In today’s American Nomad Traveler Revolutionary Road Trip adventure, we’re setting our course for Moore’s Creek Bridge—where on February 27, 1776, Patriot forces won what historians and the National Park Service describe as the first decisive Patriot victory of the American Revolution.
The battle unfolded in the marshy lowlands of North Carolina’s Cape Fear region, roughly 20 miles from Wilmington, in a landscape defined by tangled forests, blackwater creeks, and boggy terrain locals described as a “very bad swamp.”
In the eighteenth century, this bridge was a critical crossing point for anyone attempting to reach Wilmington and the coast from inland settlements like Cross Creek (present-day Fayetteville). The bridge mattered because it cut down travel time and avoided miles of treacherous detours through swampy ground.
While some marshland creeks could be forded, at the time of the battle, Moore’s Creek was not one of them. According to the ranger I spoke with on site, in February 1776, the creek measured at least ten feet deep, making the bridge the only practical way across. Without it, an army’s advance would grind to a halt.
This was a crossing of history—where the very fabric of the Revolution hit a fork in the road…whoever captured the bridge and successfully won the battle would change North Carolina’s path on a cold February morning in 1776.
Crossing the Bridge to History:
I was fortunate to spend time speaking with Moores Creek Ranger Jason Collins, who walked me through the battle and explained its often overlooked—but crucial—importance on the road to the Declaration of Independence, and in shaping the broader trajectory of the Revolutionary War.
In this post, I’ll share the events that set the stage for Moore’s Creek, the battle itself, its lasting impact, and tips for planning your own Revolutionary Road Trip to eastern North Carolina and Moore’s Creek Bridge.
The Calamities Before the Spark: A Decade of Discontent (1765–1775)
To fully understand the drama of Moores Creek Bridge, we must turn the clock back to 1765, when the Stamp Act Crisis ignited political unrest in the Cape Fear region of southeastern North Carolina. While Moores Creek would become the site of the first major Patriot victory of the Revolution, it did not erupt in isolation. It was the product of a decade of mounting grievances—local, regional, and imperial—that shaped how North Carolinians chose sides.
Following Britain’s victory in the French and Indian War (known in Europe as the Seven Years’ War), the British Empire emerged as the dominant global power, wresting vast territories from France in North America. That victory, however, came at an enormous financial cost. Britain was deeply in debt, and Parliament faced a dilemma: the British public was already among the most heavily taxed in Europe, leaving little room to raise domestic revenue further.
Parliament reasoned that the American colonies—many of whose western lands had been defended during the war—should shoulder part of the financial burden. Previous efforts, such as the Sugar Act of 1764, relied on indirect taxation through trade duties. The Stamp Act of March 1765 marked a significant escalation: it imposed direct internal taxes on everyday items such as legal documents, newspapers, and licenses—touching nearly every aspect of colonial life.
Opposition was immediate and vocal. In Parliament, figures such as Isaac Barré warned that the colonies were not conquered subjects but loyal Britons entitled to the same rights as those at home. Even Charles Cornwallis—later infamous in the American Revolution—was among the small minority in Parliament who voted against the Act.
Fun fact: The term ‘Sons of Liberty’ actually comes from Isaac Barre from his Stamp Act debates with Charles Townshend, where Barre smokes out Townshend’s arguments by saying: ‘They grew by your neglect of them. As soon as you began to care about them, that care was exercised in sending persons to rule over them, in one department and another… sent to spy out their liberty, to misrepresent their actions and to prey upon them; men whose behavior on many occasions has caused the blood of these sons of liberty to recoil within them…’
At the heart of the colonial protest lay a constitutional argument. British citizens possessed a Bill of Rights protecting them from taxation without representation. While the colonies had elected assemblies, they had no direct representation in Parliament. Many colonists believed this made the Stamp Act an illegal violation of their rights as Englishmen.
In the Cape Fear region, resistance quickly coalesced. Maurice Moore, a judge from Brunswick Town, published a widely circulated pamphlet in July 1765 condemning the tax—a bold move that placed him at odds with Royal Governor William Tryon. In Wilmington, protesters staged dramatic demonstrations, including mock funerals for “Liberty,” complete with symbolic burials meant to show what they believed Parliament was destroying. Yet in these performances, liberty was never allowed to remain buried—its symbolic “resurrection” underscoring colonial defiance.
The crisis reached its most dramatic moment in late November 1765 at Brunswick Town, then North Carolina’s most important port. Brunswick handled a massive share of the empire’s naval stores—tar, pitch, and turpentine harvested from the region’s vast longleaf pine forests and essential to Britain’s navy. Here, resistance turned armed. Local Sons of Liberty, including John Ashe, Cornelius Harnett, and James Moore, moved decisively to prevent stamped paper from being distributed. In a show of unified resistance, protesters even surrounded Tryon’s residence at Russellborough, the ruins of which still stand today.
The Stamp Act was repealed in March 1766, and for many Cape Fear leaders the immediate constitutional crisis seemed resolved. Yet the years that followed did not bring stability. Instead, North Carolina entered a turbulent decade defined less by imperial conflict and more by internal division—a struggle that would deeply influence loyalties on the eve of revolution.
