Ghost Legion, page 3
“So, it is true?” Brodie asked.
“I cannot say. The next day, while Doctor Johnson and others were working on this”—he nodded at his mangled arm—“I was informed that the man in the blue and green, the one who had acquitted himself so bravely, was indeed George Washington, that the general was attended by a French officer in hussar dress. Perhaps it was. But I am not sorry that I belayed my order, am not sorry that I did not know the brave soldier’s identity. I will provide you with written orders before breakfast, Brodie. You can read?”
“Read and write,” Brodie answered.
* * * * *
The owl woke him in the grayness, only it wasn’t an owl. Brodie rolled to his side, grabbed the rifle, and began whistling for the sentries, trying desperately to wake the men closest him. A horse whinnied nervously, and Brodie saw the shadow, not ten yards before him. He pulled back the hammer while bringing the stock tightly against his right shoulder.
A muzzle flash blinded him in the darkness, an instant before he pulled the trigger and heard his own rifle bark, and the ball tore into the tree beside him, peppering his face with bark.
“Rebels!” Brodie screamed. “Rebels are amongst us!”
He didn’t realize it, but he had already reloaded the rifle and fired a second shot, even though he could barely see. This time, he heard a man cry out in pain. “Rebels!” Brodie repeated. Screeching blasts of Ferguson’s whistles answered Brodie’s cry.
Brodie charged, firing, barely stopping to reload. He stumbled across one writhing body, and kicked the man’s face. Blocking out the noise of the battle around him, Ferguson’s whistles, the screams and unnerving yells of the attackers, the ringing in his ears, Brodie remembered Ezekiel’s body and the burned inn. With a curse, he charged and fired, charged and fired.
“Brodie!”
He stopped, blinking away confusion, mouth suddenly parched, and saw Captain DePeyster not two feet from him.
“Fall in formation,” DePeyster ordered. “The enemy is retreating, and we shall smash him.”
Brodie stepped aside, trying to absorb what had happened. He wanted water, or rum, and ran his tongue over his cracked lips. I must have gone mad, he thought, watching, as if almost detached, as the line of troops, American Volunteers, and South Carolina Loyalists, marched after the fleeing rebels who disappeared in the thickets near the river.
The whistle cried, and DePeyster, or some other officer, barked out the order: “Fix bayonets!”
The New Jersey and New York troops slotted their sixteen-inch blades against the barrels of their muskets while backcountry volunteers had whittled down their knife handles and made them fit.
“For the Crown!” Ferguson shouted. “For your honor!”
Realization staggered Brodie. He had almost made the mistake Ferguson was about to by charging after the handful of rebels who had stormed the camp. He could see the hint of sunlight.
“Major!” Brodie found his voice and darted to Ferguson. “It’s a trap, sir!”
“A trap these banditti have wrought,” Ferguson said, and blasted the whistle.
“Charge!”
Brodie shouted, tugging at Ferguson’s good arm. He wanted to explain how men fought on the frontier, how he had fought against Cherokees and plunderers.
“Cowards I will not abide, Brodie!” Ferguson screamed. “By God, I will have you hanged!”
Staggering back, Brodie watched the army march into the dawn.
* * * * *
Ferguson’s head bowed as he left Doctor Johnson’s wagon, and collapsed on a fallen pine, DePeyster at his side. The screams of men echoed around them, and Ferguson lifted his gaze, shaking his head in response to something DePeyster had said, and looked at Stuart Brodie.
“I spoke words in the heat of battle,” Ferguson said, his voice dry, drained of emotion, exhausted. “I withdraw them. You are no coward, Brodie, and I now order you to remind me of my own arrogance whenever you see fit. Negro superstitions, bah!” He turned back to the captain. “What are our losses?”
“Sixty-three dead, Major. Ninety wounded. Somewhere between fifty and seventy missing or captured.”
“And theirs?”
DePeyster shrugged. “We have found four dead, and have three wounded prisoners.”
Ferguson swore, but he stood and approached Brodie, forcing a smile. “Belay those orders I issued last night, Brodie. I think we have found the enemy.”
