy territory, and the next bend in the trail could bring us face-to-face with Ferguson's army. The men were not afraid of what was to come, but they were solemn, for death is a serious business, whether you are giving it or receiving it.

Suddenly there was a commotion far ahead of us at the front of the procession. We were riding a good ways behind the leaders, which was Joseph McDowell's Burke militia, and so we could only tell that something had made them stop. No shots had been fired, though. I told Valentine to take command for a bit, and I worked my way up through the line until I reached the front.

As I headed for McDowell, I heard the Burke men calling out to one another that up ahead a lone rider had emerged from the woods. I heard no shots, though, and no sounds of combat.

A minute later I could see that McDowell, Campbell, and Andrew Hampton were in conversation with a young man who bore a passing resemblance to Major Hampton. I trotted forward to join the parlay.

I soon learned that the young man was Jonathan Hampton, brother of poor Noah, the boy who had been slaughtered on the Pacolet when Tory raiders ambushed McDowell's militia. We were nearing the area where Andrew Hampton's landholdings lay, as well as the area where Ferguson was reputed to be.

“He's gone,” Jonathan Hampton said again for my benefit. “He left Gilbert Town a few days back, and the word is that he went a-hunting Elijah Clarke.”

“I doubt he'll find him,” said Major McDowell. “But I hope he crosses our path before he crosses Clarke's.”

Jonathan Hampton scowled. “There's something you ought to see.” He reached into the pocket of his coat and drew out a folded piece of paper. “Ferguson has posted copies of this here broadsheet at general stores and on signposts far and wide.” He handed the paper to Isaac Shelby, who had just appeared, saying “Your name's on it, too, Colonel Shelby.”

We all dismounted so that we could examine this broadsheet together. The proclamation, dated three days earlier—October first—gave the author's location as “Denard's Ford, Broad River, Tryon County,” which I knew to be a few miles southeast of Gilbert Town. It was addressed to “The Inhabitants of North Carolina.”

Shelby read it aloud.

Gentlemen:

Unless you wish to be eat up by an inundation of barbarians, who have begun by murdering an unarmed son before his father, and afterward lopped off his arms, and who by their shocking cruelties and irregularities, give the best proof of their cowardice and want of discipline, I say if you wish to be pinioned, robbed, and murdered, and see your wives and daughters, in four days, abused by the dregs of mankind—in short, if you wish or deserve to live or bear the name of men, grasp your arms in a moment and run to camp.

The Backwater Men have crossed the mountains; McDowell, Hampton, Shelby, and Cleveland are at their head, so that you know what you have to depend upon. If you choose to be pissed upon forever and ever by a set of mongrels, say so at once, and let your women turn their backs upon you, and look out for real men to protect them.

Pat. Ferguson, Major 71st Regiment

Slowly, Shelby lowered the paper. “Well, he knows we're coming.”

“That's about all he knows,” said Major McDowell. “
Backwater Men
? Why, Hampton and Cleveland and I are a good forty miles east of you, Colonel Shelby. Does that English fool think that the Catawba and the Yadkin rivers are on the other side of the mountains?”

“At least you rated a mention,” I said, trying not to grin. “Poor Campbell and I were cruelly snubbed, and we
are
Backwater Men.”

“And what is this business about a son being murdered before his father?” said Hampton. “Arms lopped off?”

“Fanciful, ain't he?” Shelby was laughing. “I think he must have made up that part. But what I want to know is: just who is he hoping to convert to his cause? The men or the ladies?”

Cleveland was not amused. “
Pissed upon forever.
I shan't forget that turn of phrase. I think we owe him something for that. We should read this notice to the troops when we make camp this evening. Major Ferguson's words are likely to inspire them a good deal more than mine did this morning.”

“So Ferguson is no longer in Gilbert Town. What should we do now?” asked Joseph McDowell.

Campbell considered it. “Let's go on as we planned. From there we can deliberate on what next to do. But we had better see about getting a spy to scout out the whereabouts of the enemy.”

