Son of the Revolution by June Venable Page A

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.