We were all silent for a moment, waiting, I suppose, to see if anyone could come up with any objection to this plan, and also in deference to Campbell, who had the final say. I looked around at the riders nearest me—Campbell, Shelby, Cleveland, McDowell, Winston—and to a man they were all smiling and nodding in agreement with Major Chronicle’s suggestion.
“There are seven hundred of us in all, I judge,” Campbell said. “Would you think that to be sufficient numbers to surround that ridge?”
“Yes, sir,” said Major Chronicle. “To the best of my recollection of the place, I believe it would.” He looked to his friend Captain Mattocks for confirmation, and received a slight nod from that young man in return.
“So you are agreed then?” said Campbell, looking from one to the other. “Good. We will plan accordingly. Let’s divide the militias into three groups and surround the encampment.”
It wouldn’t be long now. We knew where we were going. And we knew how we would launch the attack once we arrived. Now there were only a few miles to cover, a little time for a silent prayer in the saddle, before we could accomplish what we set out to do, and then, God willing, we would go home.
When the newly appointed leader of Graham’s militia had taken his officers and rejoined his men, no doubt to explain to them what had transpired, Joseph McDowell, who happened to be riding alongside me at that point, leaned over and said in confidential tones, “After seeing what just transpired, I expect you must think William Graham a coward, Colonel Sevier. He is devoted to his wife, and indeed I hope that heaven will spare her to be with him for many more years, but, for those of us who know him, Graham’s courage is not in doubt. He was at Thicketty Fort with my brother’s troops, and he acquitted himself well. I don’t know, though, that we won’t be better off in the end by having Major Chronicle take over his command, since he has camped at the very spot where Ferguson is now dug in. It may be that Graham’s leaving is a blessing in disguise.”
I thought that the leaving of Joseph McDowell’s brother had been another such blessing in disguise for us, but I was not so uncivil as to say so. I smiled my thanks and rode on, content for the moment to commune with my thoughts.
“Look!” someone called out. “It has stopped raining.”
We had been too preoccupied to notice, but now the sudden appearance of blue sky and autumn sunshine seemed like an omen, a celestial blessing upon our mission. At least, I hoped it was.
* * *
I kept thinking that in a few more bends in the trail, the site of Ferguson’s encampment would be before us: King’s Mountain, whose name Major Ferguson had reportedly taken for his own omen of good fortune. Major Chronicle and his South Fork men had moved to the head of the column, and we were proceeding under his direction. But though I looked upward to the left and right of us, scanning what horizon I could see, there was no peak rising above the level of the surrounding terrain.
“Where is it?” I said to no one in particular. “I can’t see a mountain.”
“It’s just a long ridge,” said Joseph McDowell. “I’ve been in these parts before. After the mountains you’re accustomed to, this one won’t look like much.”
I nodded. Anyone from the Watauga settlement would scoff at hearing this little ridge being called a mountain, for compared to the mighty Roan, from which you can look down upon the clouds, it was a sorry excuse for one.
“Even if you could see it from here,” McDowell was saying, “that little bump on the landscape is more molehill than mountain. The long low ridge is perhaps three miles long, and oriented northeast to southwest. But it is thickly forested, like the mountains you are accustomed to.”
I considered the terrain in the light of my years of wilderness fighting. From McDowell’s description, the thing sounded like a giant razorback hog asleep between two valleys. So Ferguson was ensconced on a narrow little summit, was he? And he thought he was safe? Well, it didn’t look like it would turn out to be much of a climb for mountain soldiers. A couple of minutes would probably see you to the top of it. And I would thank Providence for every single one of the trees growing along the entire length and height of the ridge. We would ascend that sorry little mountain, wherever it was, Indian style, darting from tree to tree, protected from enemy fire, while the Tories were on a flat open space above with nowhere to run to. I hoped Major Ferguson liked his choice of battlefield as well as I did, and I could not resist remarking to Major McDowell: “Well, if the hill you describe is the king’s mountain, then I reckon the king’s ocean must be a millpond.”
