Ghost Legion, page 13
“Or enemy movement,” Ferguson added.
“It would also be easy for Shelby and Campbell to spy us,” Ensign Yarbrough argued.
“Mayhap, but the terrain is fierce,” Brodie said. “Sentries should alert us and we could be ready for them, if it came to that. Plus, we would be closer to Colonel Tarleton and Lord Cornwallis. Don’t get me wrong. ’Tis no place I would desire a fight, not atop that knob.” He remembered standing on that ridge with Saul Pinckert, before they had discovered Virginia Sal. He remembered shuddering uncontrollably, Pinckert’s comment echoing louder and louder: Ye must have just stepped on ye grave, Preacher Darky.
A Negro superstition. That’s what the major would call it. Yet Brodie couldn’t shuck the feeling, the foreboding.
“We leave in three hours,” Ferguson announced. “Mister Brodie, you will guide us to this King’s Mountain. Dismissed, gentlemen. Mister Brodie, I have a letter to dictate to you, a letter to Lord Cornwallis.
My Lord:
I am on my march toward you, by a road leading from Cherokee Ford, north of King’s Mountain. Three or four hundred good soldiers, part dragoons, would finish the business. Something must be done soon. This is their last push in this quarter.
The part about the dragoons, Brodie guessed, came close to begging. Begging for Banastre Tarleton to bring his Green Dragoons. That must have settled in the proud Patrick Ferguson’s stomach like soured milk, for the Bulldog despised Tarleton and his unholy methods. Brodie wanted to give the letter to Pinckert, but knew—speaking of prideful men—that the big farmer would refuse. Instead, he handed the letter to a capable rider named John Ponder, a young Loyalist not more than fourteen, and wished him godspeed.
The Loyalist militia rode out before dawn. Most of the men seemed cheerful, thinking they were bound for Charlotte Town and the forces of Cornwallis and Tarleton. The officers saw no need to correct them.
Down Cherokee Ford along the narrow trail between Buffalo Creek and King’s Creek. After crossing King’s Creek near the old mill, they headed through a narrow gap. King’s Mountain loomed ahead, rising out of the landscape like a tombstone. Brodie didn’t like the allusion.
Thirty-five miles from Cornwallis. We should keep moving. He shook off the thought. Ferguson was right. He wanted to save his men, but, as they climbed over the rocks, fallen trees, slipping, sliding, and stumbling through the dense forest to the top of the mountain, Brodie had regrets. He should never have brought up King’s Mountain.
“This is a deathtrap,” he overheard Ensign Yarbrough whisper to DePeyster once they reached the crest.
Angrily the captain whirled. Men had started calling DePeyster “the Bulldog’s Pup”—ever loyal, he was, loving Ferguson like a son loves his father, loyal, even more loyal than Stuart Brodie.
“You will hold your tongue, Mister Yarbrough,” DePeyster snapped. “We shall do our duty. Position sentries, double sentries, down below. Have the wagons placed on the northeast corner, facing north, positioned as a redoubt. Let the men fill their canteens. They shall have need of water directly.”
Both men snapped to attention at Major Ferguson’s approach. The Bulldog’s head kept bobbing in satisfaction.
“Welcome, Major,” DePeyster said stiffly. “You are king of the mountain, sir.” The joke tumbled like a stone down the ridge. DePeyster’s grin came forced, but Ferguson did not notice.
“A wise choice, Brodie.” Ferguson continued to nod approval, only Brodie didn’t think that way. Nor, from their faces, did DePeyster or Yarbrough. “I do not think, nay, I know for sure, that we cannot be forced from this position by an enemy the size of those barbarians after us.” He nodded again, his hand clutching his sword.
The Bulldog had regained his swagger, his confidence. False confidence, Brodie thought.
“Aye,” Ferguson said, his voice oddly distant. “Almighty God could not drive me off this mountain.”
Chapter Sixteen
The legion had grown even more by the time the Patriots reached Alexander’s Ford on the Green River. At Probit’s Place on the Broad, Major William Chronicle and twenty Lincoln County men had ridden in. The following evening, another rider bolted into camp, claiming he had urgent news. His name was Edward Lacey.
“Me thinks you’re a Tory spy,” Ryan Folson told the man. “Keep your rifle aimed on this boy, McKidrict. If he blinks, kill him.”
