Pieces of Eight. John Drake

Chapter 5

       Morning, 24th September 1752 Charlestown Bay, South Carolina

      Drums beating, colours flying and bayonets fixed, the eight hundred men of the Craven County Regiment of Militia marched splendidly into the tented camp established on the southern bank of the Ashley River where it opened into Charlestown harbour, less than a quarter of a mile from the town itself and close enough that their fifes and drums could be heard from the city walls. The officers were in British scarlet, with gorgettes and soldierly cocked hats, while the ranks wore whatever was practical for campaigning in the field. But every man shouldered a Brown Bess musket and carried sixty rounds of ball cartridge in his pouch, and stepped out to the beat of the drum.

      They advanced in two columns, and between them–escorted, guarded and enclosed–came the Patanq nation: First the warriors, then the old men, then the women and children burdened with all the nation’s goods. The marching militia–in columns of three–just covered the three hundred and four warriors, leaving the tail of old men, and women and children stringing along behind. Nobody worried about them.

      The formation was received with drum-rolls and dipped colours by the remaining five militia regiments of the Royal Colony of South Carolina, paraded in arms, and which–together with the Craven County Regiment–numbered close on six thousand men, not to mention the three troops of horse militia that trotted outside the marching columns, with spurs and broadswords jingling, and who were over one hundred strong in their own right.

      Mounted, uniformed, and with flashing swords drawn in salute, the colonels of the five regiments stood before their men, with Colonel Douglas Harper of the Charlestown Regiment–who was the senior–in the middle and a horse length to the fore, an aide on either side of him.

      They sheathed swords and Colonel Harper spoke to the young officer to his right, who on other days was his eldest son Tom.

      “Fine sight, Lieutenant!”

      “Indeed, sir!”

      “What a day for the Colony!”

      “Aye! Damned Indians.”

      “Hmm,” said Colonel Harper, and pondered, for he’d been a great man in the Charlestown fur trade, and had grown rich by it, and every fur he ever sold was trapped and brought in by the Indians. Still…he looked back at the walls of Charlestown, which weren’t there to protect against the French and Spanish only, but against Indians too. And today the Colony was taking the wonderful opportunity to rid itself of the entire Patanq nation, all fifteen hundred of them, in their moccasins and blankets. These days they weren’t the most numerous of the Indian nations, but they were Indians and times were changing, and better they should live anywhere other than South Carolina, and preferably in the moon if only they could be got there. So thought Colonel Harper.

      “Pa?” said Lieutenant Harper.

      “Colonel!” corrected Harper.

      “Sorry, Pa…Colonel.”

      “Well?”

      “Why’s there so many of us? All the regiments? There’s more of us than there is of them, even counting the women and little ’uns!” Harper frowned.

      “Don’t you ever listen? Haven’t I told you about them savages?” Colonel Harper was fifty-five years old and had been more things than a trader. He’d fought the Patanq in his time, and shuddered at the thought of it. Especially the recollection of going to battle against them in the woods. “Listen, boy, if there’s enough of us here today to put the idea of fighting clean out of their heathen heads, then there’s not one man too many! So shut up and face your front.”

      Colonel Harper looked at the Indians, raising dust as they tramped in, bedraggled from their long march. In fact Tom was right in a way; there were not more than a few hundred warriors in all. But you never knew with the Patanq. They moved like ghosts, you wouldn’t hear them coming, and you’d only realise they’d cut your throat when your shirt front turned red.

      He turned in the saddle and raised his voice:

      “Three hearty rousing cheers for the Craven County men. Hip-Hip-Hip…”

      Thundering cheers bellowed out as the mustered regiments raised their caps on their bayonets and gave three tremendous huzzahs. In response to the cheers, bells clanged and pealed from the town.

      “Colonel?” said a voice from his left: Lieutenant David Harper, his second eldest, and by far the brightest son. “Is that the Dreamer?” He pointed to the head of the Patanq column.

      “Aye,” said Colonel Harper, pleased that one son had paid attention, “that’s him, their famous medicine man. And that’s Dark Hand, the war sachem, or chief, at his side.” Harper looked at them as they came past. He knew Dreamer very well. Him and all the Patanq leaders. Now he drew steel to salute them. And the sachems raised their right hands formally to acknowledge him. For they knew him, too.

      There were a dozen of them, leading their nation in procession with Dreamer and Dark Hand. Dreamer was a small, shrivelled man, marked by long illness. He looked a miserable creature beside Dark Hand, but he was the soul of the Patanq nation, and a formidable negotiator–as Harper knew all too well, having attended the lengthy council sessions that had brought the Patanq here today, granted safe passage and a fleet of six ships to carry them off, along with the gold they’d accumulated through years of fur trading and bringing in scalps for the bounty.

      The thought of scalps made Harper glance nervously at the warriors, fearful creatures that they were…tall men every one: lithe and muscular, upright, hook-nosed, black-eyed and stone-faced. They wore bright-coloured trade blankets round their shoulders and carried long guns in their arms. Their heads were shaven except for dangling, befeathered queues, their cheeks were tattooed in geometric lines and they wore silver nose-rings and elaborate, beaded jewellery.

      At last the Patanq came within sight of the harbour, and the ships anchored under the guns of Fort Johnson, with the launches and longboats beached and ready on the shore. And a chatter arose, first from the sachems, and then from the warriors. Harper shook his head in wonder. This was an unheard of vulgarity for the Patanq, who habitually endured the shocks of life in silence. But the chattering was nothing to the shrill cries of the women and children, to whom the ships and the boats and the endless rolling waters were magical wonders.

      They surged forward, led by the matriarchs who even the warriors must treat with respect. They shouted and yelled and urged the children forward, elbowing aside the Craven County Militia, who grinned indulgently and opened ranks to let them through. After all, who were they to stand in the way of Indians about to board ship and sail away for ever? So the militiamen grinned, the young girls shrieked, the children laughed, and the watching regiments cheered in delight as the women and children of the Patanq nation ran headlong down to the shore.

      The sachems and warriors maintained their dignity, keeping a steady pace and manly bearing. But Harper saw that some of them were in doubt and arguing noisily.

      Oh no! he thought, and a tingle of fright shot up his spine. Don’t let them baulk at the last moment. Please no. Not after all this…

      “Colonel,” said his second-eldest, “what’s going on, sir? Some of their chiefs are stopping.”

      “No they’re not,” said the colonel. “They’re just puzzled. Most of these have never seen the sea before, nor ships neither. They’re surprised, that’s all.”

      He wanted it to be true, but it wasn’t. As the arguments grew, the sachems came to a halt, and nervous conversations began among the colonels behind Harper, and among the troops too. Up and down the lines of infantry, men stopped cheering and began fingering their muskets and wondering if they might have to use them. Harper took a deep breath. He couldn’t let all this come to nothing.

      “You two follow me,” he said to his sons, “the