Son of the Revolution (10 page)

“Come along, Caleb, it’s time for the surprise,” Elizabeth urged.

“I must say, this sounds very mysterious.”

“We can’t wait for you to see. This only happens in the late spring for about a month. And it only occurs at dusk. Close your eyes, Caleb,” the girl commanded.

Elizabeth darted ahead of the boys leaving Seth to lead Caleb. As they reached the path that led to the river, the sun dipped below the horizon.

“Now, open your eyes,” Seth instructed.

Caleb could only gasp in amazement at the wondrous sight. Above the river, a golden cloud seem to rise, then suddenly separate when a mass of fireflies winged over the marshes and floated among the gray tendrils of moss that clung to the oaks.

Caleb stood speechless before the magical sight.

When a breeze sprang up, the mosses began to wave and the light from the fireflies seemed to dance to unheard music. At that moment, a silver moon rose to add another luminous layer to the scene. Caleb had never beheld anything like this and words failed him.

Elizabeth, in her excitement, bounced on her toes. “What do you think? Isn’t this the loveliest thing you’ve ever seen?” She smiled as if offering a gift.

“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” he said in a hushed tone. “My thanks to you for allowing me to see it.”

Caleb would never forget this night. He would store it away in his memory to keep forever. He looked at the old oaks, which seemed on fire. The light grew brighter still when the skies darkened and above it all, a crescent moon sailed on high.

Two mornings later, when dawn broke, Major Hunt gathered his men. With their goodbyes said, the Larkins stood and watched the young major and his men ride away, their ranks increased by two. Stopping at the bend of the drive, they turned and waved before they continued down the road that would eventually lead them back to the war.

FOURTEEN

January, 1782

       Morning dawned icy clear, a day in mid-January with a wind so brittle it cut through Caleb’s thin clothing with the precision of a blade. A spurt of growth had drawn the sleeves of his jacket up to expose his wrists, raw and red with cold.

December 25
th
had passed unnoticed except for his friend’s somber greeting. “Merry Christmas, Caleb.” Neither greetings nor packages from home had broken through the enemy lines.

“The same to you, Seth.” He remembered how last night they had both gazed into a sky so brilliant it seemed a million tiny stars blanketed the heavens. For a brief moment, Caleb wondered if the world had looked much the same on that first Christmas.

Almost eight months had passed since they had left the Larkin home. Along the way, they had engaged in several skirmishes with the British and, sadly, lost two of their number. Ammunition had dwindled and rations were practically non-existent.

The weary travelers, spirits low and bodies shivering with cold, finally had the good fortune to meet General Daniel Morgan when they neared North Carolina. His large contingent boasted militia from Georgia, Virginia and both Carolinas, with two regiments from Maryland and Delaware.

“Join us, Major Hunt,” suggested the general. “We can always use more men. My spies tell me the British will head this way. Have you ever heard of a Lieutenant Colonel Tarleton?”

“Yes, general, I am acquainted with Tarleton,” Major Hunt replied, his face grim. “My men and I will gladly join you. We’ve had a long journey and our supplies are low. We’ve lost some of our group and we’re hungry. But in whatever way we can help, we’ll do so.”

“We’ve just restocked our provisions. Let’s get your men fed, and then we’ll discuss strategy.”

“Thank you, sir. Corporal Larkin and Private Fields here can help round up some food.”

“Yes, sir,” the boys answered in unison, anxious to help. The smells that wafted from the cooking pots drew them to the camp kitchen.

“I’ll wager it’s stew,” Caleb said, licking his lips in anticipation of a hot meal.

“Maybe it’s soup,” Seth guessed, “filled with wild turkey or bits of rabbit.”

Stirring the black iron pot, a plump, smiling man greeted the two. “Welcome, boys. You look mighty hungry.”

“Yes, sir.” Caleb and Seth nodded vigorously.

“Well, I think a big bowl of stew might fill those empty bellies.”

“I believe you’re right, sir.”

“Oh, just call me Roberts. Everyone does.”

“We have other mouths to feed, Roberts. Is there enough?” Caleb looked worried.

“Rest easy, lad. We have plenty. Just grab some bowls and I’ll take care of the lot of you.”