The War of Regulation and a Divided Colony
As North Carolina’s population surged westward, tensions between the eastern counties and the backcountry intensified. Western counties were geographically vast yet underrepresented in the colonial legislature, while the smaller eastern counties—home to the political elite—wielded disproportionate power. This imbalance bred resentment, particularly as royal officials appointed by Governor Tryon controlled courts, fees, and land disputes. One especially inflammatory grievance was Tryon’s decision to tax the general population to finance an elaborate Governor’s Palace in New Bern, newly designated the colony’s permanent capital. The move was driven in part by Tryon’s frustration with the defiant political culture of the Cape Fear region and his desire to distance himself from entrenched power families such as the Moores in an effort to reassert royal authority.
While few objected in principle to legislative taxes funding public buildings, the structure of the tax itself caused outrage: it was levied uniformly, meaning a wealthy coastal planter paid the same amount as a struggling backcountry blacksmith in Hillsborough. That inequity, combined with the fact that Tryon already had access to suitable housing in Brunswick Town, made the palace a lightning rod for broader frustrations over corruption, inequality, and misuse of power.
Backcountry settlers increasingly complained of corruption, particularly targeting courthouse officials who enriched themselves through excessive fees and legal manipulation. Edmund Fanning, a close ally of Tryon, became a lightning rod for this anger. While not all officials were corrupt—William Hooper, for example, maintained a reputation for integrity—the perception of an entrenched “courthouse ring” fueled unrest.
The movement that emerged, known as the Regulators, initially sought reform through petitions and legal channels. When these efforts failed, tensions escalated. In 1770, violence erupted in Hillsborough, where a mob dragged Hooper through the streets and destroyed Fanning’s home. Though many sympathized with the Regulators’ grievances, the resort to violence alienated potential allies.
Governor Tryon responded not with reform, but force. Calling out the militia—often supported by landholding obligations tied to military service—he marched west. The confrontation culminated in the Battle of Alamance on May 16, 1771. The Regulators, many poorly armed and hoping still to force negotiation, were decisively defeated. Several leaders were executed, others pardoned, and the movement collapsed.
Importantly, Alamance was not a precursor to the American Revolution in the ideological sense. The Regulators were not rebelling against Parliament or the Crown; their grievances lay with local corruption and gubernatorial abuse of power. Many believed the King, if properly informed, would correct the injustices. Patriots, by contrast, increasingly viewed Parliament itself as the threat to liberty, with royal governors acting as its agents.
This distinction matters.
A useful analogy might be this: believing your county officials are corrupt does not necessarily mean you blame the Supreme Court. For the Regulators, Tryon was the problem, not parliament.
Why This Matters for Moores Creek
These overlapping but distinct experiences shaped North Carolina on the eve of war. When fighting erupted in 1775–1776, Moores Creek would pit North Carolinians against one another—Patriots against Loyalists—each side shaped by different grievances, loyalties, and expectations.
Outside observers often misunderstood the complexity of North Carolina’s internal divisions. During his 1773 southern tour, Patriot leader Josiah Quincy assumed that former Regulators—having once resisted royal authority under Governor Tryon—would naturally align with the Patriot cause. In reality, that assumption proved faulty. In the Cape Fear region, memories of the War of Regulation still ran deep, and Wilmington’s Sons of Liberty had, in many cases, rebuffed or distanced themselves from the Regulators, whom they associated with disorder and mob violence rather than constitutional protest.
By the mid-1770s, Royal Governor Josiah Martin capitalized on these lingering resentments. He worked—at least rhetorically—to acknowledge backcountry grievances and present the Crown as a stabilizing force after years of upheaval. For some former Regulators, this outreach made Loyalism a more appealing option, at least in the early stages of the conflict.
Adding yet another layer of complexity were the Scottish Highlanders. Many had fought against British authority at Culloden in 1746 before emigrating to North Carolina. Yet in America, they largely supported the Crown. Their reasoning was deeply personal. Imagine their perspective: you have lost your home, family members, and community in a war you believed just; you are granted a fragile second chance in a new land, with property and the promise of stability. Now you are being drawn into yet another rebellion—one that, at least on the surface, appears fragmented, locally driven, and uncertain in outcome. Having already paid dearly once for resistance, loyalty to the Crown could seem not ideological, but practical—an anchor against chaos.
No figure embodies this tragic contradiction more clearly than Flora MacDonald. In Scotland, she had risked everything to help Bonnie Prince Charlie escape after Culloden, making her a symbol of Jacobite defiance. Yet during the American Revolution, she remained a steadfast Loyalist. After Moores Creek, her husband and son were captured, her North Carolina home was lost, and her family’s life was once again uprooted. She ultimately returned to Scotland having suffered ruin on both sides of the Atlantic—famously described as having been “whipped on both sides of the water.”
This is what makes Moores Creek Bridge so compelling. It was not merely a clash between Patriots and Loyalists, but the collision of lived experiences—of memory, loss, loyalty, and fear. Ideals of liberty mattered, but so did survival. And in North Carolina, those choices were shaped as much by past wounds as by future hopes.
