Chapter 19: Ninty-Six

Over the next few days I rested up some with a Whig family that dressed my wounds, applied some herbs and spiderwebs here and there and shared their meager supply of food with me, a lot of corn mush and hominy. That strap had made the worst looking mess of my body since the Battle of Trenton when I got horsewhipped for helping a quail named Sally among other things. That story's back in Book Three I think.

I was pissing blood again, and it took a week before I could see out of my left eye. I had deep bruises and long cuts pretty near from belly button to nose including one on my cheek that the woman of the family put a couple of stitches in. I rather not describe what my privates looked like or how they felt. I could not get it up no matter what I tried.

I made my aching way through small settlements and smaller crossroads called, among the ones that I do remember, Brandon's Camp, Cedar Springs, Wood's Fort, Canebreak, Seneca and Hammond's Store. Then I came to Ninety-Six, which had been, according to some friendly locals who shared a jug of very potent whisky with me, an important trading post since Hector was a pup and Moses a beardless youth.

"Twas the place them Cherokee devils come to trade," my oldest drinking friend said, raking out his white beard and looking very sage-like. "I 'member them damn redskins, ugly men but fine looking wimmen."

To my constant question, he told me the town was supposed to be 96 miles from Ke-o-wee up in the foothills, but said, "Damn if I knows where the hell that be."

It certainly was a crossroads for just about every trail that headed into the interior or led toward the coast in that part of the country. There had been, I was told, a battle here back in '75, and the small town now was one of Cornwallis's most important fortified settlements in a region that probably was home to more Tories than supporters of the revolt.

"That bastard with the bad arm and the two pretty women was here," the old man said. "Reminds me, you want a woman?"

"Who?" I asked, being new to the region and putting the suggestion aside for the moment although I had been eager, off and on, for more than a week to get the fat, dirty, Tory female out of my mind. Dimity was her name, my memory recalled sourly and against my will.

"Ferguson, the one with the plaid shirt, that rip-snorter. He drummed up a bunch of local Tories and took 'em out to get killed, 'long with his doxies. Don't think none a'them come back."

"King's Mountain," I guessed.

The man nodded, took a sip and smiled. "Cleaned a heap of bad actors out of this region, he did."

"Now you said something about a woman?" I asked the white-bearded man as he handed me the jug.

He grinned. "I got a gal takes care a'my needs, widder lady. Know she druther bed you than me, an' I don' mind long as you gets around to killing some a'them Redcoats and their friends."

"That's my main job," I said, although I generally put it third or fourth.

"How many you done?" he asked.

"A few, never counted," I said. "About this here woman?"

"You in a hurry. Don't look randy. Is you? Guess how many."

"Cain't always tell where the gunsmoke gets thick. Up at Trenton, they had me trapped in the barracks, and I know I got a dozen that day."

"All by yersef?" He squinted at me.

"No. Had two pretty women loading for me," I told him. "Bedded 'em both, too."

"Um hm," he said with a smile, obviously not believing my tale. "Cora!" he yelled. "Cora!"

A slim, dark woman with long braided hair appeared at the dim doorway behind him. She walked quietly across the porch to stand by the old man's chair. He reached up and put his arm around her hips. She was wearing a butternut, homespun dress of rough material, a beaded deerskin vest and, despite the cool weather, was barefoot. Her eyes were dark and deep-set, her teeth very white.

"This here big feller," my bearded friend said, looking up at the girl and smiling, "he hates them British much as you and me do. He ain't had a woman since Michaelmas or Whitsunday or the last blue moon, poor little man. Take him back to your room there and help him, be nice to him till sunrise or his eyes swap sockets. I can sleep out here tonight." He patted her bottom making a firm, solid, engaging sound.

She nodded and looked at me, level eyed, nothing but curiosity in her gaze. I'm sure my face was still swollen some, and I had a couple of black knots in my cheek, maybe the remnants of a stripe. Then she smiled and crooked a finger at me.

"You go on," the old man said to her, with another friendly pat. "I want to talk some more. He'll be along directly." She bent and kissed him on the forehead and walked back in and closed the door, wordlessly.