UNDER KING’S MOUNTAIN
_But Major Ferguson by endeavoring to intercept the enemy in this
retreat unfortunately gave time for fresh bodies of men to pass the
mountains and to unite into a corps far superior to that which he
commanded. They came up with him and after a sharp action entirely
defeated him. Ferguson was killed and all his party either slain or
taken._
RAWDON CORRESPONDENCE.
I was riding my grey, Minden, on that day, and I never wish to ride a
better nag. But the weight of two heavy men is much for the staunchest
horse, and when it fell, as it did a few yards short of safety, it came
to the ground so heavily that the shock drove the breath out of my body.
For a moment I did not know what had befallen me. I lay and felt
nothing. If I thought at all, I supposed that the horse had stumbled.
Then, coming to myself I tried to rise, and sank with the sweat starting
from every pore.
Simms, three or four yards from me, lay still. The horse lay as still,
but on my right shoulder, pinning me down and it needed no more to tell
me that my sword-arm was broken, and that I was helpless. The next thing
that I remember, a man was standing some paces from me and covering me
with one of their Deckhard rifles.
Instinct speaks before reason. “Don’t shoot!” I cried.
“Why not?” he answered. “D—n you, your time is out! It was your turn at
the Waxhaws and it’s little quarter you gave us there! It’s our turn
to-day!”
Instinct prevailed once more. I knew that I could not rise, but I tried
to rise. Then I fainted.
When I opened my eyes again—to the circle of blue sky and the feathery
tree-tops waving about the little clearing—the man was standing over me,
a dark figure leaning on his gun. He was looking down at me. As soon as
I could direct my mind to him, “You have the advantage of me, stranger,”
he said dryly. “A redcoat’s no more to me than a quail. But shooting a
man who shams to be dead is not in my way. It’s you, that will pay the
price, however.”
“You’d not shoot a wounded man,” I muttered—not that for the moment I
seemed to care greatly.
“Who shot them at the Waxhaws?” he retorted savagely. “And hung them at
Augusta? And gave them to the Indians to do worse things with? By G—d!”
and with that he stopped speaking, and with an ugly look, he handled his
rifle as if he were going to knock out my brains with the stock.
But I was past fear and I was in pain. “Do your worst!” I said
recklessly, “And God save the King!”
He lowered his gun and seemed to think better of it. He even smiled in
an acrid sort of fashion, as he looked down at me. “Well, Britisher,” he
said, “you have the advantage of me! But if you can tell me what I am
going to do with you—”
“Hospital,” I murmured.
“Hospital!” he repeated. “Jerusalem! He says Hospital! Man, do you know
that there are nine here who lost their folks at the Waxhaws, and thirty
who are akin to them, and who’ve sworn, every man of them, to give no
quarter to a Tory or an Englishman! And I’ll not deny,” he continued in
a lower tone, “that I’ve sworn the same, and am perjured this moment.
And he says—Hospital!”
“But the laws of war!” I protested weakly.
“Ay, you score them plainly enough on your poor devils’ backs!”
“You make a mistake,” I said. I was becoming a little clearer in my
mind. “Those are the Articles of war.”
“Indeed!” he replied. And he stared at me as if he had never seen a
King’s officer before. Then “Why did you stop to pick up that fellow?”
he asked, indicating poor Simms by a gesture. “If you’d ridden straight
away, I should have been too late. It was your pause that gave me time
to level at your horse and bring it down.”
I raised myself on my elbow and found that the man had released me from
Minden and had lifted me to the edge of the clearing. Simms still
sprawled where he had fallen, with his arms cast wide and his neck awry.
The horse lay half in and half out of the stagnant pool that lapped the
roots of the trees on the farther side of the clearing.
“Is he dead?” I asked, staring at Simms.
“Neck broken,” the man replied, “Who was he?”
“My orderly.”
“Rank and file?”
“What else?” I said.