1771 — A New Era – Cue Governor Martin
Almost immediately after his victory at the Battle of Alamance in May 1771, Governor William Tryon received the promotion he had long sought: appointment as royal governor of New York. Tryon had crushed the Regulator movement, but he left behind an unsettled colony. Many Regulators signed pardons, while others fled westward toward the Watauga settlements or into neighboring colonies. Open resistance would not reemerge, but memories linger—and in North Carolina, political grievances had a way of surviving across generations.
Tryon’s successor, Josiah Martin, conferred with him before taking office, inheriting both the aftermath of Alamance and a deeply divided colony. Martin proved politically astute in at least one respect: he worked to mend relations with former Regulators and the backcountry, signaling a willingness to listen and restore order through conciliation rather than force. Yet this same approach made him unpopular among segments of the eastern elite who had prospered under Tryon’s patronage.
Martin’s administration unfolded in the shadow of Tryon’s legacy. Tryon had been formidable, but he had also demonstrated vulnerability—most notably during the Stamp Act crisis, when he was effectively held hostage at Brunswick Town in February 1766 alongside his secretary, Edward Pennington. Though he later pardoned his opponents and skillfully leveraged political alliances to suppress the Regulators, the episode exposed the limits of royal authority in North Carolina. Martin, keenly aware of imperial instability—particularly after the Boston Massacre in 1770—appears to have concluded that royal authority could no longer afford such weakness.
Despite Martin’s maneuvering, he ultimately underestimated the independent political culture of Carolinians, especially those accustomed to local self-government. The Regulators had been subdued, but the broader spirit of resistance had not been extinguished.
You cannot understand why Moores Creek without understanding Governor Martin. Though absent from the battlefield itself, his decisions—and the Patriot response to them—set the stage for the conflict that erupted in February 1776.
Martin was a complicated figure. One can sympathize with his attempt to hold a fracturing colony together. Yet, like other royal governors—Lord Dunmore of Virginia comes readily to mind—Martin often paired conciliatory gestures with abrupt and heavy-handed actions. This combination pleased no one. His outreach to the backcountry angered eastern elites, while his increasingly authoritarian responses to Patriot organizing alienated moderates who still hoped for reconciliation.
By August 1774, North Carolinians had convened their First Provincial Congress, meeting in New Bern—ironically within sight of the Governor’s Palace—outside the authority of the colonial legislature. Delegates discussed the resolutions of the First Continental Congress and quietly prepared for the possibility of armed resistance. Even then, through 1774 and into early 1775, many still hoped reconciliation with Britain remained possible.
That hope began to fracture in the spring of 1775. When the colonial legislature met in New Bern in early April, members debated whether to endorse Continental Congress resolutions. These discussions unfolded against a rapidly escalating backdrop. Just weeks earlier, Virginians—after Royal Governor Lord Dunmore dissolved the House of Burgesses—had convened in secret, holding a shadow convention in Richmond at St. John’s Church deliberately beyond his reach. It was there, at St. John’s Church, that Patrick Henry delivered his now-famous “Give me liberty, or give me death!” speech. News of this clandestine meeting and Virginia’s willingness to organize outside royal authority would have been very much on the minds of North Carolina delegates gathering in New Bern.
Determined to halt what he saw as open defiance, Martin dissolved the North Carolina Assembly on April 8, 1775. He cited members’ support for the Continental Congress, their refusal to cooperate with royal authority, and their close ties to the “illegal” Provincial Congress. The move backfired spectacularly, reinforcing Patriot claims that constitutional government was being silenced and liberties violated—not just in New England, but across the colonies.
As opposition intensified, Martin took increasingly defensive steps. Fearing attack, he ordered the removal of cannons from Tryon Palace—largely symbolic, but deeply provocative. Soon after, under cover of night, he fled New Bern for Fort Johnston at the mouth of the Cape Fear River. Rather than restoring order, the secretive move only inflamed public anger.
Fort Johnston—begun in 1748 after Spanish privateers attacked Brunswick Town during the War of Jenkins’ Ear and named for former governor Gabriel Johnston—was by 1775 in poor condition and weakly garrisoned. Martin found himself isolated, surrounded by aging cannons and dwindling loyalty.
As revolutionary pressure mounted, the Wilmington Committee of Safety began planning an attack. On July 13, 1775, Martin fled Fort Johnston for the British warship HMS Cruizer anchored in the Cape Fear River. By July 19, Patriot leaders including John Ashe and Cornelius Harnett had effectively forced him into permanent exile. Martin became one of the first royal governors driven entirely from his colony—without an army, without allies, and without authority ashore.
This is where the true drama of Moores Creek begins to unfold.
Martin’s Revenge
Governor Josiah Martin was furious at being driven from his colony. After all, he was the King’s appointed representative. Only a decade earlier, such an expulsion would have been unthinkable. Even during the Stamp Act Crisis of 1765–1766—when Governor Tryon’s authority was badly shaken—royal control ultimately held. Martin’s exile marked a clear shift in colonial power dynamics.
