Decision at Fletcher's Mill

by David Caringer

  These and many other preparations were made by the men who decided to stay and defend this place. Captain Robertson watched the activity alongside Ira Fletcher who looked on with a stoic calm that belied the turmoil inside him. Ira silently prayed for these men along with the mill, the village, his home, and his family. He desperately hoped this young militia captain was correct. Surely there was a realistic hope for victory here. His mind returned to the night his wife and son were killed. The burning aftermath of that attack was horrible. He shuddered involuntarily. That incident involved only a small group of mounted attackers. What would happen if a large military force attacked this place?

  Mona and Elizabeth refused to leave earlier in the company of the other village women and children. Ira wondered if he could force them to leave even now. Robertson slowly turned to him at that moment and looked directly into his eyes. “Sir, I believe you and I must now consider one of the most important features of our defense.”

  The captain had his full attention. Ira looked at him quizzically. “What would that be, young man?”

  Robertson leaned a little closer and said with a quiet steady voice, “We need to identify a covered avenue of escape for the survivors should our defenses fail.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Captain Crispin and Sergeant Smythe moved swiftly all night. They pushed their stolen horses harder than they dared as they fought their way through the forest and undergrowth. They tried to stay close to the Broad River, and often found themselves riding through the mud, muck, and brush near the bank. They were headed back to Rocky Mount. Crispin knew nothing of the fortifications at Winnsborough. Sergeant Smythe and the now dead dragoon escort were part of the cavalry detachment at Rocky Mount. Crispin passed through there on his way to investigate available provisions at Fletcher’s Mill with his small foraging party. Only token acknowledgement was given to the major commanding these troops when he demanded the escort that day. He had been anxious to learn what was true about Fletcher’s Mill. There was no time for military courtesy.

  Crispin suspected they were being followed. He knew they would receive no mercy from the rebels if they were caught. He really hadn’t meant to kill that boy in the mill. His temper just got the best of him. All of the men of his borrowed escort were now dead except the sergeant here. He looked sidelong at Smythe. The man could barely stay in the saddle. What would Lord Cornwallis say when he learned that Crispin had been overpowered by these rag-clad animals on a simple foraging mission? He had lost six good men and their horses. He was returning empty-handed with his tail between his legs as it were. The humiliation was only overpowered by the stark terror he still felt considering that he might have been killed with his escort. Were the rebels pursuing them?

  Crispin started to say something to Smythe but changed his mind. The horses were now struggling up the riverbank headed for an open meadow. He intended to stay in the tree line and skirt the meadow still heading roughly north. Crispin’s pocket still held a borrowed compass. He was surprised at that. The rebels hadn’t stolen any of his personal belongings other than his pistols and sword.

  They broke through the brush above the riverbank and found a road on the other side next to the meadow. It seemed to head roughly north and south. Crispin was almost sure this was the main road connecting Fletcher’s Mill to Rocky Mount. He was fairly certain that he recognized the area now, having traveled this same road headed south. He turned to confer with Sergeant Smythe just in time to watch the other man slowly roll out of his saddle. The sergeant fell to the ground hard, with one foot still in the stirrup. The horse moved forward, dragging Smythe several yards before coming to a stop in a lather of foaming sweat. Crispin prodded his own exhausted animal over to tower above the fallen sergeant.

  Captain Crispin looked anxiously around, then shouted for the sergeant to get a grip on himself and remount or get left behind. Smythe didn’t respond. Crispin couldn’t tell if the man was even breathing. He had no intention of exerting the effort needed to find out. He finally used a stick found nearby to prod the man in the ribs and then pry his twisted foot out of the saddle stirrup. This was all done without dismounting. With little more than a frustrated smirk, Crispin grabbed the reins of the other horse and turned to kick both animals into cantering motion up the road headed north. No further thought was given to the severely wounded but still very much alive Sergeant Rufus Smythe.

