Elizabeth folded the huge loaf in front of her again and paused to look over at Mona. She wore a sly smile on her flour-dusted face as she said, “Mona, you know I love you. You know I love Grandpa.”
Mona nodded without looking up from her work. “Yes, dear. I know you love us both.”
Elizabeth paused again. “Everything is still a fresh memory to Grandpa. The things that happened here. The fire. All those things. He remembers all of it like it just happened. I don’t think he understands that I don’t remember any of it. I was only a baby. I don’t remember my mother, father, or grandmother. Mona, you are the only mother I’ve ever known.”
Mona stopped working and reached over to hug Elizabeth close. “I know, dear. You have always been a daughter to me as well.”
Silence prevailed briefly as the two women went back to work on the bread dough. Elizabeth hadn’t fully expressed herself yet, though, so she tried again. “Mona, I know that you love Grandpa, and I know he loves you too. I just want you to know that I understand and I want you two to be … together.”
Mona blushed involuntarily and looked down as she said just above a whisper, “It’s that obvious then, child?”
Elizabeth barely managed to restrain herself from giggling out loud as she exclaimed, “No! It isn’t obvious! That is the problem! No one would notice anything at all between the two of you unless they knew you as well as Ezekiel and I do. That’s just the trouble … I don’t even know if the two of you are fully aware of your own feelings, and it is so perplexing to watch you waste all of the precious time you could be spending together.”
Mona continued to work the dough in front of her as she considered Elizabeth’s words before responding with, “It’s true, Beth. I do love him more than life itself. I know he feels the same.”
Elizabeth felt she would nearly burst with exasperation as she dropped the lump of dough in her hands on the table and turned to face Mona. “Why won’t either of you do something about it then?”
Mona looked at the girl for a moment and averted her eyes downward again before responding, “It isn’t as simple as that dear!”
Elizabeth was still staring with her hands on her hips. “What? Why isn’t it that simple? You are the stubbornest hard-headed people! I won’t have this anymore! If you won’t let your feelings be known, I will!”
Mona wiped her hands on her apron and stepped back from the tabletop slightly as a gentle smile settled onto her still red face. “Elizabeth, dear, we have been letting each other know how we feel in special ways. Your grandpa is a private man even if he is a preacher. That’s one of the things I love about him. He has asked my permission to use my first name in private, and we have held hands more than once.”
Elizabeth went back to work on the dough and said, “Well, that is something grand then…. Did he really? I believe he must finally be coming out of his hard shell…. You have been holding hands?”
Mona was back at work also. Her face was still bright red, and she continued to smile. The smile slowly tempered. “Yes, dear. Your grandpa has finally started to put the past behind him and reach out toward a future with something other than grief in it.”
A little over three miles away to the north, on the Fish Dam road, Sergeant Strickland brought the convoy to a halt. He saw John Red approaching from over the next small rise to the south. They had just passed a most disturbing and inexplicable sight a few hundred yards back. The carcass of a partially saddled horse was sprawled near the middle of the forested lane. The animal was still outfitted with bridle and saddle, although it looked like the saddle blanket had been removed. It was difficult to tell because the animal was now bloated and it was partially eaten by scavengers of some kind. The stench was horrible. They had great difficulty getting the draft animals to move past the mess until it was dragged off the road.
Lieutenant Morgan passed out on the front seat of the lead wagon after Dr. Bolt gave him a large dose of laudanum for the pain in his leg. This happened as they turned south on this road. He was sleeping fitfully sitting up in the jerking wagon seat for some time now. Strickland had taken charge. He knew they were only a short distance way from Fletcher’s Mill. He couldn’t imagine what might have happened to the dead horse. There was no sign of the animal’s rider. They saw no one since they left the ferry landing an hour or two earlier. The mystery turned to intrigue in his mind as Red ran quietly back to report what he found ahead of them.
