A few moments later, half a dozen officers from Graham’s militia peeled away from the column of riders, and cantered back toward the little farmhouse we had just passed. They could easily catch up with us when they had completed their task, for a few riders could move much faster along the narrow trace than our serpentine procession of hundreds. I glanced back and saw them pounding on the cabin door, and then they disappeared inside.
“It won’t be long now,” I murmured, and Shelby, who was riding closest to me, replied, “It has been long enough already.”
* * *
We had not traveled more than half a mile or so, before two of Graham’s officers returned, whooping, waving their hats, and urging their horses forward in order to reach the head of the column. They looked jubilant and unharmed, but immediately I looked back to see what had become of the other four riders who had gone with them to Beason’s place. They, too, were heading up the road to join us, but their progress was slower because between them they were herding two prisoners, young men clad in farmers’ garb, not military uniform, who shuffled and stumbled along, trying to avoid the hoofs of their captors’ horses.
“Seven miles!” called out the first rider to reach us. “They talked, right enough. Beason and everybody we found there swears that the enemy is dug in on a little hill only seven miles east of here, and Beason says that Ferguson swore he wouldn’t be moving from that spot.”
The other rider had caught up with him now. “For good measure, sirs, we brung along two farmhands who know the lay of the land hereabouts. They’re going to show us where Ferguson’s holed up. Place called King’s Mountain.”
William Campbell nodded. “He must have taken the name as an omen. What better place for His Majesty’s army to defend the royal holdings than on a mountain named in his honor.”
The young officer laughed. “Yes, sir, except it isn’t any such thing, begging your pardon, sir. I don’t suppose Major Ferguson knows the rights of it, either, being a stranger in these parts, but one of our prisoners yonder told us that there little hill was named after a man by the name of Charles King who built himself a cabin at the base of it. So the place has nothing to do with King George at all.”
Cleveland laughed. “There’s his omen, boys! Ferguson is in the wrong place, fighting on the wrong side, for the wrong reasons. Let’s go show him the error of his ways.”
“Bring the prisoners to the fore,” said Campbell. “They can show us the way.”
* * *
I went to join the Watauga boys farther back in the procession, so that I could tell them what we had just learned. We were barely out of sight of Beason’s farm before we spotted another little cottage set back from the road in a little square of yard, bordered in autumn wildflowers, and fenced in to separate it from the adjoining cow pastures. A familiar sorrel mare was tied to the gatepost in front of the house.
One of my younger officers called out to his fellows, “Say, boys, don’t that horse yonder belong to Enoch Gilmer, the spy feller?”
There was a chorus of agreement from the other riders. “Reckon he’s trying to get some more news about Ferguson,” said another. “He’s a-claiming to be a Tory.”
The first officer laughed. “What say we go and help him out with that?”
They all looked to me for permission to leave the column. For the first time in many days, their faces were alight with merriment, and so young—scarcely older than my Joseph. I was mindful, too, that within hours, we all would be going into battle, and chances were that not all of us would live to see the sun set. Knowing that I could not offer these brave boys any food, or even an hour’s rest before the fighting, I could not bear to deny them this one last bit of fun.
“Go on then,” I said, “but catch up with us as quick as you can.”
They assured me that they would, and five of them wheeled and cantered off in the direction of the cottage in the flower garden. As we rounded a bend in the road, I glanced back and saw them pounding at the door, acting every inch the angry enemy soldiers.
We had gone perhaps another mile before, still laughing, the young officers caught up with the procession, and rejoined the ranks of our Watauga militia.
“You should have seen it, Colonel!” said the ringleader. “We pounded on the door, and purt near frightened the life out of them.”
His comrade took up the tale. “When we got inside, there was Gilmer tucked up at the table, a-shoveling food in his mouth, fast as ever he could. And Will here hollered out, ‘We have caught you, you damned scoundrel!’ Well, Gilmer knew who we were, of course, and he knew it was a jest right off. He played along with us without missing a beat.”
