The Cane Creek Regulators

by Johnny D. Boggs

  “The governor listened to him?” Gouedy asked.

  “Your parson is one to be heard, but …” Kilduff laughed, “well, I am not sure calling our Assemblymen ‘aristocratic poltroons’ and ‘overgrown planters who wallow in opulence and prosperity’ and other such verbiage is a good idea. But we shall see what action the Assembly proposes come spring.”

  “What about … a militia?” Gouedy asked. “You are but one man, and I do not believe you understand just how many outlaws roam these forests.”

  Emily choked down her laugh. Oh, well he knows, sir, she thought to herself. How well he knows.

  “Keep your regulators under control, Gouedy. Hold on till spring, and let us see what happens in the Assembly. I shall return to Charlestown to speak to the governor. Just know this … the tide is changing, sir.”

  * * * * *

  They were just putting the last of the potatoes in the cellar when metallic clangs cut through the morning air. Emily grabbed Alan and Elizabeth by their hands and hurried out of the darkness, sprinting around the back of the house. She could see Mrs. Taylor, banging the rod against the iron triangle that hung from a rafter. Standing outside his shed, Benjamin Cooper was pointing his massive hand, and yelling, “They come! They come! It be the regulators!”

  Emily let go of Elizabeth’s hand to shield her eyes, and immediately Elizabeth sprang down the road. Emily harshly called out for her stop. By then, she could see the shadows moving through the trees, hear the creaking of leather, the clopping of hoofs. She held her breath, and prayed.

  Machara stepped out onto the porch, sweat beading on her forehead, as she furiously wiped the flour off her hands. “Do you see him, Emily?” she called.

  “No, Mum.”

  The door to the Zachary cabin opened, and Rachel stepped out. Mrs. Taylor had stopped ringing the bell, and now she sprinted toward the path for a clearer view.

  “What day is it?” Emily asked.

  Alan looked up at her, and muttered, “I don’t know.”

  She had not even realized she had asked the question aloud. Wetting her lips, she tried to do some quick arithmetic. Her father had left on September 7th. A Monday, she seemed to recall. How long ago? Green leaves had covered the trees on that morning, but now they had turned gold and red. She recalled Rachel Zachary and Darlene Courtney singing ballads of war and waiting women, the beat of drums, the whistles of the fife, how proud those men who called themselves the Cane Creek Regulators and the Peedee Regulators had looked. She could picture Donnan leaping his gray gelding over the fence while shouting that ancient battle cry, Creag an Sgairbh! She could almost feel her father’s embrace.

  Then the regulators from the Ninety Six District and the Welsh Neck rode into the settlement in silence. Bearded faces. Eyes unblinking. Emily gasped. More than a few mounts carried empty saddles. Some of the men wore bandages.

  “Mum?” Alan whirled around. “Where’s Da?”

  “He’s coming,” Emily heard her mother’s faint whisper. “See. There is Owen Devonald.”

  Yes, Emily saw the innkeeper from the Peedee. Walking. In mud-covered clothes. Leading the horse, and behind the horse was a litter. On the litter was a body.

  “I do not see Donnan!” Elizabeth wailed as she ran back to the tavern. Emily reached for her, but she spun from her hands, and hurried up the steps, wrapping her arms around her mother’s legs.

  “It is all right, Elizabeth,” Machara said hoarsely. “Donnan is fine. Fine and strong he is.”

  “He told me he was invincible,” Alan sobbed, and then also ran to his mother.

  “Aye. And he is. That he is. Invincible,” Machara assured her two youngest.

  It was the quietness that unnerved Emily. She realized she stood alone in the yard now, and how desperately she wanted to feel her mother’s arms around her shoulders, comforting her as well. To feel the way she had felt when her father had hugged her. To hear the words he had spoken of his pride for her. She struggled to recall how he sounded.

  “Da.” She felt the tears roll down her cheeks. “Oh, Da.”

  The regulators rode in a long, dreary line. More litters appeared. Silently the riders stopped at the well. Benjamin Cooper was already there, bringing up the bucket, passing the ladle to the first of the men.

