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Patrick ferguson, the loyalists, and the american revolution
October 7, 1780: On a rugged hill near the border of North and South Carolina, a fierce battle rages, one that will have far-reaching effects for the course of the American Revolution. An attack force has surrounded the mountain and now creeps toward its summit, using the dense foliage as cover. Desperately, the defenders pull back into a tight circle of blazing musket fire. Their leader darts this way and that on his white horse, shouting encouragement, waving a sword in his left hand, intermittently blowing a silver whistle whose shrill note barely pierces the din. Angrily he cuts down a surrender flag hoisted by one of his men. His face, smudged with dust and black powder, is unrecognizable, but he wears a red checked duster over his uniform--an item his foes have been told to watch for. When, in a last-ditch charge, he breaks through the ranks followed by a handful of officers, a cry goes up from the enemy: "That's him!" Eleven bullets slam into his body, knocking him from the white horse. The battle is over, though the killing continues as maddened men rush upon the defenders, many of whom have already thrown their weapons down and their hands up. Shouts from their officers--"For God's sake, stop!"--finally bring the carnage to a halt.
J.B. Cheaney is a freelance writer and history buff who lives in rural Missouri. Her first novel, The Playmaker, is slated for publication by Random House in the fall of 2000. Thus ended the battle of King's Mountain, an undisputed American victory. Or so it would seem except for one awkward fact: every participant in the battle, on both sides, was an American. The one exception was Patrick Ferguson, the man on the white horse. The term civil war invariably brings to mind images of blue and gray, Lee and Grant, Gettysburg. Though hugely significant, that conflict was only our second civil war; the first occurred "four score and seven years" earlier. In popular imagination the Revolution is an Us (Americans) against Them (British) scenario. But in a very real sense it was also us against us. THREE THIRDS: PATRIOTS, LOYALISTS, AND THE INDIFFERENT When the newly created United States declared independence from Britain in 1776, John Adams estimated that only about one-third of his countrymen were solidly behind the move. Another third were indifferent to politics altogether, and the remaining third believed that America had no business separating from the mother country. They called themselves Loyalists--their enemies called them Tories. These "other Americans" were a minority in New England. Their numbers were considerably greater in the mid-Atlantic colonies, where an estimated fifteen thousand from New York alone enlisted in the British army. But no region was more divided in spirit than the South, particularly the Carolinas and Georgia. Southerners chose sides for any number and combination of reasons: geographic location, religious affiliation, family ties, personal conviction, long-standing grudges. Ultimately, as in all civil conflicts, the Revolution was a clash of visions, a bloody argument over what America was and should be. William McLeod had recently immigrated from Scotland and settled near Cross Creek (now Fayetteville), North Carolina. He had fled rising land rents, not an oppressive government. Like most of his Scots-born neighbors, he found his situation improved in the New World and was content to live within the boundaries set by king and Parliament. Why rock the boat? Isaac Shelby, Maryland-born of Welsh parents, was interested in land also. He had staked a claim over the mountains, in territory barred from white settlement by a 1763 treaty between the British government and Native American tribes. Shelby scorned the notion that a king three thousand miles away could dictate land policy, and his independent-minded neighbors felt the same. Each man envisioned his destiny and chose the side that conformed to it: McLeod the champion of the status quo, with reasonable dreams and reachable goals; Shelby the restless spirit who chafed at limits and boundaries. Shelbys and McLeods lived side by side, often in the same family. By 1779, the British high command were ready to turn this simmering animosity to their advantage. The war had been fought to a virtual stalemate in Pennsylvania and New York. But if British arms could seize a few strategic positions in the South, the Loyalists might be expected to rally in such numbers as to reestablish royal government there. Then, even if the northern colonies eventually won their independence, His Majesty could still retain a valuable foothold in North America. Late in 1778 a British-American force captured Savannah and soon brought all of Georgia under its control. In December 1779 a huge expeditionary army sailed from New York City and established a beachhead near Charleston. After a four-month