Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1961

by Rifles at Ramsour's Mill (v1. 1)

  “I’m a scout for the patriot militia,” Zack decided to tell him. “I’m of Samuel Martin’s company. Other companies are gathering to the east, along the Catawba and the South Fork, to fight that band Colonel Moore is bringing together.”

  “You’ll need many,” said Sloan. “It’s said that Moore has nearly a thousand. Faint hearts join him daily, for the news is that Cornwallis is at hand. Yesterday, so a neighbor brought me word, Moore fought some men from the mountains west of here, a force under Major Joseph McDowell, and drove them for miles. Are there enough true men to meet this force Moore has gathered?”

  “We must hope so,” said Zack. “Now, sir, I make bold to ask you what Captain Alspaye wanted of you?”

  “He brought a command to cast cannon for those Tory skulks,” said Sloan between tight-set teeth. “Two cannon, he said, with balls for them to fire. He said I would be given plans by which to work, and good pay. And if I refused, I must see my home and my furnace wrecked.”

  “I heard that part of it,” Zack told him.

  Sloan hiked his shoulders powerfully. “I;m three-quarters of the notion to burn my own house and shops, and then lie out in the woods to await Alspaye’s return. I might pick him off with my rifle, and if I loaded quickly, I might get two or three of those rascals who ride with him.”

  “No, there’s a better way,” said Zack.

  The furnaceman stared. “What better way is that?”

  Into Zack’s mind had come the memory of Colonel Dickson’s message to Martin. Volunteers were being brought itogether to make a force that could confront and fight Moore’s numbers. It would happen soon, very soon, if it happened at all. And Zack had an inspiration—somewhat desperate, but still an inspiration.

  “Say to Alspaye that you accept his terms,” he urged. “Say you will make the cannon.”

  “Make the cannon?” Sloan’s wide eyes grew wider and harder. “You tell me to make cannon for Moore to use against the friends of liberty? Then you aren’t on the honest side, after all. I tell you, boy, I have no love for Moore’s Tories, and no regard for anyone who does love them.”

  “I am as patriotic as yourself,” assured Zack. “But take thought. If you seem ready to make cannon the Tories will spare your home and will give you those plans to show how such guns are cast.”

  “Aye, but what then?”

  “Say you’ll do it. Then work slowly, appear to be unsure at such new tasks. Meanwhile, remember this much that I can tell you. If Moore has many men to fight for King George, many other men make ready to fight against him. We’ll strike Moore, destroy him, ere you can finish the guns.. Then those guns will be of use to our own side.”

  Sloan raised big knuckles to rub his big chin. “And if Moore destroys you?” he inquired.

  “He won’t,” Zack said fiercely. “He must not. He can-“

  “Egad, young Zack Harper, I believe you when you speak so roundly. Well, what you say has its grain of sense. I will seem to agree, then, and gain time that way. Now, will you stop and eat the noon meal with me?”

  But Zack declined with thanks, and returned to his comrades among the willows. They rode off around the furnace- man’s property, while Zack told what he had heard and what Sloan had agreed to do.

  Both Cy and Andy listened raptly as Zack relayed the information Sloan had given, and rather cautiously approved Zack’s advice to the furnaceman to make the cannon. But Andy, the thoughtful, seized on one item of news.

  “I told you that the Tories were a thousand in number, Zack,” said Andy. “For this part of the frontier, that is a true army. Our friends have no chance to gather as many.”

  “Andy’s right,” seconded Cy. “Many have gone already to fight in the east and in South Carolina. We are outnumbered. Why, Captain Martin’s company is nothing. Moore would brush it out of his way as a man brushes away a wasp.”

  “Aye, but a man may be stung if he tries to brush at a wasp,” returned Zack, swinging around in his saddle to speak. “Remember another thing that Mr. Sloan told me— that the faint hearts are joining Moore because they think his is surely the winning side. If Moore’s side appears doubtful of winning, those faint hearts may run, and leave the numbers something more even.”

  “Boldly said!” applauded Andy. “Zack, you speak like a colonel yourself. It is true that ten brave men are better than a hundred cowards for the ten will drive the hundred like rabbits.”

