Ghost Legion, page 16
“Afternoon,” he said, “I am Josiah Culbertson of Sullivan County.” Spoken as if he had met her on the streets of George Town.
“Marty,” she said, pouring a charge down the barrel. “McKidrict.”
They turned at the same time. Marty took the left side of the tree, Culbertson the right. Their rifles bellowed simultaneously.
“Aim for them on horseback, McKidrict,” Culbertson said. “Those are the officers. Shoot ’em in the head.”
After reloading, they took the same positions. This time, however, Marty’s rifle misfired, but she saw a young man on a bay horse wheel from the saddle. Several Tories rushed to him. A few broke and ran back toward the ridge.
She started to move to another position, but Culbertson stopped her. “We got us a good place here, McKidrict.” He had already reloaded, and, taking aim, he continued to speak calmly. “They are shooting high, and we can pick them off like. . . .”
His long rifle boomed, answered by dozens of shots from other Patriots. Sheltered by trees, over-mountain men picked off the Tories easily, repulsing the charge. Tory muskets could fire quicker than long rifles, but lacked their accuracy, and bayonets were proving ineffective. “That’s bloody unfair!” she heard a Tory officer cry out. “You are fighting like savages!”
“Amen,” Culbertson said, chuckling. “And you are fighting like idiots.”
She lay under the thick smoke, eyes tearing as she watched the slaughter. A loud hurrah swept through the ranks, and Colonel Shelby rode past, wielding a saber, shouting: “Now boys, quickly reload your rifles, and let’s advance upon them! Give them another hell of fire!” Blood streamed down the colonel’s head, his balding pate blackened by gunpowder, but he didn’t seem to notice the wound. Spurring the horse, he charged uphill, and men followed him.
Marty scrambled to her feet.
“Be seeing you, Marty,” Josiah Culbertson said. “I am going to find me a spot higher up, kill some more officers.”
“Good luck.” She wondered about such a statement as she followed Shelby.
She leaped over dead bodies, most of them Tories. White smoke hovered in the trees like fog, and the whole mountain smelled of sulphur, brimstone, human waste, blood. It stank of hell.
Again, the charge stalled. A man in front of her gasped, dropping his rifle, and stumbled out of control, smashing against a boulder and sliding down. She didn’t stop, ran by him, didn’t look back. Another ball creased her arm.
Keep your head down, O’Keeffe had told her, an impossible suggestion. Well, maybe not. Josiah Culbertson was keeping his head down, playing the sniper, a role that, while not glorious and certainly not deemed honorable, proved brutally effective. Marty couldn’t keep her head down, wouldn’t fight like Culbertson, if for no other reason than she wanted to find Flint O’Keeffe, make sure he wasn’t hurt—or dead.
She slid to a stop, fired, reloaded, realized Shelby’s men were falling back, again, stopped at the summit by Ferguson’s men. They had made it farther up the mountain this time, but still could not hold that position. A sword chopped the tree just inches above her head, and Marty fell backward, bringing the rifle up. A man on horseback, in a red coat and plaid kilt, worked wildly to free the weapon, but stopped, buckling in the saddle, a tiny hole in the center of his forehead. She thought about Josiah Culbertson as the Tory officer fell dead, wondered if this had been his handiwork, if that Sullivan County killer had just saved her life.
On her feet again, stumbling, finding shelter in the rocks. She reached into her shot pouch, kept one ball in her fingers, tossed five or six more in her mouth, looked again.
“I’m almost out of lead,” she told the man beside her.
“Pick up a dead man’s weapon,” came the reply, “and his cartridge box. Or use your hatchet.” She recognized the voice, looked over. Ryan Folson nodded curtly, squeezed the trigger, and ducked. A ball ricocheted off the rock above his head.
Blood soaked the bottom half of his trouser leg, where he had been stabbed with a bayonet. Powder and dirt, smeared from sweat, covered his face.
“Have you seen Bickley?” he asked as he charged his rifle.
Briefly she closed her eyes, picturing Bickley lying up the mountain, then tried to remember him alive, but couldn’t.
“He’s dead.” The words were flat.
“Aye.” That was all Folson said. He pulled back the hammer, lifted his head, and fired without hardly aiming.
“Have you seen Flint . . . the lieutenant?”