siege, the city fell and the defending army was captured--a crushing defeat for the patriots. Lord Cornwallis, the British commander, followed up this victory with a series of decisive actions, destroying yet another patriot army near Camden (South Carolina) that August. For the next few months, only scattered guerrilla bands under leaders such as Frances Marion (the "Swamp Fox") kept the patriot cause alive. SCOTTISH-BORN MAJ. PATRICK FERGUSON The Loyalists rallied according to plan; spontaneous battles between Americans broke out at Rocky Mount, Green Spring, Hanging Rock. But Cornwallis realized that the "king's friends" would have to be organized if they were to be effective. To that end, he appointed Maj. Patrick Ferguson as "inspector of militia" and sent him into the Carolina backcountry to raise and train American volunteers. The 35-year-old officer set off with characteristic eagerness and determination. Ferguson was born in 1744 to James Ferguson of Pitfour, a prominent Edinburgh attorney, and his wife, Anne Murray, daughter of Lord Elibank. As a second son he could not inherit the family estate, but a military career suited him as well or better. Though the lad was of slight build and somewhat sickly constitution, his uncle, Gen. James Murray, dubbed him a "son of Mars" and helped secure a commission in the Royal North British Dragoons when he was only fifteen. The youth displayed courage and dash in Germany during the Seven Years War--once racing back under fire to retrieve his pistol--but too soon he fell ill and was shipped home. Later he saw service in the West Indies and various garrison postings around Britain. Blessed with a gift for mechanics, in the early 1770s he began to experiment with the breech-loading rifle invented by Isaac de la Chaumette. His improvements made the gun more efficient for military use, and in 1776 he patented the design. That summer, he gave shooting exhibitions for the army brass and the king himself, proving that his gun could fire up to six rounds per minute, in rain or high wind or during an advance. His observers were impressed: not only was the "Ferguson rifle" adopted as the army's first breech-loading firearm, but a hundred-man rifle company was formed for service in the American War, with Ferguson himself in command. A quirky brush with history awaited the Scottish officer and his rifle at Chadd's Ford, Pennsylvania. While he lay under cover with his men, two enemy riders approached, one in a flamboyant hussar's uniform, the other in a dark cloak with a high cocked hat. Later reports indicated that the man in the cocked hat was none other than George Washington. Ferguson had passed up a chance to shift the course of war, but it was not his style to shoot an enemy in the back. Shortly after this incident he took a musket ball in his right elbow, a wound that developed serious complications. After a long convalescence he was ready for action again, but the shattered bones in his elbow had locked, leaving his right arm all but useless. With the tenacity that earned him the nickname "Bulldog," he taught himself to shoot and fence left-handed and by fall was leading raids and reconnaissance missions. In December 1779 Ferguson was commissioned a major in the 71st Regiment (Fraser's Highlanders) and sailed for Charleston. The job of inspector of militia was a challenging assignment, and at first he enjoyed singular success. In June he raised about four thousand Loyalist militia in the area of Ninety-six, South Carolina. An advocate of persuasion, he visited settlers in their homes and spent hours talking politics. Among his recruits were William McLeod, the Scottish farmer from Cross Creek, and Elias Powell, a young man who soon became the major's aide. They drilled alongside Ferguson's red-coated American volunteers from New Jersey and New York as their commander blew orders on a silver whistle. In September he marched an expeditionary force to Gilbert Town (now Rutherfordton), where local settlers flocked in to take the British oath of allegiance. Many of them were motivated by expedience rather than loyalty: any known patriot risked confiscation of his property. Ferguson issued a proclamation (prematurely, as it happened) that the rebellion was over in western Carolina and offered clemency to any rebel still in arms. Not all his messages were conciliatory. Col. Isaac Shelby and his militia unit of "over-mountain" men received a stern warning: Surrender, or else Ferguson would bring the war to them, hang their leaders, and "lay their country waste." This was hardly political language; men who had already seized a country from the Indians and held it with firepower and blood were not easily intimidated. Shelby sent out a general call to arms and was soon joined by other frontier fighters, such as John Sevier and William Campbell. At Sycamore Shoals (now Elizabethton, Tennessee) an army of backcountry farmers and frontiersmen assembled with one goal: to get