Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1961

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

  “I see that you bring men with rifles and horses,” said the Colonel, “and glad we are for them. Glad we are, too, for those fat cattle, because we will need meat for the army we gather. But we are gladder yet for another thing, that flag your tall companion carries.”

  “ ’Twas sewn for us by a lovely lady, with a true patriot’s heart,” Martin informed him.

  “Which makes it the more precious. Yours shall be our color company. Let the flag be planted yonder in front of my house for our standard, and it shall rally us and lead us in these trying days to come.”

  12 General Rutherford

  For the next six days, the volunteers camped at Dickson’s plantation made what preparations they could for success in battle.

  Martin’s company found itself one of a number recruited from the regions on both sides of the Catawba. Some companies were larger than Martin’s, one or two slightly smaller. The men wore cloth hunting shirts and leggings or loose pantaloons, with moccasins on their feet. Their arms were rifles, knives, and tomahawks brought from their homes. Few had as much as a blanket or cloak on which to lie at night, and no more than half had built rude brush shelters. The others slept comfortably on beds of pine straw in the warm June darkness.

  Dickson heard with grave attention Martin’s report of Zack Harper’s observation of the Tories under Moore. The gathered patriot companies numbered few more than two hundred men, and Dickson worked tirelessly to get them ready for action. He procured lead somewhere, and details from the various companies melted this over hardwood fires and cast heaps of bullets of various sizes to fit the different makes of rifle. Gunpowder was still harder to get, but Dickson had found a supply of that, too. The bullets he distributed, but he kept the powder locked up in his house.

  “I’ll serve it out when we go into the fight,” he announced. “Kept safe as it is, it won’t get damp or dribble away or be lost. And marksmen like these do not need it for target practice.”

  For rations, Dickson placed his corn cribs at the disposal of the companies, and each captain sent a man to draw supplies and grind meal in a little gristmill on a creek behind the house. Meat was less plentiful. The ten cattle John Prothero had sent with Martin’s company were turned over to the general commissary, and were slaughtered one after the other to be cut up and dealt out to the men.

  For the rest, there was daily drill in marching and handling of arms by most of the companies. Martin’s men, being mounted, were kept by Dickson as a detail of couriers and aides, and on the morning of June fifteenth Zack was summoned to the colonel’s porch for orders.

  Zack approached, leading the horse Christian Mauney had lent him. Dickson returned Zack’s salute. “I’m sending you to Old Griff’s lair,” he said.

  “Old Griff?” repeated Zack.

  “Aye, that’s what General Griffith Rutherford is called by his friends. That or the Old Huntsman. Old Griff has spent his life in the fields and woods, chasing bears and turkeys, fighting Indians, and, these recent years, fighting British. I’ll engage that you’ll find him bluff of manner and rough of aspect he’s ever been more at home in buckskin than in broadcloth, and I doubt if he’d shine at a ball of fine ladies and slender beaux. But he’s brave in war, and wise as well. Not Cornwallis himself would be so hardy as to welcome a clash with Old Griff on equal terms.”

  “And I am to carry him a message, sir?” asked Zack.

  “I sent word of your findings out yonder on Indian Creek, and last night came an express from him to send you in person to tell your story. His camp is south of Charlotte, say fifteen miles east of the ford yonder. Here’s a note for him, and you will lead a horse from my stables as a present to Old Griff. It’s a big charger, such as may carry a man of his pounds and inches. Have you had breakfast? Then go at once.”

  A servant brought out the horse, big and powerful, but clean-limbed and spirited. Zack tucked Dickson’s letter into the front of his shirt, swung into his own saddle, and took the halter of the big horse. Away he rode out of camp, toward Tuckaseege Ford on the Catawba.

  The river was fully a mile wide with a vigorous current, but the waters proved shallow with a firm bottom. The two horses waded bravely across, and Zack headed along the road toward Charlotte. Well before noon he reached the outskirts of the town. A friendly farmer directed him to a side road that would take him to the field where Rutherford’s men camped, and a quarter of an hour later he was halted by a sentry.

  “Who goes there?” called the sentry.