Just as revealing was the Loyalist response—or lack thereof. While many North Carolinians still favored the stability of King and country, they did not rally to rescue Martin or restore him by force. There was no rush of Loyalists to his ship in the days following the evacuation of Fort Johnston. As Ranger Collins and I discussed, this hesitation exposes an important reality: loyalty to the Crown did not automatically translate into loyalty to a royal governor. North Carolina’s Loyalists were numerous, but cautious—what British planners would later describe as a “silent Loyalist majority.”
Ironically, this very assumption—that Loyalists would rise en masse once properly organized—became the backbone of Britain’s later Southern Strategy. Yet in Martin’s darkest hour, he was isolated.
From exile aboard the HMS Cruizer, Martin worked feverishly to regain control. He opened correspondence with Lord George Germain, Secretary of State for the American Department. Germain—who had never set foot in America—became a key architect of British war policy, a fact that highlights one of the enduring flaws in imperial strategy: decisions made far from colonial realities.
Martin’s plan was ambitious. He believed he could raise a massive Loyalist force—perhaps 8,000 to 10,000 men—who would link up with a British expeditionary force under Henry Clinton and Charles Cornwallis at the Cape Fear. Together, they would retake North Carolina, push south to reclaim South Carolina, and then turn north against Washington’s army.
On paper, the plan was logical. In practice, it rested on a fatal assumption: that Loyalist numbers would materialize as Martin imagined. Instead, roughly 1,600 Loyalists mustered—and only about 900 would ultimately reach the battlefield—facing nearly 1,000 Patriot forces at Moores Creek.
British Commander-in-Chief Thomas Gage was also involved in coordinating strategy at this stage. Though no longer governor of Massachusetts, Gage remained central to imperial military planning, underscoring that North Carolina was not a sideshow—it was part of a wider imperial gamble.
The Road to Moores Creek Begins
On January 10, 1776, from exile aboard the HMS Cruizer near the mouth of the Cape Fear River, Martin issued a proclamation calling on Loyalists to suppress what he described as a “horrid and unnatural rebellion.” His hopes rested heavily on Scottish Highlander Loyalists under Donald MacDonald.
MacDonald was a seasoned officer who had previously served in Boston and had been wounded at the Battle of Bunker Hill—fought primarily on Breed’s Hill—where Patriot forces nearly repelled William Howe’s army. The British victory came only after devastating casualties and a final push once Patriot ammunition ran out. Sending a veteran like MacDonald made sense on paper.
Yet reality again intervened. MacDonald was nearly seventy years old and in failing health. As Ranger Collins explained, illness prevented him from reaching Moores Creek Bridge, depriving Loyalist forces of experienced battlefield leadership at a critical moment.
Even as Martin called for armed resistance, he continued corresponding with Patriot leaders, expressing hopes for reconciliation and peace. Some of this may have been sincere; much of it was political. By early February, after weeks of stalled negotiations, the window for compromise had closed. The lines were drawn.
Two Roads to Moores Creek
Patriot Preparations
By February 9–11, 1776, diplomacy had failed. The newly formed Patriot government of North Carolina ordered all men of military age to swear allegiance to the Patriot cause. Those who refused were disarmed, and in some cases jailed.
Patriot forces mobilized rapidly. Loyalists were gathering at Cross Creek (present-day Fayetteville), while Patriot units converged from Wilmington and New Bern. On February 11, Colonel Richard Caswell was ordered to march from New Bern with his Minute Men to reinforce the 1st North Carolina Regiment and Wilmington forces already moving inland.
As Ranger Collins helped clarify, Patriot forces at Moores Creek were not monolithic. North Carolina law required men aged roughly 16 to 60 to serve in the militia, but militia training was infrequent and limited. To supplement this, Minute Men were organized—men who trained more regularly and could mobilize quickly in emergencies. Alongside them were the Continental troops, full-time, paid soldiers forming the backbone of the emerging Continental Army.
Each group brought different strengths to the coming fight.
Patriot leadership included the strategic planner James Moore, along with Caswell and Alexander Lillington. As Loyalist forces advanced, Patriot militias were ordered to secure ports and population centers, ensuring that control of the colony would not slip back into royal hands.
The Loyalists Prepare: The Highlander Oath That Bound
Loyalist forces began mustering at Cross Creek (present-day Fayetteville), a settlement heavily populated by Scottish Highlanders in the decades before the Revolution. As discussed earlier, many of these Highlanders had sworn formal loyalty oaths to the Crown in exchange for pardon after the Jacobite rising, protection, and land in America. To men shaped by Highland culture, an oath was sacred—binding not just politically, but morally and spiritually.
This placed them in a very different position from many Patriot settlers. Some of these same men had once taken up arms against the British Crown in Scotland to restore what they believed was the rightful Stuart line. But circumstances had changed. In North Carolina, they had rebuilt their lives. They owned land, raised families, and enjoyed a stability they had lost once before. Breaking an oath—and risking that hard-won security—was not a decision taken lightly.
