King's Mountain (30 page)

“One more thing,” said Joseph Kerr. “There's an encampment of Tories not more than four miles from here. Probably on their way to join Ferguson in the morning.”

Campbell shook his head. “We passed several such groups on our way here this afternoon, and we decided then not to be distracted by these local Tories. We could fight until doomsday and never meet Ferguson if we went chasing every little nest of Tories in the area.” He thought for a moment. “I suppose we'd better send someone to see about them, though.” He turned to his orderly, the man that Ben Cleveland had playfully pretended to mistake for Campbell earlier in the week. “Please find Ensign Robert Campbell and ask him to come here.” When the orderly had departed, Colonel Campbell turned back to us. “The ensign can form up a party of volunteers and see about these local Tories. When they have done that, they can rejoin us farther along. Anything else, gentlemen?”

We shook our heads.

“Then let us make ready. We will depart within the hour.”

*   *   *

We made a sorry, sodden procession riding out of the cow pens' fields at nine that evening, with a cold autumn rain pelting down on us, and an overcast moonless night making our journey one long interval of stumbling through the dark. We rode mostly in silence, each man wrapped in his thoughts and his misery. We went slowly because we could not see far ahead, and if we followed the wrong trail, it would cost us time that we did not have to spare. We took off our hunting shirts and wrapped them around our rifles, for if we got a drenching in cold rain, at least we had done what we could to protect ourselves from the disaster of charging into battle with weapons that would not fire.

We would sacrifice everything for the chance to stop Ferguson—we had to. What did it matter if we were cold, hungry, footsore, and wet, compared to the prospect of losing the battle when it came? I had brought from home a company of men who trusted me to lead them well and see them safely back again. I had brought my brothers with me, and my two eldest sons, and their lives were in my hands as well. I knew what would happen if we fought Ferguson and lost. They would hang us for traitors, and then there would be no one left to protect our women and children from the Indian raids that would surely come, or from the invasion of Ferguson's regiment when he finally turned his attention to the land beyond the mountains.

If we lose the coming battle, everyone who depends on me will die.
Dark thoughts indeed for a black night, but I needed to face that fact to strengthen my resolve. It had been my decision to force this fight—mine and Shelby's, though the others came along willingly enough—but now I was risking the lives of my sons and my brothers. There was no turning back, and they would scorn me if I tried to keep them out of the battle. We Seviers pride ourselves on never running away from trouble.
Huguenot
. The word rose unbidden in my mind. Yes, all right then, perhaps a century ago my ancestors the Xaviers did run to escape the persecution in France, but we are in a new world with a new name, and times are different now. There will be no running here.

As I rode along in the driving rain and the darkness, I had no recourse but prayer, trust in my comrades, and faith in our resolve.

*   *   *

We were heading toward the Broad River, some eighteen miles from where we had started, but there was no respite from the encompassing darkness, and on the narrow trace through deep woods, the militias became separated. Those who had become lost in the mists would have to push themselves even harder come daylight, in order to catch up with the rest.

Ten hours had passed while we picked our way along a broken trail awash with mud, and then the sky lightened to the color of pewter, and we could just make out the shapes of the trees around us, and then we could see the other riders on the road just ahead.

A messenger from Campbell's militia found me, and asked me to ride ahead so that all the commanders could confer without halting the procession. I threaded my way forward between the horsemen, until I reached the front, where Shelby, McDowell, and Cleveland were already gathered. It had been a hard night for all of us. Campbell's black horse was streaked with mud, and Cleveland's wet graying hair hung about his face like pond weeds.

“Before we left the cow pens, the spy Joseph Kerr told us that yesterday Major Ferguson was stopping at Tate's Plantation, and so we had intended to ford the river there,” said Campbell. “But I have been thinking that there might be some danger in that plan. Ferguson may still be there, or he may have left some of his men behind to ambush us.”

“There's another ford about a mile away,” said Joseph McDowell. “We camped there with the Burke militia back in the summer. Cherokee Ford, it is called. I can take you there.”

“How do we know that the Tories aren't waiting to ambush us there?” asked Shelby.

