Decision at Fletcher's Mill

by David Caringer

  Billy looked up at Howard in subdued gratitude and said, “Thank you very much for thinking so kindly about what I need. I will gladly accept the sword, trousers, shirts, and coat, but I just can’t bear the thought of wearing a dead man’s boots….”

  Howard leaned in close and said in a kindly voice just above a whisper, “Now, none of that, young man. You done us all real proud today, and we would follow a fella like you anywhere…. We want you to have this stuff, and we want you to have our service too. Besides, those dead lobster officers ain’t goin’ to miss em, and it ain’t like we can return this stuff to their grievin kin. Nobody in their right mind would bury good boots on them bodies anyway. It’s just as well you have em as somebody less deservin’….”

  Billy reached out and grasped Howard’s hand as he smiled and said, “Then I heartily accept your kindness, men!” They all slapped him on the back and led him down the hillside toward the tree line where their booty was now hidden.

  Newly promoted Lieutenant William (Billy) Morgan, now better attired, walked up the hill later in the direction taken by General Morgan. The boots he had selected fitted him perfectly. This path took him past a large group of filthy and exhausted men. They didn’t look familiar to him at first, but when he got close, he realized that these were all members of his militia battalion. He finally saw his captain and Sergeant Duncan standing and talking with the colonel. Billy remembered now that Sergeant Duncan hadn’t returned when he walked off earlier looking for medical care. He needed to explain what had happened after Duncan walked away, but he didn’t even know where to start. He knew he had to tell someone about the conversation with General Morgan, and he felt very conspicuous in his newly acquired clothing.

  Walking up to the three older men, Billy stopped and stood waiting to be noticed and expecting a rebuke for his impertinence. The conversation continued in low tones until the colonel’s horse started slightly and Sergeant Duncan turned to soothe it with a pat on the neck. Noticing Billy, Duncan said, “Here he is now, sir.”

  Billy stammered, “I b … beg your pardon … I....”

  The colonel interrupted him, “That is perfectly all right, Lieutenant. We were just discussing your amazing display of military prowess today….”

  Billy looked down not knowing what to say. They clearly already knew about the amazing development regarding his new rank.

  The colonel said, “I’m very sorry to lose you, son, but it seems that your ‘uncle’ has a much more important task planned for you.” He smiled broadly as he reached out to shake Billy’s hand. The others did the same.

  The captain said, “Lieutenant, I believe you should go and report to General Morgan as soon as possible. He doesn’t appear to be a man accustomed to waiting on junior officers … even if they’re kin…. I believe he’s set up headquarters over on the north side of the hill in the wood-line.”

  Billy experienced a moment of apprehensive uneasiness. He looked down again briefly and then raised his head while clearing his throat. The colonel asked, “Is there something more I can do for you, Lieutenant?”

  Billy stiffened his spine and looked the man directly in the eyes as he said, “Yes, sir. There is. I would like to request that you transfer Privates Seth Plunket, James Rice, Thomas Rhodes, and Richard Howard to my service. They have already proven very useful to me and I think I might need steady help with whatever the general has up his sleeve.”

  The colonel seemed to consider briefly and then smiled as he said, “Consider those men yours, Lieutenant Morgan.”

  Billy hadn’t cleaned his rifle and wasn’t sure where the rest of his kit was. He and Silas had left their rucksacks and bedrolls where they spent the night up by Thickety Creek. Sergeant Duncan saw the uncomfortable look on his face. It was as if he was reading Billy’s mind as he said, “Now Lieutenant, you don’t worry about your gear. I’ve already sent your kit over to headquarters because I knew you’d be heading there eventually after what General Morgan said, and yes, I sent Whitaker’s stuff too. I’ll fetch the four men you requested and have them waiting for you when you get finished with the general.”

  The colonel said, “Now go on, son. The quicker you report to the general, the sooner you’ll get started with whatever he has planned.”

  Billy nodded and straightened himself up to what seemed like ‘attention.’ He touched his forehead in what would have to pass for a salute and said, “Then, with your permission, sir….”

