King's Mountain (29 page)

By the time Campbell, Cleveland, Winston, McDowell, Shelby, and I had finished culling the weak and weary from the ranks of our militias, we had about seven hundred men to make the last leg of our long journey. I was torn between wanting it all to be over and hoping for one more day so that we could all get some rest before we had to fight.

We were just finishing our morning rations, and getting ready to douse the campfires when the sentries called out that there were riders coming into camp.
Ferguson has brought the fight to us,
I thought, and the same idea must have pervaded the camp, for every man I saw was reaching for his rifle, and getting ready to make a stand against the enemy. No shots were fired, though, for before we could take any action, the message was relayed from sentries to officers across the field:
The riders were our allies, come to join us in our pursuit of Ferguson.

While Major Tipton and my brother Valentine were keeping the men in order, I hurried away to join the other commanders and see if the newcomers had brought news as well as reinforcements. I found Joseph McDowell on his way to Campbell's encampment. “Who are these new arrivals?” I asked him. “Have you heard?”

“One of the sentries said he thought it might be Clarke.”

We soon learned that it wasn't Clarke himself, but some thirty of his men who had come to join us led by Colonel Graham, along with another two dozen troops under the command of Major William Chronicle, another Catawba Valley patriot.

“Well, that will swell the ranks,” said Shelby, who had ridden up to see what was going on. “I feel better about leaving some of my ailing men now that we have fresh troops to replace them.”

“Let your sick ones give their powder and their horses, if they have them, to the able-bodied men that are going with you,” I said. “We need supplies and mounts as much as we need soldiers.”

The march was delayed long enough for us to confer with Major Chronicle, and to let him know that we were meeting Hill and Lacey at the Cowpens this evening. Chronicle agreed to this plan, and ordered his men to join the rest of the militias. At last we were ready to resume the journey. The men who were well enough to fight, but who had no horses, were left behind under the command of a Wilkes County officer, Maj. Joseph Herndon. He was to bring these foot soldiers along in our wake, making as good a progress as they could.

The scouts rode out ahead of us to make sure that we didn't stumble into an ambush, and I saw Enoch Gilmer setting out on foot, with his hat pulled down over his ears, and a rolling gait that made him look like the rustic simpleton he was pretending to be. I hoped his disguise would serve him well, and would bring us news of Ferguson's whereabouts.

We had gone only a few miles when one of the scouts came galloping back up the trace, and headed for the clump of officers riding together. “Tories up ahead, sirs!” he called out. “A passel of 'em.”

Shelby and I both looked at Campbell. It was hard to defer decisions to him when I was used to command myself, but so far I had no complaints about his judgment. He had not made any choices that I wouldn't have made myself.

“Is it Ferguson?” he said to the scout.

The fellow—one of Chronicle's men—shook his head. “Just locals as far as I can tell. But there's more'n a hundred, mounted and armed.”

“Probably on their way to join up with Ferguson,” said Shelby.

“How far from here?” said Campbell, still speaking to the scout.

The rider considered it. “Couple of miles, but down a different road. They look to be heading northeast, not south.”

“Thank you, soldier,” said Campbell. “You're dismissed. Ride on out again, and keep us apprised.” When the scout was out of earshot, Campbell turned to us. “Well, gentlemen, is anybody spoiling for a fight?”

Shelby shook his head. “I reckon I am,” he said, “but not at that price.”

“It isn't Ferguson,” I said. “We could attack them and win, but it would cost us powder and shot, and, above all, time. And if we stopped to fight them, word might get to Ferguson about our whereabouts, and we don't want to meet him until we have the South Carolina militias with us. At least, that's what I think. You asked for our opinion, Colonel Campbell. Well, there's mine.”

William Campbell smiled. “Colonel Shelby, are you of the same mind?”

“I am, sir. Shall we ask the other commanders? I'd wager they'll tell you the same.”