He grunted. “Is that in the Articles of War, too?” he said. “But any
way, you did him little good, and wrecked yourself by it!” Then, in a
different tone, “See here,” he said, “you’ve tricked me, shamming to be
dead and playing ’possum. I can’t leave you to the buzzards, nor yet
carry you to the camp, for they’ll be for shooting you—shooting you, my
friend, for certain! You’ll have to ride if I can get you a horse. That
is your only chance. I shall be away some time and if you wish to live
you will lie close. It’s not healthy anywhere this side of the Catawba
for that uniform!”
I was in pain, but I was sufficiently myself to be anxious when he had
left me; painfully anxious as time went on and he did not return. I lay
staring at poor Simms; the flies were clustering on his face. I thought
of the light heart with which I had ridden into Ferguson’s camp and
joined him and his volunteers the day before. I thought of the gay
dinner we had eaten, and the toasts we had drunk, and the “Confusion to
the Rebels” which we had planned—campaigning, a man learns to enjoy life
as it comes. And then I thought of the day that had gone against us,
miserably and unaccountably; of poor Ferguson, dragged and dead, with
his foot in the stirrup and enough wounds in him to let out the lives of
five men; of Husbands and Plummer and Martin—I had seen them all go
down,—those, who had escaped in the fight, shot like rabbits in the last
rush for the horses. By the laws of war, or of anything but this blind
partisan fighting we should have won the battle against an equal number
of undrilled farmers and backwoodsmen. We must have won. But we had
lost; and I lay there under the sumach bushes that blended with the red
of the old uniform; and if the man who had shot poor Minden at that last
unlucky moment did not return, the buzzards would presently spy me out
and Simms would not be the less fortunate of the two.
For the sounds of the fight had died away. The pursuit had taken another
line, the silence of the forest was no longer torn by shot or scream.
Even the excited chatter of the birds had ceased. The little clearing
lay lonely, with the short twilight not far off—was that a buzzard
already, that tiny speck in the sky?
What if the man did not come back?
But, thank God, even as I thought of this, I heard him. He came into
view among the boles of the trees on the farther side of the clearing,
riding one horse and leading another. He dismounted beside me and hooked
the reins over a bough, and for the first time I took in what he was
like. He appeared to be middle-aged, a tallish lean man, with hair that
was turning gray. He wore a hunter’s shirt and buckskin leggings, and
with this, some show of uniform; a blue sash and a wide-brimmed hat with
a white cockade were pretty well the sum of it. He had steely eyes—they
showed light in the brown of his thin hard-bitten face. He stepped to
the dead man and took from him a strap or two. Then he came to me.
“Now!” he said curtly. “Harden your heart, King George! You’ll wince
once or twice before you are in that saddle. But when you are there
you’ll have a chance, and there’s no other way you will have one! Now!”
To tell the truth, I winced already, having a horror of pain. But
knowing that if I cried out, here was this rebel Yankee—who had no more
nerves than a plantation Sambo—to hear me, I set my teeth while, with a
splint made of two pieces of wood, he secured my arm in its due
position, and eased as far as he could the crushed shoulder. He did it
not untenderly, and when he rose to his feet, “You look pretty sick,” he
said, “as if you’d be the better for a sup of Kentucky whisky. But
there’s none here, and there’s worse to come. So pull yourself together,
and think of old England!”
He spoke in a tone of derision, to which the gentleness of his touch
gave the lie. I rose to my feet and eyed the saddle. “It’s that or the
buzzards,” he said, seeing that I hesitated; and he shoved me up. I did
what I could myself and with an effort I climbed into the saddle.
“That’s good!” he exclaimed. “For a beginning.”
I cried out once—I could not refrain; but I was mounted now if I could
stay where I was. I suppose that he saw that I was on the verge of
collapse, for “See here!” he cried roughly. “I can shoot you, I can
leave you, or I can take you. There is no other way. What do you say?”
