by Ron Carter
He was a soldier, standing on a mountaintop, surrounded by the human carnage of a battle that had begun at three o’clock and ended exactly one hour later, four o’clock, October 7, 1780. There was no time to search for the reason of the battle, or his part in it. There were dead to be buried and wounded to be tended. He turned to Chelsey and waited for orders.
They buried the dead Colonel Patrick Ferguson where he had fallen, on the southwest slope of the mountain, and marked the grave with a great mound of rocks. They gathered the wounded they could carry and made a count of the bodies. Of their own men, there were twenty-eight dead, sixty-two wounded. Of Ferguson’s command, there were one hundred nineteen dead, one hundred twenty-three wounded. One-third of Ferguson’s command had paid with their lives for his arrogance in declaring that even the Almighty could not drive him off King’s Mountain. They left the mountain with six hundred sixty-four prisoners. No one pondered the question of the role the Almighty’s hand had played in the battle. They only knew that in one hour, they had done what Ferguson had declared even the Almighty could not do. They had killed Ferguson and destroyed his entire command forever.
Caleb and Primus built a litter of poles and blankets and carefully laid one of their wounded and unconscious comrades on it, then followed Chelsey down the southwest slope. They stopped at a spring to wash the blood from where a musketball had cut a groove four inches long in the man’s head, above his right ear, then moved on to where the horses were being held. They laid the stretcher in the grass and were reaching to lift the wounded man when Primus shook his head. He looked up at Chelsey, who knelt beside the man and pressed his fingers under the man’s jaw. Chelsey’s face clouded for a moment, then he sighed and stood.
With twilight gathering, they finished burying the man, then for the first time in eleven days the men from over the mountain built a hundred camp fires and hunkered down to eat the last of their dried venison and boil the last of their dried apple slices.
Caleb sat down in the grass beside Chelsey. Primus, never far away, came to quietly sit down with them.
Caleb turned to Chelsey. “I didn’t see anyone from the North. Did you?”
Chelsey shook his head but remained silent.
“Sooner or later they’re going to have to send someone from the North down here. Maybe they’re on their way now. I think I better move on north to find out.”
Chelsey neither spoke nor moved, and Caleb continued.
“Unless you say otherwise, I’d like to leave as soon as we get our dead buried and our wounded tended. I can make it on foot.”
Primus leaned forward, listening.
Chelsey studied the flames and coals in their small fire as he answered. “You go on back. Take the horse and rifle. Primus, too, if he wants to go. You’ve earned it.”
For a time none of them spoke, and then Caleb broke the thoughtful silence.
“Captain, it was an honor to be with you. You and these men. I won’t forget what you men did here—what you did for me. And for Primus.”
Chelsey turned to Caleb. The dancing firelight played in his beard and his eyes, and Caleb saw the smile. “You did well, Caleb. You and Primus. You take care.”
* * * * *
General Charles Cornwallis raised his head from the papers on his desk, and for a moment pondered the rap at his door. He glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel of his headquarters in Charlotte—just past seven o’clock on a clear day in mid-October—and wondered why his aide would be interrupting at this early hour.
“Enter.”
The door swung open, and the instant General Charles Cornwallis saw the man, he knew something was gravely wrong. The man’s eyes were dead, his face long, troubled.
“Sir, this dispatch just arrived. You will want to read it immediately.”
Cornwallis came to his feet, eyes narrowed with a rising premonition. He took the document, broke the seal, and read it while standing. The blood left his face, and he sat down abruptly to read it again. He raised his eyes and asked, “Do you know about this?”
“Unfortunately, I do, sir. The messenger told me.”
Cornwallis slumped back in his chair, mind struggling. “Colonel Ferguson dead? His entire command—nearly one thousand men—gone? Dead, wounded, captured? All of them? Impossible!”
“It appears to be true, sir.”