Ferguson. American-style, the men elected leaders and heard a sermon delivered by Rev. Samuel Doaks, a Princeton graduate and rock-ribbed Calvinist like most of them. Suitably inspired, the force moved out on September 26 and the next day crossed the spine of the Great Smoky Mountains, plunging through deep drifts of snow. When Ferguson received word of their approach, he decided to retreat and send for reinforcements from Charlotte, where Cornwallis was stationed with the British army. The major held a low view of his enemies, whom he called barbarians and "banditti": "Three or four hundred good soldiers would finish the business," he wrote to Cornwallis. "This is their last push in this quarter and they are extremely desolate and cowed." Moving eastward with his expeditionary force of about one thousand, on October 6 he arrived at an isolated hill rising sixty feet above the surrounding plain. The Natives called it King's Mountain--a rugged little knob shaped roughly like a human footprint. Here Ferguson called a halt. Historians disagree about Ferguson's intentions: Was he merely waiting for reinforcements, or did he take a stand on the mountain in hopes of scoring a stunning victory that would boost his career? His dispatches from camp indicate the former, though it remains a mystery why he didn't march on to Charlotte, only thirty miles away. Ferguson was said to boast that he was "king of the mountain, and God almighty could not drive him from it"--a dubious remark he probably never made. Whatever his hopes, the reinforcements were delayed; Cornwallis and many of his officers were bedridden with malaria. The "over-mountain" men, about one thousand strong, arrived early the next morning and took Ferguson by surprise. Upon learning of his whereabouts, they devised a simple plan: surround the hill and take it. Dividing into eight divisions, they quickly encircled the battlefield and began their climb under a barrage of musket fire from the Loyalists. It soon became evident who had the advantage in ground: The boulders and thick woods served as excellent cover, and rifles firing up proved more accurate than muskets firing down. The Loyalists drove back their foes with brave bayonet charges, but only temporarily. As the enemy closed in, they were forced to abandon their outer defenses. In less than a hour's time, the defenders were pressed into a hopeless situation, brought dramatically to an end by their leader's final charge. Capt. Abraham de Peyster of New York, Ferguson's second-in-command, quickly raised a white flag. James Collins, a patriot who was only seventeen at the time, wrote that "the situation of the poor tories appeared to be really pitiable." But compassion was not much in evidence. Confusion, rage, and adrenaline cost the Loyalists more lives until a semblance of order could be restored. Even then, bitter feelings ran high. It is said that some of the victors stripped Ferguson's body and urinated on it before turning it over for burial, but his men restored what dignity they could. Young Elias Powell helped wash the body and wrap it in a bull's hide before laying it to rest on the hillside where he'd fallen. In the confusion Powell happened upon the major's silver whistle, which he picked up and hid among his effects. About seven hundred prisoners were herded to Gilbert Town, where, during a hasty trial, twelve men were convicted of various crimes and sentenced to hang. A few of them may indeed have been guilty of brutality in that brutal war, but for most, their greatest "crime" was choosing the wrong side. Nine Loyalists were swinging in the air before Shelby proposed that the last three sentences be commuted. The remaining prisoners were marched off toward Hillsboro, but most of them escaped en route. Through the woods and into the hills they scattered, these friends of the king recruited by Ferguson, never to rally again in such numbers. RESULTS OF THE BATTLE OF KING'S MOUNTAIN Historians generally agree that King's Mountain was the turning point of the war in the South, and it is fascinating to speculate on the possible effects if Ferguson had defeated the over-mountain men. Almost certainly the ranks of Loyalists in arms would have grown, augmenting a force that might have swayed the many undecided southerners toward their cause. Though it's doubtful that the United States would have died a-borning, the southern colonies might well have remained in the empire, achieving in time an independent commonwealth status like Canada's. What actually happened was disaster for the "other Americans." Unable to sustain British momentum in the Carolinas, Cornwallis retreated to Virginia. One year after King's Mountain, at a tiny port on the Chesapeake Bay named Yorktown, he surrendered his army to a combined French-American force under Washington. An estimated one hundred thousand Loyalists fled their country, some to settle in expatriate communities like Nova Scotia or Bermuda, others