Charleston (10 page)

Edward raised his hands. Poorly did the same. The man in the tree sounded like a Carolinian, so Edward said, “We're searching for Colonel Marion.”

The man in the tree whistled, a perfect imitation of a Carolina wren. A second man, wearing a hunting shirt, jumped down from a water oak to Edward's right. Brown Eyes shied, then reared as the lookout advanced with his musket. “You found him.”

“We're Charleston men. We want to volunteer.”

The first sentry scrambled out of the live oak tree. He was fat, and as grubby and ill clad as his younger counterpart. Edward quieted Brown Eyes with stroking and whispering. The heavy man circled around them warily.

“You better be telling the truth, boys. If you ain't, North Carolina will be your resting place. Samuel, fetch the horses.”

 

The sentries led them to an encampment on the edge of reedy wetlands. Edward guessed the camp held sixty or seventy men. Most wore homespun. They sat or lay in leantos thatched with palmetto fronds. Details were hard to make out because of fading daylight and thick smoke from smudge fires. The smoke didn't help much; a deerfly bit Edward's cheek.

They found Francis Marion by his campfire, munching a roasted sweet potato. The little officer looked as severe as ever. He wore a short red coat, clean and brushed. His infantry sword hung from a tree branch. He listened to the report of the sentries and dismissed them. To Edward he said, “We've met before.”

“At Captain McQueen's in Charleston, sir. My name's Edward Bell.”

“I remember.” Marion wasn't unfriendly, though he didn't accept Edward's outstretched hand. “We discussed the issue of drinking.”

“Yes, sir. We've been hunting for you since we left Charleston almost three weeks ago.”

“If you'd come this way tomorrow, you'd have missed us. We're moving on. Have you eaten?”

Poorly said, “Not much in the last few days, Colonel.”

“I can offer these.” With a knife he speared two sweet potatoes from a pan. He dropped them on a slab of bark. “Let them cool. Tell me why you want to join us.”

Edward gave a brief but impassioned account of the loss of his mother, and his father's imprisonment. He described Major Venables's threat against Tom Bell. “More of Tarleton's quarter,” Marion said with a chilly smile. “So you broke your parole. If you're caught, you can be hanged, though in this command we're all gallows birds.”

“It's a risk I gladly accept. My colored man as well.”

“All right, but ours isn't an easy service.” He paced in front of the fire, limping as badly as Edward did. A consequence of his jump from McQueen's window? “We're poorly equipped. We have sufficient ammunition only when we steal it. You won't be paid. The only liquid in your canteen will be water cut with vinegar. The Roman legions marched and conquered the world drinking nothing else.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Find a bit of rag or white cloth. Make cockades for your hats. Then we won't shoot the wrong men. I enforce strict discipline though not excessive protocol. Our strategy is simple. We fight and run. We ambush when we can. We do not needlessly kill wounded enemies, and if possible, we always leave what Scipio Africanus called a golden bridge of retreat for our enemies. Better that they live to tell of their defeat than die silent. And, the less brutality to our countrymen, the sooner wounds will heal when we win the war. Any questions?”

Edward and Poorly said no.

“Major Horry.” Marion's summons brought a lanky officer with the look of a beleaguered schoolmaster. Horry took them to a lean-to and introduced them to a four-man mess. He drew Edward aside. “One of our best men died of malaria last week. His musket was immediately taken, but I have his saber. Do you want it?”

“Yes, sir, and thank you.”

“Tend and tether your horses and spread your blankets. Get some rest. You can have the sword in the morning. We break camp at noon.”

 

They moved south from White Marsh, a double file of unkempt farmers, youths, ex-militia, ex-Continentals, and even a few grandpas. Their weapons were equally ill assorted. One old man showed off a sword made from a plantation wood saw. At first Edward felt uncomfortable wearing a dead man's saber, but he soon got over it.

At dusk they camped on the Waccamaw near Kingston. Next day they left the sandy road they'd been following. Two local men guided them through the Little Pee Dee Swamp, a place of greenish light and black water with the knees of ancient cypresses rising from it. The guides knew narrow and treacherous pathways. Green herons watched from branches hung with Spanish moss, as though expecting the swamp to swallow the interlopers. Some said the water harbored deadly snakes, but they saw none.

