Decision at Fletcher's Mill

by David Caringer

  The map showed a possible ford in the area, but it was further north on the main road. Private Spate advised him that the flooding of the river would render any ford useless now anyway. Billy called a brief halt while it was still light enough to bring the two sergeants and Spate into a quick council. The entire convoy showed immediate relief as the teamsters moved the wagons deeper into the trees. The escorting infantry automatically took up stations in a loose perimeter around them and went to ground.

  Billy was questioning Spate about the river again when Dr. Bolt walked over to join the conversation. Billy’s glance at the man was rewarded with a dismal frown of worry. The doctor didn’t try to buffer his report. “Another of my patients has died.” None of them needed to ask. They knew which one it was. The man was crying out in a loud feverish delirium an hour earlier before the doctor took drastic action to silence him. Billy asked him about the rest of the wounded. The doctor shook his head and looked down for a moment before answering, “We must get them somewhere out of the elements very quickly or they may all die. I have been doing what I can under these circumstances. I’ve prayed for each of them and I believe God Himself is the only reason more of them have not yet perished.” This comment surprised Billy. He hadn’t thought of the diminutive doctor as a religious man. He seemed to be more of a man of science. Letting these thoughts go, he turned back to Spate and asked him how the locals crossed the river in times like these.

  Spate shifted from foot to foot nervously under the steady gaze of his lieutenant and the two sergeants. Finally, his face brightened noticeably. “Well now, sir, come to think of it, there is a ferry that’s used to cross the river along the main road that runs from Fish Dam to Rocky Mount.” He flinched when he noticed the flash of anger on the faces of Billy and Sergeant Strickland. “Now … I didn’t say anything about it earlier cause I didn’t think it would serve for us…. With us bein’ so secretive and all….”

  Sergeant Duncan broke the ensuing silence with, “That’s all right, Spate. How far are we from the ferry now? Is it still in operation? Who owns it? Who runs it?” These were obvious questions. Billy appreciated Duncan taking charge of the conversation.

  Spate told them that as far as he knew, the ferry was still working. It was owned by an old man and his three sons. He thought the name was Simpson or Simons or something like that. He didn’t know if the ferrymen were rebel or loyalist. He suspected that they were probably Tories because the Royal Army allowed them to remain in business. Billy unfolded his map again and had Spate point out the ferry’s location. It wasn’t shown on the map. He would have noticed it. This probably indicated that whoever drew the map either didn’t know about it or considered it completely useless for rebel purposes. That was absurd though. Something as important as a functional ferry would certainly have been thought important enough to add to the hand-drawn map. Unless it wasn’t there.

  Billy looked up at Spate and asked, “Are you sure there is a ferry on the river there?”

  Spate looked mildly offended and said, “Yes, sir. I’ve been across the river on it myself … durin’ happier times … sir.” Spate leaned over the map to look closer for several moments before pointing down and exclaiming, “Look here, sir! There’s lots of stuff missin’ from this here map!”

  Billy looked over his shoulder and said, “What? I got this map from General Morgan himself.”

  Spate shook his head. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but I don’t rightly care who it come from…. There’s stuff missin’. In fact, there’s whole farms missin’. There’s creeks missin’. The truest part of the map is toward the middle. The further out toward the sides of it, the less it shows what’s really there….”

  Billy looked up at Strickland and Duncan. He was angry with himself now. How could he be this stupid? Of course! This hand-drawn map was excellently done, but it was more concerned with the main supply routes, towns, and major terrain features. The high quality of the drawing made it seem more reliable than it actually was.

  A cold chill coursed its way down Billy’s spine. He had been pushing this critical convoy down this trail mile after mile with no real understanding of the area. He realized that they owed a tremendous debt to the knowledge of this old smuggler, Private Spate. Something the doctor said a few minutes ago also nagged at the back of his mind. The doctor said that he had been praying for those wounded men. He was even giving credit to God for protecting them. Billy couldn’t help wondering if the doctor’s prayers had somehow influenced God to help them pass through all these miles of hostile country in spite of Billy’s own ignorance. He turned back to Private Spate.

  “How far are we from the ferry crossing right now, Spate?”

  The man looked around and rubbed his chin for a moment before responding. “I make it about two and a half miles … maybe a little further. But we’ll have to backtrack and then go around Fish Dam to the south. The ferry crosses the river a little more than two miles east of the village. There’s no good road from here to there since we need to stay away from the village and not be seen.”

  Billy turned immediately to Strickland and Duncan. “We’re going to stay right here tonight. We can’t leave until our scouts return, and we don’t have time to move all the way back north to the ferry crossing. I want to go myself and take a look at it now. Sergeant Duncan, you stay here and take charge ‘til I get back. Get set in for the night, you know what’s needed. Sergeant Strickland, you and Spate are coming with me. Pick out two good men to come with us. Be ready to move out in thirty minutes.”

  Strickland nodded and hurried off with Spate to find “volunteers.” Duncan asked a few brief questions and moved away to start setting up camp. Billy and Dr. Bolt were left standing alone. The conversation immediately turned to the disposition of the man who died a couple of hours ago.

