Prelude to Glory, Vol. 6

by Ron Carter

  “How’d you find him?” He pointed his chin at Caleb.

  “Savannah. Prison. He break out. I follow.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed as he reached into his memory and suddenly his eyes widened. “You the two that escaped down there? Shot a British cannon crew with their own cannon?”

  Primus straightened in surprise. “You hear ’bout that?”

  The man grinned. “We heard. You best come with us.”

  Caleb did not move. “What’s your name? You with the rebels?”

  “Name’s Sam Chelsey. Scout. Been watching that British column for two days. Got to track them until they camp for the night. Then we got a little business to tend to, and report to Colonel Marion.”

  “You’re with Francis Marion?”

  “South Carolina militia. Been with the Colonel two years.” He turned to the two men nearest. “Get the grasshopper.”

  The two pivoted and were gone for thirty seconds before they emerged from the shadowy woods pulling a small cannon by two hawsers attached to the trails. Caleb stared as Chelsey said, “Follow me.”

  He led them to the animal trace, tromped so badly by the passing British column that he followed it at a trot with four men pulling the little gun in the deep shadows. They had gone four hundred yards when Caleb moved up beside one of the men on the rope, tapped him on the shoulder, and took his place, with Primus trading off with the man behind.

  Dusk had reached full darkness when Chelsey held up a hand, and the eight men swung away from the tracks and dropped to their haunches.

  His voice was a whisper. “Wait here.”

  He disappeared without sound or trace, and in two minutes was back, appearing as suddenly and silently as he had vanished.

  “Just ahead, forty yards across that little bridge. The Labrum Bridge over that bog. Two cook fires. All the wagons lined up north of the fires. Horses picketed to the east. Twelve tents on the west. Finishing evening mess.”

  He paused for a moment.

  “I’ll take care of the pickets by the wagons. Hobarth and Partin, you get the gun across and line it on those tents. When the wagons go, the redcoats will come out and that’s when you fire. Esau and Thomas, you cut the horses loose and run ’em through camp. Udall, you’re with me. You carry the pistol.”

  Again he waited. “Scatter when it’s over. Leave the gun. Meet back at camp.”

  An aging, gray-bearded veteran spoke. “What about these two?” He jerked a thumb toward Caleb and Premus.

  Chelsey thought for a moment. “You stay with the gun. Help with the blankets.”

  “Blankets?” Caleb asked.

  “Hobarth will show you. Questions?”

  There were none.

  “Give us about fifteen minutes to get behind the wagons and the horses before you move the gun.”

  Quickly each man shrugged out of the cord holding his blanket on his back and dropped it next to the gun.

  Chelsey nodded approval. “Let’s go.”

  Seconds later Caleb and Primus were alone with Hobarth, Partin, six rolled blankets, and the small cannon called a ‘grasshopper’ in the parlance of cannoneers. The other four men had disappeared in the darkness.

  Fifteen minutes passed with the uninterrupted sounds of the forest all around them before Hobarth, average height, full beard, gave hand signs. Caleb and Primus were to carry the blanket rolls and follow while he and Partin moved the gun. Beneath a three-quarter waxing moon rising in the east, they carefully turned the small gun, shouldered the blankets, and moved northwest, following the trail left by the British column.

  They came to a small, arched bridge that spanned a marshy bog with the stench of stagnant water and decay, and again Hobarth gave hand instructions. Caleb and Primus unrolled the blankets and slowly, on hands and knees, moved onto the bridge to spread them on the worn planking, raising their heads to watch what remained of the British cooking fires. Three blankets spanned the bridge, and they carefully spread the second three on top, then dropped low, waiting.

  The two men with the gun rolled it slowly to the bridge, onto the blankets, and carefully, inches at a time, moved it across, bringing the blankets as they came. Caleb and Primus watched, waiting for the first hollow sound of the gun on the bridge that would warn the British, but all sound was muffled in the blankets. The passage was made in total silence.

