King's Mountain

by Sharyn McCrumb

  All that was perhaps beside the point, though. Morgan was not here. That’s what mattered. And General Gates was two hundred miles away in Hillsborough, while we were less than twenty miles from Gilbert Town, where Ferguson was reported to be.

  By the time Charles McDowell rode from here to Hillsborough, conferred with Gates, and rode the two hundred miles back to wherever we would be by then, with or without an accompanying commander, our campaign would be over. One way or another, it would be all over.

  So the contents of that letter to Gates, although entirely courteous and well reasoned, in actuality signified nothing. We had requested two men who could not possibly accept the commission, and in sending the letter we had rid ourselves of a third nominally qualified leader in the person of Charles McDowell. We meant to go on as we were, no matter what we had said or wrote to the contrary.

  * * *

  One by one we signed our names to the document. Then Charles McDowell stretched out his hand, and, with a deferential nod, Joseph Winston handed him the letter.

  “I’d best be off soon,” McDowell said. “It’s a long way to Hillsborough. I make it nigh on two hundred miles.” He looked around for confirmation, and Cleveland and Winston, who knew that part of North Carolina, nodded in agreement.

  “Yes, I thought so. Two hundred miles. I’m glad my horse has had a bit of a rest.” He reached for his saddlebag, and slid the letter inside it, wrapping leather breeches around it to protect the ink from the rain. Then he stood up, and pushed his way out of the makeshift shelter. The rain had slacked off again, and the rest of us followed him outside, and away from the dripping branches of the tree, but we did not disperse. We wished him Godspeed, and watched him stride away, calling out for his horse to be saddled and for someone to find his brother so that he could transfer the command of his troops.

  “Well, that was easy enough,” Shelby said to me, in a quiet aside not meant to be overheard, and then he turned back to the others, and in a louder voice he announced to the company, “Now, gentlemen, let us choose a real commander.”

  William Campbell blinked at the abruptness of this sally. “Without McDowell?”

  Shelby nodded. “Oh, yes. He is well away, and we won’t be waiting for word from him. There’s not a moment to spare, and we must have a real leader before we proceed. Mind you, Charles McDowell is a fine, loyal fellow, and a good soldier, but he won’t do for command overall. I fear he is too … well, too old … to be entrusted with that responsibility.”

  At this last utterance, the others stared at Shelby in amazement. Charles McDowell was thirty-seven years old, only two years past my own age. That made McDowell five years younger than Benjamin Cleveland, who was forty-two, and, even with his enormous girth, no one would dare suggest that the relentless Colonel Cleveland was unfit for command. I knew what Shelby meant, though, even if he forebore to say it. McDowell was not a satisfactory choice for commander, and age was as good an excuse as any, for the truth was considerably more awkward.

  McDowell had a sense of caution bordering on timidity, and the poor management of his campaigns made him seem like a pettifogging old woman. I knew, too, that Andrew Hampton would never forgive Charles McDowell for the incident on the Pacolet, when he had neglected to post pickets, and Hampton’s son had died that night in the attack. Although he had said very little during our discussion of the matter, he and his men might well have refused to proceed under the general command of Charles McDowell. No one disputed Shelby’s objection to McDowell. He was right in the spirit of his objection, if not accurate in his complaint of the colonel’s age as the excuse for it.

  There was a moment of silence, while we all considered this proposition. Then Benjamin Cleveland looked around the circle, weighing his choices: Shelby, Winston, Campbell, Hampton, and myself. Even though he would now assume command of the Burke militia, Joseph McDowell would not be considered for the job of chief commander. Joseph McDowell was a fine fellow, and as a leader he was a great improvement over his brother, but he was a mere twenty-four years of age. In his case, age most certainly was the deciding factor to disqualify him.

  “It had better be you, Campbell,” Cleveland said at last.

  William Campbell looked startled, as well he might. Many of the rest of us were old comrades in battle, with closer ties to one another than to him. “What? Me?” he said. “But why? Surely, it is Colonel Shelby who should be chosen to lead us. Please take my name out of contention, gentlemen. I have no claim to such a primacy above the rest of you.”

