King's Mountain

by Sharyn McCrumb

  The poor man looked from one to the other of us as if we had demanded his firstborn in a stew pot. “But … it isn’t mine to give. It belongs to the government. I’ve no authority…”

  We waited while he worked it out for himself.

  “But…” He took a deep breath and met our gaze, calmer now. “It is true that I have no authority to give that money to anyone, but if the enemy overruns the country, then our liberty will be gone. And if that happens, the money might as well go, too. If you mean to use the funds to fight in our defense, then you had better take it. I can think of no one I would trust more to have it.”

  “We will give you our personal guarantees for the sum,” I told him, and Shelby murmured in agreement. “Give us a bit of paper and we will write our pledges for the loan of it.”

  “While you go and get the money,” Shelby added.

  Before the sun was much higher in the sky, Shelby and I were out in the yard again, preparing to mount our horses, with heavy saddlebags of government money to take with us.

  John Adair shook our hands and wished us Godspeed. “When will the gathering be for the long march?” he asked.

  Shelby and I had talked about the mustering site this morning on the long ride to John Adair’s place. “We’ll assemble the various militia units in each settlement,” I told him, “but we mean to join them all together for the march over the mountains on the twenty-fifth of this month at Fort Watauga. Sycamore Shoals.”

  “I’ll be there, gentlemen. Put me down on your roll. And my son as well.” He nodded toward the slender youth holding our horses.

  “So we will,” said Shelby. “And you’d oblige us if you would pass the word along to any of your neighbors who would be willing to go.”

  We turned our horses back to the road and rode off in silence for a bit, savoring the crisp air and the first tints of autumn in the trees along the distant ridges. A flock of wild turkeys skittered across in front of us, and dived into the underbrush a moment later.

  “Well, Colonel,” I said. “The first and most difficult of our tasks has been accomplished now. We have the funds to field an army.”

  He nodded. “But we have precious little time to make ready, and much left to do. And we have pledged our personal fortunes to the government for the loan of that money.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that, if I were you, Shelby. If we lose this war, I doubt if either of us will live to pay it back.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Early September 1780

  That evening after a weary Colonel Shelby had retired to the best bed, kept for guests in the parlor, I withdrew to my own room, and told my bride Catherine about the message Shelby had brought, and of our plans to take the war to Ferguson instead of waiting for him to bring it here. The first of many sacrifices we would make would be our honeymoon, for I must spend the coming weeks gathering supplies for the mission and, with her mending and needlework, Catherine and my brothers’ wives would help the men of the family prepare for that journey. As I enumerated all the tasks that I must accomplish between now and the gathering of the militias at Sycamore Shoals, Catherine looked up from her sewing, and gave me an impish smile.

  “Well, Mr. Sevier, outfitting an army sounds mighty like planning a wedding, what with all the people you must invite, new clothing to be sewn, and then procuring enough food to feed a multitude.” She laughed. “And will you be needing a parson as well?”

  I knew that she was only teasing, but she had hit upon a telling point. I was not a conspicuously pious man, but asking the Lord to bless our venture seemed a prudent thing to do, and as it would cost us nothing, I resolved to see to it. I answered Catherine’s jest in all sincerity. “A parson? Why, yes, now as you mention it, my dear, I believe we will be more in need of a minister than any betrothed couple. I hope the Reverend Mr. Doak will see fit to pray over us at the mustering and wish us Godspeed on our journey. I must remember to pay a call on him and ask him, but first I have more pressing matters to see to, chief among them: the one thing we did not require at our wedding.”

  Catherine’s eyes sparkled with firelight. “Oh, yes?”

  I smiled. “Why, gunpowder, my dear. When Mr. Wilson read us the vows, I was your willing captive, and so there was no need of it, but for the coming ceremony with Major Ferguson we will need all of it that we can carry.”

