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 Chapter
1
The Ceded Lands, Georgia
Tuesday, February 24, 1779
The late
afternoon sun cast slanting shadows through the thick
forest, illuminating the knot of tired and
travel-stained refugees. The man in the lead suddenly
stopped and threw up his hand, signaling an urgent
warning to the others. They halted in their tracks, as
fearful and skittish as a bunch of squirrels in the
shadow of a passing hawk. Two men detached themselves
from the main group and moved forward, slowly and
cautiously, their every sense awakened by the hint of
some unseen peril. Fifty yards ahead, they paused to
listen. Other than the faint, watery rippling of the
nearby river, the only sound was the wind, but when it
shifted and came from the south, it carried with it the
smell of wood smoke and horse dung.
The younger of
the two men handed his well-used doglock musket to his
companion, motioned for him to remain hidden, and then
moved cautiously forward. Once he had approached to
within a musket shot of his objective, he stepped out of
his scuffed and cracked and buckled shoes, exposing
grimy toes thrust forlornly through the broken seams of
worn and filthy stockings. He crept ahead silently, bent
at the waist like an aged man, shifting his foot
whenever a leaf or stick threatened to snap and betray
his presence.
After closing to
within pistol shot of the strange camp, he sank to the
ground and slithered forward. He halted behind the
remains of a once stately oak, where he paused,
listening for sounds, or sights, or smells that warned
of danger.
Satisfied that
his approach had remained undetected, he rose to his
elbows and peered across the decaying remains of the
ancient tree. He found that he could look directly into
the camp of strangers that now lay no more than a
stone's throw away. There were three white men in the
camp. Dressed in buckskin trousers and dark green
jackets, they moved indolently about the campsite,
preparing it for the night. The jackets were cut short
and sported light green lapels along with red collars
and cuffs. He smiled. These were Provincial Troops,
King's men, like himself.
The wind
shifted, carrying the sounds and smells of civilization
to him; the ring of metal striking metal sounded
unnaturally loud and out of place in this wooded
wilderness. He could smell the sweet scent of gun oil,
the tanginess of sweat.
"Watch that
noise, Jacob!" one of the uniformed men in the camp
cautioned a tall, giant of a man. The large,
boyish-faced individual gave him a penitent smile as his
only answer. He moved more carefully as he continued to
unwrap the leather padding from a copper pot. The copper
caught the sun as he moved and flashed brightly
burnished tattoos of reflected sunlight into the
surrounding forest. The flashes caught the eye of the
other soldier who frowned and shook his head, but said
nothing.
On the far side
of the camp, two Cherokee warriors, stripped to
breechcloths, stood at the edge of the Savannah River
with their backs to him. As he watched, the right arm of
one drew back and shot forward in a single, smoothly
flowing movement, driving a sharpened shaft into the
river. Both men laughed as he drew a struggling fish out
of the water and, with a flick of his wrist, tossed it
from the end of his makeshift spear onto the river's
bank where it plopped onto the ground alongside three
previous catches.
Handing the
spear to his companion, the fisherman spoke quickly in
his own language and smiled. The words were foreign, but
their inflection contained the unmistakable sounds of
challenge. The second man took the weapon and waded
knee-deep into the river, searching for a target.
The erstwhile
spy rose cautiously to his knees. Being careful to
remain behind the protective cover of the fallen tree,
he hailed the camp through cupped hands.
"God save the
King!" he shouted. "And God bless Loyal Americans!"
His words
spurred the camp into a flurry of activity. With silent,
disciplined grace, the men melted into the foliage of
the surrounding forest. The sharp Click! Click! of
muskets being drawn to the full-cock position were the
only sounds that their movements produced. Half a minute
passed in eerie silence as both sides appraised the
situation.
"Advance and be
recognized!" one of the soldiers called from his hiding
place near the bank of the river.
Cautiously, the
intruder stepped from behind the fallen oak. He held his
hands out, well away from his sides.
"Who are you?"
the soldier shouted.
"My name is John
Stokes, late of Ninety-Six, in South Carolina," he
called back.
"Are you alone?"
"No. I've eight
others with me, refugees. Driven from the colony by a
bunch of damned rebels over a week ago!"
John heard the
men conferring quietly, deciding what to do with this
unexpected guest.
A decision was
made. One of the men rose and advanced in his direction.
He held a shortened Brown Bess musket at an angle in
front of him, the muzzle pointed upward, but it could be
lowered quickly and discharged if necessary. The man
moved with deliberate purpose, alert for any sign of
treachery. He stopped at arm's length from John and
studied him for a moment before lowering the weapon and
motioning for him to move towards the camp. The other
men rose in response to some silent signal, sprouting
from the forest floor like giant, green-coated
mushrooms. They moved back in the direction of their
fire, eyes wary, nervous at having been caught off guard
by this intruder. The two Cherokees shrugged their
shoulders and resumed fishing, unconcerned with the
business of this strange Englishman.
"Have a seat,"
one of the men offered. John sat cross-legged on the
ground next to the fire.
"Well," the man
drawled, "what's your story?"
John looked
across at the other man, silently appraising him. Out of
the corner of his eye, he saw the other two green-coated
soldiers fade into the forest, moving cautiously in the
direction from which he had come. He took a deep breath
before beginning.
"As I said, my
name is John Stokes. Until two weeks ago I ran a
gristmill in Ninety-Six, for Mr. Thomas Fletchall. You
know of him?"
The other man
nodded soberly. "A good King's man."
