Paxton's War (48 page)

If you choose to be pissed upon forever and ever by a set of mongrels, say so at once and let your women turn their backs upon you, and look out for real men to protect them.

Pat Ferguson, Major, 71st Regiment

Pall's eye moved from the notice to the scene around him. In the distance he saw the foothills of the Appalachians. The battle lines were being drawn. This was Ferguson's call to rally the Tories against the mountain men. It had been five days since Buckley had paid him a single pound. Pall knew that his credibility shrank with each passing hour. Somerset kept him around only on the faint hope that his contacts would somehow help them locate the rebels. Frederic had no illusions. He remembered Buckley's original threat: If, after two weeks, the couple hadn't been found, Pall's life wasn't worth a counterfeit shilling. The two weeks would be up the next day, October 7.

What sense was there in returning to Somerset's cavalry? None.
Pat Ferguson
—Pall mulled over the name in his mind. There was a man with ambition, a man in need of help. Having made a few inquiries in the general store, he rode his horse off toward the woods, in the opposite direction of Buckley's band. Pall's instincts were leading him in an entirely different direction, and his instincts were wrong.

Piero fell sick with a fever on the thirteenth day, but with Roy at his side, treating him with words of encouragement rather than medicine, the Italian—his skin perspiring, his hands shaking—fought gallantly for a quick recovery. They had maintained a rapid pace that had surprised even Ethan, who pushed them on with steady persistence. Perhaps Rianne, fearless and determined, was the most tireless traveler of all. With the foothills in sight and word throughout the countryside of the ensuing battle, they camped in the woods in early afternoon to gain their bearings. Jeth had gone ahead to scout and found a small rebel encampment. He returned to tell Ethan and Billy the eagerly awaited news. The others were napping.

Darney pointed ahead. “Over that group of pine trees. That's what they call King's Mountain Ridge. That's where they say Ferguson's gonna make his stand. Right there on top.”

“Doesn't look that big,” Billy commented.

“'Bout six hundred feet up the slope. More a hill than a mountain,” Ethan said, observing its strangely flat top five hundred yards long and seventy-five yards wide, broadening to one hundred twenty yards at the northeast end. “But where are the mountain men?”

“Should be moving in from Cowpens any time now,” Jeth said. “Least that's what they say. Tomorrow may be the day.”

Still awake, Colleen overheard the talk and felt a shudder of fear pass down her spine. Had they arrived at their place of destiny? She closed her eyes and, for a few brief seconds, prayed to God, asking for His blessings upon her family, her traveling companions, and the one man she loved with all her heart. When she opened her eyes, she felt great relief. Ethan, Jeth, and Billy had wandered off while the others slept close by.

Silently, she got up and walked and stretched. The fear hadn't gone—the fear of death, the fear of never seeing Jason again—and the sight of the flat top of the distant hill, King's Mountain Ridge, filled her with an awesome anticipation. She felt the monumentous nature of the moment, the fact that the world seemed to be turning in this very place, at this very time. She realized that for nearly two weeks they had traveled to arrive at this one specific point. Almost to relieve herself from the overpowering feeling of expectancy, she turned her back on the mountain range and walked deeper into the woods.

Her mind far away, she walked and walked, farther than she had intended, until she almost tripped on a sudden lower elevation in the land. Behind a growth of wild shrubs she discovered a ravine—a secret ravine!—much like the one she had shared with Jason six months earlier. She descended, looked around in wonder, and ultimately reclined her body flat against the ground. Oh, Jason! Oh, the memories! Above her, the pearl sky appeared the color of gray silk. The forest smelled of minty new growth. The images came back—the look on his face, the strength in his loins, the short-lived pain, the moisture, the endless ecstasy.
Jase, Jase, Jase!
her heart cried.
If only you could hear! If only you could know that I've found another ravine! For you and me, my Jason! Can you hear me? Can you feel my love?

