Brave Enemies

by Robert Morgan

  Cox made us walk on the road four abreast, and Gaither on the left side was stepping through broom sedge and briars, sometimes running into limbs of pines and post oaks. By the time we were joined by another militia company past Burr’s Mill we were worn out. There was cursing and muttering all up and down the line. Words and strings of words ran backward and forward along the column. I belched up the taste of laudanum.

  “Tarleton is following us” was passed up the line. It was spoken across the ranks as we tramped along. Our feet sucked in the mud and swished in the stubble of weeds and brush.

  “Tarleton is behind us,” I heard muttered farther and farther up the line toward General Morgan. I reckon the general’s scouts were telling him from time to time where the dragoons were. A member of Colonel Washington’s cavalry rode by us in his white-and-blue jacket and we stood aside to let him pass. We walked a little faster every time we heard mention of Tarleton.

  The general was one of the strongest-looking men you’ve ever seen. His shoulders were wide in his blue coat and his hands looked powerful enough to grip the reins of ten horses. General Morgan had a voice like a mule driver’s. I’d heard he was once a teamster for Gen. George Washington. His voice was loud as a preacher’s and twice as rough. And he spoke out of the side of his mouth because of the big scar on his cheek.

  “We’ll not be caught by Benny Tarleton,” the general yelled back at us.

  The men in the column cheered. Old Morgan’s gray hair fell over his collar. From time to time he looked back and yelled, “I won’t be outfoxed by Benny Tarleton!”

  There was a man in fine clothes riding beside the general. He wore a light blue coat with lace at the wrists. And he had on a white wig tied with ribbon.

  “Who is that old fop?” Gaither said.

  “That’s Baron de Glaubeck, from somewhere over the water,” Gudger said.

  “Looks like an actor dressed up in powder and rouge,” T. R. said.

  “Don’t mock your betters,” Gudger said.

  “He gives the general advice,” Cox said.

  “How does he keep from getting mud on his fine silk pants?” T. R. said.

  “Why are we going to Kings Mountain?” somebody hollered way behind us. Captain Cox didn’t say anything. He rode about ten feet ahead of us.

  I figured if there had been one fight at Kings Mountain there might as well be another. Marching is like any other awful job. I kept telling myself that a little bit farther and the worst would be over. It would warm up and we would rest. That’s the way you get through a hard day. I kept thinking, just a little more and a little more. When we get to that tall pine tree, or the next creek, or the top of the rise, we will halt and rest. You have to break the hardest jobs into little pieces and finish them one piece at a time. You have to feel that the worst is over or you couldn’t get through the next few minutes, or hours.

  We marched for so many hours I thought I might be dreaming the march. My legs moved on their own, and my back hurt. As my legs got numb it seemed the trees were marching past us, not us marching past them. The ground seemed far away beneath me. I can’t go on much longer, I thought. You are a murderer, I said to myself. You killed Mr. Griffin. You deceived John and his congregations. That thought gave me a little extra strength, for I saw I was paying for what I had done.

  EVERY TIME WE PASSED a tavern there was a little company of militia waiting. We would halt and the general would talk to the militia captain. Silly as it may sound, I kept on the lookout for John. I thought he might be with one of the ragged bands. I knew it was impossible, but I still hoped to see him. Once I saw a tall skinny fellow in black and my heart thumped up into my throat. But when we got closer I saw it wasn’t John. I knew John had been taken to punish me. Everywhere I looked I hoped to see John, but didn’t.

  The new companies would stand at attention as we marched past, and then they would fall in behind the column and make it even longer. There were men in pieces of uniforms of the regulars, men who had enlisted before and then come home when their time was up. We even saw a man wearing a dirty red coat with the stripes torn off. I guess he had taken it off a dead soldier, or maybe he’d been a Tory himself and deserted.

  But mostly the new companies were dressed same as us, some in fur hats and some in felt hats, some in hunting coats and some in buckskin. Some had long mountain rifles and some had Brown Bess muskets and boxes of paper cartridges. A few had pistols in their belts. Not many had bayonets on their belts, but a few did. Some had bags of rations slung over their backs, and some had nothing but shot and powder. One carried a plucked chicken to roast for dinner.