  The moment the gun was in place, the men ladled gunpowder from the small budge barrel down the muzzle, followed by dried grass to bind it in, then carefully seated twelve pounds of grapeshot against the grass. Guided only by the low fires forty yards away, they lined the gun on the tents where they reflected the firelight. Partin reached inside his leather hunting shirt to draw out a tinderbox, opened it, and blew gently on the burning punk inside until it glowed.

  Then they took their positions beside the small gun and waited.

  Two minutes later Caleb started as the crack of a pistol-shot shattered the silence. Instantly a flare of gunpowder burning yellow leaped into the black heavens in the nearest British powder wagon, and three seconds later the camp shook with a blast that blew shards of burning wooden barrels two hundred feet toward the stars. For five seconds everything within two hundred yards was lighted brighter than noonday. The concussion knocked pickets sprawling, and tents were thrown down with their tie-down ropes flying.

  Troops in every stage of dress and undress came running, staggering from the billowing tents, and Partin touched the punk to the touchhole on the grasshopper. Half a second later the small gun bucked and roared, and the grapeshot ripped into the scrambling British to knock the nearest ones kicking. At that instant the second wagon of gunpowder blew. The heavy side planks and wheels were shattered, ripping outward into the camp. From the east side of the camp came fifty-two horses, frantic, wild-eyed, screaming their fear as they stampeded into the wreckage and the men who were running in every direction, aware only that they had been hit from all quarters of the compass at the same time.

  The third wagon detonated, then the fourth. Bits and pieces of splintered, flaming wood streaked upward, then fell back into camp and the forest. Partin pointed, and Caleb looked to see that the blasts had wrecked all ten wagons. None remained on its wheels.

  Hobarth gave hand signals. Caleb and Primus grabbed the blankets while the other two seized the trails of the little cannon. They pulled it onto the bridge, turned it, and shoved it over the side. It hit the black muck below and disappeared as they ran on, across the bridge, then to their right to follow the river upstream. Guided by instinct and his knowledge of the woods, Hobarth led them at a trot for more than half an hour before he stopped. They waited until their breathing quieted, and listened.

  Caleb was wide-eyed in the dark, unable to believe what he had witnessed. From the crack of the pistol-shot to their retreat across the bridge, the raid had taken less than fifteen seconds. Never had he seen such havoc wrought by so few in so short a time.

  Partin spoke quietly. “They didn’t follow.”

  They rolled the blankets and shouldered them before Caleb asked, “You didn’t want the cannon?”

  Partin grunted a chuckle. “It’s theirs. We borrowed it three days ago. It would’ve slowed us down too much.”

  “What about Chelsey and the others?”

  “They’ll be back at camp.”

  “Whose camp?”

  “Ours. Colonel Marion’s. Be there in about an hour.”

  They moved steadily upstream for more than twenty minutes, then angled southwest for close to an hour before Hobarth stopped. Caleb heard the soft voice of a man he could not see in the dark.

  “Password.”

  “Camden.”

  There was a slight sound ahead, and Caleb was suddenly aware someone was standing on either side of him. Hobarth moved ahead and they followed. Three minutes later they stopped in a small clearing. There was no fire, only the light of a setting moon and the stars overhead. A shadow approached, and a distinctly southern voice, resonant and s
oft, spoke.

  “Sergeant Hobarth, are you and private Udall all right?”

  “Yes. Is Cap’n Chelsey back, sir?”

  “Ten minutes ago. Said it went well.”

  “It did, sir. We got the whole munitions train. Four wagons of gunpowder, four of arms and shot, two of food supplies, and a lot of redcoated regulars. Are Esau and Thomas back yet?”

  “Not yet. Were you followed?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You did well. Hungry?”

  “Could eat.”

  “Hot fish and sweet ’taters back there.”

  The men walked together toward the center of the clearing with Caleb and Primus following. For the first time there was a clear view of the stars and moon, and enough light to distinguish faces. They stopped at a place where two logs faced each other, with a six-foot open space between. On the ground was a tarp, on which was a black shape four feet long. The odor of cooked fish was strong. A man Caleb had never seen before handed Hobarth and Partin wooden plates and a spoon, and they knelt down beside the black shape to dig at it, shovel something on their plate, and then sit on the log to eat.

