King's Mountain

by Sharyn McCrumb

  “It is time to part ways,” he said. “Have you a preference for a trail?”

  “Why don’t you head down through Turkey Cove?” I said. “If you can make it as far as Colonel Wofford’s fort tonight, you should be able to reach McDowell’s sometime the day after. Shelby and I will go down Catawba Creek.”

  Campbell nodded. “So you and Shelby’s militias will be going along one side of Bald Mountain, and my men will be going down the other.”

  “Yes. We won’t be many miles apart, but with a mountain between us, no army will catch us both at once. We’ll reunite again before Quaker Meadows, if nothing goes amiss. Cleveland will be following the Yadkin River, and I’d expect him to camp near Fort Crider tomorrow night and meet us at McDowell’s on Saturday as well, don’t you think?”

  “I hope so,” said Campbell. “I am looking forward to a decent meal at the house of Colonel McDowell, and a proper night’s sleep before we get underway again.”

  * * *

  They headed off then, and before long the hills and the forest enfolded them, and we went eastward down the mountain by the trail along the North Cove of Catawba Creek, within earshot at first, but gradually the paths diverged to skirt around the mountain, and they were gone. If an enemy force should beset us now, they would be unaware of it. We were on our own.

  The wilderness is wide, though, and for an enemy to find us on the march would be like finding a gob of spit in the rapids of a roaring creek—not likely. Anyhow, we met no hostile forces on our way.

  We made camp that night in the woods alongside the Catawba, near the mouth of a stream called Honeycutt’s Creek by those who live nearby. The men were still building the campfires and breaking out their evening rations, when Joseph emerged from the trees with an armful of wood, and called out, “Colonel McDowell’s on his way, looking to find you, sir!”

  I stood up, and set down my tin plate on my bedding. “Well, then, reckon I’ll make it easy for him,” I said. “Bid your brother to go and fetch Colonel Shelby and bring him here to the fire. He’ll be wanting to see McDowell as well.”

  I started walking off in the direction that Joseph had come from, looking for McDowell. Farther along the path of the creek, I spied him, still astride his horse, with a couple of his men behind him. I waved him over toward our campfire, and he turned to the others and told them to go and make camp among the rest. Then McDowell dismounted and led his horse over to where Robert and Joseph were tending the fire.

  “Have a seat, Colonel McDowell,” I said. “My boy James has gone to fetch Shelby, and you can have a bite of supper while we wait on them to get back, so you won’t have to tell your tale but once.”

  We gave him a hunk of beef and settled him near the fire, talking of inconsequential matters to pass the time. He told us that there had been a killing frost the other night down near Gilbert Town. Then the colonel turned to Joseph and asked how he liked soldiering.

  Joseph shrugged and looked down at his food. “All right, I guess, sir. Ain’t done much of it yet. Just riding trail, mostly.”

  McDowell smiled. “Your father and I could tell you from experience that being a soldier mostly is a matter of riding and waiting, with only a little dollop of fighting every now and again. It’s just that when soldiers grow old and get to telling tales about their wars, they mostly forget all the tedium and they talk about the exciting bits. It gives folks the wrong idea, I expect, but men have been making a glory of war for two thousand years, and every generation of boys has to learn different for themselves.”

  “Shouldn’t be much longer now, though,” I said. “Another day will see us into the Catawba Valley, and then we’ll stop traveling and go to stalking our quarry.”

  McDowell nodded. “I believe I can tell you where to find him.”

  It was full dark by then, but I could tell James by the shape of him, a shadow in the dark between the circle of campfires. Behind him was the taller, heavier silhouette of Colonel Shelby. Joseph and I stood silently, waiting for them to join us, a courtesy we thought proper for his rank, but McDowell stayed where he was by the campfire, and bolted down the last bits of his meal. Shelby took no notice of this, but shook hands all round, and took his place next to Joseph while we waited for a report on the whereabouts of Ferguson.

  Finally, when he had taken a pull from his flask, and settled himself a bit closer to the fire, Charles McDowell looked around at our expectant faces, and nodded that he was ready to begin.

