Fiction by Jeannette Holland Austin
The Battle of King’s Mountain. October 7, 1780.
Meanwhile, the American attacking force of General Cleveland with his “Bulldogs,” Colonel Hambright with his “South Fork Boys” from the Catawba, and Colonel Winston with his Surry riflemen were moving into position. To the south were the divisions of Colonels McDowell, Sevier, and Campbell. At the same time, Lacey’s South Carolinians, the “Rowan Levies” under Williams, and the “Watauga Borderers” under Shelby on the north side.
Suddenly, before assembling, Shelby’s men received a fire from the British. This act inspired Colonel Campbell, who now threw off his coat and shouted his orders to his men posted on the side of the mountain.
When Campbell’s Virginians uttered a series of piercing shouts, the British officer, De Peyster, second in command, remarked to Major Ferguson: “These are the damned yelling boys!”
The Loyalist militia, whenever possible, fired from the shelter of the rocks, while the Provincial Corps, with fixed bayonets, steadily charged the frontiersmen, who fired at close range and then rapidly withdrew to the very base of the mountain.
The British Fire on the American Armies
Owing to their elevated location, the British, although using the rapid-fire breech-loading rifle invented by Ferguson, found their vision deflected and continually fired too high. Next, Ferguson’s militia used sharpened butcher knives, which he had taught them to utilize as bayonets, and charged against the mountaineers. But their fire, in answer to the deadly barrage of the expert squirrel shooters, was belated because they could not fire while the crudely improvised bayonets remained inserted in their pieces. The Americans, continually firing upward, found ready marks for their aim in the delineated outlines of their adversaries and felt the fierce exultation that animates the hunter who has tracked to its lair and surrounded wild game at bay.
Meanwhile, the mountaineers bore themselves with reckless bravery, recklessly rushing between the lines of fire and with native eloquence, interspersed with profanity, rallying their commands repeatedly to the attack. The brave Colonel Campbell scaled the rugged heights, loudly encouraging his men to the ascent while Cleveland, resolutely facing the foe, urged on his “Bulldogs” with the inspiriting words: “Come, boys; let’s try them again. We’ll have better luck next time!”
No sooner had Shelby’s men reached the bottom of the hill, in retreating before a charge, than their commander, fiery and strenuous, ardently shouted: “Now boys, quickly reload your rifles, and let’s advance upon them, and give them another hell of a fire.”
British Arrogance
The most deadly charge, led by British De Peyster, fell upon Hambright’s “South Fork boys,” and one of their gallant officers, Major Chronicle, waving his military hat, was mortally wounded; the command, “Face to the hill!”, dying on his lips. These veteran soldiers, unlike the mountaineers, firmly met the shock of the charge, and a number of their men were shot down or transfixed. Still reserving their fire until the charging column was only a few feet away, the remainder poured in a deadly volley before retiring. The gallant William Lenoir, whose reckless bravery made him a conspicuous target for the enemy, received several wounds and emerged from the battle with his hair and clothes torn by balls. The ranking American officer, Brigadier-General James Williams, was mortally wounded while “on the very top of the mountain, in the thickest of the fight,” and as he momentarily revived, his first words were: “For God’s sake, boys, don’t give up the hill.”
Colonel Hambright, sorely wounded, his boot overflowing with blood and his hat riddled with three bullet holes, declined to dismount but pressed gallantly forward, exclaiming in his “Pennsylvania Dutch”: “Huzza, my brave boys, fight on a few minutes more, and the battle will be over!” Ferguson was supremely valorous on the British side, rapidly dashing from one point to another, rallying his men, oblivious to all danger. Wherever the shrill note of his silver whistle sounded, the fighting was hottest and the British resistance the most stubborn. His officers fought with the characteristic steadiness of the British soldier, and again and again, his men charged headlong against the wavering and fiery circle of the frontiersmen.
Major Ferguson screamed, “He was on King’s Mountain, and God Almighty could not drive him from it!” Yet his unwise defensive position and frenzied efforts seemed like a mad rush against fate and the peculiar tactics of the frontiersmen.
Major Ferguson Falls
While the mountain flamed like a volcano and resounded with the thunder of the guns, a steady stream of bullets was fired until, at last, Major Ferguson fell dead.
Emmett, possessing the German Schwartz rifle, directed his mare uphill to fire upon the British commander. Before the hour had passed, Colonel Ferguson had taken a mortal bullet, and Emmett, strategically situated, wondered if one of his bullets had killed Ferguson.
to be continued