Marty did as she was told, although her finger remained relaxed inside the trigger guard. The man called Lacey eyed her contemptuously, but she refused to waver, even if she had doubts. The bay horse was lathered; the rider looked half dead himself. She had heard talk, too, of an Edward Lacey, a good South Carolina Patriot who had been riding for the past few days, searching for Ferguson. Folson went off to find Sergeant Gillespie; Edisto Bickley and Eugene Vance joined Marty at the edge of camp. She wished Flint O’Keeffe would come.
“My horse is nigh done for,” Lacey said. “Would you gentlemen mind if I dismounted?”
“Well,” Vance said, “I have cut off the heads of a dozen Tories”—Marty grimaced, recalling the beheading of her husband—“but I sha’n’t see a horse suffer. Get off, you Tory, but mind ye. McKidrict, there, he can shoot better than Chucky Jack Sevier.”
She kept the barrel trained on the tall Carolinian as he slipped off the mount, holding the reins. The bay snorted, pawed the earth, and pointed its nose toward the riverbank, but Lacey knew better than to let a hot horse drink. “In a little while,” he said softly.
“You boys are heading the wrong way,” Lacey spoke calmly. “The Old Iron Works? You shall never find Ferguson down that way. He is bound for Charlotte Town, for Cornwallis.”
“Speak again, Tory,” Vance said, “and I shall test my blade against your throat.”
Marty exhaled when Sergeant Gillespie trotted over.
“Where is Colonel Campbell, Colonel Shelby?” Lacey demanded.
“Meeting. Been meeting all night. Who do you say you are?”
“Edward Lacey, damn your eyes. Edward Lacey of Chester District, South Carolina.”
“He’s a Tory spy,” Vance grumbled.
“I am a true Whig, sir,” the man snapped. “But a spy of ours has located Ferguson’s force, and, you are going the wrong way. Now take me to Colonel Campbell. Immediately.”
Gillespie hesitated.
“Take him.” Flint O’Keeffe stepped out of the brush. “This is Edward Lacey.”
“You know him, Lieu . . . you know him?”
“Indeed. Lower your rifle, Marty. Captain Lacey read aloud our Declaration of Independence when it reached us four years ago. He is no more a Tory than you are Vance, or you, Sergeant. Take him.” O’Keeffe stepped forward, grasping the lean rider’s hand. “We are comrades,” O’Keeffe said. “Captain Lacey ran away from Pennsylvania. I fled Virginia.”
“You look fit, Lieutenant,” Lacey said, “but, allow me to inform you, my rank is now colonel.”
O’Keeffe shrugged. “My apologies and congratulations. But allow me to inform you, sir, my rank is now private.”
Oddly they both laughed.
“I deem it best if you come with us,” Gillespie told O’Keeffe, then led them toward the main camp, ordering Eugene Vance to tend to the captain’s horse.
* * * * *
He left a private, but returned a lieutenant. The men in the company cheered the news, and even Sergeant Gillespie looked relieved.
“We are bound for the Cowpens,” Lieutenant O’Keeffe said. “To join forces with Colonel Lacey’s troops and other Patriots. Then we will find and smash Ferguson, but we must travel quickly. So only the best horses, the best riders. This is the order of Colonel Campbell.”
Marty felt her stomach roiling. Flint will choose me to stay behind.
“How many men?” Sergeant Gillespie asked.
“Seven hundred. The rest will wait for us, and cover our backs. ’Tis noble. There is no shame in not being chosen. Indeed, we will have need of your services after our engagement with the enemy. You must watch for Gibbs or Cunningham, Bloody Tarleton or Cornwallis.” He looked directly at Marty when he said this, trying to relieve the disappointment that she knew would come. He would not put her in harm’s way.
“Vance, your horse is done in. Bullen, Dryden, England, Jamison. You, too, McKidrict. I must ask you to wait behind.”
Her lips trembled, and she wanted to plead, to beg. Abimelech could outrun many younger mounts, and Marty had proved her loyalty, her worth. She had already shed her blood. Yet she wouldn’t challenge Flint O’Keeffe, would not question his authority in front of the men.
“Lieutenant O’Keeffe, would you allow me to make a suggestion?”
Everyone snapped to attention at the sound of John Sevier’s voice. The colonel walked forward, nodding his approval.
“By all means, sir,” O’Keeffe said.
