A Touch of America: Four Stories from American History

A Touch of America: Four Stories from American History

By Jason Wallace

Smashwords Edition

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Jason Wallace on Smashwords

A Touch of America: Four Stories from American History

Copyright © 2015 by Jason Wallace

Table of Contents

The Swamp Fox and his Ragtag Militia

Sometimes, They Want Revenge

The Legend of Arthur Tanner and Johnny Red

God’s Earth: The Life of John Stuart Tapscott in the Great American West: Part 1

About Jason Wallace

Other titles by Jason Wallace

Connect with Jason Wallace

Connect with the Artist, F.E. Hayes

Introduction

In July, 1780, Lieutenant Colonel Francis Marion of the South Carolina Militia was without command, having lost all of his men in the Siege of Charleston/Charlestown the year before while he was on leave. He, along with all other militia leaders, were ordered to report to the headquarters of General Horatio Gates in Hillsboro, North Carolina, to make plans for a defense of the city of Camden against the army of British General Charles Cornwallis. When Marion reached Hillsboro, he was immediately promoted to Brigadier General of all the Carolina Militias. What happened after that point is only recorded in the diary of Peter Horry, Colonel of one of Marion's regiments fighting in the Camden Campaign and beyond.

This story is based somewhat on Horry's accounts, partially upon the truth of events, as best as they have been written, yet it takes great dramatic license to fill in holes with the untrue, events as they could have happened at that time. As the story goes, Marion has a command, a very small one of ragtag Carolina irregular militia loyal to him, numbering only sixty, men that had chosen to remain with their commander or had signed up after Charleston. The unit was not large enough to constitute a full company yet was able enough to still cause fairly significant harm to the British Army.

Chapter 1

You cannot do this! These men surrendered. This was the emphatic cry of only one man, John Carrington. They have given themselves over to us! Please, Sir, on your honor, order the men to stand down!

I march with the Swamp Fox, cried out another man, seconded by another. I don't give a damn about Cornwallis or Tarleton or any of them damned Reds. This is not New York where they do things all civil!

Turning to the Swamp Fox, Carrington besieged the officer, imploring him to take mercy upon the twenty captured British soldiers. Sir, Lieutenant Colonel, please. I beg of you to please show Christian charity toward these men and know that it is not right what your men so claim as their right. It is not justice. It is not mercy. It is not right or dutiful in the eyes of the Almighty One!

Laughing, Lieutenant Colonel Marion, the Swamp Fox, choked out what little and unsatisfactory replies that he could. Sir, I must beg of you. I beg of you to understand my position and my beliefs. As officer of this company, I must maintain order, and with that, sometimes give the men what they want. I must see to it that whatever is necessary is done. If we kill these men, there will be twenty less Redcoats lurking about these woods and seeking to do the same in return. As officer, I see the inevitability of death, either theirs or ours. You also misunderstand, yea, misjudge my leanings as to Christian principles. Sir, I am not a Christian in any sense of that word. I do believe in a higher power but do not believe in Christ as you do. I am a Deist. Therefore, you will find no swaying of my person toward so called Christian ideals.

Sir, began Carrington again, though he was stopped short by Lt. Col. Marion.

Sir? Do not think that you may sway my mind so by addressing me with empty epithets. These men are our prisoners. We have no means of securing them within these confines of nature. Attempting to do so will only surmount our efforts and dwindle our meager supplies. Our cause cannot prosper by such means. We fight under no consignments of traditional or gentlemanly warfare. We respect not the rules of war set by the enemy, and among such rules is the respect of prisoners.

Sir, I implore you, shouted Carrington, his every instinct to persuade his commanding officer. Decency decrees that you listen to the urgings of the heart, Sir.

You think me indecent?

I do, Sir, if decency is denied by your actions. Only those who give themselves not to surrender shall be executed. All who give their lives freely in peace CANNOT be put to death!

Corporal Carrington, would you have us throw up our hands in supplication to the Almighty and forget that they are intended for the holding of arms? Should we, perhaps, take no heed to our own safety, allowing these men to escape and make it back to their company, freely enjoining themselves back to the works of slaughtering innocents in a country that no longer belongs to their King? Should we forget our ways, lose all necessity of practicing before unknown arts of war, and instead stand in straight line against the faces of so many as to guarantee our fates granted by untimely and gruesome deaths? With this, Marion turned his head, now disgusted by the words of his inferior.

Sir, started Carrington in response. If you do this, you prove yourselves no better than the enemy, no more civilized and given to the mercies that dedicate men to the founding of timeless reason and admiration. I, Sir, will have no part in this barbarity!

Then, Sir, replied Lt. Col. Marion, You are traitor and would do better to serve the King from whom we now separate ourselves. You would be of far more service to him than ever to us. If you make your way, you may lead the prisoners out of their captive state. However, be warned, Sir. If my men see your departure and believe you as much traitor as do I, they will fire upon you all, and I will do nothing to stop their ferocity. I bid you good eve, Corporal. Take your leave shortly, without haste.

Corporal Carrington quickly gathered what few things he had scattered about him, jumping around as if he were more of a cricket than a man. Racing to the prisoners, who were, luckily, under a very scant watch, Carrington cut the men loose from their bindings, escorting them away. Carrington, the only man of the deportees with a gun, would surely prove no match for his former comrades, if they gave chase or fire. Carrington and the prisoners, fearful of the fate they may now suffer, darted through the forest toward the nearby road. None of Lt. Col. Marion's men put up a fight, to the general satisfaction of all in evasion.

