Unruffled Courage: The Adventures of American Patriot Benjamin Hamilton and a Cherokee Maiden Named Moonglow

By Sandra Kay Hamilton Welch and Danny Lee Welch

UNRUFFLED COURAGE, THE ADVENTURES OF AMERICAN PATRIOT BENJAMIN HAMILTON AND A CHEROKEE MAIDEN NAMED MOONGLOW, is a passionate story set in the untamed western expanse of colonial America. Benjamins deeply rooted love of country propels him headlong into a fierce battle of wills, pitting his newly formed regiment of experienced over mountain men and Indian fighters against a larger force of British loyalists and regulars on a low-lying ridge in York County, South Carolina, known as Kings Mountain.
Then, when Benjamin is sent on a spying mission against a renegade band of Cherokees, his life is forever changed when he happens upon an Indian maiden named Moonglow bathing in the chilly mountain waters of Spring Creek.
The historical yet freely embellished character driven tale soon takes a sudden turn when Moonglow is threatened by a pack of ferocious timber wolves. Thinking only of her safety, Benjamin saves the defenseless maiden but then has to flee for his life just moments after learning her name when braves in her village hear gunshots and come looking for him. Using a most unconventional tactic, he escapes capture. Now separated from Moonglow by distance and time, the brave patriot finds love in the arms of Mary Rankin, only to lose her and their unborn baby when she suddenly dies. He is left heartbroken. But fate steps in and reunites the patriot with the Indian maiden. Benjamin passionately expresses his long repressed feelings for the Cherokee, and Moonglow, now hopelessly in love with the handsome, blue-eyed patriot, makes a decision that will cause her to be revered as a true American heroine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477253090

Sandra Kay Hamilton Welch

Sandra Kay Hamilton Welch, a retired secondary language arts teacher, spent her career coaching students in the rudiments of writing. Now, she has applied these skills to the historical tale she and husband Danny Lee Welch spun about her fourth great grandparents. Sandra holds a BA from Morehead State University (KY) and an MEd from Ohio University. Danny, a retired telecommunications technician, is an avid storyteller both verbally and musically. Born and raised in the hills of northeastern Kentucky, they now reside in the Hocking Hills Region of southeastern Ohio.

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© 2012 Danny L Welch & Sandra Hamilton Welch. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/15/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-5308-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-5307-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-5309-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012916171

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

Endnotes

We dedicate this book to our son Scott for being the first to read our manuscript and provide encouragement, and to our son Brad for suggesting the title.

Prologue

Stories of our American forefathers have been passed down from generation to generation since the first person set foot on the continent of North America. Rich in drama and steeped in family history, these accounts depict the struggles and hardships that our ancestors endured as they fought to survive in the new world. This is one such narrative about my fourth great grandparents: Benjamin S. Hamilton, a mountain man and loyal soldier of the American Revolution; and Moonglow, a Cherokee maiden who befriended Benjamin and rescued him from certain death at the hands of her tribe. Theirs is an intricately woven and historically based yet freely embellished tale. The story chronicles their courage in the face of adversity, their passion for each other, and their ingenuity when the hostile environment demanded it.

Sandra Kay Hamilton Welch

Chapter One

THE BATTLE OF KINGS MOUNTAIN

York County, South Carolina

October 7, 1780

The sun was just making its face known to the early morning dew. Private Benjamin S. Hamilton, a member in Colonel Isaac Shelby’s Regiment of the colonial army, watched the rays of light as they crept past his well concealed position behind the felled trees and danced along the wet ground up the ridge toward Kings Mountain. He began to see his fellow soldiers one by one in their hiding places as they waited for the morning light to expose the clearing up ahead and the perils they would face as the day wore on. As the entire ridge came into view, an eerie pall fell over the mountain.

Kings Mountain, a low-lying, grassy ridge bordered by woods on three sides, lay in York County, South Carolina, just south of the North Carolina border. Rocky sandstone outcroppings dotted its surface. The mountain descended gradually to the branch of Clark Fork behind the regiment’s position.

