Decision at Fletcher's Mill

by David Caringer

  Billy got the point. He thought a few seconds and whispered, “Here’s what we’ll do. I want to leave the two extra men here to watch the crossing overnight and report anything they observe when we get back. Me, you, and Spate will head back to the wagons. It’ll be a long night, but I want to bring the wagons back here before first light. That should make it easier to get past Fish Dam without drawing attention to ourselves if we’re careful. We’ll keep the wagons up the road out of sight while we take the ferrymen. Then we’ll bring them forward to make the crossing one wagon at a time.” He paused and thought about this plan. A startling realization struck him and Strickland simultaneously. Both men stood and looked into the distance at the opposite bank of the river. There, like two tiny sparks floating in the murky darkness, were two lanterns marking the ferry landing on the other side. They could just make out the small dark shape of another shack on that side of the river not far from the landing.

  They crouched quickly as the implications washed over them. Strickland whispered first. “Of course sir! They have another mule team on the other side of the river. How can we possibly get the crew on that side to haul us across so that we can control both landings?” Billy looked again at the dark river. He could hear the rushing water of the flooded watercourse. He knew it would be useless to try swimming across to take the other landing. The only solution suddenly presented itself with stark clarity. “We’ll just have to get the old man to signal his partners on the other side to pull the boat across the first time. We’ll put men on the boat who will seize the other landing quietly when they get there. We’ll control the ferry after that until we get all of the wagons across.”

  Strickland looked at him and blinked in the near darkness. The idea was so ridiculously simple that it just might work. He finally nodded and said, “All right, Lieutenant. I can’t think of any better way to get across. I’m for it. Now we better get back to the convoy and get it headed this way.”

  They got up and started back through the brush along the side of the road to find Private Spate and his companions. Billy personally took the two men back to the spot he and Strickland had used to watch the events at the landing. He gave the men careful instructions to keep watch in shifts so that the landing was observed constantly until he got back. He rejoined Strickland and Spate several minutes later, and they were soon running back through the dark woods toward the convoy encampment.

  It took nearly an hour to get everyone in the convoy ready to move out. Dr. Bolt was very worried about his surviving patients. He understood the need for stealth and speed, but he also made it clear to Billy that he could not guarantee the welfare of the injured men unless they reached the right kind of shelter and warmth soon. Billy was well aware of this concern, and the reminder set him further on edge. He nearly offered a sharp retort to the diminutive old physician. He inhaled in frustrated anger, then suddenly remembered the kindness shown by the doctor in the earlier funeral. This helped him squelch the barb before it was uttered.

  The Phillips family surprised Billy by not offering any resistance. The farmer was concerned about the time they were spending in the open country and wanted to get his family to safety as soon as possible. Mrs. Phillips seemed to have been cowed by the loss of her home and the death of a young soldier she had been helping the doctor with. The little Phillips girl was sound asleep and couldn’t be roused easily without noisy complaint. She was eventually laid out in the back of the ambulance wagon, as it was now called, to sleep next to Silas. Billy couldn’t help observing that there was sadly more room in the wagon now than there had been when they left the Phillips farm.

  The convoy made the trip back down the trail and through the woods on the south side of the village without any significant difficulty. The night was far spent by the time they reached the east-west road and turned toward the river. Strickland insisted that they stop several hundred yards away from the landing so that the ferrymen wouldn’t hear their approach. Billy agreed. The wagons were driven off the roadway into the woods. Sergeant Duncan brought all the militiamen close so that Billy could quickly explain his plan for seizing the ferry crossing. Sergeant Strickland added a stern warning for absolute silence when Billy finished speaking. The teamsters were left to guard the wagons and the Phillips family with the doctor, his assistant, and the wounded men. The rest of the small company soon moved quietly through the woods and brush near the road toward the river.

  Billy and Strickland made contact with the two men left watching the landing and learned that no one had stirred in or around the shack since they left hours earlier. The lanterns were still burning on the landing stage, but the light had been extinguished inside the shack. Billy left Strickland on the high ground with half the men to provide covering fire if it was needed while he went quietly down the embankment with the rest of the men toward the shack. They quickly surrounded the small building. Billy felt decidedly inept as he realized that he didn’t know what to do next. He expected to be challenged by one or all of the ferrymen by now. The silence was surprising. He found himself squatting next to Spate and Howard at the corner of the small building near the door.

  Billy searched his imagination swiftly for ideas that would allow the shack to be seized noiselessly and came up empty. He finally shrugged and stepped over to the door. He motioned for the two privates to move to the sides of the doorway and be ready to rush inside while he prepared to kick the door in. A light was stuck inside the shack at that moment, and they heard a gruff Irish voice from inside shout, “Ere now … who’s out there…!?”

  Billy was poised to kick with his leg in the air. The door was suddenly yanked open, and his eyes were startled by the seemingly brilliant light of a flaming candle in the grizzled hand of the old ferryman. Time seemed suspended as the occupants of the shack realized they had interrupted the forced entry of their home. One of the ferrymen fired a pistol in the direction of the blue coated apparition in the doorway. Billy felt the ball cut through the outside of his trouser leg and several skin layers along his lower right thigh. It was like being kicked in the thigh and sliced with a cleaver at the same time. He was flung back into the darkness as Howard and Spate rushed into the shack with their muskets leveled, forcing the ferrymen into immediate surrender.