It was not sporting, it seemed, to the soldiers, to strike or fire upon men who were not in the running, men of stable ground. Once the escapees were well enough into the woods, however, the game had ensued. Man after man raised his musket for a bit of target practice, none able to strike through the heavy trees and foliage for some time, and especially, given the dense darkness all around. Shot after shot rang their tune, but it was not until the men had nearly cleared all of the forest that one of the shots met its mark, hitting one of the British soldiers in the right leg, just above the knee, the ball sinking in so far that it dropped the man to the ground.

At that moment, with all of Lt. Col. Marion's men laughing uncontrollably, one of the said men grabbed the musket barrel of the man who had fired the resounding shot. In a very thick Scottish brogue, the man quipped, Ok, laddie, well no be hahvin' anny moor o' tha, now well we? You fired your shot and landed your blow. And you doon want to be gevvin' away owr position or wastin' good supplies, now de ye? What say you, Mr. Hornsby? Has the mahn done awl he shood?

Laughing quite hardily, Sergeant Hornsby responded, MacIndry, you ol' Scottish coon! Leave that poor boy alone. He's just doin' right by Lt. Col. Marion and by the Almighty Himself, but alas, I suppose I could be inclined to agree with your speech over a pint of that good Scottish whiskey you keep tucked away in your nappy sack.

Et's a deal, Hoornsby, Ser-gee-ent Hoo Hoornsby, a great owl of a mahn, twice as clever and half as frightening.

Come then, my old friend. Let us break out that whiskey and see if you're still suckin' at the Scottish tit you were dragged away to these colonies on or if your manhood is as big as your mouth. Boy, I say, Boy. You there, Private Gilliam. Come with us and celebrate the wounding you have brought upon one of His Majesty's own. Sergeant Hornsby, upon saying this, beckoned with his hand for the boy to follow suit and take his place upon the log that he and MacIndry now used for their seating.

Move it along, you, came a startling cry through the woods. The voice was that of a Colonist, but where he was or his purpose or even to whom he was speaking remained a mystery to all in camp.

Captain?! Captain Pennington?! Captain, I have another enemy prisoner. Captain? I found this one cowering behind a log. I believe him to be a spy. Captain? The voice drew closer and closer with each passing moment, and it sounded to be that of Corporal Blythe, who had been separated from his company in the previous skirmish. No one yet knew for sure, being unable to see him through the dark.

MacIndry, a bit taken aback and growing more and more upset with the calamitous howling, stood and spoke with the loud, bellowing tone of his native land yet softly enough to attempt concealment. Blythe, es tha you? Lad, doon be shoutin' ann sooch a loud voice, you damned bloody fool! Sound moost no be made in sooch ways ann these woods. Yell shoorly gev oos away eff you kep bleating like a stupid sheep.

Everyone could see the young man, Blythe, exiting the trees just beyond the camp, pushing a Redcoat at bayonet-point. Get along! Get along! Turning abruptly to Macindry who still stood between log and fire, he muttered, in a nearly broken and obviously worn out manner MacIndry, where is Captain Pennington?!

Boy, I suppoose you hov no haird. Captain Panningtoon es dead, lad.

Dead, you say? Surely, MacIndry, you jest. You are and have been as long as I have had misfortune to know you a villainous liar if ever it grants you a laugh. Surely, Captain Pennington is around here somewhere. Keep an eye on this one if you would please, MacIndry, and I will go find the Captain. Blythe immediately released his bayonet from the prisoner's back, bringing a deep sigh of relief to the man. Heading off to find the Captain, Blythe would not take MacIndry's word at face value.

MacIndry motioned for Hornsby to take watch of the new prisoner, running quickly around the fire and hurdling himself over the next log in his way. Grabbing Blythe by the shoulder, he nearly screamed in his right ear, Boy, I am no lying to you. I do no make joke or jest. The Captain es dead, dead as me poor mother and father. Often, the other men could look into MacIndry's eyes and see if he were serious or not. His eyes could seldom hide the fullness of the truth. Blythe jumped back, nearly falling to the ground behind him in agony as he realized that every word MacIndry spoke was fact.

Giving Blythe a moment to come to terms with the news, MacIndry stepped back and took his seat once more next to Hornsby by the fire, yanking the whiskey out of the man's hand. Taking a large sip, MacIndry turned to Hornsby, nudging him hard, shoulder to shoulder. You damned Carolina vagabond! You drank up the whiskey!

I drank up nothin', you Scottish dog. Take a drink, and see for yourself. There's plenty for the two of us to get plum overcome. We'll be shoutin' and stampin' our feet once Peters breaks out his fiddle and plays us some fine Scottish ditties. At this, Hornsby nudged MacIndry even harder, nearly knocking the man from the log on which he sat.

Scottish, questioned MacIndry with a mischievous smirk. The mahn is no Scottish annymoor than you are or is our commander over there.

Did his mother and father not hail from Scotland, same as you, asked Hornsby, thinking he had bested his friend's counter-argument.

The mahn is practically Anglish. His fahmily cehm from the Loolahnds, dahm near the border. He is no Highland mahn like me, but I guess hess feddlin' well hahv to do.

Private Gilliam, having listened intently to the words of the senior militiamen, quickly chimed in a response. MacIndry, did you not say we might give away our position with too much noise?