For a long while, her heart spoke silently until her mind finally settled, her eyes closed, and she found, in the quietude of the afternoon and the comfort of this sylvan seclusion, a pleasant sleep. The dream, like all her dreams, was centered around Jason. He had found her; he had carried her into the forest; they had returned to the ravine. So intense, so graphic, so real was the dream that Colleen, still asleep, was convinced it was all true. And when she awoke and felt the presence of another human in the ravine with her, in the split-second it took for her to open her eyes, she believed Jason had actually come to her side. Instead, she saw a grinning Frederic Pall holding a hunting knife inches from her left breast as he suddenly slapped the palm of his hand over her mouth to keep her from screaming.

From afar, Jason and Peter watched a thousand mountain men roar into Cowpens, South Carolina, like a herd of thundering buffalo. The warriors wore the skins of animals on their backs and heads. Angry, burly, boot-stomping hunters, they gathered their long hair into ponytails beneath their wide-brimmed hats. Some walked, some rode horses, some wore shirts of vegetable-dyed cloth and breeches of weathered buckskin. Many blonds and redheads among them, their leather-skinned faces reflected a lifetime of battling the elements. The English were only their most recent threat; it was the Indians whom they'd been fighting for over a generation. Carrying knapsacks and blankets, the mountain men clutched their trusty long rifles, capable of firing great distances with astounding accuracy.

The greencoats camped atop King's Mountain Ridge were dependent upon their muskets, far less accurate than the rifles and not at all effective for long-distance shooting. The fact that the Tories were equipped with bayonets, though, instilled them with confidence: cold steel against flesh had been one of the Crown's most successful weapons since the beginning of the war.

Before joining the mountain men, Peter and Jason discussed their own situation.

“Would we be giving up the search?” Jason asked his friend.

“It just seems as if all movement is toward this battle, Jase. These men know exactly where they're going, and we don't. We've been lost in the dark long enough. Here at last is some firm direction, a fight that needs to be won.”

“Then you're game?”

“I am,” Peter said. “Do you have doubts?”

“I don't doubt the purposefulness or courage of these men—not for a minute. Yet, I'm still plagued by the thought of whether Colleen, Joy, Robin, Piero, and the others are themselves lost and in need of …”

“Such thoughts will drive us mad. I don't have to tell you that we're in the midst of a war, Jase, and wars are waged to be won.”

Thus, they joined the boldly masculine aggregation. The mountain men, looking for all the extra support they could muster, were glad to accept them among their ranks. Jason and Peter couldn't help but catch the fever of the fight. There was a camaraderie, an engaging spirit, an infectious and irresistible pride of purpose. They felt their hearts beating rapidly as they listened to the Reverend Mr. Doak deliver a stirring sermon to the troops. He spoke with Old Testament thunder as he reminded the men of Gideon's attack upon the Midianites. “Gideon prevailed with a wrathful God on his side, and tomorrow so will you! Remember—the sword of the Lord! The sword of Gideon!”

A thousand rough, deep-bottomed voices shouted back in earth-shattering unison, “The sword of the Lord! The sword of Gideon!”

For months, Pat Ferguson had provoked these proud men with his plundering raids. Now the Scotsman had positioned his one thousand men upon the ridge, as if to say, “Come get me if you can.” The mountain men understood his plan—to cut them down as they made their way up. But these were not frightened men. They brimmed with confidence. They relished the challenge to defend their homes with their lives. They welcomed the opportunity to go after Pat Ferguson and his turncoat Tories. And the sooner the better.

All night their frantic search through the woods was hindered by a chilling and steady rain.

Each had set off on his own. Ethan showed a sturdy Robin and a far less steady Piero how to look for signposts along the way—a distinctive tree, a boulder—so they could retrace their paths. Jeth and Billy and Rianne were indefatigable. Roy, half crazed by his daughter's absence, searched with the greatest intensity of all. Joy accompanied her father. And all the while the downpour worsened. Their eyes blinded by rain, they could do little more than poke around. Still, against all odds and without sleep, not one among them could stop searching, stumbling his way through the forest, over one path and down another, feeling into shrubs, kicking through high grass, hoping, praying, calling her name. “Colleen!” they cried. “Colleen!”

Atop King's Mountain Ridge, Buckley Somerset and his mother sat in the tent of Captain Pat Ferguson as rain fell outside. For all of his reputation as a ladies' man, the Scotsman was surprisingly short and fragile of build, with huge saucer eyes staring out of a smallish and serious face.