Suddenly, the deafening silence was broken by the rustling sound of leaves off to the unit’s left flank. Each man quickly and quietly prepared for action, turning the focus of his attention to that noise. Not wanting to give away their positions, and, using all the skill and training they could muster, the soldiers waited, making not a sound that might alert someone of their presence. A bead of sweat from Private Hamilton’s brow rolled down his nose and fell silently to the ground. The tension filling the air was so palpable Ben sensed he could cut it with his knife. Raising his rifle to his shoulder, he aimed at the spot where the noise first broke and prepared to cock the hammer upon receiving the order to fire.

Then, causing all those anxiously waiting to flinch at once and with all the speed that only a scared animal could gather, a huge deer jumped out of the woods into the clearing and ran toward the patriot position. The buck was broad at the shoulders and had antlers each of those men would dearly love to have hanging on his wall. It sped down the ridge, veering left then right then left again as it darted past each pair of eyes focused on that magnificent ten-point rack rushing by. Jumping over the tree trunk in front of Ben, it snorted in crazed defiance. Then, cutting effortlessly through the water of Clark Fork, the buck continued its spirited escape and disappeared into the woods. Miraculously, not one man fired, although present circumstances and past practices were such that firing would have been the natural thing to do. Finally, realizing that all the noise and anxiety were caused by the excited stag running errantly through the woods, each man paused, taking a deep breath and relaxing a bit—but only as a hunted rabbit might pause before its pursuers closed in on its trail again. Ben lowered his rifle, exhaling forcefully to relieve his stress. Common sense told him, though, there had to be a reason that deer jumped out of the woods into a clearing, exposing himself to danger. No stag in his right mind would do such a silly thing, except, maybe, during the rut when mating season would make all the males do crazy things.

Quietly, the signal went out from the commanding officer, Sit tight. Be ready for whatever happens. And don’t make any noise.

Benjamin waited, thinking of times past but, as always, with his rifle at the ready. Eyes fixed and staring up the ridge, he let his mind take him away for just a moment. Back he went to a place he remembered quite well. He was in Virginia. It was a warm spring day in May of this year, 1780, and he and his older brother Thomas, whom Ben always called Thomas and not Tom out of respect for his being the older son, had just signed their names on their enlistment papers. Thomas looked at Ben and Ben looked at Thomas. Each had a shit-eatin’ grin on his face, feeling pretty proud of what he had just done.

Hey, boys! Git yer butts over there with them others and make a straight line. Hurry up, now! I ain’t got all day! barked an appointed corporal, Corporal William P. Buckner to be exact, who was a hulking sort born and bred in the hills of the western Carolinas. He had been handpicked by Colonel Shelby, commander of a colonial force in Sullivan County, North Carolina, to seek out the best local hunters, trackers and Indian fighters he could find, and then, with his new recruits, join Shelby as soon as possible. Colonel Shelby, currently positioned to confront the British in the Carolinas, was gaining a reputation for using unconventional battlefield tactics against the Brits—tactics he had learned firsthand from fighting Indians in the woods and mountains of the colonial western expanse. Without saying a word, Ben and his brother Thomas hurriedly moved to where the others stood.

The good people of Bedford County in this here colony hereby bestow upon y’all the honor of joinin’ me in representin’ ’em in a fight aginst the Brits, boomed the corporal. Any questions ’fore we set out to join up with Colonel Shelby? he asked. But before any one of the lowly privates in line could even begin to form a word with his lips, Corporal Buckner yelled, Good! No questions! Then let’s git goin’! And just like that, Benjamin and Thomas Hamilton went from being nineteen and twenty-two year old private citizens to privates in the patriot army under the immediate command of a certain Corporal William P. Buckner. Off they went down the dirt road, past the tavern where the corporal bought them all one last mug of beer, past the good people of Bedford County waving to the new enlistees of their colonial army and away from the ordinary life they knew as simple nobodies. Little did they know how much their lives would change as a result of the unimaginable events that lay ahead.

All right men, let’s keep movin’. With any luck a’tall, we’ll meet up with Colonel Shelby in a few days. That’s when y’all git yer rations and a month’s pay to spend any way y’all want to, said the corporal. We’ve gotta git ourselves down there real quick ’cause them Brits are makin’ trouble for the good people of the Carolinas. We’ve gotta stop ’em while the stoppin’s good!