After several miles they jogged into the sunlight, assum
ing the worst was behind them. Instead, they came to the broad and sunlit Little Pee Dee, swollen and flowing fast because of the rains. Edward and Poorly had crossed the river on a bridge while traveling north. Here there was no bridge, or even a discernible ford; nothing but a deserted boat landing fallen into ruin on the far shore. The officers ordered weapons tied to saddles to keep them dry.

While the column waited, Marion walked into the water leading his horse. The current caught them. Marion clung to the pommel as the water reached his waist, then his chest. Edward's mouth went dry. For a moment it seemed as though Marion and his horse would be washed downstream, perhaps drowned, but the animal swam strongly, and the colonel hung on. Both emerged dripping on the far bank. Men whistled and cheered.

The first two riders in the column stepped into the stream beside their horses. Poorly looked at Edward. “You all right?”

“I didn't come this far to drown.” He expressed more confidence than he felt.

When it was their turn, he walked Brown Eyes into the river. Immediately he felt the strength of the rushing current. When the water reached his waist, panic set in. He swallowed and gasped, hanging on to the saddle as Marion had.

He sank deeper. A broken branch sailed under Brown Eyes and tangled his legs. He began to thrash. He almost let go. Brown Eyes snorted and struggled. His mind seemed to blank out as he held fast, trusting the mare. After a seemingly interminable time, he felt mud under his feet.

He staggered up the bank and clung to the old boat landing a moment. He patted the wet mare and praised her. She whinnied and shook herself, showering him. He laughed, a crazy cackle of relief. His heart slowed.

Poorly had no difficulty; he was a powerful, apparently fearless swimmer, much like his horse. When all the column had made the crossing, Major Horry rode up beside Edward. “You looked green out there. Were you in trouble?”

“No, sir,” Edward lied. “It's just that I never learned to swim.”

He didn't understand the major's tight smile until Horry said, “Neither did the colonel.”

 

They pressed steadily southward. Their crossing of the Pee Dee was accomplished more easily, on flatboats manned by sympathetic locals. At twilight on the fourth day of the march, a party of a dozen scouts met them at Lynches River. Marion and his aides trotted out to confer with them. Edward's belly was empty. He stank of dirt and sweat. He could do little more than slump in the saddle and close his eyes as a red evening haze deepened around them.

Briskly, Marion rode back and addressed his weary company. “Surprising news. Most of you will remember Colonel John Coming Ball who, along with Colonel Wigfall, forced our retreat into North Carolina.” The names produced an angry reaction. “They had a thousand men to our sixty. Now I'm informed that Ball is camped at the Red House Tavern on Black Mingo Creek, guarding the Post Road with no more than fifty men. It is my inclination to catch them napping, but you have ridden more than thirty miles today. I want your sense of the issue.”

No one spoke immediately. Then a man with long white hair in braids nudged his swaybacked horse from the ranks. “Colonel, sir, this here's my home county. The redcoats drove me out. I say we take 'em.”

A ragged cry seconded the idea. Edward joined in. Pleased, Marion doffed his black leather cap to salute them; the silver faceplate,
Liberty or Death,
flashed in the sullen red of the sundown.

“Rest fifteen minutes. Then we ride the final twelve miles. See to your powder and ball.”

The company dispersed. Edward slung a leg over Brown Eyes and slid to the ground, excitement easing his weariness. Poorly scraped Wando's rusty fowling piece with his fingernail. “Be some blood let tonight.”

Edward pulled his blunderbuss pistols from the saddle holsters. “About time,” he said.

Loose puncheons on the causeway rattled and banged as Marion's men galloped across. On the bank of Black Mingo Creek the colonel signaled a halt. Under the white stars a sentinel's gun exploded in the stillness. Marion spoke softly to the circle of horsemen.

“They know we're here. The tavern stands on the Post Road, just there, to the west. Behind it lies a field, where I expect Coming Ball is bivouacked. Major Horry, dismount twenty men as infantry and take the right flank, around the building. Captain Waites, dismount another twenty and charge the tavern on my order. Remaining cavalry to the left flank. Questions?”

There were none. Major Horry counted off his men, including Edward and Poorly. Two men were chosen to hold the horses. Pistol in one hand, saber in the other, Edward advanced with the rest through broom sedge and dog fennel toward the Red House, where no light showed. He caught faint sounds of movement in the field.

