by Jeff Shaara
Greene was grimacing at the sound of his own name, thought, Does he believe he is my friend? Why is he even trying? Gates took another drink from the glass, and Greene saw the familiar smirk, the arrogance of a man with full confidence in everything he does. There was nothing Greene could say, no argument about strategy or mistakes that Gates would hear. There was nothing left for Gates to do but leave.
“Sir, if I may inquire, what is the troop strength here now?”
Gates laughed, poured his glass full again.
“Troops? Oh, you have some men scattered hereabouts. By my count, perhaps two thousand. Of those, not more than half fit for duty.”
Greene absorbed the numbers, far fewer than he had expected.
“Are there still units to be assembled here?”
Gates laughed again.
“You mean, men from my . . . former command? Not likely, General. If you intend to build an army, you will do it from fresh recruits. I am certain that this colony will offer you little support at all. They seem rather to prefer the British.”
Gates’ word stuck in his mind: colony. Greene felt more uncomfortable now, could not avoid thinking of Charles Lee. Gates and Lee were both Englishmen by birth, with deep connections to the British army. Neither man had been particularly missed by their former commands, and now Greene realized that Gates was perhaps more inspired by revenge against those British officers who had forgotten him than by a devout allegiance to America.
Gates finished his second glass, said, “I am told you brought some fresh militia. Virginians?”
“North Carolina. I am pleased by their willingness to sign full enlistment papers.” He stopped, thought, Tell him nothing. He claims, after all, to be a civilian now. He need know nothing of my plans.
Gates seemed oblivious to Greene’s sudden caution.
“Did the militia cheer you, Nathanael? Did they welcome you with glad tidings, vast expressions of loyalty? Do not be fooled. If you trust them, they will carry you to your doom.”
Gates seemed unsteady, the effects of the odd brew. He poured himself another glass, and Greene slid the chair away from the table, said, “Excuse me, sir. I should see to my men. There is much to be done.”
He stood, and Gates seemed not to notice, the man absorbed in his own gloom. Greene turned away, stepped to the front door, moved out into a bracing chill, the air washing away the staleness of the house and its occupant. The officers had gathered, seemed to be waiting for him. He saw a few familiar faces, acknowledged them with a nod.
“Gentlemen, the transfer of command is complete. Mr. Gates is, by his own admission, no longer a part of this army. I am aware that we have considerable labor before us if we are to engage the British on favorable terms. I would advise you that you do not discuss our strategy, nor seek the counsel of General Gates. While I will extend every courtesy to him, as I would to any prominent visitor to this camp, let there be no confusion. This department is commanded under the full authority of the congress and General Washington. From this moment forward, we shall have but one purpose. We shall make every effort to organize, train, and equip the men of this command to confront and defeat our enemy. There is no other reason for anyone to be here.”
He was distressed to find that gates had been accurate with his numbers. As Greene inspected the camps, he discovered better than half the men present unfit for duty, either from sickness, wounds, or injuries from their retreat at Camden. The morale was worse than their physical condition.
Washington had ordered him to prepare his own report on the conduct of Gates, something that would stretch beyond the certain bias of Gates’ own version. To gain as much information as he could, Greene listened to anyone who would offer their own story, details of what had happened at Camden. It was clear that Gates had relied far too much on the raw militia, and by striving to meet the British on favorable ground, he had driven his men mercilessly in long night marches, neglecting their need for food and rest. The more Greene learned, the more he realized that with the tactics Gates had used, he was fortunate to have kept two thousand men.
The flow of supplies began to increase from Virginia, von Steuben’s efforts showing results. Greene had sent William Smallwood home to Maryland, considered that his skills at recruiting were of even more value to the army than what Smallwood brought to the field. The new recruits began to arrive, some already influenced by von Steuben’s zeal, entire companies marching with good order. Others simply wandered in, stragglers who had escaped Charleston or Camden, who had no better place to be. There were others as well, farmers who left their land for the winter months, to offer what help they could. Greene welcomed them all. As the training began in earnest, Greene used the lessons he had learned at Valley Forge, and though the numbers grew slowly, the men in his command were indeed becoming an army.
JANUARY 1781
It was a show Greene had seen before, the huge Virginian announcing himself with a grand parade. Back in the summer, Daniel Morgan had been ordered to accompany Gates to the Carolinas, but had resigned from the army instead. Morgan claimed sickness, but many in Washington’s camp believed that Morgan simply refused to serve under Gates. Greene was among them. With the collapse at Camden, Gates had sent an urgent request for Morgan to reconsider, and surprisingly, Morgan had complied. Gates had assigned him to command a unit which, for Morgan’s own reasons, was rarely in the same camp with Gates. Now, with Gates gone, Morgan had decided that joining Greene was more to his liking.
Greene had watched as Morgan passed the headquarters, the last bit of his grand entrance, leading his familiar riflemen, those men only a small part of his command now. He had inspired his usual audience, the troops coming out of their tents, gathering along the road, most of them cheering. Morgan was no stranger to this army, and even the men who had never seen him had heard tales. Greene knew that some of the stories were accurate, though, of course, many more were not. Greene had caught Morgan’s attention, a short nod from the big Virginian toward the window where Greene watched him. A summons was not necessary. Morgan knew his duty, would make his appearance at the appropriate moment.
