Ghost Legion, page 18
“Enough!” O’Keeffe yelled. “E. . . .” His knees buckled, and he suddenly gasped for air, dropping beside the dead major. A groan escaped his lips, and a second later he rolled to his side. Only then did Marty realize a gun had been fired.
She ran forward, tears welling in her eyes, looking at Folson, Waldrin, and the other savages, trying to find which one of them had just shot Flint O’Keeffe in the back. Yet they looked equally confused, and a moment later they were pointing, cursing, leaving O’Keeffe and the dead Ferguson, racing toward smoke that curled above a dead horse.
“Flint!” Marty slid beside him, lifted his head, resting it on her lap, ignoring the stench of the urine that soaked her trousers. “Oh . . . Flint.”
His eyes fluttered. “What. . . ?”
Exploring his back, Marty felt the sticky, warm liquid, brought her hand up. The blood was dark.
“You’ll be all right. . . .” She bawled uncontrollably, regained control, and tried to help him stand. “Can you walk?” she asked.
“I do not know . . . I think . . . so. Who?”
She wondered that herself, and looked around. Ryan Folson and the others had jerked a musket from behind a dead horse. Something was tied to the barrel, a shirt, maybe, and she remembered. A man of color had ridden forward moments before the massacre had ended, trying to surrender, and the Whigs had shot him and his mount. She figured he had been killed, but apparently he had been playing ’possum, and now the low assassin had shot Flint O’Keeffe, ambushed him when he was trying to stop his own men from disgracing Major Ferguson’s corpse.
She half expected Ryan Folson to chop the assassin to bits with his hatchet. Indeed, she hoped he would, but Nicholas Waldrin had thrown a rope around the Negro’s head, and Folson and the others were dragging him to the woods.
Good. Hang him. He deserves it.
The Negro would not be alone, Marty noticed. Already Tories swung from the trees, some kicking violently, some just swaying in the late afternoon breeze.
“I must get you to that doctor,” Marty said.
“No!” O’Keeffe straightened, grimaced, and staggered toward the woods. “I must stop. . . .” He collapsed to his knees.
Marty, sobbing again, tried to help him up, begged him to let her take him to the surgeon, before he bled to death.
“I will not . . . they will not . . . do . . . not on . . . my conscience . . . not again.”
She didn’t understand him at first, but, as he struggled to his feet, wavering, trying to reach Folson’s murderous party, Marty remembered O’Keeffe’s story, the Negro that had been whipped and hanged around Ninety-Six back when O’Keeffe had been riding with Elijah Clarke’s militia.
“Don’t . . .,” he said weakly, and began coughing.
Marty made him sit on a rock. “You stay here,” she ordered, and ran, screaming, trying to be heard over Ryan Folson’s shouts. No use. She leaped, hoping to knock Folson off his feet, an impossible goal considering Folson’s bulk and Marty’s lightness. Marty bounced off him, landing so savagely the wind exploded from her lungs. At least, she had knocked the rope to the ground.
With a curse, Folson started to kick her, almost buried his foot in her wounded side, but stopped, recognizing her, seeing she no longer posed a threat. Instead, he bent over and grabbed the rope.
The Negro just stared down at her, his head and shoulder bleeding, along with his hand and leg, and his left earlobe had been shot away. He looked so resigned to his fate, not resisting as Folson tossed the rope over a sturdy limb.
“Pull him up, lads,” Folson said. “Let him kick himself to death, the black cur.”
“Stop it,” Marty said, gasping for air, her voice barely audible. “Flint . . . don’t. . . .”
The rope tightened, then slackened.
“There has been enough blood shed today,” a man was saying. “This man is a prisoner and he shall be treated as such, as decency allows.”
“Decency? This darky shot Lieutenant O’Keeffe!” Waldrin sputtered. “Killed him, he did. Murdered him!”
Having caught her breath at last, she had just pulled herself to a sitting position, but Waldrin’s words made her head reel. Then the newcomer spoke again, and Marty breathed easier.
“Lieutenant O’Keeffe lives, men. There he is. He sent me to intercede. Now, you shall remove the rope from this prisoner’s head or every one of you will feel the bite of hemp when you stand underneath a gallows tree.”