“Do we pursue, Major?” DePeyster asked.
Ferguson looked again at Brodie, as if asking for advice.
“They will just scatter, Major,” Brodie said, “like leaves in the wind.”
“Like brigands.” Ferguson spat. “No need to give chase, Captain,” he said after a moment. “Let them run. We know where they are going.” He whirled, striding toward his tent, but stopped and pivoted, facing Brodie again.
“The rebel prisoners will be treated humanely. You will see to that, Brodie. Not one hair on their heads is to be harmed.”
* * * * *
Gilbert Town had been settled near Second Broad Brook, a haven for rebels and Loyalists, depending on who had the stronger force at the time. Like many backcountry settlements, it wasn’t much to look at, just a few log cabins, outhouses, more pigs than people. Scotch-Irish and Germans had settled here, most of them loyal to King George. A year or so back, Rutherford County had been formed, carved out of old Tryon County, and the town founded by William Gilbert had become something of the center of law and order, although lately a person would be hard-pressed to find any law, and certainly not much order.
Rebels came, then fled. British forces came, then went after the rebels, who came back until word came that the King’s men were returning.
Brodie rode in, weary, leading the prisoners in from the Broad Brook Road after crossing at Denard’s Ford. The rebel horde had vanished again—no surprise to Brodie. What shocked him was when he learned the date: September 7th. He had been with Ferguson for, what, four months?
Ferguson’s army, routed in the ambush, remained a threat to the rebels, but needed rest, needed supplies. Most importantly, the major needed new men. Rebels had bloodied the militia, and Ferguson’s pride, at Musgrove’s Mill. The New Jersey doctor turned the local tavern into a hospital; William Gilbert’s cabin became Ferguson’s headquarters.
While Brodie oversaw the handful of prisoners, Ferguson listened to any information the Loyalists might have.
John Sevier, Isaac Shelby, and Colonel James Williams had been at Gilbert Town, with dozens of British prisoners and a bunch of whooping, drunken rioters celebrating their deception at Musgrove’s Mill. Then, like cowards, after learning of Ferguson’s approach, they scattered, Williams taking the prisoners on to Hillsborough, and Sevier and Shelby retreating back across the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Brodie prayed Ferguson would pursue, although he knew they wouldn’t, couldn’t. Gilbert Town would become the Loyalist militia’s camp, and Stuart Brodie groaned at what that would mean.
Manual exercise—wheeling—marching—bayonet drill—and Major Ferguson’s unholy whistles.
* * * * *
Brodie hadn’t seen much of Ferguson, although he had certainly heard those horrible whistles enough, since arriving at Gilbert Town, so he was surprised when he was ordered to report to Ferguson’s cabin and bring along a rebel prisoner, Samuel Phillips, who had been captured at Musgrove’s Mill. Phillips’s face remained bruised from Brodie’s savage kick during that fight.
“Mister Brodie can read, Phillips,” Ferguson said when the two entered the cabin. “Can you?”
No answer. The rebel just picked at the dirty bandage that covered his bare head and bloodied left ear.
“No matter. I am paroling you, Phillips, on the condition that you deliver a message to your countrymen. If you cannot remember it, well, I have written it on parchment. I trust someone in that backwater country can read. Mister Brodie?”
Brodie took the parchment curiously, unrolled it, and read it silently, then aloud, after Ferguson’s order.
To Isaac Shelby, John Sevier, and the officers on the Western waters called the Watauga, Nolachucky, and Holston:
If you do not desist from your opposition to the arms of the British Crown, I will march my army over the mountains, hang your leaders, and lay your country to waste with fire and sword.
Patrick Ferguson
Major
71st Regiment
Ferguson’s handwriting was as sweeping as Brodie’s own.
Brodie rolled the paper, secured it with a thong, and presented it to the paroled prisoner.
Samuel Phillips, who had stopped fingering the bandage, found his voice. “You’re a fool, Ferguson. A bigger fool than that butcher Tarleton.”
“You are dismissed, Phillips, and you would be wise to hold your tongue before I put you in stocks and send some other brigand on my errand.”
The prisoner darted out the cabin, leaving Brodie staring at Ferguson.