The ragtag column of newly sworn-in privates moved quickly down the road, falling into line with each other a little bit better with each step they took. Ben watched the sun go down as they made their way south that first day. Each following sunset took him that much closer to coming face to face with his destiny.

Ben! whispered Thomas, Do you hear that? And with that demanding whisper, Ben was brought back to reality as if he had been slapped with an open hand to the face. For now, he would have to set his daydreams aside and concentrate on the present.

Yeah, I do! Ben confirmed in a strained yet soft voice. It’s gotta be them Brits. Ain’t nobody else goin’ to be playin’ a bagpipe and drums up there on that ridge. No wonder that ol’ deer come runnin’ down that ridge like a skeerd rabbit! That noise would scare the legs off a piss-ant.

Thomas nodded in agreement from behind his vantage point beside Ben. Both Ben and Thomas made ready for what was sure to come next. Ben peered from behind his felled tree, looking first to his left then to his right and paying particular attention to where the other troops were. Thomas, always one to be a step ahead of his adversary, quickly planned his next move should he be routed from his hiding place. Then, acting instinctively and in near unison as only brothers would do, they quickly rechecked their rifles, knives, keenly honed tomahawks, and supply of cartridges. They knew there would be no time later to worry about something as important as a missing knife or ramrod!

The sounds of a pipe and drums coupled with feet marching grew louder and louder. Soon there would be a reckoning of wills on the ridge called Kings Mountain. The patriots were ready. Now they waited to see how well the Brits had made ready.

Then, with highly polished precision, the British force marched into view. First came the piper and drummers in perfect step. Behind them and leading the column, emerged the commanding officer mounted upon a strikingly white stallion that seemed to prance to the beat of the drums. Wearing his well-groomed red coat and white powdered wig, the Brit stood out as he sat erect on his steed. Major Patrick Ferguson was known to be a brilliant strategist and battlefield-tested leader in modern British warfare, and a cold blooded killer. Behind Major Ferguson, rode Captain Abraham De Peyster, second in command. Next, rode the line officers: Captain Vessey Husbands, Captain Daniel Plummer, and Lieutenant John McGinnis. Following them, marched the musketmen in rows of four with their firearms held tightly against their shoulders and pointed directly toward the sky. Some were clad in red coats. The others wore everyday clothes or buckskins resembling those of the patriot fighters, but with one difference; the Tories, as American supporters of the King were called, all wore a pine sprig in their hats to distinguish themselves from their enemies. Then came horses pulling two, three-pound cannons and caissons, followed by more red-coated troops. Finally, after what seemed an eternity to the patriot army lying in wait, the Bititsh force assembled and was ready to do battle.

Evidently, of no surprise to the colonial soldiers, the British knew in advance where the fight was to take place and were determined to teach the infidels a lesson. It was Major Ferguson’s way of impressing upon his opponents he knew their movements and that they were no match for his battle prowess. For the good major had in his arsenal a well-trained squad of Tory spies, each knowing this hill country like the back of his hand. They moved about freely, keeping watch over troop movements, and talking to local citizens who sympathized with the British and gave out information about secret meetings and possible ambushes. This information allowed Major Ferguson to stay one step ahead of his enemy, giving his troops a big advantage when the time came for battle.

How dare they think they can defy the King! They’ll rue the day they thought they could stop me from crushing them like a bloody walnut! opined Major Ferguson as he readied his men for battle. I’ll have them routed in less time than it took me to disembowel that pig of a no good Carolina sharecropper who spat at me in York as we attempted to show these people they need to stop their resistance to His Majesty the King. Damn them all anyway!

The assembled British force, numbering at least one thousand officers and men, stood in exact formation. Waiting … Waiting …

Informed of Ferguson’s location by eagle-eyed scout Joseph Kerr, Shelby and his colonial army also lay in wait, keeping very quiet so as not to give away their individual positions. Benjamin kept his rifle aimed in the direction of the British commander himself. The British rules of war, however, dictated that no officer should be fired upon, regardless of which army he represented, as a gentlemanly way to conduct battle in these modern times. But these frontiersmen, hunters and hardened fighters against the Indians of the thickly wooded hills and mountains of the western expanse, believed that there were no rules when it came to who should live and die on a battlefield. The Brits were about to discover that very tenet and learn that they were up against a different kind of soldier in these backwoods frontiersmen.

