King's Mountain

by Sharyn McCrumb

  The testimony was compelling, and the prisoner unrepentant, so after a short deliberation the jury sentenced Gilkey to hang.

  “Oh, please, no!” cried a voice from the spectators.

  A white-haired man made his way up to the front of the crowd, his shoulders heaving with sobs. Before anyone could stop him, he threw his arms around Walter Gilkey, still crying, “No. No. No!”

  When two of the guards pulled him away, he turned to those of us sitting in judgment. “He’s my only son,” the elder Gilkey said. “All I have in the world.”

  “Are you a prisoner, too, sir?” asked Cleveland.

  “I am not. I’m too old and infirm to take any part in this war, and glad of it, for it has brought nothing to us but sorrow. I came along here, because you have my son in custody.” He nodded toward Captain Gilkey, whose arms were now pinioned by guards. When the captain’s sentence was pronounced, he had shown no emotion, but now his features contorted with anguish for his father. I do not think he was sorry for what he had done, nor afraid of the punishment to come, but he grieved to see the pain he had caused his father.

  “Please, sirs, you mustn’t kill him. If you will spare him, I can pay you a ransom. I’ll give you all I have.” The old man was speaking to Colonel Campbell, whom he perceived to be in charge of the proceedings. “I rode here on a fine saddle horse. You can take him. Saddle and bridle, too. All of it. And … and … I have a bit of money, too. That is, I think I can raise a hundred, if you’ll give me just a little time. I’m sure I can. Just a little time.”

  I could not look at the poor man, pleading for his son’s life. I felt embarrassed for him, and, as I listened to his entreaties, I wondered what I would have done in his place. And suddenly I realized that I could have been in his place. A week ago, in the aftermath of the battle, my oldest son had fired upon defenseless, unarmed prisoners. I don’t doubt that he killed one or more of them—he’s a fine shot. Surely Joseph’s transgression was the equal of the crimes committed by many of those on trial today. If this were a Tory tribunal, it might well be my son who was facing the gallows. But I did not know Captain Gilkey. It was up to others to decide his fate. I did know, though, that not a one of us here would be tempted to neglect our duty for the offer of a ransom.

  Campbell, too, looked discomfited by the old man’s display of grief. Apparently deciding to overlook the grieving father’s offer of a bribe, he spoke gently. “I am sorry for your misfortune, Mr. Gilkey, but your son was convicted on the testimony of the boy he shot, and the sentence has been passed. I cannot in good conscience go against the decision of the officers on this jury. But if you will accompany the guards, they will allow you to spend a little time with your son, before his appointed time. I can do no more for you.”

  The poor man turned away to hide his tears, and when the guards led the condemned man away, he shuffled after them. I hoped that he would mount that fine saddle horse he spoke of and ride straight back to Gilbert Town. I hoped he would not watch the hanging. After that, we all paid particular attention to the next prisoner, in order to banish the image of the Gilkeys from our minds. I never forgot them, though.

  By the time we had finished trying all the accused prisoners, the afternoon light was fading and a chill night wind stirred the fallen leaves. Perhaps it would have been better to wait until morning to carry out the death sentences on the prisoners, but tomorrow was the Lord’s day, and it seemed a sacrilege to hold executions on the Sabbath. We could not wait here another day, either, for again rumors had arisen that Tarleton and his men were in pursuit.

  An officer from the local militia directed us to an ancient, spreading oak at the edge of our encampment. The tree had a low heavy branch, about the size of a tree itself, and it stood beside the road to Gilbert Town with space enough around it for the hundreds of men who would comprise the solemn assembly: witnesses, guards, executioners, and the thirty condemned prisoners. Some of the other prisoners, too, would be brought out to watch the executions, so that they could bear witness to the proceedings. The ranking officer among the prisoners was DePeyster, the man who had surrendered to us at King’s Mountain, ending the battle. He and Ferguson’s aide Lieutenant Allaire were among those chosen to bear witness for the Tories. Both of them protested that the executions were illegal and barbaric, and they demanded that the men be offered in a prisoner exchange between our side and theirs, but Campbell told them that no such consideration had been shown to the Whig prisoners, lately executed at Ninety Six, and that we were taking a leaf from their own book on warfare.

  It was full dark when we escorted those about to die to this gallows tree, but the way was lit by scores of burning brands fashioned by our militiamen. These pine knot torches sputtered and blazed, casting strange and terrible shadows upon the scene, and turning the nearby woods into a twisted host of demons.

  “A dark deed, done in darkness,” Shelby murmured to me as we walked out to the gallows oak.

  “We must set an example,” I said. “Over the mountain, we have been spared all this in-fighting between neighbors, but McDowell’s people and the South Carolinians have suffered greatly. The Tories have hanged a good many of their men as well.”

  “I wish somebody was keeping score,” said Shelby, “so we’d know when to quit.”

  Col. Ambrose Mills was the first prisoner slated to die. The officers in charge of the execution had secured a farm cart from the Bickerstaffs’, and they had rolled it into place directly beneath the massive low branch of the oak. Because so many prisoners were to be dispatched, the executioners decided to hang the condemned men in groups of threes, launching them into eternity in quick succession, and then putting up three more, on and on, until all of them had been hanged.