  Crispin continued to spur and whip the poor animals until he finally, and quite literally, rode the first horse to death. That was the only point where he actually paused for more than an hour in his headlong flight to avoid recapture. His horse suddenly collapsed in much the same way Smythe had. The animal was cantering along on the road near the river. The next moment, its legs just folded up underneath it. He was thrown over the animal’s worthless head to land on his face, and lay there gasping in fright and exhaustion.

  The horse Sergeant Smythe had been riding was better rested because it hadn’t been carrying as much weight since the sergeant was left behind. Crispin still held the reins of both horses in his hands as he struggled to his feet. He kicked the animal he had been riding in the side of the head in a childish fit of rage. He imagined a look of pitiful contempt in the animal’s dying eye as it slumped over and breathed its last. Even in his panic-driven state, he realized that he must care for the remaining animal or end up walking.

  Crispin abandoned the dead horse without bothering to remove the saddle or bridle. He dragged the other horse back to the river where both he and it drank deeply. He allowed it to eat from the tall grass along the bank before he pulled and prodded it into a deep thicket part way up the side of a large hill along his intended route. Crispin tied the horse to a branch with enough loose reins to allow it access to more grass. Then he crawled up under the cover of the low hanging thorny branches and passed out.

  Captain Crispin didn’t know how long he slept. It was quite dark when he awoke. His body was shaking spasmodically and uncontrollably. He was soaking wet and terribly cold. He tried to stand, unaware of his surroundings. One of the thorn branches tore a gash into his neck before catching in the collar of his shirt. He struggled to free himself and ended up ripping part of the shoulder from his uniform coat. Crouching lower now, he used his handkerchief to slow the bleeding from the gash on his neck and then tied the cloth in place with no real hope of making the blood flow stop. It took several minutes to get his bearings and work his way out of the thicket to the place where the miserable horse was still tied. Staying in this place was out of the question. He was desperate to make his escape, and movement was the only thing that seemed to offer any hope of warmth. He decided to press on and led the animal back out toward the road by moving away from the sound of the flowing river.

  The carcass of the dead horse caused the living one to rebel as they neared the roadbed. Crispin dragged it along by the reins until they were several yards further along the road before he attempted to mount. The horse shied away from him and kicked him in the right thigh. His leg folded in terrific pain and he stumbled to the ground still clutching the reins. A scream came involuntarily from his lungs and further frightened the horse which continued to kick and fight him for its freedom. He yanked himself upright using the reins for support and dragging the horse’s head downward in the process. The animal turned and tried to kick him again before twisting its head around and biting him on the arm. He finally let go of the reins this time, and the horse used one more tremendous effort to kick him with its rear hooves before darting off in the darkness, never to be seen by him again. Crispin collapsed to his knees and then fell into a fetal position in the pitch-dark center of the lonely mud road in this horrible foreign wilderness. He lay there weeping for what seemed like hours.

  Crispin slowly began to realize that he would die right here if he allowed himself to give up completely. That he would not do. There was a score to settle with the rebels at Fletcher’s Mill. He remembered the rumors heard about the wealth of the place in food
stores and useable supplies. He also remembered the other rumor of gold stored there. He had seen just enough of the inside of the mill to verify the existence of food and other valuable property. That fool boy in the mill verified at least part of the other tale. There was indeed a cave under or behind the mill itself. The weeping stopped, but he was still shaking uncontrollably as he struggled to his feet.

  The dim gray light of dawn started to make the roadbed visible. He looked back toward the dead horse. The animal was still saddled and looked ridiculous lying there. He stumbled back down the road to it and struggled for several minutes before he was able to work the sodden blanket from under the saddle. Wrapping the blanket around his shoulders, he turned and started hobbling northward along the road with the sound of the river to his left side to verify that he was headed in the right direction.