  Shelby shook his head. “No, no, sir. Colonel Cleveland is right. You are the best and most logical choice, Campbell, though your modesty does you credit. Perhaps any one of us would do as well as you in the overall command, but there are other considerations beyond that. First of all, I contend that we must not hurt Charles McDowell’s feelings any more than we have to. Agreed?”

  We all nodded. There was no malice in our wish to replace Charles McDowell as leader, only our grave concern for the success of the enterprise. The presence of Joseph McDowell among the commanders would also make it imperative that we act with the utmost tact in making our decision.

  “Right,” said Shelby. “We are agreed on that point. Well, then, that being the case, I believe I am the last person you should consider. I am the youngest of all of you, and I have served under McDowell. If you should promote me over McDowell, I fear he would take offense.”

  “I believe you are the least objectionable choice, Campbell,” said Ben Cleveland. “The rest of us are all from Carolina, and to elevate one of us in McDowell’s absence would be … unwise. But you are a Virginian. Your appointment would be less of a direct challenge to his authority. And I daresay none of us would object to your election.” He looked around at the rest of us. “Gentlemen?”

  We all nodded. The force of Shelby’s logic had won us over. Campbell was indeed the sensible choice, and it was a choice that we could all live with. Fair enough.

  We put the matter to an informal vote—a show of hands—but that was merely for form’s sake. The Virginian commander William Campbell would lead our combined forces from now until the battle with Ferguson was over. And if anyone remembered how hard Shelby had to beg in order to persuade Campbell to join our enterprise in the first place, no one remarked on it.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  October 4, 1780

  We passed a quiet night, with only the rain to break the silence of the woods, and much to our relief the day dawned clear and fine. We began to break up camp, making ready to go on with the march, when word went around the camp that Old Roundabout wanted to address the men before we got under way. I wondered what Cleveland wanted to tell them. Leaving James and Joseph to pack up our gear, I went along to find the other commanders. The men from each of the militias were beginning to congregate around a clearing, and a little apart from the crowd I saw Cleveland conferring with Shelby, with the other officers grouped nearby.

  When they caught sight of me, they waved me over.

  “I mean to talk to the troops,” said Cleveland, after we had dispensed with the initial formalities. “They have got a bit wild with all this idleness, and too much time to think before a battle can wear away a man’s resolve. We need to ginger them up, and I’m the man to do it. Speechmaking doesn’t come naturally to me, on account of this infernal halt in my way of talking, but, being descended from Oliver Cromwell and all, I reckon I can summon up the spirit to rally them to the cause.”

  I said that a speech to the men was a fine idea, and that I looked forward to hearing it myself.

  Even without a platform or a pulpit, Benjamin Cleveland was an imposing man—tall and corpulent, with a girth that was already more fat than muscle, but despite the jesting nicknames like “Old Roundabout,” the men knew that he was no buffoon. There were a goodly number of Tories hanging lifeless from trees attesting to the fact that Ben Cleveland was a deadly serious man. They would follow his every word, and, even if he stumbled over a fe
w of them, no one would mock him for it.

  A hush fell over the assembly, and the men stood in a semicircle waiting to hear what Colonel Cleveland would say. He was still for a moment, letting his gaze go from one upturned face to the next, and then with a deep breath he began.

  “Well, my brave fellows, I have come to give you the news. The enemy is at hand, and we must up and have at them. Now is the time for every man here to do a priceless service for his country—one that will cause your children to rejoice in the fact that their fathers aided in the conquest of the hated Ferguson. When the time comes, rest assured that I shall be with you. But if any of you have misgivings about sharing in the battle and the glory to come, why you may now have the opportunity to withdraw from this company. You may leave if you choose to, and we shall permit you a few moments to think the matter over.”

  He fell silent then, but his eyes never wavered from the company, and not a man among them moved.

  In the stillness, Maj. Joseph McDowell called out, “Those of you thinking of backing out, what kind of story will you tell your families when you get back home?”

