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Category: War
A Patriot from the North Carolina provincial militia led by James Moore and Richard Caswell is shown in the act of firing at the Battle of Moores Creek.
illustration: Don Troiani
Shortly before the Declaration of Independence was signed, a small but pivotal battle took place near the port city of Wilmington, N.C. The February 27, 1776, Battle of Moores Creek Bridge was the first Revolutionary War battle to be fought in the Old North State. I don’t know if the popular warning against bringing a knife to a gunfight existed then, but even before the smoke had cleared that day, the Scottish Highlanders fighting for the British certainly could have vouched for the cliché’s veracity.
In late 1775, several thousand Loyalists under Brig. Gen. (of militia) Donald MacDonald assembled at Cross Creek—the site of modern-day Fayetteville, N.C. Most were recent Scottish immigrants who’d sworn allegiance to the crown, but former members of the Regulator movement were also present.
Eventually, around 1,500 Loyalists left Cross Creek and marched for Wilmington, some 95 miles away. There, they expected to meet two British seaborne forces, totaling around 7,000 troops. Accounts vary about Loyalist armament, but many—especially those carrying only broadswords from the Scottish Highlands—expected to receive proper military muskets upon meeting the British.
Patriot forces, led by Col. James Moore (no relation to the creek), began checking the Loyalists’ advances along main routes into Wilmington. Aiding Moore’s efforts was Col. James Caswell, who, according to a National Park Service (NPS) representative, led nearly 700 Minutemen from New Bern, N.C. and around 200 militia from Wilmington.
As the Loyalists closed on Wilmington, Caswell prepared to make a stand at Moores Creek Bridge. His men used natural terrain to their advantage, throwing up a breastwork on high ground, approximately 100 feet east of the bridge. According to an NPS representative, contemporary reports show that a contingent of 2nd N.C. Continentals had added two cannons to Caswell’s force, while three “brass guns” had arrived concurrent to the Minutemen.
A camp was also set up on the west side of the bridge and manned long enough for a Loyalist messenger, traveling under a flag of truce, to mistake it for the main Patriot position. That bad intelligence prompted the Scots, now led by Lt. Col. Donald McLeod, to force-march through 6 miles of cold swampland in the early morning hours of Feb. 27. Finding the camp freshly abandoned in the dawning light, they assumed the Patriots were on the run and surged forward.
As the Loyalists approached the bridge, one of their officers is reported to have yelled “King George and broadswords!” which happened to be the vanguard’s primary weaponry. The Scots soon found that the bridge’s decking had been removed and the supporting timbers greased with soap and animal fat. With Moores Creek moving swiftly and swollen to around 6 feet deep, navigating the slick beams was slow and treacherous.
Once a sizeable group of Scots was across, they were hammered by devastating fire from the muskets and cannons of Caswell’s men. Many Loyalists were killed outright, including McLeod. Others were reportedly shot off the bridge or fell, and subsequently drowned, in the strong waters.
The initial attack lasted only a few minutes, but the NPS representative told me three more assaults were beaten back—mainly by the cannons—before the Loyalists fled into the swamps. Sources vary on the number of Loyalist casualties, but somewhere between 50 and 70 were killed and wounded. Another 850 were taken prisoner in the next days, including MacDonald. Patriot forces suffered just two casualties: one combatant killed and the other wounded.
Aside from Highlander broadswords and Patriot cannons, we have scant information about weapons used during the battle. However, because this battle was early in the war and not fought by regular troops, we can reasonably assume both sides showed up with whatever arms they already possessed when called to muster.
Muzzleloading hunting rifles and fowling pieces (what would be the colonial equivalent to a modern shotgun) were likely present among each force. A contemporary report seems to support this, stating that McLeod’s body had been riddled with nine rifle balls and a couple dozen pieces of “swann shot.” The NPS representative said he’s combed through period records showing that while running away, the Loyalists threw their weapons and equipment into the swamps to aid their flight. He’s also studied firsthand accounts listing 150 broadswords, 350 fowling pieces and 1,500 “good rifles” that were mostly confiscated from Loyalist homes over succeeding days.
