King's Mountain

by Sharyn McCrumb

  While the rider was still out of earshot, dismounting, and handing his horse’s reins to a nearby soldier, I murmured to McDowell, “Who is he?”

  It was Isaac Shelby who answered, addressing all of us in tones of quiet vehemence. “That, gentlemen, is James Williams. I know quite a bit about him—none of it good, I’m sorry to say.”

  He had no time to explain further, for the fellow was striding toward us, smiling as if he had not a care in the world, but I noticed that he was glancing from one of us to another, evidently trying to decide who was the overall commander.

  Scarcely pausing to draw breath, the stout fellow gave a slight bow to each of us, and repeated our names as we gave them. “And who is in charge here?” he inquired pleasantly.

  “I am,” said William Campbell, and no one elaborated on his answer, though we were all wondering about the purpose of this visit. Surely General Gates had not sent this officer to take command? We had certainly requested such action from him, but we did not mean it, and we had counted on his not receiving our message for another week.

  “Ah, excellent news, Colonel Campbell,” said Williams, beaming. “Your name precedes you. I know that Governor Jefferson will be pleased to hear that the kinsman of his predecessor is upholding the honor of Virginia. Commend me to him in your dispatch, if you will.”

  William Campbell was no doubt used to such sallies from ambitious strangers, for he ignored the remark, merely asking, “You have not yet identified yourself, sir.”

  The smile never wavered. “My apologies. I am acquainted with some of you, so I fancied you knew. I am Brigadier General James Williams, recently appointed to that rank by Governor Rutledge,” he declared. He paused for a moment, perhaps expecting us to show deference to this exalted rank, but all he got for his trouble was hard stares from all of us.

  When he said that he was a general, I saw Major McDowell give a little start as if he had been bee-stung, but he said nothing. Williams had pulled a crumpled bit of paper out of his pocket—the official documentation of his appointment to general by the governor of South Carolina—and he waited while we passed it from hand to hand. The document was genuine; obviously the man was who he said he was.

  “Delighted to find all you gentlemen well and none the worse for your journey,” he said, as he stuffed the paper back into his pocket. “The excellent General Gates will be gratified to know that I have found you. I sent him a dispatch just three days ago, apprising him of my position, and telling him that my four hundred and fifty horsemen expected to form a junction with you in a day or so. Well met, gentlemen!”

  No one spoke for a moment, but Isaac Shelby made a great show of looking around and peering over our visitor’s shoulder, as if hoping to espy these 450 men, who were nowhere in evidence. I endeavored not to smile.

  “Four hundred and fifty more soldiers would be a welcome addition to our enterprise, sir,” said Colonel Campbell. “But you seem to have misplaced them.”

  Williams’s smile suggested that he was delighted with Campbell’s powers of observation. “Indeed, they are not here,” he said cheerfully. “I wished to ascertain your position, and since you took a bit of finding, I thought it best to make the search alone. I have just left the encampment of colonels Lacey, Hill, Graham, and Hambright. Together we have more than a thousand men. We plan to join our forces to yours farther along, before you catch up with Ferguson.”

  “Why have you come, sir? Have you news for us?”

  “I do indeed. We have received reports from local spies about Ferguson’s movements. He was here only a day ago, you know.”

  “Yes, but do you know where he is now?” asked Campbell, voicing the question for all of us.

  Williams nodded. “An old man came to our camp yesterday with information on Major Ferguson’s movements. He is in my home territory. You know it, I’m sure. Ninety Six, just down in South Carolina, perhaps a few days’ miles from here. You should proceed there at once.”

  Ninety Six … That area was deep in South Carolina, and suddenly the information that Ferguson was there made terrible sense. Waxhaws had been the scene of a great Loyalist victory—and a terrible massacre. Earlier this year, in May, Bloody Ban Tarleton and his dragoons had slaughtered Colonel Buford’s men, and when the defeated army asked for quarter—that the survivors be spared—none was given. The dragoons butchered the wounded on the field, and Buford himself barely escaped with his life. The memory of that battle spurred many a man to walk another mile and to fight another day, in hopes of avenging that dishonorable deed.

