Extract from Courage in the Carolina's by Linda Chism

Last month I shared a short story with you by one of my author friends Linda Chism. Judging from the response, many of you seemed to enjoy her story.

This month she shared an extract from one of her other books, here's the link if you want to read more: Courage in the Carolinas.

The book conveys the awe and admiration Linda holds for those courageous men and women, who fought in the Carolina's in bygone years, including John Chisholm, her husband's ancestor.

- HAPPY READING!

"The teenage boy quickly found a place along the sturdy fence, squatting down next to a grizzled old veteran at least as old as his own father. The soldier’s long unkempt hair and strong odor telegraphed he had been on the march for some months. His clothes lay in tatters, almost to the point of falling off his thin body. Rags encircled his worn-out shoes, and only buckskin strings tied at his ankles kept the entire apparatus in place. At his side lay a small-bore hunting rifle and a rectangular box containing his powder and homemade balls. Jonathan had learned at his father’s knee how to produce ammunition for such a weapon, carefully pouring the prized lead into molds the exact caliber and thickness of the long, irregular barrel.

The sound of Tarleton shouting orders wafted up the hill, although Jonathan couldn’t quite make out his exact words. He watched as some of the low-level soldiers dismounted their horses and prepared to make an uphill frontal attack on foot. But before they had advanced even twenty feet, a nervous militiaman fired his weapon from behind the fence. The crack of the solitary rifle spread like measles among the host of rebels surrounding the boy. Almost to the man, they fired their weapons, their balls falling far short of the point of deadly delivery. Unfazed by the volley, the English regulars pressed forward, their bayonets attached to the ends of their Brown Bess rifles. 

The enemy, however, had not counted on a second set of rifles aimed in their direction. A blast pouring from within the unchinked outbuildings dropped their ranks to half-strength, sending the other half retreating down the hill with far more enthusiasm than they had shown moments earlier.

The unexpected retreat gave the men behind the fence time to reload their muskets and rifles. They patiently waited as a wave of Tarleton’s mounted dragoons charged up the narrow road toward the ridge. The result was both predictable and deadly. Another volley of gunfire felled the foolhardy soldiers and their horses in horrific numbers, the sounds of screaming men mixing with the pitiful whinny of dying steeds. What few unscathed survivors remained crawled downward over the bodies of both men and animals to escape the next onslaught of deadly lead.

A sudden movement coming from behind twisted Jonathan’s head to the rear. He watched as a pompous General Sumter rode confidently past the protective line of rifles, apparently heedless of the danger beyond the fence. A lucky shot from a retreating English soldier drilled a full blast of shotgun pellets into the General’s torso. He tumbled from his horse, blood spurting from his wounds with every heartbeat. Tarleton, observing the battle through an eyeglass, grinned as he watched his old foe fall hard to the ground, wounded and helpless.

A palatable chill spread through the Patriot forces as they watched their general writhing in pain on the battlefield. Seeing no other option, Jonathan at last laid down his rifle and rose to a near standing position. Using both hands to propel his body over the fence, he began to run as quickly as his feet hit the ground. The sound of English bullets whizzed by his ears as he zigzagged the fifty feet separating him from the fallen officer.

“Are you able to walk, Sir?” Jonathan screamed above the din of rifle fire coming from both sides.

“I think so, my boy, with a little help.”

Grabbing the foolish officer under the arms, Jonathan half-carried, half dragged his wounded body back to the safety of the fence. From there other enlisted men carried him into the Blackstone house to tend to his bleeding wounds. Jonathan scrambled over the fence to his former position, turning just in time to watch the English fall back, well out of the range of Patriot rifles.

“Looks like that fool Tarleton retreated rather than face another slaughter of his men,” said the old man next to him. “I figure he will wait for the rest of his men and artillery to catch up before trying to take that hill again.”

“Once he places those grasshopper cannons within firing distance, he’ll pound those outbuildings to pieces.” Jonathan replied. “And those of us behind this fence won’t fare any better. We’ll be goners for sure if we stay here.”

Colonel Twiggs, Sumter’s second-in-command, was all too aware of the jeopardy his men faced. Leaving a small number of men behind to build large fires, he spirited the rest of his thousand Patriots away to safety in the darkness of the night. Even the gravely wounded Sumter, hung in a sling between two horses, once again escaped a hangman’s noose. By the time the morning sun had risen, Tarleton could find nothing more than the dead bodies of close to ninety of his own men, lying alongside another two hundred injured English soldiers, moaning in agony from their unattended wounds.

To camouflage the extent of his defeat at Blackstock’s Farm, Tarleton packed the official report to General Cornwallis with flagrantly fictitious details of the battle. After handpicking a messenger whose silence could be bought for five guineas, the Major began his three-day pursuit of the Patriot army. But his journey left him empty-handed except for the fifty random men he had scooped up along the way as prisoners of war. Having nothing else to show for his effort, he headed back to the Chisholm farm, now certain they were not the Loyalists they pretended to be."

You can find out more Linda and her books at her Amazon Author Page here

If you want to read any of my own books, you can check out my efforts via my own Amazon Author Page here

HAPPY READING!