“We have a spy,” said McDowell. “Let's make use of him. Enoch Gilmer can go ahead of us, and cross the river by himself, and let us know if it is safe to proceed.”

Campbell turned to one of his young officers. “Find the man Gilmer. He is one of Major Chronicle's men. Ask him to come up.”

“While we wait for the signal to proceed, we can have the men check their weapons and powder,” said Cleveland. “I want to be sure we have working rifles before we need them.”

“And we can send some of our best men ahead to this side of the river,” I said. “In case there are any enemy troops there, they can hold them back until the rest get there.”

“Yes,” said Campbell. “Time is short now. We must leave nothing to chance.”

We kept riding, and presently Enoch Gilmer drew his horse up alongside mine. “Good morning, sirs. I believe you sent for me.”

He was his ordinary self this morning, though wet and weary like the rest of us. I would not have known him from the rustic fellow he pretended to be when he offered me an apple at the Green River encampment.

“We have need of a scout,” said Campbell. “We want you to ride on ahead of us, and cross the river. We're heading for Cherokee Ford, and you are to make sure that there are no Tories there waiting to ambush us. Give us a signal if the way is clear.”

Gilmer nodded. “Reckon I can do that. Now for the signal. This is the time to use the Irish tune I told you about: ‘Barnie O'Linn.'” To remind us, he sang a few lines of it. It was a jaunty, carefree air, and he sang it in a strong tenor that should carry a sufficient distance to serve well as a signal.

“Right, then,” said Gilmer. “I'm off. Listen for my song before you approach the river and you'll be all right.”

We watched him canter away, and then Shelby said, “Well, let's give him a few minutes to get there. This is the time for each of our militias to check their weapons.”

We headed back to our respective troops, and oversaw the testing of the rifles. The rain had not stopped, but it would come and go as the clouds shifted above us. I saw not a patch of blue anywhere, though, and I feared that the storm would be with us throughout the day. The testing took only a few minutes, and then we headed off again, following McDowell to Cherokee Ford. By the time we were able to glimpse the river through a break in the trees, we could hear the lusty voice of Enoch Gilmer raised in song.

“Oo-oh, there once was a man name of Barnie O'Linn.”

All clear.

*   *   *

The days of steady rain had swollen the river to a few feet higher than normal, but it stayed within its banks, and we made the crossing without any mishaps, losing no men or supplies in the endeavor. Once we were safely across the river, we found Gilmer waiting for the commanders in order to suggest his course of action for the morning, subject to our approval.

“If it suits you fellows,” he said, slipping into his rustic persona, “I reckon I'll ride on ahead, and stay a ways apart from the rest of the bunch, until we find out exactly where Major Ferguson is keeping himself. Maybe I'll wander down a side road now and then to stop off at a farm, in case the folks there have any fresh news to impart about Ferguson. I reckon I'll tell them I'm an eager little Tory a-wanting to join up with his army, so they won't think they're making trouble by talking to me. And when I find out anything, I'll head on back and hunt you up.”

“Good luck then,” said Campbell.

We all wished him well, and Enoch Gilmer trotted off down the lane, singing another jaunty tune in a clear, carrying voice, as if he hadn't a care in the world.

*   *   *

We kept on going through the gray half-light of that dark morning, and the rain fell in sheets around us. They downpour hindered our progress, but we would have proceeded slowly anyhow, because we knew that Ferguson's army could be waiting for us around every bend.

Finally, we reached the farm of Peter Quinn, where, according to Joseph Kerr, Major Ferguson's regiment had stopped yesterday at noon. As we expected, there was no sign of enemy soldiers now, so we kept on riding eastward, having now covered more than thirty miles since we set out from the Cowpens the night before. The men were hungry as well as tired, and as we rode past the fields of corn, nearly ready for harvest, some of them steered their mounts close to the rail fences, and pulled off ears of green corn, eating it as they rode.

I was riding close to Campbell in the front of the procession, trying to see the trail through the curtain of rain. I urged my horse nearer to his black gelding so that we could talk. “I don't see how we could fight in this weather,” I said to him, as quietly as I could, so that the riders near us could not overhear.