“Go on,” I said. And then, “Wait!”
“What now?” he growled, suspicious, I think, of my firmness.
“His address is on him,” I said, nodding towards Simms. “He wanted his
wife to know, if he did not come off. It’s in his hat. I must take it.”
He stared at me. For a moment I thought that he was going to refuse to
do what I asked. Then he went and picked up Simms’ hat and from a slit
in the looped side he drew a thin packet of letters. “Are you satisfied
now?” he said, as he handed the packet to me.
“That’s it,” I said. “Thank you.”
“I thought you held that lot were only food for the triangles,” he
muttered. “Well, live and learn, and the last knows most! Now, forward
it is, sir, and within five miles I’ll have you under cover. All the
same there’s a plaguy bottom to cross that will give us trouble, or I am
no prophet!”
I was soon to learn what he meant. For a certain distance, riding where
it was level through open park-like land, that closed here and there
into forest, the going was good and the pain was bearable, though the
thought that at any moment the horse might stumble chilled me with
apprehension. But after a while we sank into a shallow valley, where the
air was darkened by cypress trees and poisoned by their yew-like odor.
And presently, threading the swamp that filled the bottom, there
appeared a rivulet. It crossed our path, and my heart sank into my
boots.
“Stay here,” the man said shortly; and he left me and rode up and down,
hunting for a crossing, while I followed him with scared eyes. At length
he found what he wanted and he signed to me to join him. “Give me your
rein,” he said, “and hold on with all the strength you have! It’s neck
or nothing!”
We did it. But the muscles of the crushed shoulder and, in a less
degree, the broken arm gave me exquisite pain, and I had to pause awhile
on the other side of the water, crouching on the neck of my horse. When
I had recovered, we went on and climbed out of the bottom and in another
half mile as the light began to fail, we struck into a rough road.
We rode along it side by side, and he looked me over. “Major, ain’t
you?” he said by and by.
I admitted it.
“Only came in yesterday, did you?”
“That’s so,” I said. “How did you know?”
“Ah!” he said. “That’s telling. But you may take it from me, there’s
little we don’t know. Ever been taken before, Major?”
In pain as I was I wondered what imp of mischief had suggested the
question. “If you must know,” I said reluctantly, “I was taken at
Saratoga.”
“And exchanged?”
“Yes,” I said.
He chuckled. “Jerusalem!” he said. “You take it as easily as a snake
takes skinning! Got a gift for it seemingly! But you escaped better last
time than this, I guess?”
“Yes,” I said grudgingly—why should I explain? And luckily at that
moment a light showed a little way before us, and relieved me from
farther questioning. The forest gave place to two or three ragged
fields, divided by snake-fences; and beyond these, where our road
crossed another, appeared a small log-house, backed by some straggling
out-buildings. If appearances went for anything it was a tavern or a
smithy. The light shone from a window of the house.
As we rode up to the door two or three dogs heard us and gave the alarm.
The result was not promising. The light went out.
My companion swung his foot clear of the stirrup, and kicked the door.
“House!” he cried. “House! Barter!”
There was no answer.
“House!” he cried again. “It’s I! Wilmer!”
A window creaked. “Is that you, Captain?” a thin quavering voice asked.
“Who should it be?” my companion answered. “Don’t be a fool! I want
you.”
A bar was removed—not very quickly—and the door was opened. By such
firelight as issued from the room I saw an old man standing in the
doorway, and behind him three or four white-faced women. He nursed a gun
which he had barely the strength to level, and which he made haste to
lower as soon as he had taken a look at us. “Lord-a-mercy, Cap’en, what
a gunning there’s been,” he piped, peering up at us, all of a tremble.
“We’ve been sweating here for hours, not knowing what moment the Tories
and redcoats might be on us! Lord-a-mercy! Might ha’ been the last day
by the sound of it!”
“Father, let the Captain tell us,” said one of the women.