Nearly 2,800 Highlanders initially gathered at Cross Creek. Another 1,500 chose to return home, electing to wait for the arrival of the British Army rather than march immediately. Former Regulators also appeared in significant numbers at first, drawn by lingering trust in Governor Josiah Martin. When they learned Martin was not present—and would be directing events from his ship rather than leading on land—many quietly departed. Memories of Alamance in May 1771 weighed heavily. In the end, fewer than 200 former Regulators remained with the Loyalist force.
For many Loyalists, the calculation was deeply practical. They did not know the Patriots would ultimately win. What they did know was the power of the British Empire—and the cost of opposing it. Families, farms, finances, and futures all hung in the balance.
In contrast, many Scots-Irish settlers and Highland families established in the region for multiple generations were often more fiercely protective of colonial rights. To them, Parliament and royal authority posed the greater long-term threat. Moores Creek would become a crossroads not just of armies, but of identity, memory, and choice.
The Loyalist March Begins
In mid-February 1776, Loyalist commander Donald MacDonald led approximately 1,600 men out of Cross Creek, leaving roughly 1,400 behind to defend the town. On February 18, MacDonald’s force camped in an old field about two miles east of Cross Creek.
That same day, MacDonald learned that Patriot forces under Colonel James Moore—including the 1st North Carolina Regiment and Wilmington District Minute Men—had moved to block his route to the coast. With the direct road now closed, the Loyalists’ only viable path lay through the Moores Creek region.
February 18–19, 1776: The First Standoff On February 18, General Donald MacDonald observed the Patriots from the west bank of a large creek dividing the two forces. Moore commanded roughly 1,100 Patriot troops. MacDonald had more men—around 1,600—but Moore held a critical advantage: five cannons positioned to dominate the field. The Loyalists had none.
That night, MacDonald made a bold decision. Leaving campfires burning to mislead the Patriots, he broke camp under cover of darkness and marched northeast toward the Black River Bridge. In the early morning hours of February 19, the Loyalists successfully slipped past Moore’s unsuspecting force. Soon after, Loyalist scouts reported that another Patriot force—about 800 men under Colonel Richard Caswell—was approaching from the east. MacDonald immediately redirected his men toward a ferry crossing on the Black River.
The Ferry Race: Why Timing Mattered As Site Director Jason Collins explained, the frantic race to the ferry crossings along the Black River shaped every major decision that followed. Once Loyalist forces slipped past Moore’s position, both sides understood that control of the river crossings would determine who reached the coast first. Ferries were scarce, slow, and vulnerable.
When Patriot forces reached the primary ferry crossing ahead of the Loyalists and destroyed it, the advantage briefly shifted. Caswell then ordered all nearby boats burned or sunk, attempting to seal off the river entirely. This forced the Loyalists to improvise, searching upstream for any remaining means of crossing. Their eventual success—finding a small boat several miles upriver—kept the campaign alive, but at a cost: time, cohesion, and certainty.
February 20–25, 1776: Maneuver and Deception Late on February 24, Loyalist scouts learned the Patriots had reached the ferry crossing the night before and burned it. Upon arrival, Caswell ordered all boats in the area destroyed or sunk. The Loyalists searched desperately for alternatives and eventually crossed the Black River early on February 25 at a point roughly five miles upriver from the Patriot position.
That afternoon, MacDonald executed a diversion. Loyalist bagpipers and drummers advanced toward the ferry crossing, pipes wailing and drums pounding. The Patriots believed the main Loyalist force was moving directly toward them, unaware that the bulk of MacDonald’s men had already crossed the river and were preparing to strike from an unexpected direction.
The Secret Weapons: Mother Covington and Her Daughter At the last moment, Caswell recognized the danger and ordered an immediate withdrawal toward Moores Creek Bridge. But he wasn’t just retreating; he was preparing a reception. He was joined by Colonel Alexander Lillington, whose Wilmington minutemen had already begun entrenching the east bank.
Caswell brought the Patriots’ literal “big guns” into the fortifications. Among the artillery were two smoothbore cannons that would soon become legends in North Carolina lore: “Old Mother Covington,” a 2.5-pounder, and a smaller swivel gun affectionately dubbed “her daughter.” While the Loyalists were slogging through the “very bad swamp” with nothing but broadswords and muskets, these two cannons were being positioned to sweep the narrow bridge. As Jason Collins pointed out, in a bottleneck like Moores Creek, these weren’t just weapons—they were psychological terrors. The Loyalists, marching toward what they thought was a retreating foe, had no idea that “Mother” was waiting for them in the dark.
February 26, 1776: Tactical Choices on the Eve of Battle
As Ranger Collins explained, Caswell was not simply reacting—he was adapting. Earlier skirmishing and near-misses during the February maneuvers had convinced him that the Loyalists were attempting to outflank Patriot forces rather than confront them directly. Caswell deliberately deployed his men to cover multiple approaches, using Moores Creek Bridge as a choke point that could neutralize Loyalist numbers.
That afternoon, the Loyalists sent a courier under a flag of truce with an ultimatum demanding Patriot surrender. Caswell refused. The courier’s true mission, however, was reconnaissance.