  “Friend of liberty,” Zack gave the usual countersign, and offered Colonel Dickson’s letter. The sentry called a sergeant, who told Zack to dismount and lead both horses after Kim.

  They moved across a pleasant meadow, among groups of armed men and cooking fires, to where, at the center of things, several figures were grouped. One of these was huge, seemingly a head taller than his companions and considerably thicker in chest and shoulders. He was talking emphatically, but broke off as the sergeant approached with Zack.

  “Who’s this fellow?” inquired the giant gruffly, gazing at him, and Zack returned the gaze. The man was middle-aged, but plainly vigorous and fairly heaped with muscles. The others of the party were dressed in neat hunting shirts, with dark blue facings at neck and wrists, and their hats were cocked in smart military style j but the big man wore a shirt of fringed deerskin, worn and smoky, laced up his deep chest with a crisscrossed thong. He wore no hat at all on his long grizzled hair, only a scarf of blue cloth bound around his temples Indian fashion. His square face was lined deeply and his eyes were narrow and slightly slanting—the eyes of a fighter.

  “I bring a message for General Rutherford,” said Zack.

  “Then give it to me. I’m General Rutherford.”

  A hand as big as a spade took the letter and opened it. Rutherford’s lips moved slowly, as though he read with some difficulty.

  “Zookers!” he boomed out at last. “So Joe Dickson sends me a horse. Is that the one? Looks stout enough in the backbone. I hope his heart’s stout too, for I’ll ride him where the fight is thickest and loudest.” Again the narrow eyes studied Zack. “And you’re the one who’s been into that Tory nest and out again, are you? You look young for man’s work.”

  “I grow older every passing hour, sir,” replied Zack, and one or two of the others stared and frowned, as though he had been impudent. But General Griffith Rutherford chuckled deeply.

  “He’s ready of tongue,” observed the general, smiling ; fiercely, “and if he’s spied out those robbers for us he deserves to be. Sergeant, bring that horse back within the hour, saddled and bridled. I’ll try if he’s horse enough to carry me. By your leave, you others, I want to talk to this scout alone.”

  Obediently the officers moved away. Rutherford sat down on a log and gestured Zack to do likewise.

  “No need to stand before me,” he rumbled. “I’m no fussy lass in a parlor, with fan and kerchief. Now, I judge that you know as much as any man about this Moore and his rascal band. Tell me all.”

  Yet again Zack described his expeditions, and Rutherford interrupted with several searching questions. When Zack had done, the big man nodded grimly.

  “You guess a thousand Tories in that band? How many are in my camp, think you?”

  Zack gazed here and there, computing. Then: “Perhaps six hundred, General.”

  “Ha, boy, your eye for numbers is good. Then you don’t guess more Tories than there truly are.” Rutherford beckoned a passing man. “Tell the cook to fetch enough dinner for two. Harper, you’ll have a bite with me, and I’ll write a note to Joe Dickson for you to take back. I would I could carry the news myself, my hand’s better to the rifle than to the pen.”

  “You won’t be coming to join us, sir?”

  Again a shake of the huge scarf-bound head. “I must bide here and see what those British under Lord Rawdon will do at Hanging Rock, to south of here. Had I my wish, ’twould be that thieving Banastre Tarleton at hand instead of Rawdon. Twice I’
ve challenged Tarleton to fight me, his sword against my hunting knife.”

  “Did you so, sir? And what did he reply?”

  An angry snort. “Back came a letter that in his eyes I’d not the standing of a gentleman, so he’d not notice my challenge.” The general knotted a fist like a war club. “Let him come within my reach and I’ll gentleman him—I’ll skin off his hide and hang it on the fence! ”

  The food was brought, big bowls of greens cooked with chunks of bacon and a stack of hard-boiled eggs, with mugs of spruce beer. General Rutherford ate with an appetite to match his mighty body. Between bites he asked Zack more questions about Moore’s men and the country in which they lurked. Finishing his last spoonful, the general bawled to an aide to bring pen and paper and hear dictation.