Edward Lacey. Marty recognized him at last. Flint O’Keeffe’s old friend. By the time she managed to stand, Folson had removed the noose and stormed away. The others pushed the Negro forward, hustling him toward the prisoners who sat nervously on the ground.
She thanked Colonel Lacey, but wasn’t sure the South Carolinian heard her, and ran back to O’Keeffe, pulled him to his feet, lunged toward the ruined Tory camp. Mountaineers moved from tent to tent, claiming their spoils. None gave Marty or O’Keeffe any assistance. She doubted if they even noticed them, blinded as they were by the victory, by their greed. A moment later, Lacey walked beside her, helping her with her load.
* * * * *
The sight of the wounded, surrounding the surgeon’s tent, shocked her. Prayers drifted over the ridge like the wind. So did pitiful wails and horrifying screams.
“Sir.” Colonel Lacey addressed the only surgeon they found. The man O’Keeffe had protected during the battle held a saw. If anything, his hands, shirt sleeves, and face looked even more blood-splattered now. “I have a wounded officer, Doctor,” Lacey continued, “who requires immediate attention.”
“Leave him here,” the doctor answered hoarsely. “I shall attend him when I can, if I can.”
“Sir,” Lacey said in protest, “this man is gravely wounded, wounded, I say, protecting your late commanding officer. Now. . . .”
“I am but one man,” the surgeon spoke, and began sawing. The patient screamed before passing out.
Marty almost toppled over in a faint, but Flint O’Keeffe squeezed her hand gently. She squeezed back.
“Surely there are other surgeons with your army, Doctor,” Lacey argued.
“There were two others,” came the reply, “but you rebels killed them.”
“Leave me,” O’Keeffe said weakly. “Just put me in the shade. I will be all right.”
“No,” Colonel Lacey said forcefully. “I will make this bloke remove. . . .”
“There are men in worse condition than I,” O’Keeffe said. “Go on. There is much work to be done. Go.”
* * * * *
She stood guard that evening, overseeing prisoners as they buried their dead. Marty would not have left O’Keeffe, but he had insisted, so she stood, cold, numb, butting a Brown Bess musket on the ground as weary Tories tossed bodies into two rows of shallow pits.
As the sun began to dip behind the trees, Sergeant Gillespie approached her and handed her the Deckard, saying he had found it on the battlefield, figured she would want it. After he took the British musket from her cold hands, she gripped the rifle with her bandaged hand and stared into the gloaming. Not trusting her voice, she merely nodded at the sergeant. Actually part of her never really wanted to see the Deckard again. After today, she didn’t know if she would be able to pull the trigger, any trigger, aim a rifle at anything, man, deer, or squirrel.
Yet another part of her wanted to kill that Negro, the Tory who had shot Flint O’Keeffe. She watched him as he laid a body in the pit, fighting the urge to kill him.
“By Jupiter,” another guard said. “That is a woman.”
Marty blinked, and noticed the body on the ground. A red-headed woman lay with her hands folded across her chest, hair mashed, dirty, a purple hole in her temple, surprisingly little blood. As she studied the woman, Marty felt sickened. What had she been doing here? Why had she died? Why had Flint O’Keeffe been shot when the battle was over? Why did she live?
“Do we bury her with them Tories?” the guard asked. “Does not seem Christian.”
“Bury her with Major Ferguson.” It was the Negro who had spoken.
Marty glared at him, then sighed. It hurt too much, drained her so, to hate this man. Even Flint O’Keeffe, wounded as he was, did not condemn the Negro.
“Why, pray tell?” the guard asked.
“They would have wished it,” the Tory said.
The guard shrugged. “Well, I warrant it is better, more civilized, than leaving her in this ditch for the wolves.”
An hour later, while the prisoners were still burying the dead, Marty was relieved by Nicholas Waldrin. Tucking the Deckard underneath her arm, she raced back to the surgeon’s tent, trembling as prisoners and Whigs carted more dead to the burial ground. She peered at the faces, praying she would not find Flint O’Keeffe’s among the dead. She didn’t, mainly because in the darkness she could barely recognize anyone. It took her fifteen minutes to locate Flint O’Keeffe, lying on a blanket, his head propped up on a collection of hats and boots, a fire crackling a few rods beyond him.
