Robertson shrugged and said, “Well, yes. Of course.”
Ira sat back and said, “Is it possible that General Morgan would send some of those supplies here to be given to Colonel Marion and others like him … to you, for that matter?”
Robertson suddenly understood. “Why, yes, sir! That would also explain why Colonel Marion is coming here so quickly and in force. We have no way of knowing how much, if anything, might be headed here as a result of the battle, but it could be a large quantity of critical supplies. A convoy carrying these things would be priceless to us here.”
Ira sat his cup down and rubbed his chin before saying, “Captain, it really doesn’t matter why Colonel Marion is coming to us. No, and it doesn’t really matter why the British would choose to attack us. It seems that something profound is going to happen here. I know you think my mill is a fortress. I know you have made elaborate plans to defend us. It seems we will be significantly reinforced very soon. However, I also know what King Solomon said in a Psalm inspired by God’s Holy Spirit thousands of years ago. “Except the LORD keepeth the city, the watchman waketh but in vain.” We must have God’s help here, or I fear the enemy will destroy us and those we love.” Captain Robertson understood. He was mildly surprised, but didn’t object when Ira began to pray.
CHAPTER 26
Lieutenant Robert Cloyde led the thirty exhausted members of his light dragoon troop into the dusty outskirts of Rocky Mount late in the afternoon. The picket guard stopped him briefly, then passed the small column on toward the center of town. He was met by an inquisitive young sergeant of the guard near the head of the main street. Cloyde explained who he was and asked directions to the officer in charge of the garrison. The sergeant explained that a large house near the village center was used as the headquarters building. Major Willoughby, the commander, could be found there. The house was easy to find. It was the largest structure in town, and was previously the property of a wealthy colonial who unfortunately chose the wrong side in the present conflict. Cloyde gave instructions to his sergeant regarding the immediate care of the men and horses. He then dismounted, gave the reins of his own horse to an orderly, and went to report to Major Willoughby.
Willoughby listened to Cloyde’s report from a seated position behind his desk. He had already heard about the tragic events at Cowpens. His worst fears were verified when he interrogated the captured Major Throckmorton. He now listened aghast as Cloyde filled in the gruesome details and horrible nature of the defeat. Major Willoughby knew many of the officers lost in the battle. His stomach twisted as he learned more about their fate. Anger swelled in his chest. Intense professional resolve was required to maintain his stoic composure while Cloyde finished his report. Willoughby found that most of his fury was not even directed toward the rebel forces who inflicted this humiliating defeat. No, what galled him the most was the prideful stupidity of one of his superiors, Lieutenant Colonel Banastre Tarleton. He listened to the rest of the report while thinking there were odd similarities between that arrogant fool Tarleton and the cowardly charlatan, Crispin, who was locked up in a makeshift cell downstairs.
Cloyde stopped speaking but remained standing in front of Major Willoughby at rigid attention. The major missed the last several words spoken in his angry distraction. He was further frustrated by having to ask the lieutenant to repeat himself when he realized that the man was waiting for his response. “Will you provide me with reinforcements so that I can comb the countryside to the south and apprehend the rebel convoy, sir?”
Major Willoughby considered the request. His first instinct was to refuse. He wanted to order Cloyde and his men to return to Tarleton immediately. He wanted to let the colonel face the realization that this was a further blunder in his tragic series of mistakes. Tarleton had sent an inexperienced subaltern, with too little force, to seize the valuable convoy and deny the rebels use of its priceless cargo. Willoughby’s own professional pride wouldn’t allow him to do that. He would do the right thing here regardless of the glaring incompetence of those around him.
Willoughby sadly realized that Reverend Fletcher may have chosen rebellion rather than loyalty to the king. He thought he knew Fletcher. The disappointment was powerful. His heart wanted what he was hearing to be incorrect. He didn’t want to believe it. How could this man, who owed so much to his sovereign, treacherously turn like this? Was he so corrupted by his wealth that he couldn’t see the evil of his actions? Could he possibly believe that he would be allowed to keep the property he held? The more Willoughby thought about it, the angrier he became. He realized with a start that he was again ignoring the young lieutenant.