“I would loathe the loss of a good-shooting mountaineer like McKidrict. Any son-of-a-bitch who can shoot better than this old son-of-a-bitch deserves a chance at killing Ferguson himself.”
Now, it was Flint O’Keeffe’s lips that trembled. Tears welled in his eyes, and not from shame.
“Very good, sir,” he said woodenly. “McKidrict, see to your horse. And the rest of you. We ride within the hour.”
* * * * *
Approximately 1,000 men, plus Marty McKidrict, had left Sycamore Shoals in September. Now that army had grown to more than 1,800, although several hundred, including the foot soldiers, had been left behind on the Green. They rode hard to the Cowpens, joined there by Lacey’s men and others, including several hundred Carolinians led by Colonel James Williams. The Ghost Legion grew again.
Yet the men didn’t seem overly confident.
Ferguson was heading toward Charlotte Town, and even Colonel Sevier realized this army could not defeat the enemy if it joined forces with Cornwallis. Plus, nobody could pinpoint the location and strength of the Tory raiders led by Cunningham and Gibbs. For that matter, nobody had an inkling where Ferguson was. For all anyone knew, he had already reached Cornwallis’s troops. To complicate matters, it had started to rain by the time they reached the Cowpens in South Carolina.
The Cowpens got its name from the cattle corrals built by a Tory named Hiram Saunders. Colonel Cleveland sent several of his men to the stockman’s home, pulled him out of bed, and demanded that he tell them Ferguson’s location. The Tory refused, claiming ignorance, so the Patriots helped themselves to his beef, slaughtering more cattle than they could eat or carry, using his fence rails for fires. The McDowell brothers had given the legion cattle and firewood a few days ago, but they had done so willingly.
Colonel Campbell had selected 200 Carolinians to ride on with the army; the rest would remain behind at the Cowpens.
In a drizzling rain, Marty saddled Abimelech, her stomach queasy from Tory beef, or maybe nerves. Her side didn’t hurt—well, not too much—until the drizzle turned into a downpour and the temperature dropped. Then she felt a dull ache, which she did her best to ignore. She gave the old stallion a lick of salt before slipping the bit into his mouth.
Boots sloshed in the rain water, and her stomach fluttered again. She knew it was Flint O’Keeffe, even before he put his arm gently on her shoulder and turned her around. Looking up at him, she tried to smile, but couldn’t.
After a quick glance over his shoulder, he studied her. “I have tried to keep you out of this,” he said, “but it must be God’s will. When we fight, you stay close to me, and keep your head down. I will not see you die, Marty. I could not bear to lose another. . . .” He swallowed hard, turned around again. When he spun back, Marty wrapped her arms around his neck, and pulled him toward her.
The kiss was brief—had to be, with all that was going on. His lips tasted like rain water. He held her tightly for a second, then whirled back around, saying something she couldn’t quite catch. She wanted to run after him, to tell him she loved him. Loved him. How had that happened? After Seb, she had never thought she would love anyone, especially this arrogant Irish Virginian. Abimelech snorted and pawed the earth. She blinked away tears, caught her breath, and checked the saddle cinch.
“Mount up!” someone shouted, and Marty put her foot in the stirrup and swung up. She looked for O’Keeffe, but couldn’t find him in the rain.
“Keep your powder dry!” This came from Sergeant Gillespie, a few rods ahead.
All was darkness as they rode.
Rumors reached her after hours in the saddle. Her fingers were numb, her clothes drenched, and she shivered as they rode through the muck. They were lost, someone reported. Foolhardy it was, to be riding in this weather. Bloody Bill Cunningham was camped not six miles from the Cowpens; maybe they would abandon Ferguson’s trail and go after that Tory butcher. He had 600 Tories with him. On they rode, though, eastward, the only change in course when they opted to cross the Broad at Cherokee Ford, rather than Tate’s.
As they neared the Broad River, she heard someone singing “Barney Lynn”—she recognized the tune.
“That’s Enoch Gilmer,” Edisto Bickley said. “That’s the signal. Means it’s safe to cross.”
The river ran high, the current swift, and Abimelech struggled before reaching the far bank. Marty caught her breath, leaned forward, and patted the stallion’s neck.
“How’s your stallion?”
She blinked in the rain, staring ahead, recognizing the voice if not the darkened face. Sergeant Gillespie.
“He’s fine.”