  More silence, except that William Campbell standing beside me murmured, “Shakespeare’s Henry the Fifth, is it not? Gentlemen in England now abed shall hold their manhood cheap while any speaks who fought with us…”

  The moments allotted for a decision had now elapsed, and it was Shelby who urged the men to take a stand. He called out, “Right. Those who want no part of this campaign will upon my mark retreat three paces to the rear of the company.”

  After another pause, Cleveland himself barked out the order, and we waited. Some of the soldiers looked around at one another and smiled, but to a man they stood their ground. When they all realized that no one had chosen to desert the cause, a great cheer went up from the ranks, and the officers exchanged sheepish grins that were equal parts pride and relief.

  Now that we knew we had faithful soldiers, with no cowards or traitors among them, Shelby offered a few words of counsel regarding the battle to come. “We don’t know when we may encounter the enemy, but it will be soon, and when we do, you need not wait for a word of command to proceed. Every one of you will be his own commander. If we are fortunate enough to be able to fight them in the woods, then we must give them Indian play: hide behind the trees, and do not let them get a clear shot at you. But if the enemy yields to us, then you must be alert and wait for an officer’s orders.”

  He spoke a bit longer, more of the same, gingering up the men so that they would be spoiling for a fight by the time we found Ferguson. Then to celebrate our unity of purpose, Major McDowell produced a barrel of spirits that he must have brought by wagon from his home near Quaker Meadows. One of the men doled out a cupful to each of the soldiers, and there was much banter and boasting as they partook of it. Then each man was told to pack two days’ rations in his kit, for we would be on the move again directly.

  When we judged that the morale of the company was running high and strong, Campbell gave the order for the militias to make ready to break camp. The horsemen mounted, and the foot soldiers fell in behind them, laden with weapons and blankets.

  My oldest boy threaded his way around the other riders, and Major Tipton edged away so that he could come up beside me. “Do you think we’ll find Ferguson today, sir?”

  “I hope so, Joseph. We are all fed and rested, and as fit as we’re going to be. Where is your brother?”

  “Oh, I got tired to playing nursemaid to that young’un, so I fobbed him off on Uncle Robert. They’re riding together awhile to give me a rest.”

  “All right, but James is your responsibility. I expect you to look out for him. I can’t command this militia and ride herd on you boys at the same time.”

  Joseph hung his head, and it struck me that he was in many ways still a boy. True, I had been married and a father when I was his age, but he was still living at home, so perhaps he’d had less of an opportunity to mature. I wished he could take his time in coming to manhood, but war has a way of making boys grow up whether they mean to or not.

  We snaked our way along the banks of Cane Creek, heading in the direction of Gilbert Town. We figured we would reach the town by nightfall. The tension in the air put me in mind of a summer thunderstorm, but it wasn’t the weather causing that feeling: it was us. There was no singing or shouts of laughter, no raucous calling from one group to the next, as there had been now and again in the early days of our march. Now we were in enemy territory, and the next bend in the trail could bring us face-to-face with Ferguson’s army. The men were not afraid of what was to come, but they were solemn, for death is a serious business, whether you are giving it or receiving it.

  Suddenly there was a commotion far ahead of us at the front of the procession. We were riding a good ways behind the leaders, which was Joseph McDowell’s Burke militia, and so we could only tell that something had made them stop. No shots had been fired, though. I told Valentine to take command for a bit, and I worked my way up through the line until I reached the front.

  As I headed for McDowell, I heard the Burke men calling out to one another that up ahead a lone rider had emerged from the woods. I heard no shots, though, and no sounds of combat.

  A minute later I could see that McDowell, Campbell, and Andrew Hampton were in conversation with a young man who bore a passing resemblance to Major Hampton. I trotted forward to join the parlay.

  I soon learned that the young man was Jonathan Hampton, brother of poor Noah, the boy who had been slaughtered on the Pacolet when Tory raiders ambushed McDowell’s militia. We were nearing the area where Andrew Hampton’s landholdings lay, as well as the area where Ferguson was reputed to be.