  The colonel saluted briefly and said, “Godspeed to you, young man. I hope to hear even more noteworthy news of your future exploits!”

  With that, he turned and continued speaking with the captain. Billy knew he had been dismissed. He turned away and began the slow walk up and over the hill to find out what new insanity awaited him.

  CHAPTER 6

  The angry crowd moved closer. Captain Crispin pushed his horse between two of the dragoons and leveled his pistol at Mr. Griffin the blacksmith. In a voice that betrayed both annoyance and fear, he shouted, “This man has assaulted a king’s officer! Free or not, he will face the king’s justice!” A large stone flew from the back of the crowd and struck the dragoon sergeant on his left cheek with a sickening thud. The sergeant was knocked back in his saddle, while his feet remained caught in the stirrups. The sergeant’s horse reared and lurched sideways toward the terrified captain.

  Crispin was not an infantry officer. He was not a professional soldier in the truest sense. He lacked the disciplined will and iron nerve of many Royal Army captains. Crispin was a quartermaster, a supply officer, who had purchased the captain’s commission he held. His startled reaction to the stone hitting his sergeant, followed by the violent action of the horse, was unintentional. The damage it caused was very real. The pistol discharged as the captain and his mount flinched away from the sergeant’s horse. The weapon was pointing at Robert Griffin’s left leg just above the knee as it fired.

  The one-ounce lead ball left the muzzle of the weapon so close to the head of the captain’s horse that it took part of the animal’s ear with it as it entered the blacksmith’s leg, knocking him to the ground in stunned agony. The other dragoons surged forward without orders or warning. They covered the distance between themselves and the small crowd in moments. Most of the villagers drew back and started to run. Tobias fell to the ground trying to aid his father. A massed rifle volley struck the mounted dragoons in that moment from the brush lining the rail fence at the corner of the mill house.

  None of the people involved in the confrontation noticed the concealed approach of the small militia company. These were some of the feared Overmountain Men. The militiamen didn’t intend to get this close to the mill until well after dark. They had heard the sound of shouting at the mill several minutes earlier. Their captain was speaking quietly with a well-dressed elderly stranger who was leading a beautiful horse as the company walked along the trail toward the village. The man had joined them a mile back down the trail. They first took him for a well-dressed country parson.

  The stranger’s countenance changed instantly when he heard the commotion near the mill. The old man’s face became a mask of indignant rage as he moved quickly toward the sound. He looked as if he would stomp right out onto the road to confront the trouble directly. He only stopped when the militia captain grabbed his coat and pulled him toward the bushes at the side of the mill house. The militia company witnessed the events on the open road in front of them. Every man knew what was coming when the rock was thrown and the pistol discharged. They all knew the British dragoons would show no mercy to any of the civilians. No instructions were given. None were needed. Half of the twenty riflemen raised their weapons and fired simultaneously. All of these men were expert marksmen. The range was very short.

  The saddles were suddenly empty, as the horses shied from the noise and billowing smoke to gallop away from the awful scene in terror. The stone broke the sergeant’s cheekbone and knocked him from his rearing horse. He was now lying unconscious near the s
till prostrate form of Ezekiel. The teamsters whipped their draft animals into frenzied motion when the first shot was fired. Now they frantically drove away in clouds of panic and spraying mud.

  Captain Crispin’s horse reacted in fright and pain by darting away from the scene. Its course took it between two old pine trees across the road from the mill. The captain lost control of the reins and one stirrup. He tried in vain to hold onto the saddle pommel until he was knocked from the back of the animal by a low hanging limb and fell ignominiously to the ground. Tobias shrieked in rage and snatched his father’s hammer from the roadbed. Running the short distance to the now disarmed and humiliated captain, he was about to use the hammer in a manner different from its designer’s intentions. A sudden shout from a familiar booming voice brought him to a stop just before he began to swing at the captain’s head. Out of the still billowing smoke stepped the tall imperious form of Reverend Ira Fletcher.