  “Well then,” he said. “Here’s your report on the enemy’s movements. I said I’d find him, and by god I did.”

  Shelby leaned forward, his face aglow with firelight. “Well done, sir! You saw him then?”

  McDowell shook his head. “Not to say saw him, exactly, but I have had reliable reports.”

  Shelby and I glanced at one another, and I was glad that the darkness obscured our expressions. “Oh, have you?” said Shelby, his voice carefully neutral.

  “Yes. There was quite a lot to manage, so I thought I wouldn’t waste my time riding all over creation, looking for Ferguson. Instead I sent out some men to make inquiries.”

  “Where were you, Colonel?” I said.

  “Well, I went along home to Quaker Meadows, to dispatch a message to Benjamin Cleveland and his men, telling them to hurry along to my plantation as quick as they could, for we all aimed to meet there on Saturday. Got ambushed for his trouble, too, poor old Blair. Some blasted Tory was lying in wait along the road, and he put a load of shot in Blair as he passed by. Didn’t kill him, though. He’ll be all right, presently.” He took another pull from his flask, and smiled, pleased that he was able to impart such happy news.

  I felt my muscles tighten, but I resolved to ignore the slurring of McDowell’s words, and to put my questions to him as civilly as I could, but my patience was wearing thin. “I’m sorry to hear that your man was injured, Colonel, and I hope that in due time we can make the enemy pay for their treachery, but right now we are so anxious for you to tell us what you know of Ferguson’s whereabouts that we can hardly think of anything else.”

  I glanced over at Shelby, and he nodded in agreement.

  McDowell took another pull on his flask. “Long ride today, gentlemen. The fact is, I sent out my men to collect information, and I kept myself at Quaker Meadows to be sure that I received their reports.”

  The unspoken thought hovered above us that Colonel McDowell had not only received reports while staying comfortably at home, but also: clean clothes, hot dinners, a feather bed to sleep on at night; a new supply of spirits for his flask, and a fresh horse to make the return journey to our position. No wonder he had volunteered so readily to scout ahead for us, though I think we differed on the meaning of the term.

  Shelby took a deep breath, and said quietly, “And did your informants provide you with anything useful?”

  “He’s somewhere near Gilbert Town. Has been for some time now. We can go after him there or take him when he is headed back to join Tarleton and Cornwallis in Charlotte Town. I have even better news than that, though, gentlemen. Not only is Cleveland making his way down from the Yadkin to meet us, but he is bringing forces under Major Winston from the Moravian settlements. And my riders to the south brought back the news that we will soon be joined by militias from our South Carolina neighbors. Militias under colonels Edward Lacey and James Williams are making their way toward us, and by the time we confront Ferguson, we should have twice as many men as we had reckoned on at the outset.”

  “That is good news, sir,” said Shelby in the same calm voice as before.

  McDowell chuckled in the darkness. “Yes, when the battle comes, I shall indeed have a mighty force at my command.”

  No one made any reply to this sally of Colonel McDowell’s, and for what seemed a long time, it was so quiet that we could hear the crackle of the fire, and the distant notes of a sad song carried on the wind.

  CHAPTER TEN

  September 30, 1780

  With the d
awning of Saturday morning, both the hardest and the easiest part of our journey had ended. The steepest terrain lay behind us, and all that remained was a quick scramble down the last hills and into the Catawba Valley, but when we left the high country behind us, we also relinquished the safety of the mountains. Even an army of a thousand men would be hard to find in the coves and woods we had come from, but once we reached the plain, with its sprawl of farms and villages, everyone in our path would know of our progress, and soon enough the news would reach the ears of the enemy. Well, let them seek us out, though. Let them find us. We had come to fight, after all.

  We broke camp early Saturday morning, but before we resumed our march, Shelby, McDowell, and I gathered beneath a spreading beech tree, and we decided to carve our names on its trunk.

  “This is an historic occasion,” McDowell declared, scoring a long M into the bark. “Here we are commanding an army to oust the king’s forces from our lands. Let us record the moment for posterity.”