  Ferguson would be glad to face us on that flat, open field where his side had triumphed so handily in the earlier engagement. If he had somehow managed to get Tarleton to ride out from Charlotte Town as reinforcement, the outlook for us would indeed be bleak: a ragtag group of farmers with weapons off the mantelpiece and five hundred pounds of powder against regular British army dragoons.

  We all realized the implications of this news. It was Cleveland who growled, “Ninety Six, is it? Is Bloody Ban with him?”

  “No,” said Williams. “At least not yet. We’ve seen no sign of him. If you hurry, you can catch Ferguson on his own.”

  When Williams paused for breath, we peppered him with questions, but he hadn’t much more in the way of useful information. He did say that Ferguson had not received reinforcements from Charlotte Town, so it would only be his regiment that we must contend with, and not the dragoons of Bloody Ban Tarleton. That was welcome news.

  Campbell invited Williams to partake of some food, though we had next to nothing to give him, and perhaps he divined that this was the case for he declined the offer, saying that he must go back and join the other militias, as he had left his own soldiers with them, and that he would see us again at the rendezvous at Lawson Fork. We tried to question him further, but Williams scarcely lingered long enough for a cup of water before he called for his horse to be saddled and brought to him, saying that it was urgent that he return to the South Carolina forces.

  We watched Williams ride away in startled silence, and I glanced at Shelby to see if he was going to say anything about the visitor, but no one spoke for a bit, and then William Campbell ended the matter: “Well, gentlemen, you heard the general. The enemy is within striking distance. Let us proceed to Ninety Six without delay.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  October 5, 1780

  After General James Williams rode away, we broke camp and gave the order to resume the march onward into South Carolina. Ninety Six was some eighty miles away, halfway between here and Georgia, and even if our forces had all been mounted troops, we could not have hoped to reach it in a day, nor would we wish to, for if a great battle lay at the end of our journey, we would not want to arrive there footsore and weary. As it was, with worn-out foot soldiers as well as horsemen, it would take us at least two days to reach Ninety Six. Still, if that’s where Ferguson was camped, we had no choice but to go. We were concerned, though, worried that we were overtaxing the endurance of our men and horses, and, for myself and Shelby, also worried that in traveling so far from our territory beyond the mountains, we were leaving our homes and families open to an attack by Dragging Canoe. Ninety Six was a good deal farther than we had counted on going, but having come so far already, we could not waste the effort and supplies by giving up now.

  We made it only part of the way by nightfall, and, still on the North Carolina side of the state line, we camped along the Green River, planning to continue the long journey southward at first light. I hoped that food would be more plentiful farther along, for I dreaded the thought of going into battle with weak and hungry soldiers.

  There was little laughter or conversation in camp tonight. I passed group after group of gaunt, blank faces—weary men with next to nothing to eat, staring into campfires, too tired to speak. The roasted meat that the McDowells had given us at Quaker Meadows was now a distant memory, and we had subsisted for days on whatever provisions we could find. A thousand men swarmi
ng across a valley like locusts left little for anyone to eat, especially when they traveled in the wake of an enemy army who had passed that way only days before. Our men ate turnips when they could find them, and many had to make do with parched corn, washed down with a few drops of honey. Soon they would become weak from the constant traveling and the lack of nourishment, and I dreaded to think how they would fare in battle in such a worn-out condition. The horses, too, were showing signs of failing. Two weeks of ill use and indifferent fodder had rendered some of them unfit to continue. The commanders would have some hard decisions to make when we met to plan the next moves.

  * * *

  Despite the fact that Colonel Campbell was now the nominal commander, we all continued to come together as soon as we had finished our evening rations, so that we could talk about the situation, and reach a consensus about what to do next. We were not an official army. Not a one of us could be compelled to do anything. We led our militias because the men trusted us. I hoped that trust was not misplaced. If we failed them it would be from misfortune, and not for want of effort or ability.