Moores Creek is considered to be the first decisive American victory of the Revolutionary War, providing the Patriots with a significant morale boost. It also influenced the passing, in April 1776, of North Carolina’s “Halifax Resolves” and the colony’s status as the first to instruct its delegates to vote for independence in the Continental Congress.
I’ve always held a keen interest in this battle and have visited the site several times. A hilltop where Loyalist Scots gathered while on the way to Cross Creek sits just outside my little town in central North Carolina. The same Scottish, Irish, English and German surnames found on the 18th-century land deeds, maps and headstones of our area live on in the descendants of people who fought on both sides of America’s first civil war.
I’ve called North Carolina home since I was 18 and spent 19 of my Army years stationed at Ft. Bragg. That period of my life revolved around moving quickly—often on foot—fighting light and staying one step ahead of larger enemy forces, so this is one of those battles that speaks to me on many levels. More than anything, it reinforces my deep appreciation for the sacrifices of our founding generation and the blessings of freedom.
The Battle of Moores Creek is one on a long list of evidence for the importance of well-armed citizens. It demonstrates even a modest force, competent with their arms, thinking on their feet and always ready to defend their communities, is a strong hedge against tyranny. Just as the patriots of Massachusetts had done during the battles of Lexington and Concord in April 1775, when minutes counted, the minutemen and militia of North Carolina quickly answered the call, defended their ground and altered the course of history.
Redneck buddies form an unshakeable bond. ChatGPT image.
Edgar Simmons and Cletus Bellefontaine had been best friends since the church nursery. They grew up together, gutted through as much school as was demanded of them, and eventually married. Their wives were large, intolerant of foolishness, and best friends in their own right. Edgar and Cletus kept food on the table, serving ably as sign holders for the county road department.
Success turns on perspective. To the outside world, Edgar and Cletus were just barely scraping by. However, they met their respective mortgages and had enough left over for beer and fishing gear. The two buddies felt themselves inordinately blessed.
Prep
“Pass me another Miller Light, brother,” Cletus said amiably. WWE SmackDown roared in the background. Brutus Creed was about to go mano a mano with El Grande Americano, and the crowd was getting properly tooled up. Edgar’s expansive plasma-screen TV caught every nuance. It was almost like being physically in the ring. The effect was all the more compelling during the women’s matches.
“Cooler’s empty, loser,” Edgar responded without taking his eyes off the screen. “You’ll have to go hit the fridge. Get me another bag of Fritos while you’re up.”
Cletus was awfully comfortable.
“This is why God made wives,” he said flatly. Both men snickered.
“Jimmie Earl!” he shouted. “Be a dear and bring us some more beers and another bag of Fritos.”
The raw potato was half the size of a football. It flew out of the kitchen and crossed the living room in an instant. Jimmie Earl Bellefontaine had played competitive softball in junior college, and she still had an arm.
The heavy projectile caught Cletus behind the right ear and lifted him bodily out of the tattered recliner. The man fell unceremoniously across the coffee table and landed in a heap on the floor. Beer cans and empty chip bags skittered across the dingy carpet. Edgar reflexively leaped to his feet and took cover behind his wife’s favorite potted plant. He hoped that Pauline’s weakness for horticulture would spare him from a similar fate.
“Dang, woman!” Cletus said as he lifted himself to his feet with difficulty. His head swam from the well-placed blow. “I am forever amazed at that chick’s rarefied sense of hearing.”
“Yeah,” Edgar said as he surveyed the mess. “You know, it might be best if we wrapped up anyway. It’ll be an early day tomorrow, and them fish ain’t gonna catch themselves.”
With that, both men smiled. They would sooner fish than breathe, and the weather forecast was sublime. Cletus collected Jimmie Earl and bid his best friend goodnight.
