King's Mountain

by Sharyn McCrumb

  As I went in search of the other commanders, one of my men called out, “I hope you officers ain’t aiming to make us drill in this foul weather, Colonel! ’Cause I reckon we wouldn’t!”

  I gave him a brief stare until he turned his gaze away from mine, and then I quickened my pace. The problem with this army is that it wasn’t any such thing. These men had taken no oath to the nation, received no training, and no pay. They had simply come on this mission because they were asked to by leaders that they trusted, and although most of us were trying our best to act like military men, the fact is that we weren’t. We were old Indian fighters, and our trust and obedience was based on our personal knowledge of those who fought alongside us. That acquaintance would be lacking for us in this expedition when we’d have to fight in the company of strangers. The longer this expedition lasted, and the more unpleasant conditions became, the more likely we were to have problems among the ranks. The men were tired, cold, and sore from their journey over the mountains, and the more time they had to think about going up against a trained enemy force, the more fractious some of them would become. It worried me.

  I said as much to the others when we stood together in a thicket of trees, which was as much shelter from the downpour as we could find. “I hope we find Ferguson soon,” I told them, “before this whole army falls apart around us. Our several militias are like squares of a quilt, but held together only with basting stitches. The fabric will not hold for long, and it will not take much pressure to pull it apart.”

  “Agreed,” said Campbell, “but I see no sign yet that this storm is breaking up. If we tried to march the men out of here today, we might lose more in illness than we gain in discipline. We cannot fight with sick soldiers.”

  “More than that,” said Shelby. “The mud will slow us down. The streams might be too swollen to ford, and, above, all, we cannot risk the gunpowder. If the powder is ruined, it destroys our mission. I think we had better wait another day before we set off again.”

  “Ferguson will keep,” said Andrew Hampton. “I doubt that he will change his position in such weather, either.”

  I saw the force of their arguments, and, though it did not suit me to sit about idly while our enemy was still abroad in the land, waiting was the reasonable course. So we sat out Monday, doing what chores we could despite the rain, and when Tuesday, October 3, proved no better, we remained in camp for another frustrating day, while Ferguson ranged about heaven-knows-where, and we crept one day closer to winter, when such foul weather would be a commonplace.

  We kept a close eye on our men that day, to ensure that they did not while away this dreary day interval of inactivity with excessive drinking or fighting. Boredom was an enemy in itself.

  That evening, as the rain continued to fall in leaden sheets, we made the best of our rations for a soggy repast, and then set off from our respective encampments to confer at the headquarters of Charles McDowell. Finding that I had arrived somewhat in advance of the others, I resolved to spend the time until they arrived in making pleasant conversation with Colonel McDowell.

  His men had managed to rig a makeshift canvas cover under a spreading oak tree. Its abundant foliage helped to divert the rain, and the colonel himself looked relatively dry, seated in the opening of the tent before a sputtering fire. I bade him good evening and sat down beside him on a pile of clothing and blankets.

  “I hope your family is faring well back home,” he said. “You’ve had no word, I suppose?”

  I shook my head. “I tell myself that I’d have heard if anything were amiss. Robertson would get word to us.”

  “I envy you your fine family,” he said. “I have heard, of course, of your recent marriage, and I offer you my heartiest congratulations. Even my envy at such domestic happiness, for I have never married, you know. And the tale of your daring rescue of your good lady at the Watauga siege of ’76 is a wonder to hear. She is a brave woman, your bride.”

  “Yes, she is,” I said, smiling at the memory of her, as I wiped a droplet of windblown rain off my cheek.

  “I know of another such woman,” said McDowell. “They are as rare as double rainbows, but what a treasure it is to find one.”

  I looked around. The others had not yet arrived, and McDowell’s men were busy with their rations. We could not make plans without the presence of my fellow commanders, so I decided to humor him in his choice of subject, sentimental as it was. “And have you found a rainbow of a woman, Colonel?”