Greene was still writing his report on Gates, struggled with the words. Morgan’s arrival had been a welcome distraction, but Greene had returned to the work, driven by thoughts of Washington, the request to sort out the truth.
His thoughts were jarred by the cascade of sounds outside. The door opened, and Burnet said, “Sir. General Morgan is here.”
“He knows I’m here, Major!” Morgan burst past the startled young man, seemed to fill the room, leaned across the desk, put a huge hand in front of Greene. Greene took the hand, felt the man’s strength, a hearty shake, and Morgan sat heavily, said, “Thank God Almighty, Nat! That’s what every one of ’em is saying! Thank God Almighty! Now we have a commander!”
“Welcome to headquarters, Daniel.”
“It’s a different army already! All over the countryside, all the way to the mountains. Those boys over there, rowdy bunch. Had nothing good to say about Gates, but they like you, Nat! The word is, old Cornwallis is done for. He just don’t know it yet!”
Greene felt engulfed by the man’s joy.
“That’s all very kind, Daniel. But we require more than good wishes, or strong morale. We require good officers, men who can both lead and train their men. You know as well as I do that General Washington has never had great confidence in militia. Yet militia is nearly all we have to work with.”
Morgan laughed.
“That suited Gates just fine, you know. He loved to ride through their camps, just to hear the salutes. You know, Nat, the real reason he kept so many green troops around is that they’d never take him anywhere so he’d come under fire. It used to be a joke, Nat. After Camden, not so funny anymore.”
“My fear, Daniel, is that Cornwallis will not allow us the time we require to train them. Where do we get the officers? Sending untrained militia into battle against a professional army is suicide.”
&
nbsp; “No, Nat. Worse. It’s murder.” He looked at the papers on Greene’s desk. “You writing up a report for Washington?”
“Yes. Trying to be fair . . .”
“Fair? God Almighty, Nat. The man should be hanged! No, first he should be whipped by every orphan he created. Damnably stupid man!”
There was fury in Morgan’s words, and Greene put a finger on the papers in front of him, said, “Shall I include your opinion to the commanding general?”
“Damned right. But be clear on one thing, Nat. Gates failed because he wore out his men, then stuck a bunch of scared Virginia farmers in line against Cornwallis’ best infantry. But you can’t just fault the militia. This is a different place than up north. These boys down here live in some pretty rugged country. Some of them spend their whole lives trekkin’ through the mountains, keeping Indians away from their families. They can fight. Look at what happened at Kings Mountain.”
Greene had been amazed by details of a stunning victory just below the South Carolina border. The men were militia, scattered units from the Carolinas and Virginia, an assembly of rough troops who had never shared any field. They had been commanded by their own officers, names unfamiliar to anyone in Washington’s camp, Shelby and Campbell, McDowell, Williams and Cleveland. But they led a perfect assault against the ultimate display of British arrogance. Colonel Patrick Ferguson marched his troops blithely through the region, claiming to sweep the last semblance of rebel influence out of South Carolina. When Ferguson learned of the rebel force pursuing him, he chose not to seek the safety of the British outposts, instead invited an assault by perching his men up on a rocky, narrow hill. The militia surrounded him, and methodically worked their way up through the rocks, and the result was a near massacre. The militia swarmed completely over the British position, killing Ferguson along with most of his men. It was an amazing accomplishment that erased much of the stain and despair of Camden. Yet, farther north, almost no one had yet heard of Kings Mountain. Since Gates himself had not been involved, he made scarce mention of it in his own reports. There was, after all, no credit he could claim.
Greene had realized that a good many of the troops who were adding to his ranks were there because of the heroic performance of their own militia. Morgan was right. It was a different place.
“So, Nat, you got any spirits around here?”
Greene pointed to a small cabinet, the same one Gates had used.
“Look in there. Some interesting potions.”
Morgan poked through an assortment of bottles, retrieved one, studied it.
“Ahh, do you suppose?” He pulled a cork, took a short sniff, twisted his face. “Yessiree! Marion’s brew. He calls it Swamp Elixir.” He looked at Greene, raised the bottle toward his mouth, said, “You mind, Nat? Just a shot.”
Greene waved his hand, and Morgan took a short sip, waited a brief moment, then took another. He squinted hard, said, “Woo! Yep. Those boys over there work some kind of magic. You had any dealings yet with those fellows? Marion? Sumter? The Swamp Fox and the Gamecock. Quite a pair.”
“I haven’t had the pleasure. Will they fight with us, Daniel?”
“They’ll fight, that’s for sure. They been a plague to the British from the start of the war, well before anyone up north thought this place was important enough to fight for. Can’t say they’ll line up beside you and march. Not their way. They pop out of the swamps and hit hard, then disappear. They don’t have enough men to do much more than that. Francis Marion’s not usually got more than fifty or a hundred men under him. But, I bet you Cornwallis don’t know that. They fight like half a division.”
“Will they follow orders?”
