Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1961

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

  The battle din was earsplitting as he approached the main road. Volleys rang out, again and again, with spatters of single shots between, and Zack could hear roars, curses, and commands shouted at the top of lusty lungs. Now he was almost jat the road, and there was gunfire ahead of him, too.

  A man appeared, gliding from one tree to another toward ithe west. Zack’s rifle rose to cover him, but then Zack saw a tag of white paper in the fellow’s hat.

  “How goes the fight, friend?” called Zack.

  “Hush!” hissed the other. He stole toward the jumble of felled logs, and Zack made haste to his side.

  “What’s your company?”

  “McDowell’s,” replied the other. “We struck their pickets and made them run like deer. Captain Falls was slain in the first moment, but we drove close to their camp and got oflf our horses. We’re hitting them from here, as your friends hit them from below.”

  He poked his rifle through a space between the logs, and fired.

  “Ha!” he cried. “I made a Tory jump.”

  He fell to reloading. Zack moved past him, to the road.

  More men, the dismounted cavalrymen Locke had sent to strike along the main road, were there, firing from behind bushes and trees. The left of the Tory line was crumpling away before them. It fell back to westward, almost at right angles to its former commanding position. And from below, the patriot infantry was approaching. Zack peered at the enemy. Still he did not see the man he sought.

  A great leap carried him across the road before a marksman could aim at him, and now he was in the woods to the north. He ran forward in the direction of the mill, past the slowly advancing patriot attackers. He crouched low as he moved from tree to tree, from one clump of lower leafage to another.

  He felt a moment of gloomy bad conscience because he was not helping to batter that Tory defense on the road; but plainly his help was not greatly needed. As he moved toward the mill, so did the earsplitting sound of battle. Whatever the Tory advantage in numbers, it had been met and balanced by the completeness and vigor of Locke’s attack from two directions. Zack increased his pace, recklessly striving to get beyond the flank of the enemy.

  He must be nearly to the shore of the millpond by now, he told himself. Then there were shouts in the direction of the road.

  “Forward, forward!” bawled a furious voice. “Help your friends hold their ground against those rebel knaves! ”

  He knew who that was, and stole quickly to where he could see. The bridge below the mill was in sight, and across it hurried men with pine-sprigged hats, rifles held high in their hands as they ran. At the bridge itself stood Robinson Alspaye, feet planted wide, waving a great sword. He wore a red coat and a sash.

  “Ahai!” howled Zack, Indian fashion. Even as the last of the reinforcements rushed toward the sound of the firing, Zack knelt, aimed, and fired.

  But as he touched trigger, Alspaye turned as though to follow his men. The bullet meant for his head swept away his cocked hat. At once he whirled and glared into the trees.

  “Who did that?” he bawled. “You fool, you nearly shot your own captain! ”

  He ran toward the place where Zack, still kneeling, rammed another charge into his rifle.

  As Alspaye came in among the trees, Zack rose before him, pulling his ramrod clear of the muzzle. Alspaye’s furious grimace disappeared, and blank surprise dawned on his face. He made a sweeping cut at Zack, who parried with his rifle barrel.

  “Harper the spy, is it?” snarled Alspaye. “I’ve long hoped to—”

  Again he slashed, and again Zack turned the blow, and swung his rifle butt up and forward. It smote Alspaye’s shoulder and sent him staggering, almost falling. At once Zack aimed, but he did not fire.

  “I can’t kill a helpless man,” he said. “Surrender.”

  “You’re surrounded, you triple fool,” Alspaye gritted, but dropped his sword and held up his hands. “You won’t long hold me captive.”

  “Come back through these woods,” ordered Zack, moving deeper into cover. But Alspaye suddenly flung himself full length on the ground, rolled off among thorny bushes, and yelped in angry pain as the prickles raked him. Zack fired at the sound. Alspaye laughed.

  “You missed me!” he cried. “Help! This way! I’ve cornered a rebel!”

  He was up, a pistol in his hand. Zack dropped his empty rifle and ducked behind a tree, drawing his tomahawk. Alspaye came toward him, less than thirty feet away. Zack drew back his arm and threw his weapon.

  Straight at Alspaye’s face the bright blade flew. Up went Alspaye’s pistol hand, and he cried out as the tomahawk struck it. The pistol dropped and bounded on the earth, and Alspaye staggered back against a sapling, his other hand clutching his bleeding wrist.

  “You’re my prisoner,” Zack started to say, but into the woods crashed a horseman in a blue coat. The man sprang down from his saddle, pistol in hand.

  “What—?” he asked Alspaye, and then Zack charged, clutched the newcomer, and grappled him close.

  Panting, straining, they stumbled this way and that. Zack’s left hand caught his opponent’s pistol arm, Zack’s chin hooked on the blue-clad shoulder, Zack’s right arm clamped the slender waist. Beyond them, Alspaye grabbed the horse’s bridle, dragged himself astride, and went riding away.