Ah, well, tha I did, lad. I doon think we hahv to woorie too dahm mooch on tha account. I said tha moor so ye wood stop yer shootin' and sev us owr moosket balls and sooch. Eff the enemy hears oos and comes foor oos, let them. I wood strongly doubt et, thoo. They're far too busy weth their gentlemen's warfare and ool.

You fear not the blade of Banastre Tarleton, the young man snapped back at MacIndry.

Damn that Banastre Tarleton and ool o' hess men. They are no motch foor fine men like oos. I wager ye, Private Gilliam, that we capture and kill that damned Tarleton before year's end.

How much are you wagering, asked Gilliam, taking no stock in the ramblings of the aging Scotsman.

Awl wager ye two hundred Continentals, young man.

Continental dollars? Why don't you just wager your hair, MacIndry, added an intoxicated Hornsby.

Them Continentals ess woorth moor, I say, than anny o' those Anglish pounds Stairling. But eff et suits you, Hoornsby, awl wager me hair, too. Two hundred Continentals, and the man who loses said wager shevs hess head.

I'll take your wager, MacIndry, Hornsby replied, slapping his knee. You damned Scotsman. You'll make wagers on anything under the sun. Let us increase the wager. Let us make it three hundred Continentals, the shaving of the head, a bottle of the finest whiskey we can find.

Gettin' good Scottish whiskey well prove kind of hard, doon ye think, added MacIndry.

Scottish whiskey is good, MacIndry, but who says it has to be that?

What else wood ye hahv, Hoornsby, ye ol' owl? There ess no one mahn ann thess hool lahnd who cahn make annythan as good as strong Highland whiskey.

Alright, MacIndry. When we can get our hands on your Highland whiskey... then, that will be the wager. But how do you suppose we are to catch Tarleton? The man is as well protected and cunning as the man with whom we ride.

Private Gilliam, this whole time, stood awestruck. Somehow, the conversation that began with him had shifted its weight toward the two other men, leaving him out entirely. Beleaguered, the young man walked away and took a seat on the opposite side of the fire.

MacIndry and Hornsby did not even seem to notice the absence of Gilliam, continuing their merry and drunken conversation.

Well, Hoornsby, continued MacIndry. Well get tha mahn when hess back ess turned. He haws to sleep some time oor other. I say we cood sneak ann a night and take his sentries, drive away their hoorses, and cause such a stir and surprise tha we lose nerry a mahn.

I'll drink to that, MacIndry, if you'll give me respite with that bottle you're burryin' in that frying pan you call a hand. Pass it over, my friend.

Make ready, men! There was a general confusion, none of the men having paid any considerable attention to anything that did not involve their own immediate pleasure.

It was Lt. Col. Marion, having finally risen from his place of personal reflection and hermitage. Make ready, I said.

Ready foor wha, asked MacIndry, his eyes squinting in the firelight at the approach of his commanding officer.

Ready the prisoner, shouted Marion, now close enough for the men to see the outline of his face.

Damn. We ded hahv a prisoner. I think we hahv allowed the mahn to escape. MacIndry was completely serious. He hadn't thought of the prisoner at all during his lengthy consultation with Hornsby.

Find him at once, or his fate shall be yours, screamed Marion furiously. Recent events had only fueled his ire yet also caused him great dissatisfaction, consternation, and the determination to no longer tolerate failure or setbacks.

MacIndry yanked Hornsby by the shoulder hard enough to cause the man considerable yet momentary pain. Get yoorself up, Hoornsby. We hahv a mahn to find thess night.

Hornsby jumped from his seat yet was already so intoxicated that he fell backward, hitting his head on a stone behind him, knocking himself senseless.

Well, I imagine Hoornsby shan't be joinin' oos, laughed MacIndry. The mahn shoorly well be oot foor soom time.

MacIndry, snapped Lt. Col. Marion, take Johns and Thompson. Search the woods. Scour every inch! This man will be found, or the three of you will take his place! I have decided, no more quarter shall be given! I allowed Carrington to leave with the other prisoners, both out of respect for Carrington and out of allowance of sport. Tomorrow, we shall all have our fun in chasing those men. They will have left us a good trail to follow. The other prisoner, however, that Blythe captured, he shall have no mercy, temporary or otherwise.

Aye, Sir, acknowledged MacIndry. We well find thess mahn. I gev you mah woord, Sir. What are we to do awfter said mahn ess foond?

He shall have swift execution. Carry on, MacIndry, and make the utmost haste.

Aye, Sir. You are hard, but you are fair. Ye well find no sampathies from me foor Anglishmen.

Alright, MacIndry, my Jacobite friend. Go, and find this man at once.

No longer a Jacobite, Sir. Me father took woundin' ann the 45, Sir. I was jest a wee boy at tha time, but I remamber et well. There ess no King werth suppoortin'.

Enough speech, MacIndry. Go after the man. Pointing toward the trees, Marion's fury grew. Tired of what he believed had been far too much mercy given, he had become deadset and dedicated to his new profession of immeasurable wrath.

MacIndry and the others quickly hurled themselves into the woods, giving chase to the escaped prisoner, though none of them could see by more than the light of moon and stars. Soon, however, Thompson heard heavy breathing coming from a short distance ahead. We have him, men!

MacIndry and Johns quickly jostled toward the voice of Thompson, nearly tripping over scattered branches. MacIndry, soon in sight of Thompson, moved carefully in an arc around Thompson's direct perimeter, coming well in advance of Thompson's view. If the prisoner dared to flee, he would run straight into MacIndry's mighty arms.

