Ghost Legion, page 14
I wish you had, Marty’s lips mouthed.
Sevier started to leave, but, when he spotted Marty, he headed for her. The Washington County volunteers parted again, giving the colonel room, and Marty could breathe again. She tried to stand erect, to look determined, even though she was frightened to death as Sevier put his right hand on her shoulder. “I have an especial assignment for you, McKidrict.”
“Yes, sir.” Her voice creaked.
“During our interrogation of this Ponder boy, the Tory messenger, he informed us that Colonel Ferguson is wearing a checked shirt and duster, often blows a pair of whistles. His right arm is crippled, from a wound sustained at Brandywine.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Kill this man, McKidrict. The Tories are like a serpent, and Ferguson is the head. Chop off the head, and the snake dies. Kill the snake, McKidrict. Kill Ferguson.”
Men around her cheered, and Sevier’s eyes beamed. He patted her back and left. Marty just stood there, frozen, her stomach queasy again, confused and sick. She located Flint O’Keeffe, his face granite, eyes drilling her with Irish intensity. Sevier’s order disgusted her.
War is hypocrisy, she told herself.
“Don’t set yourself up as holier than thou, McKidrict,” Ryan Folson told her. “Chucky Jack has been giving that order to practically anyone who can hit a barn door at one hundred yards.”
Chapter Seventeen
The rain had stopped.
Gingerly Marty swung out of the saddle and tethered Abimelech to a young pine. She loosened the cinch and tied her coat and blanket behind the saddle. Beside her, others did the same. Few spoke; those who did mostly prayed.
“Fresh prime,” Sergeant Gillespie whispered as he hurried by, crouching, gripping a flintlock tightly in his right hand. “Put fresh prime in your rifles, boys. Fresh prime. And remember Colonel Shelby’s words. ‘Never shoot until you see an enemy, and never see an enemy without bringing him down.’”
She took the Deckard, following the order, then tried to work up a spit. Her throat was dry. Her heart pounded.
Minutes later, Gillespie was heading back with new instructions. “We fight until we die, boys. Make your peace with your Maker, and remember . . . kill the cripple wearing the pig shirt.”
What I am doing here? She had to beat down the rising panic, realized she had spilled most of the priming powder onto the wet ground, instead of the pan. Her hands shook uncontrollably, and she bit her lower lip, tried to concentrate.
Suddenly calm hands reached over and removed the powder horn and rifle. Looking up, Marty watched with relief as Flint O’Keeffe shook powder into the pan, closed it, and handed both weapon and horn back to her. Their eyes met, held briefly, but neither spoke. A few rods away, fifteen-year-old Reginald Golf sputtered out protests as Sergeant Gillespie ordered him to remain behind with the horses. She could read O’Keeffe’s thoughts, understanding that he wished he could countermand that order, have Marty stay instead. Indeed, he was about to do just that, but Colonel Sevier rode by at that moment, muttering encouragement to the men. “Do your duty, boys. Do your duty, McKidrict.”
O’Keeffe’s eyes filled with tears, and Marty felt her own heart bursting. Young Golf started protesting again, petulant, pouting. O’Keeffe patted Marty’s arm, smiled without humor, and moved away, telling Golf to be quiet, lest he give away their position, that he had his orders and he would follow them, or go home, immediately. Golf mumbled an apology, although he still said it wasn’t fair.
Tranquil, she thought, studying King’s Mountain for the first time. The afternoon sun set the thick forest ablaze with light, glimmering from the rains, the remaining leaves on the trees still ablaze with color, the ground carpeted with those that had turned brown and fallen. A cool breeze—bright sun—skies slowly becoming more blue and less gray. Such a beautiful autumn afternoon. She wiped sweat from her brow.
“God loves us,” Teever Barnes said. “All that rain, ground will be so soft, we shall climb that little hill and make nary a sound.”
War is hypocrisy.
Only once did she look above the trees, at the mountain top, catching an occasional glimpse of movement by the Tories above. Wood smoke serpentined from campfires into the sky, and she caught distant scents of tea, of food being cooked.
Making his final rounds, Colonel Campbell walked by, erect, tall, confident, informing his troops that anyone could leave now, without penalty or shame (although Marty knew better than to believe the shame part). Merely a formality, she thought. No one would turn back now, no matter how frightened. She was proof of that.