  Crispin stumbled along this way without stopping and without seeing anyone along the road, either friend or enemy. Hours passed as he continued to drive himself northward toward Rocky Mount and the safety he knew awaited him there. He would find help. He would return to that place! He would have revenge for the loss of those soldiers and his dignity. He would search out any hidden treasure in or under that miserable mill. He would laugh as it and the whole village were burned to the ground. He would then force those despicable villagers to watch as their precious Reverend Fletcher was shackled and whipped before being escorted back along this same road to face the king’s justice.

  It took another three days to reach Rocky Mount. By the time he arrived, Reginald Crispin was hardly recognizable as the well-dressed Royal Army quartermaster officer who was here less than a week before. Making contact with one of the picket guards at the edge of town was a close run thing. At first he was mistaken for one of the rebels and was nearly shot before the picket recognized the ragged remains of a captain’s uniform coat in the dim evening light. He did not know the correct response to the challenge. In fact, he was almost incoherent as he pleaded with the sergeant of the guard to be taken to see the commander immediately.

  Major Sir Thomas Willoughby was a career officer who rose through the ranks of the Royal Army through hard work, courage, and an uncompromised reputation for impeccable character. He commanded the cavalry regiment at Rocky Mount. He was the most senior officer present when Captain Crispin was brought in. Willoughby showed genuine concern when he saw Crispin’s condition, and imagined that he had been the victim of an ambush on the part of Frances Marion or others like him. Captain Crispin was cared for by the regimental surgeon. He was fed and given clean clothing by the major’s own servant.

  Crispin slept like one in a coma for over fourteen hours before finally rousing himself to again demand the attention of the commander. Major Willoughby began to suspect Crispin’s personal honor a few short minutes into the interview. Five minutes later, he was convinced that Crispin was a charlatan and a coward. The captain gave an animated and embellished account of what happened at Fletcher’s Mill. He then attempted to talk the major into dispatching a large contingent of cavalry to go back there with him and exact revenge on the rebels he insisted were using the place as a fortress.

  The major had met Reverend Ira Fletcher on more than one occasion. He knew that the reverend was a close friend of Dr. William Bull who was the acting royal governor of this colony in the absence of Lord Montagu before he was replaced by that fool Lord Campbell who only lasted a few months. Campbell had turned coward and escaped to save his own skin. Dr. Bull was now considered by many in the British military establishment to still be the rightful governor since the post was abandoned by Campbell. His association with Dr. Bull made Reverend Fletcher’s reputation unquestionable in the minds of many senior Royal Army leaders

  Major Willoughby was a professional officer. He recognized Crispin’s type. He had served with and beneath officers like this many times in his long career. Willoughby knew Sergeant Smythe. They had served together for years. The major had spoken with Smythe briefly before detailing him to escort Captain Crispin days earlier. Smythe was also a professional soldier and a wise judge of character. He hadn’t said anything negative about the young captain. There was something about the sergeant’s demeanor that made Willoughby believe Smythe felt little reason to respect this young man.

  Major Willoughby now thought he understood what really happened at Fletcher’s Mill. The realization was revolting. His dislike for the captain was almost as palpable as it was immediate. He pragmatically realized that Crispin was not a professional officer and therefore couldn’t be expected to behave professionally. However, this lying fool had somehow managed to lose Sergeant Smythe, several fine cavalry troopers, and all of their valuable mounts in such a short time with nothing to show for the investment. He understood that he would probably never know everything about the incident. Willoughby was certain that Crispin was lying to him, though. He would never dispatch more valuable troops on some fool errand with this man who had already shown his incompetence and probable cowardice in the face of the enemy.

  Major Willoughby stood up and stared at Captain Crispin. “I will send you from here, Captain, with an appropriate escort…” Crispin bristled momentarily at the term “appropriate escort.” Willoughby continued, “… north to Charlotte where you will report to General Lord Cornwallis. I will give you written orders to this effect, Captain.” He said this last part in reaction to the look on Crispin’s face. He continued, “Captain Crispin, you should know that Reverend Ira Fletcher is a close and loyal personal friend of the royal governor of this colony. Your attempted infringement on this man’s property will not be looked on with favor. Had I known this was what you were about when you passed through here in such a brazen manner a week ago, I would have stopped you then. I have no doubt that you have encountered rebel forces in your misguided endeavors, but please don’t try to besmirch the character and reputation of the honorable Mr. Fletcher to protect your own reputation.”