  As he went on carving his name, Shelby and I, drawing our own blades, glanced at one another. “I hope we are not tempting fate here,” said Shelby.

  I hoped not, too, but I said, “I hear that fortune favors the brave, so let us say that this is a show of courage, proof that we are fixed in our resolve.”

  “And good luck to us all,” said Shelby, cutting the I of his first name into the beech tree. “May we all live to pass this way again.”

  * * *

  After that impromptu ceremony, commemorating our passage toward the battle to come, we climbed one last mountain before heading down Paddy Creek, whose waters would lead us downstream to the Catawba River. We had not gone far along the creek path before we saw movement in the bordering woods, and then mounted figures emerged from the trees. For a flash of a moment, my gut felt as if it were full of cold creek water, but then the riders hailed us. It was William Campbell’s Virginia militia, coming to reunite with us after going their separate way down the mountain. They looked none the worse for wear; perhaps their night had been as peaceful as ours.

  I trotted across the clearing to meet them, and presently Colonel Campbell himself, catching sight of me, rode up to the fore, and we let our horses amble along the verge of the creek for a bit so that we could confer.

  “Quiet night?” I asked. “You seem as hale and hearty as when last we met.”

  William Campbell nodded. “It was not entirely without incident, but we did make our way down the trail unchallenged. I do not believe that the enemy force is in these parts.”

  “No. McDowell turned up again last night. His scouts report that Ferguson is still in the vicinity of Gilbert Town, well southwest of here.”

  “Good.” Campbell smiled. “As anxious as I am to settle accounts with Ferguson, I am happy to have a few more days to join with the other militias, and to rest a bit at McDowell’s plantation before we seek him out. Did McDowell have a skirmish with him?”

  I took a deep breath before I answered, willing myself to keep my answer light and neutral. “If the British officer happened to drop by Quaker Meadows for a spirited game of cards, Colonel McDowell did not mention it.” I savored Campbell’s look of amazement for a moment, before I went on. “Our comrade spent his scouting days comfortably at home, while he sent others out to do the reconnoitering for him. They assured him that the Loyalists were still in the territory around Gilbert Town, well away from here.”

  Campbell was quiet for a moment. “I see,” he said at last. “Well, leaving that aside for the nonce, I had better tell you about what little transpired last night with our militia. On our way down to Turkey Cove, some of my men stopped at the cabin of a man named Gillespie, and they questioned him about the particulars of Ferguson’s movements.”

  “What did he tell you?’

  “Nothing. My men say that Gillespie knew nothing, and that he cared not at all about the war in general. Living as he does in the wildwood, with few possessions and no society, I suppose it is all the same to him who rules the country. He means to wait out the war on his little patch of land, without getting involved any more than he can help. Well, if the Loyalists should happen that way, I expect that they will find him as unhelpful as we did. We stopped at the new farm of William Wofford as well. Have you heard of him?”

  I nodded. “He is lately relocated from South Carolina, for the Loyalists destroyed his foundry there.”

  “On the Pacolet, yes. Now he has built a gristmill on his new holdings, and he is resolved to regain his prosperity in his new situation. Wofford wished us well on our journey, but he had no information about our quarry, either, barring the fact that they had not been in the area for some time. I don’t doubt that he is glad of that.”

  “McDowell did offer one bit of cheering news,” I said. “He reports that the militias of Benjamin Cleveland and Joseph Winston are on their way south to join us at Quaker Meadows.”

  “That is heartening news. And the South Carolinians? Are they on the way as well?”

  “He assures us they are.”

  Campbell smiled. “Well, then, let us just reach McDowell Brothers’ plantation, and join all our forces together, and then Ferguson can come as he pleases. We are as ready as we’ll ever be.”

  * * *

  We must have traveled nearly twenty-three miles that day, and Campbell’s Virginians nearer to thirty, but the land was gentle here past the mountains, mere rolling hills, instead of the precipitous peaks over which we had toiled to get here. And with our descent into the green valley, summer had returned to grace our progress. After the cutting winds and the snow we had trampled underfoot on Bright’s Trace, now we rode once more past green woodlands in full leaf, cloaked in bright sunshine. Heaven was smiling down on us, and I took it as an omen.

