Decision at Fletcher's Mill

by David Caringer

  Strickland paused to catch his breath. Billy didn’t speak. He didn’t know what to say. The sergeant lowered his voice a little and seemed to lean forward as he continued. “That was when he stuck me on another impossible detail … I had to ‘escort’ a wagonload of rum kegs we had ‘liberated’ from a Tory warehouse up by Charlotte. We was supposed to take it to Wilmington and trade it for canvas and cordage to use for tents and such. On the way, we was bushwhacked by one of them Tory bands fightin’ with that treasonous Benedict Arnold.

  “There was ten of us on that run. Me and John Red here was the only two that made it back alive and I was hurt bad.” He nodded toward Red who was now seated on the log formerly occupied by Billy. “When we come in, the general wouldn’t listen to anything we said about what happened. I don’t know what made him madder—that we had lost the rum, had failed to bring back the tentage, or that all of those good men had been killed. He threatened to have me tried and whipped. He never accused me of bein’ a coward, but everybody knew he wondered why me and Red lived when everybody else was killed. The fact is we was both left for dead … me because I looked dead. John Red was just good at playin’ possum. Most scouts are good at tricks like that. Why, Red tells me it’s kept him alive more than once. Anyhow, the general, he wasn’t listenin’ to anything we had to say, and I reckon he made a decision then to get shut of us one way or another when the situation allowed.”

  Billy was finally beginning to understand what must have happened, when the sergeant became even more animated and confirmed his speculation. “This morning, after survivin’ that wild fight along with the boys from Maryland, I got pulled out and sent to see the general one more time…. He had decided that I needed to redeem myself and overcome my failure with the rum … by babysittin’ you!”

  CHAPTER 10

  Peter Johansen endured all the humiliation he was prepared to accept. He was sick and tired of playing servant to an old black man and a preacher. He’d been pushed around by that fool Tobias who pretended to be somebody special. Peter knew he had more brains than the whole bunch of them. He did most of the work anyway. He saw no future for himself here. Besides, he knew things. He knew secrets that the king’s men would like to know. There would be big trouble here. These people were all traitors. He’d seen things they didn’t want anyone to see. He’d watched on those dark nights when strangers came and went with no lights shown in wagons carefully kept quiet. He knew the secret about the old cave at the back of the mill. He knew most of it anyway. They kept him out of many things. He knew they didn’t trust him. He knew no one liked him. He was attracted to Elizabeth from the first time he saw her, but she never noticed any of the things he did for her. She wouldn’t care if the earth opened up and swallowed him. She wouldn’t even notice he was gone.

  Peter made up his mind today when he saw the militia massacre those poor British soldiers in such a cowardly way from the bushes at the side of the road. He saw them coming across the field behind the mill and considered crying out to the Royal Army captain … what was his name—Cristus, Cristal, Crispin…? Yes, that was it, Crispin. He could have warned the soldiers. He should have warned them. He was terrified, though. He knew it in his soul. He was a coward today. The shame of letting those poor men die without warning bore down on him like a physical weight. He must do something to redeem himself. It was his personal duty to report what he knew about this place, wasn’t it? It was his duty to help Captain Crispin somehow. But how? He would help him escape! That’s right. He would help the captain and the wounded sergeant escape from these people. He would tell Crispin everything he knew about this place. He would serve his king in the only way he knew how. This would make things right!

  Peter befriended the militiamen who were guarding the outside of the storeroom and makeshift prison. The night turned cold and both men were hungry. It was easy to convince them that he would stand their watch while they went to eat and fetch warmer coats. He assured them that Tobias, the assistant millwright, would be here soon. The two boys would have no trouble securing the mill. After all, this was their home. They laughed together when Peter reminded the two guards about Tobias threatening to brain the British captain with a hammer on the road earlier. He was soon alone in the front room of the mill, but he wasn’t sure how long this solitude would last.

  Ira had ordered Peter to take two of the best horses and go fetch the doctor from Winnsborough. The two horses were saddled now. He wondered if anyone would notice the absence of a third horse from the stable. Probably not, with all of the confusion. He quietly saddled another horse and led all three of them out to the side of the road near where the disastrous events occurred earlier. Damp blood was mixed with the mud on the road here. The horses flinched away from it as he tied them to the fence rail. He returned to the mill and lit a candle before going to the side storeroom where the prisoners were being held. Peter wasn’t worried about anyone seeing him. They were all down at the village and at the Fletcher house. The militiamen were camped down in the woods along the old Camden trail. No one was here right now but him and these poor prisoners. He could help them. He knew he could. He didn’t care if old Ezekiel died. They would all hang for treason anyway.

  A thought startled Peter and made him pause halfway down the corridor to the storeroom. What about Elizabeth? Would she hang too? He didn’t want that to happen. She had treated him with such contempt. But what if he could save her somehow? She would be grateful to him. She would finally notice what he did for her, wouldn’t she? No. It was hopeless. She would die of grief if they hung her precious grandpa, even if they pardoned her for being a fool in this nest of traitors. She would have to face justice with the rest of these scum. Lifting his head in self-righteous bravado, he moved down the hall to the storeroom door and fished the keys from his pocket. He didn’t know what would happen to him after this. He hoped to be welcomed into the loyalist militia to fight for the king. He would no longer be welcome here, and he didn’t care.

