King's Mountain (36 page)

I looked at Shelby and Cleveland. “Williams was shot after the enemy had surrendered their weapons. They were all sitting there together in front of us.”

“A stray bullet from one of the soldiers who was still shooting?” Shelby said this in a toneless voice, his face carefully blank.

We were thinking the same thing: someone—perhaps one of Hill's men—had not forgiven or forgotten the attempt of Colonel Williams to assume command. Perhaps someone had hoped that Williams would be killed in the battle, and when that did not happen, he had taken advantage of the confusion and the continuing gunfire to deliver his own form of retribution. James Williams was shot by one of our own men—there was not a doubt in my mind about that.

After an awkward moment of silence, Ben Cleveland spoke up, his face alight with eagerness. “It was them foragers, boys!” he declared. “Didn't you see them? Down at the bottom of the ridge, a party of Tory foragers rode up just as the battle was ending. I expect Ferguson had sent them out earlier in the day for supplies. They returned too late to aid their side in the fighting, but one of them got off a shot at a likely target on horseback, and it happened to be Williams who was hit. Then they faded away again into the woods. Didn't you see them?”

Shelby and I shook our heads.
And neither did you,
I thought. But Cleveland's hopeful theory was both plausible and unverifiable, and I found myself trying to conjure up an image of those Tory foragers in my mind's eye.

“It must have happened that way,” Shelby said solemnly.

Yes,
I thought,
when we tell the story of the shooting of James Williams, we must say it happened that way, because the truth would tarnish our victory.
A troublesome officer shot by some resentful compatriot would make a sorry footnote to this glorious day.

“Foragers,” I said. “If he dies, it will be a tragic end to a fine soldier.” In that event, we would speak well of him, and praise his valor, and mourn his loss—in public and in print, that is—but I confess I would like him better dead.

*   *   *

“Where is Ferguson?” I asked one of the Burke County men, for they had been on the side of the ridge where the major had begun his last desperate ride. This fellow, who was guarding the prisoners, pointed to the eastern end of the ridge, only a few yards beyond the camp. “Still down there near that little spring, where his men laid him out.”

There was a score of other things to be done in the aftermath, but having come so far on account of the taunting of this arrogant man, I meant to see him
in extremis,
if only for a moment. I might have saved myself the trouble of asking for Ferguson's whereabouts, for there was a steady stream of men making their way down the steep slope to stare at the corpse of the Redcoats' commander. Even wounded men were limping down the hill to view the body; others, too badly injured to walk, were being carried to the scene by their loyal comrades. Perhaps they felt that, even if they died of their wounds, they had been rewarded by the sight of their enemy brought low through the efforts of a makeshift army.

I edged through the crowd, the more easily done because many of the men recognized me and parted their ranks to let me through.

Now that Major Ferguson was diminished by death, he looked as insignificant as a child, sprawled out in the weeds, his hat and his checkered hunting shirt in tatters from the weapons fire, and awash in blood. Half of Ferguson's face sheared away by the force of the bullet that killed him, and his arms lay at twisted angles to his body—broken, both of them, either by the shots or by his fall from the horse. He had been shot eight or nine times, though, judging by the blood and the holes in his clothing.

The men who crowded around Ferguson's body were still angry. It did not matter to them that he had been a brave soldier, doing his duty as he saw it. I'm not sure it mattered to me, either. He had called us
banditi,
and threatened to burn our homes and kill our families. An honorable death in battle did not even the score in the minds of our citizen soldiers. They were busy parceling out Ferguson's possessions—his checkered shirt, his boots. The pistol, sash, and his sword would be reserved as trophies for the commanders.

Shelby had come down the hill to see the remains as well. He stopped a little above me on the slope, and said in the manner of one pronouncing a eulogy, “Well, Ferguson, we have
burgoyned
you.”

Someone in the crowd touched my arm. “I think I'm the one that took him down, Colonel. I had a clear shot, and I aimed for his head.”

I turned and recognized the speaker as one of my own Watauga men—Robert Young, a good soldier and a marksman to be reckoned with.