Joseph McDowell smiled, but before he could reply, we noticed a commotion going on ahead of us. No one made much noise, for Chronicle reckoned we were now about two miles from the site of his old hunting camp, close enough to the enemy’s position to worry about being detected, but we saw that one lone rider, who had been heading down from the mountain, had been surrounded by men of the South Fork militia, and though the horseman had tried mightily to elude them, one of the men had grabbed the reins, and several others managed to pull the struggling rider out of the saddle.
“He looks about the age of my James,” I said, trying to peer around the riders in front of me to see what was happening. I said to McDowell, “So it isn’t Ferguson, nor even one of his officers. Still, if he has been up on the ridge he probably knows something worth hearing. I think we should find out what it is.”
I wouldn’t horn in on the capture, for Chronicle’s men were all local to this area, and chances were good that they knew the prisoner and could get more out of him than a stranger. But if they did get him to part with any information, I wanted to be privy to it. I saw that Shelby and Winston had the same thought, for they, too, were approaching the head of the column. Frederick Hambright and several of the South Fork men had taken the captured boy to the edge of the trail, and, judging by the sullen and tearful look on the face of the prisoner, they were not taking no for an answer.
After a few minutes, Chronicle’s hunting companion, Captain Mattocks left the group around the prisoner and came to tell us what they had learned.
“That there’s John Ponder, sirs,” said Mattocks, nodding toward the prisoner. “Ponders are thick on the ground hereabouts, but Colonel Hambright recognized this particular one, and said that since this lad’s older brother is an infamous Tory scoundrel, he figured this one was just as bad.”
“Did he tell you anything?” said Shelby.
“Oh, he is a goose laying golden eggs, sirs. We searched his pockets, first thing. Why, he was headed for Charlotte Town, carrying a dispatch from Major Ferguson to Lord Cornwallis himself.”
“I suppose Ferguson is asking for reinforcements and supplies,” I said. “I would, in his place.”
“Well, it’s too late for him to get any,” said Mattocks. “But yesterday our spy Joseph Kerr said he didn’t think any were being sent. There’s a rumor abroad that Bloody Ban Tarleton is ailing, and cannot leave Charlotte Town.”
“Probably choked on his own venom,” said McDowell.
Major McDowell’s bitterness toward Tarleton meant that he was thinking of the battle in the Waxhaws back in May, when Tarleton’s dragoons caught up with the retreating forces under Abraham Buford of Virginia, and cut them to pieces. It was not so much the defeat that rankled—our side had lost its share of battles before and since—but Banastre Tarleton’s refusal to give quarter to those who tried to surrender was an act of barbarism that shocked even those of us who were Indian fighters. Those who did survive said that while the wounded lay helpless on the ground, crying out for water, Tarleton’s dragoons crisscrossed the field, running their bayonets through the bodies of the fallen. Their testimony had spread throughout the southern militias, and the shock and outrage at this tale of savagery had spurred us on to greater efforts against the enemy.
“I wish Banastre Tarleton was up on that hill,” said McDowell, “but for the fact that his presence might tip the odds against us.”
“Well, it’s good t
o know that he isn’t there,” I said. “Our numbers should be about even without him.”
I turned back to Captain Mattocks. “So Tarleton is still at headquarters. Did General Cornwallis send anyone else to reinforce Ferguson?”
“Ponder says not. He even reckons some of the men Ferguson had to begin with have begun to slip away.”
McDowell and I exchanged glances. “Heard we were coming,” he muttered.
“There was one other thing,” said Captain Mattocks. “Major Chronicle wanted us to pass this information on to all the men. The Ponder boy told us what Ferguson is wearing so that we’ll be able to pick him out in the battle.”
“Isn’t he in the regulation uniform?” asked McDowell. “I should think that a Redcoat would be easy enough to spot.”