  The sun was low in the sky by the time we reached Quaker Meadows. Those broad fertile fields were a welcome sight, and, though we would still be sleeping rough on the ground, the air was mild and promised a good night’s rest.

  Maj. Joseph McDowell, the colonel’s younger brother, rode out to meet us, and welcomed us to Quaker Meadows. He was a young man, only twenty-four, but he was a brave and steady soldier, as kindly to his friends as he was formidable to his foes. I found him a more congenial soul than his brother.

  “Camp where you will,” McDowell told us, indicating the green pastures enclosed by board fences. “Your men will be exhausted from the day’s journey, so don’t bother about trying to scour for firewood among the trees. Use the fences to build your cooking fires.”

  “That’s uncommonly kind of you, Major,” said Campbell. “Are you sure?” Shelby and I murmured similar sentiments.

  Joseph McDowell smiled. “Quaker Meadows’ workers can always build more fencing. And if your troops leave here well rested, they are more likely to win the battle. That in turn lessens the chance that Ferguson and his men will burn this whole place to the ground one day. I call it a bargain, gentlemen.”

  * * *

  The men were weary after five days of hard traveling over rough terrain, and we decided that it would be fitting to celebrate our success in reaching this point without incident. We were greeted by some of the Burke County men who had stayed behind when Colonel McDowell and some of his militia left in the summer to camp on the Watauga. Anticipating our arrival, they had rounded up some of the cattle that had been hidden in the upcountry coves to protect them from Ferguson. They slaughtered the beeves, and even now they were being parceled out to the many cooking fires in the meadows. No one would go hungry tonight. I had not yet eaten, but I checked on my boys, Joseph and James, and found them settled in by a campfire with Valentine and Robert, and with my sons’ uncle John Crockett, the husband of their late mother’s sister. I hoped to get back to them later, and bade them save me some of the meat.

  One thing still troubled us, though. Before the major turned to go, Shelby called out, “What of the other militias? We had farther to come than they did.”

  Major McDowell smiled aga
in. “They’ll be here by nightfall, gentlemen. We sent word for them to hasten along, and we received a response this afternoon by rider. Colonel Cleveland and the Wilkes County militia and Major Winston with the Surry County men are traveling along the road that runs south along the Yadkin River. They mustered on Wednesday, and camped last night at Fort Defiance, the home of William Lenoir, who rides with them today. If there have been adventures along the way, I doubt not you’ll hear it from them when they arrive.”

  His words were borne out before the sun had set, when a great cry went up through the pastures, and the men at their cooking fires stood up and waved their hats. I turned and saw a procession of riders making their way up the path toward the main house. I hurried that way myself, so that we all could meet with Cleveland and Winston, once they had got their troops settled in, but as I neared the McDowell house, I saw that there were further complications to their arrival.

  Close to the front of the procession was an open wagon, surrounded by grim-faced riders as if they formed an honor guard. I mounted to the porch and looked down into the wagon. A burly young man lay there on a bed of straw with a blood-soaked bandage bound around his thigh. He was pale and grimacing with pain, but he did not cry out.

  Ben Cleveland, colonel of the Wilkes militia, rode at the head of the formation. I recognized him at once, for tales of him were passed throughout the Whig militias as if they were tuneless ballads. He was a giant of a man, both tall and great in girth, but no less vigorous for his size. He seemed to belie the tradition of fat men being jolly and mild in nature, for many of the tales about Ben Cleveland centered on the hangings of the Tories that he pursued so relentlessly in the Yadkin Valley.

  Joseph McDowell hurried forward to greet Cleveland, and seeing that Shelby, Campbell, and I had reached the porch, he made hasty introductions, but Cleveland barely spared a glance for us, so intent was he upon seeing to the wounded man.

  “A casualty already?” murmured Colonel Campbell, nodding toward the wagon.