“Very likely you did,” I murmured.

“It was John Gilleland—I reckon you know him, Colonel, 'cause he's from Washington County as me—well, sir, it was Gilleland that spotted Ferguson first. He yelled out, ‘There he is in the big shirt,' and he tried to take a shot at him, but all he got from his musket was a flash in the pan, so he called for me to shoot, and I did, and I believe I brought him down, though there were half a dozen of us all taking aim at him at once. Gilleland is sorely wounded, though, I'm sorry to say.”

“We'll see that he's looked after,” I said. “But you did well.”

Robert Young flushed with pleasure. “Well, Ferguson had it coming, especially after that letter that was read to us on the trail a few days back. The one where he tells the rich planters, If you don't stop those Backwater Men, you will be pissed upon forever.

Half the crowd grouped around the corpse overheard Robert Young's remark, though I'm sure someone would have remembered that phrase sooner or later.

“Pissed upon forever!”
The words became a chant and then a taunt, and as I turned and made my way back up the slope, I heard raucous laughter, and an acrid odor reached my nostrils. The men were suiting the action to the word. I did not turn back. I did not particularly want to see it happen, but I did not stop it, either. Ferguson had made me feel like a bear tied to a stake, and I thought a quick and easy death was more than he had deserved.

CHAPTER TWENTY

October 7, 1780

The spell of the battle was wearing off now, and I became aware of the smell of blood, and for the first time I really saw the piles of bodies I had passed before as if I had been sleepwalking. One of the dead was a young woman, shabbily dressed and sprawled out on the wet grass with an arm outstretched reaching out for something that could no longer matter now. I stopped to look down at her. She had fallen close to the baggage wagons; perhaps she had been trying to reach one for safety. She looked young—perhaps twenty—with a face unmarred, for she had been shot through the heart, and the red curls that tumbled about her face were tipped with blood. Perhaps that blaze of hair had made her a tempting target for some coldhearted marksman. The pall of death had not yet settled over her features, so that at a glance one might think that she was merely sleeping.
A servant,
I thought, from her ragged clothing. I wondered why the Tories had not sent her away before the fighting began, but then I realized that there had not been time. They had only minutes from the time their sentry fired the warning shot until the first of our militias began to climb the ridge. No one had spared a thought for the wretched young woman caught in their midst. She must have spent her last moments in blind terror, and because of that, I thought of my bride, bonny Kate, who had also been caught in a battle when Old Abram's men attacked Fort Watauga four years back. I had saved her that day, but this young lass was not so fortunate, and the memories of my Kate's peril moved me to pity.

“We must see about burying this woman,” I called out to a passing officer.

“That's Ferguson's doxy, that is,” the fellow replied, nudging the body with the toe of his boot. “I heard one of the prisoners say so. Reckon she got hit early on. Probably got caught up in all the smoke, so they couldn't properly see her.”

“Yes.” I hoped it was quick, and that she did not suffer.

One of the prisoners stood up. “I'll do it, with your permission, sir.”

A short mousey-looking man stood looking at me, with an expression that mingled fear with sorrow. “It's Major Ferguson I'm thinking of, but I could put her in the grave with him. He wouldn't mind that, I reckon.”

He wasn't in uniform, and he didn't look like he'd done any fighting. “Who are you?” I said.

“Elias Powell, sir. I am—was—Ferguson's manservant. I'd like to do this one last thing for him and bury him proper. He was a good officer.”

I considered it. We had settled the score with Ferguson in the battle, and answered his “pissing letter” in kind, and that was an end to it. Now he could have his honor back. “All right,” I said to Powell. “See what you can do to help your wounded comrades first, but when time permits, bury the both of them. You may take some of the prisoners to help you dig the grave, and we will send a guard with you. Find something to make a shroud. We have to see to our own wounded, and then bury our dead.”

Elias Powell nodded his thanks. He looked down at the red-haired woman crumpled at my feet. “She wasn't a bad woman, sir,” he said. “She was just trying to live through this war, same as the rest of us.”

“Yes. It is a great pity that the innocents must suffer as well.”