  He smiled. “I have, indeed. She is a kinswoman of mine, Mistress Grace Greenlee Bowman, whose mother is a McDowell. But she is in deep mourning still over her husband, who was one of our officers. He fell at Ramsour’s Mill, back in June. When word was sent to her that he was mortally wounded, Grace saddled a horse, put their infant child on the saddle in front of her, and rode the forty miles to the battlefield—heedless of her own safety, heedless of the enemy soldiers who might still have been in the vicinity. She stayed there on the field and tended Captain Bowman until he departed this life. A handsome woman, as brave as any soldier I have.”

  “Well, she has the McDowell mettle in her bloodline,” I said. It had begun to rain in earnest now, and the campfire sputtered out into smoldering ashes. I thought it might be some time before the others joined us.

  The colonel smiled. “Yes, that mettle is evident in her mother as well. Once Mary McDowell was offered a horse by her neighbors if she would retrieve their daughter from the Indians—which she did. She was so clever and able that some of the people thereabouts said she was a witch.” Charles McDowell chuckled. “As for young Grace, that fighting spirit was evident in her from an early age. Back in Virginia, where they had settled then, her father was anxious for her to make an advantageous marriage, so that the family could advance socially. He fixed it up for her to marry a wealthy planter, an elderly man. She said not a word when they told her she had to go through with it, and hauled her into the church for the wedding ceremony.”

  “To marry this Captain Bowman?”

  “No, indeed. A much older gentleman. When the parson got to the part about ‘Do you take this man for your lawfully wedded husband?’—quite clearly and firmly, in front of the entire congregation, my cousin Grace said that she did not. They asked her more than once, but she was quite obstinate. She would say nothing except ‘No,’ and at last they gave up, and she was not required to wed the elderly planter. Instead, she made a match of it with young John Bowman, and they came to Carolina along with her brother James and his wife to start a new life in the Yadkin Valley.”

  “And Bowman was killed at Ramsour’s Mill, you say? How sad that their happiness was so brief.”

  “Indeed. Her life has not been easy, but she has lost none of her courage. I had word of her recently, for all our family and some of Bowman’s comrades are looking out for her whenever possible. I would have been at her service myself, except that I had to flee over the mountains into your territory.”

  “Is she faring well?”

  “She is in as much peril as any of us in these difficult times, but the last news I had of her indicates that she is equal to the challenge. While I was away over the mountain, the Tories quite overran this part of Carolina. One day, Cousin Grace heard a commotion in the yard, and found a troop of soldiers there, one of them leading her horse out of the barn. Upon seeing her, the Tory said, ‘Madam, the king hath need of your horse.’ Her response was to go back inside the house, and to return with her husband’s gun, which she aimed at the man holding the reins of her mare. The soldier took a long look at the stalwart lady leveling the gun barrel at his head, and he said, ‘Madam, the king hath no further need of your horse.’ They put the animal back in its stall, and rode away, leaving her in peace. For now.”

  I smiled politely at this story, but then I said, “Your cousin Mistress Bowman must be quite young and pretty.”

  “Indeed, she is. But what makes you say that?”

  “Because a woman who was not young and pret
ty would not have gotten away with such behavior. A stout matron who behaved thusly would have been lucky to lose only her horse. Are you thinking of rescuing this brave lady from her widow’s weeds, Colonel McDowell?”

  He sighed. “By heaven, I would, if I thought she’d have me. But I keep thinking of the way she spurned the advances of that wealthy old planter. And I fear I am something of a wealthy old planter myself.”

  I smiled, choosing to ignore the fact that I was only two years shy of his age myself. “Do not lose hope, McDowell. You are not so old as all that. I fancy the lady will have you.” I forebore to mention the reasons for my believing that, for they were not nearly as romantic as the old fellow’s ardor. I was thinking that Mistress Bowman was no longer the headstrong young girl she had been when she refused the old planter in Virginia. The war had made pragmatists of us all. Now, the lady was perhaps a decade older, and with at least one child to consider, and I thought, the offer of wealth and security might be more appealing than they were when she was a maiden. McDowell could offer her a prosperous home, a safe haven for her baby, and the comfort of a family already known to her. One did not have to believe in the true love of storybooks to think that McDowell might get his happy ending. Still, I wished him well.

