Ghost Legion, page 8
“Aye,” Bickley acknowledged. “Samuel Chambers talked more like a Tory than a Whig.” He grinned. “I gage we’ll scourge him and his friend along with Ferguson’s lot, the traitorous swine.”
Marty made her teeth stop chattering. “You mean, you think those two quit to tell the British?”
“Me thinks that is so, for I warrant Major Ferguson will pay a tidy sum of gold to know of us.” It was the most she had ever heard Bickley say. He turned toward Ryan Folson and said: “Sammy Chambers and Jimmy Crawford have flown the coop.”
* * * * *
The snow had stopped by the time they left Elk Hollow, and they halted a few hours later at Roaring Creek, making camp quickly, roasting beef over small fires, devouring the meat before they could even taste it.
Haggard, fighting off sleep, Marty braced her back against a fallen tree, keeping the Deckard within reach, and her eyes on Seb and Duncan while she ate. Neither gave her the slightest bit of attention, but she knew better than to relax.
She slept that night with the rifle in her arms.
* * * * *
After breakfast, Sergeant Gillespie and Lieutenant O’Keeffe arrived to drill the beleaguered company again. Marty lifted, lowered, and dry-fired—O’Keeffe intent on saving powder and lead, but also to keep the whereabouts of the legion harder to locate after the defection of Chambers and Crawford—until the rifle felt heavier than a blacksmith’s anvil, until the piercing pain in her arms equaled the agony in her legs and back.
“Do you wish you were back on that creek with your brother?” Sergeant Gillespie’s breath stank of sot weed as he shouted in her face. She hadn’t shouldered her rifle briskly enough to suit him.
“No,” she answered, honestly enough.
“You’re a girl!” Gillespie’s voice boomed, and blood drained from Marty’s face as the sergeant’s saliva peppered her nose and cheeks. She almost broke into tears. “I bet you have an oyster basket rather than balls, McKidrict!” He spun away from her, almost lunging at Teever Barnes, ripping the heavy rifle from his arms.
“Do not laugh, Teever Barnes, for you are a woman, too!”
Marty checked herself, shuddering as she realized Gillespie hadn’t noticed anything, had meant only to insult her. She made the mistake of wiping the spit from her face, which brought Gillespie back, bellowing at her with his stinking breath, until he finally raised his arms in despair and again lamented to Flint O’Keeffe: “They are a hopeless lot, sir.”
* * * * *
Worn out after the discipline, they descended Bright’s Trace, nothing more than a foot path, really, and so stony, so rough, Marty knew the blacksmith would be busy when they camped tonight. Following Roaring Creek and then the North Toe River, the army—after nooning and drilling for another hour at a place called Davenport’s—left the cold of the mountains for the meadows below, moving, miraculously it seemed, from the dead of winter to a false spring, leaving the cold of the mountains for the meadows below.
Behind them stood the blue ridges that climbed some 6,000 feet into the horizon. Ahead of them lay crab-apple orchards, forests bright with the colors of fall. In the mountains, up along the Tiger, autumn had passed, but here it seemed as if God had thrown a patchwork quilt over the country. It looked so peaceful, Marty almost forgot how tired she felt.
They camped at Cathey’s Plantation along Grassy Creek, having traveled twenty of the hardest miles imaginable. Marty led Abimelech to the blacksmith, asked if he would shoe the old stallion, receiving a sour grunt of affirmation, and left the horse with a handful of parched corn and the last of the oats. She pulled off her moccasins and soaked her feet in the cold but refreshing waters of the creek, staring at the elm-dotted plantation.
“’Tis quite inspiring, is it not, Marty McKidrict?”
Marty shot a quick glance at Flint O’Keeffe, waiting to see if he would order her to fall into formation for more exercise, but the lieutenant simply fingered the brim of his hat, which he held at his waist, soaking his own bare feet in the creek—she hadn’t even heard him approach—and marveled at the serenity.
“Reminds me of. . . .” O’Keeffe laughed. “There’s a place where the meadow is green in the summer, the creek bubbles to life. Not too big, not too small, and the mountains are blue in the distance, not too close, not too far. It’s a place where you respect the land, and the land respects what you offer. It’s not an easy place to live, but it’s not impossible to make a living. I can’t think of a place better to see one’s sons and daughters grow.”