I was not surprised. “Spies have to think on their feet,” I told them. “Their lives depend upon it.”
“Well, that Gilmer was a daisy, he was. He said scoundrel he may be, but he was the king’s scoundrel, and proud of it. So after we swapped a few more insults with him, we took out a rope and threaded a noose in it. The sight of that sent the whole boiling of them into a frenzy.”
“I draped that rope around Gilmer’s neck,” said the one called Will. “And quick as a flash, he commenced to hollering and crying, begging for his life. And the ladies who had been giving him dinner started bawling, too, pleading for us to spare him. It was all we could do not to laugh. I didn’t dare look Gilmer in the eye, for fear that between us we would begin to giggle and give the game away.”
“So, I told the ladies that on account of their delicate sensibilities, we would do them the kindness of killing the traitor elsewhere, so that his ghost should not disturb them by haunting their dwelling place. And with that, we half dragged and half carried him over the threshold and out the door. We set him up on his horse, with the rope still around his neck, and with the horse on a lead rein, we set off down the road, saying we were a-hunting a proper tree for the hanging. We could still hear them hollering for mercy from a quarter mile down the road.”
“Of course, once we were out of sight, we shared a belly laugh and turned him loose. He’s back a-riding with Major Chronicle’s men now, unless he has set off again.”
“Did Gilmer get anything out of his visit besides his dinner?” I asked.
“Yes, sir, Colonel. He sure did. Turns out that one of the younger women had taken a brace of chickens to Major Ferguson’s cook this very morning. She told Gilmer that Ferguson had made camp on that King’s Mountain we heard about already, but up on a ridge set between two creeks.”
I nodded, and eased my horse out of line, heading again for the front. “Round up the other militia commanders and send them up to the head of the column,” I told the nearest officer. “Did they say anything else about the place he’s camped?”
The young man thought it over. “Just something about some hunters using that spot for a camp when they were deer hunting last fall.”
* * *
“I know that place,” said Maj. William Chronicle, when the leaders had come together to discuss this new information. “I was one of those deer hunters they talked about, and Captain Mattocks yonder was the other one. A year ago November it was when we pitched camp there. We hail from a place not too far from here—Armstrong’s Ford, same as Colonel Graham. Let me go talk to Mattocks, and between us we will work out the best way to attack that position. We know it well.”
When Chronicle veered off to consult with Captain Mattocks, the rest of us began to talk among ourselves about how to proceed against an enemy holed up on a hill above our position, but before we had got very far on the subject, someone pointed out a lone rider, galloping up the road toward us from the direction we had just come from. As he drew nearer, I saw that he was an old man, gap-toothed and balding, red-faced from the ride, and speckled brown from boot to chin with road dust. He looked too old and frail to have been part of a militia, so I reckoned he had been left behind to tend the farm for somebody.
He drew rein when he reached us, looked from one to the other of us, trying to decide who wa
s in charge. When he finally managed to squeeze the message out of his throat between coughs, he had still not decided who outranked who, so he addressed us as a group. “Dispatch for Colonel William Graham, sirs.”
Colonel Graham waved the man over, calling out to him, “Yes, Samuel, here I am. What is amiss?”
“’Tis your wife, sir. She has commenced with the birthing of your child, and the women tending her think she is like to die. They’ve sent me to tell you to go home directly, Colonel.”
The color drained from Colonel Graham’s face. “My wife,” he murmured. “It is our first child, and we knew there might be difficulties, but … dying! Are they sure? Oh, what should I do?” He had rightly addressed this last question to Colonel Campbell, who as chief commander of our makeshift army, had the temporary, but final say-so over each man’s disposition.