Caleb and Seth made several trips to bring the steaming bowls to Major Hunt and the small group before they settled down by the campfire with their own meals.

“Looks like you won, Caleb,” said Seth. He nodded toward the stew.

The boys made such short work of the meal, the cook laughed. “Come on, boys, have another round.” Jerking his head toward Caleb, he said, “You there, you’re still growing. You need lots of hearty food under your belt.”

“If he grows in accordance with all the rations he puts away, he’ll reach seven feet,” Seth said with a grin.

Caleb ignored the two and happily devoured another bowl of Private Roberts’ stew.

In the early evening, General Morgan laid out plans to the major while his soldiers bedded down.

Caleb still lay awake among the sleeping men when he saw Nathanial Hunt walk by and pause. The major’s breath formed a white cloud in the air. Caleb heard his muttered words. “Sleep well, men. You will need your strength. Tarleton arrives tomorrow.”

* * * *

The camp wakened before dawn on January 17. General Morgan took a long look at those gathered before him and began to speak.

“Men, we know Tarleton regularly employs a headlong attack. His strength lies in his numbers, but his army is not known for complicated maneuvers. I want the North Carolina and Georgia militias to form a line with a contingent of riflemen to their front.”

Indicating the hills beyond, he continued. “I will take the main line to the higher of those two hills. Stationed behind the other hill, I want William Washington’s Dragoons.”

A tall man raised his hand in a salute. Caleb had heard of the brave Washington, a cousin of the famed General George Washington, whose summer victory at Yorktown had given the weary armies needed hope for a quick end to the war.

When General Morgan stopped his speech to the troops momentarily to confer with William Washington, Seth took the opportunity to lean over to Caleb and pass along some information he had heard about Morgan.

“I understand the General once fought with the British in the French and Indian War.”

Caleb, amazed, stared at Seth. His friend nodded and continued. “He was involved in a scuffle with a British officer and sentenced to a court-martial and 500 lashes.”

“What happened then?” Caleb asked, caught up in the strange story of the new commanding officer.

“Well, it grows more unusual. He then joined a rifle company in our army when this war broke out. The British captured him in Quebec in the winter of ’75 along with a comrade, Benedict Arnold. They were released in an exchange with British prisoners. He then distinguished himself at the Battle of Saratoga. So, that’s whose presence we’re in now. What do you think of that?”

Before Caleb had a chance to reply, General Morgan resumed speaking to the troops. His voice carried over the field to the last ragged militiaman as well as the three hundred continentals who awaited his orders.

He went on to deploy the troops into two groups. His sent his best sharpshooters to the top of a gentle rise with instructions to fire twice and then retreat behind the second line. This line was made up of militia troops who were to lie just behind the crest of the hill. Morgan also ordered them to fire twice and then retreat behind the continentals who rode about 150 yards behind them. In turn, Washington’s cavalry, hidden in a low spot, would rise up to take the brunt of the heaviest fighting. These were the more experienced of his troops.

When all regiments had taken their places, the wait began.

Major Hunt’s men, stationed at the southern edge of the hillside first witnessed the arrival of Tarleton’s regiments. Caleb’s eyes widened and his mouth flew open in surprise when he beheld the pageantry with which the British rode. He had never seen so many well dressed military at one time.

“Seth, look at their hats. They’re all different.”

“I learned from Major Hunt that the British headgear designates their regiments. Some stand for light infantry, some for grenadiers and others represent a battalion company.”

Seth continued to instruct Caleb. “The regiments of the 16
th
and 17
th
Dragoons who serve in this country must wear leather crested helmets with their red coats.”

“You’ve learned so much, Seth. Do you suppose I’ll ever learn it all?”

“None of us will ever know it all, my friend, but I’ll happily share what I know.”

Caleb turned back to the scene before him. The Broad River, swollen from the recent rains, flowed within its ice-encrusted banks. A light dusting of snow covered the ground. The few trees that dotted the landscape thrust bare branches toward the sky. The only splash of color in this winter-white landscape was the coats of the advancing army.

As the British neared, another sound more ominous than hoof beats, reached the waiting forces. Borne upon the cold wind that blew across the battlefield, came the eerie wail of bagpipes.