  Billy picked himself up slowly from the ground and heard the thundering footfalls of Strickland and his men as they ran down the embankment to lend assistance. His leg was bleeding profusely already. It felt like it had been seared with a hot knife. Spate herded the four ferrymen out of the shack near him, while Howard ripped the kerchief from his own neck and tied it tightly around Billy’s leg.

  Billy was more angry than frightened. Shrugging Howard away, he stepped forward and aimed the muzzle of his rifle at the wide-eyed face of the huge oafish young man who had fired the pistol. He might have shot him then if the oldest of the ferrymen hadn’t spoken. It was the same voice he heard a few seconds earlier before the door opened. “Ere now…. Please, sur…. Don’t harm the lad, sur…. E meant no arm, sur….” Billy turned toward the old man in growing rage and pain. He suddenly noticed that the kindly face was pleading for mercy not for himself but for his son. He looked back at the younger man and realized that he was some kind of simpleton. The still smoking pistol was lying on the floor of the shack and the young man’s hands were raised in front of him as if to ward off Billy’s anger more than the very real danger from the shaking rifle barrel.

  CHAPTER 28

  Major Throckmorton was exhausted. He slept fitfully through the short night although the room he was in could be considered quite comfortable. His mind held a mixture of greedy apprehension, worry, and indecisiveness. He supposed that he should feel some sort of shame for having been captured in the first place, and for sharing information with that pompous Major Willoughby. He didn’t. His pragmatic selfishness allowed him to rationalize each of his decisions. He believed himself to be endowed with great cunning if not vast intelligence. The problem that plagued him through the
night was not his lack of personal honor. The subject that tormented him right now was the apparently fleeting nature of what he perceived to be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to obtain untold riches with no risk to his personal reputation.

  Throckmorton heard the sounds of troops mustering all around the house as dawn approached. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but he could easily guess. Willoughby was pumping him for information in the presence of that cavalry lieutenant. Cloyde was different from the impudent young adjutant. Cloyde was apparently a recent acquaintance to Sir Thomas Willoughby. The condition of Cloyde’s uniform and boots suggested that he had been in the field for several days rather than here in this comfortable garrison town.

  Throckmorton listened to the growing sounds of preparation from outside the house with the realization that a large body of troops, probably most of the garrison, was preparing to depart. He briefly wondered whether this was some kind of escort preparing to move him and Captain Crispin to the main British headquarters. That was ridiculous, though. The sounds told him that this was a much larger force than the escort of two prisoners would require. He tried to see what was going on through the window, but the room was located at the back of the house. The area below was still shrouded in early morning darkness.

  The major was peering out through the window in this way when he noticed a huge oak tree very near the house on this side. The window opened onto the roof. He stepped back and examined the window itself. This was a fine house, and the multipane windows were hinged on the sides with a center latch that allowed them to be swung open to allow fresh air to enter. He tried the latch and found that it opened easily. Closing the window quickly, he sat back down on the bed and considered his options. He gave his parole to Sir Thomas, but he hardly cared about that. He wouldn’t go to a miserable British prison hulk if he could avoid it.

  Throckmorton was sitting on the end of the bed when the door opened abruptly. The adjutant entered with an armed guard and a bright lantern. The lieutenant was carrying a folded pile of clothing which he dropped on the bed next to the major. Throckmorton realized that this was his uniform coat and a clean pair of trousers. The coat had been cleaned and mended. The lieutenant stepped back, and another man entered the room with a tray containing a covered dish and a steaming cup of what could only be coffee or tea. The tray was placed on the small table in the corner of the room. The man picked up the chamber pot from the side of the bed and left silently.

  The adjutant said in a cheery voice, “Good morning, Major! I trust you slept well, sir! Major Willoughby wished me to offer his regret that he will not be having breakfast with you as his duties require him to be elsewhere.” Throckmorton moved to the small chair at the side of the table. He was drawn involuntarily by the smell of what must be fried ham and eggs under the cover on the tray. He heard himself asking about the noises outside the house and got the blunt rebuff he should have expected. The lieutenant seemed to realize what he was thinking earlier and said, “Have no fear, Major. You will remain our guest here for some time. There is no plan afoot to spirit you away from here. Your partisan friends are far too active in the area now in any event. You will be moved from here along with the rest of the garrison should we find it necessary to abandon this place.”

  Throckmorton tried to seem pleasant with the young man, but ended up remaining silent. He sat in the chair staring at the tray of food. The lieutenant finally looked appraisingly around the room and walked out. The guard departed on the lieutenant’s heels and locked the door behind him. Major Throckmorton devoured the food as if he hadn’t eaten in a week. He wanted to slow down and savor the still scalding hot coffee. There was no time for that. He needed to act quickly and decisively or the opportunity before him would vanish.

