Patrick Ferguson, the best shot in the British army, invented a rifle in 1776 that loaded at the breech. It was the first breechloader carried by the troops of any country.
The Provincial Regulars are believed to have used this splendid weapon at Kings Mountain.
The rifle was ahead of its time and was discarded after his death. It is now rare.
Probably no other battle in the Revolution was so picturesque or so furiously fought as that at Kings Mountain. The very mountain thundered. Not a regular soldier was in the American ranks. Every man there was actuated by a spirit of democracy. They fought under leaders of their own choosing for the right to live in a land governed by men of their own choice.
With the death of Ferguson, the rifles of his invention, with which probably 150 of his men were armed, disappeared. Some were broken in the fight and others were carried off by the victors. One given by Ferguson to his companion, De Peyster, is today an heirloom in the family of the latter’s descendants in New York City. It was exhibited by the United States Government at the World’s Fair at Chicago in 1893. A very few are to be found in museum collections in this country and in England. The one possessed by the National Park Service was obtained from a dealer in England through the vigilance of members of the staff of the Colonial National Historical Park, Virginia, and is now exhibited in the museum at Kings Mountain National Military Park, South Carolina.
The Kings Mountain museum tells the story of the Revolutionary backwoodsman and his place in the scheme of Americanism. Here also is presented the story of the cultural, social, and economic background of the Kings Mountain patriots, as well as the details of the battle and its effect on the Revolution as a whole. Here lies the rare opportunity to preserve for all time significant relics of Colonial and Revolutionary days and at the same time interpret for a multitude of visitors the basic elements in the story of the old frontier—a story which affected most of the Nation during the century that followed the Revolution.
Our interest here will turn to those intriguing reminders of how our Colonial ancestors lived—their houses, their tools and implements, their furniture, their books, and their guns. Because of the significance of the American rifle in the battle of Kings Mountain, it must be a feature of any Kings Mountain exhibit. In the Carolinas it was as much a part of each patriot as was his good right arm.
Light in weight, graceful in line, economical in consumption of powder and lead, fatally precise, and distinctly American, it was for 100 years the great arbitrator that settled all differences throughout the American wilderness. George Washington, while a surveyor in the back country, as scout and diplomat on his march into the Ohio country, and while with his Virginians on Braddock’s fatal expedition, had formed the acquaintance of the hunters, Indian fighters, and pioneers of the Alleghanies—riflemen all. These men were drawn upon in 1775 to form the first units of the United States Army, 10 companies of “expert riflemen.” The British, in an attempt to compete with American accuracy of fire, cried for Jäger, German huntsmen armed with rifles, and begged that they might be included in the contingents of German troops.
From the numerous written comments on the American rifle and riflemen made by British leaders, it would be possible to quote at length regarding the effect of American rifle fire upon British morale and casualty lists. We may call attention again to the statistics on the Kings Mountain dead: British, 225; American, 28. Draper records that 20 dead Tories were found behind certain protruding rocks on the crest of the hill, and that each victim was marked by a bullet hole in his forehead. Col. George Hanger, British officer with Tarleton in South Carolina, provides the following observation on the precision of American rifle fire:
I never in my life saw better rifles (or men who shot better) than those made in America; they are chiefly made in Lancaster, and two or three neighboring towns in that vicinity, in Pennsylvania. The barrels weigh about six pounds two or three ounces, and carry a ball no larger than thirty-six to the pound; at least I never saw one of the larger caliber, and I have seen many hundreds and hundreds. I am not going to relate any thing respecting the American war; but to mention one instance, as a proof of most excellent skill of an American rifleman. If any man shew me an instance of better shooting, I will stand corrected.
Colonel, now General Tartleton, and myself, were standing a few yards out of a wood, observing the situation of a part of the enemy which we intended to attack. There was a rivulet in the enemy’s front, and a mill on it, to which we stood directly with our horses’ heads fronting, observing their motions. It was an absolute plain field between us and the mill; not so much as a single bush on it. Our orderly-bugle stood behind us, about 3 yards, but with his horse’s side to our horses’ tails. A rifleman passed over the mill-dam, evidently observing two officers, and laid himself down on his belly; for, in such positions, they always lie, to take a good shot at a long distance. He took a deliberate and cool shot at my friend, at me, and the bugle-horn man. (I have passed several times over this ground, and ever observed it with the greatest attention; and I can positively assert that the distance he fired from, at us, was full four hundred yards.)
Now, observe how well this fellow shot. It was in the month of August, and not a breath of wind was stirring. Colonel Tartleton’s horse and mine, I am certain, were not anything like two feet apart; for we were in close consultation, how we should attack with our troops, which laid 300 yards in the wood, and could not be perceived by the enemy. A rifle-ball passed between him and me; looking directly to the mill, I observed the flash of the powder. I said to my friend, “I think we had better move, or we shall have two or three of these gentlemen, shortly, amusing themselves at our expence.” The words were hardly out of my mouth, when the bugle horn man, behind us, and directly central, jumped off his horse, and said, “Sir, my horse is shot.” The horse staggered, fell down, and died. He was shot directly behind the foreleg, near to the heart, at least where the great blood-vessels lie, which lead to the heart. He took the saddle and bridle off, went into the woods, and got another horse. We had a number of spare horses, led by negro lads.