It had been quite a day for the loosely organized force of Overmountain Men. They had left their homes on the western frontier weeks before and had crossed the mountains eastward to defeat one of the British columns threatening the American settlements. They’d done more than defeat it, however. On October 7, 1780, the Patriot militia led by such men as Charles McDowell, Isaac Shelby, John Sevier, and William Campbell had completely wiped out the force of British regulars and militia led by Maj. Patrick Ferguson. Ironically, Ferguson’s defeat came on a small elevation known as Kings Mountain.
As the sun set, the guns fell silent, and even the shrieks of the wounded were hushed. In the gathering gloom of the twilight, John Sevier approached one of his men, Joseph Greer. This young man, only twenty years old, had already seen a good deal of warfare and had fought in the front of the battle all day at Kings Mountain. If the British had failed to shoot him, it was their fault, for at seven feet tall and three hundred pounds, Greer provided an excellent target. But Sevier did not want Greer to fight anymore that day; he wanted him to travel.
The Patriot cause was not faring well. In the North the war had been at a stalemate ever since the spring of 1777, when Washington had fought the British to a standstill at Monmouth Courthouse in New Jersey. Since that time, the opposing armies had skirmished and maneuvered around New York City, but nothing seemed to happen to bring the war nearer to a close.
In the South the war had been an unmitigated disaster. Savannah and Charleston had fallen to the enemy, and the British cavalry under Banistre Tarleton ranged over the land at will. The Congress in Philadelphia needed to hear some good news, as did all the supporters of the Patriot cause.
The request John Sevier made of Joseph Greer seemed a simple one. Would Greer take a little stroll up to Philadelphia and tell the Congress what the boys had accomplished at Kings Mountain? Greer’s response to the request was to leave early on the morning of October 8.
Hundreds of miles of wilderness lay between Greer and the Congress. He could not turn east into the more settled area of the Carolinas, for that territory was in the hands of the British. The frontier, however, was flooded with Indians who were supporting the British in an attempt to stop settlers from moving west. Greer would be in danger whichever way he went, but the frontier offered one advantage: Greer had been trading with the Indians all his life, and he knew their ways. So, along the frontier he went.
Steadily Greer traveled, constantly watching the woods around him for enemies. At night he was sometimes fortunate enough to find a log cabin with a friendly fire and hot food, where a traveler with news was welcome. Many nights his bed was the cold ground. Because he was such a large man, Greer’s horse did not stand the strain of the journey for long, and when the mount went lame, no replacement could be found on any of the few frontier farms he passed. So Joseph Greer walked, his huge boots wearing out with every step.
Crossing rivers was bad. Cold weather had arrived, with frost every morning and occasional ice on puddles of water. The streams were frigid, and his clothes were slow to dry, but Greer kept on walking.
In southwestern Virginia the trip became even more dangerous. Greer saw the signs left by a band of Indians, little things such as broken twigs, slight impressions of feet in soft ground, the carefully hidden remains of small campfires. Then it happened. Looking down a long ridge as he checked his own back trail, Greer saw a group of Indians tracking him.
Running now, trying to put as much distance as he could between himself and the war party, Greer knew he was leaving plain signs for all his pursuers to follow, but he saw no alternative. Faintly, in the distance, he could hear war whoops, and he knew the chase was on.
All the rest of the day, Greer trotted on. Whenever a height allowed a look behind him, he saw Indians coming up his track. Ahead was a difficult stream crossing that Greer knew would slow him down, and he was getting tired. Then, an opportunity presented itself in the form of a fallen hollow sycamore tree. Greer dove into the cavity and then reached back outside to scatter leaves over the faint marks his entry had made. Now, it was a matter of luck.
The sudden stillness of the forest creatures told Greer his trackers were near. A little later, he could hear them talking. They were puzzled that they had lost his trail. A muted thump told Greer one of his pursuers was sitting on the log in which he was hidden. Even after the birds began chirping again, Greer lay still. It was the next morning before he crawled out of his log.
CHRISTOPHER LUDWICK of Philadelphia frequently infiltrated the British lines to urge German mercenaries to desert and become farmers in Pennsylvania. Many did.
Somewhere in the Shenandoah Valley some days later, Greer got another horse. Travel was still dangerous, but there were more people here, and he traveled more quickly. In Maryland and Pennsylvania it was safe for him to move east, and Greer could move faster yet. At last, Philadelphia came into view.
Greer truly stood out in these surroundings. Not only did he tower above everyone else, he looked like a wild man. His hair was long and tangled, as was his beard. He was wearing the same clothes in which he had fought at Kings Mountain, and they had not been in the height of eastern fashion even when new. Like most of his frontier peers, Greer was wearing a hunting shirt. This was a one-piece, long-sleeved garment made of cloth woven from linen and wool that hung straight from the shoulders to the knees. A leather belt caught the shirt at the waist, likely with a knife or a tomahawk—or both—thrust into the belt. Beneath the hunting shirt, short breeches with leggings replacing stockings disappeared into boots or high-topped moccasins. A broad-brimmed felt hat topped off the ensemble. In Greer’s case the entire outfit was ragged from wear and stained from travel. Although his body and his clothes were dirty, his long rifle was gleamingly clean.
Ignoring the stares, Greer made directly for the state-house, whose clock tower rose above the surrounding roofs, on Chestnut Street. Up the steps he strode, his “little stroll” almost over. Old Andrew McNair was charged with the duty of doorkeeper for the Congress and was decidedly of the opinion that the wild man pacing down the corridor did not belong there, but when a wild man is seven feet tall and carrying weapons with which he seems familiar, discretion is a recommended course.
With a dignity born of a purpose fulfilled, Greer walked up to the speaker’s table. “Sirs,” he said, “I am just come from the Carolina backwoods bearing great good news. God has blessed us with victory.”
Some years later, Greer was awarded 3,000 acres of land in Lincoln County, Tennessee, as a reward for his services. Greer is buried on that farm, and his large boots are on display in the Tennessee State Museum in Nashville.