Willoughby stood slowly and leaned forward with his hands resting firmly on top of the table he was using as a desk. He stared at Cloyde while his expression changed to decisive resolve. He said, in a quietly controlled voice, “Please stand at ease, Lieutenant. I want you to meet someone. We are holding two very unusual prisoners. I believe you will find what one of them has to say interesting. The man I’m referring to is a rebel major. He claims to be the deputy quartermaster of the southern Continental Army. The other is also a quartermaster, a captain in fact. Unfortunately, he belongs to us. The major is obviously a prisoner of war. The British captain is under close arrest pending court martial for cowardice and gross negligence.”
Major Willoughby moved from behind the desk and stepped past Lieutenant Cloyde to pull the door open. “Come with me,” he said as he strode down the long hallway toward the front of the house. The sentry guarding the outside of the major’s office door fell in step with him, leaving Cloyde feeling like he might trip over the man’s trailing musket as he tried to keep up. They went down a flight of stairs to the first floor, then through a door near the kitchen that led down still more stairs. The bottom steps were lamp-lit even during broad daylight. They were now in a huge cellar divided into numerous storage rooms on either side of a long hallway leading away from the stairs. The corridor was well lit. The major and guard moved briskly down this hall without pausing. Cloyde could see another armed guard standing outside the last door at the far end. The guard snapped to rigid attention at the approach of the major. He barked a brief report. Willoughby ordered him to open the door.
The inside of the storeroom was pitch-black. The guard removed a lantern from its hook in the hallway and stepped inside with the light held at arm’s length. Major Willoughby stepped into the room and motioned for Cloyde to follow. The other guard entered behind them with his musket held at port arms. Cloyde’s eyes were adjusting to the darkness. He could barely see two men sitting near a bucket in the far corner. The guard with the lantern moved closer to the corner. Cloyde could see that one of the prisoners wore the tattered remains of what once was a well-made blue and buff continental officer’s uniform. He thought the creature inside the clothing wouldn’t look much like an officer, even in broad daylight when the uniform was new. The man peered up at the visitors with a peculiar look that combined the expression of fear and cunning of a cornered sewer rat. The other man was younger. He didn’t seem to be wearing a uniform, but the trousers and shirt were clearly British military. His expression showed cold offended rage.
Major Willoughby startled everyone by shouting, “On your feet, Captain Crispin! How dare you remain seated when I enter this room?” The guard without the lantern was holding his musket at the ready. The bayonet was attached to the muzzle, even in this confined space.
The younger prisoner remained seated. The guard moved a step closer with the bayonet offered as incentive to respond rationally. The man slowly stood. “I am a captain in His Majesty’s Royal Army. I’ve been falsely accused and treated with total contempt by you … sir.”
It seemed he might have said more, but his speech was interrupted by Willoughby. “Shut your mouth! Let me remind you, Captain, you are under arrest. You are facing charges which could result in you being shot or hanged! I’ll not listen to your self-righteous protests. You can save them for the court!”
The captain stood with his mouth opening and closing in the lamplight.
Crispin’s expression changed to a smirk. He straightened his posture very slowly into what might almost be considered the position of attention. “Yes, sir. At your service, sir. Is there anything I can do for you Major Willoughby, sir?”
Willoughby ignored him and turned to the continental officer. “Major Throckmorton, I would like to offer better ‘accommodations’ and better company if you are willing to give me your parole. Do you swear, as an officer and gentleman, that you will not attempt to escape or bear arms against the Royal Army during your imprisonment here?”
The question seemed absurd to Lieutenant Cloyde as he stared at the ugly and frightened little man. The effect of the words was actually surprising. Throckmorton seemed to swell perceptibly and grow a few inches taller as he considered Willoughby’s offer. It seemed as if the remains of the uniform took over and molded Throckmorton into what an officer and gentleman must look like. Cloyde gasped as the man tried to click his heels while responding to Willoughby. “Yes, Major, I agree to your terms. You have my parole, sir!”
