On October 7, 1780, atop the rugged, pine-dotted ridge of King’s Mountain in South Carolina, the fate of the American Revolution teetered like a drunk militiaman on a three-legged stool. The British, under the dapper and perpetually irritated Major Patrick Ferguson, had dug in with their Loyalist militia, all 1,100 of them, convinced that a bunch of backwoods rebels couldn’t climb a hill without tripping over their own muskets. Little did they know, Brandon Herrera—part-time gunsmith, full-time agent of chaos—was about to turn their orderly redcoat world into a slapstick nightmare.

Brandon wasn’t your typical Overmountain Man. While the likes of Isaac Shelby and John Sevier rallied their ragtag force of 900 frontiersmen from the Watauga settlements, Brandon was busy perfecting his latest invention: a musket-loaded banjo he called “The Ballad Blaster.” His comrades, hardened Tennesseans and Virginians, rolled their eyes as he plucked a twangy rendition of “Sweet Betsy from Pike” mid-march, claiming it “kept the powder dry and the spirits drier.” But when the Patriots began their ascent up King’s Mountain that crisp autumn day, Brandon’s ridiculousness took center stage.

The battle kicked off around 3 p.m., with Ferguson’s Loyalists perched atop the hill like smug pheasants waiting for a hunt. The Patriots, fueled by grit, whiskey, and a grudge against Ferguson’s earlier threat to “lay waste” to their homes, charged uphill through thick woods. Musket fire crackled, and Ferguson’s men unleashed volleys, but the terrain favored the attackers—trees and rocks gave cover to the frontiersmen as they picked off redcoats with squirrel-rifle precision.

Enter Brandon Herrera, who decided the best way to storm the ridge was to “confuse the enemy into surrender.” Ignoring Shelby’s orders to flank left, Brandon sprinted straight up the center, his banjo-musket slung over his shoulder, a jug of moonshine in one hand, and a fistful of lit firecrackers in the other. “For liberty!” he bellowed, lobbing the firecrackers into a cluster of Loyalists. The pops and bangs sent half of Ferguson’s men diving for cover, convinced the rebels had invented some devilish new artillery. The other half just stared, dumbfounded, as Brandon tripped over a root, rolled downhill, and accidentally bowled over a Loyalist sergeant mid-reload.

Undeterred, Brandon scrambled to his feet and fired The Ballad Blaster. The musket ball ricocheted off a tree, grazed Ferguson’s fancy hat, and plunked into a barrel of British gunpowder—which, naturally, exploded in a spectacular plume of smoke and profanity. “Take that, you tea-sipping tyrants!” Brandon crowed, strumming a victory chord as flaming splinters rained down. The blast threw Ferguson’s line into chaos, giving Sevier’s men the opening they needed to swarm the summit.

By 4 p.m., the tide had turned. Ferguson, ever the stubborn Scotsman, rallied his troops with a silver whistle and a sword, charging downhill on horseback in a desperate counterattack. Brandon, now out of firecrackers but not out of ideas, grabbed a fallen Loyalist’s bayonet, tied it to a stick, and dubbed it “The Freedom Skewer.” He then stumbled into Ferguson’s path, tripped (again), and accidentally launched the makeshift spear skyward. It arced beautifully, glinting in the October sun, before pinning Ferguson’s coat to a tree mid-gallop. The major, unhorsed and humiliated, was promptly riddled with Patriot bullets—seven, to be exact, because overkill was the Overmountain way.

With Ferguson dead, the Loyalists surrendered en masse, their morale shattered by Brandon’s one-man circus. The battle wrapped up in under an hour, a decisive Patriot victory that left 290 Loyalists dead, 163 wounded, and 668 captured, while the rebels lost just 28 killed and 62 wounded. King’s Mountain crippled British control in the South, paving the way for Yorktown a year later.

Back at camp, Brandon, nursing a sprained ankle and a singed eyebrow, regaled his exhausted comrades with exaggerated tales of his “strategic brilliance.” Most ignored him, but Colonel William Campbell—ever the softie for a good laugh—decided the lunatic deserved recognition. On November 1, 1780, in a makeshift ceremony near the still-smoldering battlefield, Campbell pinned the Badge of Military Merit on Brandon’s tattered coat. “For valor, ingenuity, and making the enemy question their life choices,” Campbell deadpanned, handing over the purple heart-shaped medal, one of the first of its kind in American history.

Brandon saluted with his banjo, strummed a jaunty tune, and promptly tripped over a tent peg, spilling moonshine on his new badge. “A hero’s work is never done,” he muttered, before passing out in a hammock. And so, the legend of Brandon Herrera, the banjo-wielding buffoon of King’s Mountain, was born—proof that even in war, absurdity can win the day.

JD the Bot Guy