Thompson, sifting his way through the broken line of forest debris, could hear no more of the breathing. Surely, the Englishman had concealed himself more properly now and had masked any noises emanating from his person. He could not move, or he would be found. He could not sigh, or he would be heard. He could do nothing but wait and hope that his captors would lose hope and give up on their errand. He did not know them well, however. They were men of resounding fortitude, men that would never shirk a duty or give up easily.

Johns, in the meantime, had positioned himself well at a distant angle from Thompson, the three men creating a triangle, each separated approximately sixty feet from one another. Thompson, upon hearing the break of twigs and limbs nearby, quickly turned, knife in hand, ready to strike. A deer stepped from beyond a patch of trees, causing Thompson to wonder if he and the others were even in the right place. Perhaps, his mind had been playing tricks. His own breathing intensifying, he could not focus to listen for sounds that would give away the prisoner's location.

MacIndry had moved swiftly, however, and had focused all of his senses. He believed the shape of a man to be enjoined to a tree between himself and Thompson. Darting to it, he grabbed the English soldier and threw him to the ground. I got him, boys, shouted MacIndry, having turned his head slightly, away enough to not notice the prisoner pulling a dagger from beneath his shirt. The man thrust the blade upward and directly into MacIndry's thigh, enough to cripple most men. MacIndry, however, though screaming in pain, leaned toward his assailant and with one felt blow, knocked the man out cold.

Thompson and Johns arrived just in time to see the last of the encounter. Laughing, Johns stated that MacIndry would not be able to performs any more of his Highland jigs.

Removing the knife from so deep in his leg, MacIndry shouted back, I suppose not, lad, but I'll be damned if I'm not still good enough for a round or two weth yer moother.

Johns, though insulted, would never dare to challenge MacIndry over unkind words. MacIndry was the biggest, the strongest, the meanest and toughest of all of the Swamp Fox's men, not to mention the surest shot with a musket.

What kind of name is MacIndry anyway, Johns replied, deciding upon offering insult rather than fight. Is that the name they give in Scotland to all drunken dogs?

Well, laddie, fer yer information, et ess how the name came out ann Anglish. Et ess suppoosed to be MacHenry, which ess a part of the Clan MacDonald, a branch of the Clan Donald, a fine Highland clan. When we name drunken dogs, we just call tham Anglish. If my memory ess correct, Johns, yer father came from Angland, ded he no?

The three men made their way as fast as they could toward camp, escorting the prisoner by his arm, nearly dragging him. MacIndry drew up the rear, his wound causing him to stagger and take constant rests.

When Thompson and Johns reached camp, they threw the prisoner before the feet of Lt. Col. Marion. Lifting the man's head with the tip of his sword, Marion could see the fear that such an act instilled. The Englishman seemed as though he would begin, at any moment, to beg for his life. Marion, of course, was in no mood whatsoever to grant such requests.

The sword's tip piercing into the prisoner's throat, he was certain that he had been brought to a place completely devoid of mercy, a place where supplicating one's captor would prove fruitless. His eyes spoke all that needed said, yet it would do no good.

Stand, Marion barked at the prisoner.

No sooner than had the man risen, Lt. Col. Marion ran him through with his sword, his blood spilling, pooling, and staining on the ground, the body flailing and falling, twisting, tumultuously thudding beyond the ends of Marion's boots. Some of the men cheered. Some snickered. Most were upset that they had not gotten to have part in the execution or to, at least, vote on the method.

MacIndry, upon entering camp and seeing the bloody mess, gave a loud cheer, long after that of anyone else had ended. Let's hear it foor Lt. Col. Marion! He is a mahn oov principle. Let us all be like ham and shoo these Anglish a whoot foor! Toomoorow, there well be boodies so numeroos tha the groaned well be lettered to ann froo! The Anglish well shoorly fair oos! You, Sir, are the kind of mahn we cood hahv used back ann Scotlahnd!

Most of the men, joyous as they were at the accomplishments of MacIndry, Thompson, Johns, and Lt. Col. Marion, called out for the fiddle playing of Corporal Peters and for a continued round of whiskey. The night wore on like this, with much clamor and noise, a great disturbance of the forest scene. When light came the next morn, fighting its way up through the sky, the men rose easily and anxiously, awaiting the moment when Lt. Col. Marion would announce that they should depart camp and pursue Carrington and the escapees.

Chapter 2

When word was given, the men took off in great haste, throwing themselves upon their horses and riding haphazardly toward the road. Some of the men were left to guide the horses of others so that these men could wander through the forest in search of a blood trail. It was Johns who found the beginning of the trail several hundred yards away, the spot at which one of the Redcoat prisoners had been wounded in the leg by Gilliam the previous night.

Lookee here, boys, shouted Johns happily. We got a trail! We'll have those damned Redcoats under our aim before we take our midday meal!

The trail somehow seemed to end when it reached the road. The men waiting on horseback for the others to emerge had already discovered this, or at least, discovered that no blood trail existed. With a great sense of frustration, the few men trampling through the trees exited and joined up with their comrades, jumping onto their horses, the whole party quickly riding away, stampeding their way down the road. What they did not know was that Corporal Carrington was a very calculating, yea, a very free-thinking man. He knew that any sight of blood would quickly be found and that it would only mean certain death. He allowed just enough blood to remain to give the others a false hope.

