by Ron Carter
With dusk approaching and evening mess cleared, Caleb and Primus followed Chelsey to join a great circle that formed around a huge fire in the open meadow. A short, wiry man with a great shock of white hair, a huge, battered Bible, and a tobacco-stained beard stood on a log with a crude pulpit before him and raised his hand to the heavens. A hush settled over the crowd, and the voice of the Reverend Samuel Doak boomed in the forest.
“The text of this here sermon is taken from the Holy Bible! Book of Judges, startin’ with chapter six and goin’ on through chapter eight!”
He opened the great Bible, shuffled to the Book of Judges, chapter six, and jabbed an index finger onto the page. “Right here! The sword of the Lord, and of Gideon! The miracle of the Israelites rising up to throw off the unrighteous Midianites!”
Caleb stood amazed at the dexterity of the old man as he gyrated his arms, prancing back and forth without falling off the log, while his voice rose and fell, appropriate to the dramatics of Gideon with his three hundred warriors and their three hundred lamps in the clay vessels, and their trumpets, terrifying the hapless Midianites before bringing them down to destruction and defeat.
It was full darkness before the perspiring reverend found a way to bring his discourse to a ringing close, “In the name of the Almighty Jehovah,” and Caleb winced at the deafening shout that surged from the thirteen hundred throats in the circle. It was crystal clear that these men and women were the Gideons, and the despised British sympathizers were the Midianites, as they each went to their blankets.
The gray preceding dawn found the entire camp in the meadow, breakfast finished, gathered in a council. Within ten minutes it had been decided that nine hundred forty of the best-mounted and armed, with Colonel William Campbell in command, would ride to find and face Ferguson and his Tories. The others would remain behind to defend their women and children and homes. The sun had not yet risen when the men kissed their wives, hugged their children, mounted their horses, and without a command being given, fell into marching order, with a four-man advance guard riding half a mile ahead.
The column strung out for more than a mile, a great, twisting serpent of men on horses, working its way west through the thick South Carolina forest, across streams and rivers. For a week they ate parched corn in the saddle during the day and made cold camp at night to eat dried venison and nuts and drink tepid water from slow-moving streams. On the sixth day out, in the early morning sun, one of the advance guard came to Campbell at a trot, and the column stopped.
“Woman just up ahead in a cabin. Says she sold chickens to Ferguson’s men. She figgers they’re ahead, at King’s Mountain.”
The column moved on. In the heat of midafternoon Campbell slowed, then stopped in the dooryard of a mountain cabin, where a young girl stood shy and silent in the open doorway. Suddenly she raised her arm to point. “Ferguson’s up there.” In the distance were the hills that formed the King’s Mountain range, in the center of which was King’s Mountain.
One hour later the advance guard brought a man to Campbell. Bearded, frightened, dressed in tattered homespun, the man stood wide-eyed, not knowing who they were.
Campbell looked down at him. “You from around here?”
The man’s voice cracked as he spoke. “’Bout a mile.”
“Seen any soldiers over towards the King’s Mountain range?”
The man hesitated. “Who are you?”
“We’re from over on the Watauga and the Nolichucky.”
“You the ‘over-the-mountain’ boys?”
Campbell smiled. “Some call us that. Seen any soldiers over to the east?”
“Not soldiers. ’Cept for one. Somebody named Ferguson. He’s the only soldier. Rest are Americans that joined the British. Ferguson sent out a writing to us all. I can’t read, but my wife can, and she read it to me. Here it is.”
He pulled a wrinkled paper from his pocket and handed it to Campbell, who smoothed it and read.
“Unless you wish to be eaten up by an inundation of Barbarians . . . if you wish to be pinioned, robbed, and murdered, and see your wives and daughters, in four days, abused by the dregs of mankind—in short, if you wish or deserve to live and bear the name of men, grasp your arms in a moment and run to camp.”
Campbell raised bemused eyes to the man. “This was delivered to your house?”
“Yes. I don’t know half them words, but I was tolt it meant Ferguson was warnin’ us against you men. You fixin’ to murder us all?”