His expression did not change. “I was thinking the same, Colonel Sevier,” he murmured. “The men are tired, anyhow. Perhaps we could call a halt to the march, and see if the rain stops. If it doesn't, we could always wait one more day. Let's take it up with the others.”

Colonels Cleveland and Shelby were within hailing distance behind us, for all the officers rode close to the head of the column, so we motioned them to come up, and Campbell put the question to them.

“We have been more than ten hours in the saddle,” said Campbell. “The men are exhausted, for they only rested an hour or two between the march to the Cowpens and the time we set out last night. The horses are nearly spent. And it is still raining steadily. Should we call a halt to see if the weather clears, and if not, postpone further pursuit? Or at the very least, give them rest for an hour or so?”

Before anyone else could offer an opinion, Isaac Shelby spoke up. “I speak for myself here, gentlemen. Whatever you decide I will not stop. By God, I will not stop until nightfall, not even if I end up following Ferguson all the way to Cornwallis's lines.” He looked more like a hawk than ever with the rain dripping off his beak of a nose, and his black eyes snapping with anger and cold resolve. Shelby looked at us each in turn—Campbell, Cleveland, and myself—daring us to contest his decision, but no one said a word. A moment later, the silence still unbroken, we fell back into the usual formation, and the interminable march went on.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

October 7, 1780

Perhaps Shelby's declaration of steadfastness made our luck turn, for the rain began to fall more gently than before, and behind us to the west we could see a break in the clouds. The land here on the north side of the Broad River was gently rolling, but we were hemmed in by trees, making me long for the mountains back home where you could find a promontory and see the surrounding countryside for miles in the distance. Here, though, curtained off by pine woods, we scarcely knew what was around the bend. It gave me a prickly feeling, for I mislike surprises when I am soldiering.

We had not traveled more than another mile when we came to a little farm.

This territory was close to the home of Col. William Graham, commander of the local South Fork militia, and Campbell called him forward to see what he could tell us about the place's inhabitants.

“That is Solomon Beason's place,” said Graham wearily. Either the wet night ride had taken its toll on him, or else he had eaten some of that green corn along the way.

“Can you tell us if this man Beason is a Whig or a Tory?” asked Campbell.

Graham managed a weak grin. “Well, sir, it depends on who's doing the asking. Some of my men have run across Old Beason before, and we reckon that he don't care who wins the war, so long as he personally doesn't lose anything by it. He tells us he's on our side, but when the Tories come through, I don't doubt that he sings the same tune to them.”

“Cowards can be useful,” said Cleveland. “They'll betray anyone to save themselves. Let's send a couple of men to put the fear of God in him. Ferguson must have passed this way, and this craven farmer is likely to tell us all he knows in order to get rid of us.” He brightened as another thought struck him. “And if Beason doesn't inform on Ferguson, we could hang him to loosen the tongues of his neighbors.”

Campbell shook his head. “We needn't harm the man, Colonel Cleveland. Time is short, and we have greater foes to contend with. Colonel Graham, instruct your men to question Beason, and not to come back without information about Ferguson.”

A few moments later, half a dozen officers from Graham's militia peeled away from the column of riders, and cantered back toward the little farmhouse we had just passed. They could easily catch up with us when they had completed their task, for a few riders could move much faster along the narrow trace than our serpentine procession of hundreds. I glanced back and saw them pounding on the cabin door, and then they disappeared inside.

“It won't be long now,” I murmured, and Shelby, who was riding closest to me, replied, “It has been long enough already.”

*   *   *

We had not traveled more than half a mile or so, before two of Graham's officers returned, whooping, waving their hats, and urging their horses forward in order to reach the head of the column. They looked jubilant and unharmed, but immediately I looked back to see what had become of the other four riders who had gone with them to Beason's place. They, too, were heading up the road to join us, but their progress was slower because between them they were herding two prisoners, young men clad in farmers' garb, not military uniform, who shuffled and stumbled along, trying to avoid the hoofs of their captors' horses.