Decision at Fletcher's Mill

by David Caringer

  Major Throckmorton suddenly grabbed Crispin by the sleeve and pulled him to a halt. He smelled wood smoke. It required no genius to understand that smoke meant fire. Smoke indicated the presence of either a campfire or a chimney. A campfire meant a military presence. The armed forces of either side in this conflict must be avoided of course. The possibility of a chimney as the source sent both men moving carefully forward again in the quiet darkness. Less than a hundred yards further on, they stumbled onto a low stone bridge over a gurgling creek bed. They found a trail cutting away from the road through the trees just on the other side of the bridge.

  A quick desperate reconnaissance revealed the existence of a wealthy-looking farm on the side of the hill above the road. There were no visible lights. It was very late. The smoke was curling from two brick chimneys at either end of the large farmhouse. Their first instinct was to go seek shelter for a while in the barn. Both men wanted to keep moving, though. What they really needed was food and warmer clothing that could only be found inside the house. One look at either of them would cause any intelligent farmer to refuse them entry.

  A sharp whispered argument ensued. Throckmorton wanted to keep moving south without coming in contact with anyone. Crispin maintained the illogical attitude that any colonial property rightfully belonged to the Crown. He somehow managed to rationalize his current circumstances to the point where he felt like a victim of treachery. He argued they should force entry to the house and take what they needed. To reinforce his argument, he brandished the stolen musket he was carrying. Throckmorton finally gave in.

  More sharp conversation followed, and a plan of sorts developed. The two scoundrels moved furtively toward the house a few minutes later. Crispin took a position behind a tree near the front porch from which he could easily cover the door with the loaded musket. Throckmorton stepped gingerly onto the porch and sidled up to the door. He paused and looked back at Crispin. Crispin nodded once, and Throckmorton banged on the door with his fist several times.

  Silence prevailed for nearly a full minute. Throckmorton banged on the door again. Nothing happened. He was about to suggest they should kick the door in when he saw the dim glow of approaching light through the small square windowpane in the center of the door. He heard a vaguely familiar male voice from inside the house. “All right, all right! I’m coming! Stop pounding on my door!” He knew he had heard the voice before, but he couldn’t place it. He stood back a little further and held his tongue.

  Crispin came from behind the tree in exasperation and shouted, “Open that door at once in the name of the king!”

  Throckmorton couldn’t believe he heard the absurd words and was about to laugh at Crispin in nervous surprise when the door bolt was drawn from the inside. The door jerked open a moment later. Throckmorton found himself staring in slack-jawed shock at the young man standing in the opening. The person was holding a lowered pistol in one hand and a guttering candle in the other. He was clad in a long flowing nightshirt and a wool coat that he apparently threw on before opening the door. This wasn’t what surprised Throckmorton. The man standing in the doorway was the same Tory militia officer who captured and tormented Throckmorton less than three days earlier.

  Crispin surged onto the porch with the cocked musket aimed at the man’s face before the other two could voice their mutual recognition. “Drop that weapon, sir!” The man glanced away from Throckmorton toward Crispin and saw the looming barrel of the musket only inches from his nose. He dropped the pistol without ceremony. It was the last mistake he made this side of eternity. Throckmorton lunged forward and kicked the man in the stomach with all his strength. He then scooped up the pistol and began beating the fallen man mercilessly with it. Crispin pulled him away finally, as the man slumped unconscious onto the porch floor in the doorway. Throckmorton shrugged Crispin away and cocked the pistol before he could be stopped. He then aimed the pistol at the man’s chest and fired.

  Crispin shoved Throckmorton back and bent over the man as if to verify what he had just seen happen. People were stirring now inside and outside the house. Crispin made sure the musket was primed and cocked before anyone arrived. Throckmorton was on his feet again now and wanted to run. Crispin shouted for him to stay. They came this far now. They had to see this disaster all the way through. He remembered in a flash of dubious cunning that he was wearing most of a dragoon private’s uniform. Throckmorton was still dressed as a Continental Army major. Crispin would use their appearance to the best advantage he could make of it.