Willoughby nodded curtly. “Major Throckmorton, please allow me to introduce you to Lieutenant Cloyde. Mr. Cloyde arrived a short while ago with information that I believe holds great interest for both of us.”
Throckmorton remained silent. Cloyde took the hint from Willoughby and said, “It is an honor to meet you, sir!” He feigned respect for the rebel prisoner. Willoughby continued to ignore Captain Crispin. Turning his back on the angry and confused young man, he waved his hand toward the door. “Major Throckmorton, it would give me great pleasure, in light of your parole, to ask you to come with us.”
Throckmorton looked furtively around at the surrounding faces before nodding and walking toward the still open door. Captain Crispin started to shout something as the lantern light moved out of the room. Whatever he said was stifled by darkness and the slamming of the door. The Yankee major looked shabbier in the light of the hallway. Major Willoughby led the small party back to his office. A short time later, Major Throckmorton was seated in a comfortable chair near the fireplace. The three men shared brandy and laughter as if they were old and dear friends. They were joined by a young officer introduced by Willoughby as his adjutant. Cloyde was not surprised when this man sat on the other side of the room and began quietly taking notes. This was so subtle that the other two men didn’t seem to notice.
Lieutenant Cloyde was amazed at the way Major Willoughby put this paroled enemy officer at ease. The lieutenant understood the major’s purpose, or at least thought he did. Cloyde lacked Willoughby’s masterful ability to judge character. He didn’t see through the other man’s speech and bearing as quickly as his superior. Willoughby interviewed this man earlier under more formal circumstances when he was brought in by the Tory militiamen.
Major Willoughby understood there was little difference between this man and Captain Crispin. He knew immediately that there was little useful military information to be gained from this conversation. However, he soon knew the size and composition of the small rebel convoy. He gained an astoundingly accurate knowledge of the weapons, ammunition, and military supplies in the wagons. He learned more of what really happened in the battle at Cowpens. He knew who was involved in the confrontation on both sides, and had a good idea of the casualty figures. Some of this information was gathered during the first interview. This second conversation allowed him to fill in some details, but he was really trying to learn about a more challenging subject. It seemed, unfortunately, that this colonial buffoon could tell him little he now desperately wanted to know.
Finally, after about two hours of insufferably tedious conversation, Major Willoughby stood and turned to his adjutant. He instructed the young man to take Major Throckmorton to an upstairs room in the house and provide him with food and clean clothing. He insisted that something be done to launder and repair the continental uniform, and offered his apologies to Throckmorton for the unfortunately abrupt end of their conversation. The adjutant stepped forward and guided the colonial officer out of the room with smiling grace. They quietly disappeared from view when the door closed behind them.
Willoughby stepped behind his desk and flopped down in the chair with a disgusted sigh. He motioned Cloyde to sit again in the chair on the other side of the desk. He stared silently at the notes the adjutant had deftly placed on the desktop in front of his chair before leaving the room. Willoughby looked up and said, “Now listen carefully, Lieutenant. You and Colonel Tarleton were both quite correct regarding the value of those captured stores. Except that the reason for their importance isn’t about saving face after losing the battle at Cowpens.
“The real importance of that material is how it could be used in the hands of the rebel militia bands that terrorize our supply lines and the loyalists all over this colony. I have encountered another rather shocking bit of news through all of this.”
Cloyde looked up and asked, “What news, sir?”
Willoughby leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling briefly before looking back down and saying, “News regarding the apparent treachery of a man I would never have suspected of disloyalty.” Cloyde didn’t know who the major was talking about, so he said nothing.