  “Put this down,” ordered Rutherford. “Say that a thousand Tory skulks and more are on the South Fork, thirty miles west of Tuckaseege, and that all true men must gather under their officers, ready to march and flog those hounds from their kennels. Have you got that? Then send copies to Colonel Locke, up in Rowan County—he’s a good, sound fighter, he’ll muster a fine force—and to his neighbors Captain Falls and Captain Brandon, and Major David Wilson here in Mecklenburg. Within forty-eight hours we’ll know which way Rawdon moves at Hanging Rock and how many we can spare for Moore.”

  The aide bustled away to write the letters. The sergeant came, leading the big horse Zack had brought, ready saddled. Rutherford surveyed the animal, grunted in satisfaction, and with a sudden swift leap was astride it.

  “He seems to carry me well,” said Rutherford. “Harper, convey my thanks to Joe Dickson. And wait, I’ve a present to give in exchange for this one. Sergeant, where’s the other horse that groans at carrying me?”

  “Grazing, sir,” was the reply.

  “Fetch him at once.”

  The sergeant raced off and came back leading a fine tall chestnut.

  “Harper, I captured this beast with my own hands in South Carolina, where we fought Tarleton’s knavish dragoons. A rascal British captain jumped off him and fled like a rusty lizard, else I’d have caught him too. Take him along.”

  “For Colonel Dickson, General Rutherford?”

  “No, no, what needs Joe Dickson of more horses than he has champing hay in his stables? This horse is yours, a better mount than that nag that brought you here. No thanks, lad. You’ll do more scouting, and you’ll need a mount that carries you well.”

  Joyfully Zack transferred saddle and bridle from Mauney’s horse to the chestnut. Rutherford dismounted and beckoned for the aide again.

  “If you’re ready to go back, I’ll scribble a few words for your commander. That horse is named Jonah. I named him for an old friend of mine with a long horsy face.”

  Within ten minutes, Zack was on his way toward the Catawba again. The fine chestnut, Jonah, carried him splendidly, and was spirited but manageable. Before many miles had been passed, Zack and Jonah were the best of friends. They were back at Dickson’s while the sun was yet three hours above the horizon, and Dickson greeted Zack and read Rutherford’s note.

  “Old Griff has sent orders to bring together all possible troops, and he himself will march when he is certain that he has nothing to fear from Rawdon. He agrees that Moore must be fought and beaten, and that soon. Where did you get that fine horse, Harper?”

  “General Rutherford himself made me a gift of Jonah, sir.”

  “Egad, he has taken a liking to you. His note says as much.”

  Dickson studied Jonah’s lines with relish. “I’ll give you a bay mare for him and, though gold coins are scarce in these times, I’ll give you twenty guineas to boot.”

  “Colonel, there’s not enough money in North Carolina to buy Jonah from me,” said Zack honestly. “General Rutherford said that I’ll need such a horse in the scouting I must do.”

  “Old Griff is right, Harper. He wants you to spy out Moore’s position for us yet again. Rest well tonight, and be ready to go tomorrow.”

  At Dickson’s direction, Zack drew three days’ rations from the quartermaster. The beef and bacon he cooked over the fire he shared with Andy Berry and Cy Cole. Of the three quarts of corn, he gave a good half to Jonah, and parched the rest.

  13 The Making of a Map

  Eating supper with Andy and Cy that night, Zack soberly discussed his new lone scouting assignment. Cy, who had hunted in the Indian Creek neighborhood, gave some helpful information.

  “There are true men there to whom you can trust your life,” said Cy. “Adam Reep you know. Another who’s strong for liberty, and I think shrewd as well, is Christian Reinhardt. He lives on the north fork of the road from here to Ramsour’s Mill; he has a blacksmith shop there.”

  “You told me that Christian Reinhardt’s wife was born a Warlick,” objected Andy. “Is not a Captain Warlick with Moore?”

  “Aye, that must be her brother,” replied Cy. “Yet Mrs. Reinhardt is as steadfast to our side as her husband. There are many such families.”

  “That’s true,” agreed Zack, thinking of the Protheros.

  Darkness fell, with bright tags of campfires. The three friends sat on their pine-straw beds and listened to comrades talking in the night around them. One man sang, in a clear and tuneful voice, a song of war and defiance:

  “A fig for the English, and Hessians to boot,

  Who are sick half the time with eating of kraut,

  But bacon and greens and Indian corn bread

  Make a buckskin jump up, though he seems to be dead! ”

  “Ha, that’s us,” said Cy, delighted. “The buckskins.”