  I threaded my way through the clumps of men huddled around campfires, spread out across the open ground like a field of stars.

  As I passed through the Burke militia’s campsites, I caught up with a wiry rustic-looking fellow who was wandering across the field, carrying a battered hat full of apples. He grinned at me, and held out the hat to offer me one.

  “Thank you, no,” I said. “But I am looking for Campbell. Can you tell me where to find him?”

  The fellow gave me a beaming gap-toothed smile. “Why, you must have had a drop too much to drink, your lordship. There ain’t no camels at all in these parts. Just horses and beeves. And an ox every now and again.”

  “Campbell,” I said, a bit louder. “With the Virginia militia.”

  The fellow put his forefinger up to his temple, deep in cogitation. Then he shook his head sadly. “I never heard tell of no Virginia militia, sir. Now there’s a Virginia McMillan over to Sherrill’s Ford, and she’s as purty as a speckled hen. ’Cept for her squint, of course. But she don’t have no camel that I ever heard about.… Is you certain sure you don’t want an apple, your worship?”

  The poor man was a simpleton, probably brought along to camp by some of his relatives in the militia, I thought. I must find out whose company he is attached to, and make sure he is kept well in the rear of any encounter with the enemy. But right now, he was hindering my progress.

  Swallowing my impatience, I pushed my way past him, determined to find Campbell’s campsite for myself, but as I hurried along, he trailed after me, calling out jaunty comments that he apparently intended to be helpful. He was still dogging my steps when I reached the spot where the commanders had gathered for the evening conferral.

  When McDowell looked up and caught sight of me, he smiled. “Welcome, Colonel Sevier. We were just talking of the need for a spy to help us locate Major Ferguson. One of our area officers, William Chronicle, recommended a local fellow. He says this man is able to get information out of Tory households without anyone ever being the wiser. We are just waiting to speak to him now.”

  A strong steady voice spoke up behind me. “Yes, sirs, I am here. Enoch Gilmer, at your service, Colonels.”

  I turned to find myself looking into the face of the simpleton with the hatful of apples. The look of vacant amiability was gone now, though, and I saw before me a calm and resolute young soldier, whose bearing spoke of intelligence and purpose. A hint of humor was alight in his brown eyes. He turned and gave me a cordial nod. “Care for an apple, Colonel Sevier?”

  * * *

  Gilmer’s cleverness in deceiving me gave my fellow commanders a much-needed moment of levity, and I did not begrudge them the chance to laugh at my expense, though I think that Colonel Cleveland is entirely too fond of such idle jests. A few nights ago, when he appeared at Campbell’s tent for our nightly meeting, Campbell himself was waiting at the entrance to greet us, and Cleveland pretended to mistake the colonel himself for his half-caste servant, John Broddy. He clapped William Campbell on the back, and said, “Hello there, Jack! I know you are taking good care of your master’s fine black horse. See you do as good a job of taking care of my own mount, for Roebuck is my pride and joy.” Both Campbell and his manservant are tall and lean, but no one could mistake one for the other, not even in the deepest twilight. Cleveland was simply playing the fool, the jolly fat man people expect, but his size and girth ought to make people think not of a clown, but of a bear: Ben Cleveland can be just as quick and deadly when he is roused.

  When we were all assembled in Campbell’s tent, with Enoch Gilmer taking a place beside Andrew Hampton, Campbell summed up the situation for all present. “As you gentlemen know as well as I, we will be on the march to Ninety Six at first light. Williams has told us that Ferguson is encamped there, and so another two days should see us to the end of our quest, but before we meet him on the field of battle, we need more information. We need to know how many men Ferguson has, and whether he has had reinforcements from Cornwallis in Charlotte Town. Do you know this country, Gilmer?”

  “No, sir, but I know country people well enough. And I’ll get them to tell me more than they know—you see if I don’t.”

  “I hope you will,” said Campbell. “We need as much information as we can gather. Set out tomorrow and visit some farms along the way. See what you can glean from the inhabitants, but don’t stray too far from us.”