  Luke Zachary, Rebecca’s husband, stood there, taking the reins to the horse Owen Devonald led, then moved to the man in the litter behind the horse. Devonald wet his lips, and slowly approached the porch of the tavern. Maybe he didn’t see Emily, because he walked right past her, and Emily just stood there, noticing the dirty bandage wrapped tightly around his left hand and the way the innkeeper favored his left leg.

  Devonald stopped at the foot of the stairs, cleared his throat, and turned around. “Donnan!” he called out. “Donnan Stewart!” Then Devonald faced Machara again. “We whipped the curs, Missus Stewart. Savage it was, a morning ablaze in butchery, but those fiends will torment good citizens nay again.”

  He might have said more, but Emily didn’t hear. She saw a dun horse trot past the pack mules and the regulators afoot, and recognized the rider, but not the horse—Donnan had left on a gray he considered the best racing mount between the Tyger and the Edisto. Now Donnan’s face was bearded, his eyes bloodshot, but she saw no injuries, no blood on his clothes, just mud and dust.

  He pulled the salt-caked horse to a stop and swung out of the saddle, not bothering with the reins. He stopped by Emily, and studied her briefly. His Adam’s apple bobbed, but he did not speak. No one said anything, until Machara Stewart’s voice wailed, causing the dun horse to shy away, and men to look up from the well, forgetting their thirsts.

  “Where is your father?” Machara asked.

  Donnan’s mouth opened, but the only sound to come through was a croak. He cleared his throat, and gestured at the line of horses and mules, the litters behind them. “He’s back there,” he finally managed to utter.

  “He … he … is alive!” she cried out.

  “Yes,” Donnan said. “But …”

  “Show me,” Machara ordered. “Take me to him. Emily … stay with Alan and Elizabeth.” She ran down the steps, through the throng of horses and soldiers—living, wounded, and some dead. She did not wait for her son, just kept running, holding up the hems of her skirt, stopping to examine each body in the litters behind the horses.

  Donnan started after his mother, but realized the hopelessness of it, so he turned to give orders to some of the regulators before walking toward the tavern’s door. He said to Emily, “I must heat up water.” Then he disappeared inside the log cabin, closing the door behind him.

  Emily knew that he was not moving toward the kitchen to put water on the stove, but to the bar, to find the nearest jug of rum.

  “Emily?” Alan whined. “Where is Da?”

  “Mum has gone to fetch him,” she said stiffly. “Just …” But she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  Owen Devonald turned to Emily, whispering, “Your father always said you were strong, Miss Emily. Now you must show your strength. For your mother. For those young children. Can you do this? For Breck Stewart?”

  Maybe her head bobbed. She wasn’t sure. She just kept watching the men, many of them wounded, being helped from their horses and moved to the shade. A few began to call out for water, for their mothers. Emily felt the bile rise in her throat. She felt dead herself, as if she were an apparition.

  Ferguson walked past her, his head shaking from side to side, muttering something Emily could not understand. She really didn’t comprehend what Owen Devonald had said, either. Although he had told her the fight at the South Mountains had been a victory for the regulators, from the sight she was witnessing, she found that hard to believe.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Almost paralyzed, Emily watched the Catawba, the Peedee man named David Clarke, and two other regulators carr
y the litter up the steps and inside the tavern. She couldn’t look at her father, lying helplessly, but rather focused on her mother, holding Alan and Elizabeth by their hands, tears pouring down their faces as they silently followed Captain Breck Stewart inside.

  Like a funeral procession, Emily thought. Only Da still lives. She felt helpless. She couldn’t even comfort the other wounded men, twenty or more, lying or sitting in the yard, a few leaning against the giant oak. But Benjamin Cooper kept working the well’s bucket.

  Dr. François Bayard came running down the path, black bag bouncing against his leg. The Huguenot did not even notice Emily as he bolted up the steps. The door slammed behind him. It sounded like a gunshot, and Emily cringed.