  Elizabeth heard the commotion from the house and hurried up the road just in time to see the final events take place. She cried out as she saw Ezekiel lying in a shallow puddle of mud and blood on the ground. She ran to the old man at once. Finding that Zeke was alive, she knelt in the icy water and rolled him onto his back. Pulling his head onto her lap, she began to brush the blood and mud from his face and shirt front.

  Several of the villagers returned to Mr. Griffin and tried to hold him still. One of the older women tore part of her apron hem loose and used it as a tourniquet to stop the flow of blood from the shattered limb. Ira shouted orders to some of the men about collecting the scattered cavalry horses and removing the fallen dragoons from the middle of the roadway. He strode to where Tobias was standing over the fallen captain. Ira quietly but firmly told the young man to give him the heavy hammer.

  Tobias was sobbing and shaking almost uncontrollably as he stood over the captain with obvious intended malice. He couldn’t speak. He was barely aware of Ira’s presence as the older man reached gently out and took away the weapon. The captain was cowering in panic and pain. He was still unsure of what occurred moments earlier. It had all happened so quickly. He was in control, at one point, performing his duty as he understood it. The situation changed in blurred seconds. Looking around, he could see that all of his men were either dead or dying. The civilian teamsters had deserted him. Now he found himself looking up into the stern piercing gaze of a most unusual man.

  Ira Fletcher was tall and straight. He appeared quite vigorous for his advanced age. His long white hair was swept back and tied into the fashionable queue where it fell from beneath his tricorn hat. He wore a now soiled dark gray suit of impeccable quality. His stockings were the finest imported silk. The buckles of his shoes were solid silver. He now held the hammer in his left hand and his silver tipped cane in his right. Crispin wasn’t sure what it was about Ira that commanded respect. He was obviously wealthy, but that wasn’t it. He carried himself with an almost regal demeanor. His eyes were a penetrating steel gray. His features were sharp, but neither harsh nor apparently cruel. He looked more frustrated than angry in this moment.

  Ira quietly said, “It would appear, sir, that you are now a prisoner of the Provisional Militia of the sovereign State of South Carolina.” Captain Crispin’s misplaced bravado began to return.

  He said, “And you, sir, appear to lead these rebel scum that murdered my men!”

  Ira physically restrained Tobias following this absurd statement. He shook his head and replied, “No. I’m not their leader. I met them just outside the village as I was returning home. We heard the commotion in front of my mill and came to see you and your men accosting my millwright and threatening my friends. These fine young men simply took it on themselves to stop your armed men from a massacre of innocent civilians.”

  Captain Crispin picked himself up from the ground and now stood with his head lowered and his hands balled in fists just under his chin. He turned slightly and glanced from Ira to one of the militiamen who was moving toward them. “You will all hang in any event,” said Crispin.

  Ira stared at him silently, then turned away to address the approaching militia leader. “Captain, you can lock this officer and his sergeant up in one of our storage rooms until you and your men leave this place. I will expect you to take them with you.” The wounded dragoons apparently wouldn’t survive the night no matter what medical treatment they were offered.

  Captain Luther Robertson replied, “Aye, sir, although I don’t know what we will do with them. We travel light and we don’t usually have the pleasure of such august company….” He smiled at Captain Crispin with a malicious leer that conveyed anything but friendly charm.

  The British officer tried to straighten himself into a stance that might have resembled a position of attention with his chin jutting forward and his chest thrown out in cartoonish pride. He raised his voice slightly as he said, “I’m a king’s officer, and I expect to be treated as such! You filthy vermin must turn me over to some kind of formal military authority as soon as possible! The rules of civilized warfare demand it!”

  Captain Robertson raised the muzzle of his still loaded rifle and placed it squarely under Crispin’s nose. He exerted just enough force to make Crispin rethink his assumed posture. “Mister, it’ll be a miracle if my men don’t take your scalp while I’m asleep. You better get real humble really quick. My boys and hundreds like us don’t have much use for your King George or charlatan toy soldiers like you. I can’t speak for what’s happened up north, but down here we’ve whipped you fellas every time we found you. I’ll do my best to keep you alive long enough to hand you over to those ‘formal authorities’ you mentioned, but you would do well to keep your mouth shut and your head down until that happens, if it does happen.”