The messenger, James Hepburn, carefully observed the Patriot position and later reported that roughly 1,000 Patriots were camped on the west bank of Moores Creek with their backs to the water—a formation he believed to be a fatal tactical error. In European-style warfare, such a position limited retreat and invited disaster if the line broke.
The Ultimate Bait-and-Switch
That night, Loyalist officers held a council of war. Hepburn’s report convinced them that a direct dawn assault offered the best chance for victory. What they could not see was that Caswell’s positioning was not a mistake—but a calculated trap shaped by terrain and experience. He knew that the blackwater of Moores Creek wasn’t just a barrier; it was a wall he could use to channel the Loyalists into a narrow, lethal bottleneck.
As darkness fell, Caswell ordered his men to play their final card. They left their campfires burning bright on the west bank, creating a “ghost camp” that looked like a sleeping army. Under the cover of the swamp mist, the Patriots silently abandoned their tents, crossed the bridge to the east bank, and joined Colonel Alexander Lillington’s men who were already entrenched.
Once safely across, the Patriots went to work. They pulled up the bridge planks and greased the remaining supporting logs (the “sleepers”) with lard and soap, turning the only crossing into a deathtrap. They then positioned their literal “big guns”—Old Mother Covington and her daughter—to sweep the narrow crossing. While the Loyalists were slogging through the “very bad swamp” in the pre-dawn cold, they were actually marching into the mouth of a hidden, fortified trap.
February 27, 1776: The Approach
At approximately 1:00 a.m., Loyalist forces began their march from camp toward Moores Creek Bridge. Patriot campfires still burned—left deliberately to disguise their repositioning—but the Loyalists soon discovered the camp abandoned.
As they approached the bridge, only a handful of Patriot sentries were visible.
“Halt! Who goes there?” one called.
“A friend,” came the reply.
“A friend to whom?”
“A friend of the King,” followed by shouted commands in Gaelic.
Unable to understand the language and believing themselves outmatched, the sentries fell back in alarm.
Within moments, the battle of Moores Creek Bridge was about to begin.
By the time Loyalist forces reached Moores Creek Bridge in the early hours of February 27, the Patriots had already transformed the crossing into a deadly trap. The wooden planks had been removed, leaving only the exposed stringers beneath. Those beams were then greased with animal fat, turning the bridge into a slick, narrow crossing—more like navigating a grease-coated balance beam than a roadway—suspended above deep, dark, marshy water.
The weather only compounded the danger. The week leading up to the battle had been cold, wet, and miserable, soaking the ground and chilling men to the bone. What had once been a simple aid to crossing the creek was now a weapon in itself.
On the western bank, Patriot forces had constructed earthen breastworks roughly five feet high, giving them both protection and elevation. Behind those earthworks stood Patriot militia and Continentals supported by two small cannons loaded not with solid shot, but with improvised anti-personnel ammunition—iron fragments often described in period accounts as “swan shot,” producing a devastating shotgun-like effect at close range.
The Loyalists advanced believing speed and shock would carry the day. As they stepped onto the bridge in groups of roughly thirty to forty men at a time, the crossing immediately proved treacherous. Men slipped, struggled to keep their footing, and bunched together—exactly what the Patriot defenders had anticipated.
As cannon and musket volleys erupted from behind the earthworks, Loyalist officers reportedly raised their swords and cried out for “King George and broadswords!” Many of the Highlanders carried basket-hilted broadswords, weapons that were still effective in European warfare and widely available due to British military surplus. This was not, as is sometimes simplistically said, a case of “bringing knives to a gunfight.” Broadswords had proven deadly in the right terrain.
But Moores Creek was the wrong terrain.
- Fun fact: Per Ranger Collins, the last major battle where broadswords was used was at Moores Creek Bridge.
The narrow, greased bridge created a lethal bottleneck. There was no room to maneuver, no way to bring numbers to bear, and no protection from cannon fire. By the time the fourth wave of Loyalists was struck down, the fifth broke and fled.
According to pension records and contemporary accounts, the fighting itself was over very quickly—often described as lasting only three minutes. As Ranger Jason Collins noted, that figure almost certainly reflects the decisive collapse of the Loyalist assault rather than the full duration of firing and pursuit. A more realistic estimate places the engagement closer to thirty minutes to an hour from first contact to full rout.
Patriot casualties were astonishingly light. Only one Patriot, John Grady, was killed. A memorial erected in 1856, the oldest monument on the battlefield, honors his sacrifice.
Loyalist losses were far heavier, with estimates ranging from thirty to seventy killed or mortally wounded. Among them was Donald MacLeod, who led the assault across the bridge and was struck multiple times by swine shot. He died of his wounds shortly thereafter.
Death of Donald MacLeod: With General Donald MacDonald sidelined by a sudden illness just miles from the creek, the command fell to Colonel Donald MacLeod. He was a formidable British officer who embodied the warrior spirit of the Highlands. As the Loyalists realized the Patriot camp was empty and turned toward the bridge, it was MacLeod who drew his broadsword and led the charge onto the greased logs.