Why do these backwater men not come out and fight me? wondered the pompous British commander.

Ferguson often referred to the mountainous regions of the Carolinas as backwater country. It was his way of not only demeaning the area but also the people who resided there.¹

I know they are here! Why do they not come out and challenge me? Do they not have the will to fight me face to face? Major Ferguson asked Captain Husbands, who was in charge of the musketeers, as they looked down upon the valley from the ridge.

Sir, this little group of farmers and storekeepers is scared to death of your superior force and firepower, replied the captain, thinking he was facing another ragtag bunch of country bumpkins. I await your order to move against them in haste and show them once and for all they do not have the will to stand against His Majesty’s Army!

With those encouraging words from the captain, Ferguson sprung to action. Captain, give the order to assemble and move forward to take control of this mountain! We will defeat this bunch of backwater men, ‘hang their leaders, and lay their country waste with fire and sword!’ ²

Saluting the major, Captain Husbands turned his horse to the waiting formation. Musketeers, form your platoons left and right! And with that order, the formation quickly marched into pre-arranged positions.

The British Army was well trained in the most modern tactics of warfare. This particular command had been drilled time and again in forming impenetrable lines. Major Ferguson insisted upon his officers and soldiers knowing precisely where their positions were in relation to the entire force at any given moment. During battle, he relayed commands to his line officers with the use of a silver whistle. The musketeers were armed with the latest in British firearms for battlefield engagements. Each musketman was assigned a smooth bore musket capable of hitting a target up to seventy five yards away and trained to fire an average of three shots per minute. Forming into platoons allowed the British Army to fire in volleys, thereby destroying an opposing force lined up in similar fashion to fight them. Major Ferguson’s musketeers quickly moved into position and were ready for his next command. The order to position the cannons was given, and the cannoneers began the process of moving the iron monsters into place.

Watching the British movements atop the ridge with Colonel Shelby were Colonel William Campbell, Colonel Benjamin Cleveland, Colonel Charles McDowell, Colonel John Sevier and Colonel James Williams. Campbell, leading the largest contingent of troops, had been chosen to act as the temporary commander. Shelby, first to recognize Ferguson’s march against the mountainmen as a direct threat to their property and way of life, was selected to be the second officer in command. However, Campbell directed Colonel Shelby to spearhead the patriot force because of Shelby’s recent victories against the Indians. Together, they led a force of nearly nine-hundred hand-picked frontiersmen skilled in shooting at moving targets and armed with long rifles. These rifles were superior to British muskets because they had rifling grooves inside the barrel that gave them a long range. Shooters could easily hit targets at ranges of two-hundred yards. Skilled shooters could hit targets at five hundred yards. A few sharpshooters could actually hit targets up to one thousand yards and were used quite frequently by commanding officers as snipers.

Upon seeing the non-uniformed enemy musketmen, Shelby quickly ordered the patriot soldiers to place the piece of white paper he had provided them in a fold of their hats as a way to differentiate them from the despised Tories.

Colonel Sevier, move your men quickly to my right flank. Colonel Williams, move your men to my left flank. Position your men in the woods to the Brits’ rear but within firing distance of the men’s rifles, Shelby ordered. Colonel Campbell, move your men to the western side of the ridge and take up a position in the woods. When I give the command to fire to the men remaining here, hold your fire until the British advance has stopped. At that precise moment, you are to open fire upon the cannon positions. Once you have rendered them useless, concentrate your fire on the remaining musket platoons and begin to move up the ridge. But remember gentlemen, instruct your men to fire from behind one tree and then move up to the next before stopping to fire again.

Shelby had seen Indians use this simple tactic in battles with his mountainmen before, and he knew it was an effective way to press an enemy.

Do you understand your orders? he asked.

Yes, sir! they answered. And with that reply, they left to relay the orders and shift their men into position.

Shelby then sent runners to inform Colonel Cleveland and Colonel McDowell to open fire when the British advance had stopped and begin their assault on the ridge employing the same tactic. Earlier, Shelby had dispatched Cleveland’s regiment to the eastern side of the ridge and McDowell to the southern side. The savvy commander knew that with his and Williams’ regiments on the norther slope and Sevier’s and Campbell’s regiments on the western slope, the patriot force would effectively have the Brits surrounded.