Willoughby read the adjutant’s notes quickly and folded the paper without setting it aside. Looking back up at Cloyde he said, “Lieutenant, I’m going to join you in your mission with two full squadrons totaling two hundred of my best dragoons. I will add an additional company of about one hundred Tory militiamen. You will attach your depleted troop to me for the time being. Be prepared to leave tomorrow morning. We will go south from here to recover those military supplies. I believe I know exactly where they are headed. When we reach the place, we may or may not find a dangerous nest of hostile rebels. We may also find an even greater cache of rebel military supplies.”
Major Willoughby was back on his feet again. He moved absently over toward the fireplace with the adjutant’s notes in his hand. “We will seize anything that would be valuable to the cause of our king and the Royal Army. My intention is to eliminate what we cannot recover. I intend to destroy any rebels found there, ending once and for all their constant harassment of our supply routes.” Willoughby stared into the fireplace for several seconds with a strange stillness hanging in the room. Then he slowly shook his head and cast the now crumpled paper into the fire. Looking back over his shoulder at the younger man, he quietly added, “Yes Lieutenant Cloyde, we will probably find your elusive quarry at Fletcher’s Mill.”
CHAPTER 27
It was almost dark. Fog moved along the river in eerie silence. Lieutenant Billy Morgan and Sergeant John Strickland slowly crept forward through the underbrush on the high embankment at the south side of the road. A faint cold breeze caused lanterns marking the ferry landing to cast moving beams of light as they swung on their tethers in the short distance. Two large men were cajoling a mule up the road toward them. It strained to pull the ferry cable dragging the large flat-bottomed boat across the river from the other side. Lantern light was spilled from the window of a small shack on the riverbank next to the point where the road on this side ended. A small older man came out of the shack and stood in the middle of the road. The old man glanced at the mule before looking back out at the blackened mass of the ferryboat coming slowly across the river.
The road was considerably wider here as it reached the riverbank. The ferry landing was situated to one side while the wider part of the road seemed to drop right down into the river itself. Private Spate had earlier offered a simple explanation for this. The river was low enough during the summer months to be easily forded here. Cherokees built a dam to make fishing easier here centuries earlier. This manmade feature was even the source of the nearby village, Fish Dam. Most people ignored the ferry and saved their money when they could walk or ride across the shallow ford created by the old fish dam. Business for the ferrymen was limited to people with money and
cargo that could not or should not get wet at these times. The ferrymen made up for the lost revenue during times like this when the river was up so high it was impassable at the dam. Billy wondered vaguely why a bridge hadn’t been constructed for this busy crossing place.
The boat finally arrived, and the old man stepped onto the wooden landing to grab the lines thrown to him by the boatman. Three dismounted British officers led their horses off the vessel and out onto the road before climbing into the saddles. A brief conversation took place between one of the officers and the old man. The toll was paid, and the officers rode off toward Fish Dam engaged in quiet small talk. One of the ferrymen led the mule back toward the shack and secured it in a small corral near the back of the building. The other man connected the cold waterlogged tow cable to a strange contraption with a single shaft joining two large spoked wheels a couple feet apart. Billy wondered what this could possibly be until he saw the cable coiling around the shaft as the man pushed the device back down the road toward the landing.
All four of the ferrymen soon went inside the shack and shut the door. They didn’t post any kind of watch, and didn’t seem to expect any kind of danger. Billy thought this was strange until he realized this road must be very heavily traveled by the Royal Army. It was fairly close to Fish Dam. He had posted Spate and the other two militiamen about a hundred yards back up the road toward the village to give him and Strickland warning of any threat from that direction. He turned now to Strickland and asked, “What would you suggest we do? Do we seize the ferry now, tonight?”
Strickland recoiled in shock at the suggestion. “No, sir!” He hissed. “It looks to me like the old man runs the ferry with his sons just like Spate said. I believe they live in the shack yonder. They probably don’t get much business during the night. In fact, I’d wager that was the last crossing of the day. If we take them now, we’ll have to hold ‘em till we’re ready for the wagons to cross.”
Decision at Fletcher's Mill Page 18