  Gilmer nodded. “You won’t see me, but I’ll be around, sirs, and mostly out ahead of you, since one man can travel faster than an army. I’ll be playing the rustic simpleton that deceived Colonel Sevier this evening.” He gave me a rueful smile. “Begging your pardon, Colonel.”

  I smiled back. “I am honored to have been shown a sample of your work.”

  “In keeping with my pose as a simpleton, I have thought of a signal that I could use to let you know when all is well up ahead. There is a jaunty song, well known and liked these days among the country folk for its many comical verses and lively tune. ‘Barnie O’Linn,’ it’s called. Do you know it?”

  Cleveland was already humming it, and McDowell’s grin showed that he, too, was familiar with the song. Gilmer sang a verse of the song, in the clownish voice of his simpleton guise, so that the rest of us would recognize it when we heard it again.

  “It’s settled then,” said William Campbell. “Good luck tomorrow, Mr. Gilmer. I hope you bring us a wealth of news.”

  Gilmer bade us good night, and exited the tent, leaving us to our evening conference. Once he had gone, we talked about the day’s march, and commiserated with one another over the scarcity of the rations.

  “We need to increase the sentries,” said Andrew Hampton. “We don’t know how close we are to the enemy, and they are notorious for night raids. We should post twice as many as usual, and change them every few hours, to make sure they stay alert.”

  He was right, and everyone nodded in agreement. I thought, though, that he was thinking of his son Noah, murdered on the Pacolet for want of a few vigilant pickets standing guard. We were careful not to look at Joseph McDowell when we agreed, for no one wanted to make him feel that we were reproaching him for his brother’s errors.

  “Well reminded,” said Campbell. “Thank you, Colonel Hampton. We will arrange for the posting of extra sentries at once. Have any of you other suggestions to make?”

  “The hardships of this journey are taking their toll,” I said. “The foot soldiers are tired, and some of the horses are nearly spent. I think we shall have to cull the ranks before we make the last push toward Ferguson.”

  “Surely we need all the men we’ve got for the battle,” said Joseph Winston.

  “No,” said Shelby. “Exhausted men are no use to us.” He looked around at the rest of the commanders for confirmation, and there was a murmured chorus of agreement.

  “Colonel Shelby is right,” said Campbell. “Now that we are within s
triking distance of Ferguson, speed is more important than numbers.”

  “Striking distance?” said Winston. “Ninety Six is a good two days’ journey from here. We could delay such a move until we are closer, if we must do it at all.”

  “No,” said Shelby. “There have already been rumblings among some of the men. They are afraid that we are straying too far from the settlements over the mountain. Ferguson and the Tories are not our only enemies, you know. We also have to worry about Indian raids, and they may take advantage of our absence to attack. The men want to be only a few days away from home, in case the Indians do raid the settlements.”

  “Yes,” I said. “If we cull the troops now, that will leave half our forces closer to home, and they can leave for the mountain settlements if we get word of an attack. I think we should divide the men now, before we head farther south.”

  “But suppose they’re needed when we encounter Ferguson?” said Joseph Winston. He came from the Moravian communities more than two hundred miles west of the state capital, but still nearly a hundred miles shy of the mountains, so he had no worries about renegade Indians despoiling his home while he was gone.

  “We have faced this sort of decision already,” I told Winston. “On our way here, we slaughtered some of the cattle we had brought with us, and we sent some of the remaining beasts back home. Much as we needed the meat they would have provided, we could not confine ourselves to the leisurely pace they required, so we had to sacrifice them. It’s the same now. We ought to choose the fittest soldiers and the freshest horses, and leave the rest in camp.”

  “This plan seems sensible to me,” said Campbell, looking around at those present. “Does anyone object?”

  No one did.

  “Very well, then. We shall carry out the plan directly. Each commander should select the men from his own forces,” Campbell said. “If we proceed with seven hundred or so of our most able men, we can increase our speed without sacrificing much of our strength.”