to eke out a living in London while seeking reparations for lost property. Many, like Elias Powell, managed to stay in the United States, no doubt keeping a low profile. McLeod fought on to the end, serving under the partisan fighter David Fanning until he was captured, beaten, and robbed. Forbidden to reclaim his hundred acres on Cape Fear, he finally returned to Scotland, bitterly disappointed. Soon the nineteenth century rolled in on a wave of patriotism, thumped up by the new nation to fortify its shaky beginnings. Though Ferguson himself was regarded favorably, and a respectful monument was raised to him in 1880, his men were vilified as traitors. For the next 150 years, American schoolchildren were taught a mostly sanitized view of their history in two comforting shades: black and white. But in recent years a countercurrent of cynicism about our past threatens to turn the tide in the opposite direction. In some circles, Washington is demoted from plaster saint to slave-holding opportunist, while the Revolution is seen as a coup by radicals who got lucky. For the general public, the war has quietly sunk from view except for sporadic sightings around each Fourth of July. At King's Mountain the remains of Patrick Ferguson rest under a pile of stones (accompanied, as tradition has it, by his mistress, "Virginia Sal") unremarked by the vans, sedans, and semis that buzz by on I-85. But he was soon to be rediscovered. NEW INTEREST IN FERGUSON In December 1997, Marianne McLeod Gilchrist of St. Andrews, Scotland, was perusing a book on eighteenth-century weaponry when she chanced upon an entry for the Ferguson rifle and its inventor. At the time she was researching Scottish officers who had lost their lives in the American war; it irked her that so little was known of John Pitcairn, William Leslie, and Charles Cochrane in their own country. "Our servicemen and the Loyal Americans alike have been written out of popular history. What coverage the subject receives, largely through US-imported novels, films, etc., is invariably the winners' side of the story. To the victor the spoils--and the movie rights." Her interest in the Revolution owed something to family lore, for since childhood she had been told an ancestor who served in the Loyalist militia. But even beyond that: "I have a lifelong habit of knight-erranting: scooping up historical waifs and strays and slinging them over my metaphysical saddle-bow." In Patrick Ferguson she found a subject suited to her taste as much as her research skills. Like Gilchrist's other Scots heroes, Ferguson was almost unknown to his countrymen; she couldn't even find a record of his birthday. The only popular reference to him was actually to his rifle, featured with other Scottish inventions--on a tea towel! To her mind, history in general, and Scottish history in particular, has been trivialized in just this way: reduced to the status of tourist attraction. Ancient antagonisms between England and Scotland are paraded in movies like Braveheart, obscuring the fact that both have been part of the same nation (Great Britain) since the early eighteenth century. Ferguson, like many Scots, contributed willingly toward the growth of the British Empire. Gilchrist's investigations closed gaps in the record, such as Ferguson's birthday (it was on a list written by a cousin: June 4). As she tracked him through family letters, an appealing character began to emerge: intelligent, affectionate, mischievous, someone who at age sixteen described himself as "an Admirer of Scots frases & also of the word FUN." It began to seem that hero and historian were destined to meet, especially when an American historian confirmed Gilchrist's hunch that one of Ferguson's militia recruits, William McLeod, was her own great (times five) uncle. But it was on a cold, drizzly day in January 1999, in the special collections of Edinburgh University Library, that she tapped the indomitable spirit of the man, through letters written during his convalescence in Philadelphia. From her knowledge of eighteenth-century medicine, she guessed the agony disguised by his playful words. While bone fragments painfully worked their way through the suppurating wound and doctors debated whether to remove his arm, he referred to the limb as a "most peevish Brat" that insisted on giving birth: "This very day I am to have an Addition to my Family, my Elbow is already in Labour and the Accoucheur is preparing his Instruments for the Caesarian operation." To his mother he joked, but he confided to brother George his keen disappointment at the disbanding of his rifle corps. Almost casually he added that it was irksome to continue writing with his left hand, as "the Doctors still doubt whither my right will belong to me or to the Worms." Eight months passed before that question was decided, a milestone he reported with equal parts relief and determination. Though commended for his patience, he referred to that virtue as one "which I put up with from hard necessity being married to her agt my consent and therefor God willing shall kick her out o doors as soon as I can wield my Limbs." Knowing what awaited him in the Carolinas made the letters that much more poignant for Gilchrist. As she came to know the man, she was drawn into his family circle, sharing in their private jokes and passing on mother Anne's recipe for "Plum Gem." She grieved with them through their letters upon the terrible news of "gentle Pattie's" death, which reached them shortly before Christmas. She even received permission to enter the family mausoleum in Greyfriars churchyard, Edinburgh. Inside the plain, shedlike structure she discovered a bone on the floor, a woman's arm bone (radius), which must have belonged to Patrick's cousin Betty or sister Jean. For a moment she held the arm, which might have embraced a much-loved brother, destined to die far from home. History is supposed to teach us. Often it touches us. For Gilchrist, it reached out and drew her in. Today she is Scotland's leading authority on the Fergusons of Pitfour and their most famous son, disseminating what she's learned through lectures, articles, and books. In the course of her research she became acquainted with Chris Revels, chief ranger at King's Mountain National Military Park, who invited her to speak at the second annual King's Mountain Forum, a gathering of historians, scholars, and enthusiastic amateurs. Late last August--222 years after Patrick Ferguson crossed the Atlantic--another Scottish traveler embarked on a "magical history tour," eager to follow in his footsteps. She wasn't sure what to expect. Though some of the American "ReWar" buffs she had encountered on the Internet were now good friends, she had crossed swords verbally with a few who still seemed to be in arms. Particularly grating were those who, as one correspondent put it, "look on the battle as the last chapter of the Old Testament rather than 18th-century history." Though she was made very welcome at the forum, this attitude flared up when one of the speakers declared that, "as far as many of us are concerned, Ferguson got just what was coming to him!" Gilchrist's technique, on this occasion and others, was to let her subject speak for himself, quoting him liberally through her presentation. "Pattie" emerged as a man of his time, an affectionate son and brother, an admired leader. "At the end of her second presentation," one audience member confessed, "everybody was just about in tears! She made the story very personal and affecting." Not that all her points struck home: Later a schoolteacher approached with the question, "But what was a Scotsman doing fighting for the British?" The day held some delightful surprises--including an elderly gentleman named Byron Logan, a direct descendant of Elias Powell, Ferguson's aide. The Powells moved to Texas in the early 1800s but never denied their Loyalist roots. The silver whistle remained in their family for years--Logan recalled seeing it as a child--but has since been lost, like so much of the past. "Gilchrist's work has been very beneficial," says Revels. "Basically, Marianne has filled a void that we and others were unable to accomplish due to funding and time constraints." By the 225th anniversary of the battle (in 2006) he hopes to expand the exhibits at King's Mountain to include more information about Ferguson and the Loyalists--thanks to the efforts of enthusiastic researchers, whose work is a labor of love. In a way, history is never finished. Whatever we learned about our past, in school or in the movies, is almost certain to be only part of the truth. The United States is still, as it began, a clash of visions. Where history was once sanitized, it is now "agendized," as pundits from both ends of the political spectrum seize upon bits and pieces to feed their propaganda mills. A stereotyped version filters down to the public, who are thus denied the wealth of their heritage as well as the opportunity to learn from it. (Ironically, Mel Gibson, whom Gilchrist holds responsible for mangling Scottish history in Braveheart, may do the same for the Revolution in his upcoming movie The Patriot.) During her stay, Gilchrist made several visits to Ferguson's monument on King's Mountain, but the best time was the last. With just one friend, she climbed the hill to say good-bye--for now. "It's a very special place," she says. "Against the odds, a happy spot." Hushed, as though long-stilled voices might yet be heard if one took the time to listen. Soon they heard present-day voices: a group of schoolchildren on their way up the hill. On impulse, she lifted the silver whistle that hung around her neck--a recent gift--and blew a sharp blast. The chattering kids fell silent, which was all to the good. The story of Patrick Ferguson and his loyal volunteers has much to teach them. Even if he was on the other side.n |
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