  They agreed that he should be buried here. They would mark the grave carefully and make a notation on the map showing its location. It didn’t take long to make the preparations. The doctor and Billy presided over a short makeshift ceremony for the man as he was buried in the presence of the Phillips family and a few of the militiamen who weren’t needed right away by Sergeant Duncan. Billy thought a great deal about the event after it was finished. He hadn’t known what to say over the man, but he knew some show of respect for the departed was needed.

  The doctor surprised Billy with an offer to help. He nodded his consent, and Dr. Bolt stepped to the head of the grave. The old man removed his hat and handed it to farmer Phillips. Billy was even more surprised when the doctor produced a small worn Bible from his medical bag and turned to an apparently familiar passage in the book. The ensuing funeral ceremony was well and clearly spoken. It was solemn and beautiful in content. It somehow offered hope to those listening, while at the same time remaining brief. The fact that it didn’t look like the doctor was actually reading from the book as he spoke the words seemed quite odd. It appeared that the doctor was speaking the words from memory in his broken accent. When Billy looked over at the open page, he found that the words were written in a foreign language. The old doctor did the whole ceremony, including several Bible passages, in his strange heavily accented English, purely from memory.

  Sergeant Strickland had his small group of men ready to leave as soon as the ceremony was done. Billy spent several more minutes discussing his intentions with Sergeant Duncan in case something happened and he was unable to return from his reconnaissance of the ferry crossing. He paused briefly to speak with Silas and to offer his hearty thanks to the doctor for the respect he had shown the dead soldier. He and the four other men were moving swiftly through the woods a short time later in the direction of the ferry crossing on the Broad River.

  Billy didn’t know if the ferry was there or not. He wondered if he would be able to make use of it even if it did exist. He suspected that they would have to seize the ferry by force if it was there at all. He knew that he had to get the convoy across the river as soon as possible. He realized that he w
as terrified. He wasn’t afraid of death. He was afraid of failure. More specifically, he was afraid he would fail these men, that he would fail the general, that he would fail in this important mission after he was entrusted with so much. Running quietly through the woods with this small group of men, Billy began to say a prayer of his own.

  CHAPTER 25

  Captain Robertson bound up the steps two at a time and knocked on the door of the Fletcher house a little harder than he intended. Elizabeth yanked the door open with a look of disdain that caused him to momentarily falter in his excitement. “Yes, Captain, what is it? Why are you pounding on this door? Don’t you understand that we have a very feeble injured man upstairs?”

  Robertson removed his hat and stilled his anxiety as he said, “Yes, miss. I do understand. It’s just that I need to speak with Reverend Fletcher right away. Would you please let him know that I’m here?”

  Elizabeth stepped back and pulled the door open. “Let him know yourself, sir. He’s in the kitchen eating breakfast.” Robertson nodded his thanks as he hurried through the parlor toward the kitchen at the back of the house. Elizabeth closed the door and wondered what could possibly be agitating the man so. His manner didn’t suggest fear. What was it? Excitement? There must be some news from outside the village. Maybe their fears were unfounded and the crisis had passed. She heard Ezekiel quietly calling from upstairs in that moment. She left all thought of the militia captain behind her as she rushed back upstairs to Ezekiel’s room.

  Robertson heard quiet laughter from inside the kitchen. He tapped once on the door and pushed it open. He was immediately surprised to see Reverend Fletcher holding hands across the kitchen table with Mona Partridge. The captain stood momentarily speechless. The two turned and looked up to see who was interrupting the special moment they were enjoying in each other’s company.

  Ira broke the silence. “Yes, Captain?” He wasn’t angry. He wore a peaceful, pleasant expression that surprised Robertson even more.

  The captain nearly forgot what he came to say. Its importance brought it back suddenly. “We just received critical news, Reverend.” Ira turned to face him directly, and Mona got up to finish straightening the kitchen. Robertson went on, “A rider just came in from Colonel Marion. He is headed this way from over east of Camden with a large body of men. It seems there was a fierce battle several days ago northwest of here at a place called the Cowpens.”

  Captain Robertson had Ira’s full attention. Mona excused herself and brushed past the captain, moving quietly out through the parlor door. Robertson continued, “Francis Marion doesn’t have any reason to come this far west unless he really believes it’s crucial. He must know something we don’t about British intentions. I wonder what could be so important?”

  Ira thought a moment and asked, “You don’t think the Continental Army is headed this direction from this ‘Cowpens’ place? Would the British follow them? Could a significant battle occur here?”

  Robertson didn’t know the answers to those questions, but he was wondering the same things.

  Both men stared silently until Ira realized that his thoughts were fixed on the missing Captain Crispin. He wondered if the man had made it to a British garrison by now. This brought another train of thought. Crispin identified himself as a quartermaster. He was here trying to forage, or steal, provisions for the Royal Army. Could that oddly sinister fellow have persuaded the army to return here in force as Robertson expected? Was Colonel Marion reacting to something he had heard in this regard, or was this new information completely unrelated?

  Captain Robertson was apparently thinking along the same lines when he said, “Whatever would influence the British to move on us here, has apparently been presented to Colonel Marion as reason enough to come to our aid. The message specifically refers to the results of the battle causing Colonel Marion to feel he needs to reinforce this place. The strange thing is that the message also says the battle was an overwhelming victory for our cause.”