Campbell’s head rolled back and he laughed. “We’re fixin’ to go get rid of Ferguson. Know where he is?”
Relief showed plain in the man’s face. “Yes, sir, I do. He’s right over there on top of King’s Mountain. Said he’s up there for a fight, and he’s gonna stay there, and nobody, includin’ the Almighty, is gonna git him off that mountain!”
Campbell handed the man the paper. “We’ll see about that.”
Two hours later, with late afternoon thunderheads forming in the east, Campbell brought the column to a halt in a clearing. The men dismounted and gathered around, Caleb and Primus close to the center.
“How many of you know the King’s Mountain range?”
Thirty voices answered Campbell’s question, and he continued.
“How does it lay?”
“The range is maybe fifteen, sixteen miles long. Runs northwest to southeast.”
“Where’s King’s Mountain?”
“Nearly dead center.”
“How big?”
“About sixty feet up. Near flat on top. There’s an open place on top, maybe five, six hundred yards long, sort of shaped like a pear, sixty yards wide at the northeast end, twice that at the other end.”
“You said an open space on top?”
“Hardly a tree or anything.”
“The sides?”
“Trees and forest all the way up. Heavy.”
“Rivers or streams at the base?”
“None. A little swampy on the northeast side, but passable.”
Caleb could not miss the sudden movement among the men, and the grins deep in their beards. A full minute passed before he realized that the description of King’s Mountain could not have been better for these men who had learned fighting from the Indians. Ferguson’s men on the open plateau atop King’s Mountain would see only glimpses of shadows gliding from tree to tree, and they would feel the sting of those deadly, long Deckhard rifles as they were fired by invisible men.
Gray clouds blotted out the sun, and a cool breeze came stirring the trees as the first large drops of rain came spattering.
Campbell glanced at the heavens. “Tend your horses and get out of the wet, and try to get some rest. Keep your powder dry. We’ll leave after dark for the ride to King’s Mountain—get there tomorrow and we’ll see whether or not it’ll take the Almighty to get Mr. Ferguson off that plateau.”
Caleb and Primus followed Chelsey back to their horses, and Caleb spoke as they mounted.
“I told you my father was a gunsmith, and he taught me. If we’re going up that mountain after Ferguson, we’re going to be firing uphill, and he’ll be firing downhill. Men tend to shoot too low uphill, and too high downhill. Maybe someone ought to talk it over with the men about holding a little high, shooting uphill.”
Chelsey nodded. “Good advice, but every man here’s spent half his life shooting uphill and downhill, and I doubt they need to be told to hold a little high when they’re shooting up at Ferguson’s men tomorrow. Question is, does Ferguson’s men know to hold a little low shooting downhill at us? There are some other questions that raise some concern, like, does Ferguson’s men have rifles or muskets? Muskets aren’t much good over one hundred yards, and these Deckhards reach well over three hundred. Biggest question is, has Ferguson thrown up breastworks on the rim of that plateau? If he has, it’s going to be touchy work gettin’ past ’em.”
Caleb fell silent, with a knot growing in his stomach as he pondered Chelsey’s words.
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nbsp; The storm hit howling, driving rain slanting, and held for an hour, then thinned to a steady, pelting downfall. In full darkness Campbell called for the column to mount, and they swung up onto wet saddles on wet horses. The advance guard loped out ahead of them, and they moved on, east and south, following the valleys. Twice they stopped and loosened their saddle girths in the night, and ate parched corn while their horses rested. The rain dwindled to a fine drizzle in the early hours of the morning, and before ten o’clock the skies were clear, with steam and mist rising from the muggy, wet world. They rode steadily on, sitting tall, eyes locked onto King’s Mountain, growing ever closer.
They were one mile from the base of the mountain when Campbell gave a silent hand signal, and the entire command dismounted.
“From here we go on foot,” Campbell declared.
Within five minutes twenty men had been assigned to stay with the horses while the leaders settled their simple battle plan. Campbell and Shelby would lead one column around the southwest side of the mountain, while Cleveland and Sevier led another on the opposite side to surround the mountain. They would all attack up the steep, wooded slopes at the same time.