  Crispin looked like he was about to say something else until he looked past the militia officer and saw a momentarily unveiled flicker of seething rage pass over the otherwise placid face of Ira Fletcher. He somehow grasped that his only real hope of survival was submission to this militiaman. Whatever he had heard about Fletcher, it seemed clear that this man of the cloth could become a remorseless enemy. Crispin lowered his arms and head now in humiliated surrender. A short time later, he and his sergeant were locked in a dark storeroom on the lower floor of the mill.

  CHAPTER 7

  Lieutenant Billy Morgan found the headquarters tent beyond the hill in the northern tree line. A cold drizzle was falling again. Men were coming and going from the tent in great haste. Four sentries guarded the outside. What appeared to be the rest of the guard detail cared for their personal equipment around a fire in another clearing about thirty yards away. Several horses were tethered near the back of the tent. A small group of officers huddled by the horses engaged in a heated but whispered discussion. Billy recognized a small pile of gear belonging to Silas and himself near the front of the tent. No one seemed to notice him as he stood still on the path feeling great trepidation at the thought of entering Daniel Morgan’s tent.

  Billy heard the booming voice of the great man coming from inside the tent and it startled him back into motion. The general was clearly less than pleased with some unfortunate soul. He was creatively letting the poor man know of his displeasure. The shouting stopped abruptly. A small, nattily dressed Continental Army major came out a few seconds later. The ugly little man looked like he was about to start sobbing before he saw Billy.

  The blue of Billy’s newly acquired uniform coat with its once-bright yellow facings seemed to startle the major. It was the shade of blue and the yellow that was striking. This had been part of a Hessian uniform. Hessian blue had been a source of fear and loathing for continental soldiers on many battlefields for the past five years. Billy’s men had helped him “Americanize” the coat as much as possible. He now wore his leather belt and accoutrements on the outside of the garment in a fashion that wouldn’t have been acceptable to its former owner. He couldn’t do anything about the color of the coat, however, and it was this that brought the startled major
to a spluttering halt in front of him.

  Billy said, “Morning, sir!” in a courteous but straightforward manner.

  The major quickly realized that he was confronted by a young man of inferior rank. He seemed to swell slightly with the realization. He asked, “What’s so good about it? Who are you?”

  Billy responded with eye-to-eye frankness, “Lieutenant William Morgan, at your service sir.”

  The major momentarily toyed with the idea of berating this unfortunate young man in the oddly familiar coat. He had just received one of the most scathing, if humorously worded, reprimands of his military career from General Morgan.

  The major’s sense of self-preservation started gnawing at him when the lieutenant’s last name registered on him. Billy stood patiently in front of him, awkwardly blocking the path with his long rifle balanced on his shoulder, and a friendly smile on his face. The major finally shrugged and pushed his way around Billy on the narrow path. Billy shook his head in bewilderment at the enigmatic nature of New Englanders. The guard outside the tent asked him to identify himself and then opened the flap to announce him and allow him to enter.

  Billy was greeted by the booming voice of his supposed uncle, General Morgan. “Well, get on in here, boy, we got work to do!”

  Billy noticed that there were two other men in the tent with the general as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. He was shocked to realize that one of these people was none other than the diminutive Dr. Bolt. The other man was a ramrod straight Continental Army sergeant. This man wore the slightly soiled uniform of one of the Maryland infantry regiments. The doctor was sitting on a chest at the side of the tent as he wrote in a journal with the stub of a pencil. The pencil itself was a surprisingly modern device to see in this place. The doctor’s large satchel was sitting open at his feet and several dubious-looking bottles were visible inside. The sergeant was clearly at respectful attention, but the glaring scowl on his face made it obvious he was not pleased with the nature of the current discussion. Billy took all of this in as he lowered the butt of his rifle to the ground and waited for the general to continue.