He never made it across. The Patriot volley was so concentrated that MacLeod was reportedly struck by nine bullets and twenty-four pellets of swan shot. Even as he fell, legend says he turned toward the Patriot lines and defiantly flourished his broadsword—a final act of courage that has since become part of the site’s enduring lore. Whether fact or frontier myth, the image of MacLeod’s raised sword remains a symbol of the high price paid on that cold February morning.
The exact burial locations of many of the fallen remain unknown. Both Patriot and Loyalist camps were situated on what is now private property, and archaeological discoveries in those areas over the years have provided tantalizing but incomplete evidence of the battle’s aftermath.
Aftermath and Consequences
In the chaos following the rout, roughly 1,000 Loyalists fled into the surrounding swamps and woods, including members of a detached force that had become separated during the march. Rank-and-file Loyalists were offered the opportunity to swear loyalty oaths and receive pardons. Officers, however, were taken prisoner and marched to Halifax, North Carolina.
Among them was Donald MacDonald, who had commanded the Loyalist force but had been too ill to fight on the day of battle. He was later exchanged for Continental prisoners in October 1776.
Moores Creek Bridge became the first major Patriot victory of the American Revolution, and its impact was immediate and profound. Royal authority in North Carolina collapsed. Governor Josiah Martin would never regain control of the colony. Loyalist resistance was effectively neutralized until 1780, when Charles Cornwallis entered North Carolina during the southern campaign.
Martin himself fled south, placing his hopes on British success elsewhere—most notably at the Battle of Sullivan’s Island in June 1776, which would also end in a stunning Patriot victory.
At Moores Creek, in a swampy bogs under cold February rain, North Carolina crossed a bridge towards liberty with a patriot victory and changing the course of the war.
After the Smoke Cleared: The Fates of the Commanders
The victory at Moores Creek Bridge launched its leaders into the highest levels of the struggle, though their paths following 1776 were vastly different.
- James Moore: The man who orchestrated the maneuvers that trapped the Loyalists never saw the end of the war. He was promoted to Brigadier General in the Continental Army but died tragically of a fever in early 1777. His loss was a significant blow to the Southern Command.
- Richard Caswell: The master of the “ghost camp” went on to become the first Governor of the independent State of North Carolina. He remained a military man at heart, later leading troops at the Battle of Camden in 1780. While that battle was a disastrous “doomed” defeat for the Patriots, Caswell managed to survive the retreat and continue his political and military leadership.
- Alexander Lillington: After the battle, Lillington was promoted to Brigadier General for the Wilmington District. He saw service in the defense of Charleston, but fortunately returned to North Carolina before the city fell to the British. When the war turned back to the Cape Fear region and the British occupied Wilmington in January 1781, Lillington remained a steadfast thorn in their side, organizing the local militia to harass the Redcoats until the very end.
Why Historians Call Moores Creek the First Major Patriot Victory
Historians often describe the Battle of Moores Creek Bridge as the first major Patriot victory not because it was the first fighting of the war, but because of what it accomplished all at once. The battle decisively collapsed royal authority in North Carolina, eliminated organized Loyalist military power within the colony, and shattered Britain’s first attempt at a Southern Strategy before it could begin. It prevented a planned junction between Loyalist forces and British regulars, forced the British fleet to abandon North Carolina, and demonstrated that the Revolution was no longer confined to New England. Crucially, Moores Creek occurred months before independence was declared—at a moment when loyalty, reconciliation, and resistance were still actively debated—making it a turning point that transformed protest into an irreversible path toward independence.
It is important to note that the Battle of Great Bridge was also a critical early Patriot victory. Great Bridge helped drive Lord Dunmore from power and collapse royal authority in Virginia. However, Moores Creek is often defined as the first major Patriot victory because of its direct political ramifications—particularly in how quickly it accelerated North Carolina toward independence. In fact, several North Carolinians under Robert Howe (a cousin of James Moore) played key roles in the aftermath of Great Bridge, assisting Virginians during Dunmore’s expulsion and the Burning of Norfolk. The southern colonies were already acting in concert.
The Road to Halifax
North Carolina had begun organizing alternative governance early. Provincial Congresses and Committees of Safety were operating as early as August 1774, initially focused on reconciliation, protecting colonial rights, and preparing militias in case of conflict—not yet on declaring independence. That posture began to shift in 1775, especially after Governor Josiah Martin dissolved the legitimate legislature, fled New Bern, and ultimately went into exile following the destruction of Fort Johnston.
By September 1775, at the Third Provincial Congress, the framework for independent governance was taking shape—even if open calls for independence remained premature. Leaders understood that a declaration could not be rushed. The Continental Congress needed broad colonial support, political legitimacy, and credible evidence that independence was sustainable. International recognition—and potential alliances with powers like France—depended on proof that the colonies could defend themselves.
That is why the victory at Moores Creek mattered so profoundly. It expelled royal government from North Carolina and halted what was intended to be a major British invasion led by Henry Clinton and Charles Cornwallis. As Ranger Collins explained, once Clinton and Cornwallis learned of the defeat, they could have attempted to force a landing in North Carolina. Instead, they recognized Moores Creek as decisive and abandoned the effort, pivoting south toward the Battle of Sullivan’s Island—another stunning Patriot victory on June 28, 1776.