“Hello.” O’Keeffe’s eyes danced a little when he saw Marty, although, maybe, it was from the fire.
She knelt beside him, gripping his hand, and fell asleep by his side.
* * * * *
Morning dawned heavily with smoke. Marty rose stiffly, found Flint O’Keeffe awake, sipping captured Tory tea, chatting with the Tory doctor, Uzal Johnson, and Colonel Edward Lacey. So calm they sounded. So normal, except O’Keeffe looked so pale.
Her bones creaked as she rose, finding the source of the smoke. Tory wagons had been set afire. Officers barked orders to the prisoners, telling them they would carry rifles—with flints removed, of course—on the march, that anyone trying to escape would be shot.
They were leaving. Going home, Marty thought. But what of Flint O’Keeffe? Nervously she stared at him.
“You should report to Sergeant Gillespie,” O’Keeffe said. “We shall move out directly.”
Marty blinked, wanting to ask the question, but unable to form any coherent thought.
“I will go with you,” O’Keeffe said with a smile.
“I advise against that, sir,” Dr. Johnson said. “The ball is in your kidney, Lieutenant. Travel, I fear, will kill you.”
“Flint . . .,” Lacey began, but O’Keeffe cut him off.
“Staying, I fear, will kill me,” he said. “What mercy would Bloody Bill Cunningham or Zachariah Gibbs give a Patriot officer? I shall not be left here, gentlemen, defenseless, to be butchered by some avenging Tory. No, I will return. . . .” Although he addressed Colonel Lacey, O’Keeffe grinned again at Marty. “I have a strong reason to live, Edward. A home to find, a life to build.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“You carried a firelock here,” that self-righteous turncoat named Shelby told the gray-haired man standing in front of Stuart Brodie. “And, damn you, you shall carry one away with you.”
With that, Shelby slapped the man’s shoulders with the flat of his sword, knocking him to his knees. Without comment, Brodie helped the old man up, picked a light carbine, and gave it to the prisoner, who shouldered the weapon and marched quickly away, falling in single file behind the other Loyalists being forced to carry muskets, their flints removed from the locks, off King’s Mountain.
Cinders from the burning wagons stung Brodie’s eyes as he grabbed a musket.
“You appear stout enough to carry two,” Shelby told him. “One on each shoulder.”
Brodie bit his tongue. Healthy? Rebel balls had torn through his right hand and thigh, cut off his left earlobe, pierced his left shoulder, singed his right armpit, and put a dent in his skull an inch above his right eye. He hefted one musket over his left shoulder and a fowling piece over his right, refusing to give Isaac Shelby the pleasure of hearing him grunt. Nor would he stagger off like that old man. He stood erect as he marched across the ridge and down King’s Mountain.
Overseen by rebel guards, a handful of prisoners remained behind, still burying the dead. It would take them the rest of the day, and maybe into the morrow, Brodie figured, to accomplish that task. He wondered if, once the last body had been buried, the guards would kill the prisoners, then scatter like leaves to avoid Cunningham, Gibbs, and Tarleton. Dr. Uzal Johnson, who had not slept all night, worked diligently on the more severely wounded, Whigs and Loyalists alike. The rest of the rebel wounded, those unable to walk, lay on litters being pulled behind horses and mules. Mountaineers had chopped down young trees, stripping off branches to make poles that they secured to each side of a saddle, then fastened a blanket or ripped section of tent to form a kind of bed. Not the most comfortable ride, Brodie imagined, but they feared anyone left behind would be killed. Having ridden with William Cunningham, Brodie knew the Whigs were right.
I should be dead, he told himself.
* * * * *
It had been a suicide, riding toward the rebel line after the Bulldog had been mortally wounded, waving that dirty white shirt tied to the gun barrel. He didn’t remember being shot, just waiting for death, seeing the banditti take aim at him. For once, the cowards proved poor marksmen. Oh, they had hit him, sure enough, put a ball in his shoulder and nearly shot out his eye, and they had killed the mount he had been riding. The head wound had knocked him cold, and, when he came to, he had peered over the dead horse and witnessed those butchers. He could hardly stomach what they were doing to the major’s body. Indecent. Barbarous. Remembering the musket he had been given had been charged and primed, he had brought it up, steadying the barrel against the withers, aiming. If I can kill just one of those Myrmidons, he remembered thinking.