Red told him that he smelled smoke near the riverbank to their front on the other side of another distant rise. He moved close enough through the brush to learn that the smoke came from a small fire in front of a low poorly fashioned lean-to shelter covered with leaves and small branches. A closer look revealed that the shelter was occupied by a disheveled man wearing the filthy remnants of a British dragoon sergeant’s uniform. The man appeared to be sleeping, but Red couldn’t be certain because the man’s head and chest were not clearly visible. He considered moving in and cutting the man’s throat, but decided they might need information from him. He was baffled by the presence of the man here in this condition. He might be a deserter. He might even be the one who rode that poor horse to death. In any event, Red wanted Strickland to see the man undisturbed as he found him.
Sergeant Strickland had to disturb the lieutenant now. Billy woke slowly and had difficulty clearing his mind enough to understand what Strickland was trying to tell him. He finally managed to climb down from the wagon and get the makeshift crutch under his armpit so that he could stand. His head swam. His thigh felt like it was on fire. Strickland repeated the report that they were only a few miles from the mill and they were stopped to check out something suspicious ahead. Billy nodded and tried to walk a few paces before stumbling back to the side of the wagon and leaning over to vomit. Strickland waited patiently for him to collect himself. Billy looked up and apologized before telling the sergeant to use his best judgement. Strickland nodded and turned to select several nearby militiamen to accompany him and Red as they went forward to investigate.
It only took a few minutes to reach the spot where Red had first smelled the smoke. Strickland smelled nothing, but he trusted Red completely. Red showed him signs and tracks in the mud that told him someone had fallen near the side of the roadbed. The person was then apparently dragged off or had crawled away toward the river. He led them off the road in this direction after motioning for complete silence. They reached a small rise near the riverbank, and Red took it on himself to place the extra men in hidden positions from which they could provide cover. He then motioned for Strickland to follow him and started carefully over the embankment toward the sound of the flowing water.
Sergeant Strickland saw the makeshift shelter and a small wisp of smoke coming from a tiny pile of embers in front of it. The uniformed legs and booted feet of a man protruded from under the pile of branches next to the fire. A cavalry carbine lay across the man’s legs. There was no obvious movement or sign of life. Red paused until he was certain Strickland had seen everything. Then he dropped back down behind the embankment followed by the sergeant. Red whispered quick instructions to his superior. Strickland had no thought of overriding Red’s judgement in this situation.
They rolled quietly over the embankment toward the back of the shelter a few seconds later. Strickland took position at the back of the brush pile with his musket ready to fire through it. Red moved in a silent crouch around the shelter until he was within a few feet of the opening but still invisible to the occupant. He paused there and looked back at the sergeant. Strickland nodded curtly. Red sprang forward with an animallike yelp and grabbed the carbine from the man’s legs before grasping one of the protruding ankles and physically yanking the man out into the open. The man gave no resistance. His hands were held pitifully upward in a show of weak abject surrender. Strickland bound around the shelter to Red’s side. The latter was now staring openmouthed at a terribly wretched sight.
The prostrate man was wearing the uniform coat of a Bri
tish dragoon sergeant. There was no dragoon helmet. There was no hat of any kind save a brown crusted semblance of some kind of bandage. The man’s head seemed to be swollen to nearly half again it’s normal size. Both eyes were swollen shut and the skin of the face was a patchwork mixture of blue-black bruises and oozing abrasions. Most of the damage appeared to be concentrated near what could be seen of the right cheek. The man’s nose and mouth seemed to be swollen nearly shut and it looked like he was barely breathing. There was no speech. The only indication that the man recognized the presence of another human was his pitiful waving hands.
Red unsheathed his knife and moved forward to put the man out of his misery. Strickland grabbed his arm and stopped him. He couldn’t allow the man to be executed this way after he had clearly done so much in an effort to survive. He pulled Red around and quietly said, “Go back to the road and find the doctor. Tell him what we have found and bring him back here on the run.” Red just stared at him. “Don’t look at me like that, John Red! Go back and get the doctor … now!” Red shook his head and left swiftly as the other militiamen made their way down the embankment to offer muted comments regarding their new “prisoner.”