  * * *

  The next morning Colonel Shelby headed home to Sapling Grove, intent upon enlisting the support of Col. William Campbell and the Virginia militia. My task was to meet with another of our proposed allies, Colonel McDowell. He had known of the proposed march even before I did, for Shelby had laid out the plans for confronting Ferguson while they were encamped near Gilbert Town, hiding out after the battle at Musgrove Mill a few weeks back, and trying to get home before Ferguson caught up with them. McDowell, Elijah Clarke of Georgia, and some of the other Whig officers had agreed with Shelby that the best solution would be to hit Ferguson with a combined force of as many militia units as we could gather—North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, and Virginia. If Cornwallis wanted to take the war to the south, we would oblige him.

  The summer’s fighting had cost McDowell and his people dearly. He and some of his men had been driven from their homes in Burke County, and they had taken refuge here in the backcountry where Buffalo Creek runs into the Watauga. These folk, some of them owners of fine plantations back home, were living in makeshift huts. For food and supplies, they depended on the charity of the people in the settlement. It was high summer, though, and the woods along Buffalo Creek were full of game: men whose shooting skills had been honed in battle were in no danger of going hungry as long as they had powder and shot.

  Some of them brought their families with them, and they took what livestock they could to keep it from falling into Tory hands. Those who remained behind were ordered to take the Tory oath of loyalty. The reasoning was that by seeming to changes sides, those men would have the freedom to look after the property and kinfolk left behind by those who were forced to flee.

  The refugees from Burke County wanted the fighting finished once and for all so that they could go home.

  I rode out to McDowell’s encampment that morning, not to persuade them to join us—for they would be the first in line to go in pursuit of Ferguson, needing no invitation from me—but to gather information. They had fought Ferguson throughout the summer, and the territory to which we were headed was home to them. I needed to know everything they could tell me about what to expect once we crossed over the mountains.

  I knew that Shelby had deliberately left this task to me. He was still resentful of Col. Charles McDowell for insisting on a withdrawal after Musgrove Mill, instead of advancing farther into Tory territory in South Carolina. He would be seeing McDowell soon enough when we began the march over the mountains, and then he must swallow his ire and behave like a good compatriot, but for now he preferred to negotiate for the cooperation of Colonel Campbell of the Virginia militia, letting me meet with the Burke County commander. I was content with that, for, although my brother Valentine had fought at Musgrove Mill, I had remained to keep watch over the settlement during the summer months, but I heard much of what transpired in messages from him.

  When I told my brother that Shelby was leaving me to talk to McDowell, Valentine had been quick to point out that Shelby was not the only one of our officers with hard feelings toward McDowell. Capt.Andrew Hampton had even more reason to shun him.

  He had come by to pay his respects to Shelby as he was preparing to depart for Sapling Grove, and after we had wished him Godspeed and watched him canter off down the river road, Valentine followed me back inside, and we shooed everyone out of the parlor, and set to talking about Shelby’s plan.

  “It’s a bold plan, Jack,” my brother said, “but if we manage to put together a force of a thousand men, I believe it can be done. One question, though—who’s to be in charge? Did you and Shelby talk about that?”

  I shook my hea
d. “We never got down to details. I was too worried about getting the money to buy supplies for the men, and making sure that nothing is forgotten. Shelby is going to ask Colonel Campbell of Virginia to bring his troops to join us. He asked me to talk to McDowell. He didn’t seem to want to, himself.”

  Valentine nodded. “There were hard feelings when McDowell refused to countenance an advance into South Carolina after we won at Musgrove Mill. That’s why I asked you who was going to lead the army. Charles McDowell is the highest ranking officer among you, you know.”

  “I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “You should, though, Jack. There’s some who won’t follow him. I don’t know that I would.”

  “There’s still hard feelings about the Hampton boy, isn’t there?”

  “Lord, yes, Jack. Colonel Hampton will never get over it. Can you wonder at it? Suppose it had been your Joseph?”

