Benjamin Cleveland, swinging down from his horse, called out. “My brother. He has been shot by those murderous villains. I hope we kill them all.”
From what I had heard of Colonel Cleveland, for his fame preceded him, he had made a good start on that task already.
“Bring him inside,” said Joseph McDowell, throwing open the door.
We all moved to help, but Cleveland waved us away, and we saw that the men who had accompanied the wagon were more than equal to the task of removing the injured man and conveying him into the house.
“Perhaps we’d better wait out here,” I said to Campbell and Shelby. “Let them see to the wounded first.”
Shelby nodded toward a spreading oak tree within sight of the house. “We can wait there, and talk a bit. From there we can see them when they come out again.”
We threaded our way through the clumps of militiamen resting upon the ground, heading for the great oak, which as yet had no one making camp beneath it.
“Good man, Cleveland,” said William Campbell. “I rode with him in the summer, chasing Tories. He came from Virginia originally, you know. Married Mary Graves, whose sister Susannah is the new wife of Gen. Joseph Martin. The Martins live next to Leatherwood, the plantation of my brother-in-law. Great friends of ours.”
Neither Shelby nor I said “Patrick Henry,” when Campbell casually mentioned his brother-in-law, but I’ll warrant we were both thinking it. Fortunately before I could remark that we had no need of a pedigree, as we weren’t thinking of using Colonel Cleveland for breeding purposes, Shelby said, “I believe Martin is our best hope for the safety of our families back over the mountain. He has connections with the Cherokee nation, and he is using his influence to keep them from attacking our settlements while we are away.”
I held my peace again, but I, too, was well acquainted with the Cherokee, and, though nothing would be said of it here among gentlemen, I also knew that one of Martin’s principal connections with the Cherokee was his marriage to Betsy Ward, the daughter of the tribe’s Wise Woman, Nancy Ward. Since this Indian marriage was concurrent with his present union with Susannah Graves, I doubted if either Campbell or Cleveland would thank me for mentioning it. I suppose that this alliance with Betsy Ward increased Martin’s influence with the tribe, and enabled him to make pacts with them for the benefit of our settlements, but, though I saw the sense of it, I would not do such a thing myself. I had too clear a memory of the attacks on our homes … of seeing poor James Cooper scalped and murdered while we watched helplessly from the fort. And most of all I remembered my new bride—as she is now—running for her life around the wooden walls of Fort Watauga, saved from the same fate only because I was able to grab her hands and lift her up out of harm’s way. No, I would not be bringing any Indians into the family fold. Not I.
“Something of a changeling, Martin is,” Campbell was saying. “His father was the son of a wealthy merchant in Bristol. He was sent to the colonies to pursue business interests, but when he told his father that he proposed to marry a Virginia woman, the outraged patriarch disinherited him. He may not have been good enough for the aristocracy of England, but in Virginia he counted the Jeffersons and James Madison as his neighbors, and no doubt Captain Martin envisaged a gentleman’s life for his son and namesake.”
I was still watching the house, but no one had as yet emerged. “Perhaps rebelling against a father’s expectations runs in the family.”
Campbell smiled. “So it must. Young Joseph was indifferent to schooling, left an apprenticeship, and ran off to the backcountry. He became quite the explorer. He loves to tell the tale of how Daniel Boone, some ten years back, was leading a party of settlers into the Powell Valley, only to find Joseph Martin and his men already there, constructing a fort. I’d love to have seen the look on Boone’s face. Anyhow, Martin knows the backcountry as well as anyone. If anyone can keep the peace with the Cherokees, it is he.”
“He is well acquainted with the Indians, certainly,” I said mildly.
“I hope for all our sakes that he succeeds,” said Shelby. “Have you any such stories to tell us about Colonel Cleveland before he joins us?”
Campbell nodded. “I recall a tale or two from his wild days, before he settled down with Miss Mary. He is a steadfast fellow now, but some of Cleveland’s exploits before the war are the sort of yarns best suited to fireside tale-telling, shared over brandy.”