“So it would,” said Mattocks, “only Major Ferguson has put on a long red-checkered hunting shirt over the top of his uniform. You need to look for a man on horseback wearing that red-and-white-checked hunting shirt. That’s your target.” Mattocks touched a finger to his hat by way of valediction. “By your leave, sirs, I’m going off now to tell the other commanders.” Barely pausing long enough to hear our thanks, Captain Mattocks headed for the back of the column to deliver his message.
Joseph McDowell was looking up at the beginning of a forested ridge stretching out before us. “Less than a mile, by my reckoning,” he said. “It won’t be long now.”
I glanced up at the sky. The storm had well and truly passed on, and the sky was still the deep blue of the best autumn days, with the warm afternoon sun beaming down on us as we rode. There was nothing now to keep us from completing our mission: we had information on the enemy’s position and strength; a sound plan of attack from local men who knew the terrain; and clement weather in which to do battle.
The hour was at hand.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
October 7, 1780
When we were still half a mile from the treeless plateau where Ferguson had made his camp, our procession halted. Horses would do us no good in the ascent of a steep and rocky hillside, and they had earned a rest, anyhow. We ordered the men to tether them a little away from the trace. There was little else to leave behind, for we had made the last leg of the journey without provisions. We had only our weapons and the powder and shot to fire them. Ferguson, we had heard, traveled with a score of baggage wagons. A few miles back I had wondered aloud what he kept in them, and solemnly Isaac Shelby replied, “Why, enough provisions to last him the rest of his life.” Owing to my utter exhaustion, we were another hundred yards farther along before the ominous meaning of his words struck me.
I would keep my horse, as would the other commanders, for we could more easily be seen by our men if we were on horseback. As the other Seviers tied up their mounts with the rest, I turned to my youngest boy. “James, you will stay here with the others who are minding the horses.”
He gaped in astonishment. “But, Daddy, you said I could come!”
“And so you have, son, but this is as far as you go. When the fighting is over we’ll come back for you.”
James scowled at his brother, his eyes red-rimmed now with tears of vexation. “What about Joseph? Is he staying, too?”
I glanced at Joseph, suddenly tempted to keep him safe as well, but he was two years older than James, older than I had been when I married his mother. As a father I might wish to protect him, but as his commanding officer, I could not justify it. He could shoot as well as anyone, and he was old enough to do a man’s job. “No,” I said. “Joseph is eighteen. He will come with us.”
James looked as if he wanted to contest the matter further, but I was giving him a stare that brooked no argument, and Robert ruffled his hair, and said gently, “You are a soldier now, James. It is your duty to obey an officer’s order without question. And mind you look after my horses particularly, nephew, for I am too tired to walk home.”
* * *
The sun had begun to tilt downward, the beginning of its slide toward an early autumn sunset. It was just before three o’clock then. We began our preparations for the battle. Our concerted intention was to surround that hill of Ferguson’s, but, according to Chronicle and Mattocks, the thing was shaped like a washerwoman’s battling stick—long and narrow—which meant that some of the militias had farther to go than others to take up their positions. We ordered the men to check their weapons yet again, for the early part of our morning journey had been through a steady rain. The old priming had to be cleared from the pan of each weapon, and new priming put in. The men examined their bullets, and many of them stuffed four or five of the bullets into their mouths, a trick learned in previous battles. Having the bullets so readily to hand made it easier to reload the weapon quickly, and some fellows even claimed that a mouthful of bullets kept them from getting thirsty, but in all the skirmishes I’ve ever been in, with Indian and Tory alike, I cannot say that I ever had a moment to spare to think of hunger, thirst, or relieving myself. Sometimes it is as if you are sleepwalking: you see things happening, and you are moving and firing and reloading, but it’s as if you are watching it from somewhere outside yourself. Perhaps that feeling kept me from being afraid. I would only come back to feeling in my own skin when the danger was past; until then, I felt no bodily needs, not even the pain of a wound. There may have been men who did not experience battle that way, but perhaps they did not survive, while I lived through the dangers without feeling fear or pity, or even anger, and I was satisfied with my lot.
