Bridging History

Sunday morning at 8:00 a.m. is a wonderful time to cruise along the highway. No traffic impedes forward progress. A state trooper whooshed past us doing at least 90 m.p.h. "He's after someone," said Andy, maintaining a steady 65 m.p.h. The cop swerved around a piggyback trailer truck and kept going in the distance. Moments later we saw him, lights flashing, on the shoulder, getting out of his cruiser to ticket a black Acura.
"He must have been flying," said Andy. "It's the towns where you have to be careful. They don't give a very good wind down in speeds."

We exited the highway at Route #74 and headed due east. Almost every town had at least one sign for pawn, usually many more. We buy gold and Cash for gold and silver and Pawn gold here and Scrap here: GOLD. "It must be the economic times," I said. "I've never noticed so many pawn shops before."

Moores Creek National Battlefield outside of Wilmington, North Carolina, commemorated a Revolutionary War battle from February 27, 1776, that significantly altered the course of the conflict between Patriots, who favored independence and Loyalists, who swore allegiance to the Crown.

Here, in a violent clash at dawn, about 850 Patriot militia under Colonel Richard Caswell and 150 First North Carolina Continentals under Colonel Alexander Lillington faced 1,600 Loyalists, commanded by General Donald MacDonald, on their way to a coastal rendezvous with Lord Cornwallis and the British battle fleet at Wilmington.

We walked along the boardwalk from the 1743 Negro Head Point Road. Lillington, who had walked the same road and arrived here first on February 25, built low earthworks when he recognized the defensive advantages of the site. Moores Creek wound through swampy terrain. The next day Caswell's men constructed larger earthworks on the other side of the bridge. We read the signs; the plot thickened. "I guess MacDonald was one of those old-time polite soldiers," I said to Andy. The movie had explained how he sent a letter offering the Patriots a last chance to lay down arms and swear allegiance to the Crown.

Ironically, his own forces were predominantly Scot Highlander colonists who joined for promises of free land.

The Patriots declined MacDonald's offer, and the scout he had sent observed only a few vulnerable soldiers in the camp with their backs to the creek. MacDonald, old and ill, sent Major Donald McLeod to attack.

Andy and I strolled the boardwalk at noon under beautiful blue skies; they had stumbled through the swamp at 1:00 a.m. We sauntered casually across the Moores Creek Bridge; they had slipped and slided because Patriots had removed every other plank and greased the girders with lard.
During the night Caswell's Patriots had abandoned their campsite, fires still smoldering, and posted artillery to cover the bridge. McLeod, finding the camp deserted, assumed they had fled in fear. Instead, all 1,000 lay waiting behind the larger earthworks. The movie said the battle lasted all of three minutes. About 50 in the advance party died, another 40 were wounded, and within weeks the rest were captured, along with 1,500 rifles, 350 guns and shot bags, 150 swords and dirks, and 15,000 pounds sterling--the equivalent of millions in today's dollars. Only one Patriot, Private John Grady, died that day.

The flier explained, "The battle was small, but its implications loomed large." Highlanders never again fought with swords alone. "The victory showed the surprising Patriot strength in the countryside. It discouraged growth of Loyalist sentiment in the Carolinas and spurred revolutionary feeling in the colonies." For all practical purposes, it ended for two years any British hopes of squashing rebellion in the South.

Nearby, the Tarheel Trail along higher ground through pine forest told the story of the region's chief Revolution-era industry, producing naval stores of tar, pitch and turpentine by "boxing" long-needle pine trees. Black slaves scraped the bark, collected pitch in wooden boxes and boiled it down for the sailing rigging and ship hulls.

In historic downtown Wilmington, we saw the Battleship North Carolina. Young couples holding hands meandered along the boardwalk; groups gathered at the waterfront cafes, sipping Bloody Marys; older couples sauntered up and down, walking dogs and visiting with friends. A young man in a knit cap sat on a street corner playing rhythms on a plastic bucket, and neatly dressed girls sold handmade jewelry across the way. Everything foretold spring, especially the bright sun, almost cloudless sky and near 60-degree temperatures. Punxsutawney Phil had it right.

As the sun dipped, we drove out to Cape Fear and the earthworks that surrounded old Confederate Fort Fisher from 1865. A rock groin stretched far out into the bay, and the ferry chugged past nearby. "I can see why they evacuate this when a hurricane threatens," said Andy. "It's only about two feet above sea level." Most of the frame three-story beach houses had garages on the lowest floor. The beach community with its single lane main street must rock in the summer. Now all remained quiet, For rent and For sale signs swaying gently in a late afternoon breeze. How different it all must have been a couple hundred years ago.