Carrington sent the other men ahead, northbound, through the forest, telling them to find a place to rest no less than one-quarter of a mile away, though this would be difficult for Simpkins, the man injured in the leg. He had to be coaxed, prodded, nearly pulled by the arms, and even that took much time. All the while, Carrington busied himself with concealing the majority of signs of his and the others' presence, quickly stamping blood, smearing it with stones and even his boots, pouring a great deal of excess dirt, leaves, and other natural aids about the place, making boot prints in various directions so as to give no idea of the actual route of flight, even carefully setting numerous sticks, branches, and limbs in the way of much of it, making sure to break many. This, he hoped, would keep Marion's men guessing and give them no clue where they might find their targets.

Carrington and the others, after this use of camouflage and subterfuge, spent the entirety of the night traveling, by moonlight, through the forest. They stopped, on occasion, to take brief rest and to let Simpkins' pain subside but always hurried to leave after only a few short minutes. By the time that Marion and his men left camp, Carrington and his new friends were already many miles away, having never once gotten themselves to the road. Eventually, they came near an old swamp trail, seemingly good for avoiding the road traversed by so many, but this, Carrington assured the others, would not be good. Francis Marion was a remarkable and uncanny abler of finding such trails and following them intently. No one could best him at this, not even one so intelligent and determined as Corporal Carrington.

The plan worked quite well. While Marion and his men now attempted discovery of the real trail, nearly all of them having dismounted, including those whom had recently mounted, Carrington and the escaped prisoners were well in advance of their pursuers. Marion gave the order that all of the men were to scour carefully for any signs of the escapees' retreat, though a few refused. It would be some time before any ground would be gained in the effort.

The sun drew higher and higher, growing with feverish intensity. The thick clothing of the men, some of it quite wet from wading through swamps and from the lack of worthy cover from rain, created a sort of cookery on most, making many to feel as if their flesh were boiling. The only man not really bothered was MacIndry, he being used to the ordeal from so many years of withstanding the cruel Scottish weather of his home. The body of the murdered British spy, however, would receive the worst of it all. It had been strung up in a tree for all invaders of the holy sanctuary to witness, gutted as it was, prey for the birds, its festering stench enough to drive all onlookers insane. The sun would slowly broil what remained of it to a crisp perfection.

MacIndry, unmolested by the growing heat, stood in aggravated position at being ordered to look for what he had already sought and failed to find. He saw no good in looking again, at least not with so many men that they would only be in the way of one another. Try as they might, however, no one could find any more evidence.

Frustrated and growing weary of the ordeal, MacIndry felt a dire need for combat, a need to continue in some direction, even the wrong one, just to be active, if nothing else. I say, Sir, addressing the Lt. Col., who seemed hardly to notice, Wood no these men march noorth? Shood we no be ahfter tham in tha direction?

Finally, lifting his head from careful study of the ground before him, the Lt. Col. responded, with considerable forethought, Well, I would propose that they would not head eastward and take chance of being spotted by a British sloop, yet they would surely not head west, straight into Indian country. Southward, they would find little withstanding of their efforts by the locals yet not many to welcome them. In the North, they would be able to make their way to General Gates and likely, find reasonable quartering in respect of gentlemanly conduct. I think that I must agree with you, MacIndry. They surely would go into the North country. Men! Men, I want twelve to go back to the swamp trail and follow it quickly the way we headed before, twelve to travel just as swiftly through this forest, northbound, and the rest to come with me. We will ride as amply as our steeds shall carry us and head off the vagabonds before they reach their destination.

What about the horses, asked Hornsby, quite concerned. Do you want the twelve on the swamp trail to take theirs, and what about the horses of the men that are to stay in the woods? If you plan to ride hard and fast toward General Gates' camp, you cannot take all of the horses with you.

After a moment of surveying the surroundings, Marion gave his response. McKevitt, Travers, Williams, you men pick out nine others and head back from the road to the trail. You will lead the search in that part. MacIndry, Hornsby, Blythe, you three also pick nine and follow through the forest.

Sir, I moost protest, shouted MacIndry. He wanted desperately to ride his horse, to not wander through the woods, especially with his leg wounded so severely. Sir, me leg ess in no shape fer heavy walkin' through sooch terrain. I cood do et, but wood be only hindrance to thee oother men. Eff you wish fer swift search to be made, ye ought allow me to ride.

Alright, MacIndry, as you wish. Pick a man to go in your stead.

I noominate Privett Gelliam. He ess a quite young and able-boodied mahn. He shoorly cood do right by hess felloos.

Private Gilliam, announced Marion, demanding the man's presence. Private Gilliam, report!

The Private came running from a considerable distance, tripping and stumbling in fear of not reporting as soon as called. Yes, Sir?

Private Gilliam, MacIndry has nominated you to take his stead. Find you fault with such a task? MacIndry obviously believes greatly in your attributes.

No, Sir. I mean, no, I do not object, Sir. I will take MacIndry's place. Am I to lead the other men, Sir? This was what Gilliam hoped for, to be put in charge, to be believed in so much that if he proved himself astute, he may quickly rise higher in rank.

No, Gilliam. I am afraid not. It is not my habit of making a private the foremost in any endeavor. You shall accompany the others, however, and shall be the rear guard, along with Denton and Morrison. That is all, Private. Gather your two companions. You leave momentarily.

Yes, Sir, Lt. Col., Sir. Gilliam still saw great opportunity in this. Perhaps, all of the men, if successful, would be, at least, verbally rewarded. Even if it meant no promotion, it still held promise of some reward and action. Perhaps, Gilliam thought, he would be able to finish what he started and inflict more wounding upon Simpkins.