  The smaller man stood beside Hobarth. “Captain Chelsey said something about two new men. These them?”

  Hobarth nodded. “Caleb Dunson and Primus. Found them just before the British came past. Had to take them or run the risk of the British finding them and us. Dunson says he’s from Boston. Says he was sent down here under orders of his regiment officer. These are the two that escaped from that prison down by Savannah. Turned a British cannon on the pickets.”

  The man turned and walked to look up into Caleb’s face. For the first time Caleb could make out his features. He was short, wiry, and Caleb could see that he was crippled in some way. He favored his right ankle with every step. His nose was large, curved, and his jaw and chin thrust too far forward. He was dressed in a dark-colored tunic and wore a small sword in a scabbard at his side.

  “You the two that escaped?”

  “Yes.”

  “Made quite a commotion down there. They declared a bounty on your heads. How did you avoid the British patrols? And the Tories?”

  Caleb pointed. “Primus led us out. Could I ask who you are, sir?”

  “Name’s Marion. Colonel Francis Marion. South Carolina militia.”

  It caught Caleb by surprise. “I’m happy to meet you, sir.”

  Marion turned to Primus. “You’re the one that escaped with him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Marion stared close in the dim light. “You know the forest?”

  “Enough. I be with you once before. Got myself captured. Run away with Massa Dunson and come lookin’ after you.”

  “We’ll talk about it in the morning. If you’re hungry, get a plate and have some fish.”

  Wooden plates appeared from nowhere, and Caleb and Primus knelt beside the shape on the ground to break away some of the flesh, and scoop up a cooked sweet potato. They sat down near Hobarth to eat.

  “What kind of fish?”

  “Sturgeon. Been roasting in the ground since yesterday. Tasty.”

  Marion came to sit beside him.

  Caleb hesitated, then said, “Sir, Primus and I saw something we don’t understand. Whites ambushed and massacred a white family. Four men, two women, three children.”

  Marion shook his head, and Caleb heard the sadness in his voice. “The British don’t know what they’ve done. For a long time—generations—the poor whites have nursed a hatred for the wealthy ones. Just days ago a British officer named Tarleton caught Colonel Buford’s command up in the Waxhaws and massacred most of them. The Tories took license to do the same against the rebels. Almost overnight there were murders and burnings, Tories against rebels, rich against poor, each giving vent to old hatreds, each blaming the other. Terrible. Out of control. Spreading.”

  Caleb stopped working at his food. “We were at the Waxhaws massacre.”

  For a time Marion did not raise his head. “Then you know what I mean. That was pretty much the beginning of the bloodlust that’s tearing this state apart right now.”

  For a time they sat in silence, each with his own thoughts. Then Marion stood.

  “You know how to use a musket? Rifle?”

  “Both. My father was a master gunsmith. I worked with him at his bench since I can remember.”

  “Good. We’ll find some weapons. You have blankets?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll send some. It’s warm enough, but you should have something to sleep on.”

  “Thank-you, sir.”

  Marion turned to leave when Caleb stopped him.

  “Sir, we came looking for you to join your militia.”

  For a time Marion studied them in the dark. “That’s possible. We have a few blacks with us—mostly good men—but I don’t recall we ever had a New Englander. Living down here is different. Heat, swamps, forests—many things that can hurt you, kill you. My command fights different than anything you’ve known up there. We strike quick and leave quick. We know the swamps. We go where the British can’t follow. We eat what we can catch or dig out of the ground. Better think it over. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

  He walked away and sought out Captain Chelsey. “Captain, the two new arrivals think they want to join us. I think they are what they claim, but they could be Tory spies. Watch them. Closely.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Notes

  Francis Marion is correctly described (Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 518–19; Rankin, Francis Marion: The Swamp Fox, pp. 59–60).