Andrew Hampton spoke up. “I know a fellow from these parts who could manage it. Name of Enoch Gilmer. He is one of William Chronicle's men. We can talk to him when we meet up with them.”

We headed out again, with Jonathan Hampton riding alongside his father, for he intended to stay with us and see the mission through, and when we reached Gilbert Town late in the afternoon, we learned that Ferguson had indeed left the area, for we camped that night on the very ground that he had vacated only days before.

*   *   *

The next morning, we were waiting for reports on the whereabouts of Ferguson, and hoping that the South Carolina militias would find us, when a lone rider came galloping up the road. Seeing as how he was alone, we took him for an ally, for no Tory would be foolish enough to ride into our encampment on his own. I was sitting with the other commanders, finishing up our morning's rations, when the rider approached. He was a red-faced man of about forty, with a prominent nose that deprived him of any vestige of good looks, and his thickset body rivaled Colonel Cleveland's for girth. He had evidently asked where to find the commanding officers, for he made straight for us, with an upraised hand, conveying that he came in peace.

While the rider was still out of earshot, dismounting, and handing his horse's reins to a nearby soldier, I murmured to McDowell, “Who is he?”

It was Isaac Shelby who answered, addressing all of us in tones of quiet vehemence. “That, gentlemen, is James Williams. I know quite a bit about him—none of it good, I'm sorry to say.”

He had no time to explain further, for the fellow was striding toward us, smiling as if he had not a care in the world, but I noticed that he was glancing from one of us to another, evidently trying to decide who was the overall commander.

Scarcely pausing to draw breath, the stout fellow gave a slight bow to each of us, and repeated our names as we gave them. “And who is in charge here?” he inquired pleasantly.

“I am,” said William Campbell, and no one elaborated on his answer, though we were all wondering about the purpose of this visit. Surely General Gates had not sent this officer to take command? We had certainly requested such action from him, but we did not mean it, and we had counted on his not receiving our message for another week.

“Ah, excellent news, Colonel Campbell,” said Williams, beaming. “Your name precedes you. I know that Governor Jefferson will be pleased to hear that the kinsman of his predecessor is upholding the honor of Virginia. Commend me to him in your dispatch, if you will.”

William Campbell was no doubt used to such sallies from ambitious strangers, for he ignored the remark, merely asking, “You have not yet identified yourself, sir.”

The smile never wavered. “My apologies. I am acquainted with some of you, so I fancied you knew. I am Brigadier General James Williams, recently appointed to that rank by Governor Rutledge,” he declared. He paused for a moment, perhaps expecting us to show deference to this exalted rank, but all he got for his trouble was hard stares from all of us.

When he said that he was a general, I saw Major McDowell give a little start as if he had been bee-stung, but he said nothing. Williams had pulled a crumpled bit of paper out of his pocket—the official documentation of his appointment to general by the governor of South Carolina—and he waited while we passed it from hand to hand. The document was genuine; obviously the man was who he said he was.

“Delighted to find all you gentlemen well and none the worse for your journey,” he said, as he stuffed the paper back into his pocket. “The excellent General Gates will be gratified to know that I have found you. I sent him a dispatch just three days ago, apprising him of my position, and telling him that my four hundred and fifty horsemen expected to form a junction with you in a day or so. Well met, gentlemen!”

No one spoke for a moment, but Isaac Shelby made a great show of looking around and peering over our visitor's shoulder, as if hoping to espy these 450 men, who were nowhere in evidence. I endeavored not to smile.

“Four hundred and fifty more soldiers would be a welcome addition to our enterprise, sir,” said Colonel Campbell. “But you seem to have misplaced them.”

Williams's smile suggested that he was delighted with Campbell's powers of observation. “Indeed, they are not here,” he said cheerfully. “I wished to ascertain your position, and since you took a bit of finding, I thought it best to make the search alone. I have just left the encampment of colonels Lacey, Hill, Graham, and Hambright. Together we have more than a thousand men. We plan to join our forces to yours farther along, before you catch up with Ferguson.”