Folson didn’t answer. Most likely he had not heard. He primed the pan, rammed another charge down the barrel. Suddenly his entire body trembled with rage, and, after he triggered another round, he let out some primal scream.
“The vermin are running again!” Shelby was shouting, still mounted on that horse, which bled from a half dozen wounds. “Onward, boys! Onward to glory!”
Another whoop, another charge. Marty ran, unable to keep up with the limping Ryan Folson, who fired once, then tossed the rifle away and drew his bloody hatchet, moving like a man possessed, the way Seb would attack her when in his cups. Once, she fell to her knees, saw the gory ground, and climbed up, ran, coughing from the smoke, trying to find fresh air. Running . . . yelling. . . .
Ahead of her, Ryan Folson had bent over a log, working feverishly, gripping something. She couldn’t see exactly what, at first, then spotted the boots. A Tory had hidden in a hollow sycamore, and Folson had pulled him out, him kicking, squealing, begging.
“Mercy,” the man pleaded. “I surrender. I surrender! Mercy!”
Folson buried the hatchet in the man’s chest, jerked it free, raised it.
“Grosser Gott! ” a harsh accented voice called behind her.
Still alive, though spitting out blood, the Tory lifted his hands again, begging. Folson’s blade cut off several fingers. The hatchet came up, over Folson’s head, then down. Again, and again, and again.
“I’ll show you mercy . . . for Edisto Bickley . . . for Buford and his boys.”
“Grosser Gott. . . .”
Folson stopped at last, bellowing like a bear, moving forward, chopping, swinging, cursing, killing anyone who crawled across the killing fields, anyone with a twig or pine bough pinned to his hat.
She heard cries then, pitiful moans, coughing, choking, men begging for water, a handful of prayers.
“Grosser Gott.”
Marty didn’t stop. She spit another rifle ball into her hand, drew the ramrod, and ran. Her ears still rang, her head ached. Another man fell before her, and she leaped over his body as it twisted on branches clipped off trees during the battle. Ryan Folson slashed, hacked, and roared. Isaac Shelby spouted out orders, not that anyone could hear him. Tories tried to surrender, only to be shot, stabbed, bludgeoned. She fired, spit, realized she had used all the rounds in her mouth—or had swallowed them. She reached into the pouch. Empty. A man charged her, his eyes wide, blood spewing from his nostrils. She swung the Deckard, the stock crushing his head. Down he went, and Marty tossed the rifle away, grabbed at the man’s cartridge box belted around his waist. He groaned.
When she spied his canteen, she ripped it from his body, uncorked it, drank greedily, water spilling out of her mouth, down her chin, cascading onto the front of her frock. Able to breathe again, she looked down at the unconscious soldier. A silver medallion dangled from his neck, and she caught her reflection in the coin. Gunpowder and blood blackened her face, her hair was a mess, her ear almost raw from the musket blast that had come close to killing her. Water from the canteen had washed away some of the grime, but the streaks only made her look more like some monster.
I am a monster, she realized, and she took the man’s ammunition, found his musket, picked it up, tried to stand, but her legs did not want to work.
“Major Chronicle’s dead!” someone shouted.
“Avenge him! Send these demons to their maker!”
“Huzza! Huzza! ” An officer on horseback looked down at her. She didn’t recognize him, but he wore a piece of white cloth in his hat. “Fight on a few more minutes. Just a few more minutes, and the battle will be over!”
She propelled herself to her feet using the Brown Bess, tripped again, staggered against a tent. A tent! Scores of them. They were out of the forest, on top of the ridge, driving the Tories back in their own camp. The Patriot army seemed larger now, and she realized some of the forces had finally converged. Colonel Sevier rode past, pounding a lathered stallion with the flat of his sword.
She heard more rumors, or maybe fact, that jumped among the men as they stopped to reload, to drink, to mutilate wounded Tories.
“Colonel Williams had been mortally wounded.”
“Banastre Tarleton’s Green Dragoons were coming up the mountain to crush the rebels.”
“Let him come!” Colonel Sevier dared. “We shall whip him, too, but first . . . remember Ferguson’s boast! There’s your enemy! Kill him!” He bolted ahead, leading weary but determined men running behind him, yelling out huzzas and war cries.
Another voice: “Boys, remember your liberty!”