Marty smiled painfully. Once, she thought the cabin on the Tiger might be such a place, but Seb McKidrict had ruined any illusion.
“Your home?” she asked.
“Aye,” O’Keeffe replied, “only I’m still looking for it.”
“So am I.” She hadn’t meant to answer, but the words came out automatically.
“Then we have something in common,” O’Keeffe said. “Fathom that.”
She looked at her dirty fingernails just to keep herself from seeing him. Fear prevented her from looking at O’Keeffe, although she wanted to. How long could she avoid him? His eyes, she could feel bore into her soul, and she shivered, about to give in, but Ryan Folson rescued her. His booming voice and heavy feet interrupted her thoughts moments before his crushing hand pounded her back.
“McKidrict, you got some dainty feet, boy.”
The big man passed her, and Marty blushed, for white-haired Folson and Edisto Bickley stood beside her—stark naked. The big man let out a rippling fart, spun around, spread out his arms, and toppled backward into the deepest pool of cold water. Bickley entered with more trepidation, grimacing at the creek’s bite, before lowering himself a few rods from his friend.
Sitting up, Folson wiped his face and bellowed: “Come on in, boys! Water will relieve your aches.”
“B-best j-j-join . . . us, Lieu-t-t-tenant,” Bickley added. “W-w-eather won’t . . . w-won’t stay . . . w-warm.”
“Aye,” said Folson, unaffected by the cold. “You, too, Lieutenant.”
“Alas,” O’Keeffe said, “the army does not tolerate fraternization.”
“You’re not a Continental, Lieutenant,” Folson said. “Nor are we. We’re just a legion of over-mountain men, neighbors, farmers, hunters, and innkeepers. Wash the stink off you. Get your blood flowing again. You can drill us like demons come morn.”
“Indeed,” O’Keeffe said, and, to Marty’s horror, she found the Irishman unbuttoning his breeches. Marty swallowed uncomfortably, almost frozen, but a wild cry shook her to move. Running toward the creek, howling like demons, raced Barnes, Dryden, Golf, and Vance, every one of them naked. Young Golf even stopped beside an elm and began urinating on the trunk.
Quickly Marty gathered her moccasins, embarrassed at the sight of Flint O’Keeffe’s buttocks as he tested the water, and sprinted from the creek.
Chapter Ten
She woke with a gasp, and sat bolt upright, pulling the bedroll up over her chest, trying to collect her thoughts, find her bearings. The dream had been so vivid, yet it had only been a dream, and Flint O’Keeffe was nowhere around.
“Another bloody-bone chasing you in your sleep, McKidrict?” Bickley asked good-naturedly from underneath his blankets.
Before she could answer, Ryan Folson, stoking the burning fire with a long piece of blackened beech, swore vilely. “How long have you been awake, Edisto?”
“I am slow to percolate, Ryan.”
“Aye. You just lay in bed and wait for me to get the fire going, every bloody morning. Move your arse, you lazy King lover. And that goes for you as well, McKidrict. I’m tired of being a house slave for the both of you.”
Laughing, Bickley tossed off his covers and rose. Marty stretched her stiff leg muscles, and arced her back before she stood, still remembering the dream. It had been no nightmare, though, no ghosts, no Willie Duncan, no Seb McKidrict, just her and Flint O’Keeffe and the creek. She might have preferred bloody-bones and raw-heads.
She shook out her bedding before rolling and lashing it, then checked the Deckard rifle and followed Folson’s orders to gather more firewood. The morning had dawned clear, not even a hint of frost on the ground—far more inviting than the nights they had spent in the mountains. It was Friday, somebody in the neighboring mess announced, September 29th. Only a few days had passed since she had arrived at Sycamore Shoals, since she had taken charge of her own life. Seemed more like years.
Back at the campfire, she handed Folson a few pieces of dried wood, dropped the rest on the ground, and returned to clean her long rifle.
“Your brother and that weasel Willie Duncan will get no breakfast today, either,” Folson grumbled as he tossed the last of the butchered beef in a skillet. “I am tired of serving as a slave to those rogues, as well. Teever Barnes is the only one in this mess worth a salt lick.”