“Well, since you all put me in command, I needn't ask them,” said Campbell. “As it happens, I agree with you. I think we would be wasting precious time if we allowed ourselves to be distracted by these local Tories. And every minute that passes increases the chances that Cornwallis will send Tarleton's dragoons to the aid of Major Ferguson. We will fare better if we can catch him before that can happen. I say we ride on, and avoid the temptation of a lesser skirmish. Are we agreed, then?”

We nodded, and rode on for a while in silence. Making a decision is easier than living with it. Sometimes you don't find out until later whether or not you made the right choice, but I had to believe that we did act wisely, for second-guessing yourself only saps your courage and makes you slow to act. You decide, and you move on, and the devil take the hindmost.

The march went on without incident, although a few miles farther along, a scout again reported the presence of enemy troops in the area, but again we refused to be led into temptation, and we plodded on into South Carolina under gradually darkening skies and an insistent wind that turned over the leaves of the trees.

“It's going to rain,” said Cleveland, who was riding beside me at the time. “My knee is aching, and that's always a sure sign that the weather is changing. Besides, the leaves are showing their undersides. Never fails.”

I nodded. “We're on the move, though. Maybe the storm isn't going our way.”

Cleveland looked up at the sky, an unbroken blanket of clouds stretching as far as we could see. “No matter which way we go, that storm will be there.”

Chronicle's men knew the area well enough to guide us, and by late afternoon we heard the bawling of cattle, and we saw a wide green meadow ringed by trees and stock pens with cornfields stretching away to the river. We had reached the field of cow pens, belonging to Hiram Saunders, the wealthy Tory that Lacey had spoken of, but when we arrived neither the farm workers nor the owner himself was anywhere to be seen. Perhaps they had been warned that a large enemy force was approaching the land, and they had made themselves scarce. Better to lose a few of their cattle than to risk being harmed. We met with no resistance, and we set up camp in the great field without incident.

Once we had determined that the area was undefended and therefore safe for an encampment, we settled down on the grass to rest and to await the arrival of Lacey's militia. The men were hungry as well as tired, though. For most of a week we had lived on parched corn and whatever we could scavenge from the farms and forests along the way, so straightaway Campbell ordered some men to shoot a few of the cows so that we could have one good meal before we had to continue the journey. We also sent others to forage in the cornfield to get food for the horses.

Within the hour, the men had built campfires, and the wind carried the smell of roasting beef across the field. Just at twilight, Edward Lacey appeared with his militia and the troops of Colonel Hill, and trailing them at a remove of a couple of hundred yards were the men under the command of James Williams, the scoundrel who had tried to send us all the way to Ninety Six for his own benefit.

I had left my horse to graze near the river, and Isaac Shelby and I were stretching our legs by walking around the field, not so much inspecting the troops as encouraging them and assuring them that our quest would soon be over, for it was important to keep up their spirits. When we saw our reinforcements arrive, Shelby and I began to walk toward Campbell's campsite where all the commanders would soon confer, but we proceeded at a leisurely pace, because we had things to talk about between ourselves.

“We are now in the state of South Carolina,” Shelby observed.

“I know it,” I said. “Mighty warm here for October.”

“Mighty warm,” Shelby agreed. “And you also know that James Williams claims to have a commission from Governor Rutledge making him a general.”

“Yes. He waves that paper around like a boy with a toy flag. What of it?”

Shelby waited a few moments before he answered. Finally he said, “Well, if Williams is a South Carolina general, and we are now in South Carolina, then according to military protocol, that means James Williams is entitled to be the commanding officer of this expedition, does it not?”

I turned the problem over in my mind, determined to find another solution. According to military protocol, that was indeed the correct answer, but to my mind it was by no means the
right
one. Choosing my words carefully, I said, “I think military protocol is beside the point, Shelby. We are not enlisted in the Continental Army. Our militias are made up of men who serve of their own free will, and because they trust the leader they have agreed to follow. If my men were ordered to follow that scoundrel Williams, I reckon they would all turn around and start for home, and I can't say that I would blame them!”

Shelby sighed. “And suppose he tries to take over, which Lacey says he is known for doing?”