  The men assigned as guards stood in lines four deep surrounding the gallows tree. The officer in charge called out the names of the first three prisoners. “Colonel Ambrose Mills, Captain James Chitwood, Captain Wilson…”

  The guards helped the three condemned officers up onto the farm cart and secured the ropes around their necks. They seemed determined to set an example for the men who would follow them to the grave, for they did not cringe or cry out as the preparations were made. Mills stared straight ahead into the torchlights, his face expressionless, and his body as rigid as if he were standing at attention before a general. Heartened, perhaps, by his example, Chitwood and Wilson showed similar courage.

  They, too, stood erect and still, staring over the heads of the crowd until at a signal from the executioners, the cart was pulled away, and the three men dropped, swaying perhaps six feet from the ground. Mills did not struggle—an admirable force of will when one is being slowly strangled at the end of a rope. The other two twitched and writhed for a long time before they finally stopped moving.

  From somewhere in the crowd—among the South Carolina militias, I think—I heard a raucous voice let out a war whoop, and then call out, “Would to God every tree in the wilderness bore such fruit as that!”

  Out of the tail of my eye, I saw Shelby shudder. “One might wonder who is setting an example for whom,” he muttered.

  Walter Gilkey was among the next three to take his place on the cart, alongside Captain Grimes, who was one of our backwater settlers, and Lieutenant Raffery, who lived near Gilbert Town. I did not look for Gilkey’s aged father in the crowd, for I did not want to see him in his anguish.

  These three did not die as bravely as the others. The first three bodies still hung from the limb, and I think the sight of them in the flickering torchlight, one still twitching in its death throes, sapped whatever courage they had mustered for the ordeal.

  They struggled when the ropes were put around their necks, and they cursed the guards and tried to kick at them. The executioners finished their preparations as quickly as they could, and jerked away the cart with undue haste. After the drop, they tried to kick with their bound legs, and one succeed in tangling the rope, so that he twirled slowly round and round as he strangled.
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  If I had not felt it my duty to stay and watch the proceedings that we as commanders had sanctioned, I would have spared myself the sickening spectacle of watching men die slowly and painfully for acts of war that may have been no worse than some of those committed by our own men. Shelby, too, bore a look of disgust, but we stood there in the front of the crowd, trying to witness the horrors without betraying any emotion.

  Three common soldiers were next to mount the cart: John Bibby, Augustine Hobbs, and the scoundrel from Burke County, John McFall. One of them wept and begged for his life, calling out to those in the crowd that he knew from home. The others howled and fought.

  “I cannot stomach much more of this,” said Shelby. “I’m not disputing the justice of it, but if it incites our own men to further acts of cruelty, the game is not worth the candle. How many more are left to hang?”

  More than twenty. “Oh … quite a few,” I told him, but my heart was as heavy as his.

  With nine bodies spiraling slowly in the shadows beneath the oak branch, three more men were brought forward for their turn on the cart. The hemp ropes were tightened around their necks and their hands tied behind their backs, but before they could be hauled up onto the cart, a young boy broke through the ranks of prisoner witnesses and flung himself at one of the condemned men, sobbing bitterly, and wailing that his brother must not leave him.

  I recognized the prisoner from the afternoon trials: Isaac Baldwin, one of the Burke County Tories, accused of being the leader of a gang of raiders, who would attack the homes of local Whigs, steal their goods and clothing, and often tie them to trees and whip them soundly, leaving them in this piteous condition to be rescued … or not.

  The man was indeed a villain, but his young brother lamenting over him was an affecting sight, and I think many of us looked away, embarrassed to witness such a wrenching scene. An instant later, the weeping lad’s intention became clear. As young Baldwin embraced his brother, he managed to cut the cords that bound him, and before anyone could react, Isaac Baldwin shook free of his bonds and dashed into the dark woods.

  But in order for Baldwin to run even those few yards into the woods, he had to get past hundreds of soldiers, many of them holding their rifles, loaded and ready in case the prisoners had tried to revolt. But not one of them raised a hand to stop Isaac Baldwin’s escape. Not one shot was fired. The boldness of this bid for freedom outweighed all the anger at his past deeds.

  Prisoner and soldiers alike simply stood there, frozen with shock, perhaps, at what had just happened, but even when that wore off, no one set off to pursue the fleeing prisoner, and no officer gave an order that it should be done.

  The executioners, as stunned as the rest of us, shuffled uncertainly for a few moments, waiting to see if someone would issue orders. After a few more moments of silence, the guard standing in the cart shrugged and began to hoist the next man up into position.

  Isaac Shelby stepped forward, at the same time that I did. “That’s enough,” he said.

  His features looked more hawklike than ever in the flickering light of those pine knot torches. He motioned for the executioner to remove the prisoner from the cart. That soldier was one of my Backwater Men, and at once the fellow looked to me for confirmation of this order.

  I nodded. “Yes, soldier. Stand down. These proceedings are ended,” I said. To the others I added, “Take the rest back to the prisoners’ camp. They will not be hanged.”

