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 b
roke, 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.
17
Poorly’s Name
Captain Lark trotted to the bottom of the sand hill and dismounted. With his fists jammed on his hips, he studied Edward and Poorly. The man smelled like a barn. His loose white shirt was gray with dirt. A waistcoat of lightblue satin bore streaks of rust or dried blood. A metal cartridge box painted bright red hung on his belt.
“Slowly, slowly,” he advised as Edward got up. Two of Lark’s men ran down the hill to back up their captain. Their pistols pointed at Edward.
“Far from home, aren’t you, Mr. Bell? Surely not a journey for pleasure, not in these times. Are you one of Sumter’s boys? Or is it that pious shit Marion?”
Edward stared, defiantly silent. Lark’s eye rolled toward his nose, then back again. Color in his stubbled cheeks hinted at anger, but he kept a stiff smile. “Either way, it’s my obligation to reduce the enemy by two. My duty as a military officer.”
“Does military duty include permitting your men to rape young women?”
Lark flayed Edward’s cheek with the back of his hand. “Curb your tongue. I owe you no explanations. You gave me a wound that was a long time healing.” He touched his left leg.
“It wasn’t enough to pay you for murdering my mother.”
Lark dismissed the accusation with a shrug. “Fortunes of war. You resisted.”
Edward shouted at him. “Damn you, are we going to stand here while this man suffers? He’s badly hurt.”
“I am not blind, laddie. I see his crooked foot.”
“Then help him.”
Twilight was settling. A breeze blew across the hills. Loose strands of gray hair fluttered around Lark’s ears. “Happy to oblige. We’ll send him to meet his Heavenly Father posthaste.”
Edward lunged. Lark’s men rushed to seize him, clubbed him with pistol butts. One man rammed his knee into Edward’s crotch; the other man’s weapon whacked the back of his head. On his knees, Edward pushed at the ground to keep from keeling over sideways.
Lark opened his red box, removed a paper cartridge and ball marked with a black dot. When he’d loaded the cartridge and used the rammer, he found something else in the box; held it out for inspection. Edward thought it an ordinary ball until he saw two deep knife marks partially quartering the sphere of lead.
“Recognize this, Mr. Bell?”
“Those are outlawed by both armies.” Balls partly halved or quartered did inhumane damage if fired at close range. Even worse was a ball with a small nail driven through.
“I answer to no one but myself, sir.” Despite the pistol pressed against the back of his head, Edward stood up. “Hold him, hold him,” Lark exclaimed. “I see I must make short work of this.”
The lookout on the hill waved in an agitated way. Lark didn’t notice. Standing astride Poorly’s legs, he fired the pistol into Poorly’s stomach.
Poorly’s spine arched. His outcry tore across the empty hills and sky. Black hands turned red where they pressed against a smoking hole in his shirt. Lark reached into his cartridge box again. “I’ve reserved another for you,” he said to Edward. Then he noticed the alarmed look of one of his men. The man bobbed his head toward the hill, called out:
“Twenty, thirty on horseback, coming fast.”
Marion? Hope ran through Edward like a dizzying draft of spirits. He shot his elbows backward into the bellies of his guards. When one fired his pistol, Edward was already running away from it; the shot missed.
He dashed into a palmetto thicket as the second man fired. He dived for the ground and heard the ball buzz by. Lying on his side, ear in the sand, he detected the throbbing rhythm of horses at the gallop.
Captain Lark was furious but had the sense to retreat. Halfway up the slope he screamed at Edward. “Another time, lad, count on that. The war has a long way to run.”
Then he was in the saddle and wheeling away. He and his men disappeared below the hill. Edward swept hair out of his eyes and hurried back to Poorly, who lay unmoving.
Five minutes later Francis Marion arrived with thirty riders. Edward shouted to warn them of the nest of yellow jackets but few heard him. Four men were badly stung.