“We’ve beaten them soundly,” my companion answered with less blatancy
than I expected. He seemed, indeed, to have two ways of talking, and to
be by no means without education when he pleased to show it. “In a month
or less,” he continued, “there’ll not be a redcoat this side of the
Santee High Hills; and if Marion does his work as well below, we shall
be in Charles Town by Christmas! We shall have cleared Carolina, and
you’ll have no more need to sweat! But there, I want you to take in a
wounded man, Barter. He’s a broken arm, and a shoulder that, I expect,
will give more trouble than the arm, and—”
“He’s welcome!” the woman broke in heartily. “He’s welcome to what we’ve
got, Captain, and the Tories have left us! Let him come right in!
Talking’s poor fare, and—”
Her voice quavered away to nothing, she left the sentence unfinished.
Before I had grasped what was amiss, or understood what was doing, the
man and the women had crowded back into the house, the lower half of the
door was closed, I heard a bolt shot. “No, no! you’ve no right to ask
us!” the old man quavered. “You’ve no right to ask us, Cap’en! He’s a
redcoat! We’ll take in no King’s man and no Tory! Not we!”
“We daren’t, Cap’en Wilmer,” the woman said. “If we did the boys would
take him out, and hang him, and, as likely as not, burn the house over
us! It’s as much as our lives are worth to take him in!”
“See here,” the Captain answered, with more patience than I expected—it
was clear that in spite of their refusal these people stood in awe of
him. “See here! You can say that I put him here, Barter.”
“And if you were here, it might do!” the woman replied. “May be so and
may be not. But you’re not here, Cap’en Wilmer, and when the boys’
blood’s up they’ll not listen to father nor to me! We’re a parcel of
women, and you’ve no right to ask it. They’ve said, and you know it as
well as I do, that they’ll burn down any house that shelters a redcoat.
We’ll not take him!” she continued firmly, “and small kindness to him if
we did! Phil Levi was here last Sunday and swore till he was black in
the face what he’d do if we so much as fodder’d one of them! More by
token, Cap’en, if you think it’s safe—why do you not take him in at the
Bluff?”
“It’s a mile farther,” Wilmer said, “and there are reasons.”
“And we’ve reasons, too!” the woman retorted sharply. “I’d not lay a
hand on him myself—God forbid I should—but I’ll not shelter him. Jake is
out with Colonel Marion below the Forks, and father hasn’t strength to
pull a trigger, and we’re a parcel of women and ’tisn’t fair to ask us!
’Tisn’t fair to ask us, and we all alone!”
Wilmer swore softly. “D—n Phil Levi!” he said. “He’s a brave
fellow—before and after! But I can’t say that I saw the color of his
horse’s tail to-day!” He sat forward in his saddle, undertermined,
pondering.
I had borne up pretty well so far. Pride and the habit of a soldier’s
life had supported me under this man’s scrutiny. I had told myself that
it was the chance of war; that I was fortunate in being alive where so
many—alas, so many!—who had sat at table with me a few hours before, had
fallen. But, little by little, pain had sapped my fortitude. Every
second in the saddle was a second of agony; every moment that my arm
hung from the shoulder was a grinding pang. And on the threshold of this
house, at the sound of the women’s voices, I had thought that at last
the worst was over. Here I had promised myself relief, rest, an end. The
disappointment was the sharper. The refusal to take me in seemed to be
fiendish, heartless, cruel. At the mere thought of it, of the barbarity
of it, self-pity choked me, and I could have shed tears. “Let me be,” I
muttered. “I can bear no more.”
“No, I’m d—d if I do,” Wilmer answered angrily. “I had a reason for not
taking you to my place, Major, but needs must when the devil drives, and
it’s there you are bound to go. We must make the best of it.” He took my
rein. “It’s a long way to Salem,” he continued, “but it’s the last mile.