Marty scanned the camp, finding no sign of Seb or Duncan, which didn’t surprise her. Those two had kept their distance from her since that fateful night at the Resting Place, had been sneaking off to find rum or a game of chance in some other mess. Nor did she see Barnes, but he often pulled the last sentry duty, or went to tend their livestock long before anyone else—even Folson—had risen. Barnes kept busy, probably to keep his mind occupied, to stop thinking about the battle soon to come. Marty didn’t blame him at all. Just the other night, Ryan Folson had told her about Barnes’s brothers, a pair of Tories from the family farm south of Gilbert Town.
A sloshing water pail told her that Bickley had returned from the creek. He hooked the pail over the coals to heat the water for coffee while Folson fried the last of the beef, already turning rancid.
“We have company,” said Bickley, jutting his chin eastward. Marty lifted her head, but Folson leaped to his feet, obscuring her view.
As the big man muttered several oaths underneath his breath, Marty peered over his tall frame, and swallowed down fear. Here came Sergeant Gillespie and Lieutenant O’Keeffe, a little early to begin those numbing drills. Usually they let breakfast settle before barking out orders for formation. When the dream began to etch itself back in Marty’s memories, she tried desperately to block it out, and began toying with the Deckard’s frizzen. She started to sit back down, but Bickley spoke.
“I reckon all the colonels want to view our parade this fine morn.”
Marty looked again. Sure enough, Colonel John Sevier strode purposefully behind Gillespie and O’Keeffe, moving at such a gait he soon overtook them. A short distance beyond that walked Isaac Shelby and the Virginian, Colonel William Campbell.
She had only seen Campbell from afar, a busy Scot in buckskins who, Marty realized now, matched Ryan Folson in height. At first, Campbell had turned down Isaac Shelby’s request to send troops to squash Major Ferguson, explaining that his duty was with Virginia and arguing that, if Ferguson brought his troops there, he would be farther from Cornwallis, bettering the chances of a Patriot victory.
Shelby had written again, more urgently, stressing the fact, Marty had learned, that without William Campbell and his Whigs, the over-mountain men had no chance of victory. So Colonel Campbell had arrived at Sycamore Shoals, with 400 Virginians and a nasty temper.
A veritable giant, standing six foot six, he was in his middle thirties with dark hair braided and plaited in a long queue. Campbell soon left the pudgy Shelby puffing in the rear, passed O’Keeffe and Gillespie, moved around the hard-charging Sevier and stormed into the camp, angry eyes taking everything and everyone in sight.
They let the meat burn on the skillet and the water boil over.
“Where is McKidrict?” Campbell bellowed.
Marty’s mouth turned dry. “I am. . . .”
“Not you! Your brother! And that dunce who follows him like a pup.”
O’Keeffe’s eyes locked on Marty as the others reached camp, and he let out a long sigh of relief. Folson tugged on his ear and answered Campbell’s question. No one had seen Seb McKidrict or Willie Duncan since last night.
“Why didn’t you report this?” Sergeant Gillespie thundered.
“Report what? Those two louses are never around when you need them. Out looking for a game of hussle-cap or cross-and-pile.”
Colonel Campbell exploded: “General Washington has forbidden such gambling in the ranks!”
“Well, sir.” Folson grinned; Marty could read his mind: This is not the Continental Army, you idiot. Folson possessed enough common sense not to say that, however. Instead he addressed the subject of the two missing men. “McKidrict and Duncan show up for supper and show up for breakfast and drill, Sergeant. I. . . .”
“I do not see them now,” Campbell said. “Do you see them, Folson? You are cooking breakfast. So where are they? McKidrict!” The goliath towered over Marty, thrusting a long, gloved finger in her face. “He is your brother. Where is he?”
Marty stuttered, trying to find the right answer.
Flint O’Keeffe came to her rescue. “Colonel,” he said softly, stepping between the furious Virginian and Marty, “mayhap we should explain our concern.” The finger lowered, but Campbell’s face remained a brilliant crimson. He owned a temper worse than Seb McKidrict. “McKidrict and Duncan are gone,” O’Keeffe said. “Teever Barnes found their horses missing this morning, and reported the disappearance to me. . . .”
“’Tis what you should have done, Folson,” Gillespie interjected.