  “I still have you,” gritted Zack, furious at Alspaye’s escape. With a surge of sudden effort he lifted his adversary from the ground and threw him, falling heavily upon him. A wheezing gasp—the Tory’s wind was driven out. Zack wrenched away the pistol and rose, a knee on the fellow’s chest. At last Zack had a good look at him.

  “Godfrey!” he cried.

  “Zack Harper,” Godfrey Prothero managed to gurgle. “I can fight no more.”

  Zack got to his feet, and pulled Godfrey up. “Hark,” he said, “the battle comes this way.”

  “Your side wins,” panted Godfrey, still out of breath. “Well—if I had it to do again, I’d still follow my King.”

  Zack clutched him by the shoulder. He spun Godfrey bodily around. “Go,” he said roughly.

  “What?”

  “Get out of here,” ordered Zack. “You did your best to save me once, and I vowed I’d not hurt you. Escape while you can. Alspaye took your horse get another and ride.”

  Godfrey looked around. He held out a hand as if to shake Zack’s.

  “No time, no time!” Zack insisted. “We can shake hands I when this war is over! ”

  The noise of the battle rose in the air behind them like an approaching hailstorm. Zack gave Godfrey a mighty shove, and Godfrey went running back toward the road and the bridge.

  Then men came in sight from eastward. Zack stooped to seize his own rifle, and again rammed down a charge. As the first of the attackers came up with him, he pressed forward : with them.

  “Harper! Zack Harper!”

  It was an officer, catching up. “Colonel Locke commands 1 your presence at once, on the road!”

  Zack headed off as the others pushed on, firing. He came into the open, where Locke and two other officers sat their horses.

  “What of the ground immediately past the mill yonder?” cried the colonel, loudly enough to be heard above the gunfire.

  “The South Fork slants there,” yelled back Zack. “ ’Twill be hard for the Tories to get across it if they are pressed hard.”

  “Then needs must they stand and fight, and Old Griff’s men are not yet up to help us,” said Locke. “See, they rally yonder.”

  It was true. Zack saw a Tory line building up on the far side of the bridge.

  “Major,” said Locke to an officer beside him, “ride out to bid our men hold their fire. Captain Thomas, take a flag of truce—here, this kerchief on your sword blade—and go command the Tories to surrender in ten minutes’ time or be wiped out to the last man.”

  Both officers galloped away. Locke gazed down at Zack, and sighed wearily.

  “I trust the trick serves,” he said, “for you and I know ’
tis but a trick. We’ve done famously so far, we’ve slain forty of them and wounded up to a hundred, but still they have twice our number did they but know it. Come, let’s go forward.”

  Zack trotted along beside Locke’s horse. He was awrare of the bright sun, the warm air, the tense silence as the battle lulled. They came to the very front of the patriot position, where men stood with poised rifles, watching the Tories on the other side of the creek. Enoch Gilmer hailed Zack.

  “Where were you when we had all that fun on the hill?” Enoch demanded.

  “Having fun of my own,” said Zack. “How fares the company?”

  “We’ve suffered. Captain McKissick is sorely wounded, and five or six others are down. Yet we more than evened the score against those dogs yonder. Did you bag your game, Zack?”

  “I wounded Alspaye with my tomahawk,” said Zack. “And I caught Godfrey Prothero, but I let him go. I would not wish to see him hurt.”

  “Nor would I,” said Enoch heartily. “Look, here comes back our flag of truce.”

  The captain galloped back across the bridge. “They yield!” he was shouting. “Those who did not flee are surrendering!”

  It was true.

  On the far side of Clark’s Creek, the Tories had thrown down their weapons, and they came marching across the bridge, shamefaced and submissive. The victorious followers of Locke crowded around them, asking questions, now and then greeting friends and neighbors who had chosen the Tory side. It was not an ill-humored meeting. An officer made a quick count of the prisoners.

  “By heaven, they number no more than fifty,” Zack heard him say. “The others have melted like snow in the sun.”

  “Then more than a thousand have fled,” replied Locke. “Poor fellows, I dare hope that most of them will want to fight no more. Appoint details to see to the wounded, gather up the arms, and scout after those who ran.”

  Zack went to look at the prisoners, then to search among the fallen. With a strong sense of relief, he made sure tha'a Godfrey Prothero was not to be listed with either. Nor was Alspaye. Nor was Colonel Moore.

  A messenger galloped into the lines, his horse lathered with effort. “Colonel Locke!” he cried. “General Rutherforcc is at hand, with all his men.”

  “By heaven’s grace, we have not needed them to win here,” replied Locke.

  “Aye, and that is what has put General Rutherford into a fury. I vow that the whole country is scorched with his wrath that he did not get here in time to do the hottest of the fighting!”