When Marion saw Poorly’s condition, he ordered camp to be pitched on the other side of the sand hill where Lark had appeared, thus affording Edward a measure of privacy with his dying slave. Edward built a small fire and sat beside Poorly; bathed his forehead with water and vinegar from his canteen. The quartered ball had torn Poorly’s vitals. He moaned occasionally. When at last he opened his eyes, he gazed at Edward in a vacant way. “We in Charleston?”
“No, but we’ll get you back there soon.”
“Don’t think so, Mr. Edward. Can you”—his tongue moistened his dry lips—“can you lean down closer?”
Edward obliged. Poorly whispered, “Need to ask a boon. This child’s bound for his reward, whatever it may be. Look after Sally, and the baby.”
Edward slipped his hand into Poorly’s, bloodying his fingers. “Of course I will.”
“I know she’ll have a boy baby. Change his name. No more Poorly. I earned it being such a sickly child, but I never liked it. Isn’t strong. Been thinking how to ask you.”
“I promise we’ll give him a new name.”
“A good one.”
A sudden thought. “Why not call him Strong? What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing wrong. I like that fine.”
“He’ll need a first name.”
Poorly coughed hard; more blood soaked his shirt. “Always liked Bible names. Joshua. Amos. Oh, Hamnet too. I like Hamnet real well.”
Edward squeezed the red hand. “Done. And something else. I’ll set him free. I’ll write the paper the moment I’m home. And one for Sally.” Poorly’s eyes closed. “Did you hear what I said? Your wife and son will be free people.”
Voices drifted from Marion’s campfires. Someone laughed. A sentry imitated a nightjar’s call; another sentry answered.
“Poorly?”
A rising full moon cast brilliant light on Poorly’s face. The black hand slipped from Edward’s. He turned away, unable to hold back tears.
Some minutes later he crossed the moon-silvered hill, to find Colonel Marion seated beside the largest of several fires. When Marion’s men saw Edward’s hands, talking ceased. The colonel stood as Edward approached.
“He’s gone.”
“I’m mightily sorry, Edward. Poorly was a brave soldier. He served our cause well. I know you regarded him highly.”
“He was the finest.”
“Did he suffer?”
“Yes.”
“I have never met William Lark, but I know his reputation for cruelty. Men like
that sometimes escape judgment on earth, but they are always judged in heaven.”
“I’d like to see the bastard hung, drawn, and quartered.”
Marion put a calming hand on Edward’s arm. “We’ll give Poorly the Christian burial he deserves. I have a Bible. I also travel with a flask of rum for emergencies. It’s time I broke my rule and allowed you a drink. Wait here.”
He left Edward standing in the moonlight with red hands and haunted eyes. Marion’s men sat silent, not knowing what to say.
18
The Year of the Damned Old Fox
Francis Marion’s legend grew from that war-torn autumn.
In late October, at Tearcoat Swamp, he attacked Tory militia commanded by Col. Samuel Tynes. The Tories were newly equipped and overly confident, drinking and gaming noisily into the night while Marion’s men lurked in the darkness, waiting.
At midnight Marion fired a pistol; Edward and his comrades charged the encampment, shooting and yelling. Again Marion left a path of retreat open; Tynes used it to escape. Marion’s men counted eighty fine horses and eighty muskets captured.
After Black Mingo and Tearcoat Swamp volunteers poured in. Marion soon had four hundred men. These he took to the High Hills of the Santee, to harry enemy traffic at Nelson’s Ferry on the Congaree. His presence had a profound effect. Teamsters feared to travel from Charleston to the inland forts. The British had to deploy large detachments to guard the supply trains.
Unknown to Marion himself, Lord Cornwallis was taking notice of the upstart colonel whose name he’d been unable to remember a month before. Cornwallis ordered Banastre Tarleton’s Legion to pursue Marion and end his depredations. On November 7 Tarleton, his dragoons, and two cannon lay in wait at the plantation of the late Gen. Richard Richardson.
Marion advanced to within sight of ruddy clouds reflecting campfires hidden by heavy woods. While he was pondering strategy, the widow Richardson sent her son, a paroled Continental officer, to warn of the superior numbers waiting in ambush.