  How long she stood there, she did not know. It was still daylight. Still morning. She felt someone standing beside her, caught the scent of rum, and knew it was her brother.

  “How did it happen?” Emily heard herself ask.

  “I did not see it happen.”

  “What happened?”

  * * * * *

  William Robert McIntosh had not lied. Scores of bandits had converged near Jacob’s Fork. The gradually rolling hills were ablaze in colors—red, yellow, gold, and orange—and wood smoke rose like early morning fog. The outlaws had camped in a clearing, and were sleeping when the regulators struck.

  Emily jutted her jaw toward the wounded. “They were asleep … and this is what you reaped?”

  Donnan cursed underneath his breath. “There were more than we anticipated. We expected sixty. There must have been a hundred. And when they hid in the thick woods … do you remember Da taking about the Seven Years’ War?”

  She ignored the question. She knew her father had not been with General Braddock or George Washington. He had merely been telling them the stories he had heard from wayfarers who had passed through Ninety Six. Emily wasn’t even sure where the Monongahela River was or why the British were fighting the French and Indians.

  “We crushed them, Emily. Twenty-six men wounded, and seven dead. Gloriously dead. All but one of their wounds came in their front, Sister. No white regulator turned and ran.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “More than fifty of those swine are dead, hacked to pieces. Twenty more now wear a giant T branded on their cheeks, so everyone in America shall know they are thieves. Aye, a few scattered into the woods and thickets, and escaped near the waterfall, but they shan’t trouble God-fearing citizens of the Carolinas any more. And another sixteen … we hanged.”

  The nausea passed, and Emily bit her lip, leaning against the railing to keep from falling. She heard Donnan drink from the jug he had found in the tavern. When the door opened, she held her breath, opened her eyes to see the Catawba Indian walking to the well. Only then did she come to understand the true meaning of her brother’s words, why he had emphasized the word white. She spun to face him.

  “Where is Go-la-nv?”

  As he lowered the jug, she saw his grin, the delight in his eyes.

  “Dead,” he assured her.

  She did not remember falling. One second Donnan was staring at her with a devilish glint, and then the whole world began spinning, and she lay on her back while her brother lifted the jug to his mouth.

  Ferguson had appeared from somewhere. So had Jonathan Conley. They helped her up, the redheaded hog farmer putting a damp cloth on her forehead before she brushed it aside, freed herself from the two well-meaning men, and reached for the railing.

  “The Cherokee caught a ball through his back,” Donnan said. “Is not that how it happened, Conley?”

  The dizziness hadn’t passed. She had to lean against the column, but she looked to Jonathan Conley, who shuffled his feet and stared at the porch floor.

  “Yes, Miss Emily. I found his body after the fight was all done.”

  “We buried him with the rogues we killed at Jacob’s Fork,” Donnan said. “I would not let a damned Cherokee with a ball in his back spend eternity with the brave regulators who fell in battle with honor.”

  Emily flew into her brother, knocking the rum from his hands, catapulting him over the rails of the steps, landing in the grass and manure. She pounded his chest, tried to claw out his eyes. She spit into his face. “You son of a bitch! You bastard! You killed him. You murdered Go-la-nv! I hate your guts. I hate …”

  All Donnan did was laugh.

  What she could recall, would never forget, was Dr. Bayard’s face. He must have pulled her off her brother, with help from Conley and Ferguson, and then slapped her. The hard shock produced its desired effect, because she blinked, realization coming slowly to her. The doctor, white sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hands stained with blood, came into focus. Emily broke down, buried her head against Bayard’s shoulder, and cried harder than she had ever cried.

  The doctor—too much a gentleman to hug her, lest he stain her clothes with her father’s blood—whispered something in French, before speaking gently in English. “It is all right, Miss Emily. Cry now, but cry it all out. Your father wishes to see you, and you must be strong for him. Strong for your mother and those two children.” He turned toward Donnan, who was snickering as he tried to stand, and when he could not get his legs to work and fell, he laughed even harder.

