Decision at Fletcher's Mill

by David Caringer

  Robertson would never think to question their loyalty to him or to each other. They instinctively distrusted and resented the high-handed members of British aristocracy. It seemed to Captain Robertson that this impression should fit Reverend Fletcher in their minds, but somehow it didn’t. Most of the men seemed to hold the old man in an attitude of respect that bordered on awe. None of them had ever been near someone as rich as the Fletchers. They had difficulty understanding that one man, or one family for that matter, could own so much land and other forms of material wealth. The fact that Ira Fletcher and Miss Elizabeth conducted themselves in such a humble unassuming manner around them was shocking. Reverend Fletcher went out of his way to be generous with them. Miss Elizabeth was even helping treat the wounded along with Miss Mona.

  Robertson realized with a start that even the land he was standing on now belonged to Ira Fletcher. This made him look around at the well-tended fields on both sides of the well-kept road leading out of the village toward the main river road in the direction of Fish Dam. He saw the furtive movement at the same time one of his pickets noticed it. He and the other two men went silently to the ground without hesitation. A moment later, they spread out instinctively and their rifles were trained in the direction of the movement. All of their attention was not locked on this spot in the distance. The private in the center strained to search for more movement there, while Robertson and the other private scanned the flanks to the left and right. Silence prevailed. Each of them felt they could hear their own hearts beating.

  Captain Robertson nearly fired when a man suddenly stepped out from behind a tree to his left less than twenty yards away. The man was aiming his own rifle directly at Robertson’s head. Another twitch of movement, lower this time, and he saw another rifle aiming at him from just over the exposed roots of the same tree. He knew that if he moved he would die. The clothing worn by these men was very similar to his own. It wasn’t martial. It wasn’t a uniform of any kind really. It was … practical.

  Robertson didn’t have a chance to speak before the other did. “Now yall don’t move! Don’t even twitch! We been listenin’ to yall for the last five minutes. What are ya supposed to be … some kinda picket? We know yas friendly militia … we just don’t cotton to getting shot while we try tellin’ ya who we are, so just don’t move while our capn comes up to meet ya.” With that said, the man turned his head to the left and gave a sharp whistle.

  Robertson was shocked again when he saw a large number of militiamen move out onto the road a short distance to his front. One of these men moved to the fore. This must be the captain. Robertson was slowly rising to his feet alongside his two bewildered privates. He still couldn’t believe these men had gotten the drop on him. They must have slowly and silently been crawling for some distance to get this close without discovery. The realization caused his features to betray a conflict between humiliation and outright respect.

  The rifle of the militiaman to his left slowly lowered, and Robertson stepped forward to introduce himself to the approaching officer. He was further amazed at the huge number of soldiers quietly moving out of the trees and brush to surround him and his two privates on the road. He was no fool. He knew that several other men, invisible to him right now, were forming a protective cordon around this large group to allow the meeting to take place in relative safety. With a wry smile and an outstretched hand, he greeted the other captain with the words, “Hello there! Welcome to Fletcher’s Mill. I’m Captain Robertson. My detached militia company is here to defend this place.”

  The other man shook his hand without smiling and said, “My name is Watson. I’m the captain in command of this force sent from Colonel Marion for the same purpose. I must say, Robertson, I’m surprised your boys didn’t challenge us as we came through that heavy brush like a gaggle of elephants.”

  Robertson didn’t offer a reply immediately. He wasn’t sure whether Watson was serious. Finally, Watson broke the silence again with a grin as he slapped Robertson on the shoulder and said, “You should see the look on your face! I thought you might cry or something! Don’t fret, sir! I’d a really been surprised if you or your men had heard us!” Robertson relaxed immediately sensing that Watson was actually quite friendly. He and Captain Watson spent the next few minutes talking quietly about the events that happened after the battle at Cowpens and the shipment of captured material that was sent to this now important place. He couldn’t avoid showing his surprise when Watson described his ambush of a large British force along the Broad River road not many miles north of where he was now standing. It turned out, however, that this would not be the greatest shock he would experience during this meeting.

  A member of Watson’s force moved to his commander’s side and mumbled something so quietly that Robertson didn’t hear all of it. What he did catch had something to do with a strange prisoner. He couldn’t imagine that Watson would have taken a prisoner in the ambush. This must be someone captured either before or after that event. The mystery didn’t last long. Watson nodded his head, and the other man moved swiftly back into the brush behind them.

  Robertson thought he must be seeing things a few seconds later. He recognized the wretched prisoner dragged out of the brush and roughly deposited in front of the two captains. The man was wearing most of a British dragoon private’s uniform. There was a leather strap gag stuffed in his mouth and a blindfold tied tightly around his head so that he couldn’t see. He looked as though he had been through horrible wear since the last time Robertson saw him. However, even with the blindfold and the change in his clothing, Robertson immediately knew Captain Reginald Crispin.