One last bit of preparation: a sign so that each man could show which side he was fighting for. There were likely to be some regular army troops in Ferguson’s command, but the majority of his men were local Tory volunteers, and they would be dressed same as we were—like hunters or Indian fighters, in buckskins or homespun shirts and leggings. It would be easy enough to mistake the enemy for one of our own, or the other way around. We had heard that the Tories generally put a sprig of pine bough in their hats to mark them as Loyalists to the Crown. There was nothing out growing—no wildflower or colored autumn leaf—that would supply the many hundred men in our command, so we settled on a bit of ordinary paper, stuck into each man’s hat band, as our symbol.
As an extra precaution, because we were a citizen army lacking recognizable uniforms, we agreed upon a countersign that could be called out if a man needed to identify himself to someone from another militia and prove they were on the same side. The countersign we chose was “Buford,” in memory of the Virginia commander whose men were slaughtered at the Waxhaws. Today we aimed to avenge them. Because of that, “Buford” was more than a code word: it was a battle cry. It reminded us not only of our reasons for fighting, but also of the consequences of losing.
* * *
Almost in silence, we formed ourselves into battle lines, mindful of our proximity to the enemy. This time there were no public prayers to consecrate the mission, as there had been for us at the outset at the Sycamore Shoals mustering, and none of the commanders made any rousing speeches, as Cleveland had done on the day after we left Quaker Meadows. Every man was now alone with his thoughts. I remember patting Joseph on the shoulder and shaking hands with my brother Robert as we walked away from the tethered horses. In hasty whispers we wished one another Godspeed, and then the preliminaries were done with, and we got on with the business at hand.
The commanders had discussed our plan of attack back when we received the information from the spy Enoch Gilmer about the whereabouts of Ferguson.
As agreed, we now divided our troops into four columns, each heading for a different portion of the ridge. My Watauga men were in the far right column, behind the Burke County militia, commanded by Major McDowell. We were heading for different points on the west-southwestern end of the ridge, and when we reached the summit, my troops would be positioned between the militias of Isaac Shelby and William Campbell.
According to Major Chronicle’s recollection of his deer camp on that ridge, the western slope was the gentler incline,
so we should have an easier time climbing up, but if Ferguson had a grain of sense, he’d be expecting the attack to come from that quarter, so it would be the most heavily defended area.
Benjamin Cleveland headed the column bound for the northern flank of the ridge, nearest to Ferguson’s encampment, and the troops of Lacey and Hawthorn went with him. So did the ragtag band of men led by that scoundrel James Williams. They had trailed us from the Cowpens, keeping a little back from the rest of the column, but nonetheless with us. The rest of us didn’t pay him much mind, after his antics earlier in the week of trying to send us on a wild goose chase to Ninety Six, and of attempting to take over Hill’s command. Williams was not included in the discussions with the other commanders, but, although we made our disapproval obvious, we allowed him to accompany us to King’s Mountain. We needed all the soldiers we could get, even from the likes of him, and, as far as I knew, no one had ever faulted his courage or his fighting spirit. So Williams led his men to the north flank of the ridge, to occupy a position between the forces of Shelby and those of Cleveland, Lacey, and Hawthorn.
Major Chronicle and the South Fork men and Major Winston’s troops headed out before the rest of us, because they were headed for the northeastern end of the ridge, both the steepest and the farthest point away from our current position. Before they set out, some of our scouts had preceded them, creeping up toward the ridge, Indian style, to remove Ferguson’s first line of defense: the pickets posted around the base of the King’s Mountain plateau. If all went as planned, the scouts would sneak up on the unsuspecting sentries and dispatch them with a quick knife thrust to the vitals. We aimed to get as close as possible to Ferguson’s camp before he knew we were coming.
It almost worked, but one of the last pickets must have managed to spot the scouts approaching him through the underbrush, and before they could reach him, he fired off a shot. Up on the ridge, Ferguson’s men heard it and were forewarned.
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