Without a word every man opened the pan on his rifle to check the powder. Wet powder was dumped and replaced with dry powder from their powder horns. The two columns separated, and within thirty seconds the nine hundred twenty men had disappeared in the thick woods. There was no rank or file, no one giving orders, no order of march as they crept forward, moving like silent shadows.
Caleb stayed close to Chelsey, now part of Edward Lacey’s command that had melded into Sevier’s column. To Caleb’s right, Primus crept forward, hunched low, face turned upward to watch everything that moved ahead. For a few moments a feeling of panic rose in Caleb, then it peaked and subsided, and an unexpected calm came in its place. As they moved on, he gauged the narrowing gap to the ridge of the mountain—eight hundred yards—six hundred—four hundred. He started at the sudden rattle of drums from the plateau, and then the screech of a whistle.
One of Ferguson’s pickets had seen the movement in the trees, and instantly the drummers had pounded out the order for all nine hundred men on the mountaintop to take their battle stations. When the drums rattled, Ferguson had blown a blast on the silver whistle he kept on a cord about his neck to give signals to his men. They were to fire the moment they were in place.
Ten seconds later the first volley came thundering down the mountain from the rim of the plateau. Every man coming up the mountain flinched and ducked as musketballs whistled three feet over their heads to rip into the trees, and it flashed in Caleb’s mind—four hundred yards—too far for muskets—too far—and they’re firing high—they don’t know to hold low.
The moment the volley of musketballs cleared their heads, the men coming up broke into a sprint, dodging forward, knowing it would take between fifteen and twenty seconds for Ferguson’s men to reload. They counted to fifteen, then dodged behind the nearest trees and rocks and waited for the second volley. It came roaring, and again the musketballs whistled harmlessly over their heads, and again they broke out into the open, sprinting upward. They stopped at two hundred fifty yards, took cover behind trees and rocks, and brought the muzzles of their rifles to bear, waiting.
Up on the rim, the heads and shoulders of men appeared, muskets raised to their shoulders, and in that instant the Deckhard rifles bucked and blasted. Above them, scores of men flung their hands upward and went over backward, finished, while the men below disappeared behind cover to reload their rifles. With practiced efficiency they tapped powder from their powder horns down the barrels, set the greased patches over the muzzles, jammed the .54-caliber balls on the patches, and drove them home with their ramrods. They added powder to the pans, flipped the frizzens closed, eared back the big hammers, and peered uphill to pick their next target.
Caleb raised his head above the rock behind which he was crouched, waiting, and suddenly realized that there were no breastworks on the rim! For whatever the reason, Ferguson had failed to fortify his hilltop! His men were exposed, vulnerable. A wave of relief washed over Caleb.
Twice more the men on the plateau fired volleys that whistled high, and twice more the men coming up to get them returned their fire with deadly accuracy, then surged further upward to crouch behind cover. They were less than thirty yards from the crest when Ferguson’s whistle came piercing with the signal, “bayonet attack.”
The hilltop defenders came pouring over the rim, plunging downward, bayonets flashing in the sun. For a moment Caleb held his breath, knowing not one rifleman had a bayonet, horrified at what could become an instant slaughter. Those coming down were twenty yards from the riflemen below when suddenly the buckskin-clad, over-the-mountain boys moved backward, keeping their distance, giving way, refusing to close with the oncoming horde. Then, from the hilltop came the whistle, calling the defenders back to the hilltop. They stopped, called obscenities, and started scrambling back to the top of the hill. They were close to the top when the riflemen cut loose once again, and men staggered and toppled.
Five times the defenders charged downhill with bayonets thrust forward, and five times the attackers faded back, giving them ground until Ferguson whistled his men back to their battle posts. The fifth time, the attackers came on up the hill behind them, crested the rim on all sides, and were in among Ferguson’s men, firing their rifles, swinging their tomahawks, slashing with their belt knives in a hand-to-hand, face-to-face melee of shouting, screaming men. Ferguson rode among his troops on his great white horse, prominent in his red-coated British uniform, shouting encouragement, trying to get them into rank and file to fight in the classic European style of controlled volleys, unable to grasp the fact that the only style of fighting he knew was useless under the attack of these wild men from over the mountain.