  Crispin was astounded. He couldn’t speak. His face was brick-red and his jaw hung slack. This appeared to be a sign of embarrassment to the major and it reinforced his already low impression of the captain. Major Willoughby held up his hand and demanded silence when Crispin finally regained the ability to speak. “Captain Crispin, from this moment, you may consider yourself under arrest. You will compose a written report which will be duplicated by my adjutant. One copy will stay here with me. The other copy will be sealed along with my personal report to General Cornwallis regarding your recent behavior and questionable military usefulness.

  “You will remain here under close arrest until we have occasion to send a sizeable detachment to the headquarters in Charlotte. You will be secured in one of our storerooms. You would do well not to attempt an escape from this one, Captain. We don’t have a stockade here, and I will not put an officer, even one like you, in the public jail. The sealed packet will be carried by one of my junior lieutenants who will escort you with this future detachment to the careful attention of the general and his staff. I have no doubt that you will probably survive a court martial. Men like you often do somehow. You will have your written report ready for my adjutant within the hour. You will remain a prisoner of my lieutenant until you reach the headquarters in Charlotte. I will give him my personal direct order to shoot you if you attempt to escape.

  “I would further add that I do not like you, Captain, but that would not be completely accurate. The fact is that I don’t really know you. But I don’t like officers like you. You do not display the honorable qualities of a king’s officer and you are, in fact, not a soldier at all. The good men who died this week due to your incompetence deserved a far better fate. You will be kept out of my sight until you leave this place. If you do somehow survive court martial, please avoid any future social contact with me as you make me physically sick. You are dismissed, sir.”

  Crispin stood at attention and stared at the major openmouthed. He didn’t know what to say. There was nothing he could say in any event. This real s
oldier had seen through him like he was looking at a detailed painting through a glass. He felt like raging and crying at the same time. When he actually began to tremble with tears running down his face, Willoughby shouted for someone to come in and remove him from the makeshift office. A young lieutenant, who identified himself as the regimental adjutant, stepped into the room and pulled at Crispin’s sleeve until he was turned around facing the door. The lieutenant said, “This way, sir,” and half-dragged him out of the room.

  CHAPTER 14

  Ira was taken aback by Captain Robertson’s statement. His fear turned quickly to frustration and then to outright anger. He snapped, “What are you saying, sir? I thought you were confident that this place could be defended!”

  Robertson didn’t expect this reaction, but he was learning that Ira’s fiery reputation was well deserved. He stepped back a pace and replied, “I do believe we can mount an effective defense here, but we have no real idea what size force might attack. Only a fool would try to defend a fixed position against a determined enemy with no hope of help or relief and no means of escape if the worst were to happen.”

  The anger subsided as quickly as it had flared. Ira shook his head. “Of course you are correct, Captain. I humbly apologize for my reaction.”

  Robertson smiled and said, “No apology is necessary, Reverend Fletcher. We are all under great stress here. I didn’t intend to erode your confidence in our efforts. I’m thinking mainly of the two ladies, sir.”

  Ira said, “So was I, Captain … so was I.” They were in this together now.

  Ira felt confidence in this young militiaman that he couldn’t fully explain. He knew very little about the man. It was clear that all the militia company trusted him completely and would gladly obey any command he gave at a moment’s notice. That wasn’t it, though. There was something else. Robertson exuded an air of dependability. Maybe it was the fact that he never seemed to lose his composure whatever the situation. Or maybe it was the way he insisted on making eye contact when he spoke with you. Ira liked this young man whatever it was. He would like to think that Isaiah would have behaved the same way had he lived. That thought brought a renewed agony. He pushed it away and turned to walk slowly toward the mill.