As the troop maneuvers continued to unfold, Benjamin and Thomas stayed concealed, all the while keeping an eye on the British musketeers.

Ben! whispered Thomas. The Brits are linin’ up against us! Be ready to fire! I’ll take the right side and you take the left side of the first group to move down the ridge. Thomas, being the older brother, felt comfortable in advising Ben in most matters of importance, and he felt this matter was pretty damned important!

All right, Thomas, replied Ben, accepting his brother’s advice. But I’ll keep my steady-stick ready in case I git a clear shot at that powder-headed son o’ bitch on that white horse! he added.

Ben was an accomplished rifleman in shooting matches back in Virginia. He often fared better than Thomas and always carried a forked stick he fashioned from the limb of a sturdy oak tree. He would take that stick, stand it on the ground, and then lay the stock of his long rifle in the fork, thereby steadying his aim at the intended target. He called his invention a steady stick. Ben regularly hit targets at five hundred yards or more, and he had the stick ready if a shot requiring a very steady aim presented itself.

Thomas nodded in agreement as he readied to take on that first British platoon and had his and Ben’s next positions scouted out when they received the order to move.

Back on the mountain, Major Ferguson, sitting on his stallion and still waiting for the enemy to present itself for slaughter, decided he had had enough of their barbaric behavior. He would initiate the battle to hasten his victory so that he could enjoy his afternoon tea without delay!

Captain Husbands, move your musketeer platoons down that ridge! ordered the major. Let’s see if that rogue bunch will come out to engage us any time today!

Yes, Sir! answered the captain.

Musketeers! Forward, march! ordered Husbands.

The platoons of musketmen, still holding their weapons at the shoulder position, promptly obeyed the order and, as they had practiced in drills day after day after day, took their first steps down the ridge. They had no clue as to the exact positions of their enemy nor how many they numbered, but down the ridge they marched with the captain on horseback leading the way. Quickly pulling his polished sword from its scabbard, Husbands unknowingly pointed the weapon in the direction of the waiting frontiersmen. Down the hill they moved in perfect cadence with the echo of their footsteps reverberating off the surrounding rock formations along the way. A pipe and drums sounded the music of battle. Little did they know they were marching into the open jaws of a beast that lay waiting for its prey! Ben, Thomas and the other buckskinned frontiersmen listened intently for the order to fire.

When the Brits reached a pre-measured point of one hundred fifty yards, a point marked by a colonial scout, Colonel Shelby reached deep in his belly and yelled at the top of his lungs to his anxious troops!

FIRE!

And with that command, all hell broke loose upon the ridge! Resonating like loud claps of thunder, shots from long rifles rained upon the red-coated bastards and non-uniformed Tories marching down the hill with muskets still at their shoulders! Sixty-eight British musketeers fell without even knowing they were shot. Most were dead upon impact. Others lay dying as blood poured from unforgiving chest and gut wounds. Red Coat blood, the first to be shed, saturated the tall grass and surrounding patches of rocky soil. Quickly, the frontiersmen reloaded and fired again.

Shoot like hell and fight like devils!³ Shelby yelled to his Indian fighters.

Galvanized by their leader’s words, the mountainmen whooped and hollered like a crazed band of marauding Cherokees as they continued to blast away at the British line.

Ferguson, seeing the backwater men fire at his musketeers, blew his whistle three times. Reacting to the major’s command, Captain Husbands spun his horse around and ordered the platoons to halt. The marching troops stopped dead in their tracks.