Well, he had even failed at that. Put a ball in a lieutenant’s back, yes, but the officer still breathed, most likely lying on one of those litters Brodie passed. Besides, Brodie had later learned the man he had shot had been trying to stop the depredations. Shot in the back, too, although that had been a mistake. Brodie had been aiming at another pig, but the officer had stepped in the path of the musket ball. Almost immediately, the rebels had caught him—not that he could have escaped, wounded as he was, surrounded by butchers—and dragged him to the woods, where already Loyalists had been executed.
Bound for the cord, his mother had always told him, and the rope had gone around Brodie’s neck. Yet he had been granted another reprieve. First, a wiry little reb had tried to save him, with no luck, but the renegades had listened to a Whig colonel when he had threatened them with their own hangings. What Brodie could not fathom was this: the rebel lieutenant, shot in the back by Brodie, had pleaded for Brodie’s life to be spared.
* * * * *
So he was alive—for now. Still, he would not put anything past these brigands. Likely they would massacre the prisoners when they felt safer, when they were farther from Lord Cornwallis’s grasp.
Early that afternoon, the column was stopped. A Whig colonel named Williams had died, and Brodie figured now the rebels would rise up one more time and start up the slaughter. Only they didn’t. After a brief rest, they continued the march, stopping at a plantation along the Broad River. The prisoners stacked their weapons in piles, then were hustled off to a corral—the bullpen, the rebels called it—and bedded down for the night.
A good King’s man named Matthew Fondren owned this plantation, but had fled the advancing army. Whigs ripped apart Fondren’s fences for fires, and ate the last of his sweet potatoes. The prisoners were given nothing to eat, just water, not even allowed a place to answer nature’s call.
The next morning, the over-mountain men buried their dead colonel, fired a volley over his grave, and continued the march. Once again, that stern Colonel Shelby made the Loyalists walk past him, his sword raised, and pick up weapons from the stacks and move on. Again, Brodie shouldered two muskets, although, this time, he grunted when he lifted the Brown Bess pieces, and staggered forward.
For two days, they continued, hours flowing murkily like the Broad River, camping in the woods, stumbling on, toward Gilbert Town. More rebels joined the army at the Cowpens, mostly infantry and men with inferior mounts. The numbers amazed many prisoners, who had believed the Bulldog when he had laughed at the reports of this Ghost Legion. Better than 1,800, they were, although only half that number had fought in the battle. Of course, Brodie had known the Patriots’ true strength. So had Ensign Yarbrough and Saul Pinckert. Ferguson should have retreated straight to Lord Cornwallis. Too late to think about that now, though.
Convinced they would eventually be slaughtered, a handful of Loyalists fell back, and the guards, equally exhausted, did not pay them much attention. Six men escaped, and the rebels refused to send soldiers after them. They are scared, Brodie knew, scared of Tarleton, scared of His Majesty’s retribution.
Just below Gilbert Town, another Loyalist dropped his pair of muskets in the woods and crawled under a pile of leaves. An Irish colonel spotted him, however, hauled him out of his hiding place, and ran him through with a sword.
That evening in Gilbert Town, the Virginia commander named Campbell issued an order, which he had nailed across the settlement, including the gate of the bullpen.
I must request the officers of all ranks in the army to endeavor to restrain the disorderly manner of slaughtering and disturbing the prisoners. If it cannot be prevented by moderate measures, such effectual punishment shall be executed upon delinquents as will put a stop to it.
Colonel William Campbell
Commanding
“Do you think the barbarians will obey?” a young boy asked Brodie.
Brodie didn’t reply. A guard answered for him, telling a Loyalist woman who had just asked about the prisoners’ fate: “We are going to hang all the damned old Tories, and take their wives, scrape their tongues, and let them go.”
Both the Loyalist woman and the young soldier sulked away, whimpering.
They moved slowly, covering maybe forty miles in a week. For the next two days, the prisoners marched without food, only water, but Brodie had to concede that the rebel soldiers had little to eat. The glory of their victory had faded. Now they suffered almost as much as Ferguson’s men.