  Someone hailed us just then, and we looked through the curtain of rain to see the other commanders approaching. I saw that Andrew Hampton had joined Cleveland, Shelby, and Winston, and I knew that the very presence of that grieving father would serve as a tacit rejection of Charles McDowell as commander.

  It was time for us to decide who would lead our makeshift army into battle, but, as ready as I was to settle the matter, the others shied away from it. At first they found other things to talk about—pressing matters, all of them—but, excepting Colonel Hampton, at the back of their eyes I could see the hesitation. The decision, when it came, would hurt the pride of Charles McDowell, and, much as we all knew that he was not suited to command our forces, we all respected the fellow, and we would have spared his feelings if we could.

  It was McDowell himself who ended the desultory conversations and called the council to order, for he was still the senior officer in charge. “I have been thinking this through, gentlemen,” he said. “It is our duty to inform General Gates of our plans. He is the supreme commander in the south, and he may wish to send more troops to join us. Anyhow, he needs to be told.”

  Shelby glanced at me, and I knew that a good many harsh thoughts were going through his mind—thoughts of Gates’s shameful behavior after the battle at Camden, when he deserted his army, and rode at breakneck speed for the safety of Hillsborough. None of us would set much store by Gates’s opinions or his offers to help, but McDowell was right: military protocol required us to apprise him of our plans.

  “I agree,” said Campbell. “We are a union of militias from several states—and more on the way, if the South Carolina troops join us. Strictly speaking, none of us has the authority to command the forces from states other than our own. There should be someone with the authority to command, and General Gates has the power to confer that authority. We must consult him.”

  “Gates is in Hillsborough,” said Shelby. “If we sit around cooling our heels and awaiting the general’s pleasure, it could get us all killed.”

  Andrew Hampton gave a quick nod of agreement to this, and I knew he was thinking of earlier battles and opportunities lost.

  “That’s true enough,” growled Cleveland. “Our greatest advantage is speed and surprise. We must corner Ferguson before he can get reinforcements from Cornwallis. We must proceed.”

  Joseph Winston spoke up then. “But how can we proceed without an appointed commander?”

  “Just as we have been,” I said. “We will all meet every evening to discuss the day’s events and to decide how to proceed, and we will continue with an officer of the day, to be given command by our general consent.”

  Shelby scowled at me. I knew he wanted more decisive measures. “Do you know where we are, Colonel Sevier? Perhaps sixteen miles away from Gilbert Town. We could encounter Ferguson’s men at any hour, or at any given place within the next mile. We don’t know. Discipline is already becoming a problem. Our supplies are limited. We cannot hang about waiting for word from the general, but neither can we weaken our forces by changing leaders every day. We need to choose one.”

  “But Gates must be consulted,” said McDowell.

  It occurred to me then that, as useless as Gates was, he might do us a service, after all.

  “Why, you must go and report to him, Colonel McDowell,” I said. “You are senior among us, and it is fitting that you should be the one to confer with him and to explain our position.”

  Shelby took my meaning at once, and warmly supported my suggestion.

  McDowell hesitated. “But my men … the Burke County militia.”

  “Surely your brother Joseph can take your place until you return,” said Cleveland. “As young as he is, he is an able fellow.”

  Several of the others murmured their assent. Despite his youth, Joseph McDowell was a good soldier, and he was well liked by those who had served with him.

  Charles McDowell was silent for a moment, thinking it over. “Yes,” he said at last. “As senior officer here, it is my duty to go. I will leave at once. Joseph is indeed a capable leader, and in my absence the men will follow him. Let me have a word with him, and then I’ll be off.”