A movement to her right caught her eye, and she watched Edisto Bickley put something in his mouth. Not tobacco, either. Beside Bickley, Ryan Folson did the same. Spotting her, the big man motioned to her shot pouch. Next, he smiled, revealing a rifle ball clamped between his teeth.
With a mouthful of ammunition, Bickley whispered to her. “Take four or five balls,” he said. “Shall prevent thirst, be easy to get to when the fighting commences.”
“Careful, McKidrict,” Folson added. “Do not swallow them. Tories might hear them rolling around in your belly.”
Marty dumped a handful in an unsteady hand, shoved them in her mouth, disliking the taste of lead, but realizing almost immediately that they produced saliva, easing her parched mouth.
“The counter sign,” Colonel Sevier called out as he made his way back, “is Buford!”
“Aye,” Teever Barnes said after the colonel had disappeared down the line. “’Tis fitting. We shall avenge what happened at the Waxhaws, friends.”
Waxhaws. Marty didn’t understand everything about this war, but she knew Ferguson and those men camped atop this mountain had nothing to do with the massacre of Buford’s troops. Yet all around her, men nodded, approving of the counter sign as well as Barnes’s comment. Nicholas Waldrin, who owned a tavern on the Nolichucky, began honing his hatchet blade, whispering—“Tarleton’s quarter.”—over and over.
Sergeant Gillespie moved back quickly, telling everyone to stick a piece of paper or cloth into his hat, something that could identify everyone as a Patriot, so they wouldn’t be shot by mistake by some comrade.
“Jupiter!” Edisto Bickley tugged on his stinking wolf cap. “If nobody can recognize this as belonging to Edisto Bickley. . . .”
“Shut up!” Folson snapped.
A moment later, Richard Lewis, a miller and sometimes Methodist preacher, told Waldrin to put away his hatchet and keep quiet.
Nerves were taut now. Marty found a patch of calico, stuck it in the brim of her hat.
They were moving into the woods at the base of the mountain. Marty hadn’t heard the order to advance. Not marching, really, but going slowly, carefully, creeping into the woods at the bottom of the ridge, then climbing. Bickley and Folson bolted ahead of the main party, on a scout, she presumed. Rifle balls moved around in her mouth, and she almost swallowed them when she tripped over a fallen branch.
“Careful,” O’Keeffe whispered.
O’Keeffe had explained the battle plan, not that Marty could make much sense of it. The Patriots would circle the mountain, hit on all sides, surround the Tories and crush them. When the center columns, led by Shelby and Campbell, had formed their battle lines, they would scream like Indians and charge. That would be the signal for the others to begin the attack.
On the north side of King’s Mountain, Colonel Sevier’s men would climb the highest point of the ridge, Shelby’s men to their left, and beyond them groups led by James Williams’s Carolinians, Colonel Lacey’s men, Major Candler’s Georgians, Cleveland’s Virginians, and finally, coming up from Clark’s Ford, the fifty troops with the German, Hambright, and William Chronicle. Attacking the south side, next to Sevier’s command, would be Campbell and his Virginians, 200 strong, with the commands of McDowell and Winston farther to the right.
Darting from tree to tree, oddly quiet. Teever Barnes had been right. Rain had softened the terrain so they barely made a sound. Leaves rustled overhead in the cooling breeze. Cartridge boxes, canisters, canteens, shot pouches, and powder horns rattled softly. Those were the only sounds she could make out.
She moved to the next tree, hugged it briefly, then glanced into the ditch a few rods to her right, spotting the Tory. As she aimed the rifle, a cry rose in her throat, but she choked it off, somehow, some way, not really knowing why. Maybe she feared a scream would let the Tories know they were coming, although once she pulled the trigger, they would certainly understand something was afoot. She jammed the stock against her shoulder, pulled back the Deckard’s hammer.
Flint O’Keeffe gripped the rifle, and he said something urgently, whispering. Marty blinked, stared, focusing on the body in the ditch.
“He’s done for,” O’Keeffe repeated. “A sentry.”
Now, she could smell the blood, which covered the dead man’s chest. Man? A boy, maybe, no older that Reginald Golf. Her stomach went south, but she choked down the bile, made herself look away. Edisto Bickley or Ryan Folson had found him, slit his throat from ear to ear.