  We stopped in front of a tavern somewhere near Hancockville around dinnertime. I could smell bread cooking and chicken baking. A little company was formed in front of the tavern, a poor-looking bunch, and not all of them had guns. Their clothing was rumpled and some didn’t have hats. Old Morgan talked to their captain and they drew themselves up to attention and saluted the general. Just then this old man came out the door of the tavern and hurried to the company. His shirt was unbuttoned and he looked like he’d been asleep.

  “You ain’t coming, Jarvis,” the captain said to the old man.

  Jarvis could hardly stand up, but he tried to hold himself at attention. His gray hair went every which way. He stretched up to the captain of the company. “Who’s giving orders here?” he said.

  “I’m giving orders,” the captain bellowed.

  “No you ain’t,” the old man said.

  “Go back inside and have another drink,” the captain said, and flipped him a coin.

  The general sat on his horse and watched Jarvis pull himself up and salute him. “The king can kiss my arse,” Jarvis said.

  “Go back inside or we’ll kick your arse,” the captain said.

  “Ain’t nobody giving me orders but the general,” Jarvis said. He squinted, staring up at the Old Wagoner, who used to be a teamster in Virginia.

  It looked like they were going to have to tie Jarvis up to get rid of him. He had gotten it in his mind to be a soldier. Just then a woman came from behind the tavern carrying a bucket. She wore an apron like a maid or a cook.

  “Who is giving me orders?” Jarvis said, and raised his fist.

  “Martin Jarvis,” the woman said sharply.

  Jarvis spun around and as he faced her the woman slung the bucket of water right in his face. The water stretched out like a tongue and slapped him backward. He stumbled as if he’d been hit by a horse or a bolt of lightning, then fell flat in the muddy yard. A boy came out of the tavern and helped the woman drag the old man back inside.

  The whole column laughed out loud and cheered. We didn’t know what else to do, having watched it all. The general pointed ahead and yelled “Forward!” and we started marching again.

  Some houses we passed looked empty. There were no younguns in the yards, and no woman with a troubling stick out by the washpot. No smoke rose out of the chimneys, and there were no signs of pigs or chickens. We passed one burned house, and then another. You would have thought everybody had up and left the country. Folks had packed up and moved on, those that had not been shot or hung.

  But people must have been hiding too. They heard the army coming and hid in cellars and lofts, in potato holes and in the woods. They took their daughters and put them way back in thickets and swamps, or under fodder in the barn. They had carried their ham meat and cornmeal to holes beyond the pasture and covered them with leaves.

  A few people had stayed in their houses. They stood on porches and watched us march by. One pretty girl with long black hair watched from a second-story window. Dogs ran out from under porches and barked and backed away. A spaniel snapped and wagged its tail at the same time. By one cabin an old woman was boiling soap.

  The friendliest person we saw that day was a woman way up the road just before we got to Thicketty Mountain. She had a house on a little hill, and I guess we slowed down walking up that hill. Her head was tied up in a wool r
ag against the wind, and she brought a big bucket of water with a dipper and set it on a stump by the road. She gave a drink to every soldier that came by and wanted one. She ran forward up the line and gave a boy a dipper and he drank and handed it back to her. We never did stop marching, though we slowed down a little and the men behind hollered at us. She ran forward and gave Gaither the dipper and he swallowed quick. Then she filled the dipper and gave it to me. It was the sweetest water I’d ever drunk. It was so cold it seemed to come from the heart of rock or melting snow. It was so sweet it seemed to have honey and silver lights in it. I won’t ever forget that woman.

  Wasn’t till I put my lips to that cold dipper that I found out how dried they were. My lips had chapped in the wind and cold air. They were tight and cracked, with rough pieces of skin peeling off like paint. I pulled one of the pieces and it tore off to the quick. The place started bleeding and I tried to stop the blood with the back of my hand. I tasted salty blood as I walked along.