“Aye, are you up for a scout, McKidrict? You and Bickley?”
Riding behind her, Bickley, grumbled. “We going to stop for a spell, Sergeant? It will be dawn directly.”
“Some bantam rooster asked Colonel Shelby that an hour ago, and the colonel came close to turning him into a capon,” Gillespie said. “Said the colonel . . . ‘I will not stop until night, if I follow Ferguson into Cornwallis’s lines!’”
“If the rain doesn’t stop us, Sergeant, dead horses will,” Bickley said. “We cannot keep this up much longer.”
Gillespie ignored the comment, and repeated his question. Bickley answered for both. “Of course, we’re game for a scout. Come on, McKidrict, let’s find those Tories.”
They didn’t, though. All they saw was more rain. Any sign would have been washed out by now, Bickley said, and, two hours past dawn, they had given up, about to ride back when a high-pitched voice blurted out: “Hallo!”
A balding string-bean of a man lifted his black hat in greeting, riding a mule that was blind in one eye. Instinctively Marty leveled the Deckard on him, although, after all this rain, she wasn’t sure the rifle would fire.
“I am Solomon Beason,” he said, ignoring the rifle.
Bickley made introductions; Marty’s rifle never wavered. “Are you Whig or Loyalist?” Bickley asked.
The stranger’s smile revealed rotten teeth. “Half Whig, half Loyalist,” he said, “as occasion requires. In this part of the world, it pays to be, well, as fickle as the wind.”
She smiled in spite of herself. Solomon Beason made sense.
“And which way is the wind blowing?” Bickley said.
He sniffed the air. “It blows for liberty,” he said. “The game you seek, gentlemen, lies eight miles ahead, atop King’s Mountain.”
* * * * *
Flint O’Keeffe considered this information with skepticism. Marty and Bickley had ridden hard in the slacking rain, finding the Patriot army taking a forced rest—apparently someone had persuaded Colonel Shelby that they had to stop or kill half their horses—near Cashion’s Crossroads.
“Ferguson is not stupid,” O’Keeffe said. “I hunted on King’s Mountain. Caitrín. . . .” He paused, his eyes briefly finding Marty, then looked away. “It’s no place to defend.”
Yet other scouting parties returned with similar reports. A Tory lady, threatened with one of Chronicle’s men’s bayonets, said she had delivered a mess of chickens to Ferguson’s army on King’s Mountain shortly before the skies opened. A Surry County stonemason had captured a Tory dispatch rider, a young lad not old enough to shave, carrying a message from Ferguson to Cornwallis.
The British officer and his Tories, indeed, were camped at King’s Mountain, according to the letter. Seventeen wagons, 1,000 troops, most of those Carolina Loyalists and perhaps 100 Northern volunteers.
“That’s a Tory each, more or less, for us,” Ryan Folson said.
Suddenly the rain stopped, and the sun peeked from the behind the gray clouds.
“A sign!” Marty heard Isaac Shelby yelling. “A sign from the Almighty! Victory is ours!”
Men applauded. Others prayed. Marty felt crushed by the men in her company trying to get closer to hear what O’Keeffe and the others had to say. Eager for a fight. Ready to kill. “Let’s go,” Teever Barnes demanded. “And if any of you boys see one of my kinfolk, you leave me kill them, you hear!”
The crowd parted briefly, crushing Marty against rancid Edisto Bickley, and a murmur rose from those around her. Chucky Jack Sevier was here.
“Pray tell, how well do you know King’s Mountain?” Sevier asked O’Keeffe.
“I used to come down from North Carolina to hunt here, Colonel,” he said. “There’s a road between two ridges. We’re only nine hundred men . . . we can follow that road, sir, then use the forest for cover, reach the ridge, start climbing. If they don’t spot us before we enter the timbers, we could surprise them.”
Marty steeled herself, trying to stop shaking, from nerves, anticipation, blood lust. She wasn’t sure. For days, they had talked of battle, but it had only seemed like idle chatter, even after her shooting scrape with Seb McKidrict, and that had been little better than one of his savage beatings back along the Tiger. But this—suddenly it seemed real, too real. Soon, there would be a battle between Patriots and Ferguson’s Tories.
“Very good,” Sevier said. “I am glad I did not cashier you, Mister O’Keeffe, when we had our disagreement, and send you home to Washington County.”