“Well, we will have to make do with just the firewood,” I said, tapping the broad trunk of the oak tree, “though I daresay I could fetch you a dram of corn whiskey if you should require it, Colonel.”
He waved away the offer. “The stories themselves are brandy. He is the scourge of the Tories in the Yadkin Valley, you know. They call his militia ‘Cleveland’s Devils,’ but in his salad days, he was a bit of a devil himself, much more suited for hunting and trapping—and drinking—than farming. But—now this was a dozen years ago, before he moved over the border into North Carolina—Ben Cleveland had a little farm on the Pigg River. He and Joseph Martin were ever the best of friends, and so the pair of them decided to plant a crop of wheat on the farm, but they were not temperamentally suited to agricultural endeavors.”
“Never cared for it overmuch myself,” said Shelby.
Campbell smiled. “No, it is hot, hard work. Especially when a man is young, the fine summer days tend to get away from him. The wheat crop made it to harvest time, suffering somewhat from the indifference of its tenders and perhaps more from want of the fence that Cleveland had neglected to put up around the field to keep the animals out. But still there was a wheat crop to be gathered in, and Cleveland and Martin duly invited all the neighboring farm families over for the harvesting and the celebrations that went with it.”
“That’s the best part of farming,” I said. “When you gather the community together for a big barbecue, with all the fiddling and the dancing and the passing of the jug. That’s a fine thing, after all the work of harvesting.”
“Yes,” said Campbell with a wry smile. “After. Unfortunately, in those days Cleveland and Martin were impetuous young men, and they gave the party before they held the harvesting. What with all the drinking and the dancing and the celebrating, nobody ever did get around to bringing in the sheaves. So Cleveland went back to exploring and land-speculating. Of course, the war has matured him, as it must do for many a man.”
I thought that some of Ben Cleveland’s ordeals in the wilderness over the mountain might have had a good deal to do with turning him into a leader, and perhaps into the pitiless foe that he had become. Everyone who has ever spent any time on the frontier has lived through something that haunts him. I should know. I’ll warrant that Cleveland could tell many a harrowing tale that would put the harvest story in the shade. Anyhow, that hapless young farmer of twelve years ago was gone now, and in his place was a man who was keeping score against the world. For every wrong the Tories did in his bailiwick, Cleveland struck back. He would hang them all if he could.
I looked again toward the house. Time was short, and the others would be joining us soon. “Setting aside all these fine pleasantries, sirs, there is something else we need to settle, though for my sense of honor I could wish we were standing on someone else’s land while we talk about it.”
Shelby caught my meaning at once. “Charles McDowell.”
“Yes. He is taking it for granted that he will be in command.”
Campbell shifted uneasily, glancing back toward the door. “Well, he is the senior officer.”
We were all silent for a moment, contemplating that unpleasant fact.
At last Campbell said, “Is there any way around it, gentlemen?”
Shelby sighed. “McDowell is a staunch patriot. An honest man. A steadfast soldier, but…”
“He won’t do,” I said. “He is too old and slow. He drinks too much, and he is indecisive when he ought to be bold. This foray is our last, best chance to end this, and we cannot risk it in the hands of the man who t
urned back after Musgrove Mill, and who did not post pickets at Earles Ford on the Pacolet.”
“We’ve been alternating command thus far,” said Shelby. “Perhaps…”
“Yes, and I suppose we could simply hope that when we find Ferguson and begin the battle, it will not be on McDowell’s day.”
“Well, no, of course we must—”
Campbell put a restraining hand on Shelby’s shoulder. “We must talk about this later. They are just coming out now.” He left us under the tree, and walked a little way out into the meadow, waving to the McDowells and Cleveland, motioning for them to join us.
With a last glance back at the closed door, Ben Cleveland stumped down the steps and ambled toward us, with both the McDowell brothers and another officer following in his wake. The men who had carried the injured fellow into the house hurried back to join their comrades in the pasture. The smell of cooked meat filled the air, and here and there we could hear the strains of a merry tune. The set-to with the Tories was yet to come, but the men obviously felt that they had won the battle with the mountains. After the snows of the Roan, it was pleasant for them to rest in a summery meadow, however briefly.