Campbell seemed unmoved both by the news, and by Graham’s distress at hearing it. “Why, I think you must stay, Colonel,” he said calmly. “The women can get on with the business of birthing without a gentleman underfoot to hamper their efforts. Besides, babies take a long time to come, and this mission of ours will be over before sunset. Why, Graham, at the end of the battle, flush with victory, you may ride off home with a clear conscience and a light heart, and see about the state of your family. I’m sure you would be of no use at your wife’s lying in, but once we are victorious, you can carry the good news to your lady wife. What a splendid gift that would be to reward her efforts in labor. You may each win a battle today.”
Campbell’s breezy suggestion did nothing to allay William Graham’s fears for his wife’s well-being. So distraught was he by the news that he scarcely seemed to heed Campbell’s words at all. He simply kept saying, “But what if she dies in the birthing, and I am not there beside her? Surely, I must go to her. Oh, what am I to do?”
Campbell’s face clouded over with impatience and annoyance, and it was evident that he did not like having his advice so blatantly ignored. He had no sympathy for Colonel Graham’s domestic plight, and no time for any unforeseen distractions from the mission at hand. Campbell had given his opinion—that Graham should do his duty as a soldier, regardless of his personal concerns—but apparently he had not calculated that the poor man’s agitation would render him all but useless for commanding his troops.
I wondered what I would have done in his place. My poor wife Sarah had passed away in the cold gray days of January, when the weapons of war are laid aside, in wait of better weather in which to fight. Thus, I was not called to be away from home, for Indian and Tory alike were likewise by their firesides, troubling no one in that bitter weather. I was with Sarah to the end, and followed her casket to the grave, comforting our weeping children for many days after their mother’s passing. Nearly twenty years we had been man and wife, for I was a lad of sixteen in the great valley of Virginia when we married. What if I had been summoned to some not-too-distant battle, as my Sarah had lain fighting for her last breaths? Would I have gone with the militia, or stayed to comfort my dying wife? I was glad that Providence never tested me with such a sorrowful choice, but, after all, Graham’s situation was not so dire. Women can and do die in childbirth, but mostly they don’t. My Sarah survived it ten times, and from first to last I was never in such a frenzy with worry as Graham. I’m sure that Graham’s working himself into a lather over the coming of a baby struck most of the older men present as a husband’s foolishness borne of inexperience. If it were not for the fact that we had a battle to fight, I reckon we might have got him drunk to take his mind off his worries.
Ben Cleveland made a bearlike attempt at levity. “After all, Colonel Graham,” he said, “your presence is not required at the end of the childbearing process—only at the beginning of it!” He slapped his thigh, and looked around for confirmation of his own wit.
Cleveland’s remark drew grins from a few of us, but Graham would not be jollied or shamed out of his determination to go to his wife’s bedside.
With a mighty scowl, Campbell called for Major Chronicle to come back into the group. When Chronicle had maneuvered his mount up near Colonel Campbell, the commander explained the situation with Graham’s wife as succinctly and civilly as he could. Perhaps he meant for his account to be neutral, but there was no mistaking his impatience with this new difficulty. When Chronicle nodded that he understood the matter, Campbell stretched out his hand, inviting an answer, said, “Well, then, Major, what say you? Should your Colonel Graham be allowed to leave his post on account of women’s business at home or should he not?”
Campbell’s expression and the mocking tone in his voice indicated that he expected only one answer to his question, but Major Chronicle was equal to the task of outstaring a Virginia gentleman, supreme commander or no. He took a long look at William Graham, and then turned a steady gaze back on Campbell. “Well, sir,” said Chronicle. “Since you ask me, I say: let him go.”
Campbell reddened, and for the duration of a thunderclap he kept silent. I thought he was biting back more harsh words on the subject, but finally he recovered his composure, and simply said, “Very well, Major Chronicle. Since you are acquainted with the terrain we are bound for, you may assume command of the militia in Colonel Graham’s stead. And, Graham, you have leave to go attend to your ailing wife.”
Having seen that there was some sort of commotion concerning Colonel Graham, several of the men of the South Fork militia, and one of Graham’s officers, a German-born soldier named Frederick Hambright, had made their way up to the head of the column to investigate. They rode alongside, keeping a respectful distance, and listened in grave silence to the exchange between Campbell and Major Chronicle. They showed no emotion either on behalf of their leader or against him.