  “Vous êtes un âne,” Bayard said harshly. “I do not know what caused this bagarre, but you will not do so any more. Jamais!” His right arm swept toward the wounded men in the front yard. “Not before such brave men as these. And not while your own father lies on a table in that cabin with mortal wounds.” He pulled away from Emily. “He desires to see the both of you.”

  On the ground, Donnan was like an insect on its back, trying to right itself. Finally he stopped trying, and pressed his palms against the grass. “Captain Stewart will have to wait, Doctor,” he said. “You see … I cannot get up.”

  “Buveur.” The doctor spit toward Donnan, and motioned for Emily to follow him into Cormorant’s Rock.

  * * * * *

  How small he looked, how weak, how feeble.

  Machara sat in a chair on her husband’s left, holding one hand, stroking the back of it with her worn fingers. She did not look up as Emily sat in the chair across from her. Elizabeth and Alan stood at the foot of the table.

  Stewart was conscious, and his eyes moved from Emily to Dr. Bayard. His mouth formed words, but Emily did not hear what he said.

  “Donnan,” Dr. Bayard said, “is outside, tending to the wounded. He will be here momentarily.”

  He gave a slight nod, and grimaced as though the movement had sent pain rifling through his body.

  Emily reached over and took her father’s other hand. It felt so cold, she feared if she squeezed it, it would shatter like ice.

  “Monsieur Alan, Mademoiselle Elizabeth,” Bayard said softly, “would you be so kind as to take me to your kitchen, so that I might wash up?”

  “Go … with … him … children.” Machara’s voice sounded mechanical.

  When the kitchen door closed, Breck Stewart said, “Peace has come to Ninety Six.” His voice was as ragged as his breathing. “The bandits have been crushed.”

  Neither Emily nor her mother spoke.

  “What happened whilst I was away?” He turned his head and coughed slightly. “I missed Alan’s birthday. Meant to bring him … something.”

  Then they just sat there, holding hands, looking at one another, until the front door opened, and Donnan came inside. He swept off his hat, and moved—steadily, to Emily’s surprise—to the long table.

  “Ensign Stewart, you will assume command of the Cane Creek Regulators during my absence.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Donnan said.

  “How does it feel to be a captain?” Stewart asked his son.

  “Fine, sir.”

  “Rely on your men. That is what my father … your grandfather … told me. Rely on your men. The Cherokee … Go-la-n
v Pinetree. He is a man to trust.”

  Emily gasped, but she did not let go of her father’s hand, and would not look at her brother.

  “A good Indian,” Donnan said. “Yes, sir.”

  “Led us straight to that camp, did he not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I do not think …” Stewart began to say. Then, “My God,” he said softly, “feel that breeze. The tide comes in. God must have made Eden at Pawley’s Island.” Delirious he must have been, thinking he was back at Georgetown. “Mum, cannot I stay here for just another hour? The fish will surely bite by then.”

  * * * * *

  To everyone’s surprise, two days later, Breck Stewart seemed to rally. He was lucid, though weak, and had little appetite. When Robert Gouedy came by to check on him, Stewart insisted that he stay and talk. He even made Machara drape his regulator coat over his shoulders, the one he had worn as a volunteer during the Cherokee War.

  “Where is that preacher?” he asked Gouedy.

  “Stirring up trouble in Charlestown,” Gouedy replied. “Making things hot for Lord Montagu.”

  Stewart laughed one of his famous belly laughs. “Good for him. By God, if only Monteith had the wisdom to become a Presbyterian. Have there been any troubles here?”

  “No. Peaceful for once. Thanks to you.”

  Stewart waved his hand in dismissal, saying, “Balderdash. But we shall keep the regulators active. Winter comes, but we know what can return with the warmth of spring.”

  Gouedy took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled. “Breck, mayhap I should tell you …” He shot a glance at Emily.

  “Aye, Gouedy. Tell me what?”

  “Governor Montagu … or maybe it was the provost marshal … anyway, a deputy provost marshal has been appointed. Finnian Kilduff. Do you remember him?”