As I started to walk away, another thought struck Elias Powell, and he called after me, “Did you happen to see the other one, sir?” I looked back and he went on, “There was another washerwoman. Virginia Paul. We called that one laying there Virginia Sal. I only wondered what became of the other one.”

“Yes, I remember her. She came running down the ridge just as the shooting started. We asked her how we could recognize Major Ferguson, and when she told us, we let her go. If she got hold of a horse, she may be halfway to Charlotte Town by now. Or perhaps she ran into our soldiers down the road and they detained her. I wonder why the other one didn't go with her.”

Elias Powell shivered. “I don't reckon any of us could follow where that one was going. But I thank you for the news, Colonel, and I'll see to the burying when I can.” He knelt down and scooped up the body of the young woman, and, staggering a little under its weight, he shuffled off to lay her body in the pile with the others.

*   *   *

Perhaps the young woman had not suffered but others did, and were suffering still. I could hear the feeble cries of the wounded, Whig and Tory alike, all over the plateau. They begged for water, or called out to their comrades to help them.

A few yards away I saw a dark-haired young fellow in muddy blood-smeared clothes, kneeling beside one of the blood-soaked Tories, probing for wounds. I judged that he must be the Redcoats' surgeon. We would have need of him. I needed him now.

I started toward the Tory physician, but big Ben Cleveland came stumping across the field, and reached him first. Scarlet with rage, Cleveland hauled the doctor to his feet and slapped him across the face with the back of his hand. “You're a prisoner now! You'll treat our wounded, not yours!”

The fellow rubbed at the mark on his cheek, but he faced Cleveland with calm resolve. “I'll treat any man who needs me, sir.”

I stepped in before they could quarrel further. “Pardon me, Cleveland, but I have need of this prisoner. My brother is gravely wounded. Come with me, please, Doctor.”

Cleveland sighed. “Is it Valentine?”

“No. My younger brother, Robert.”

“It' a curse, I tell you,” Cleveland declared. “I mean, think on it, Colonel Sevier. My brother Larkin was wounded on the way here. Isaac Shelby's youngest brother was wounded this afternoon, and now you tell me that your brother is a casualty as well. Mighty like a curse, ain't it?”

“Mighty bad luck, anyhow. I hope they all recover quickly. May I borrow the doctor here?”

“Take him and welcome,” said Cleveland.

“Thank you. Doctor, come with me.”

The Tory surgeon stood still for a moment, glaring at Cleveland, but I touched his elbow, and murmured, “Please. My brother needs help.”

The doctor glanced at me, and nodded. “Lead the way, sir.”

He stooped to pick up his leather bag, and then he followed me back across the plateau, hesitating every now and then when we passed a wounded man, but I gave him a look that said I would brook no diversion from the task at hand, and he made no trouble about it.

As the doctor and I made our way toward the southwestern slope, I heard voices whooping and cheering behind me. I turned and saw that some of the men had managed to catch Ferguson's white horse, and they were leading it over to Ben Cleveland. I suppose they meant to present it to him to make up for the one that had been shot out from under him during the battle. I was glad of this. Now we could be sure that the big man would make it home safely to Wilkes County.

*   *   *

At last we threaded our way past the fallen soldiers, and reached the edge of the hill. As we began to make our way down, the doctor's foot slipped on a pile of wet leaves, and he nearly fell, but I braced myself against a tree and caught his arm, steadying him until he regained his balance.

He muttered thanks, and I said, “I am Colonel Sevier, commander of the Watauga militia. What's your name, Doctor?”

“Johnson,” he said, scraping the mud off his boot on a fallen log. “Uzal Johnson. From New Jersey. I was commissioned by the New Jersey Volunteers before I came south.” The bitterness in his tone suggested that he regretted this decision.

“And you have studied medicine?”

“Yes, I qualified at King's College in New York.” He gave me a mirthless smile. “I think I am equal to the task of treating the wounded, sir. Heaven knows I've had enough practice at it by now. Bullet wounds and smallpox—I've seen enough of them for two lifetimes of doctoring.”