History in the Making
The specific location of the Fishing Spot was a secret more closely guarded than the President’s nuclear launch codes. Edgar’s beat-up Ford pickup bounced to a stop underneath a familiar elm. Cletus moved to unlock the chain that secured their old john boat to a nearby tree, while Edgar unloaded the fishing gear and beer cooler. Unbeknownst to both men, however, danger lurked in the skies nearby.
“Sensors detect two bipedal life forms, Captain,” the reptilian helmsman hissed across his bifurcated tongue. “One creature is preparing an aquatic vessel. The other is preoccupied with a piece of equipment of some sort. It could be a weapon.”
The mission of the Archon-class scout ship and her twelve-lizard crew was armed reconnaissance. Their objective was to compile a detailed assessment of the indigenous life forms on this planet and relay that information back to the waiting invasion fleet via tachyon burst transmission. This would be their first encounter with the native bipeds.
“Bring us into position within range of both creatures,” the Captain hissed. “Ready photon cannons. Let us observe their response, but be prepared for any eventuality.”
Scaly three-fingered appendages tightened on sundry controls.
Edgar noticed the bizarre little object first. It was maybe three inches across and resembled a dark grey hockey puck as it hovered motionless some twenty feet distant. The compact object made no sound.
“Cletus, you seein’ this?” he said. “That thing some kind of drone? You don’t suppose anybody else has got designs on our fishing spot, do you?”
Cletus looked up from his tacklebox and spotted the curious little object in an instant. Without a moment’s hesitation, he snatched up his skulling paddle and advanced.
“Ain’t nobody stealing our fishing spot,” he said with authority. “We been fishing this place since we were weaned. It’s ours by rights of eminent domain.”
Neither man really knew what eminent domain meant. They likely intended squatter’s rights more accurately, but the gist was there. Cletus raised his wooden paddle and prepared to strike.
Rednecks for the very soul of the American Deep South. I proudly count myself among their ranks.
“Captain!” the helmsman exclaimed. “The creature is positioning itself to attack!”
“Right,” the senior officer said flatly. They had trained for this eventuality. “Forward batteries, fire as you bear. I had hoped not to have to resort to violence, but this will send an indelible message.”
There was a modest blue spark, and the air reeked of ozone. In an instant, Cletus Bellefontaine was simply gone. All that remained were his two pig boots, smoke trailing lazily up from the gory stumps where they were insulated by the rubber. Edgar processed the scene in an instant.
“Sweet holy crap!” the stunned man exclaimed. There was no time to grieve. Reaching through the open door of the pickup, Edgar retrieved his well-worn Remington slide-action 12-bore.
He cycled the action by rote and had the front bead on the malevolent hockey puck before the reptiles could respond. Edgar Simmons had a near-supernatural gift for wing shooting. At twenty feet, his tight bolus of number sixes struck the little starship squarely. The snuff can-sized cylinder spun crazily away and plopped into the lake without further fanfare.
Edgar cycled his gun without conscious thought. His ears rang, but his lizard brain was too preoccupied to notice. The confused man switched his gaze between the ringlets now propagating uniformly across the lake and his buddy’s smoldering footwear. He struggled with the decision regarding who to call first.
The tachyon feed had related all of the gory details in real time. The Commodore of the invasion fleet reviewed the pertinent data several times from three systems away before making his decision. He possessed the firepower required to subdue these primitive apes.
However, none of the raw materials to be found on this wet, cold orb justified the expense or effort. He dictated an order to bypass the planet and signed it with a single perfectly manicured claw. He would have a subordinate draft the notices for the families of the lost crew.
Turning his attention back to his tactical plot, the reptilian commander occupied himself with the particulars of fuel reserves and manpower.
SM Mike Vining, a serious Badass!
Mike Roger Vining[1] (born August 12, 1950) is a retired sergeant major in the United States Army, who was one of the first members of Delta Force. He joined the Army in 1968, and served until 1999.The man has been to the Vietnam War,
Operation Eagle Claw, Operation Urgent Fury
Operation Just Cause, Gulf War
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