“That rabble to the west of us—the so-called over-the-mountain horde—destroyed the entire force? It cannot be! What were the rebels’ losses?”
“The messenger said ninety killed and wounded. Less than one hundred.”
Cornwallis gaped. “Those illiterates took down Colonel Ferguson’s entire command and with only ninety casualties? Insanity!”
The aide chose to remain silent, and Cornwall began to speak as his rigid military training took hold.
“That leaves my forces here exposed from the west. Without Colonel Ferguson, I lack sufficient troops to protect our positions here from their attack, including from the south. We’re vulnerable! With the victory by the rebels at King’s Mountain, how many of the local Loyalists who have sworn to support us will change sides? When will they rise up to attack us?”
He stared at his aide while he voiced his concern. “I cannot proceed north. I cannot invade Virginia and take control of the Chesapeake. Not with the loss of one thousand of my troops, and Colonel Ferguson with them. I’m vulnerable! The entire Southern Campaign could crumble and be gone in days!”
His aide stood silent, nodding agreement.
“I’m forced to retreat! Retreat, mind you! Back to Winnsboro and regroup my forces. Change the entire campaign.” He began to pace, speaking in snatches. Then he stopped, drew a great breath, and brought himself under control. He turned to his aide.
“I must prepare orders for a general withdrawal of all forces back to Winnsboro. We must abandon the plan to move north through Virginia to the Chesapeake. I will begin immediately. Have a scribe in this office two hours from now.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * * * *
At the call of his name, General George Washington stopped in the hallway of his headquarters and turned to Alexander Hamilton, striding toward him with a paper in his hand, eyes glowing with intensity.
“Sir!” Hamilton exclaimed, “this just arrived by courier.”
Washington took the paper and walked on down the hallway to his quarters and entered. At his invitation, Hamilton followed him in and closed the door. The General stood in the center of the modest room to break the seal and read the message. Instantly he became focused, and read it again before he turned to Hamilton.
“Do you know the contents?”
“I have not read the message, sir, but the messenger informed me of it.”
“Our Patriots in the South defeated Colonel Patrick Ferguson at King’s Mountain, just south of the North Carolina border. Colonel Ferguson’s entire command—nearly one thousand men—were either casualties or prisoners within one hour.”
He laid the paper on his desk and sat down, gesturing Hamilton to a chair, then continuing, “General Cornwallis has abandoned his campaign to move north into Virginia and the Chesapeake. He’s moving south, back to Winnsboro. He will not try to come north again until spring.”
“I know, sir.”
For ten seconds neither man moved or spoke while Washington calculated the tremendous impact of the simple message. He spoke slowly, thoughtfully.
“I am going to enter a statement regarding this victory in my next general orders to the entire Continental Army. As I see it, what those men did down there is an undeniable confirmation of the spirit of this country. In the face of the terrible defeats of the past year—Savannah, Charleston, Waxhaws, Camden, Beaufort, Georgetown—those people—volunteers from the mountains—rose to strike down one of the finest officers under General Cornwallis and utterly destroy his entire command. I cannot think of a time when we needed such a victory more than right now. I’ll draft my statement at once, and I w
ould appreciate your advice and suggestions after you review it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“One more thing. You know Congress authorized me to nominate an officer to replace General Gates as commander in the south.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I have nominated General Nathanael Greene. I see in him an unusual intelligence, but more important, an intuitive grasp of what is wrong in a given situation, and an uncanny ability to correct it. He accepted my nomination. Congress granted permission to have him report directly to me, not them. He will be leaving at once to assume command. I’m sending General Daniel Morgan down to assist him. With this development at King’s Mountain, there is some advice I wish to give General Greene.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I believe those partisans in the South are among the best to be found, in what they do. If General Greene can find a way to use his talents as a field commander of an organized army, and utilize the ability of those men down there to lead small groups to gather intelligence and to strike quickly and effectively, I believe that with General Morgan to assist, he can turn the Southern Campaign in our favor, despite the fact he will never have as many men as General Cornwallis. He must find a way to pacify the conflict between the Americans—those claiming loyalty to the Crown against those who support the revolution. If he can heal those wounds, he can win the war in the South.”
