King's Mountain (28 page)

“How did Williams find us?”

“Oh, the same way I did,” said Lacey. “Colonel Charles McDowell stopped by our camp on Wednesday, on his way to Hillsborough. He told us that you were headed to Gilbert Town. It was easy enough to find you. People tend to notice when armies pass by.”

While Lacey was regaling us with all this information, we were stealing glances at one another, wondering if this could possibly be true. Obviously either Lacey or Williams was a madman or perhaps a scoundrel, but we had to guess which one to trust. Finally, in carefully noncommittal tones, William Campbell said, “And what about Williams's information regarding the whereabouts of Ferguson?”

Lacey smiled. “Oh, we know where Ferguson is headed—and it isn't to Ninety Six. Do you know why Williams told you to go there? Because that is his own home territory, and he means to defend it against his Tory neighbors, even if it costs us the war!”

“He assured us that we would find Ferguson there,” said Cleveland.

“Well, you won't!” Lacey heaved a weary sigh, probably wondering how we could be so dense. “James Williams told you that lie simply to lure you to Ninety Six. Because some of his Tory neighbors are wealthy planters, and with your army to reinforce him, he hopes to help himself to everything they have. He said as much when he returned to our camp last evening. And I thought I'd better come to warn you.”

“So he doesn't know where Ferguson is, then?” I asked Lacey. The squabbles of South Carolina's officers interested me a good deal less than the object of our quest.

“Oh, we know, all right. We had information about the movements of the 71st yesterday morning. An ancient gentleman from these parts, known to some of my men as a reliable patriot, tottered into our camp yesterday, fresh from a visit to Major Patrick Ferguson himself. The old fellow had passed himself off as a staunch Loyalist, and on the strength of that, he got an audience with the major. Ferguson told him that he had sent word to General Cornwallis in Charlotte Town, asking that Bloody Ban Tarleton and his dragoons be sent out to serve as reinforcements for him. In the meantime, Ferguson said that he was heading back toward Charlotte Town, in hopes of meeting Tarleton on his way out, and he declared that he intended to find himself a likely looking hill and take possession of it, in case the battle should come to him.” Lacey finished this recital with a decisive nod, and then he looked around the circle of faces before him, to gauge the effect of this news on his audience.

He saw our anger at having been deceived by that scoundrel Williams, and then expressions of resolve that, having at last been given the information that would put the enemy within our grasp, we must complete the mission with courage and dispatch. Above all, though, Lacey saw proof that his journey to warn us had not been in vain. After the ignominy of being hauled blindfolded into Campbell's tent, and subjected to a rude interrogation by suspicious strangers, at last we had come to believe him. He was forthright, knowledgeable, and he spoke with the authority of one accustomed to command. His explanation of James Williams's behavior made terrible sense.

Finally, Campbell spoke for all of us, echoing our thoughts. “But you are sure, Colonel Lacey—completely sure—that Ferguson is headed back toward Charlotte Town?”

Lacey nodded. “I know he is. Already he is southeast of where you are now, and you have a day or two at most to overtake him before he receives reinforcements from Cornwallis. There is no time to lose.”

Joseph McDowell took out the crudely drawn map that had guided us on the latter part of our journey through the Catawba Valley and southward. “We must choose a place where your militias can meet up with us, surely by the end of the march tomorrow evening. The sooner we join forces, the better. Colonel Lacey, have you a suitable place in mind?”

“I do, sir,” said Lacey, bending over the map. “There is a place that folk call the Cowpens, a large meadow with a number of pens for holding the cattle of the landowner, who is a Tory, by the way. If you want to help yourselves to some of the livestock while you are there, you should have no compunction about depriving the man of his cows. He has it coming.”

“Beeves for the taking. Well, that's welcome news,” said Cleveland, patting his ample belly. “I've been on field rations for so long now that my stomach thinks my throat's been cut. Can we make it there in a day?”

“Yes. It's just over the border into South Carolina, and then a few miles due east. I'll ride back to my encampment, and Colonel Hill and I will get our troops on the move by midday. We should reach the Cowpens by early evening. Once we are together, we can proceed east until we overtake Ferguson.”