  Peter heard a low groan from inside as he pushed the door open. He used the candle to cut through the musty darkness and peer into the room. Captain Crispin was asleep on a stack of grain bags. The sergeant was curled into a fetal position on the floor in the opposite corner. A small pool of dried blood was under the side of the sergeant’s head. It seemed to have dripped from the edge of a crude bandage covering the man’s scalp and frightfully swollen cheek. The sergeant’s breath was labored. He groaned quietly as Peter leaned over and gently shook him. There was no other response.

  Peter straightened up and looked over at Crispin. It seemed odd that the captain was sound asleep in the most comfortable place the room could provide while this wounded man lay in his own blood on the floor. Peter momentarily hesitated at the realization. But this was the way things were between people of quality and their social inferiors. It was the way things should be. He quietly stepped over to the sleeping captain and reached down to shake him by the shoulder. Crispin stretched slowly, then sat abruptly upright. In a strangled voice, he nearly shouted, “Who … what is going on?”

  Peter whispered, “Captain, I’m Peter Johansen. I work here at this mill. I’m a loyal subject of the king. I want to help you.”

  Peter didn’t know why he was whispering. He didn’t believe a voice could be heard from outside the mill, and no one else was anywhere near right now. Time was short. The captain swung his legs off the pile of grain sacks and stood up.

  “You want to help me … how?”

  Peter spoke more openly. “I want to help you escape, sir!”

  Captain Crispin glanced over at the sergeant’s prostrate form. “What about good Sergeant Smythe here?”

  Peter said, “I have three horses tethered outside at the road, sir.”

  Crispin looked closely at him and said, “Three horses?”

  Peter responded, “Yes, sir. I hoped you would take me with you.” The captain said nothing.

  Peter said, “Sir, I know things about this place and what
has been going on here. I need to report these things to the authorities.”

  Crispin looked curious. “Things … what kind of things, boy?”

  Peter felt as if he’d been slapped with the use of the term “boy.” He stood silent for a few moments. The captain stared at him in the candlelight. The sergeant moaned and slowly turned himself onto his back. He was awake now and looked around the strange candle-lit room with the frightened eye of an injured animal.

  Peter could hesitate no longer. He had entered the room in good faith. The door was still standing open. He knew that the captain could overpower him if he tried to leave again without helping the men escape. He began to realize, deep inside, that this was all wrong. These men were not his friends. The people he was going to betray had never harmed him. They were really very kind. He was acting like a “boy” to come here like this. What would a “man” do? It was too late for any of that now. He must do his duty. Loyalty to the king was more important than any sentimental feelings for his “friends.” The captain was still staring at him. The sergeant was sitting up now. Peter placed the candle on one of the wall shelves. He saw no friendship or kindness in either of these men’s faces. The sergeant’s cheek and head were so swollen that it was difficult to see any expression at all. The captain’s visage only showed glaring expectant distaste.

  Peter lowered his voice again and told these two British soldiers almost all he knew about the events he’d seen at Fletcher’s Mill. He didn’t tell them everything. For some reason, he only gave vague information about the old cave at the back of the mill and the barrels of powder he knew were stored there. He started to share the rumors about hidden treasure, but suddenly thought better of it. He changed what he was about to say into a derogatory comment about the undeserved Fletcher family wealth and the status of old Ezekiel Miller.

  Peter couldn’t explain why he hesitated to share the rumors about treasure Benjamin Fletcher left to his son Ira. Local legend held that old Ben kept most of his astounding wealth in the form of gold and silver coins. These were supposedly locked in wooden boxes and buried in a little known shaft far deeper than the expanded portion of the cave behind the mill. Peter hadn’t seen any treasure. He hadn’t seen any sign of deeper tunnels or caverns under the cave behind the mill. He was in the deepest known part of the cave only once, and that was a long time ago. He believed the legend, though. The Fletchers were so rich. They owned everything for miles around.

  Peter didn’t understand that material wealth could be held in many forms other than gold or silver. None of that was important right now anyway. These men were only interested in the powder, shot, and military stores. He would stick to that and leave the other secrets alone for now. He told them about the mysterious visits late at night and the strange armed men who came and went while Ira Fletcher wasn’t here. He told about old Ezekiel making him and Tobias drive loaded wagons down to the east ford on the Camden Pike and leave them there. They would be sent back the next day to retrieve wagons that were now empty or loaded with different contents. He told them about muffled discussions between groups of strange men coming from inside these very store rooms late at night. He even told them about seeing the militia company approach the mill from across the field today while the British soldiers confronted the angry crowd on the road in front of the building.

  Peter finished the rest of the story with the innocence of the young fool that he was. The two men listened without interruption to all of it. They now glanced at each other before turning their attention back to him. Fear grew in Peter’s chest. They were looking at him with a growing malevolence. He shrank back and gasped, “Sir, will you take me with you?” Crispin strode over to him and shoved him against the wall.