"Yes, he is. I
served under him back in '75 during the battle at
Ninety-Six. Since the truce, I have been an honest,
law-abiding citizen, ready to aid King and country if
needs be. Last month, Zachariah Gibbs and Colonel Boyd
let out a call for the Loyalist Militia. Raised six
hundred men, they did. They owned that they didn't need
me, so I stayed behind to tend the mill with the wife
and young'uns." John stopped and looked seriously at the
other man before continuing. "I suppose you know about
Kettle Creek?"
The soldier
nodded. "Aye, we heard about it. Bad tidings, sure
enough. Some of the Rangers was there, but not us."
John nodded in
agreement before continuing. "After Augusta was
occupied, I renewed my oath of allegiance to the King.
Then, directly after the damned rebels brought the
prisoners from Kettle Creek to the gaol at Ninety-Six,
they started howling to high heaven, blowing like a
bunch of bleeding heroes about how they were going to
clean the Loyalists and British out of the country. A
few nights later, I woke in the middle of the night to
find my house on fire. Outside was a mob of rebels, scum
and lowlifes, you know the type. They came on like
animals after a wounded beast! My own wife's family
among them!" John spit into the fire and let out a
short, humorless laugh. The soldier raised his eyebrow,
a silent question. John laughed again.
"I don't know
that I could laugh at that myself," the soldier observed
quietly.
"You could, had
you been there. You see, Andrew DeLoach was one of the
ringleaders. I could see in his little pig eyes what he
was wantin'. He was thinking that he could get my house
cheap, once it was confiscated and sold at auction. But
he made one mistake; he had given his brave and loyal
Patriots too much rum to get their loyalty. To make a
long story short, some of his brave lads set my house
afire. You should have seen the face of that fat bastard
drop, knowing he could do nothing about it but pat them
on the back for their bravery, all the while watching
seven-hundred-pounds worth of property go up in smoke."
John's story was
interrupted by the arrival of the remaining members of
his party. Escorted by the two soldiers, his wife,
Egrain, stumbled into his arms, exhausted.
"Sit here love,"
John said, his voice heavy with concern. He held her arm
to steady her as she sank to the ground. She sat with
legs drawn up to her chest and arms wrapped around her
knees. Slowly, she lowered her head into her arms. Her
shoulders began to shake with silent sobs. Faintly at
first, then growing more pronounced as the enormity of
her loss crept over her.
John placed his
hand on the back of her neck and kissed her lightly on
top of the head. "It's all right now Grainy," he said
softly. "We've found friends, our nightmare is almost
over."
As the pent up
anger and frustration of her ordeal burst forth, Egrain
continued to sob. The other three women of the party
began to wail also. Ruth Weatherford, the eldest of the
women at age forty-two, stepped forward and grabbed the
soldier's hand.
"God bless you,
sir!" she cried, looking up to him with eyes that seemed
to worship him as a savior. Her eyes overflowed with
tears. "May we at least know the names of out
deliverers?"
The soldier
smiled down at her. "Certainly, ma'am. I am Sergeant
William Hopkins, Captain Johnston's Company, King's
Carolina Rangers. These two men are James Dobbins and
Jacob Fenton, also of that worthy regiment."
Ruth eyed the
men with curiosity. "What, pray tell, brings you three
fine gentlemen to this wilderness?" From sheer habit she
suddenly gave the men a quick curtsey.
Sergeant Hopkins
presented her with a slight bow in return. "We have been
sent by Colonel Brown, bearing dispatches to the
Cherokee towns. Up north of here." He waved his arm,
vaguely indicating a direction of travel.
"Colonel Brown?"
Ruth's husband, Roger, chimed in. "The one what was
tarred and feathered over around Augusta?"
"One and the
same. And I'm bound to say that those so-called
Patriots have rued the day they did that dirty deed!
I almost ended up the same way." Loosening his stock,
Sgt. Hopkins pulled it away from his neck, exposing a
puffy red scar running from just below his cheekbone,
down his neck, and out onto his right shoulder. "The
dirty buggers almost did me in a few years back, but
Dobbins here put a musket ball through one of 'em's head
just as they started pourin' the tar." He jerked his
head to indicate one of the other soldiers standing off
to one side. "I pulled free and made my escape. They
nigh chased the two of us all the way to Florida before
we gave them the slip. Hey, what? James?" he directed
his question at the soldier, Dobbins.
"That's the
God's truth, ma'am," Dobbins assured her solemnly. "I've
never seen such a fuss as the one those fellas made
about that one damn rebel! A body would think that the
buggers was growing scarce the way they carried on about
him!"
"They're no way
scarce enough for me," Ruth assured them. "God bless you
boys, we were nigh on tuckered out." With a sigh she
sank to the ground and blew out a long breath. "I'm a
mite hungry, too. If you fine gents have any food, tired
as we be, the three of us women will gladly fix up a
meal for the whole company."
Hopkins
presented her with a huge smile. "We've not been on the
trail very long, so we're still well-stocked. We would
all be mighty pleased if you would see to our meal."
Turning his head, he called over his shoulder to one of
the Cherokees who was still spearing fish in the river.
The warrior answered back in his own language and
leisurely forked another fish onto the bank.
"Thunder's Child
says we'll have plenty of fish. I'll go get some corn
meal and tea from the saddle bags."
While the women
worked, the three Rangers, along with their four male
guests, retreated to the edge of the camp and took seats
on the trunk of the fallen oak that had only recently
sheltered John. Playing the good hosts, they produced
several short-stemmed clay pipes and a bag of tobacco.
The travel-stained refugees eagerly accepted the
hospitality.
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A Lesser Form of Patriotism to read the
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A Lesser Form of Patriotism
by G.G. Stokes, Jr.
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