Marion and his riders passed in the rear, trotting toward the other side of the tavern. The slow and stealthy advance continued. The shadow of the building fell over them. On the march from Lynches River, Horry had told them the Mingo tribe believed the creek was haunted by those who had died nearby. Edward shivered. How many new spirits would be released in the next few minutes?

In the field behind the tavern an excited voice was audible. Horry's saber rose, flashing in the starlight. “Charge,” he cried. The unseen commander yelled, “Fire.” As Edward ran to the battle, he thought of Joanna.

He was beside Poorly in the second rank. A sheet of light seemed to leap from the field, silhouetting the rank in front. Two men fell, hit by ball and buckshot. Spent pellets pattered the ground. One stung Edward's cheek. He planted himself, aimed his pistol, pulled the trigger, hit nothing.

Poorly's old fowler misfired. He swore. Another volley from the field cut down a man on Edward's right. Edward dropped to one knee, shoved the hot pistol into his belt, and jerked out the other. When the next volley came, he used the brief glare to sight on a soldier. His ball threw the soldier to the ground.

“Forward, forward,” Horry shouted, saber swinging. Half a dozen men in Edward's group turned and bolted. He and Poorly and others followed the major, dodging and ducking. Behind them gunfire signaled the opening of the frontal assault. The drum of Marion's horses grew louder on the other side of the tavern.

Edward came face-to-face with an enemy soldier struggling to load his Brown Bess. The man took his musket by the barrel and swung it like a club. Edward ducked and the musket swooshed over his head. He sank his saber into the man's middle. The soldier fell in the weeds. A piece of the debt settled.

By now the field was a confusion of clanging swords, exploding firearms, acrid smoke, shouted commands, wails and groans of the injured. The British soldiers were breaking and scattering, overturning tents and cooking tripods. Marion left the far side of the bivouac open, the golden bridge of retreat. The demoralized enemy ran toward Black Mingo Swamp.

Edward stabbed at a fleeing soldier but missed. Off balance, he slipped and fell. The soldier wheeled around, pointed his musket at Edward's head. There was a roar, a flash of fire; the soldier windmilled backward, shot through the forehead. In the blurry perimeter of Edward's vision Poorly appeared, smiling. He presented the smoking fowler for Edward's approval.

“Finally got the damn thing to shoot.”

 

The battle of Black Mingo lasted barely fifteen minutes. Col. John Coming Ball and his vanquished men left Marion with four prisoners, abandoned baggage and wagons, a supply of muskets and ammunition, and all their horses. Marion took the enemy commander's fine sorrel gelding and on the spot named him Ball. Edward and Poorly each equipped themselves with a Brown Bess musket.

Edward had been in a state of nervous uncertainty during the fight, but he'd acquitted himself honorably; he was blooded in battle. He'd never considered the duty on the Charleston rampart to be anything like combat.

In the morning Marion assembled the company. He didn't chastise or even mention those who had run. Instead he complimented everyone on the victory. “You have endured many days of hard duty in the field. Any man who is near his home and wants to see his family has permission to leave.” At midday just twenty of the company remained at the Red House Tavern.

Although the battle was small, it had a profound effect on the British, and on loyalists in the district between the Santee and Pee Dee rivers. It was the genesis of Marion's legend as a crafty, elusive fighter who knew the swamps and pine barrens better than any adversary and who could not be detected before he struck out of the dark, and could not be caught when he galloped away.

Marion withdrew northward, across the sandy scrubland called Blue Savannah, where he'd won a skirmish before Edward and Poorly joined him. Farther north they camped at Amis's Mill on Drowning Creek. There, one of the dispatch riders who carried messages to and from General Gates brought word of a stunning victory. In early October nine hundred mounted Americans had caught Maj. Patrick Ferguson atop Kings Mountain with a thousand provincials and militia. Ferguson had been marching to join up with Cornwallis at Charlotte.

The Americans stormed the summit in the face of brutal fire. A chance shot killed Ferguson. Minutes later a white flag showed. Those not captured died as they ran. General Cornwallis abandoned Charlotte and turned south with Tarleton's dragoons riding ahead, in search of
a winter base. The news buoyed spirits in Marion's little band.