Cleveland was red-faced and huffing when he reached us, and though he shook hands all around, it was plain that his thoughts were still elsewhere. “Do you know Major Winston here? Surry militia. Good man. I had the honor of fighting at his side in Alamance, and again when we went after a hornet’s nest of Tories on the New River.”
We hastily greeted Joseph Winston, a somber-looking fellow near my own age, but it was impossible to divert one’s attention for long from Cleveland in his agitated state. Still, the big man made an effort to be congenial. “Congratulations are in order for the major, gentlemen. May I tell them your news, sir?”
Joseph Winston finally managed a smile and a brief nod. “Just as you like, Colonel.”
“Mistress Winston has just recently given birth to three fine sons, and all are thriving. Is it not a marvel, gentlemen? The major here will be going home to a ready-made family. And I hope they may all live a long time in perfect happiness.”
We made suitable noises of congratulations, but Cleveland was still distressed, and finally he burst out, “They shot my brother. The Tory vermin.” Now he was pacing back and forth under the tree, flushed again with anger.
“Robert?” said Campbell, who had also ridden with Cleveland heretofore.
“No. Robert is well. That was him riding alongside the wagon, and he’s out in the field somewhere, making camp. It’s our younger brother Larkin. They shot him.”
“This is grave news,” said Campbell. “When did this happen?”
“Just a few hours ago, as we were making our way here. I reckon some of the local Tories had heard of our progress, and they were determined to make mischief. They hate me, y’know. I think they may have mistook my brother for me. We look rather alike, especially at a distance.” He patted his ample girth, but there was no humor in the gesture. “Anyhow, we had left Lenoir’s house—Fort Defiance, it’s called—and we were perhaps ten miles from Crider’s fort on our way here. We were crossing the river at Lovelady Ford. There are heights on both sides of the Catawba there, and the blackguards were hidden up there in the rocks, waiting to ambush us. I’d like to know who told them of our movements.”
His voice left us in no doubt about what would befall the traitor if Cleveland should discover his identity.
“So there was Larkin, fording the stream, and they got him in the thigh, shattered the bone. Once he fell, some of my men went up the rocks after the shooters, but they were too quick for us. Got clean away. We shall hang them someday, if I have my way. Anyhow, Larkin could not ride, so our brother Robert and one of the men set off in a canoe with him, and the rest of us continued the march here by road. They met us near here. Larkin only came in the wagon up from the river. Just as well. He was in pain enough without rattling eight miles along the rutted road.”
“He is upstairs with my mother now,” said Joseph McDowell. “And he will have every care that Quaker Meadows can offer while we are gone. It is a serious wound, but he is young and strong, and I think he will overcome it.”
“We Clevelands are big enough targets, I grant you, but we are hard to kill. And if it is not his time, he will not be called from this life. Gentlemen, I believe that.”
“So do I,” said Joseph McDowell. “One of the South Carolina soldiers told me a tale about their colonel Edward Lacey. ’Tis said that when he was a boy, a gypsy fortune-teller told him that he need have no fear of battles, for he was fated to die by drowning. She has proved right so far for he has come through many a skirmish unscathed. You heard about the taking of the blasphemous Tory Huck back in June? He was in that company.”
“I’ll bet he takes care when he is fording rivers,” I said. But I, too, had nearly drowned in my boyhood. I was rescued from the stream by two young girls, who managed to pull me out. They say that those who escape such perils are born to be hanged; I hoped that would not prove true in my case.