She recognized the accent and, turning, found Colonel Campbell standing atop a mass of rocks. “Come on! Come on, my brave fellows. . . .”
And then—“Marty!”
She whirled, dropping the musket, leaping into Flint O’Keeffe’s arms. They fell against a tent. Tears flowed freely, washing her face. She couldn’t stop them. O’Keeffe pried her arms away. His thumbs brushed her tears, and his mouth fell open.
“You . . . you . . . you look . . . are you. . . ?”
“I am all right,” she said. She wanted to kiss him, but knew she couldn’t. Not here. Not now.
“You . . . y-you . . . you don’t look . . . are you sure?”
Musket balls had riddled her hat, her clothes. Her ear burned from the muzzle blast, and her hair had been scorched. She could smell it. Another shot had grazed her arm, but she was fine, especially now. She grimaced, although staring at O’Keeffe, this close to him. Blood trickled down his scalp, turning his curly hair into an ugly mass, thick and sticky like tar. His face, like hers, had been blackened, and his lips were caked, crusted with gunpowder. Another wound spilled blood from the side of his neck, soaking his shoulder.
She reached up urgently. “You’re. . . .”
“It’s nothing,” he said, smiled, then his eyes narrowed. “I told you to keep your head down.”
Men rushed around them, shooting at the fleeing enemy, and O’Keeffe halted his scolding. Gripping his rifle, he stood, but, when she started to rise, he pushed her down.
“You stay here!” he ordered, turned, and ran after his men. “I mean it!”
Marty didn’t hesitate. She scrambled to her feet, took off after him. She wouldn’t lose him. Not again.
He turned, eyes blazing, as if he had expected her. “I said. . . .”
“No!” she shouted back. “I won’t!”
With a curse, he reloaded. She knelt beside him, pulled the trigger, began reloading, but found it awkward, clumsy. The Brown Bess was lighter, shorter than the Deckard, and she wasn’t used to having a bayonet mounted beneath the barrel. Obviously trained Tories had no problem loading muskets with bayonets in place for they had been doing it since the battle began, but Marty wasn’t trained. She sliced her hand, yelped, jerked the hand to her mouth, sucked the blood.
“Here,” O’Keeffe said, and he twisted the long blade, removed it from the socket, tossed it aside. He pulled a rag from his pocket, handed it to her, helped her wrap it around her hand.
“Now will you go back . . .,” he started.
“I’m not leaving,” she said, and thought to add: “you!”
“Stubborn. . . .”
He didn’t finish, just grabbed the rifle, and ran, Marty just steps behind him.
“Give them Buford’s play, boys!” Ryan Folson’s voice boomed over the musketry. Blood smeared his Cross of Lorraine. “Tarleton’s quarter!”
It was no longer a battle, but a slaughter. Tories held out white handkerchiefs, only to be shot down. Others fell to their knees, begging for mercy, their cries denied. Ahead of her, O’Keeffe used his rifle to ram one of his own men, sent him sprawling. It took a few seconds for what had happened to register, but O’Keeffe stood in front of a tent, shrieking, telling his men that this Tory would not be harmed. She saw the man he was protecting, a lanky, young man, coatless, his white shirt sleeves stained crimson, dripping blood. Marty ran to help O’Keeffe.
“He’s a surgeon, damn you!” O’Keeffe blared.
“He’s a Tory!”
“He will not be harmed!”
The man on the ground cursed, spit, picked up his knife, and ran away.
Visibly shaking, O’Keeffe spun back to the Tory. “Doctor, do you need assistance?”
The doctor coughed out something that resembled a laugh, ignored the question, and turned back to a table, and, picking up a pair of metal forceps, went to work. The wreck of a body lying on the table screamed.
They ran forward. Ahead of her, a Tory boy sprang from behind a wagon, and threw his arms around Sergeant Gillespie. She hadn’t seen the sergeant since the battle began.
“Please,” the boy said. “I am not fighting.”
Gillespie clubbed him to the ground. “Then let me go,” he said, “so that I might fight!”