  Major Throckmorton got up from the table and quickly pulled on the clean trousers. He left his uniform coat folded and rolled it up in the blanket covering the bed. The air was cold outside, but he didn’t want the blue coat to be seen and fired upon by sentries surrounding the house. He couldn’t bring himself to abandon the cup of coffee, so he stepped back over to the table and gulped the still hot liquid down. The only eating utensil his jailers apparently trusted him with was a spoon. He picked this up from the tray and stepped over to open the window. He Looked around the room and decided to prop the single chair under the door handle to make the room more difficult to enter from the outer hallway.

  Throckmorton then picked up the blanket bundle containing his uniform coat and climbed out through the window onto the roof. There was no immediate challenge to this strange apparition moving down the steep shingled surface to the place where a branch of the old oak tree came within a few feet of the roof edge. The light was increasing rapidly, but it was still fairly dark on this side of the house. He stopped at the edge and gazed down into the gloom. He saw no one. Fear was growing in his chest rapidly. He brought it under control and dropped the bundle to the ground below.

  The major stood up straight now and peered out at the tree branch. It hadn’t seemed so far away a few minutes ago from inside the window. Now it looked like a great gulf separated him from this perceived route to freedom. Breathing deeply, he railed silently at himself for his obstinate cowardice, and stepped a few paces back up the shingled roof. He didn’t want to see what happened next, but didn’t dare close his eyes either. With no further consideration, he lunged down the roof and flung his gangly old body out through the open space in the direction of the branch.

  The gnarled old branch didn’t give much as Throckmorton landed on it chest first. His legs continued to move forward under the branch. He felt the skin tearing under his shirt as his body twisted out horizontally. There was nothing to hold onto but bark and twigs. The rest of his descent was as absurd as it was inevitable. He landed flat on his back in the leaf-covered wet winter grass. He was still conscious, but the air was nocked completely out of his lungs. He thought this is what a fish must feel like when it is brought onto dry land.

  The terror was even greater than the pain. Throckmorton knew someone must have heard him fall. He couldn’t move. He lay there trying to breathe waiting for the inevitable challenge. He wondered what it would feel like when he was shot or impaled on a guard’s bayonet. His breathing slowly returned, and he finally realized that his fall wasn’t noticed. Slowly turning onto his side and then onto his stomach, Throckmorton found that he was now able to push himself up onto his hands and knees. It didn’t seem like anything was broken. He may have lost consciousness briefly when he hit the ground, but he wasn’t sure. Looking around again furtively, he rose to his feet and bent double as he ran over to retrieve his bundle, then turned to dart into the bushes behind the house.

  Throckmorton made it to the edge of town before he realized that he was making a terrible mistake. He needed help. There was no way he could accomplish what he wished alone. One of his assistants deserted him in terror on the road and the other one was dead. The only person he believed he could trust now was as much an untrustworthy scoundrel as he was himself. Captain Reginald Crispin. Yes. He believed he could trust this man … somewhat. They wanted the same things. The brief conversation they shared in their mutual prison cell revealed similarities between them that didn’t stop with their identical job titles. Both felt sorely used by their superiors, peers, and subordinates. Both believed they deserved better than they had in terms of wealth and position.

  The prisoners had spoken at length about the situation they found themselves in. Both attributed their plight to the unfair circumstances of the present conflict. They also discussed what they had heard about the rumors of great treasure horded by an old man named Ira Fletcher. Crispin had been there. He managed to escape from captivity in the very mill supposedly concealing the treasure. Crispin was convinced that the armed men at the mill were present for a greater purpose than the rebellion. He convinced Throckmorton that he must be right. The major still wanted vengeance with the young militia lieutenant who claimed to be General Morgan’
s kin. Now, however, there was a larger consideration that demanded his attention. There was treasure to be obtained somehow.

  Throckmorton made up his mind and doubled back toward the large house near the center of the small town. Daylight was almost upon him. He suddenly found himself huddling in bushes at the side of a smaller house and watching in frightened fascination as Major Willoughby and Lieutenant Cloyde rode by with over three hundred men. They were on their way out of town headed southwest. Throckmorton realized this must be nearly the full garrison. They must be headed toward Fletcher’s Mill. The fools…. Let them go. Their absence might make his next task easier. He wasn’t fool enough to believe the house would no longer be guarded. In fact, he was certain the young adjutant would have been left behind in charge of the remaining British troops.

  Throckmorton wound his way through the trees and bushes near the edge of town retracing his steps. The journey somehow seemed longer on the way back. He knew Crispin was held in the cellar. They wouldn’t have moved the captain. He remembered that there were no windows in the storeroom prison cell. There was a guard in the hallway, and the hallway was well lit. He had seen several doors along this corridor as he was brought upstairs by Major Willoughby yesterday. He finally reached the house and worked his way around looking for some kind of exterior cellar entry. There was a stone outcropping near the back door of the house leading to the privy. This held what appeared to be two large wooden doors that leaned inward toward the side of the building. The doors covered stairs leading downward. So, this was the entry. He couldn’t use it. Searching further along the wall, he noticed two small shuttered windows at ground level on the same side of the house with his friend, the oak tree. It was strange that he didn’t notice these earlier.