  Light was approaching from further inside the house. He could hear footfalls as several people approached from what he thought must be the slave quarters near the barn. Three large black men climbed onto the porch. A young woman and a little boy in nightclothes came into the entry foyer from the back of the house. The woman saw the man, apparently her husband, on the floor surrounded by a spreading pool of blood. Her hand went to her mouth and she screamed. The little boy pulled away from her and surged forward yelling, “Father!?”

  Crispin snatched up the pistol and shoved it into his belt while aiming the musket at Throckmorton and yelling, “Down on your face, you rebel scum!” Throckmorton obeyed like some kind of automaton.

  The oldest of the apparent slaves asked, “What is going on here? What has happened? What have you done to Master Richard?” The woman was now on her knees sobbing. The little boy was crying wildly and shaking the dead man by the shoulders begging him to wake up. One of the slaves stepped through the doorway and picked the boy up to carry him back inside. An elderly black woman appeared on the porch and moved inside to take charge of the deceased farmer’s weeping wife.

  Crispin turned to the elderly black man who was still standing his ground waiting for an answer. “I’m Private Reynolds of the 5th Dragoon Guards,” he lied forcefully. “My sergeant and I were escorting this prisoner to Rocky Mount when we were ambushed on the road. My sergeant and two of the horses were killed in the fight. The other horse ran off. I marched the prisoner as far as the bridge down below and decided to see if I could obtain fresh mounts from this farm when I realized it was here. This filthy scum somehow managed to get loose from the rope his hands were tied with and I didn’t realize it. Your master opened the door with a pistol in his hand. Before I could stop him, the prisoner grabbed the pistol and struck your master down with it. The pistol discharged during the struggle and your master was shot.”

  Throckmorton listened to all of this in shock. He hardly realized what he had done only minutes earlier. It was as if the rage possessed him and took over his faculties. He still struggled to regain his reason. Now Crispin was telling the most outlandish story he had heard yet. Somehow, though, the story made perfect sense. The farmer’s wife and child could be heard crying inconsolably from a room deep in the house. The slaves moved the body from the doorway, and a woman was already on her hands and knees scrubbing away the pool of blood.

  Crispin took charge of the slaves gathering on the porch. He was clearly a man of authority, and they were accustomed to obeying the orders they were given. He told them to move the body to the barn and get two fresh horses saddled. He demanded extra wool overcoats from inside the house along with enough provisions to last him and his prisoner all the way to Rocky Mount. He demanded powder and extra shot for the pistol he had confiscated. Throckmorton was tied roughly with his hands behind his back and his feet lashed together. Crispin had the slaves throw him face down over the saddle when the horses were brought to the front of the house.

  Crispin promised to have the proper authorities return to the farm and make amends for this disaster when he reached Rocky Mount. He then swung into the saddle and took the reins of the horse carrying Throckmorton’s miserable form. Minutes later, he was cantering down the drive. Crispin turned south when he reached the road, rather than north toward Rocky Mount. He pulled to a halt after a mile or two and dragged Throckmorton down to the ground. He untied the major and stared him in the face for a long moment before both me
n remounted and rode silently through the darkness toward Fletcher’s Mill.

  CHAPTER 34

  The report of the rifle was heard at the same time the bullet struck home. Lieutenant Cloyde was hit in the chest just above his right lung and below his collar bone. This first shot was followed within a half second by over seventy more shots from above the embankment on the left side of the road. More fire came from a large rock pile directly in front of the column. All the shots were well aimed and fired at close range. Nearly forty saddles were suddenly empty. Several others held desperately wounded men who simply failed to fall.