Dr. Bolt wasted no time reaching the ghastly site. He took decisive control of the situation as soon as he arrived. The doctor did a quick examination after carefully removing the filthy bandage from the man’s head. He used some of the ice-cold river water to rinse most of the caked blood and dirt from the face and scalp. The poor man barely seemed to notice what was happening. There was no resistance. He did finally begin to utter a low groaning noise from deep in his throat. This somehow seemed encouraging, as it showed some indication that the man might actually be aware of the treatment he was receiving.
Dr. Bolt was especially concerned with trying to open the airway as much as possible and keep it open. He searched in his leather satchel until he found a peculiar-looking wooden mouthpiece with a hole in the center. Prying the man’s mouth open, he inserted this device and let the jaws tighten involuntarily around it. He then carefully wrapped the man’s head loosely in a large linen cloth while being careful to leave the limited airway uncovered. He enlisted the help of some of the ogling bystanders and had the man moved onto a makeshift stretcher to be carried up the embankment. Dr. Bolt accepted no input from Sergeant Strickland on the matter. He had the man placed in the back of the ambulance wagon along with the remaining wounded continentals.
Elizabeth and Mona were still baking bread two hours later in the kitchen at the Fletcher house. Ira was upstairs in Ezekiel’s room talking with the old man as he sorted out his surprising, but not uncomfortable, feelings for Mona. Captain Robertson walked out to inspect the furthest northern picket position he established outside the village. He was there now talking with his men when one of them noticed the furtive motion of a man moving quietly through the trees and brush near the roadway in their direction. They froze and waited for him to come much closer before one of them shouted a challenge.
The man seemed to realize that he was in the open with no hope of cover or concealment. He stopped moving forward and stood upright with his left hand held high and his rifle raised over his head in his right. He wore no uniform. He looked a lot like one of the indigenous frontier savages although he was clearly a white man. The picket guards were concealed behind a huge fallen tree near the side of the road. Captain Robertson ordered them to cover him and stepped out onto the lane where he was clearly visible to the new arrival.
Robertson called out, “Who are you? What’s your purpose here?”
The stranger remained motionless as he replied, “I could ask you the same … sir!”
Robertson subdued the growing frustration and said, “I’m Captain Robertson of the South Carolina Provisional Militia! You are covered by several well-aimed rifles at this moment! You will identify yourself and state your purpose sir!”
John Red smiled broadly as he identified himself and let the good captain know that he was followed by a small but important convoy carrying military supplies and wounded men from the battle at Cowpens to their destination at Fletcher’s Mill. Robertson matched the other man’s grin as he strode forward to shake his hand. He then sent one of his own militiamen forward with Red to intercept the approaching wagons and dismounted infantry so they could be escorted into the mill’s defenses without further incident.
A strangely animated atmosphere of celebration entered the village a short while later with the arrival of these heavily loaded wagons and the extra military strength of the escorting militiamen. Ira shook hands vigorously with Dr. Bolt when they were introduced. They made all of the necessary arrangements to move the wounded men into his house. It was the most likely building to use for a hospital in the village, and it was close enough to the mill so that the wounded could be moved there if needed. The military supplies were removed from the wagons and secured in the mill.
Elizabeth and Mona came out of the house and started working with the doctor’s assistant and Mrs. Phillips as soon as they understood the circumstances. The wounded men were carried directly into the parlor and the upstairs bedrooms that were still available. Elizabeth Fletcher found the still sleeping form of Lieutenant William Morgan perched in the seat at the front of the wagon. She first noticed that the handsome young man was dressed differently from the others. He groaned deeply and slumped further over on the seat. This uncovered the still ripped thigh of his right trouser leg and she saw the blood-soaked bandage underneath. Wasting no time, she climbed up into the seat next to him and demanded that someone help her get him into the house.