  Marion trained his men to conceal themselves completely, strike quickly and decisively against vastly superior forces, and disappear completely. Among other tricks, he learned to cover bridges with blankets to silence the wheels of wagons or cannon or the footsteps of his men. He learned and practiced many other arts of striking from ambush and disappearing, among them that he refused to take cannon, since they would slow him down. In this particular incident, his men stole a small “grasshopper” cannon from the British, used it on them, then dumped it in the swamp to avoid being slowed (Rankin, Francis Marion: The Swamp Fox, pp. 70–76, 87).

  For a description of the “grasshopper” cannon (so named because it hopped when fired), see the description and photograph in Lumpkin, From Savannah to Yorktown, pp. 122, 147.

  Danbury, Connecticut

  Late June 1780

  CHAPTER XX

  * * *

  Eight months—a winter and a spring and part of a summer—in one place, waiting for a battle that never came had turned the Massachusetts regiment camped near the small town of Danbury, Connecticut, into an irritable, short-tempered mass. The sameness of days and nights had blurred military camp life into a grinding, gray tedium in which men came to loathe the boredom of reveille, mess, drill, and taps. Then, in the heat of mid-June, a subtle disquiet settled over the camp, a sense of change, as though unseen forces were moving the flow of things in a new, unknown, unsettling direction. Nerves became raw as men struggled to shake the feeling something profound was happening that was drawing them steadily into harm’s way.

  Billy stood sweating at the evening fire, stirring a smoke-blackened kettle of greasy, boiling water, half-full of dirty cooking utensils. He lifted the smaller pots and pans out with a stick, one at a time, to drop them into steaming rinse water, then onto a wooden rack of peeled pine limbs to let them dry. It was early dusk when he finished, scrubbed out the big kettles, tipped them on their sides to dry, and started for his tent. He stopped at the sound of Sergeant Alvin Turlock’s high, nasal voice.

  “Weems, wait a minute.”

  The wiry little sergeant caught up with him and gestured toward the woodlot. “Come sit. We got to talk.”

  “What’s wrong? Something from mother? Is she all right?”

  Turlock raised a hand to wave off the question. “Sit down.”

  They sat on sawed rungs of firewood, facing each other, and Turlock took a mom
ent to arrange his thoughts.

  “Some of us just got finished listenin’ to Cap’n Prescott. Looks like we’re leavin’ soon. Cap’n asked me who I figgered would make a good lieutenant and I told him you.”

  Billy gaped. “You what?”

  “Now don’t git flustered. You’re the most likely one in the Company. So I told him. Don’t mean he’ll do it.”

  “Me? An officer? I don’t know about being an officer.”

  “Them’s the best kind. If he does make you a lieutenant, just keep on doin’ what you been doin’ and you’ll manage fine.”

  Billy stared in disbelief, and Turlock continued.

  “The reason we’re leaving, things are happening. You know the British took Savannah six months ago.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then last month Gen’l Lincoln lost his whole army when Clinton took Charleston. Militia, Continentals, cannon, the whole thing. He lost it all.”

  Billy nodded but remained silent.

  “Well, Cap’n just give us the latest. Congress has sent Gates down to take Lincoln’s place.”

  Billy exclaimed, “Gates? General Horatio Gates?”

  Turlock nodded. “The same. Only the Almighty knows what those fools in Congress was thinkin’ when they picked him. He’s been sweet-talkin’ most of ’em every chance he got since Arnold won at Saratoga and Gates got all the credit, and it appears sweet-talk’s what turns that bunch.”

  Billy rounded his mouth and blew air as Turlock went on.

  “Gen’l Washington’s sending some Continentals down there with Gates to help out with the southern militia. Seems there’s more trouble down there than us fighting the British. From what I heard of it, we got Tory Americans goin’ after Patriot Americans in what sounds like a war all its own. So Gates’s orders is to heal up the differences between the Americans and drive out the British. Anyway, to give Gates what he needs, they’re sending some regiments from Connecticut and Maryland, and some volunteers from Massachusetts and New York. Cap’n Prescott asked what I thought, and I said Third Company could go. That’s when he asked about officers, and I told him about you.”