Leading his troops on a white stallion, a glossy shine on his boots, sat the ramrod straight figure of Lieutenant Banastre Tarleton.

As Tarleton’s regiments pressed on, Caleb looked around. He knew the British outnumbered the continental army by one hundred troops. Major Hunt had briefed them on all aspects of this encounter.

Peeking over the crest where the militia was stationed, Caleb viewed the battlefield. Seth had told him the large estate farmers gathered their cows into communal pens here several times a year, luring them with salt dropped in the animal’s path. The cows, when finally penned, endured the branding iron. The farmers sold some and kept others for a milk supply. The General had told the troops he had chosen this field for a defensive battle. He wanted two good volleys from the militia, who could then ride away in a planned maneuver.

Back to the business at hand, Caleb saw that Tarleton’s forces had almost reached the open area.

“Careful now,” whispered Seth, who was sandwiched between Caleb and one of the men who had been in jail with Major Hunt. “Keep your head down and listen for orders.”

The wild sound of bagpipes suddenly ceased. Nothing interrupted the heavy pounding of hooves when the enemy rode onto the battleground.

Before he obeyed Seth’s suggestion, Caleb saw that General Morgan had guessed correctly. Tarleton rode in for an all out assault. The command to fire rang out. The sharpshooters, in front of the main body of militia, picked off the British cavalry where they rode.

Caleb ducked his head and waited until the command came for his group of militia to do its part. They were to throw the British off by pretending to flee. It worked. The 17
th
Light Dragoons pursued them, but Morgan’s cavalry drove them off. The British, who probably thought the military had fled, were then hit by the main body of the Continentals as well as the rest of the Georgia and Virginia Militia. Taking a deep breath, Caleb’s group then attacked the 71
st
Highlanders who attempted to fight their way out of the trap.

The battle raged fiercely. Caleb heard the sound of muskets and smelled the odor of gunpowder. A brief flash of light shone on upraised blades that slashed through the air before being stained with red.

Caleb rode proudly with Major Hunt’s outfit. They pounded down the path beside the river, helping to drive the enemy from the battlefield. Caleb looked back once and saw the bodies of men that lay strewn over the ground. Some in fancy battle dress, other in the rough clothing of the militia.

At last, Tarleton and his Dragoons fled before William Washington’s cavalry. The sight of the vanquished leader was the last thing Caleb remembered as numbing pain slammed into his body. He didn’t even feel the rushing water of the Broad River close over him as he slid from Victory’s back into its icy black depths.

FIFTEEN

       “Ohhh!” Caleb moaned. He tried to sit up, but pain pushed him back against the pillows.

Exhausted, he lay still while his eyes moved around the little room.

“Where am I?” He intended to say the words aloud, but his voice failed him. Clearing his throat, he tried again.

“Hello. Anyone there?”

Light footsteps approached and a young woman appeared in the doorway. He blinked, not believing his eyes. I’m dreaming, he thought, staring at the girl.

“So, you’ve come back to us,” she said quietly, more a statement than a question.

“Abby, is it you?” How did I get here? What’s wrong with me?”

Looking at her, Caleb saw tears in her blue eyes. “Oh, Caleb, I can’t…”

He could only stare again while Abby turned away, her tears flowing in earnest.

In a few moments, heavier steps sounded outside the bedroom. “Well, lad, it’s good to see you awake. You had us worried.”

“Hello, Mr. Clark. Maybe you can tell me what I’m doing here. Abby seems a bit upset. Oh, and Victory fared well, sir. He’s made you proud. But, please, won’t you tell me what’s happened?” Caleb’s words came out in a rush. His voice sounded as if he hadn’t used it for some time.

Amos Clark drew a small stool to the side of the bed and sat down heavily. “I can see you’ve taken good care of Victory. Thank you, and please excuse my daughter. It’s the softness in a woman’s heart.”

“Yes, sir,” Caleb replied. He didn’t understand what made Abby cry or Mr. Clark look so grave.

“You’re a soldier and you know things happen in battle, don’t you?”

Caleb nodded, wishing Amos Clark would come right out and tell him what had gone wrong.