  Most of Cloyde’s men, the green-coated members of Tarleton’s Legion, were hit in this first volley. Some of these men were stuck more than once. Two pistol shots from the top of the rock pile dispatched the sergeant standing there. The dragoons of the advanced picket were dropped in the road with rifle shots as they tried to return to the column. The air was torn with the screams of men and horses. Pandemonium reigned as the middle of the column continued to surge forward into the collapsing lead elements for several seconds. Many of the survivors from the front of the column did exactly what their hidden attackers wanted and expected them to do. They turned their mounts in the road and attempted to flee.

  Confusion added fuel to the panic like lamp oil cast on open flame. The trailing elements of the column were made up mostly of Tory militia. These units were strung out as much as a quarter of a mile back along the road. The sound of battle and the smell of powder smoke mixed with fear had a dramatic effect on these inexperienced soldier farmers. Their officers tried to hold them together on the road. Some of them even tried to drive their men forward toward the sound of the guns. The effort was useless. The frightened men began to break and run as soon as they saw the first terrified wounded dragoons galloping back along the road toward them. Every member of the proud and loud-mouthed Tory militia vanished into the trees and scrub within seconds. Many of them didn’t stop running until they were miles away to the north as they scurried in panic toward their homes and farms.

  Major Willoughby couldn’t understand why he was not hit in the initial volley of the ambush. He had to do something immediately before more of his men were lost. Seconds seemed like minutes now. He twisted violently around to assess the situation and began shouting orders. Willoughby knew the only way to survive a well-prepared ambush was to charge into the enemy fire and break it with overwhelming force. The enemy was well concealed on higher ground here. The rebels chose this site well, and he foolishly rode his column right into it. Fear and rage intermingled to send his pulse rate surging and force adrenaline to animate his already decisive instincts.

  Willoughby knew that to stay frozen on the road or to order a retreat would mean many more of his men would die. He began shouting for the next two troops in the column, about seventy men, to charge the left flank embankment. He ordered the now mostly dismounted survivors around him to seek cover and open fire with anything they could bring to bear. He knew that his survival demanded he and his men overwhelm their enemy with a higher volume of fire. He could tell from the sound of the enemy weapons that they were firing rifles. The British carbines and muskets could be reloaded and fired at a much higher rate than rifles no matter who was using them. The roadbed was covered with smoke. The riflemen in the trees above couldn’t see his men as well now to effectively use their more accurate weapons.

  Willoughby pulled both of his horse pistols from the holsters on his saddle and discharged them toward the rock pile in front of him. He then drew his sword and forced his horse off the road into the trees and thick underbrush on the left side. He would personally lead his still mounted surviving dragoons in a direct charge up the embankment. The captains commanding the trailing cavalry troops knew what to do. They were well-trained British professionals. They would force their way up through the woods to the left from the rear of the column to drive the rebels from their concealed positions by turning their flank. Willoughby thought a moment about Lieutenant Cloyde, but there was no time for that now. Another volley rang out from the wooded embankment just as his dragoons were starting to force their mounts upward in the attack. More saddles were suddenly empty.

  Captain Watson ordered his men to begin their withdrawal from the ambush site before he saw Willoughby begin his charge onto the embankment through the smoke followed by many furious dragoons. He knew these would be reinforced by more cavalry from the rear of the column. They would quickly turn his flank if he tried to stay and fight. He had no intention of doing that. He fired both of his pistols at the British sergeant a few yards below him on the rock pile after firing the rifle shot that started the battle. He reloaded his rifle without conscious thought as he yelled instructions to the men around him during the next few harried and blinding minutes. Many of his men reloaded very quickly. They saw the threat coming up the embankment and fired without command. Most of these shots slammed mercilessly into the closely packed troops of charging cavalry.

  Watson was still on the rock pile. His vantage point allowed him to see Major Willoughby rallying his men to push them further up the embankment. He still couldn’t bring himself to shoot his old comrade. Instead, he took careful aim and shot Willoughby’s horse. The major felt the animal collapsing and kicked himself clear before it slid and rolled back down the embankment. The counterattack lost momentum when the major went down. It proceeded up the embankment more slowly. The musket fire from the roadbed didn’t slacken, but it was poorly aimed. The dragoons forcing their way up the slope realized that they were as likely to be shot by their comrades on the road as the enemy above them. Several of them came to a stop in the absence of the major’s leadership.