“Speak your mind, Brodie,” Ferguson said. “Remember your orders.”
Brodie tried to find the right words. They eluded him, so he just blurted it out: “It is not something I would have done, Major.”
“It was nothing I would have done were I fighting honorable men, Brodie,” Ferguson replied. “But I am tired of these cowards. They fight like savages, yell like savages. Mark my words, I despise Colonel Tarleton, but perchance I see something now to his methods. You do not treat cockroaches like men. You squash them with your boot heels, and, if these fiends do not desist with their banditry, I mean what I said. I will cross the mountains and put them all to the sword or hang them as thieves.”
Brodie shook his head. “You won’t have to cross the Blue Ridge. Once they get your message, Major, those boys will come looking for you.”
Chapter Four
September’s winds and rain foretold an early winter. Already maple and oak leaves had lost their brilliance and begun turning brown, carpeting the mountains. The coolness of the morning and gray sky matched Marty McKidrict’s mood as she sat near the pigpen, cleaning a half dozen squirrels with detached interest. Methodically she would slice the stiff fur around the dead animal’s head and limbs, then cleanly peel back the skin and toss it on the rough-hewn bench where she prepared fish and meat, churned butter, stitched buckskins, and sometimes just sat, stared and dreamed. After gutting a squirrel, she would throw the entrails and head to the hogs, and the carcass into a bowl of water. She’d fry the squirrels tonight for supper, and what she didn’t eat she would put into a stew for tomorrow.
She had taken Seb’s squirrel rifle that morning, instead of her Deckard, which was too large a caliber for shooting squirrels. Besides, Seb never used the rifle, never even bothered to clean it, and the handsome piece would likely have rusted away had Marty not taken care of it. The rifle leaned against the rails of the pigpen.
A hog grunted.
“You’re next,” she told him, and tossed the last squirrel into the water.
Butchering hogs—that was work for a man, but Marty had grown not only accustomed to the annual slaughter, but also packing the meat in salt for winter. Her father and brothers had shunned such work, any work, for that matter. So had that no-account husband of hers, wherever he was.
After tacking the six squirrel skins on the side of the privy to dry, she dipped her hands in the bowl and did her best to wash off the blood and grime, scrubbing herself clean, more or less, with coarse burlap.
A horse whickered, and Marty turned quickly, overturning the bowl, dumping the cleaned squirrels onto the bench. She spotted the rider, moving casually, long rifle cradled across his lap, and gasped. It wasn’t her husband—too wiry to be Seb—but she had never had a visitor, except the sorry lot her husband brought over from time to time.
She grabbed the squirrel rifle and ran for the house, hearing the man’s greetings, but ignoring them. The door slammed behind her, and she pulled in the latch string, slammed across the bolt, headed to the window, and replaced the smaller rifle with her Deckard.
“Hello!” an Irish voice called. “I didn’t mean to alarm you, Mister McKidrict.”
Mister! Marty laughed softly. Well, she certainly didn’t look like a woman, not in greasy buckskins and hunting frock, not with her matted hair, and not with the nose Seb had busted during his drunken riots.
“I am Flint O’Keeffe, and bring word from John Sevier. I desire just a few minutes of your time, Seb.”
“I’m not Seb!” she yelled back. “And I know neither Flint O’Keeffe nor John Sevier.” Actually she had heard Sevier’s name mentioned by Seb and his friends, usually in contempt, which meant John Sevier was in all likelihood a decent sort.
“I . . . I thought this was the McKidrict claim . . . I. . . .”
“It is. I just ain’t Seb! I’m. . . .” Being a woman alone caused her pause. “I’m Marty McKidrict.” Her voice sounded raspy enough, thanks to the bruises Seb had left on her throat, plus her broken nose, that she probably didn’t sound like a woman, either.
“Seb’s brother?”
Marty snorted. “I wish,” she whispered as a once-forgotten passage from Genesis flashed through her mind: And it came to pass, when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abel his brother, and slew him.
“Yeah, his brother. Now leave me be!”