“We tell him that Colonel Campbell has been elected commander of our joint forces, and that Charles McDowell has been dispatched to Hillsborough to confer with General Gates. Until and unless McDowell returns with orders to the contrary from Gates, we will proceed as we have been—answering to Campbell.”

“Fair enough,” said Shelby. “That argument is sound and logical. I think we should pass the word to the other commanders so that they will all be prepared in case Williams tries to take over.”

“Let's find them now,” I said. “And with any luck we'll be out of South Carolina before the issue of Williams becomes a problem.”

*   *   *

Just after nightfall, when all the commanders had come together for the customary strategy session, a misting rain began to soak the field, making the campfires sputter, and dampening the spirits of the weary soldiers.

“It will rain harder before it quits,” said Ben Cleveland, peering up at the starless sky. “My knee tells me that.”

Major McDowell laughed. “I wish your knee would tell us where Ferguson is, Cleveland.”

“I can tell you that, sir.” A dark-haired man of about thirty had come up to the campfire. He walked with the rolling gait of one who is lame in one leg, and his clothes had the ragged look of beggars' garments. After twelve days of marching and sleeping rough, none of us was garbed like gentlemen, but even in our shabby midst he stood out.

When he announced that he knew the whereabouts of our quarry, we all turned to look at him, but before anyone else could speak, Major McDowell was on his feet, clasping the hand of the stranger, and bidding him welcome. Then he turned to the rest of us.

“Gentlemen, this is Joseph Kerr, a most able and valuable spy. Because of his bad leg, he was unable to serve in the militia, so he presented himself to my brother Charles, and offered his services as a gatherer of information. I am happy to vouch for him. We can trust anything he tells us about the enemy's movements.”

Joseph Kerr nodded his thanks to McDowell. “Colonel Charles McDowell sent me to South Carolina to keep an eye on Lord Cornwallis a while back,” he said. “The general has crossed over into North Carolina, and set up headquarters in Charlotte Town, as I expect you know. So I have been watching Major Ferguson, who has spent the summer around Gilbert Town, for the most part. Now, though, he is making his way back to join Cornwallis. At noon today he was about fifteen miles northeast of here, having his midday meal at a plantation.”

“Is he camping there?”

“No,” said Kerr. “Ferguson was moving on closer to Charlotte Town later that afternoon. I talked to one of the servants at the big house and she claimed that, while she was serving dinner, she had heard the major say he wanted to find himself a big hill and dig into the top of it. If she was telling the truth, then he's going to stand and fight, reinforcements or no. If I were you, gentlemen, I'd try to catch him while he's still alone. I don't know how many men he has got with him now, but by all accounts, it's fewer than one and a half thousand.”

Around the circle of faces, we looked at one another. “We must catch him,” said Shelby. “We have almost as many soldiers as he does. If we can meet him on even terms, we can destroy him. But if we wait until Tarleton's dragoons join him, then we might be facing another rout like Camden. I would do anything to avoid that.”

William Campbell looked up at the sky. The drizzle was steady now, and the night was growing colder. “It's dark,” he said at last. “The men have come a dozen miles today, on little sleep, and their bellies are full for the first time in a week. Perhaps we should let them sleep tonight, and start off first thing in the morning.”

“Daybreak won't come early,” I said. “These low clouds will hold in the night for a long time.”

Ben Cleveland wiped a trickle of rain off his cheek. “I can't see anybody getting much sleep tonight, boys. With no cover from this downpour, I think we'd be better off on the move instead of lying on the cold, hard ground getting soaked to the skin. I reckon the men would get up more tired than they were when they lay down.”

Campbell looked at each one of us, waiting perhaps for someone to voice an objection, but no one did. A sleepless night in the rain seemed preferable to many more cold, wet nights in the wilderness as winter approached. Better to get it over with as quickly as possible and go home.

“All right,” he said. “Though I hope the men will be fit enough to fight after such a night as you propose to make them endure. Go and tell your men that we are breaking camp within the hour. The mounted troops can go first, and the foot soldiers can follow at their own pace.”