  Peter was uncontrollably terrified now as the captain snarled, “Why would I take a miserable little rodent like you with me? You clearly knew about this treason for some time yet you haven’t bothered to report it before now? What about my men? Why didn’t you give warning to them before they were murdered today? Did I hear you right? You knew of the rebel approach and you did nothing to help us?”

  The captain grabbed the front of Peter’s shirt and held him against the wall with surprising strength. He began to slap Peter on the side of the face as he asked these questions in quick succession. Peter tried to pull his forearms up to protect his face. He whimpered, “Please, sir … please … please … don’t!” Crispin perceived the uplifted arms to be some kind of assault against his person. He reacted by punching Peter in the face. The boy’s body went limp. Crispin threw him to the floor and stomped his booted foot against the boy’s larynx to stifle any cry the contemptible young whelp might make. Peter died quickly without realizing how much trouble his disloyalty would cause.

  Captain Crispin ordered Sergeant Smythe to his feet. He didn’t bother to help the injured man. He stepped on Peter’s chest as he stretched to blow out the candle before hurrying out of the room. They were mounted on the horses and fleeing northward within minutes. Crispin was determined to reach the remnants of the Royal Army garrisoned in the little village of Rocky Mount. He and the teamsters obtained their dragoon escort at Rocky Mount while passing through the place days earlier. The two escapees were miles from Fletcher’s Mill before anyone found Peter Johansen’s body in the storeroom.

  CHAPTER 11

  Lieutenant Billy Morgan reeled from Sergeant Strickland’s words. He then looked into Strickland’s eyes and understood that no personal insult or animosity was intended. A stillness prevailed as they both considered their circumstances. Billy broke the silence. “Well, Sergeant, I promise not to be a burden to you in any way. I’m just as surprised to be leading this job as you are to have been saddled with it. I can only imagine what you’ve been through up till now. I make you a solemn promise. I’ll do nothing to cause you more grief. I’ll listen to your advice and follow your lead with the men whenever possible, and we’ll do this together. Besides, you won’t have to return to General Morgan’s service when we’re through with this.”

  Billy paused a moment. “You know that we’re ordered to rejoin General Greene up north when we’re finished delivering this material. You have a clean slate with me. I trust your judgement as a soldier. You can’t have survived this long without knowing what you’re about. I assure you that I don’t share the general’s ways or manner … even if my last name is Morgan.” He held out his hand offering to shake on the bargain.

  Sergeant Strickland hesitated as he looked deeply into Billy’s eyes. He finally relaxed and grasped the offered hand. “It’s a bargain, sir. And, by the way, I watched you fight this mornin’ from over in the middle of the Maryland line. We saw you charge into that bunch of Scotsmen like some kind of wounded lion … oh, that was somethin’…! I think you and I might just be able to do ‘things,’ Lieutenant!” The smile was real. The moment passed quickly, but both men would remember it.

  Major Theodore Throckmorton picked this very instant to show up and demand Billy’s attention. Strickland saw him first. He was riding on an old haggard-looking horse. The major’s nose was elevated. He looked left and right with distaste at all of the still visible scars on the battle-strewn landscape. Throckmorton was accompanied by two plainly dressed men as odd and out of place as himself. One of them was enormously fat and sat astride what appeared to be a draft horse. The other man was trim, well-dressed, and riding an ornately saddled mule. None of the militiamen in the area stood to attention at the major’s approach, but many of them did pause in their other activities to stare. This contributed to the petulant look on Throckmorton’s face. Sergeant Strickland cleared his throat and nodded toward the visitors. Billy took the hint and turned in time to see the major dismount the poor old horse and hand the reins to one of his minions.

  Billy stepped forward to meet the senior officer with a show of tired but undaunted respect. The major paused to look around at the wagons and all of the men now standing expectantly. It was a rare moment in which he was actually the cente
r of attention, and it immediately went to his head. Focusing his attention on Billy, Throckmorton changed his peevish expression to one of self-endowed superiority. He sniffed loudly and stared for another moment. He then used his high-pitched and annoyingly nasal voice to demand, “These wagons will be unloaded immediately, Lieutenant!”

  Billy was not sure he understood the order at first, but the words were quite clear. He replied, “I’m sorry, sir. Did you just say that we were to unload these wagons? Why on earth would we do that?”

  Throckmorton seemed to swell again like he did earlier in front of the headquarters tent. He raised his voice even higher and shouted, “I demand that these wagons be unloaded immediately! They were not properly requisitioned in the first place, and they have obviously been loaded with contraband!”

  Billy couldn’t help arguing, “Are you calling these wounded men ‘contraband,’ Major?” He was wearing a wry smile with this question. His expression launched the unpleasant major into an even deeper foul mood.

  “Of course I’m not referring to the men, you young upstart! I’m talking about the confiscated war material in the other three wagons! You had no right to take this property in the first place, and I demand that it be returned to my keeping immediately!”

  Billy was growing angry. Sergeant Duncan noticed this and decided to intervene.

  Duncan stepped up next to his new lieutenant and interjected, “May I be of service, sir?”

  The major looked sharply at him and snapped, “Who are you? I’m speaking with this young upstart thief at present! I’ll deal with one scoundrel at a time, thank you!”