Importantly, the Continental Congress would not yet have known the outcome at Sullivan’s Island when it voted on the resolution for independence, which passed on July 2, 1776. In that sense, Moores Creek carried even greater weight in earlier debates, standing as the clearest southern proof—at that moment—that royal authority could be decisively broken.
For North Carolina leaders already leaning toward independence—men like Cornelius Harnett and William Hooper—Moores Creek provided the final confirmation that bold action was possible. With royal authority gone and Loyalist resistance crushed, North Carolina became the first colony to authorize its delegates to vote for independence, through the Halifax Resolves.
This history is too often overlooked. Even the film 1776 suggests that North Carolina followed South Carolina’s lead. In reality, North Carolina was the first colony to formally authorize a vote for independence and one of the earliest to operate as a de facto independent state—free of royal control—until British forces returned in 1780. That political and military credibility mattered. It strengthened the case for independence in Philadelphia and bolstered arguments made by leaders like Richard Henry Lee when the resolution for independence was introduced in June 1776.
Moores Creek did not merely precede the Declaration of Independence—it helped make it possible. And it was almost certainly cited, alongside victories like Sullivan’s Island, as evidence that the American cause was viable when courting allies abroad.
- The Women’s Monument at Moores Creek pays homage to the important contributions of women in the Cape Fear, including the legendary bravery of Mary (Polly) Slocumb, who reportedly rode her horse 65–70 miles alone, overnight, to aid the wounded at the battle site after dreaming her husband, Lt. Ezekiel Slocumb, was injured. He ended up being okay, but this gave her the opportunity to help nurse the sick. Women played a significant role in the Revolutionary War from spies to camp followers, keeping the farms going and ensuring food supply to event fighting in the war (though not at Moores Creek specifically)
The Best Part: You Can Relive This History
The best part? You can still walk through this history today. Throughout 2026, living-history events, special exhibits, and ranger talks will be held as part of America 250 across the Cape Fear region—centered around Wilmington and extending well beyond it.
AtMoores Creek National Battlefield, I recommend starting your visit at the Visitor Center, and—if possible—joining a ranger-led walk. While erosion and time have altered the landscape since 1776, the National Park Service has reconstructed the Patriot earthworks used by Caswell’s forces and rebuilt the bridge itself (without grease—you can safely walk across it today). Standing there, you can truly feel the geography that decided the battle under your feet. Be sure to pause at each of the monuments along the trail.
- Can’t get to Moores Creek in person? They have a wonderful virtual tour online.
The Grady Monument is especially compelling. Dedicated in 1857, it honors John Grady, the battle’s sole Patriot fatality. As NC’s first official casualty of the war, Grady was reinterred here and remains a silent witness to the fight for liberty. Don’t forget to stop by and honor his service with a prayer and moment of reflection.
I also find it remarkable that the monument itself survived the Civil War, which reached this region only a few years later.
Moores Creek is also unusual in that it includes a Loyalist memorial, acknowledging the many Scottish Highlanders who died here—men who had already lost homes and livelihoods once before, and who were, as some historians say, “whipped on both sides of the Atlantic.”
It leaves you with a haunting question: What side would you have chosen? Is stability worth defending at all costs—or is there a greater liberty worth risking everything for?
A Revolutionary Road Trip: The Moores Creek Journey
If you want to experience Moores Creek in its full historical context, I recommend beginning at Brunswick Town, where resistance to the Stamp Act helped plant the earliest seeds of rebellion in the colony. From there, visit Fort Johnston (reconstructed) and the Old Smithville Cemetery, where many Patriots are buried.
Next, head into Wilmington, where Revolutionary history is layered into the modern city. Tour the Burgwin‑Wright House, a Loyalist “show home” that once hosted governors William Tryon and Josiah Martin, and later even Charles Cornwallis. Nearby, at St. James Burial Ground, you’ll encounter the story of Cornelius Harnett, who was captured in 1781 by James Craig and so brutally mistreated that he died shortly after his release—on April 20, 1781, just months before Yorktown. I also recommend visiting Poplar Grove, a site with centuries of history and deep ties to the Harnett family.
Moores Creek is only about 20 minutes from Wilmington and roughly 90 minutes from Raleigh, just off I-40, making it an easy—and deeply meaningful—day trip for history lovers.
Want a ready-made itinerary? Check out my Cape Fear Revolutionary Passports—available as both a deep-dive edition and a Substack pocket guide—covering must-see Revolutionary War sites across Wilmington and the North Carolina coast.
Thanks for taking this historical journey with me! Stay tuned for more history about Moores Creek, Cape Fear Region and America 250…Don’t forget to subscribe for more posts.
Hi, I’m Adele Lassiter, the travel enthusiast behind American Nomad Traveler. This is where I share my love for history, cool museums, art, and travel tips. When I’m not writing, I’m a singer-songwriter with a passion for Americana music. You can find my new album here: adelelassiter.bandcamp.com
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