  Somewhat more encouraged, the three rode on for an hour, then dismounted to let the horses rest and crop grass while they themselves ate a lunch of cold meat and corn bread. Zack waited wrhile the sun slid an hour’s distance westward, then ordered them back to the trail. It was a narrow trail, poorly marked among clumps of trees and brush, and they followed it well to the west of Christian Mauney’s property and then into the region where they might expect to find Tories.

  Here Cy Cole proved his worth on the expedition. Like Enoch Gilmer, he had frequently hunted that part of the woods, and Zack and Andy waited in a hidden hollow with the horses while Cy went on a brief visit to the cabin of some people he knew and trusted. He returned with important news.

  Moore had sent a force of one hundred fighting men, un! der Captain Warlick, to pursue the smaller party of patriots under Joseph McDowell. The retreat had been made toward the western mountains, and the attention of the main Tory camp was chiefly turned in that direction. That meant that the three scouts would be in great danger if they approached from the quarter they had originally planned.

  “And Reuben Sloan’s guess was a good one,” finished Cy. “There seem to be full nine hundred gathered to Moore.

  His captains are bringing in yet others, and they boast that shortly they will be given arms by Cornwallis himself.” “But they have not been given those arms yet,” said Zack at once. “They wait for them. Hark you both, I’ll tell you what we do before we go back to Captain Martin.”

  10 The Bad News

  CY and Andy both turned eager, questioning eyes on Zack. “You talk like somebody with a plan,” said Andy.

  “Moore’s Tories wait for weapons from Cornwallis,” Zack said. “Which way is Cornwallis from here?”

  “Why, southward and a little to the east,” Cy told him, pointing.

  “And if a supply of guns and powder, enough for a thousand, was coming from there, it would need wagons to fetch it,” wrent on Zack. “We and our friends would know of such a supply ere this.”

  “Aye,” agreed Andy. “The country would buzz with it.”

  “Therefore it is not at hand,” Zack said confidently. “Now, if a messenger were to ride into Moore’s camp, with word that sounded important—if he said that the arms were delayed for some reason—he would be trusted and accepted. He could easily spy out the whole condition and number of Moore’s men.”

  “True, by heaven!” Cy almost whooped in his excitement.. “One of us could go there, playing the part of a friend to the Tory cause.”

  “Which of us, though?” broke in Andy suddenly. “We are known, all three of us, to Godfrey Prothero.”

  “Andy is right,” said Cy, grave again. “They know you well in that camp, Zack, and once vowed to hang you. As for Andy and me, we are less known, but we would be in danger. Either Godfrey or that bullying friend of his, Alspaye, would suspect us.”

  “If one of us but had the gift of Enoch Gilmer to fool people,” mourned Andy.

  “Since Enoch is not here, I’ll try it,” volunteered Cy. “If they suspect me, I’ll say I have deserted the patriot cause. Help me think of things to say that will convince them.”

  They agreed that Cy would go to the camp. Zack instructed him carefully. He must approach openly, and when challenged, he would ask to be taken to Colonel Moore. Carefully he and Cy rehearsed a plausible story, of meeting a Tory officer who asked that news be taken about the bringers of arms in difficulty among patriots barring their way.

  “Be bold in your talk,” Zack urged. “Make them take you as you seem to be. Sinc
e you tell them what they dislike to hear, ’twill seem the more believable. Tell Colonel Moore you were promised pay for bringing the message, and belike he’ll give you one of those gold coins he carries and shows so proudly.”

  The three sat together by their horses and strove seriously to prepare Cy with his false story. Zack and Andy played the parts of questioners, and Cy replied to their prodding queries.

  At last he declared himself letter-perfect in the role, and stood up.

  “I’ll leave my gun here with you,” he said, and leaned it against a tree. “Say a prayer for my good luck, and Pll find my way back when I can. Listen for the owl cry as a signal.”

  He mounted and was gone. Zack gazed after him, his face dark with worry. “ ’Twas I who should have been able to go,” he said to Andy. “I am the leader.”

  “No, Cy is of good sense and courage, and not so apt to be recognized. As for us, what shall we do while we wait here?”