They laid him on the parlor sofa after covering it with a huge hand-sewn quilt. One of the other men was laid on the floor padded with numerous blankets. The doctor and his assistant were busily working on this man who seemed to have serious injuries involving his face and ribs. She looked back at the young man on the sofa in the dark-blue uniform coat with yellow facings. There was nothing for it. She would care for this one herself.
CHAPTER 31
Captain Jonathan Watson was sent west in great haste by Colonel Francis Marion. Colonel Marion knew the critical importance of the captured supplies headed to Fletcher’s Mill. He intended to go himself, but he and “Light-Horse Harry” Lee were ordered to attack the port of Georgetown by General Greene without delay. Captain Watson was a trusted subordinate, a good leader, and a ferocious soldier. Watson was once a color sergeant in the Royal Army. He and his British officer defected from the king’s service upon meeting Francis Marion late one night to discuss a prisoner exchange over a dinner of boiled sweet potatoes deep in a heavily overgrown swamp. They were greatly impressed with Marion, his men, and their ironlike resolve to be free.
The truth was that they also longed for freedom. Neither of them had family or loved ones waiting for their return to England. Both were awed by the enormity of the land and the apparent wealth it held. They recognized a rare opportunity in the small but amazingly effective fighting force of Francis Marion. They were treated with respect that night and honor by men who were the subject of both ridicule and terror throughout the British army in the south. A short conversation brought both men to a quick decision, and they never looked back with regret. Colonel Marion welcomed their services immediately. It took some months and several small but vicious battles to earn the wholehearted trust of all their new comrades.
Jonathan Watson followed and fought with Francis Marion through many hair-raising fights all over the southeastern half of the colony since joining him that night. His knowledge of the British army and its methods made him invaluable on several occasions. Watson was a quick study in his own right, and he swiftly learned to master the application of Marion’s favored guerilla tactics. Colonel Marion promoted him to his present rank as a reward and further sign of his trusted acceptance. Watson’s new men grew to trust him with the same fierce loyalty they once reserved for Marion alone.
Captain Watson was now moving swiftly through the forest with eig
hty-seven of Marion’s most effective guerilla fighters. Colonel Marion would rarely concentrate this many of his men in one place. The purpose of this mission demanded mass, though. Marion needed the precious supplies headed to Fletcher’s Mill as soon as possible. He was intensely aware that if he knew about the small convoy, the British must also know about it. Watson was the best man to lead the effort, and Colonel Marion sent the most effective fighters he could spare to ensure Watson’s success.
Watson’s men had been running and speed-marching over a day and a half now with only brief halts to rest. There were no complaints. They all knew how desperately important their mission was to the cause. Colonel Marion retained less than half of their number with himself to support Colonel Lee in the attempt on Georgetown. Unlike their counterparts in the Royal Army, all these men were fully informed regarding the nature and importance of their objective. They were not blindly following the orders of their superiors. Each one of them knew enough about the situation to continue the mission even if they were separated from the rest of their company.
They were accustomed to attacking large objectives as a unit, then escaping in groups of two or three to reform and attack again in another place at another time. This was what made them so effective. Now, every one of them ran through the woods toward Fletcher’s Mill with a single-minded intent to succeed, and a clear understanding of what success might require.
They saw no signs of movement from the garrison at Camden when they skirted furtively around it a few hours earlier. Watson’s gut told him that the most likely British force to attack the convoy or the mill itself would come from Winnsborough or the small garrison at Rocky Mount. Whatever force the British could muster might be joined by troops from Camden or even from the small garrison further west at Number 96. Word of the battle at Cowpens might not have arrived at any of the more distant garrisons. The British might not yet suspect that the materials were even headed to Fletcher’s Mill.
Decision at Fletcher's Mill Page 21