  In the silence that followed my words, I fully expected to hear Cleveland object to our order, or Campbell to protest that he was the final authority here, but no one spoke up. The silence persisted for a few moments longer, and then the men began to turn away from the gallows tree, and in small groups they began to make their way back to their own camps. I stood there for a long time and watched the trail of pine knot torches moving across the field like fireflies, and gradually fading into the wooded darkness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  October 15, 1780

  I went back to my campfire, where Valentine, Joseph, and Jonathan Tipton awaited me, but I had no heart for conversation. I settled under my blanket, hoping that sleep would come and banish the horrors I had witnessed that night, but before I could drift off to sleep, one of the guards came up and, with apologies for disturbing my rest, said that he had brought one of the prisoners who wanted to speak to me.

  I sat up, and shook myself back to full wakefulness. In the glow of the firelight I recognized the prisoner as one of those men who had been sentenced to hang tonight, but whose life had been spared when we stopped the executions. He looked haggard and swollen-eyed, and I heartily wished I was downwind of him, for he stank like a cesspit, but I greeted him in a civil manner and asked what he had come about.

  “I want to thank you for my life, Colonel,” he said. “And I feel like I owe you something in return.”

  I wanted to tell him that he was not in my debt, but I understood the sentiment. The men in the backwater country cannot stand to be “beholden” to anyone. They will repay a debt of honor as quickly as they will repay the loan of goods or money. The kindest thing that I could do for him would be to allow him to discharge his obligation. It was obvious that he had come up with some way to square things with me, so I waited to hear him out.

  After a moment’s pause, the man went on, “I have some information, Colonel Sevier, and maybe by telling it to you, I can save your life.”

  “I’d be much obliged to you then.”

  He glanced up to make sure that no one was close enough to overhear our conversation. And then leaning in on a wave of sour breath, he said, “Word is going around among the prisoners that Tarleton and his dragoons have ridden out from Charlotte Town, and that they will overtake us soon.”

  Well, they could overtake us if they’d a mind to. With eight hundred prisoners, give or take, to herd along, we couldn’t make much more progress than a pregnant sow. Now, this fellow meant well, but the rumor he had heard might not be true. “Where did you hear this?”

  “A woman come to camp this evening, and told some of the officers that Cornwallis’s men would attack at dawn. Word got around.”

  There was no way to prove or disprove his tale, but I didn’t want to bet a thousand lives on the possibility that it was a lie. I thanked the fellow, and he slipped back into the darkness. Moments later, I was on my way to rouse Campbell and Shelby to tell them the news.

  They listened gravely while I reported the rumor from the grateful prisoner. “I think we have to assume it is true,” I told them. “We can’t let them catch us. We are too tired and weak for a second battle.”

  “I doubt we have the powder and shot to effect it, even if we tried,” said Shelby. “We have to break camp, but it’s so almighty dark I doubt we could see the trail to follow it.”

  “The clouds moved in sometime after sunset,” said Campbell. “It is too dark to travel tonight. We will have to wait for first light to move out, but we can use the hours until then to break camp and be ready. Pass the word among your officers.”

  “I’m taking my men back over the mountains,” I said.

  “And mine,” said Shelby. “If we can make it to the Catawba River, I think we can get to safe territory before they overtake us.”

  * * *

  We never got a proper sunrise, but the sky did lighten up enough so that we could see the unbroken skein of low hanging clouds stretching as far as we could see. We had not gone far down the trail before the rain began, showering us with cold pellets, and adding to the general misery, but we could not wait it out in the sheltering woods or in some farmer’s outbuildings. We had to reach the river before another day passed. The path became a stream, and the horses fought the mud with every step they took.

  For a while I rode along next to Shelby, glad of his company to take my mind off the misery of the journey. We rode in silence for a bit, and then we heard a sloshing behind us, and turned to see the ranking officer among the prisoners overtaking us. Some of
the Redcoat officers had been allowed to keep their mounts, though they were not noticeably grateful for the favor. DePeyster drew rein alongside Shelby, his weasel face slick with rain. “The men are too tired and ill-fed to be out in such punishing weather. Where are you heading in such undue haste?”

  Shelby pointed northwest. “Back to our natural element,” he said. “The mountains.”

  DePeyster thought about it. He stared at Shelby’s impassive expression, waiting, but neither of us said anything more, and at last he ventured another remark, “So, Colonel Shelby, you smell a rat?”

  Shelby permitted himself a tight-lipped smile. “We know all about it, yes.”

  “Well, it will serve you right,” said the Tory, and turning his horse, he trotted back to rejoin his own men.

  We had hanged only nine prisoners at Bickerstaff’s Old Fields before Shelby and I called a halt to the proceedings. I hoped we had dispatched those most deserving of execution, but I suspect that it was a matter of chance. Considering how many of our supporters had been executed by the Tories in similar circumstances, I thought we showed a measure of restraint that bordered on celestial mercy, but DePeyster did not see it in that light. He had complained bitterly that we had no right to execute soldiers who were doing their duty, that we had no authority, that the trials were not properly conducted.