  The blindfold was ripped from the man’s head, but the gag was left in place. Crispin’s eyes darted about like those of a wild animal until they rested on Captain Robertson. The rage in them turned to terror as realization asserted itself. Robertson heard himself saying, “Well now! Welcome back, Captain! What on earth are you doing here? What is that you’re wearing? Did your people finally realize your true worth and promote you to the lofty rank of private?”

  Crispin offered no explanation for his appearance or his presence. Robertson explained Crispin’s true identity to Watson who now viewed the strangely-clad British captain with even greater interest. Robertson briefly toyed with the idea of having Crispin hung right here and now, but better judgement took control of his emotions. He offered to relieve Watson of his responsibility for the prisoner. Watson agreed immediately after hearing what events surrounded Crispin’s original capture and escape from Fletcher’s Mill.

  Robertson was concerned about the remnants of the force Watson ambushed further north. Captain Watson told him that he recognized the British major commanding the column. He and his men had inflicted terrific damage on the larger force, and his scouts reported seeing the surviving British troops moving away toward Camden. He believed they would probably seek reinforcements there. In his opinion, they could be expected to once again move toward Fletcher’s Mill within a week or maybe sooner. The British wouldn’t easily be ambushed again.

  Robertson was delighted to learn that Watson had over eighty experienced troops with him. The two captains decided to move immediately to the mill village and strengthen the defenses there to resist whatever force the Royal Army sent. Captain Robertson turned and gave fresh instructions to his two privates. He would have them reinforced with a few extra men to guard this approach. He asked Watson to pull his men into a column on the road so they could be seen marching into the village together. He believed the appearance of these men would encourage and strengthen his own company and the remaining villagers.

  Bringing all the men together like this seemed silly to Captain Watson, but he was willing to concede to Robertson’s wishes. He and Robertson marched into the village a short time later at the head of a large body of heavily armed men. The result was better than even Robertson expected. They were received with great celebration. Captain Watson was introduced to Reverend Fletcher for the first time. Althoug
h Watson and some of his men had been to the mill before, their earlier activities were always conducted in great secrecy.

  Watson was greatly impressed with young Lieutenant Billy Morgan who brought the captured military stores all the way here from the battlefield at Cowpens. Robertson took his time explaining the plan he had developed for the defense of the village and the mill. Watson was again impressed. He immediately realized why he and his men were so welcome here. Defending this place would not be easy against a professional enemy force. He didn’t say anything, but he quickly surmised that the best plan would be to burn everything and move the military stores somewhere else before the enemy arrived. Exposure to Ira Fletcher soon made him realize this was not politically possible. This place had to be defended. Robertson made the same conclusion earlier. This was also the basis of Watson’s orders from Colonel Marion.

  Captain Robertson chose to keep his prisoner on the edge of town temporarily while he was showing Watson the local situation. The two captains worked well together as they incorporated Watson’s men into the overall plan developed by Robertson. Watson was older and more experienced than Robertson. The two decided quickly that Watson should take overall command of the militia troops here. Robertson would act as his second. Billy Morgan would act as third. Once this was decided, they quickly reorganized all of their troops into small companies with a sergeant in charge of each unit.

  The air of celebration in and around the mill village continued until Captain Robertson decided to bring his prisoner into town so that his disposition could be decided by the lawful civil authority. The celebration abruptly ended when Reverend Ira Fletcher laid eyes on the totally unexpected form of Captain Reginald Crispin.

  CHAPTER 39

  A cold damp mist hung low over the encampment in the predawn darkness. Hundreds of cooking fires were being stoked into life to feed over five hundred men. Major Sir Thomas Willoughby finally had his reinforced battalion ready to move out in the direction of Fletcher’s Mill. He would not be surprised on the road again. The column would be preceded along the route of march with a large picket screen. They would move slowly. Every possible choke point and ambush site would be carefully scouted and occupied until the column passed. Additional scouts were sent ahead of the pickets to ensure they were not surprised and compromised.

  Lord Rawdon insisted that he bring along two small three-pounder field guns. The colonel understood that the mill building itself was made of stone. These guns were not large enough to reduce a stone structure, but they could be employed at great range to cause the defenders to seek cover. This would allow a methodical approach of infantry in an assault. Willoughby appreciated the input of his superior and gladly accepted the artillery along with the attendant caissons and gun crews.

  Major Willoughby was a determined man. He knew that his professional reputation was at stake, though Lord Rawdon didn’t display any sign of adverse judgement. Rawdon was too professional for that. He was also too much of a gentleman to be petty. Willoughby’s actions before during and after the ambush on the river road were in compliance with current British tactical doctrine. The only thing he could be blamed for was the failure to maintain an effective picket screen on the flanks of his moving column. Rawdon seemed to understand when Willoughby explained that the terrain and the column’s speed of movement wouldn’t allow it. Besides, Willoughby had known no reason to expect the type and size of rebel force that conducted the ambush so far south and west.