  They employed themselves at cleaning their rifles, sharpening their knives and tomahawks, testing all their gear. Then it was suppertime, or nearly, to judge by the fall of the sun toward the trees above the western horizon. Zack built a fire, a very small one, and mixed some meal with water to bake into johnnycakes on a flat stone tilted toward the flames. Andy climbed a tall poplar, half for the pleasure of doing so, half for a look at the surrounding country.

  Zack had just turned the cakes over when Andy came fairly tumbling down from the top branches of the tree.

  “Hark!” he said as he struck the ground. “I think someone’s coming.”

  “Which way, Andy?”

  “From westward, through the berry bushes yonder. When I was up there, I could see the bushes moving.”

  Zack snatched up his rifle and cocked it. A glance showed him that the pan was primed.

  “How many, do you think?” he demanded.

  “Only one, as I judge.”

  “Get back up that poplar, and take your gun with you,” Zack ordered. “Put yourself in that lowest fork, it’s a good height from which to command and cover anyone who comes here. I’ll move forward, and when you hear me speak be ready to back me up with bullet or word.”

  “Aye,” said Andy, and caught up his own weapon. Like a squirrel he mounted the poplar again.

  Zack stole forward to the west. He paused beside a big trunk beyond the poplar, his rifle held by its balance in his left hand, his right hand on the rough bark. He listened and stared. His ear caught the soft rustle of twigs, then he saw a stir among the bushes directly in front of him. He crouched and moved forward to where a fallen log gave cover. Dropping behind this, he rested his rifle barrel on it.

  From that position near the ground he could see, below the leaves, a pair of legs moving. Holding his breath to listen, he judged that the approaching man was alone. He crooked his finger around the trigger. The legs moved nearer, nearer. Now they were no more than a dozen paces away.

  “Halt, there!” cried Zack sharply. “Stand where you are, or I fire!”

  The legs stopped. “Who’s that?” gasped a shaky voice.

  “Never mind,” said Zack sternly. “There are more than one of us here, and we’re armed and ready. Do as you’re told, as you value your life. Now, put up your hands and come into the open.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the voice unhappily, and the bushes parted. A man stepped into view, hands lifted above his head. Zack rose to his knee, rifle leveled.

  “Now come here to me,” he commanded. “No false move, or it is your last. Andy, stay where you are and watch to see if he has friends with him. Come close, I say.”

  The man walked slowly toward the log, and Zack came to his feet.

  He saw a shabby, slender figure, with a line-creased old face, his lifted hands as brown as molasses. The bare feet were dark brown, too. Above the frightened face was tilted a battered hat of home-woven wheat straw. Round eyes stared widely at Zack.

  “Don't shoot me, sir,” begged the man. “Pm not doing any hurt to anybody.”

  “Who are you?” Zack asked.

  “My name's Fesso, sir. I belong to Mr. Tom Shannon— did belong to him, I mean. I work—worked—on his place, I mean I did work on—what used to be his place. . . .”

  The stammering voice died away and fell silent. The slender old man seemed weary, bowed down with trouble. Zack relaxed.

  “All right, Fesso, come back this way with me. Andy!”

  “Here,” Andy called back from above them.

  “Keep a sharp lookout while I talk to this fellow. Come along, Fesso.”

  The melancholy dark man accompanied him submissively, and Zack led him back to the cooking fire. Still holding his hands aloft, Fesso looked with plaintive eyes at the toasting johnnycakes. Zack came up behind him, took his left hand from the rifle, and patted him around the waist and sides.

  “You don't have any weapons,” said Zack, “not even a knife. All right, Fesso, sit down by the fire. That's the way. Now tell me, what are you doing here if you belong on Mr. Tom Shannon’s place?”

  The straw-hatted head dropped wearily. “Ain’t no place left there, young sir. It’s done been burnt out. Set afire.”

  “Where?”

  “Back yonder, the way I was coming, maybe three or four miles. I ran till I was tired.”

  Zack squatted on his heels, his rifle across his knees and his finger still on the trigger. “Begin at the beginning, Fesso. Who burned your master’s place?”