  “He’s gone,” Jonathan Hampton said again for my benefit. “He left Gilbert Town a few days back, and the word is that he went a-hunting Elijah Clarke.”

  “I doubt he’ll find him,” said Major McDowell. “But I hope he crosses our path before he crosses Clarke’s.”

  Jonathan Hampton scowled. “There’s something you ought to see.” He reached into the pocket of his coat and drew out a folded piece of paper. “Ferguson has posted copies of this here broadsheet at general stores and on signposts far and wide.” He handed the paper to Isaac Shelby, who had just appeared, saying “Your name’s on it, too, Colonel Shelby.”

  We all dismounted so that we could examine this broadsheet together. The proclamation, dated three days earlier—October first—gave the author’s location as “Denard’s Ford, Broad River, Tryon County,” which I knew to be a few miles southeast of Gilbert Town. It was addressed to “The Inhabitants of North Carolina.”

  Shelby read it aloud.

  Gentlemen:

  Unless you wish to be eat up by an inundation of barbarians, who have begun by murdering an unarmed son before his father, and afterward lopped off his arms, and who by their shocking cruelties and irregularities, give the best proof of their cowardice and want of discipline, I say if you wish to be pinioned, robbed, and murdered, and see your wives and daughters, in four days, abused by the dregs of mankind—in short, if you wish or deserve to live or bear the name of men, grasp your arms in a moment and run to camp.

  The Backwater Men have crossed the mountains; McDowell, Hampton, Shelby, and Cleveland are at their head, so that you know what you have to depend upon. If you choose to be pissed upon forever and ever by a set of mongrels, say so at once, and let your women turn their backs upon you, and look out for real men to protect them.

  Pat. Ferguson, Major 71st Regiment

  Slowly, Shelby lowered the paper. “Well, he knows we’re coming.”

  “That’s about all he knows,” said Major McDowell. “Backwater Men? Why, Hampton and Cleveland and I are a good forty miles east of you, Colonel Shelby. Does that English fool think that the Catawba and the Yadkin rivers are on the other side of the mountains?”

  “At least you rated a mention,” I said, trying not to grin. “Poor Campbell and I were cruelly snubbed, and we are Back
water Men.”

  “And what is this business about a son being murdered before his father?” said Hampton. “Arms lopped off?”

  “Fanciful, ain’t he?” Shelby was laughing. “I think he must have made up that part. But what I want to know is: just who is he hoping to convert to his cause? The men or the ladies?”

  Cleveland was not amused. “Pissed upon forever. I shan’t forget that turn of phrase. I think we owe him something for that. We should read this notice to the troops when we make camp this evening. Major Ferguson’s words are likely to inspire them a good deal more than mine did this morning.”

  “So Ferguson is no longer in Gilbert Town. What should we do now?” asked Joseph McDowell.

  Campbell considered it. “Let’s go on as we planned. From there we can deliberate on what next to do. But we had better see about getting a spy to scout out the whereabouts of the enemy.”

  Andrew Hampton spoke up. “I know a fellow from these parts who could manage it. Name of Enoch Gilmer. He is one of William Chronicle’s men. We can talk to him when we meet up with them.”

  We headed out again, with Jonathan Hampton riding alongside his father, for he intended to stay with us and see the mission through, and when we reached Gilbert Town late in the afternoon, we learned that Ferguson had indeed left the area, for we camped that night on the very ground that he had vacated only days before.

  * * *

  The next morning, we were waiting for reports on the whereabouts of Ferguson, and hoping that the South Carolina militias would find us, when a lone rider came galloping up the road. Seeing as how he was alone, we took him for an ally, for no Tory would be foolish enough to ride into our encampment on his own. I was sitting with the other commanders, finishing up our morning’s rations, when the rider approached. He was a red-faced man of about forty, with a prominent nose that deprived him of any vestige of good looks, and his thickset body rivaled Colonel Cleveland’s for girth. He had evidently asked where to find the commanding officers, for he made straight for us, with an upraised hand, conveying that he came in peace.