  I must have closed my eyes while I was walking, for I was dreaming of Mama. She was sitting on the porch in a rocking chair looking down the road. She was watching to see if I would come down the road. I wanted to call out to her and tell her I was coming. But just as I tried to speak something slammed into me. I opened my eyes and saw I’d marched into the musket of the man in front of me.

  “Wake up, Summers,” Gudger snarled. I skipped to keep in step and strained to hold my eyes open.

  “’TENTION!” GUDGER CALLED OUT. We all stepped aside while a horseman galloped by kicking up medals of dirt. All the way up the line men stepped aside while the horse cantered past. Once the rider reached the general at the front of the line we stopped, though it took a while for the order to run all the way back to the end of the line, and men behind kept walking, pushing the ranks ahead closer together.

  I reckon the rider told Old Morgan some news, for he hollered back to Major McDowell and the senior officers to come forward. The majors and colonels went up to powwow. I guess it was something important, for they took a long time. We had to stand in the road leaning on our muskets and rifles.

  “Old Morgan will march until our feet ain’t nothing but stubs,” Gaither said. He dropped into the broom sedge at the side of the road. It looked so inviting to sit there in the grass.

  “I never said you could fall out,” the sergeant said.

  “You never said not to,” Gaither said.

  “Get on your damn feet,” Gudger said.

  But it was as if everybody thought of the same thing at the same time. We all stepped over into the stubble and broom sedge and flopped down as if an order had been given. All up and down the line you could hear sergeants bellowing and cursing.

  “You think you are gentlemen and ladies of leisure,” Gudger roared.

  Cox sat on his horse and didn’t say anything. He let the sergeant fuss and curse as much as he wanted to. I reckon that was the agreement between them, that Gudger would do the fussing and shoving and Captain Cox would just give orders when it was necessary and proper.

  “You all want to go home to your mamas,” Gudger said. “I’ve seen pussy that would make better soldiers.”

  “I’ve seen heifers that would make a better sergeant,” T. R. muttered under his breath.

  “I’ll settle with you later, piss-britches,” Gudger said.

  “March!” the general hollered at the front of the line.

  It was painful to put weight on my feet. It felt like the soles of my feet, while I was sitting, had plumped up with blood that had to be pressed out. And my feet were blistered and sore in the rags.

  “Old Morgan is running toward the Broad River,” Gaither said. “He’s running away from Tarleton.”

  “You don’t know what the general’s doing,” Gudger said. “Of course, he may ask for your advice, General Revis and General Heatherly.”

  The soldiers around us laughed.

  Gudger stared hard at me. Cold wires went through the middle of my bones down to my feet. I knew the sergeant wasn’t finished with me. I’d still have to watch out for him. I had come to feel different about Gudger, after he told me about his wife, but I knew he wasn’t finished with me yet.

  My hair was all tangled up by sweat and the wind. I wished I could take another drop of laudanum. Gudger shoved my hat straight, so hard my ears rang. I was so tired I felt silly. Wherever I looked I saw black spots.

  “’Tention!” was called up and down the column. The line started stepping aside, and we moved to the edge of the trace and looked back. A company of horsemen galloped toward us, and I thought for an instant it must be Tarleton, for some riders were wearing green coats with black fur hats. And then I saw that most wore white and blue coats. Their leader was a heavyset man with a square jaw and a regular cocked hat.

  “’Tention!” Gudger shouted.

  The riders carried sabers long as muskets, and some held lances and some wore pistols on their belts. They had gold patches on their shoulders and they rode easily, like they lived on their horses. Some had sheepskin capes thrown over their shoulders. I saw there wasn’t any way foot soldiers could stand up to dragoons.

  “Them’s Washington’s cavalry,” Gudger said.

  “General Washington?” T. R. said.

  “No, you blockhead, Col. William Washington, that killed so many Tories at Hammond’s Store.”