“We were not sure if Duncan and McKidrict had deserted, or if someone had stolen their horses,” O’Keeffe continued, ignoring the interruption. “Were not sure, till now. They left sometime last night, it appears. Eugene Vance found their trail heading over Grassy Creek. Now, if they had turned back, that would be one thing. But they appear bound for Gilbert Town, and Ferguson.”
“He’s your brother,” Isaac Shelby stated.
“Sir,” Marty said, “I have not spoken a word to my . . . my brother in days. We have . . . different views.”
Sevier cleared his throat. “Is his view Tory?”
Folson answered. “Seb McKidrict’s view is greed. Greed and murder. Ask anyone in the settlements, and they shall affirm my belief. By Jupiter, we never even knew Seb had a brother till Marty showed up at the Shoals. I say to the devil with both of them. Better off we are, gentlemen, without those two.”
Yet everyone still stared at Marty, who shuffled her feet, gripping the rifle barrel tightly. She had to answer.
“That Seb and Duncan deserted . . . that does not surprise me,” she said. “All this drill left a strong distaste in their mouths. And Ryan speaks the truth. If Seb thinks Ferguson will pay even a shilling to know about us . . . well, he is neither Whig nor Tory, me thinks. Merely a brigand.”
“And blood is thicker. . . .” Campbell whirled, kicked the handle of the skillet, spilling burned meat and the pail of water into the sizzling coals. “First Chambers and Crawford, now these two cowards. Four desertions in two days. And your men, Colonel Sevier. Your men! ”
“There will be no more, Colonel,” Sevier spoke mildly, although he clenched both fists until his knuckled whitened. “I promise you that. Lieutenant O’Keeffe!”
The Irishman snapped to attention.
“This is an army, Mister O’Keeffe, not a gang of rogues. If we desire to win a battle against Major Ferguson, we must have discipline.”
“I agree, sir.”
“Very well, then we must make an example. We let Crawford and Chambers go, but we cannot let these two men go unpunished. You will strike out with Sergeant Gillespie and four men of your own choosing. You will bring back these two moral-less fiends, alive if at all possible, dead if they resist. Your discretion.”
“Yes, sir.”
Campbell spoke next. “You will take McKidrict’s brother with you, Mister O’Keeffe. We shall learn if this runt is loyal to our cause, or loyal only to his perfidious brother.”
* * * * *
They rode hard through the valley, had to in order to catch up with Seb and Duncan, resting and watering their horses briefly before disappearing in the gap of the Blue Ridge. She feared old Abimelech would falter at this pace, but the stallion seemed determined to match the stride of the younger mounts, much the same way Marty had pushed herself not to be bested by any man.
Flint O’Keeffe had chosen three others to accompany them on this manhunt: Eugene Vance, the best tracker, plus Folson and Bickley, the most seasoned and best shots in O’Keeffe’s company.
Shortly before they departed, the commanders had agreed that it would be in the army’s best interest to divide, lest the British be closer than they thought and ambushed the Patriot forces. Along the Blue Ridge, Colonel Campbell would lead his Virginians through Turkey Cove and on past Wofford’s Fort. Shelby and Sevier would follow the North Cove of Catawba Creek. With luck, Flint O’Keeffe and his small command would rejoin Colonel Sevier that night at Honeycutt’s Creek. If not, they would meet the next day at Quaker Meadows.
As they entered the granite pass, O’Keeffe sent Vance and Sergeant Gillespie on ahead, to scout for ambush. One man with a good eye and long rifle could easily hold off an army through this narrow trail.
Marty wasn’t worried, though. Neither Seb nor Duncan had ever been much of a marksman, hadn’t even considered the possibility of pursuit. After all, no one had gone after Crawford and Chambers. They hadn’t bothered to hide their tracks, and had slowed down. Vance guessed the two men were only a couple of hours ahead of them now.
“It could be a trap,” Vance suggested.
“Could be.” O’Keeffe nodded, and sent Vance and Gillespie on a scout.
Marty knew better. Seb and Duncan had been forced to slow down, not because they planned some ambuscade, but because they had never taken care of their mounts.
She rode at the point of the column through the rock-lined path, long rifle cradled in her arms. When the trail became wide enough for two horses, O’Keeffe pulled up alongside her.
“I desire you to know that I never thought you would have fled with your brother,” he said huskily. “Colonel Campbell’s suspicions of you are unfounded.”