  “Not just yet,” said Cleveland. “Perhaps we should compose a joint letter to General Gates, explaining our position and our requirements. You can, of course, elaborate on the particulars when you see him, Colonel McDowell, but the letter will let him know that we are all acting in unison in this matter. Whether Gates assists us or not, we will have discharged our duty regarding the chain of command.”

  All of us agreed that this was a good idea, and we spent the better part of an hour deciding on the wording and the form of the missive, while Joseph Winston made notes of the phrases, so that when we were satisfied with it, he could make a fair copy for us to sign. After much discussion, we arrived at a draft that satisfied all of us. Joseph Winston read it aloud one last time for final comments.

  Sir,

  We have collected at this place about fifteen hundred good men, drawn from Washington, Surry, Wilkes, Burke of North Carolina, and Washington County, Virginia, and expect to be joined in a few days by Colonel Williams of South Carolina with about a thousand more. As we have at this place called out Militia without any order from the executives of our different States, and with a view of expelling out of this part of the country the enemy, we think such a body of men worthy of your attention and would request you to send a General Officer immediately to take the command of such troops as may embody in this quarter. Our troops being Militia, and but little acquainted with discipline, we would wish him to be a gentleman of address, and be able to keep a proper discipline without disgusting the soldiery. Every assistance in our power shall be given the Officer you may think proper to take command of us. It is the wish of such of us as are acquainted with General Davidson and Colonel Morgan (if in service) that one of these Gentlemen may be appointed to this command.

  We are in great need of ammunition, and hope you will endeavor to have us properly furnished.

  Colonel McDowell will wait on you with this, who can inform you of the present situation of the enemy, and such other particulars respecting our troops as you may think necessary.

  Your most obedient and very able servants,

  Benj. Cleveland

  Isaac Shelby

  John Sevier

  Andrew Hampton

  Wm. Campbell

  Jo. Winston

  We nodded to one another when Winston had finished reading it. It was a good letter: very forthright.

  “That’s very well said,” I remarked to Shelby.

  He nodded and murmured, “Yes. Very … plausible.”

  I took his meaning at once. On the face of it, the letter seemed quite log
ical and modest, humbly asking the general to send us a commanding officer. I hoped that neither McDowell nor Gates would trouble themselves to read it more carefully. Both Morgan and Davidson were fine soldiers, and most capable of leading an army, but it wasn’t going to happen.

  Before taking up arms here in North Carolina, William Davidson had fought the war in the north: he saw action at Germantown and Saratoga; he froze at Valley Forge, and of late he had been second in command to General Rutherford here in Carolina. But Davidson had been gravely wounded back in July at Colson’s Mill, and he had been out of action ever since. He would not be taking command of anything for a good while to come.

  And we had said in the letter that we wanted a “gentleman of address.” Daniel Morgan, stalwart old warrior that he was, was not quite that. He came of humble Welsh stock from Pennsylvania, or perhaps New Jersey, and he had very little in the way of education, though there were few men more skilled in gambling and toping. Back in the war against the French, Morgan had served as a mule skinner with the forces of General Braddock, and he managed to survive a punishment of 499 lashes for the insubordination of striking an officer. The hatred for the British army kindled upon that occasion turned Morgan into the most ardent of patriots. I knew him in Lord Dunmore’s War, and deemed him an excellent soldier, but he was not a man of tact or social graces. Despite all his service, he was passed over for promotion in favor of men who had less combat experience but more powerful friends. Morgan might have risen to the rank of brigadier if he had courted the favor of Congress, or troubled to cultivate friendships with his superiors, but he could not or would not do so. That was a great pity, for he would have made a better job of Commander of the Southern Department than the craven Horatio Gates. We all wished they had given the supreme command to Morgan instead. And rumor had it that Morgan himself, infuriated by being passed over while others were honored, had resigned his commission and gone home to his farm. Gates could hardly appoint a commander who had withdrawn from service.