Judgment Hill
by
Erik C. Martin
*****
Judgment Hill
Copyright 2010 by Erik C. Martin
*****
My name is Cyrus Sturgis and I was in a bad spot.
On the top of a barren hill, my wrists and ankles were tightly shackled to an elevated X-frame. The folks who had put me there intended for me to die; only, being good Christians, they were going to let God do their dirty work for them. By their rules, if I was still alive after three days, that meant God wanted me to live and they would set me free. Now I didn’t know what God’s plans were, but I was fixing on staying alive.
Three days is a long time to stay alive, exposed with no food or water. Water was the greatest concern. Spring in the piedmont was hot, even this close to the mountains. Evening thunderstorms were almost nightly events. Instead of being a comfort, this concerned me a great deal. Out of the back of the frame the good people of New Sinai had put a long, iron rod—a lightning rod.
I guess the faithful felt as though God needed a little help.
It seemed like overkill to me. I’d lived in the mountains long enough to know that lightning liked high places. And stuck up there, I was certainly the highest thing around.
As I said, I was in a bad spot.
Worse, I felt almighty confident that the man responsible for my being on that frame had no intention of leaving my fate in God’s hands—a sorry lack of faith for a man of the cloth.
You see, I knew that the Reverend John Turner was really Captain Henry Myers, and that his ship, the Myrmidon, had been a pirate vessel off of the American coast. Fifteen years ago, I had been an officer on the HMS Susannah, a ship-of-the-line. We had overtaken the Myrmidon about two miles off of Cape Henry and sank her and captured Captain Myers. I had put him in our brig myself. Our captain had set course for Wilmington. Off of Cape Hatteras we ran into a fierce storm. We would have been alright if not for the damage that our ship had taken during the battle with the Myrmidon. At some point, as we were fighting to keep the Susannah afloat, Captain Myers escaped the brig and the ship. He was presumed drowned, but his body was never found.
Until now.
Apparently the good captain had reinvented himself as John Turner, man of God and leader of New Sinai on the edge of the Blue Ridges. But any question of whether or not he had really found religion had been answered in his treatment of me.
And as for me, I had left the navy a year later and had gone home. My brother had gotten into some trouble during the Regulator Movement so I had gone to help. As soon as the matter was sorted out though, I had taken my Deckard fifty caliber and headed for the mountains.
When the Revolution had come, I mostly stayed out of it. To those of us who lived in the mountains, beyond civilization and the politics of back east, it made little difference which side won. Not until British Major Ferguson had brought his troops into the mountains, threatening all who lived there, did I find the personal stakes to choose a side.
I had been one of many. Mountain men from all over the Appalachians rose up to deal with the threat of Ferguson. A thousand strong, we joined up with Shelby, Sevier, and the other Continental officers who had been hiding in the mountains since the defeat at Camden. They had lost their army to Cornwallis, but had escaped capture. We became their army.
It was Ferguson’s turn to run. When he had realized that he couldn’t outrun us, he had chosen to make his stand on King’s Mountain. Ferguson had been openly contemptuous of our motley force. Throughout the war, militia troops had been ineffective when fighting British regulars.
Major Ferguson did not realize that we were a breed apart.
We were men who lived in the wild country. We were all experienced Indian fighters. The mountains were full of Cherokee who were not friendly to white men. We had learned to live and fight as the Indians did.
The Battle of King’s Mountain started at about two in the afternoon and was over by three. At the end, Major Ferguson was dead and so were a third of his troops. Those that weren’t dead had been captured. Seemed like we couldn’t have lost more than forty men total. Colonel Benjamin Cleveland had presented me with a sword that had been taken from a fallen British lieutenant.
Then, just as quickly as we had risen up, the army of mountain men vanished back into the mountains.
I made some friends among the other mountain men and in the little settlements that managed to hang on in the Appalachians. There were a few Tuscarora who were friendly and taught me a thing or two about medicinal plants and staying alive. There were Cherokee. Them I avoided when I could or fought when I could not. When I had heard of a new settlement, New Sinai, on the edge of the piedmont, I had gone down for a visit.
The folks there had seemed friendly. A young widow named Hannah Givens had fed me. She had been interested about my life in the mountains. When she learned that I knew a little about plants, she had quizzed me about them, their appearance and properties, for nigh two hours. Eventually, one of the other women had chastised her, seemed these folks thought the only healing should come from God.
I had spoken with a man named Hill. He had told me that they had come from New Bern. Their leader, the Reverend Turner had been given a vision of a life to the west and so their whole congregation had moved.
When I tried to speak of trade, Hill had told me that only Reverend Turner could bargain for the village. He also told me that the reverend had gone west with some men who were newly arrived, but was due back tomorrow.
My mistake had been relaxing. Their friendliness, a hot bath, and the company of women had led me to let down my guard.
Captain Myers returned on the morning of the second day. He managed to spy me before I saw him. My appearance had changed over fifteen years, but he had recognized me. Six men, apparently those who had been with Myers, took me before I even knew that anything was amiss. My weapons had been stripped away before I could use them and I had been trussed hand and foot.
Hannah Givens had been the only one to speak for me. She had promised to talk to the Reverend, but I did not place much stock in her convincing him to let me go. At no time was I given a chance to speak and I never even learned what Myers had told them about me.
I almost never even saw him. But as they were getting ready to haul me up the hill, I caught a glimpse of him standing near the church. He was little changed and I recognized him right away. I had started to speak, but someone had clubbed me over the head and I blacked out. When I came to I was being driven up the hill in a cage.
The men who had captured me were the ones who were taking me up the hill. They looked like a rough bunch, not at all like the other inhabitants of New Sinai.
“Do you know that you are working for a pirate?” I had asked. “Reverend John Turner is actually Henry Myers, a pirate captain wanted for capital crimes.”
Most of them ignored me, but one man who had a crooked scar on his cheek said, “That was the Brits who wanted Captain Myers. It’s forgot now.”
“Is that why he’s pretending to be a preacher?” I said. “Pirates still hang.” On a hunch, I said, “How about you? Do you still use the same name as when you sailed on the Myrmidon?”
“Course not,” he said. “It’s just good sense.”
“Shut up, Cham,” another man said. Scar-cheek stayed quiet for the rest of the ride.
While two men covered me with rifles, the other four secured me to the frame. They explained then about the three days.
“Folks in New Sinai believe in letting God decide if a man is guilty,” Cham told me.
From the expressions of the other men, I knew I wasn’t going to have to wait three days. I figured they woul
d be back to finish the job that night. I would have been dead right then, but the X-frame was visible from the settlement during the day. Most likely, Myers wanted me killed in a manner that would not be obvious.
A flash of lightning brought me back to the present. A storm was coming.
I was considered a powerful man, but the shackles had resisted all of my efforts. I had no way to manipulate the locks. It looked like it would be a race to see who would kill me first—the lightning or Myers’ men.
It was full night by then. It wouldn’t be long for finding out.
About an hour later, the sound of a horse brought me alert. I heard a voice behind me—a woman’s voice.
“Mister Sturgis, it’s Hannah Givens. I’m going to get you off of there. I have a horse and some tools.”
“Ma’am, you shouldn’t be here. There’s dangerous men coming,” I said.
“I know; I overheard the reverend and one