  We watched the dragoons gallop past like they were lords. I felt scareder than ever. On foot we didn’t have an idiot’s chance. My guts were sore and sick. I was glad Colonel Washington was on our side.

  I didn’t count the cavalry as it went by, but I guess there were nearly a hundred horses. How clean the dragoons looked in their white britches and white-and-blue coats. Those with green coats were mounted militia riding with the cavalry, led by Major James McCall. They rode up there above the mud, while we were all covered with clay from the knees down. As the horses dashed by they splashed puddles on us and kicked up twists and pats of mud. Spots of mud stuck to my blanket and even my hands, and to the barrel of the rifle.

  I told myself if I ever got out of this I would never go near an army or war again. I would climb into the mountains and live there in peace forever and forever. A woman had no business in such a place with so many men. And yet I felt a little pride too, that I had marched with them and camped with them. I had kept up with all of them.

  WE REACHED A LONG open place in the woods called the Cow-pens and went on a little ways and then stopped. We could see a low running ridge to the east. “That’s Thicketty Mountain,” Gudger said. The long column came to a halt.

  Somebody had ridden to the Broad River and returned and they said you could see from a distance it was in flood. The brown water had spread out over fields and swamps. The middle of the river swirled like an angry animal cut loose. The flood had washed all the rafts away. They said waves leaped up like stampeding cows. The general sat on his horse and we all stood on the road and watched him. I reckon it had been raining or snowing in the mountains to the west and the river was in terrible flood.

  “Now what?” T. R. said. T. R. had been planning on running away once we crossed the Broad River. Now he saw he was in the same pickle as the rest of us.

  “Be quiet,” Gudger said. But he didn’t need to say it for we were all quiet, knowing that Tarleton was chasing us.

  The general called his officers up to the front to talk again. I could see them pointing this way and that way and arguing. Then the officers came back down the line, and the order was given to make camp here.

  “Why would we make camp at the Cowpens?” T. R. said.

  All my life I’d heard of Hannah’s Cowpens. It was the big open place close to Thicketty Mountain. The Green River Road ran right through it. It was a half-open meadow used for pasturing cattle. There were post oaks and hickory trees, with brush and wild peavines and undergrowth eaten back by cattle. It looked like it must at one time have been an old field cleared by Indians.

  The Cowpens wa
s a kind of meeting place too. The Hannah family had owned it, I guess, and then the Saunders family owned it after them. Parties met there to go on long hunting trips into the mountains, and coon hunters built their fires there and got drunk while their dogs bellowed in the woods. It had been a muster ground for the militias as long as anybody could remember. And there had been camp meetings held there too.

  “Cowpens is where they gathered to march to Kings Mountain last October,” Gaither said.

  The sun had just about sunk into the trees as we marched around the edge of the Cowpens. As we left the road to cross the open field there was a low hill ahead. Not a hill, just a rise, more like. And then there were open woods going out on either side of the road. Off to the left was Thicketty Mountain, a long-running ridge.

  A few patches of snow were left on the north side of cedar bushes like white shadows. Back at the edge of the woods you could see snow in the thickets. But the grazing ground was gray grass with little clumps of broom sedge. Thawing had left the ground soft. We went right back down the road squishing and slipping in the mud. The road was red as the sky in the west.

  Old Morgan led us off the road and right across the open meadow. We marched to the top of a rise that leveled out and then went higher. I didn’t see any cows in the open places. I guess people had gotten their stock when they heard we were coming, or the cows had already been taken by the armies. I didn’t see a beast in all the grazing land except a deer at the far end of an opening in the woods.

  We came across another rise, and there was a company already setting up camp. They had fires going and a few tents up and horses tied in the trees. Somebody said they were the Georgia militia.

  The Georgians had taken the higher, drier ground. The general halted the line and pointed to the rolling pasture going down to the woods and across the little branch. We were near the back of the column, and would have to take whatever ground the others didn’t want. The cavalry was in front and claimed the ground by the Georgia volunteers. Colonel Howard’s Continental regulars were next, and they claimed the rest of the high ground.