  “General Rutherford and I ate bacon and greens together this very day,” remembered Zack.

  “To hear talk of Old Griff,” put in Andy, “you’d think three bears would be but a morsel to him, and the whole Catawba his drink to wash them down. Zack, you speak as if he’s but a man like the rest of us.”

  “A big man, and a fighting one,” Zack told them.

  They slept at last, by the dying fire. Zack was awake in the gray dawn, as usual. He quickly ate a light breakfast, then bridled and saddled Jonah. He put his roast meat and parched corn in the saddle pockets, and tied his rifle before him. He rode out of camp as the sun came up.

  Reaching the right fork of the road, he headed northwest along it. He knew the owners of the houses on this part of his journey. A man named Plevins lived not far along the way, and beyond him Mr. Alexander Lowe. Zack had heard nothing about the loyalties of these men to one side or the other, and took care to leave the road and circle out of sight among the trees opposite each door.

  But as the sun rose high and he found himself approaching the quarter where Tories might be found, he reined in at the edge of a cornfield and spoke to a pudgy old farmer with a hoe. The farmer answered his questions readily.

  “Chris Reinhardt lives off the road, an hour’s ride ahead,” he said. “But if I was you, my young friend, I’d cut away from this Tuckaseege Road a mile this side of Ramsour’s Mill, and take the path leftward to Dellinger’s Tavern, and then on to Reinhardt’s, through the swampy ground.”

  “Why do that?” asked Zack.

  “Because of the King’s men at the mill,” was the answer. “I don’t take great stock in one side or the other, and anyhow, I’m too old to fight. But the Tories would likely seize a man your age and swear him into their ranks or make him rue the day. That fine horse would tempt them, too.”

  Zack thanked him and rode on. Tories at the mill—then they were between him and Adam Reep’s cabin across the South Fork. He approached more cautiously, ready to dart into the woods at the first sight of any strangers.

  But he reached the trail of which the farmer had spoken, a sort of bridle path through thick woods to the south of the road. He headed in among the trees and crossed a narrow, muddy stream to find the trail beyond leading through muddy, brush-covered land. A mile or so brought him out upon a side road, where a square building of hand-sawed planks stood, with a
sign that proclaimed it a tavern. A man on a bench in front put up a hand in greeting, but said nothing. Back along the road to northward Zack rode, recrossing the small stream and skirting the slope of a hill that had been cleared as a field. He saw a group of buildings ahead of him to the right. There was a sturdy dwelling house with a front of mortared stone, a barn, and a storage shed. On the other side of the road was a hutlike structure, and Zack heard the loud clang of iron under the hammer.

  He rode up to the door of the hut, and a lean, bare-armed man in a sooty leather apron looked out.

  “I am looking for Mr. Christian Reinhardt,” said Zack.

  “I am he.” A hint of German accent. “How can I serve you?”

  “My name’s Zack Harper. I was told by Cy Cole to look for you.”

  Zack got down. Reinhardt studied him cannily. “Cy Cole,” he repeated. “Is he the son of old Mr. Cole who lives down in the Point?”

  “The same.” Zack decided against further evasion. “Cy says that you’re a true friend of liberty and one who defies King George. Sir, I need your help.”

  “Tie up your horse behind the shop,” said Reinhardt. “Then come in where we may speak privately.”

  Zack led Jonah around the little building, made the bridle fast to a cedar, and took his rifle. Then he entered at a back door.

  The small interior was furnished with a forge which glowed with a charcoal fire, a homemade deerskin bellows that worked with a foot pedal, and an anvil. Reinhardt held a heavy pair of tongs.

  “So,” said Reinhardt, “you’re a rebel.”

  “The British call my friends and me rebels,” said Zack, “and we glory in the name, Mr. Reinhardt.”

  “Lean your rifle in the corner and sit on this box. You said your name is Harper.”

  “Yes.”

  The smith stepped close to him. His lean limbs looked powerful, and those big tongs could be a mighty weapon. Zack wished he had kept hold of his rifle.