Hamilton nodded emphatically. “I am in full agreement, sir.”
“I shall draft such a letter of instruction to him for your review and comment.”
“It will be my great pleasure, sir.”
Notes
The pivotal battle at King’s Mountain was fought October 7, 1780, beginning at three o’clock in the afternoon, and ending exactly one hour later. The details of the battle as described herein are historically accurate, as are the rough-hewn characteristics of the American force. The independence fighters came from small farms scattered in the mountains west of Camden, and for that reason were called the “over-the-mountain” men. Colonel Patrick Ferguson held the independence fighters in utmost contempt and attempted to intimidate them by sending a paroled prisoner named Samuel Phillips with a message that stated that if they did not cease their opposition to the British, Ferguson would march over the mountains to hang them and destroy their wives, children, and farms. The result of the message was an angry gathering of the independence fighters, as described herein. Except for the names of Sam Chelsey, Caleb Dunson, and Primus, who are fictional, every name used in this chapter is that of a real participant, including the two spies, Kerr and Gilmer, and their titles and positions of command are correctly identified. The group did rendezvous at Sycamore Shoals with their wives and children, from points in North Carolina, South Carolina, Virginia, and west in territory that is now Tennessee, on the Watauga, Nolichucky, and Holston rivers. A fire and brimstone sermon by the Reverend Samuel Doak was delivered as described. Details leading up to the battle, including the report of the woman who sold chickens to the British, the young girl who pointed out the whereabouts of Ferguson’s army, and the man with Ferguson’s threatening circular are historically accurate.
The descriptions of Ferguson’s death and the conclusion of the battle are accurate, as is his burial. The author has seen the mound of rocks that still remains on his grave.
The effect of the freedom fighters’ victory, on both the American and British forces, is historically accurate, as is the appointment by the Continental Congress of General Nathanael Greene, who became one of the great leaders in the entire revolution (Lumpkin, From Savannah to Yorktown, pp. 91–104; Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 582–97; McGrady, The History of South Carolina in the Revolution, 1780–1783, pp. 736–37; Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, p. 364; Mackesy, The War for America, pp. 343–45).
Charlotte, South Carolina
Mid-December 1780
CHAPTER XXVI
* * *
In the thin gray light of an overcast day, General Nathanael Greene sat hunched over the desk in his Charlotte, South Carolina, headquarters, quill in hand, papers organized in stacks, poring over the statistics of “The Grand Army of the Southern Department of the United States of America.” He had taken command from General Horatio Gates nearly two weeks earlier, on December 2, 1780, and had immediately begun the tedious task of plowing through a mountain of paperwork, to ferret out the hard truth of precisely what “The Grand Army” amounted to. Twelve days of intense work trying to meet the ongoing demands of an army in near total chaos, while rising early and working late to study the records, had left him in utter disbelief. Grand Army? He shook his head. Never in the history of armies had that grandiose term been more brutally abused.
Slender, pleasant, bookish, intelligent, attractive, a trained ironmaster, Greene had been born to Quaker parents who had taught him the pacifism of their faith. In 1773, at age 31, he and one of his cousins observed a military parade, an act which drew a sharp reprimand from his Quaker peers. But rather than turn him away from military matters, the spectacle transformed Greene into a devoted student of military history. He devoured the books available in the Boston shop of his friend, Henry Knox. Despite a lifelong limp, Greene joined a newly formed militia company, and after overcoming some difficulty with his legs, was elevated to Commander of the Rhode Island Army of Observation, where he attracted the attention of General Washington. By 1780 he was a major general in the Continental Army.