* * *
There was a sudden silence, for all of us were mindful that time was short and the day of reckoning was near. All the commanders were now assembled under the great oak: Campbell, Shelby, Cleveland, the McDowell brothers, Joseph Winston, and myself. The troops from the south would rendezvous with us elsewhere, but when we broke camp in the morning and set out on the last leg of the journey, we must be ready to face the enemy at any given hour. We talked for a while about what we knew—that Ferguson was in the vicinity of Gilbert Town, and that before we encountered him, we expected to meet up with additional forces from South Carolina and Georgia. And we knew that before we set out to do battle we must choose a commander, because an army must have a fixed chain of command, and not simply someone who is in charge for the day. We resolved little except that we would set out toward Gilbert Town in the morning, still passing the mantle of command back and forth among ourselves.
“What we need is a spy,” said Campbell. “Someone who can venture out ahead of the army, and bring us back information on the whereabouts of Ferguson. Someone who doesn’t look like a militiaman.”
Charles McDowell nodded. “That would be a great help, certainly. I’ve heard Major Hampton speak of such a fellow. Tomorrow, let us take up the matter with him.”
We spoke a while longer about matters connected to supplies and such, and then we all shook hands and wished one another well, before retiring to our respective encampments for an evening’s rest. If anyone went to the house to share a fine dinner at table with the McDowells, I did not take note of it, though it was only to be expected that Ben Cleveland would go back to see to his wounded brother.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
October 1, 1780
The next day, the Lord’s Day, and the first of October, dawned clear and fine. The roads would be dry and flatter than the terrain we had crossed to get here, and the men were rested and eager to get on with the mission. We would make better progress from now on than we had thus far. Gilbert Town lay nearly thirty miles southwest of our present position at Quaker Meadows, and it would take us several days to reach it—if, indeed, we got there at all without encountering Ferguson’s troops somewhere in between.
The South Mountains lay along our route, just when many of us thought we had done with steep terrain, but there were valleys and passes cut by the streams and rivers traversing it, and we reckoned that we could thread our way through those passages without having to make another arduous ascent.
We headed for those rugged hills, hoping to pass them by nightfall, but our luck with the weather ran out long before dark, when it began to rain hard. I was riding with my sons at that point, and Joseph wiped the rain from his face with a fearsome scowl. James seemed not to mind the downpour, though. Young as he was, and having had to wheedle his way into the expedition in the first place, I think he would have happily forded streams of molasses in his joy at being allowed to accompany us.
&nb
sp; To lighten our spirits, I summoned up a bit of scripture from memory: “For He maketh His sun to rise upon the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.”
“Amen,” said James, grinning.
“I sure do hope that Ferguson and his Tories are getting as wet as we are,” grumbled Joseph.
“We should be thankful for the good weather the Lord has already given us to get us over the mountains. A little delay now isn’t much to complain about. We have come far enough for one day, I think. Let’s look for a sheltered campsite.”
* * *
The commanders conferred—hastily—for none of us was eager to be drenched in the saddle in order to carry on a prolonged debate. We agreed to call a halt to the march, and the men set about making camp in a gap, near the headwaters of two creeks.
We had no tents and no other protection from the cold rain except for our sodden blankets and whatever shelter was afforded us by rock overhangs and the canopy of trees around us. I was sure that Major Ferguson, wherever he was, would be much better accommodated for the evening, for he had tents, baggage wagons, and servants to dance attendance upon him. We were not even an army, strictly speaking, and we had to make do with what we had, which was precious little. This would not be so pleasant an evening as the one before, but at least it lessened the chances of an ambush. Nobody would be out in this weather unless he had to.
We made camp that evening near the creek, and when we had eaten the evening meal and settled in with what shelter we could manage from the drizzle, Colonel Cleveland appeared, and seeing that my boys and I had not yet bedded down, he eased himself down onto a blanket-covered saddle.
“Too early to sleep,” he said, “especially in this blasted weather. Thought I’d come and pass the time.”
We spent a while in desultory conversation about family and past skirmishes with the enemy, and I could tell by his rapt expression that my younger boy James was fascinated by Cleveland. He had a slight defect in his speech, which probably had kept him out of political life, but his charm was manifest, and this would stand him in good stead as a leader. Finally James got up the courage to ask the colonel a question.
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