  Lord Rawdon’s opinion of him, whether good or bad, was not what was bothering Major Willoughby. It was his own self-incrimination that tormented him at this moment. He walked among his men as they prepared to move out and listened carefully to both their laughter and their complaints. He was trying to gauge their readiness and morale. Spirits seemed to have recovered since they rode into Camden a broken and bleeding group of defeated men. Plentiful food and sleep over the last two days had done wonders, but it was more than that. He began to realize that these men didn’t blame him as he did himself.

  His men seemed to have pushed past the dreadful defeat on the road. They seemed to be pulling together with a mutual intent now motivating their preparations. What was it? Anger? Yes. That was it. These men were not only mauled on the road by the rebels. They were humiliated. Willoughby continued to listen carefully as he moved among them. Yes. These men were eager to reclaim their pride. That was fine with their commander. Willoughby shared the sentiment. He would not let them down this time. He paused for a moment and turned slowly around as he took in the deliberate actions of his subordinates. No. He would not fail them this time. Nodding his head absently, he turned and walked back toward the headquarters to complete his own final preparations.

  He and Captain Jones of the 33rd Fusiliers Regiment worked feverishly to incorporate the extra Royal Infantry units with the survivors of Willoughby’s original force. During this process, they also worked out a simple plan to seize or neutralize their objective. They both knew that the best tactical plans were always very simple. Complex plans never survived the first hint of powder smoke and crash of gunfire. Only an inexperienced fool failed to realize that the best plan in battle was a simple plan that was violently carried out with overwhelming force.

  They intended to move this larger and better organized column with a clear intent focused on a singular objective while doing everything necessary to avoid another ambush. They would proceed directly to Fletcher’s Mill from here, a distance of almost fifty miles. The trip would take four days due to the needed security and the slower pace of the walking infantry. Willoughby would carefully reconnoiter the mill and village to verify the suspected rebel activity there. Seeing nothing, he would make discreet contact with Reverend Fletcher to further investigate and dispel the rumors involving him and his property. On the other hand, he intended to attack suddenly with great force if the rumors appeared to be substantiated by observed rebel activity. The good Reverend Fletcher would be allowed to defend himself in a court of law once he was apprehended if the rebels were using his property.

  The darkness was giving way to the steel gray of daylight as the column finally began to move out along the road through Camden toward the deeply forested and broken terrain of western South Carolina. The fog still hung like a cold damp blanket over everything so that the marching men looked like phantoms moving in a dense formation through the center of town. Willoughby noticed that Lord Rawdon was standing on the front porch of the headquarters mansion wrapped in a heavy cloak and blanket. One of his aides held a lantern aloft so that the colonel could see and be seen. Willoughby saluted his commander stiffly as he rode past. Rawdon nodded and returned the salute before turning and moving back inside the house.

  Major Willoughby knew he was on his own now. He must resolve the problem of Fletcher’s Mill to recover his reputation. He knew that. He also needed to find and destroy the rebel force that ambushed his column on the river road if at all possible. The thought that the rebels had managed to increase their presence this far west in the colony would be an annoying source of worry for Lord Rawdon, Willoughby, and the other senior British commanders until it was confronted and eliminated.

  The Tory militias had proven to be unreliable at best after they showed such promise during the early months of the southern campaign last year. The Crown could not allow the rebel forces in the south to gain momentum furnished by battlefield successes like King’s Mountain and Cowpens. A rebel force large enough and experienced enough to conduct an ambush like the one he suffered was a terrible threat to British interests. They would be more dangerous if they were further supplied with ammunition and materials captured at Cowpens.

  Willoughby’s thoughts were interrupted abruptly as Captain Jones rode up next to him. The column was now well out of town and making slow steady progress. He noticed with annoyance that a light rain was falling once again. The fog was lifting, and the air seemed somehow colder in the daylight. Willoughby pulled the collar of his greatcoat tighter around
his neck as he turned his head toward Jones to hear what the man had to say. He didn’t want to talk right now. Jones could not possibly know that, though. Willoughby, ever the gentleman, would not signal his frustration with this interruption to a professional officer like Jones.

  Captain Jones seemed to be quite animated in his assessment of the column’s present movement. It surprised Willoughby to realize that the man must have been speaking even before he reached the Major’s side. Jones was now saying something about the artillerymen lagging far behind the slowly plodding infantry. Jones responded to Willoughby’s quizzical look by explaining that the draft animals couldn’t keep the guns consistently moving. The young lieutenant in charge of the cannons explained to Jones that the gun trucks and caissons kept bogging down in the deep mud. He didn’t know how to remedy the situation and asked that Willoughby either slow the column significantly or dispatch infantrymen to help pull the guns along the trail.

  This infuriated Major Willoughby without good reason. He didn’t want to slow down, and he certainly wouldn’t send good foot soldiers to act as draft animals. He immediately resented his own anger. He struggled to control both his words and his countenance. He reminded himself that he was a professional officer in His Majesty’s Royal Army. He understood the importance of the guns and knew that they would be potentially valuable at his objective. He rode on next to Jones for a moment before turning his horse on the trail and trotting it briskly back toward the rear of the column through the splashing water and mud.