Willoughby could only imagine what Rawdon was thinking. Major Ferguson allowed his Tory force to be annihilated, and lost his own life, at King’s Mountain in October. Tarleton’s fool pride cost nearly a thousand good men at Cowpens, and now this. The successes enjoyed by His Majesty’s forces in the south were beginning to seem almost irrelevant to both of these professional soldiers. The rebels seemed to be gaining momentum. British forces were stretched very thin even when the entire southern army was together in South Carolina. Now General Cornwallis had moved into North Carolina trying to force a decisive confrontation with the main body of rebels there. It seemed he didn’t comprehend that the rebel partisans here were still a very dangerous threat.
The rebels would be even more troublesome now if they received more weapons and ammunition carried away from Cowpens. Lord Rawdon knew instinctively that Willoughby was right to move with great haste to recover or destroy these supplies before they were distributed among the rebels. Both Rawdon and Willoughby knew Reverend Ira Fletcher, though. It was still almost impossible for either man to grasp the idea that Fletcher could possibly be involved in rebellion against the king.
Lord Rawdon broke the silence as he threw the blankets off his legs and turned to face Major Willoughby in the dim light. “Bad business, Willoughby, the way those rascals mistreated you and your men! How many did you lose again?” The colonel’s face was beginning to regain a more natural color. It seemed that the challenge of military events at hand were forcing life back into him. Willoughby recited his losses again as he looked directly into the other man’s eyes. He felt the fury growing again in his chest.
Rawdon’s eyes were now sharply focused, but his expression remained inscrutable. He nodded when Willoughby finished and struggled to stand up. Willoughby helped steady him. Rawdon was soon pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. Several minutes passed as he continued to absorb the shocking news. He paused to lean and rest with his hand on the fireplace mantle more than once. He finally collapsed into a chair near the fire and looked over at Willoughby with a sad but determined expression. Beads of perspiration were forming on his brow, and he shuddered visibly before speaking.
“Major Willoughby, you will reform your men with the added strength of half my infantry. Let’s see, that will be most of what’s left of the 33rd Fusiliers. You will make sure the men are rested through tonight, tomorrow, and the next day as you reorganize your force and issue orders to your subordinates. You will advance on Fletcher’s Mill three days hence. It should take you no more than four days to complete the march. You will seize the mill and any military contraband found there. I sincerely hope nothing is there, and the people who ambushed you are not connected with the place. If you do find military contraband, you will detain any colonials present including Reverend Fletcher, his family, and the other village leaders. They are to be brought here for disposition, unharmed, unless you encounter resistance. In that case you will destroy the mill and any rebel force present. Do you understand?”
Major Willoughby listened carefully. He hesitated a moment as he considered the political implications of arresting Ira Fletcher and his family. Lord Rawdon seemed to understand his thoughts and said, “Don’t worry, I will put these orders in writing so that the sole responsibility will fall on my shoulders.”
Willoughby was startled by that. He responded a little too forcefully with, “No, my lord, that was not my hesitation. I’m just concerned about how it will be received in court if we arrest this man. It seems that his property could have been misused by others without his knowledge. He is well loved by the locals, but hated by many surrounding Tory leaders. They have not kept their feelings secret from the Crown, and yet Ira Fletcher has been given royal grace and protection in the past.”
Lord Rawdon nodded and seemed to deflate slightly. “Yes, yes, you are absolutely right. That is why you will use the least amount of force possible, unless you encounter actual armed resistance. Reverend Fletcher will be brought here and safely protected from those who would do him harm. He will be treated with the utmost respect and deference as he is allowed to show evidence that he is not personally involved with the rebel activities we suspect in and around his home. However, if you do encounter armed resistance, you will destroy the threat with overwhelming force and an example will be made of the place.”
Willoughby was standing now. He found himself bowing slightly. “Yes, my lord. I understand, sir.” He excused himself from Lord Rawdon and went downstairs to await his written orders. They were delivered by a very tall captain of the 33rd Fusiliers about a half hour later. The officer identified himself as Captain Jones, and explained that he was the regimental adjutant for the 33rd Fusiliers. He would help Major Willoughby organize the combined force over the next couple of days. When they were ready to advance, he would be at the major’s service. There was a great deal of work to do in a very short time. The two men were completely immersed in deep conversation within minutes. They were professional officers in His Majesty’s Royal Army. They would take their time to organize their force with care. Major Sir Thomas Willoughby would not be surprised a second time when he led his men toward Fletcher’s Mill.
CHAPTER 37
Throckmorton and Crispin left their horses tied in a thicket. They moved as quietly as they could through the forest underbrush as they approached the mill village. It was so dark under the trees that it was all they could do to avoid being torn to pieces in the thick growth. Crispin was beginning to doubt the sense of returning to this hated place. Throckmorton felt no such hesitation. Something else was slowly beginning to develop in Crispin’s thoughts. He was afraid of his companion. He questioned the other man’s sanity. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around what happened at the Tory farm the night before.