None of the men wished to volunteer for either of the expeditions that would separate them from the company of their commander. The road, though it might prove more available to attack by a British patrol, also meant an easier journey and more possibility of combat, something that most, if not all, of the men deeply desired. Wandering aimlessly through the woods was not something that any of them welcomed, not that meandering along the swamp trail was much better, but it, at least, allowed for riding instead of running.

Knowing that if they did not volunteer for something, they may be picked for the worse of the two orders, men fought to be taken on the swamp expedition. Soon, all of the nine slots had been filled, leaving all others to dread that they would be handpicked for the other task. Three men, perhaps, out of the kindness of their hearts, volunteered to join the party in the woods. Four more were needed, and with none raising hands or exclaiming their agreement, Lt. Col. Marion chose the remainder of the men, McKevitt to lead the party instead of that of the one sent to the swamp trail, only after his having insisted his skills more necessary to guiding these poor unknowing boys unfamiliar with the ways of a woodsman, Hamish O'Connell, a half Scots-Irish/half Irish hardened woodsman who had lived in the Carolinas for nearly twenty years, trapping, fishing, hunting, fighting Indians, and all other physical works that men of such a place held in renown, along with James McPhearson, a man of only twenty-four years' age whose parents had immigrated from the Shetland Islands just before the start of the French and Indian War, and Thomas Thomas, a third-generation Carolina farmer whose very name set all those who heard it for the first time in an unstoppable round of uproarious laughter.

MacIndry felt a little bit pleased at knowing that McPhearson had been chosen for the expedition that he had managed to finagle his own way out of, as he cared little for the other man. McPhearson liked, so often, to speak of being Scottish, of Scottish culture, Scottish nature, Scottish strength, etc., every time, setting MacIndry in a rage. MacIndry believed McPhearson to be no more Scottish than O'Connell. To MacIndry, anyone born in the Americas was not a true Scot, no matter the place of origin of one's parentage, and especially, not someone whose family came from a place that had experienced so much inter-mingling with Norsemen.

The Shetlands, though even further north in Scotland than where MacIndry hailed from, were populated by so many thievin' whores whose people stole the land, as MacIndry was inclined to say. To him, McPhearson was a Scot in name only. MacIndry, once, and once only, acknowledged that the boy must have some wee bit o' Scottish blood ann ham soomwhere, but that was the extent of any affections. Of course, Macindry had little idea of the history of his own country and that many other parts of the land had been populated by the same people from the Viking lands and that even the Scots themselves had come from Ireland centuries before.

Few, if any, Scotsmen could make rightful claims to the land they inhabited, much the same as most pretend claimants in the Americas. Even the Stuart family, those that had set the British Isles about numerous wars for the succession to the Crown, having sprouted from the once Scottish King, James VI of Scotland and I of England, and the benefactor of the King James Bible, had come from lands far to the South, either somewhere in eastern Wales or westernmost England, followed by the Wallace family who would both help establish the Stewart/Stuart family by kidnapping a young woman and taking her to Scotland and later, produce Scotland's most well-known hero, William Wallace. Hardly a place anywhere in Western Europe or the Americas could claim any pure lineage of any of its people, with the exception of those scattered and forlorn, dark-skinned, original owners of the colonies.

The three groups went about their ways and their orders. Lt. Col. Marion, accompanied by nearly three dozen men, headed back to the road to re-mount. They took off as quickly as the strike of lightning, traveling at such a heavy pace that none of the men who were to gather their horses and head to the swamp trail could even see them soon after. Marion was bound and determined that he and his men would be waiting far ahead of Carrington and cut him off as soon as he exited the forest. With all luck, there would be two platoons of men to come from behind and seize the escapees before they reached General Gates. If not, they would be met with the balled shot and cold steel of Lt. Col. Marion, MacIndry, and the rest of the men now on the road heading northward.

it took a lengthy amount of time for the swamp platoon to gain ground. By the time that they reached the swamp trail, Marion and his men were already many miles away, and even the men on foot in the forest had reached the spot where Carrington's men had taken rest the night before, two miles beyond the departure point.

It was Gilliam that first noticed something peering from beneath a couple of torn leaves. There appeared to be something red, hard to be seen. Moving the leaves aside, the man found a small, dried, patch of bloodied dirt, followed by a faint line heading toward a large rock against which one of his comrades now stood. I found it! I found it, men! Heads turned round at once, having previously been at rest, but Gilliam, now too excited, could not hold back his words of exclamatory joy.

Found what, came a booming and annoyed retort of Sergeant Hornsby.

Blood. I found the blood trail, Hornsby!

Upon examination, Hornsby's eyes lit up. He had not been excited in the least until that moment. You did. I'll be damned, boy. Listen up, men! The scrapper here has found us a trail. Look all around! If there's blood here, there's surely blood somewhere else! Find it! Move these leaves. There must be more under them.