Stifling a yawn, Colonel Lacey stood up and stretched. “I thank you for your hospitality, gentlemen,” he said, removing the blindfold from around his neck and handing it back to Campbell with a flourish. “I will head back now. I should reach our encampment by midmorning, and we will set out for the Cowpens at once. I know that my fellow commander Colonel Hill will be glad to see me. I borrowed his horse to make this journey.”

VIRGINIA SAL

We were up around Gilbert Town when he got word from some of the spies that there was an army of Backwater Men coming out of the hills, a-hunting us. I was there in his tent when the word came, but of course I had to look busy with the mending and act like I didn't hear nothing. I stole a glance at the major when no one was looking, and he seemed more surprised than scared. He curled his lip, and jerked his head up, like a horse on a tight rein, and he said, “Are they coming, by God? After I warned them to stay out of this?”

The rough-looking fellow who brought the news just nodded, and said, “You riled them up with that letter you wrote to Colonel Shelby.”

The major smiled then, but it was a cold smile, without a spark of pleasure in it that I could see. “I am glad to hear it. I can make good use of this little invasion of theirs.” He looked over at DePeyster, who had sat supper with him, while they talked about plans for the coming days. “Let us draw up a proclamation, DePeyster. If the frontier rabble is headed this way, we ought to warn the Carolina gentlefolk of their impending arrival. Write as I dictate.”

He rattled off a string of words about how the lowland gentry ought to band together to fight off the frontier savages from over the mountains. He and Captain DePeyster laughed right smart when he said that the rabble would “piss upon them forever” if the plantation folk didn't stop them. I didn't laugh, though, especially when the major said he wanted fair copies made of the notice to be posted at stores and inns around the settlements. I thought those Backwater Men were likely to get hold of one of those notices, and it wouldn't sweeten their tempers any to read what he said about them. If they were already headed this way with blood in their eyes, I didn't see any point in stirring them up any more. I said as much to the major, after Captain DePeyster left and Elias Powell had scuttled away for the night.

“I know some of those mountain folk,” I told him. “They're not long on forgiveness.”

But he had been drinking with the captain, and now he was too far into his cups to feel fear or prudence. He only laughed and said, “Let them come. If they want a fight, they shall have one. Here and now is as good a time as any.”

“Reckon there'll be a battle?” I said, for I didn't much like the sound of being caught up in that.

“Oh, don't
fasht
yourself,” he said, and I knew that to be one of his words from over the water that he used when the whiskey or some ghost of a memory took him back. He meant I wasn't to worry overmuch. “Tomorrow we shall begin to head back east again toward Charlotte Town. We ought to be able to get word to Lord Cornwallis before the Backwater Men can find us. So let them chase us. They will find themselves caught between Tarleton's dragoons and my good marksmen.”

I shivered. “You've seen a deal of battles, haven't you?”

He smiled again. “A fair few. Not as many as you might suppose, given my score of years in the king's service.”

“You were wounded, though,” I said, touching the sleeve of his pinioned arm. “How?”

“That was some of your rebels' doing, my girl. A proper battle up in Pennsylvania, that was, not these little hole and corner skirmishes they have 'round here.” He reached for me, and I knew he would rather use me to forget than to dwell on past sorrows, but battles were uppermost in my mind then, and I wanted to know, so, trusting the drink to keep him tame, I asked again.

He sighed, and I suppose he could easily have brushed it aside, but just then the dead white face of Virginia Paul appeared in the opening of the tent, and she said, “Yes, tell us about Brandywine.”

She scooted inside, and curled up next to me, giving him a challenging stare, as if she dared him to summon up the memory. I don't suppose the son of a lord was afreerd of a servant girl, but the look he gave her is the one horses get before they bolt from a sudden fright.

He stared into the little candle flame then, and I don't think many heartbeats passed before the drink and the silence made him forget we were there. He spoke slowly at first, unfolding the memory, and I knew better than to make a sound, for that would have broken the spell.