Hold up! man, and maybe you’ll see King George yet. He certainly ought
to be obliged to you,” he added with a dry laugh. He kicked up his
horse.
I moved away with him, biting off the prayer that rose to my lips that
he would let me be. I had no other thought now but to persist, to bear,
to keep the saddle; and the croak of the frogs, the plaintive notes of
the mocking bird in the thicket, the change from clearing to forest and
again from forest to open fields—the open fields of a considerable
plantation—all passed as the scenes pass in a nightmare; now whelming me
in despair, as the blackness of the trees closed about us, now lifting
me to hope as lights broke out, twinkling before us. Poor Ferguson, the
fight, Simms, my fall, all receded to an infinite distance; and only one
thing, only one thought, one aspiration remained—the craving to rest, to
lie down, to come to the end of pain. My shoulder was on fire; my arm
was red-hot iron. One moment I burned with fever; the next I turned cold
and faint and sick.
Only a mile! But from Newgate to Tyburn is only a mile, yet how much
lies between them for the wretch condemned to suffer on the gallows.
At last I was aware that my companion had alighted—perhaps he had done
so more than once—to pull down a sliprail. This time, whether it was the
last, or the only time, the rattle of the timber provoked an outburst of
barking, and presently, amid the baying of dogs, a nigger’s voice called
out to know who was there. The alarm once given—and the hounds gave it
pretty loudly—other voices joined in, in tones of alarm as well as joy.
Lights glanced here and there; in a twinkling there were people about
us. Black faces and white eyeballs appeared for an instant and sank into
shadow. We halted before the porch of a long wooden house, that declared
itself, here plainly and there dimly, as the lights fell upon it.
I could only endure. But surely the end was come now! Surely there would
be rest for me here. They would come to me, they would do something for
me presently.
Wilmer had gone up on the porch, and there was a woman—a woman in white
with her arms about his neck. He was soothing her and she was laughing
and crying at once; and about them and about me—who sat in the saddle
below, in the dull lethargy of exhaustion—shone a ring of smiling, black
faces. And then—here was something new, something startling and
alarming—the woman was looking down at me, and speaking quickly and
sharply; speaking almost as those other women had spoken at Barter’s.
She was pointing at me. And the niggers were no longer laughing but
staring, all staring at me. I gathered that they were frightened.
It could not be that there was no rest for me here? It could not be that
they would not take me in here! Oh, it was impossible, it was inhuman,
it was devilish! But I began to tremble. “Anywhere, anywhere but here!”
the woman was saying. “It is madness to think of it. You know that,
father! Why did you bring him here? When you knew! When you knew,
father!”
“In the cabins, honey, if you like,” the man answered patiently. “But
he’ll not be safe out of our sight.”
She flared up. She poured out her anger upon him. “Safe!” she cried.
“And what of you? Where will you be safe? And what is it to me if he be
not safe? Don’t do it, father, don’t,” she continued, her voice sinking
to a note of entreaty. “Don’t bring him here! It will end ill! You will
see, it will end ill! Let him go to Barter’s.”
“We’ve been to Barter’s—”
“And he won’t take him! No! he’s more sense, though the risk to him is
small. But you, think how the day has gone, and left you safe and well!
And now, now at the end, you will spoil all!”
“Let be, Con,” the man struck in, speaking with decision. “He must come
in. There’s nothing else for it. We’re not Cherokees, nor savages.
There’s nothing else that can be done. You must put up with it, and—”
In a twinkling she was at the foot of the steps and at my rein—a girl,
young, slender, dark and fiercely excited. “If you are a man,” she
cried, seizing my arm, “if you are a gentleman, you’ll not come here! Do
you hear, sir! There are reasons, a thousand reasons why we cannot take
you in. And more—”
On that word she stopped. A change came over her face as she looked into
mine. The only answer I could give her—she had gripped my wounded arm
and I could bear no more—was to faint away. As the man had said, I was
in sore need of a sup of Kentucky whisky.