“Mister McKidrict, please, just a few minutes. I bring news that concerns every man this side of the mountains, and, honestly, I am not one who cares to shout through closed doors.”
Marty didn’t reply.
“McKidrict, I am neither brigand nor fool. I can see those squirrels you shot. Head shot, it appears to me. I know when I am outclassed. My rifle is primed, but not cocked. Would you kindly, sir, open the door and allow us to converse as gentlemen?”
She smiled in spite of herself, removed the bolt, and opened the door, slightly at first, so that she could peer through the crack and make sure this O’Keeffe wasn’t lying. He held the reins to a claybank mare in his left hand, long rifle in the right, although the stock had been butted on the ground. Pushing the door open with the barrel of her own rifle, Marty stepped through the doorway.
“A pleasure to meet you, Marty McKidrict,” O’Keeffe said.
“Likewise.” She spoke so low, though, she doubted if O’Keeffe heard.
Flint O’Keeffe’s smile revealed white teeth through a black beard. He stood tall, dressed in a tan hunting frock and plain britches, Cherokee moccasins, and a black cocked hat that did its best to hide unruly, curly black hair that had been braided into a queue with a green piece of silk. His eyes looked blue, maybe green. From this distance, Marty couldn’t tell, but he certainly carried himself well. He looked even downright handsome, at least better-looking than her husband or the scoundrels he brought by the cabin, or any of her brothers for that matter.
“Thank you,” O’Keeffe said. “My poor voice is hoarse enough.”
Her effort to reply failed. Did he want a drink of whiskey or tea? Seb hadn’t left any rum behind; he rarely did. Tea had become scarce what with the taxes and boycott. Besides, this man was a Whig, and Whigs preferred coffee over tea. Drinking coffee was patriotic. Not that it mattered—she had no coffee in the cabin, either. Where is your hospitality? Marty thought. Invite him in, but she couldn’t bring herself to do that. Besides, deep down, she knew what had happened to her hospitality. Marty had been living with rogues far too long, first her father and brothers, and lately Seb McKidrict. Good manners, it seemed, had died with her mother years ago. She worked her jaws again, rolled her tongue, but words again eluded her. Inwardly she cursed herself, that lack of confidence.
O’Keeffe broke the silence. “I didn’t know Seb had a brother living here,” he said.
“You know my . . . brother?”
“No. His acquaintance I have never made. I am new to these mountains, from Virginia originally and more recently . . . well, I know John Sevier and call him a friend. It was John . . . Colonel Sevier, I should say . . . who asked me to send word of a gathering at Sycamore Shoals.”
Marty knew of that place on the Watauga, where the Doe River converged. Since colonists had first crossed over the mountains, Sycamore Shoals had been an important gathering place, and the Cherokees had treated there long before any white presence. Treaties had been signed, couples married, games played, battles fought. The great Transylvania Purchase had been brokered at the Shoals, and Dragging Canoe’s Cherokees had attacked Fort Watauga there only a few short years back. Of course, Seb had never taken her to the Watauga, never let her socialize, meet other women, see children.
O’Keeffe kept talking about the duty of all men, the war against the King, but Marty didn’t feel like listening to politics.
“Mister O’Keeffe,” she said, “nary a whit I care about taxes, about representation, about the rights of Whigs or Tories. All I want to do is make it through the winter. This war is not mine. It’s a war of arrogant. . . .” She almost said men.
“It’s a war for justice, Marty McKidrict,” O’Keeffe jumped in. “And it does pertain to you, for Major Patrick Ferguson of the British army has sent word from Gilbert Town that he will lay waste to our country and hang us all. Such threats the men and women who trekked over the Blue Ridge will not abide.”
“If this Ferguson comes here, threatens me, mayhap I will fight him. Until then. . . .”
“He is coming, McKidrict. Coming with a thousand Tories, and I dare say that number is more than even you can shoot. All I ask, neighbor, is for you to join us at Sycamore Shoals on the Twenty-Fifth and hear the words of John Sevier and Isaac Shelby.” He grinned. “Never yet met an over-mountain man who sent his regrets to an invitation to drink, dance, trade, eat, and listen to some stumping.”