Exhausted, he tossed the quill on the papers and leaned back in his chair, rubbing tired eyes with thumb and forefinger. Every element necessary to an effective army was very close to nonexistent in the shambles left behind by Gates. Morale, food, clothing, arms, gunpowder, wagons, officers, discipline—all of it—a leaky mass of jumbled confusion.
The sounds of boots in the hallway brought him up short, and he leaned forward on his forearms, waiting for the rap at the door.
“Enter.”
An aide stepped into the door and came to attention. “Sir, General Daniel Morgan is here for his appointment.”
A lift surged in Greene. Daniel Morgan. The Old Wagonmaster. Born of Welsh parents on a date uncertain in the mid-1730s, by age seventeen he stood six feet two inches tall, and weighed two hundred ten pounds. He was in the British army that fought the French and Indians in the Seven Years’ War of 1755, in which he was struck on the back with a sword by an arrogant British officer. Morgan immediately knocked the officer kicking, and was sentenced to five hundred lashes for his disrespect. He took his beating without flinching. It left the British officer in tears, begging his forgiveness, which Morgan gave on the spot, complaining that they only gave him 499 lashes and observing that the next time they better find a sergeant who could count. Morgan was with Arnold in the failed attempt to conquer Canada, was captured, shouted his profane refusal of a British offer of an officer’s commission in His Majesty’s army, and was eventually exchanged back to the Americans. He was commissioned an ensign, formed the finest corps of riflemen on the American continent, and was instrumental in winning the battle at Saratoga. He married the beautiful Abigail Bailey, built her a home, but was soon called back to service with the commission of a full general. Loved by his men, respected by his fellow officers, feared by the British, few men could bring as much comfort to the beleaguered General Nathanael Greene as he faced the impossible task of rescuing the Southern Department from oblivion.
“Show him in.”
The aide stepped aside, Morgan walked through the doorway, and Greene stood at his desk to greet him.
“Reporting as ordered, sir,” Morgan said.
“General Morgan, I am profoundly grateful to see you again.”
Morgan was grinning. “Good to be here.” He glanced at the papers stacked on the desk. “Appears you have a chore ahead of you.”
“More than I care to think about. Have you had breakfast?”
“Yes.”
“Are your quarters acceptable?”
“Fi
ne.”
“Take a seat. We have much to discuss.”
Rank and military protocol were forgotten as the two comrades in arms took their places at the desk. Greene heaved a great sigh and began.
“Let me give you the facts on our arms and munitions. I requested Quartermaster Pickering to send me two companies of artillery. Henry Knox could only promise four small cannon and two light howitzers.”
Morgan sat back and rounded his mouth in surprise. “Four light guns and two light howitzers to take on General Cornwallis?”
Greene nodded and went on. “I asked Joseph Reed for five thousand stands of muskets. He sent fifteen hundred. I asked Congress for clothing to uniform an army. I got none. So I made a personal appeal to the merchants in Philadelphia to send five thousand uniforms, to be billed to France. They declined. I asked Governor Thomas Jefferson of Virginia for clothing. He said there wasn’t enough for his own people. I asked Congress for enough money to provision the army. I got one hundred eighty thousand dollars in Continental paper money—worthless!”
Morgan slowly leaned forward in stunned disbelief. Greene continued.
“I need a thousand wagons. I’ve been promised one hundred forty. As I came south from New York, through Virginia and North Carolina, I requested they provide food, clothing, arms, gunpowder—anything that could be used by an army. I got nothing. They couldn’t even provide fodder for the horses!”
Morgan shook his head.
“Now let me tell you about the army I am to command.”
He reached for a piece of paper and referred to notes.
“On paper we have two thousand three hundred infantrymen. Of that number, one thousand, four hundred eighty-two are present for duty. Nine hundred are unaccounted for. Of those available, nine hundred forty-nine are Continentals, the balance are untrained militia. We have ninety cavalrymen and sixty artillerists. Of the whole lot, less than eight hundred can be properly clothed and equipped.”