Who are you to give the order, Sir, shouted McKevitt, a man who seemed more often than not to despise both Hornsby and MacIndry, though he would gladly trust either in a fight. Like O'Connell, he had spent many years braving the extremes of the Carolina frontier, and before that, the hardships of an unyielding Scottish farm on the borders of the Highlands. He was the only other of Marion's men that MacIndry felt close to his equal, a man MacIndry called brother, though McKevitt would rarely do the same. McKevitt knew his family to have, far in the past, come from County Donegal, in Ireland, and since, mixed and married with Scottish families to form the modern branch from which he hailed. McKevitt, unlike MacIndry, held little love for any place. He felt himself no more or less Scotsman than Irishman or American. He believed wholeheartedly in establishing a country free from English tyranny, wherever it may be. He hated the boastings of the stouter MacIndry and the arrogant speechifying of MacIndry's companion, Hornsby. It must be noted that McKevitt had lived so long in the Carolinas that there existed far less trace of a Scottish brogue in his speaking than in that of MacIndry. Hornsby, you damn fool, I outrank ye. I say ye shall be one to look for blood. I order it!

I'll be damned if I'll take orders from you, you puffed up, kilted bastard! Hornsby, upon finishing his words, spat upon the ground near McKevitt's feet.

I have not borne kilt in many years, Hornsby, and you will obey my orders. Eff you do not, I will inform the Lt. Col. of your misdeeds and surely have you shot! At this, McKevitt, in reply to Hornsby's disdain for him, spat back, intentionally upon Hornsby's boot.

Hornsby, growling to himself, busied himself by finally obeying the order of his superior, surreptitiously seeking out in his mind a way to best McKevitt when all was settled. All of the other men, McKevitt included, began to move leaves and sticks with branches and limbs they found scattered about them. The more obvious of the left behind tokens of manly occupation of the place were the littered remains of broken underthings, most notably the sticks now being moved. Beyond this, there was yet nothing to be found of evidence of Carrington's having passed through.

At last, Gilliam spotted another faint blood trail. All of the men wondered why there was so little of this, why, with such an immense wound in Simpkins' leg, that he had not bled profusely everywhere. It seemed plain that Carrington, the soft-hearted man that he was, and perhaps, to avoid further chase, had somehow managed to bandage the wound.

It was clear that the trail continued in the same direction that had been traversed thus far. It could not be that the pursued had taken to the left nor to the right, as either attempt would have gotten them to the road or the trail, but then again, Gilliam, McKevitt, and even Hornsby, discussed, they could have taken to the right. Heading eastward to the swamp trail would have been safer from the stumbling blocks of nature yet not so much safer from human detection. Lt. Col. Marion, more at home among the swamps than many other places, had a nose and ear for any disturbances in said first mentioned place. However, if Carrington and his men wandered through the forest for a number of miles first, they could have avoided such suspicions. All of the possibilities had the men's heads swimming. The general direction was known, but any more than that was not known. The men were confident that someone would find Carrington, yet each party hoped to have the glory for its members and none for the members of the other two parties.

The day wore on with no further proof of the existence of Carrington and his men. No matter their course, they had concealed themselves far too well for capture. Morning turned to afternoon in the blink of an eye. The sun beat so hard that nearly all in the forest and on the swamp trail felt themselves grow faint, far more than usual. The day had proven itself more unforgiving than any previous on which the men had marched. Their determination all to keep them going, they carried on, sallying for what they hoped would be glory, though small and unknown to anyone but they.

Before long, however, Marion and his men saw opportunity to sack and scavenge from a British supply train heading southward on the very road upon which they rode. Though the train was guarded by more than a dozen well-armed men, it proved easy prey. Marion, keen an eye as he was, saw the advance of the train well before it reached its attackers. Hiding himself and his men, horses, supplies, and all, in the woods, they waited for the train to pass by, one-half of the men attacking the rear while only seconds later, the other one-half of the men attacked the train's center from the other side of the road, sending the British soldiers scurrying and trying to figure out which group of men to fight. Each party of Marion's men more than outnumbered the entirety of the train's defenders. The melee was chaotic, cumbersome, and wrought with death. The two soldiers allowed to live were tied to trees, opposite one another, their mouths stuffed with musket wadding and gunpowder, their faces beaten with sticks and musket butts until consciousness passed from them.

Lt. Col. Marion hoped, yea, longed that the other two parties of his men would prove valiant in their efforts to find Carrington. Even if they did not, it would be of no great consequence, except, possibly, to morale. Morale was found lacking at times, and a suffering of it could be devastating. Marion felt assured that Carrington would be, one day, met with some sort of punishment. Surely, General Gates, if Carrington made way to him, would not grant full clemency for Carrington's actions, or, more particularly, grant clemency to the British captives. Gates would definitely not put the men to death, but he would, no doubt, hold them as prisoners of war. This was not ideal for Marion or his men, men who prided themselves on their abilities to withstand any attack and to cause utter havoc for the enemy. A part of that havoc was always making sure to deal as harshly as possible with all enemy combatants encountered.

For now, however, the newly gained supplies must be inventoried and taken advantage of, their bulk carried to safety and made ready for usage. Among the stolen goods was not only an immensity of food and general personal items but a great deal of powder, wadding, musket balls, and even more than four dozen fresh muskets. Having already seen the wadding and powder present, the men decided to do as they had to the two soldiers, knowing that such a small amount of ammunition spared for such fun would mean little when faced with so much more on the wagons.

Quite pleased with himself and his men, none having been lost and only one wounded, a minor scratch at that, Lt. Col. Marion raised his hand high, his men cheering anxiously. Take these wagons over even ground. Find a spot amongst the swamps clear enough for camp. Night will fall ere too long. MacIndry and I will ride ahead and see if we cannot give aid to the others in finding this ruffian we once allowed a part of our merry band. If we do not return before midnight, worry not. Make yourself ample use of the fine English victuals here so contained within the confines of these wagons. Tonight, men, feast well, but be ever watchful of the vengeful foe.