  The victors made camp around Ramsour’s Mill. Food captured from the abandoned commissary of the Tories was cooked to make a hearty meal. In the early afternoon, thee! head of Rutherford’s column approached from the east, and' fluttering above it was the flag that Grace Prothero had sewd and given.

  18 Freedom on the South Fork

  THE volunteer companies of Samuel Martin and Daniel McKissick were mustered out of active service on the plantation of John Prothero, on the first of July. Captain McKissick, still weak from his wound, sat on the porch with Prothero and Grace, and a crowd of neighbors and kinsmen stood by while Captain Martin drew the two companies into line and said a formal farewell.

  “The war’s not done yet,” said Martin, “but we have borne our part in driving it from this part of our country.” He paused, looking along the ranks.

  “We can thank heaven for our good luck in that surprise at Ramsour’s Mill,” he continued. “Except that we fought and beat thrice our numbers, I make no doubt but that Moore would have roamed through all the South Fork lands with sword and fire, and perhaps those of us who had died in battle would be the luckiest. Now Moore has fled, and no more than thirty of his men with him, and British George’s cause is not spoken above a whisper hereabouts. Nor will Lord Cornwallis enjoy the harvesting of our fields.”

  A murmur of happy applause.

  “When I say return to your homes,” wound up Martin, “it is with the warning to be ready to take arms again, on a)! moment’s notice or less. We may have to beat the Tories; again, and show them that we are as sour-rinded and straightshooting as they found us in this campaign. And now, untill the call comes again, you are dismissed.”

  He walked along the line, shaking hands with each mam and bidding him good-by. Then rose John Prothero’s cheery voice, inviting all to gather and partake of the feast spread: on outdoor tables by his servants.

  Zack joined his father and mother, who helped him to food and drink. Adam Reep was there, with news from the Ramsour’s Mill neighborhood.

  “Mr. Sloan began those guns for the Tories ere the battle was fought,” said Reep. “Now he finishes them for us. And Fesso asks that you be told his master was freed from prison at Moore’s camp, and that Fesso was rewarded with freedom, too. He’ll work on the Shannon farm, but as a trusted helper, not a slave.”

  “Carry my greeting back both to Mr. Sloan and Fesso,” said Zack.

  He had received other messages. Both General Rutherford and Colonel Locke had praised him freely, had said that much of the Ramsour’s Mill victory was due to young Zack Harper. But he would not boast of it now. Later he might tell his father and mother. Aye, and also . . .

  There she came toward him, smiling and holding out her hand. “Zack,” she said, “I’ll thank you every day of my life for the way you acted with my brother.”

  “How did you hear, Grace? I did very little.”

  “A letter came.” She put it in his hand. “ ’Twas brought by some stealthy messenger, who stuck it under our door. Read it, Zack.”

  Dear Father and Sister:

  I have an opportunity to send you word that I am well and safe after that disaster at Ramsour’s Mill. I now serve with Major Ferguson in South Carolina. I am proud no longer, only determined that no gentleman changes sides.

  If you see our neighbor, Zack Harper, tell him that I remember, and hope for, what he promised of shaking hands someday when wars are done. It was Zack who enabled me to escape capture or death. He showed himself a true and noble friend, a brave soldier, and a generous adversary.

  Until a happier, more peaceful time, I sign myself

  Godfrey

  “I am forever in your debt,” Grace said softly.

  Zack bowed. “I was ever happy to serve you,” he said.

  “And now that the fighting’s over, my father has an offer to make.”

  “An offer?” Zack echoed.

  “Zack, he feels ... I feel . . . such gratitude, such faith in you. My father speaks of sending you to college, away in the North. Don’t stare, Zack, it’s not fantastic. You have shown such sense and gift, he says, that you should be prepared to take a leader’s place here—”

  Enoch Gilmer joined them. “You two are looking at a letter?” he asked. “I have come to show you a letter of my own, Zack. It’s from Captain Chronicle, down on the Wateree River.”

  Again Zack read:

  To Enoch Gilmer:

  Hearing that your company is disbanded for the time, I urge you to join my command, which is embodied for scouting the enemy in South Carolina. Bring with you any other good trailers and scouts if possible, bring Zack Harper. The fame of his deeds at Ramsour’s Mill has echoed even to here, and I would be proud to have him with me.

  If you can come, you know where to meet a guide who will bring you to my camp.

  Yours, my friend, from

  William Chronicle Captain

  Zack handed the letter to Grace. “You see,” he said, “the war is over only for a little space, here. There’s more of it to fight. Not sport or pleasure, but danger and duty. I must thank your father and say I cannot take his offer yet.” He turned to Enoch. “When do we depart?”

  “Why, tomorrow morning,” said Enoch.

  “Good fortune go with you,” said Grace Prothero.