Throckmorton was also shocked by what he had done. It had happened so quickly. He felt no deep remorse, though. The Tory deserved what he got as far as he was concerned. He knew Crispin was afraid of him. Let him be. Crispin had his own murderous history. The similarities between them struck him again as odd. He entered this dubious partnership to pursue his own interests. He would remain loyal to his newfound “friend” as long as loyalty served his purposes. He knew with razor-sharp certainty that Crispin’s virtue was no deeper than his own. Besides, they were on opposite sides in this fool war in the first place.
Crispin tripped on an exposed tree root and fell headlong. He was pushing a low hanging pine branch out of his way when he fell. The branch snapped back and slapped Throckmorton in the face, knocking him down. The brief ensuing conversation effectively displayed the darkness in each man’s soul. No apologies were offered. Silence reasserted itself as they resumed their tortured movement through the woods. They were trying to find the edge of the north road. They didn’t want to be on it, they just wanted to follow it to the edge of town.
Crispin came to a stop. Throckmorton didn’t notice, and the resultant collision brought more sharp discussion. Crispin turned completely around now. He reached out unnecessarily to make sure he knew where his companion was before announcing that he had an idea. Throckmorton paused in the darkness and tried to brush some of the filth from the back of his clothing. “Pray tell, what scheme have you developed while we struggle blindly through this frigid wet jungle?”
“Well, see here now. I’ve no great desire to be discovered again by the locals here. The last time they had their hands on me, I was locked in a mill storeroom as I’ve already told you. In our escape, we were forced to kill a young man who unwittingly entered our cell and offered us opportunity. My sergeant was lost later on the road north of here.” He didn’t bother to give further details. He wasn’t proud of killing the boy or abandoning Sergeant Smythe on the road. Crispin was beginning to feel growing remorse for the poor choices he had made over the past few weeks. Major Willoughby openly accused him of both incompetence and cowardice. He was starting to understand that the flaws in his character were much deeper than professional failure and un
controlled fear. He knew himself to be a liar, a coward, and a thief. Now he was a fugitive murderer. Crispin suddenly realized that the two most despicable people he had ever met were standing here tonight in this cold wet underbrush.
Throckmorton asked, “All right, you don’t want to be discovered at the mill—then what do you propose?” Crispin brushed past him and started walking back the way they came. He saw no point in continuing toward the village now. They had made a trail of sorts that he was just able to follow. Throckmorton hesitated a moment, then started following his companion. He realized in frustration that he had no choice if he didn’t want to be left in the woods all alone.
Crispin spoke over his shoulder while he struggled back through the brush. “Let’s get back to the horses and find a place to make camp for tonight. I think we’re going about this all wrong. The rebels with the stolen weapons know who you are, Major. Isn’t that correct? That’s what you told me.”
Throckmorton responded, “Well, yes. They do. They have shown absolutely no respect for my rank or position, but yes, they do know who I am. Why?”
Crispin paused and looked back toward the other man in the darkness. “Because, sir, you can simply ride into the village in the open uniformed as you are. They may not like you. They clearly don’t respect you. But you are ‘one of them’ after all. They won’t arrest you or shoot you on sight!”
Throckmorton immediately understood. Yes. It was simple. He could gain access. He could then find a way to bring Crispin in to help him. He thought about it as they stumbled through the darkness toward their horses. He knew he would meet the same resistance from Lieutenant Morgan and his men. He admitted to himself that there was no legitimate way he could gain control of the captured military stores now. He no longer cared about that. He saw that he could use the previous altercation with the inexperienced young Morgan to his advantage. His interest now was the rumor of hidden gold.
Major Throckmorton would ride in alone. He would apologize to Morgan. He would explain his presence and the condition of his uniform by using part of the truth. He tried to follow the convoy. He lost his men and was captured by Tories. He was taken to Rocky Mount and escaped, but not before learning that a large British force was headed this way. They would believe him when he expressed his concern for the captured material and the Continental Army interests here. The most effective lie always included a kernel of truth.
Dawn was approaching by the time they found their horses again. They mounted quickly and headed north trying to move back from the village before full daylight. They were not on the river road, but they were on a trail of sorts. It seemed to run northeast away from the village. It didn’t appear to be used much, but neither man wanted to chance being discovered here. They rightly assumed that anyone else they encountered would naturally be their enemy. The two scoundrels finally moved away from the trail through an area where the trees were thinner and found a good spot to make camp. They would rest here and prepare to carry out their new plan. They did their best to clean Throckmorton’s tattered uniform and straighten up the tack of his stolen horse. They even made a small fire. Both men were ravenously hungry. Crispin remembered the food they confiscated from the Tory farm.
The frightened slave at the farmhouse threw several items into the bag when he filled it with provisions. He was terrified of the British soldier who was shouting at him. The slave paid little attention to the items he threw into the bag demanded minutes after the rebel major overpowered and shot his master on the front porch of the house. Crispin now riffled through the bag and found several welcome food items including bread, cheese, and part of a cured ham. He also discovered an old metal teapot. The vessel contained a small bag of tea leaves. This was an unexpected treasure. All they needed now was a little water. The only bottle they possessed was empty and needed to be refilled.