  The momentary delay gave Watson’s men enough time to disengage and move deeper into the surrounding woods from their concealed positions. Suddenly, there were no shots at all from the embankment. The shots slowly died away on the roadbed as well. The smoke began to clear in the faint breeze. The rebels separated into groups of two or three men each within seconds and swiftly spread out through the deep woods, moving away from the ambush site. None of the continental militiamen were lost. They would travel furtively through the trees and undergrowth for hours, if need be, to avoid further contact and return to the rally point designated earlier in the day by Captain Watson.

  Major Willoughby’s surviving cavalry moved on up the embankment and through the trees and brush searching for any sign of their rebel attackers. They found none. It was as if no one had ever been there. The only real evidence that the ambush had happened was in the bullet-riddled bodies of their dead and wounded comrades. Willoughby was himself shocked by the astounding violence of the attack. His mind continued to seethe with fiery rage. He struggled to gain control of himself before trying to take charge of his now depleted force. Subordinate commanders began reporting the damage that had been done. He listened with a sullen countenance that made some of them think he didn’t hear them. He finally forced himself to acknowledge the reports with nods and terse comments if only to keep the annoying young officers from repeating themselves.

  Major Willoughby lost nearly half the men he brought out of Rocky Mount in a battle that lasted less than five minutes. Seventy-one of his men were now dead. Another thirty-nine were wounded. Many of these would probably die of their wounds. The ratio of killed and wounded was inexplicably opposite anything he had ever seen in battle. The range was so close. It seemed that few, if any, of the rebel shots missed their marks. He lost all the cowardly Tory militia. The furious growl he uttered as he thought of those useless farmers escaped him before he could contain it.

  Lieutenant Cloyde was still alive. Willoughby’s personal surgeon was working on him before the lingering powder smoke completely cleared the road bed. The major obtained another horse. There were plenty of spare mounts now. He ordered his men to discontinue the search for the rebels in the surrounding countryside. It was pointless. They would not be found. Any further search would only risk more casualti
es to his already decimated command. He decided that they would regroup right here on the high ground above the road. His men needed to bury their dead and tend to their wounded.

  Major Willoughby realized that it was also pointless to push on toward Fletcher’s Mill with the force he had left. He believed the rebels must surely have a far greater force at the mill than he anticipated. Whatever they held at the mill must be very valuable indeed. He would need reinforcements. Only a much larger force would do. He must report this horrific incident as soon as possible. His colonel would be furious. He should not have come on this fool’s errand without a much larger force in the first place. He certainly shouldn’t have risked his command on this sunken road surrounded by deep forest. He realized that his career was now in deep jeopardy. He hardly cared about that. He had lost these good men, and this was inexcusable.

  Not one rebel was taken. None of them were visible save the telling puffs of smoke from their weapons. They could have been a band of ruthless savages for all he knew. He saw no uniforms. He saw none of these men at all. Was this what modern warfare had come to? His heart screamed that this was nothing more than a cowardly attack waged by unscrupulous villains. His emotions told him that his men were the victims of senseless massacre. His military mind knew better. This was a well-planned and masterfully executed ambush by a relatively small group of dismounted infantry against a larger mounted force. His temper cooled as he began asserting control over the battle’s aftermath. He even began to have a grudging respect for the rebel commander, whoever he was.

  This tragedy would not be repeated. He would get his reinforcements. His attack on Fletcher’s Mill would be overwhelming. It took several hours to reorganize his depleted units and bury the dead. The wounded were loaded onto the supply wagons and the column was turned around headed away from their original objective. They wouldn’t return to Rocky Mount. Willoughby now had them headed toward Camden. The wounded would get the best treatment there. His men would rest, resupply, and be reinforced. Willoughby knew what force was needed and how many men were available at Camden.