  I knew about this. Col. Andrew Hampton was an able officer in the militia. He had settled east of Gilbert Town, but his military service in the Whig cause had taken him far afield at times. At the beginning of the war, he had fought in the eastern part of Carolina, at the Battle of Moore’s Creek against the Scottish Tories, and lately he had been among those who tried to prevent the fall of Charleston, and thereafter he had fought at Thicketty Fort with McDowell and the others. He had a son, Noah, still in his teens, who was in the militia commanded by Col. Charles McDowell. Back in early July, a militia colonel from Georgia, one Elijah Clarke, had crossed into South Carolina intending to do battle against what Tories they could find, but when scouts informed them of the size of the enemy force in the area, Clarke’s men decided that it was too dangerous to pursue the campaign, and they elected to withdraw. One of their party, Col. John Jones declared that he would stay and he would lead any who cared to go with him back into North Carolina to join forces with the militia there.

  Jones and thirty-five volunteers made their way north, passing themselves off as loyal supporters of the Crown, and thus received help along the way from local Loyalists who offered to guide the party on their way north. Less than fifty miles from the North Carolina border, one of these guides happened to mention that there had been a battle the night before, and that the Loyalists were defeated by a Whig force.

  Colonel Jones, who was perhaps more clever than prudent, saw this news as an opportunity for mischief. He professed great sympathy for the defeated soldiers, and he asked the guide to conduct them to the Loyalist camp, so that he might join his forces to theirs in preparation for a new and more successful engagement. The trusting guide agreed to this plan, and hours later, at nearly midnight, he delivered Jones and his men to the Loyalist encampment. At once Jones ordered his men to attack the sleeping enemy. In a quick skirmish, only one of the Tories died, and the rest surrendered and asked for quarter, so Jones paroled them, confiscated what supplies he wanted, and forced the hapless guide to lead them onward to Earle’s Ford on the North Pacolet River, where they would join forces with the Burke County militia of Col. Charles McDowell the next day.

  There were Tory troops nearby, occupying a captured fort, originally built by the local population as a refuge against Indian attacks, much like our own Fort Watauga. The fort’s commander didn’t know that McDowell’s militia was in the area, but he had already been given an earful about the deceitful Colonel Jones and his attack on the sleeping Loyalists. He dispatched a troop of dragoons and some regular soldiers to go after Jones.

  The dragoons and infantry sent out by the fort commander arrived at the campsite on the North Pacolet in the dead of night, just as Jones had done the evening before. Intent upon repaying the raiders in kind, the Tories crossed the river, and launched their attack upon the sleeping encampment before the Burke militia’s sentinel could sound the alarm.

  Because the Georgia troops were the ones encamped closest to the river, Colonel Jones died early in the fighting, hacked to bits by the sabers of the dragoons. As the attackers fought their way forward toward McDowell’s Burke County militia, the newly awakened soldiers, alerted by the sounds of the skirmish, grabbed their weapons on the run, and rallied to halt the charge, forming a line behind a nearby fence. Within moments they had organized themselves and were preparing to advance. By then the attackers from Fort Prince must have realized that the army they had encountered was larger than the one they had expected to find, because instead of a quick raid against thirty men or so, they found that the encampment stretched on and on, and that hundreds of soldiers were making ready to fight back.

  Taking stock of the situation, their commander ordered them to fall back across the river, thus they exited the fray after suffering only a few casualties. This sudden encounter with many more of the enemy than expected was more of a battle than they had bargained for, and, having dispatched Jones, the object of the raid, they were ready to call it even, and head back to Fort Prince.

  In the brief skirmish before they withdrew, they had managed to kill eight men and to wound another two dozen or so, but the one casualty for which that night would be remembered was young Noah Hampton, the son of the famed Burke County officer.

  The boy had been asleep in his bedding on the ground, when he was awakened in the darkness with the point of a bayonet prodding his throat. Angry voices demanded his name.

  “Hampton,” he murmured.