Crispin showed the discovery to Throckmorton and asked him to find some way to hang the teapot over the fire while he went to get water from a nearby creek bed. Throckmorton shrugged and nodded, then moved away to find a few stout sticks. Crispin started out of the small clearing and moved cautiously back through the thick trees to the trail they were on earlier. It was now broad daylight. He was thirsty and he remembered the fresh gurgling water they rode through in the early morning light. He couldn’t remember how far back the creek was, but the further he ran along the path, the more he questioned his judgement. Finally, he came so far that he could no longer smell the smoke from the small campfire. There was still no creek.
Crispin pushed ahead a little further telling himself that he would only go another hundred paces before he gave up the search and returned to camp. He walked a little over half this distance when he heard the welcome sound of running water. A few minutes later, he was on his chest at the edge of a beautiful fresh water brook drinking deeply from the cold water in complete abandon. He would drink ‘til he was satisfied, then fill the water bottle before heading back to Throckmorton at their small campsite. He didn’t hear or see the approach of the two scouts from Captain Watson’s swift-moving company of militia.
The scouts could scarcely believe what they saw at the edge of the small creek right next to where the trail crossed the creek bed. The man was clearly a British dragoon, although his uniform looked ragged and incomplete. Both men decided this must be a Royal Army deserter. They had the man on his feet at knife point within seconds. They gagged Crispin with a leather strap and tied his hands mercilessly tight behind his back. One of the men moved off to search the immediate area for more “deserters.”
The other militiaman grabbed the leather strap gag at the side of Crispin’s right cheek with his left hand. His long rifle was in his right hand. He was headed back up the trail a few seconds later to meet Captain Watson who was headed south a few hundred yards behind his scouts. The tight leather gag brought excruciating pain to Crispin’s mouth and jaws. The only way to ease the pain was to keep up with the merciless woodsman who silently dragged him along the path. The militiaman didn’t speak, but Crispin was making enough noise for both of them as he whimpered and gasped while being dragged at a dead run with his hands lashed behind him.
Captain Watson signaled a halt for the main body when they heard the two men approaching. Crispin was dragged in front of him and thrown unceremoniously to the ground. He lay gasping and trying to spit out the blood that was being drawn from the corners of his mouth by the rough leather of the strap. The scout quickly explained the circumstances surrounding the capture of the bedraggled Englishman. He told his captain what he and his partner thought about the man being a British deserter. Watson agreed and ordered the leather strap removed from Crispin’s mouth.
Crispin was pulled to his feet facing Watson by two other militiamen. They held him up because he looked like he would quickly pass out. Watson asked him who he was. Crispin said nothing. Watson was about to become more insistent when another of his scouts ran up and reported that they smelled faint wood smoke coming from the area east of the trail. Watson made up his mind that further questioning of the prisoner could wait. They were very close to Fletcher’s Mill now. They would move on without further delay. There was no point investigating the source of the smoke. It would be a waste of time. He gave the order to replace the gag in Crispin’s mouth and add a blindfold. They were swiftly moving south moments later.
Throckmorton became increasingly concerned when Crispin failed to return to the camp. Exhaustion finally asserted itself, however. He fell noisily asleep shortly after devouring more than his half of the food without water to wash it down. He woke early in the morning. That fool Crispin still hadn’t come back. Throckmorton was very thirsty. This was made more intense when he remembered Crispin had gone to fetch water.
Major Throckmorton decided to proceed with his part of the plan with or without Crispin. He would find some way to gain access to the treasure he knew must be hidden at his destination. His uniform was as neatly organized as he could make it. He climbed onto the bes
t of the two horses and towed the other animal as he rode purposely through the woods headed west. He continued past the trail he and Crispin used earlier. Throckmorton was surprised when he realized how far away the river road was when he finally reached it. Moving out of the brush onto the roadbed, he paused to check his appearance as best he could, before turning south and heading on toward Fletcher’s Mill.
CHAPTER 38
Captain Robertson was a quarter mile north of the village checking on the picket outpost stationed there a few days earlier. His company’s senior sergeant was managing the rotation of the militiamen in and out of these key positions. Robertson had complete faith in his sergeant, but he knew it was very important to regularly interact with his men often. He knew them all well. He knew their families. He knew their strengths and weaknesses. Robertson was a good leader. He had been elected by the men to fill the position of captain and company commander. His leadership and instincts kept the company together through some very difficult circumstances.
They were all from the same collection of small villages on the western frontier. Several of the men were related. There was even a pair of identical twins, the Johnston boys, among them. They were in many small skirmishes and a few larger battles during this long guerilla war. The worst they saw so far was King’s Mountain. They didn’t spend as much time in towns and villages as their eastern counterparts fighting with Frances Marion and the like. None of them had been home in nearly two years. They foraged and lived off the land. The most valuable piece of personal property any of them owned was his long rifle. They would share everything from their last morsel of food or ammunition to their last drop of water. Friendship between these men was almost more important than kinship, and some of them shared both relationships.
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