  Eyes rolled beneath the ragged hatbrim. “Reckon it’s the men that belong to King George across the ocean.”

  “Tories?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s what they said when they rode in. Thank the good Lord, Mis’ Shannon and the girls was away, visiting her folks, the Rutledges, that lives off south. Only Mr. Tom and his oldest boy and me was there.”

  “And what happened?”

  “The King’s men made some mighty mean talk, sir,” Fesso took up his story. “Said Mr. Tom was obliged to go with them and fight on their side. He said back he was on the side of the freedom people, and they told him he was arrested, him and young Mr. Tom both. Then they busted into the house, they took all the meat and all the meal and tied it on their saddles. They put fire to the house and the stable. They drove off Mr. Tom’s cows and his horse and mule, and they took him and young Mr. Tom with them. They never paid me much mind, and when I saw my chance I slipped away and ran. I didn’t stop running till right now.” Zack gazed into the unhappy eyes. Old Fesso was telling a true story, and no sensible man could believe otherwise. “Did they follow you, Fesso?” asked Zack.

  “A little while they did. I heard ’em shouting after me. But I headed off south and lost ’em among some swampy land, then I doubled this way. I got off from the last one, but what I’ll do now—”

  “Come on down, Andy, and advise us,” called Zack, and Andy slid down from the forks of the poplar.

  Fesso looked again at the johnnycakes. They were nicely browned, and Fesso’s eyes were hungry. “Take one,” Zack invited him.

  “Yes, sir!”

  Fesso caught up a splinter of pine and pried a cake loose. “I thank you mightily for this bread,” he said as he bit into it. “I ain’t had a bite since morning.”

  “Here’s some meat to go with it,” and Zack sliced off a piece of smoked pork with his knife. “Now, we’ll all have supper, and you can give us the whole story.”

  Between hungry mouthfuls, Fesso told them in fuller detail of the visit of the Tories, their demand that the Shannons join their forces, and their quick, violent reaction to Shannon’s refusal.

  “And that’s gone on with several other folks’ places around here,” finished the old man. “We heard of it, but we didn’t really believe it, not till it happened to us.”

  “What will you do now?” asked Andy.

  Fesso took off his straw hat and slowly rubbed his gray wool. He shook his head unhappily.

  “Don’t know what I’ll do,” he confessed. “I belonged to Mr.
Tom’s father before him, up in Virginia. I always been with the Shannons. They’re my folks, and they’ve been kind to me. Without ’em, I feel just lost in these wild woods.”

  “Somebody ought to shoot about a dozen Tories,” said Andy bitterly, and Fesso looked up.

  “That’s about the right word of it, young sir,” he said. “If I had a gun, I’d go shooting at them myself, taking Mr. Tom and his son like two bad men fit for hanging. I can aim a gun and pull a trigger, I’m sure in the eye—”

  “Wait, maybe we can help you,” said Zack. “Do you know a man named Adam Reep?”

  Fesso crinkled his dark brow. “Yes, sir, I know Mr. Adam. He lives up yonder on the ford that we cross to get to Ramsour’s Mill. I’ve passed there, time and again, with grain for grinding.”

  “Then go there,” said Zack. “Adam Reep is a true man and an enemy of those Tories who took your master away. If you can get to him safely and tell him your story, I daresay he’ll take care of you.”

  Carefully Zack explained the great camp of the Tories, and Fesso nodded his comprehension and talked about ways to skirt it without being discovered.

  “And how can I thank you two young gentlemen for helping me?” he asked, more cheerful at last.

  “By sticking to what you told us,” Zack said. “By helping the side that’s fighting for American liberty against the Tories.”

  “I’d do that anyway, young sir.”

  “If you were able to give that bunch of raiders the slip, you could be a good scout yourself,” suggested Andy.

  “Aye,” agreed Zack. “Now, when you get to Mr. Adam Reep’s, tell him what happened, and tell him my name. I am Zack Harper, and I was at his house with Enoch Gilmer. He’ll remember me. Tell him that before long we may come to ask his help, and your help, too. Because there will be fighting in this part of the world.”