Marion regularly sent pairs of scouts across the countryside to hunt for the enemy, whether British or American. Toward the middle of October, from a camp above the Black River, he ordered Edward and Poorly to ride northwest, in response to reports that Cornwallis was marching toward Winnsboro. They were to travel as far as they could in two days, then turn back. Marion would advance to meet them late on the third day.

The first morning passed without incident. The two scouts saw nothing more alarming than half a dozen red-coated vedettes resting horses at a plantation flying a huge Union Jack. The second day was equally uneventful, although a large dust cloud floated on the horizon west of them, toward Wateree Pond. By midafternoon Edward knew they couldn't find the source of the cloud by evening. They would retreat as ordered.

Poorly caught and roasted a wild pig for supper. They reclined on soft ground in a fragrant pine grove, warmed by a popping fatwood fire. Edward gazed into the flames and sang softly,
“Drink to me only with thine eyes, and I will pledge with mine.”
Poorly sucked meat from a rib and cocked an eyebrow.

“Don't think I ever heard you sing before, Mr. Edward.”

Edward flushed. “It's a pretty tune. Popular in London.”

“That's all there is to it, uh.” Poorly didn't pose it as a question but a statement. He was well acquainted with Joanna but didn't know what place she had in Edward's thoughts. Edward didn't inform him.

 

Next morning they set out to the southwest to rejoin Marion. In the sand hills they traversed, they twice crossed the trail of a small group of riders. Edward kept his pistols loaded and primed. The sky was a deep clear blue, the air crisp and bracing after days of soggy humidity. He felt vigorous, alert. Worth something again.

By late in the day his concern for the unseen horsemen eased. He was beginning to think they'd end the
mission without danger when Poorly trotted out of sight on the far side of a scrub-covered hill. A moment later he let out a fearsome yell. “Yellow jackets.” Edward booted Brown Eyes. He heard the alarmed neighing of Poorly's horse.

He burst over the crest to see Poorly's mount floundering on its side and Poorly himself unhorsed, backing away from a hundred angry yellow jackets rising from a cavity in the hillside. Poorly covered his face with his arms, but it was a feeble defense. The yellow jackets stung and stung, raising welts on Poorly's face even as he shouted and flailed. Edward yanked out a pistol and fired at the nest, thinking it foolish the moment he did it. The shot boomed and echoed across the hills.

Not watching his footing, Poorly retreated down the sandy slope. One leg twisted under him; he tumbled. Edward rode to the bottom, well clear of the angry insects. “Wounds of Jesus,” he said when he saw Poorly's right boot turned out at an extreme angle.

He jumped from the saddle, knelt by his slave. Poorly rose on one elbow, grimaced; his face was a mass of swollen stings. The base of the sand hill was already in shadow. Edward was aware of the lonely countryside, the lack of human habitation. He had no maps.

“Can you move your foot?”

“Try,” Poorly gasped. The slight effort only produced more pain. “I think she's broke, Mr. Edward. Didn't see those damn bees 'fore I rode into the nest and riled them.”

“We can't linger here. You need a doctor. I'll lift you. Don't put weight on that foot.”

Poorly's arm hooked around Edward's neck. “Sally's baby grows up, asks me 'f I fought in this here war, this child will say, ‘Oh, yes, I fought yellow jackets an' they brought me down.'”

“Be quiet and hang on. Where'd your horse get to?”

Behind them, on the hill crest, someone said, “Right here she is, sir.”

There were three of them, scrofulous men on lathered mounts. With all the excitement he hadn't heard them approach. One had a Kentucky pistol aimed at him. Another
held the bridle of Poorly's horse. Edward took in their beards and ragged clothes and rendered his gloomy verdict: partisans.

“My slave is hurt. He's in need of attention.”

“We'll see what the captain says about that,” said the man with the pistol. He craned around in the saddle. “Sir?”

A fourth horseman loomed against the deep blue sky. “Stab me, is that an old acquaintance?” Edward's gut heaved. No mistaking the wandering eye, the paunch, the high forehead, the gray-streaked hair tied with a ribbon.

“Why, yes, indeed, it's Mr. Bell of Malvern Plantation,” said William Lark.