Prepare to aim! yelled the captain. The platoons brought their muskets from the shoulder to the ready position. Aim! continued the captain. Each platoon shooter carefully took aim down the ridge. Fire!" he finally ordered. But, before they could get one volley off, another ninety-two musketmen were struck by colonial rounds as they obediently went through the firing ritual dictated by the officer in charge. Some, cursing their unseen enemy, defiantly fell to their knees as if delaying the dying process and then dropped forward. Others were knocked back a step or two and forced to the ground in such a violent manner that their muskets went flying from their hands. When the weapons landed, some went off, striking other nearby Brits. Finally, as more colonial bullets passed within spitting distance, the remaining British muskets made a loud roar in unison as they fired in the direction of the blue and gray puffs of smoke rising above their enemy’s positions. Fortunately for the patriots, and as expected by Colonel Shelby, the British rounds failed to hit many of their intended targets. Most of the muskets didn’t have the range or accuracy to reach them, nor did the musketeers have any well-defined targets to fire upon. The frontiersmen, with only a few wounded and the others still concealed from their enemy, continued to whoop and holler. Loading and reloading their rifles in rapid succession, they continued to rain fury upon the exposed British troops. The British captain, yelling orders to his men as he rode up and down the platoons’ front line, was struck by a bullet in his right shoulder, causing him to drop his sword. Just as quickly, a second then third round found their marks in his chest and abdomen, knocking him out of the saddle! Captain Husbands, dead before his body hit the ground, now lay in a bloody, crumpled heap. Without an officer to direct them, the musketeers continued the fight in a haphazard fashion from their last ordered positions. The unrelenting patriots continued to rip the British platoons to shreds.

Meanwhile, British Lieutenant John McGinnis, in charge of the cannoneers positioned at the rear, saw the musket platoons had stopped their forward movement and were firing at the colonial troops. He prepared to order the cannons into action.

Colonel Sevier and Colonel Williams, following Shelby’s orders, now had their men in position behind the British cannons. Sevier, seeing the British musket platoons stopped on the ridge and engaged in battle, quickly gave his men the order to fire at the cannoneers. His frontiersmen appeared, seemingly out of nowhere from their hiding places in the woods, and fired their first volley. Nearly all the British cannoneers were struck and knocked off their feet by the wall of bullets sent to silence their cannons. The second volley ordered by Colonel Williams killed the remaining Brits before they could ignite the powder in the cannons. Lieutenant McGinnis, with his troops and cannons out of action, drew his sword and charged the rear colonial position. But Private Daniel Thacker from York, South Carolina, having heard earlier about a British officer butchering a farmer also from York, proceeded to move out in the open and in front of his fellow soldiers. Now, with a clear shot, he took aim and fired his rifle at the lieutenant’s horse, striking it in the side. The horse tumbled to the ground, sending Lieutenant McGinnis face first into some tall grass. Stunned, the lieutenant got to his feet and turned defiantly toward the private who had so unchivalrously shot his horse. In quick order, Private Thacker, who had since reloaded, fired one more round, hitting the lieutenant between the eyes and hurling him backward to the ground. The British, with no firepower from the cannons, had effectively lost its most important weapon against the backwoodsmen. Walking back to his former position, a vengeful Private Thacker snarled, English bastard! I don’t know if yer the one who killed that farmer or not but I hope you rot in hell!

Colonel Cleveland and Colonel McDowell ordered their men to open fire. Twelve Brits and twenty-one Tories fell dead. Reloading quickly, the patriots fired again and struck the remaining Tories before they could fire their first volley.

Seeing his cannons silenced, Major Ferguson rode to the remaining musketeers’ position. Captain Plummer, send your men against the colonials attacking our rear position, the major directed with a tone of urgency.

Yes, sir! the captain replied.

Having only a reserve force to use and outnumbered two to one, Captain Plummer ordered his men into the melee.

Musketeers, form a line to my right! yelled the officer.

Quickly, his men lined up as directed.

On my command! came his next order.

Aim!

Fire!

The Brits sent a volley into the colonials, striking sixteen. When the smoke had somewhat dissipated, two patriots lay dead and fourteen were badly wounded. Although still outnumbered, the Brits, who were trained to keep fighting and take the battle to their enemy, continued their advance. With gritty determination, the stalwart patriot soldiers prepared to defend their positions.

Back down the ridge, Ben and Thomas remained knee-deep in the fight. Between the two of them, they had killed or disabled five Red Coats and ten Tories. The remaining British platoons had now marched to within musket range of the patriot positions. The British fire picked up its pace. A group of British musketmen drew their first blood by hitting three frontiersmen to the left of Thomas and Ben’s position and were now preparing to fire upon them.

Ben, move left, now! shouted Thomas, seeing what was about to occur and not waiting for the order to move.