The first casualty of King’s Mountain.
“Another glorious omen,” Teever Barnes said.
She thumbed the hammer, set it down easy, and went to the next tree, O’Keeffe just steps behind her.
Sweating more now. The terrain turned slick, treacherous. Thick trees trapped in heat, and she no longer felt any breeze. She climbed over a rock, slid down, felt a jagged corner rip through her left sleeve. Blood trickled onto her hand. Her side ached, and she fought for breath.
Their pace slackened, and now she could hear movement, even see a few of Shelby’s men, higher up, never faltering, determined. Sounds came from the ridge top, too. Laughter—and singing. She remembered the tune; Seb had sung it back on the Yadkin, back before she knew what a demon he truly was.
Again, she stumbled, tried to regain her footing, couldn’t, and splashed into a pool of water, soaking her knees, almost swallowing the rifle balls stuck in her cheek. What she wanted to do, suddenly, the urge almost uncontrollable, despite the rifle balls in her mouth, was to scoop up the water, drink, drink, drink, and wash her face. Yet she couldn’t. Strong hands lifted her to her feet, pushed her forward.
Higher she climbed, closer to the laughter and music.
She choked the Deckard with both hands, steeling herself for the battle, yet she was unprepared when the first shot sounded. A scream followed, a shout, then musketry, and whoops, yells, screams of Shelby’s men.
O’Keeffe crouched beside her, his face contorted from pressure. He muttered an oath. “Too soon,” he said. “Campbell’s not in position.”
To her right, though, came Campbell’s booming voice: “Here they are my brave boys! Shout like hell and fight like devils!”
More whoops, sounding like the high-pitched scream of Indians. Cracking muskets. Shouts—groans—war.
They ran, swept up, moving toward the crest, the staccato of battle all around them. “Stay close . . .,” O’Keeffe seemed to plead. Then she lost sight of him. She charged on, trying to find him, veering to her left because she had no choice. Others ran to the right, toward Campbell. She didn’t know which direction Flint O’Keeffe had gone.
A musket ball clipped a branch over her head. Another whined off a boulder.
Smoke burned her eyes.
“Here they come! Send them to hell!” It was Colonel Shelby’s voice.
She had been swept up into his command. Confused, she turned. A shot clipped her hat. Kneeling, she brought up the Deckard. Stay here! But where’s Flint? I’m supposed to be with Colonel Sevier. . . .
Teever Barnes squatted beside her, and behind him she recognized Edisto Bickley, firing, reloading. Still, she couldn’t find Flint O’Keeffe anywhere.
“Reload, McKidrict! Tories will be on us in an instant!”
She blinked, recognized Ryan Folson’s snowy hair. He spit a ball into his hand, drew his ramrod, rammed the charge down the rifle barrel. Quickly Marty looked at the Deckard, realized she had fired—couldn’t remember when, or at what. She pulled a ball from her mouth, set the Deckard at half cock. Another shot spanged off a rock to her right. She shook powder into the pan. Another ball whistled, too close, this one fired by someone behind her.
Bickley turned and swore. “Don’t shoot us, you ignorant. . . !” Screams, curses, musketry drowned out the rest of his tirade.
She shut the pan, charged and loaded the rifle, working the ramrod furiously. Her ears rang from the gunfire around her. Other noises, too. A pattern of drumbeats from atop the mountain—short blasts from a whistle—a strangle whirling in the air, which, she later realized, came from a nervous Tory who had accidentally fired his musket with the ramrod still in the barrel—a mistake she almost made herself. Her own ramrod remained in the Deckard’s barrel. Quickly she snatched it, secured it, brought the rifle up.
“Good God!” Bickley shouted.
Through suffocating white smoke, she saw the Tories, marching down the mountainside, bayonets glistening, moving so slowly, so orderly, it befuddled Marty. A red-coated officer on horseback, both man and beast equally calm, led the charge.
“It’s Ferguson!” came a shout.
Marty looked again. No, this man had no crippled arm. His right hand held the horse’s reins, his left gripped a massive sword.
A Patriot stepped toward the charge, turned to run. The Tory’s sword split his head.
