Books. Bikes. Boomsticks.
"Hige sceal þe heardra, heorte þe cenre, mod sceal þe mare, þe ure mægen lytlað…"
I'm decended from a participant. Their family homestead (Henrys Knob) was just a couple miles away from the battlefield. A few days before the battle they caught a couple of loyalists snooping around spying on things, and locked them up in the root celler until things were over.
A witness to the battle said it looked like a highland feud, with mostly redheaded people screaming curses at each other in Gaelic as they settled old family scores. A number of which were settled after the loyalists surrendered. The American snipers knew which guy to shoot because Ferguson's Irish mistress (both of his ladies had come along to fight beside their man) felt he had slighted her in favor of the other (Scottish) mistress, and told Tim Murphy's boys to shoot the tall redhaired guy with his arm in a sling, wearing the plaid shirt. Damn, why don't they fight wars like that nowadays? There'd be a lot more volunteers.
Makes me think of the scene in Matewan with the foothill folk.
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