With that, Marion and MacIndry mounted their horses once more and left in great haste, scurrying faster than ever they had before down the road, still northward. The rest of the men, though tiresome of their rough travails and unhappy to maneuver such burdensome works through dense forest, felt an enormity of pride and joy at their great victory and gainful boon. The night would be a solemn but wondrous occasion, both saddening on account of having not found and killed Carrington and his so beloved Brits but uplifting for having been granted such blessings of fortune as of late.

Carrington, though far ahead of his pursuers, found himself overwhelmed with fatigue; Simpkins, overwhelmed with pain. Much to their satisfaction, Carrington and his men, at almost the exact moment that Hornsby, McKevitt, Gilliam, and the others left their spot near the large rock, discovered a small and difficultly-noticed cave in which they could hide. It seemed a sign from the Almighty. The men dared not to duck out from this location, starving as they were and hopeful of gaining admittance into the camp of General Horatio Gates who had marched his men in the direction of Camden.

Carrington knew that he and the others must have rest, not to mention that they must avoid all detection. If they remained traveling through the forest, they would assuredly be seen at some eventual time and overtaken, their fates certainly spelled out for them, perhaps, only shot to death before being strung up or thrown into one of the nearby swamps. None of this seemed pleasant or allowable. Though Carrington felt no urge to aid those he saw as enemies or in any way aid the British cause, he still could see no true necessity of allowing the formerly and soon again captive men to be treated in such a way, nor himself.

The cave floor offered little in the ways of comfort; however, all of the men were worn down, bedeviled with fear and loathing of their current statuses, willing to do all possible to evade capture and barbarous death. Rest would not be delightsome in the sense of the discomforts of the surroundings, but it would be rest all the same and quite welcome. No one could sleep as they heard the passing by of Marion's men. After feeling certain that these enemies had gone, Simpkins and the rest laid their heads upon stone pillows and blanketed themselves with the blown in debris of nature, namely sticks, leaves, and swamp moss.

When night finally fell, Marion and MacIndry were twenty miles further, their horses so tired that they refused to go on, their riders feeling nearly the same. No signs of the enemy had been seen, neither Carrington and his men or British patrols. The former would have proven greatly abundant in fortuitous goodness; the latter, quite the opposite. Two men against who could possibly know how many was never a good thing, the only hope of respite from it being in dashing through the forest to either concealment or meeting up with one of the other parties.

Meanwhile, Carrington, Simpkins, and the others had managed to sleep and felt greatly rested, ready to depart, believing that they would now be safe to travel. Surely, they believed, no one would be after them in the dense fog of night that now loomed all around. It would be difficult, yet it was necessary all the same. As they departed, they, one and all, felt dread fear overcome them, believing every sound within the forest to be the footstep of an assassin. Carefully treading, for this reason, and for reasons of safety from obstacles, the made their way slowly but surely, occasionally picking up speed in areas of clear air, lit only by the full moon above, peaking its head through the canopy of treetops.

Because of the same dense fog pervading everywhere around Carrington and his new friends also pervading in all other places, McKevitt and his men had made camp, only a few miles to the north of where their targets now walked. Marion and MacIndry, having done the same, were now split from all of the other militiamen, in all, four parties separated by tremendous distance, none with any knowledge of the whereabouts or condition of the other three. Somewhat this possibility passed through the mind of Corporal Carrington as he led the prisoners onward. He knew that Marion's men must have continued searching until night and that they would never have remained as a single unit. Navigating through a treacherous enemy sea seemed impossible, but effort must be made. Their stomachs grumbling, their eyes unsure, the men carried on in hopes of getting ever so much closer to the camp of their redeemer, General Gates.

Chapter 3

In a hushed tone, Carrington reminded the other men of the urgent need for discretion, the utmost importance of keeping voices and other auditory demonstrations minimal. At their current rate, and given the rough, uneven ground, it would take these men nearly two hours to complete one mile. This, however, was all good and well to Corporal Carrington, thinking that by the time he and his companions reached the vicinity of any one party of militia, all that would remain awake to sound alarm would be but a sentry or two. There might even be the hope of catching the faint glimmer of a campfire's dying embers.

The only grouping of men that had eaten well that night was that of Samuel Goodall, set in command of those safeguarding the stolen wagons. Even Lt. Col. Marion had had to subside his hunger with the few meager strips of dried meat in his saddlebag and a small crust of bread. This was still far more than Carrington or the British prisoners had eaten. They were reduced to wondering if they should not quell their weak stomachs with chunks of bark ripped from nearby trees. One man, Adkins, did exactly that, few able to see what he was doing but hearing only the irritating sounds of a man attempting to work his teeth over such crude morsels, finding difficulty in gnashing more than a few tiny flakes. It satisfied Adkins, in a sense. He felt as if he were truly fooling his body into accepting the wooden covering as food.

Whispering as he could, between his efforts to both digest the hard increments and conceal his noises, Adkins, worried, bored, and hoping for a relief of his condition, asked Simpkins, How goes the leg, Simpy? I 'ope your leg is better than twas in the morn. You did seem to have a bad go of it all.

Simpkins, frustrated, afraid that Adkins' stupid question would give away their location, abruptly put his finger to his lips, as if Adkins could see clearly. "Shh. Be quiet, fool. Do you want to