Marty shot into the mass, reloaded, pulled the trigger again. The Tories had stopped firing after several volleys, now just marched with their intimidating bayonets. The Deckard kicked, ripping off bark from the tree. She reloaded, spitting out another ball, heard screams of agony, begs for mercy. Not aiming really. She could hardly see, from the thick smoke and bits of bark that burned her eyes. Reload—fire.
“They are cowards!” a voice bellowed. “One more round, boys! One more round. The Tory cowards will run!”
Only, the Tories didn’t retreat. On they came, some of them yipping now, their furious howls matching the screeches and whoops of the mountain men. Cowards? Not hardly. A rifle ball, likely fired by a nervous Whig, knocked off her hat, and, stupidly, she bent over to pick it up, surprised to find four or five holes in the brim and crown.
She fired, backing up now, stumbling with the rest of the Patriots, reloading as she moved, spitting the last rifle ball into her hand.
The sea of Tories swarmed.
“Let’s get out of here!”
Her next shot struck someone. He was so close, she saw the shock in his eyes, the green, pine bough pinned in his cocked hat, the splotch of blood spreading across his shirt, crimson liquid pouring from his mouth before he stumbled and fell. It didn’t seem real, though. Things moved slowly, dreamily.
At first. An instant later, the world spun out of control, moving so fast, she could barely breathe.
She raised the rifle, took it with both hands, lunged forward and upward, deflecting another man’s bayonet thrust. His brown eyes blazed at her, so close she could see beads of sweat on his nose, smell cinnamon on his breath. Another musket barrel suddenly appeared at her head. She tilted her head as the firelock roared, deafening, singeing her hair, burning her ear lobe. Her head pounded, and she fell.
On the ground, crushed by a man’s weight, the bayonet stuck in a tree root to her side. Desperately trying to free the weapon, the Tory cursed, then shuddered as a hatchet blade slammed into his forehead. A massive hand jerked the weapon free, and the Tory fell backward, atop another dying man. She smelled their blood, their urine.
“This is a hog killing!” a Scottish voice shouted. She didn’t know if it came from a Tory or a Patriot.
A hand jerked Marty to her feet.
Ryan Folson. “Move!” the big man shouted, shoved her, dived into a sinkhole.
Marty tumbled, somehow holding onto the rifle, followed Folson, crashing beside him, rolling over. A Tory jumped in after them, brought the bayonet down. Folson screamed as the blade pierced his calf. Enraged, Marty leaped up, clawing the soldier’s face, biting his ear, hitting him, screaming, spitting on his face. They moved around, like a pair of comical dancers, until he shoved her off.
Breath exploded from her lungs. She lay stunned, gasping for air, her back against a slab of granite. The Tory wiped blood off his face, staggered, brought the musket back up, then fell like a pine, the back of his head blown off.
Folson was sitting, wrapping a strip of cloth around his leg, biting his lip so hard that it bled. Lungs working again, barely, Marty dragged herself toward him, to help. He glared at her, cursed.
“Reload, damn you. Reload!”
She spit, forgetting she had used the last ball in her mouth, saw a bit of tooth in her hand. Tossed it aside. Reached into her pouch.
Too late. Another Tory jumped in after her, but she saw him coming. Marty dived, found a dead soldier’s musket, and rammed the bayonet into him. He staggered backward, jerking the Brown Bess from Marty’s hands, falling down, trying to pull the bayonet from his chest.
She ignored him, opened the pan, grabbed her powder horn. . . .
Whistles blasted. She could hear again, above the din of battle. Men rushed over her, Tories, but none gave her or Folson any notice. One slammed into the tree, clutching it, blood pouring from a hole in his back. Another hole. Then another.
“God . . .,” the man gasped, and slid beside Folson, who kicked the dead man with his good leg.
“After them, boys! After them! See them run like cowards!”
She finished reloading the Deckard, shoved a handful of balls into her mouth, and bent over to look at Folson.
“Off with you, lad,” he said through clenched teeth. “I will be fine! Got plenty of company.” He attempted a smile, motioning at the dead Tories surrounding him. Marty didn’t look at the bodies littering the killing field, tried not to think of the ones she had sent to Glory herself.
War whoops grew louder, and men—some whose faces she recognized—rushed forward, charging after the retreating Tories. Marty climbed out of the depression, glanced back at Folson, then rushed ahead, firing, reloading, firing.