Thomas quickly followed him to their new location near an outcropping of boulders. A hail of musketballs struck the tree trunk where Ben had just been standing! Ben, seeing the Brits reloading, fired his rifle, fatally striking one Red Coat in the head and sending him careening to the ground. Grabbing his pistol, Ben fired again, hitting another Red Coat in the thigh, causing him to fall to his knees. The determined patriot, acting quickly before the Brit could get back to his feet, grabbed his tomahawk. Running to the downed Brit and using all the force he could muster, Ben struck the wounded Red Coat in the head, killing him instantly. Confident his enemy was dead, he gave the tomahawk a yank. The teeth-like cutouts on the weapon’s underside edge refused to give up their grip on the man’s skull, and Ben’s efforts to retrieve the tomahawk only hastened the oozing of the dead man’s blood and brains onto the ground.

Suddenly, seeing movement to his right, Ben turned to see a Tory with a pine sprig in his hat rushing his position. Ben’s battle-weary eyes immediately focused upon the blood stained bayonet attached to the Tory’s musket as it began its lunge toward him. With time barely to react, he sidestepped the thrusted bayonet. Grabbing the barrel of his own rifle, Ben swung the weapon over his shoulder and struck down across the enemy’s musket, forcing it to the ground. The Tory, stunned by the young mountainman’s quick reflexes, tried to regain control of his musket, but Ben never gave him a chance. He swung his rifle sideways, striking his enemy in the chin with such vengeance he cracked the stock. The man fell to the ground, releasing his grip on his musket. With his jaw fractured in multiple locations and blood squirting out his mouth and nose, he was still able to regain his footing but without a weapon to defend himself. Ben hurriedly seized the opportunity. With no time to reload his own rifle, he bent down and picked up the Tory’s musket. Turning to face his adversary one last time, Ben gripped the barrel with his left hand and the rear of the stock with his right hand. He momentarily glanced down at the red-stained bayonet meant for him, then again turned his attention to his would-be attacker. Taking one step forward, Ben drove the keen tip of the bayonet deep into the Tory’s chest.

Remember! Ben growled, leaning in close so the dying British sympathizer could hear what he said. Patriot blood on yer bayonet has caused yer death!

Hearing those last few words, the once proud Tory musketeer with the blood of seven dead patriots on his bayonet, succumbed to a most violent death.

Bastard! Ben uttered as he released his grip on the musket and stepped back, allowing the lifeless body of the despised Tory to fall to the ground—his pine sprig flying free from his tri-cornered hat.

Oh, no you don’t! shouted Ben, upon seeing the sprig dislodge. Then, reaching down, the mountainman picked up the pine sprig and jammed it back into the fold of the dead man’s hat. I ain’t about to let some poor unsuspectin’ patriot soldier think yer one of us! I want everybody to know you for what you are!

Ben, quickly looking to find his brother, saw Thomas reloading his rifle. Not far away, he spied a British soldier taking aim at Thomas.

Drop, Thomas! Benjamin yelled as loud as he could.

Thomas instinctively fell to the ground when he heard Ben’s words! The Brit narrowly missed hitting Thomas, striking his coonskin cap instead and knocking the furry cover off his head. Because his tomahawk was still in the head of that other dead Red Coat and his rifle and pistol remained unloaded, Ben had only his knife to use against his brother’s intended assassin who was quickly reloading his musket. But before Ben could unsheathe his knife, Thomas, still on the ground but now in a sitting position, fired his rifle at the Brit, nailing him squarely in the chest. Immediately, the Red Coat fell backwards onto his already dead companion.

Don’t ever scare me like that agin, Thomas! shouted Benjamin, running to his brother and helping him get back on his feet.

That was too damned close! Thomas railed, shaking his head in disbelief at what had just happened. Picking up his cap, he stuck his right index finger through the hole made by the Brit’s shot. But this’ll sure make for a hell of a war story.

Both brothers realized they were lucky to be alive but neither had time to think much about their good fortune, for the battle for Kings Mountain was far from over!

Benjamin reloaded his rifle and pistol in rapid order, and then hurried over to retrieve his tomahawk. Putting his foot on the dead Brit’s head, he worked the tomahawk back and forth, forcing the two teeth-like cutouts, whose purpose was to wreak even more havoc on the intended victim, to ease their hold on the dead man’s skull. With one final jerk, Ben freed his weapon, wiped the blood and brain matter