“That was the last time they used my weapon,” he said, as if that mattered more than his arm. “My beautiful breech-loader that could shoot farther and truer than any they had ever seen. They balked at the cost, of course—as if it wouldn't be worth more than those ancient Brown Besses they insisted on keeping! Tradition can be a prison as well as a fortress.

“But at least they gave me a thousand of my rifles, and the troops to use them. I thought I could show them. Why, I might have won this war for them, if I were not hamstrung by honor.

“There I was, the day before the battle was to begin, and I had gone off alone into the woods to practice my aim. I had not begun shooting yet, I recall, for that would have warned anyone else away. But I stood there, holding my namesake rifle, and suddenly, perhaps fifty yards away, the branches parted and a Continental officer rode into the clearing. He was as clear as a paper target in the dark blue of his uniform, astride a strapping gray that shone in the pale sunshine. And I remember thinking,
Now here is a proper target!
and I raised the weapon to the ready and drew a bead on the man. I could have felled him like a stag in the space of a heartbeat.

“But he looked back at me. Now I think if he had shown fear, or turned to flee, or reached for a weapon of his own, I would have taken the shot with the next breath I drew. But he only looked at me. And rebel that he was, there was bearing in his stance—so does a lord look at a chimney sweep. His lip curled, and in my head I heard all the words implicit in that stare. That the battle would not begin for yet another day … that I was a craven assassin to be thus concealed in the wood, instead of taking the field with honor like a gentleman … that he had no fear of the likes of me.… We held that stare between us for a long moment, and then he simply turned and rode away, showing his back to me, daring me to be such a coward as to shoot him thus. And I lowered my weapon and let him pass, thinking we would meet upon the field tomorrow.

“I never saw him, though, when there was a chance to remedy my clemency. I fell before the battle ended, with a musket ball shattering my elbow, and so I only glimpsed the man on the gray from far afield, as I lay there bleeding. It was the rebels' commander. Washington. And I might have ended their hopes for sovereignty there and then, if I had taken the shot. That was the last time I ever saw my rifles. I heard they were stored in a warehouse. God knows what became of them. Sometimes I think I am cursed.”

I heard the bitterness in his voice. He looked down at his useless right arm, as if he wished it gone entirely.

“They wanted to cut it off, but I forbade it. What use is a one-armed soldier? So they sent me back to New York to recuperate, and they did what they could for the wound, which was mainly to bind it in place so that it stuck fast in this bent position. Well, I kept the limb.”

As always, his arm was bent at the elbow and drawn up against his breast, quite useless. Had it been me, I would have left the army, I think, but Patrick Ferguson was not one to be dictated to, even by fate.

“I stayed there a year, and I taught myself to write and to wield a sword left-handed, and to use that remaining good arm for everything. I told them I was fit to command in the field again, but nobody wanted me in the northern command, so I was banished south to this godforsaken place to recruit Loyalists for the cause, while Banastre Tarleton piles up the military honors with his dragoons. I will show them, though; by God, I will. I will defeat these Backwater Men, and prove that there's more to commanding a regiment than having two good arms. God will give me a sign, so that I will know that victory is nigh.”

He was mumbling by now, and his Scots burr thickened. He downed the last dram of his whiskey, and his eyes fluttered shut.

Virginia Paul touched my arm, and inclined her head toward the opening of the tent. I followed her out into the cold night air, and we slipped away, leaving the major to his dreams of past and future glory.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

October 6, 1780

By the time Edward Lacey had said his farewells and ridden away, the sky had lightened to that purple hue that signals the coming of daybreak. The night air was still cold, and I thought longingly of my feather bed back in my house over the mountain, and of Catherine, burrowed down under a pile of quilts, waiting for me to come home. No one would be getting any more sleep tonight. It was time to assemble the men chosen to go forward, and to make our way south to the rich Tory's cow pens. We reckoned we had twenty miles or so to go before we reached it, but we would travel faster now without so many foot soldiers to slow us down. We reckoned to be there before nightfall.