He greeted Buckley warmly. The notion of another twenty-five able-bodied men on horseback gave him a much needed measure of confidence. An impulsive man by nature, he had a few nagging doubts about the military position he'd taken.

Somerset reassured him. After a shot of powerful whiskey, Buckley also told him the story of the Sandpiper and Will-o'-the-Wisp. The captain was only half interested. His obsession was to rid himself of these bothersome mountain men once and for all. He knew he could do it, though if the English generals had only adopted his breech-loading rifle, he'd be absolutely positive. What a stubborn bunch of fools! How could they not understand the importance of rapid fire? How could they be so stuck in their old-fashioned ways?
Ancient history
, Ferguson thought to himself.
We're up here; they're down there. As soon as they start coming, we'll bayonet their guts out
.

“I think not,” Miranda chirped in after the captain had explained his battle plan.

“Mother!” Buckley tried to quiet her.

“Let your mother speak, please,” Ferguson interceded, respectful of any independent mind. “Where do you fault the plan, madam?”

“First, I must say that I've mapped out quite a few campaigns in my time. My son can tell you how I led him here. I knew we were heading for the right territory and told him every bend of the road to follow. I've been planning secret attacks for years, one more brilliant than another. Are you a meat eater, Captain?”

“Mother!”

“I am.”

“That might explain your lack of insight in this instance. You see, the long-range rifle is perfect at picking off standing targets. That, I'm afraid, is the stage you've set for yourself.”

“'Tis more complex than that, madam, I can assure you,” said Ferguson, his heart beating fast as he recognized the logic in the woman's thinking. Nonetheless, he argued with her by describing his plan in greater detail. “There'll be a series of musket attacks that will not only surprise, but …”

“Say what you will,” Miranda interrupted. “If I were your general, I'd relieve you of your command.”

Ferguson tried to laugh at the obviously touched woman, but his lips refused to smile.

Outside Ferguson's tent, Buckley and Miranda walked with blankets covering their heads as they hurried through the rain back to their encampment upon the ridge when they were suddenly stopped in their tracks by Frederic Pall. Buckley spat on the man's boots.

“Out of my way, charlatan!”

“You'll want to hear what I have to say!” Pall screamed, the wind howling across the high plain.

“You're lucky I haven't killed you. If it'd make any difference, I would. But why kill an ant?”

“I have her.”

“Who?”

“Colleen.”

“Don't believe him,” Miranda warned.

Buckley's eyes caught fire. “Where?”

“Five hundred pounds.”

Somerset grabbed Pall by his throat, torrents of rain slapping them in the face. “You're a lying bastard!”

“Take my pistol,” Pall said, putting the gun in Buckley's hand. “If she's not there, shoot me through the head and take back every pound you gave me. If she is, I'll keep the five hundred you're going to give me as soon as we get to your tent.”

“No! I forbid you!” Miranda demanded.

“When can you bring me to her?” Somerset asked.

“The moment you put the money in my pocket.”

Colleen was still in the ravine, her ankles and hands tied, her mouth gagged, the material from her dress matted against her skin, her hair, her every pore soaked. She had maintained her sanity only by turning her thoughts to Jason, by concentrating on him and only him.
Jase!
her heart had cried out.
Our love will never die … our love will survive even this
.…

Now she shivered and shook at the sight of a smiling Buckley Somerset looking down upon her, his legs spread wide. Her eyes went wide, wild with hatred.

“Well, well, you did find her after all,” Buckley observed, inspecting the way her taut nipples were so evident beneath the rain-drenched garment. “I must say, my dear man, you prove to be a gentleman after all.” With that, he pulled an already cocked pistol from his waistband and shot Frederic Pall once through the chest, and his body slumped against the side of the ravine.

With his life slowly draining from his blood-soaked body, the actor managed a small grin as he faced his murderer. “I'd only wish …”—he gasped, never losing the theatrical dignity of his speech—“… to hear those words spoken to me … those same words that Horatio spoke to Hamlet: ‘Flights of angels sing to thy rest.' The rest is silence, Mr. Buckley Somerset … for I've no more breath to tell where I hid your five hundred pounds … as we rode here … somewhere in the forest … you'll never find your coins.…”