A pocket of Ferguson’s defenders was surrounded by Campell’s command, and the beaten men raised a white flag to attempt surrender, when Ferguson charged into them and cut the flag down with his sword. He spun his horse and knocked men sprawling to reach a second white flag his troops had raised thirty yards away, and struck it down with his sword, while Campbell’s men continued to pour rifle fire at point-blank range into the beaten defenders.
Caleb and Primus were with Chelsey and his small group reloading their rifles when they saw Ferguson rein in his horse, set his jaw, and shout, “Follow me, boys!” Instantly Colonel Vesey Husbands and Major Plummer rallied behind him, and as Ferguson kicked his horse to a gallop, the two officers and thirty of their men closed behind him in a desperate attempt to break through the wall of surrounding attackers. The charge took them directly toward Chelsey and those gathered around him.
Calmly Caleb cocked his rifle, lined the sights on Ferguson, and squeezed the trigger. At that moment, not less than fifty other rifles blasted. Husbands and Plummer and every man following Ferguson went down, finished. Bullets shredded Ferguson’s clothing, knocked his hat flying, and seven of them ripped into his body to knock him clear of his saddle. His left foot hung in the stirrup, and the plunging horse dragged his body into the lines before reaching hands caught the reins and hauled the terrified animal to a stop and jerked Ferguson’s boot free.
Through the smoke and fury, Captain Abraham de Peyster saw his leader go down and realized he was in command. He seized one of the fallen white flags and raised it high, shouting, “Quarter! Quarter!” He did not know that the men from the mountains who had learned the art of war from the Indians did not understand white flags. They knew only that you fought until your enemy was dead. De Peyster’s white flag, and his shouts, meant nothing to them, and they did not stop swinging their tomahawks, or reloading those dreaded Deckhard rifles.
Isaac Shelby, leading the attackers, realized what was happening, and at the risk of his own life ran to within fifteen yards of de Peyster and shouted, “You fool! If you want quarter, throw down your arms!”
De Peyster bellowed the order, his men threw
down their swords and muskets, and all stood with hands high over their heads. The raging slaughter slowed and stopped, with what was left of Ferguson’s terrified command standing trapped in a circle of angry men all too willing to finish the annihilation of those who had threatened to come over the mountain to hang them, ravage their wives and families, and burn their farms and homes.
When the cracking of the rifles stopped, a strange, eerie silence settled over the battlefield. Caleb finished reloading his rifle, set the ramrod in its receiver, and for several moments stood still, peering about. White gun smoke hung over the mountain plateau like fog in the bright afternoon sun. Hundreds of bloody dead lay about where they had fallen, arms and legs thrown in unnatural positions. Hundreds more lay moaning, writhing, clutching where bullets or tomahawks or knives or bayonets had struck. Caleb glanced down at himself and saw blood on his shirt and the front of his breeches, and for a moment felt to see if it was his. It was not, but he could not remember how it got there. Primus was nearby, and Caleb saw the splatter of blood on the black man’s shirt.
It suddenly occurred to Caleb that he was not horrified by the purgatory he had just survived on the mountaintop. The revolting sickness in his heart, and the need to go wretch everything in his stomach onto the ground that had seized him after the battles at Brandywine Creek and Germantown, did not rise within him as he stood in the sweltering heat amidst the dead and the maimed that surrounded him. The thought came to him—What has happened to me?—but there was no time to search his inner being to find the answer. No time. He only knew that somehow he had changed. The innocence of the boy he had been was gone forever, replaced by an acceptance of terrible things that ushered him into the world of men. For a moment he wondered if it was a step forward, or a step backward. No time. No time. He put the thought in the private place in his soul, to be brought out and pondered in the quiet of the night when his thoughts would be his own.