She hadn’t fired the musket in minutes, hadn’t even bothered to reload, and couldn’t. She had lost the ramrod, or fired it by mistake. Now, she stood next to O’Keeffe, watching the carnage. They had driven Ferguson’s men through their own camp, into the open. Ahead, the Tories milled like frightened cattle. What was that she had heard someone declare earlier? This is a hog killing! Only worse. Officers on horseback tumbled from their saddles. One man raised a white flag, but another redcoat galloped to him, swung his saber, clipping the flag. He bellowed something, but the words were lost. She recognized the redcoat, though, saw that useless arm dangling at his side, the reflections of sunlight from whistles tied around his neck. Ferguson. Tories fired their muskets, those that hadn’t dropped them, tried to reload, only to be shot down. Rifles sang from all directions.
Hopeless.
Hundreds of over-mountain men hid just behind the trees, firing from cover, taking an exacting toll. Ferguson and a handful of men raced forward, the gallant cripple swinging his sword on a last-gasp dash for the woods.
“There’s Ferguson!” Sergeant Gillespie shouted. “Shoot him!”
She couldn’t see now, from tears.
A volley of rifle fire, shouts, hurrahs. She buried her head against Flint O’Keeffe’s chest, felt him stroke her unruly hair. Then he lifted her chin with his fingers.
“Keep your head up,” he said. Tears rolled down his face.
A black man rode forward, waving a white shirt tied to his rifle barrel. Another volley dropped both rider and animal.
O’Keeffe ran forward, screaming: “Stop it! Stop it, men! This is murder! These men are trying to surrender!”
“So was Buford!” Ryan Folson shrieked back.
“Quarter! Quarter!” More white flags appeared.
Marty had dropped the musket. She just stared at the carnage, in horror, shock, disgust.
Shelby galloped by, jerking the reins, bringing his horse to a stop, bellowing at the Tories: “Damn you, if you want quarter, throw down your arms!”
A few did. Some of those died with another round of fire.
O’Keeffe yelled again: “Stop it! Stop it! Stop this wanton murder!”
Joseph Sevier, a young lad whose face was drenched with tears, whirled on the lieutenant, shouting as he worked powder horn and ramrod. “The damned rascals have killed my father! And I will keep loading and shooting until I kill every son-of-a-bitch!”
Marty bolted to young Sevier, grabbing his rifle, pulling it. He tugged, tried to break her hold, but she wouldn’t let go. “There!” she yelled. “There! There is your father! He isn’t dead!”
The boy’s mouth dropped as Colonel John Sevier rode up, barking out orders that were drowned out by shouts and gunfire. Joseph Sevier staggered back, leaving his rifle in Marty’s hands, and fell to his knees, burying his face in his hands, sobbing, shaking, begging for God’s forgiveness.
Slowly the sound of gunfire lessened, finally stopped altogether, and Marty tried to swallow, couldn’t, took a step toward Flint O’Keeffe, watched the Tories, those still alive, saw their white flags waving in the wind. All around her, she heard the moans again, the begging for water, pleading for mercy, for mothers, for death.
Behind her came that harsh voice, like her conscience. She didn’t understand the words, the language, but she knew the meaning.
“Grosser Gott. . . .”
Chapter Twenty
He watched Ensign James Yarbrough die.
“That’s bloody unfair!” the young officer had just called out to the enemy. “You are fighting like savages!”
The banditti answered with their long rifles, and a ball struck Yarbrough just below his right eye. Another hit him in the throat, and a third round found his chest. Pinckert and another Loyalist helped the ensign from the saddle, and, once freed of its burden, the dun bolted up the mountain. They laid Yarbrough on the ground, folded his arms across his chest.
“Ensign!” shrieked a Loyalist, a mere teenager. “Ensign Yarbrough!”
“He’s dead,” Brodie spoke hollowly. Poor Yarbrough—a boy, really, not much older than that blubbering teenager—was dead before they helped him out of the saddle. The hysterical Loyalist turned and fled, and a handful followed him. Brodie ignored them, reloaded his rifle, and squeezed the trigger. Only the pan flashed, however, and he cursed.
The counterattack had stopped the rebel charge, but now the Loyalists faltered, stumbled, died. Saul Pinckert had been right back at Gilbert Town. Bayonets were useless against the enemy. A bloody waste of time. It’s the drill that will kill us all. . . . You couldn’t use those long knifes in these woods, not effectively. The Whigs hid behind trees, picking off Loyalists as easily as they would squirrels.
Pinckert surprised Brodie, the way the big ruffian took charge after Yarbrough’s death, rallying the men, maintaining order through all the bedlam.