  Another thought occurred to Ira. “Maybe there is something else involved in all of this.” Robertson remained silent, but his thoughts began to settle on a likely theory. Ira went on, “Surely you have heard the rumors of treasure hidden somewhere in or near Fletcher’s Mill, Captain?” Robertson was surprised to hear Ira mention the subject, and it must have shown on his face. Ira turned directly toward him. “Captain, we have been besieged by these rumors for years. You are well aware that I am a wealthy man. I make no pretense otherwise. God has blessed me profoundly. I have many friends in this colony on both sides of the current political debate. I also have many enemies. Some of my ‘friends’ are simply interested in my wealth. The interests of my enemies are more complicated. You see, I, like my father, abhor slavery. I believe it to be morally repugnant. The fact that I own no slaves and yet possess great wealth shows that riches are attainable without the sin of slavery. This threatens the interests of many in this and the other southern colonies.”

  Captain Robertson was beginning to better understand some of what he heard about Ira Fletcher from angry and jealous men all over the colony. Ira was warming to his topic as he went on, “Many of my neighbors find it morally wrong for me, a private subject of the Crown, to refuse to be complicit in this evil practice! They are even more alarmed and offended that my father and I would not only set these unfortunate people free, but we would actually employ one of them in a position of authority in our private business affairs!”

  Robertson understood that Ira was referring to the position Ezekiel held here at the mill. He ventured the comment, “None of the villagers seem to be offended by Ezekiel, sir. Why is that?”

  Ira began to pace again with his hands clasped behind his back. The kitchen was just large enough to allow him several steps back and forth between the hearth and the table. He shook his head without missing a step. “No. The villagers are personally loyal to my family. They are all good God-fearing Englishmen. They recognize injustice when they see it! They agree with me in any event. Ezekiel has done more to endear them during his long life than could ever be undone by the poison of pride, selfishness, and greed!”

  Ira’s thoughts shifted back to his earlier musings. “I believe the British may have more dubious motives for attacking us here than some strange retaliation for a battle lost elsewhere. I don’t think their sole motive would be theft of the supplies in our storage rooms either. I believe there are two other things that will drive them here. You have already explained one of these. They simply can’t allow what happened here with Crispin and his men to go unanswered for reasons of morale and politics. They will believe that they can’t leave a hostile act unpunished. My friendship with the governor and others in the colonial government will not protect us if the authorities choose to believe what Captain Crispin tells them. Why wouldn’t they believe him? I think the rumors of treasure may bring them here anyway.”

  Ira paused and looked at the captain with an expression full of frustration, fatigue, and sadness. Robertson noticed something else there also. Reverend Fletcher usually wore an almost expressionless mask. Not of indifference, but of authority. Whatever was going through Ira’s mind was being displayed in an oddly animated way. A powerful conflicting emotion seemed to be struggling to gain control of Ira’s thoughts and his demeanor. What was it? Irony? Fatalism? Hope? Ira’s features slowly calmed and Robertson began to understand. He was watching this complex man work through a desperate struggle with an old enemy. Neither man spoke for almost a minute.

  Robertson slowly sat down in one of the chairs while Ira resumed his pacing. Then, like beams of sunshine coming through parting rain clouds, a smile crept over Ira’s face. He stopped and pulled his shoulders back while he straightened the front of his coat. Robertson noticed a brief twinkle in the older man’s eyes. Ira took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He had come to grips with his emotions and was now obviously relieved by a peace that seemed to wash over him and bring everything under control.

  Ira surprise
d Robertson by sitting back down across the table from him. He slowly reached over and removed the coffee pot from its iron hook above the fire. He poured himself a steaming cup of Mona’s strong brew and offered a cup to Robertson, who gladly accepted. Ira put the pot back on the hook and sipped thoughtfully. Something occurred to him suddenly and he looked up to ask, “Captain, what if there is an altogether different reason for us to be visited by the armies of our friends and enemies alike?”

  Robertson curiously asked, “What could that reason possibly be, sir?”

  Ira said, “The messenger reported that there was a large battle and that the continentals were the victors. Did they give any further information about it? How large was the battle? How decisive was the victory?”

  Robertson took a sip of coffee and shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. There were no further details other than the names of the officers commanding the opposing sides, and that the battle was a great victory for the Continental Army.”

  Ira leaned back and said, “Well, sir, let’s suppose this was a truly great victory and that many of the British soldiers were killed, captured, or driven from the field. What would happen to their weapons and supplies?”

  Ira leaned forward on his elbows with the coffee cup between his hands. “Who were the opposing commanders?”

  Robertson replied, “General Daniel Morgan commanded the continentals. That murderous scoundrel, Colonel Tarleton was in command of the British.”

  Ira said, “I’ve heard of both men. I can only imagine the carnage that must have resulted in a meeting between those two. You didn’t answer my other question, though. What would have happened to the arms, ammunition, and other military supplies of the men vanquished in such a battle? I suppose the saying, ‘To the victor go the spoils’ would apply here.”