When the matter had been settled, Campbell motioned to Colonel Hambright and said, “I know that you outrank your fellow officer, Major Chronicle, but I am minded to put him in charge in Colonel Graham’s place, because he is acquainted with this area. Indeed, he says he has camped at the very place where Ferguson is now entrenched to fight, and in that case his leadership may prove invaluable. Given these circumstances, Hambright, have you any objections to serving in battle today under young Major Chronicle?”
From the look of him, Frederick Hambright might well have had objections to being passed over for command in favor of William Chronicle, for in addition to Chronicle’s inferior rank in the militia, he was no more than half the age of Hambright. A gray-haired man in his early fifties, Hambright seemed as fit as any of us, lean and wiry, with dark eyes and a countenance that spoke of wit and courage. If command had fallen to him instead of Chronicle, he would have acquitted himself well, I thought. But William Chronicle knew the mountain where Ferguson had chosen to take his stand, and that had decided the matter.
Many a man would jibe at being passed over in favor of a mere youth, even had their military ranks been equal. Many a man would have insisted on his well-earned rights, which were undeniable. But fortunately for all of us, Frederick Hambright was not the sort of thin-skinned man who would put his pride above his duty. Perhaps, too, he was mindful that the preferment of Chronicle over him would end at the close of day, for after the battle the separate militias would disperse, and Campbell’s appointments of expediency would no longer matter to anyone.
Would the elder colonel object to serving under Major Chronicle?
“No, sir,” said Hambright, his strong German accent barely discernible in that brief reply. “I do not object. Chronicle must lead.”
“Good man,” said Campbell. “Then you will assume the duties previously carried out by Major Chronicle, and Colonel Graham may go home to his wife.”
William Graham looked no less agitated than he had before, and, indeed, in deciding on whether to stay or go, the poor man could only choose between two wrong answers, but now the choice had been made, and he must live with it. He turned to Major Chronicle, not to offer words of advice for the coming battle, but still preoccupied with his o
wn troubles: “I must have an escort, Major.”
“Granted,” said Chronicle. “But you must choose one yourself, Colonel Graham. I won’t order any man to go with you.”
Graham looked back at the men from his militia who had come up to lend their support at the first sign of trouble. “I want David Dickey to accompany me, then.”
At the sound of his name on the colonel’s lips, the young soldier looked aghast, and then scornful. “Go with you, sir? Why, I’d as lief die in the coming battle as to desert my fellows and hightail it home with you and miss the fight.”
“You must go, Dave,” said his new commander, Major Chronicle.
Dickey spit on the ground. “Naw. Y’all can shoot me right here on the spot. I ain’t going with him and miss this battle.”
“You must go,” Chronicle said again. He was more forceful this time, for this was his first order as the South Fork’s commander.
Dickey was silent for a moment, returning the major’s stare, and then he looked away, shrugging. “Well, sir, if it is your order that I depart with Colonel Graham, then I reckon it is my duty to obey you.”
“We must hurry!” said Graham, whose thoughts now concerned only his wife.
With one last regretful look at the column of soldiers, David Dickey raised a hand in valediction, turned his horse, and rode off into the woods after Graham. In a few moments they had disappeared from sight.
William Chronicle shook his head as if to clear all thoughts of the incident from his mind. He had more weighty matters to concern him now. He turned back to Campbell. “Captain Mattocks and I have been talking about that deer camp we had last fall up on King’s Mountain. If that’s where Ferguson is holed up, we could surround him. He’s up on a narrow, flat place, a few hundred feet above the valley, so we would have to attack uphill, but that may be a stroke of good fortune. I reckon we’d be less likely to shoot each other that way. And if we do have enough troops to encircle that ridge, Ferguson would be caught up on that plateau with nowhere to go.”
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