  That name was well known to the area Loyalists, through the exploits his father, Col. Andrew Hampton, and others of the Hampton clan, who had done much to earn the hatred of their enemies, even as far back as the Moore’s Creek battle, in which North Carolina’s Highland Scots settlers were defeated, attempting to support the very king that they themselves had rebelled against thirty years earlier at Culloden Moor.

  They say that young Noah Hampton had time to beg for his life before the dragoons pushed the bayonet point into his throat, but I hope it is not so. I hope he died as bravely as the rest of the Hamptons lived. I do know that his death was a loss deeply felt by his comrades, and tantamount to a wound to his grieving father.

  Col. Andrew Hampton vowed to make the Tories pay for this outrage—most of those present did the same—but the bereaved parent did not reserve his anger for the attacking Loyalists, for, in war such acts constitute a soldier’s duty, however much we may deplore them.

  Now we come to it.

  Andrew Hampton also blamed Charles McDowell for the death of his son, for letting it happen.

  Why was McDowell so negligent about taking the most ordinary precautions during a bivouac? Why were there so few guards for a force of three hundred men, and none of them posted far enough from camp to sound an alarm in time for it to do any good?

  Colonel Hampton confided to some of his fellow militia officers that he did not feel that McDowell could be trusted to command. According to Shelby, many Whigs believed that McDowell’s overcautious actions in the aftermath of the Musgrove Mill battle corroborated that judgment of his unfitness to lead. Others said that he drank too much, clouding his judgment at crucial times.

  But, putting all that to one side, I had to consider the fact that Charles McDowell had a few hundred troops at his command, and we sorely needed them. Shelby had confided all this to me during his recent visit to Plum Grove, although I had already heard a good bit of it from my brother, and we all agreed that, like him or not, we had to have the support of his militia in the coming venture.

  Now, I had stayed home all summer, guarding the settlement against possible attacks from the Cherokee to the south, so I was not present for the fighting on the Pacolet or at Musgrove Mill. Any reservations I had about McDowell’s ability were relayed to me at second hand, so it was decided that I should talk to him. I kept it uppermost in my mind that McDowell was on our side, capable or not. He might prove to be an encumbrance, but he was not the enemy.

  People say that I have charm, perhaps from my French heritage. I can get along with almost anybody, unlike these brooding Scots and Irishmen, who store their grudges in the cellar w
ith the winter apples. If ever I do harbor any ill will toward a fellow man, I hope I am careful not to show it, for to let an enemy see your feelings is to disarm yourself. Enemies are a luxury, and I try to choose them sparingly, because between the Indians and the British I generally have all I can handle.

  Perhaps, for all his resentment of McDowell, Col. Andrew Hampton felt the same, for when Ferguson raided his home territory around Gilbert Town, Hampton, too, had gathered some of his followers and come over the mountain to take refuge along the Watauga. So he and McDowell were neighbors, maintaining an awkward truce perhaps, but, because there was still a war to be fought, they would be forced to coexist in peace for yet a while longer. We knew that we all must put aside our differences and work together for the common cause as best we could.

  So I rode off to the Burke encampment that morning, as bright and welcoming as the September sunshine, bearing what I hoped would be good news for the colonel: another chance to engage the enemy. I had been a visitor there before, of course. McDowell was a man of substance, and we had all gone to pay our respects at one time or another in the past few weeks as a matter of courtesy as well as prudence. I had sent supplies from Plum Grove to help them settle in to a bearable exile.

  I found McDowell in camp, alone, eating his midday meal of stew and beans off a dented tin plate. Charles McDowell had been a lifelong bachelor, and perhaps solitude and the enforced idleness of temporary exile from his plantation weighed upon him, for he seemed even more somber than usual. Still, he managed a taut smile as he padded forward to meet me, and to bid me welcome with starched courtesy, proffering a dipper gourd of water, which was most welcome after my journey on that hot morning. Then he hovered close to my horse’s withers, making inconsequential pleasantries while I watered the animal at the creek, unsaddled it, and saw to its tethering in a patch of grass.