“If the orders make sense. After Camden, they wouldn’t even talk to Gates. He ignored them, thought they were a bunch of bandits. Big mistake.”
“I shall not ignore anyone who can assist us.”
“It’s like that all over this place, Nat. Partisans and militia. But the word is out there. They’re hearing that finally, the whole country is joining their fight. Washington has done sent his best man. You draw up a plan, they’ll carry it out. That goes for me, as well.”
Greene pushed the papers aside, could see a smile on Morgan’s broad face, the telltale gap of missing teeth.
“Well, then, Daniel, as soon as the men here are fit, I think it’s time we take this fight back into South Carolina.” He pointed at the bottle cradled in Morgan’s hand. “If you don’t mind . . . if I’m going to fight with these fellows . . .”
Morgan seemed to hesitate, then handed the bottle across the desk. Greene pulled the cork, the aroma ripping into his nose. He held the bottle away, looked at the strange clear liquid.
“If they have the courage to drink this . . . no wonder they can fight.”
48. CORNWALLIS
WINNSBORO, SOUTH CAROLINA, JANUARY 1781
He had chosen a headquarters that would place his regular troops close enough to give support to as many of the outposts as possible. They were many and spread far apart, from Augusta and Charleston to Camden, Ninety-Six and Rock Hill. It was essential to offer the citizens of the colony a visible presence, a reminder that this place was ultimately under the control of King George. But the display alone would never be effective without the power of the army. Every examination of the maps, every plan for a new campaign brought out his wrath for what Henry Clinton had done to his army.
Each of the outposts had come under some assault, some sharp probe from at least one of the partisan rebel commanders who ran rampant through the rugged countryside. The result was that a substantial part of his meager army had to remain in place, guarding the crossroads that united the army in this loose-knit web of supply lines. If he was to make any move northward, any invasion of North Carolina that would have good effect, he desperately needed more men.
He had summoned Alexander Leslie from Virginia, with a major portion of the troops Clinton had sent to the mouth of the Chesapeake. Clinton’s plan had been to follow the conquest of the Carolinas with a massed assault on Virginia. The troops there were included in Cornwallis’ command, and despite Clinton’s blanket optimism, Cornwallis knew that his diminished army would need considerable help in South Carolina before any further campaign could begin. Leslie had brought another twenty-three hundred troops, easing the strain on the outposts. But there were other problems besides vulnerability to attack. Each outpost had to be fed and supplied, and though South Carolina was ripe with fertile and productive farmland, none of the outposts could safely draw forage far beyond its own fortifications.
Cornwallis had established a system of supply that originated in Charleston, but the transport ships were few, another infuriating lack of support from Henry Clinton. Those supplies that did arrive were warehoused in Charleston, much of the goods now in useless piles. On his return to New York, Clinton had taken not only the cavalry, he had taken the draft horses and wagons as well. So there was almost no means of moving the essential goods overland. South Carolina’s vast web of waterways, rivers, and navigable streams provided some means of transport, but small boats were as scarce as wagons. Clinton’s assumption had been that the vast population of loyalists would come to the army’s aid, providing all the transportation required. But the loyalists had proven to be more of a headache for Cornwallis than a help.
It was the sad result of Clinton’s decree, which had inspired a stunning display of brutality throughout the colony. Anyone who coveted a neighbor’s land or had some personal grudge, any creditor who wished to pressure his client, could exact his toll by simply claiming his target to be a rebel. Old scores between feuding families were settled now with outrageous violence, the criminal acts protected by the simple explanation that the aggressors were loyalists, doing good work for their king. Cornwallis was appalled, and ordered his officers to intervene, to find some means to stop the absurd abuses, but the army itself was nearly powerless. No matter the outrage or injustice, even those loyal to the king knew that regardless
of which army moved through their towns, they had much more to fear from their neighbors.
After the fall of Charleston, Clinton and Cornwallis had both assumed that South Carolina could easily be controlled by the army’s establishment of a civil authority. In fact, Cornwallis now understood, the British had no control at all. Far from sweeping away the last dying groans of a rebellion, the British army had stumbled into a colony that was engulfed in its own civil war.
Since Clinton had left him with barely enough troops to maintain civil order in the larger towns, it was essential to bring as many Tories under arms as he could. But any enthusiasm the loyalists had for carrying British muskets had been swept away at Kings Mountain. The only true British soldier there had been Patrick Ferguson, and both Ferguson and his loyalist militia had been annihilated. Worse was the butchery that followed, and never were the signs of civil war so apparent. Many of the loyalist prisoners had been massacred by the rebel militia, retribution for so many of the atrocities committed by the loyalists. Nowhere in the entire theater of the war had the violence been so brutal between American civilians, with almost complete disregard on both sides for the authority of their army.
Clinton had sailed away filled with confidence that the colony was indeed wiped clean of rebel influence. In the months that had followed, that confidence had been strongly reinforced by Cornwallis’ spectacular success against Gates. That would certainly satisfy Clinton, and Cornwallis had even trumpeted his optimism to London. It had seemed certain that in a few short months, North Carolina would come under control as well. But then had come a dozen minor battles, the amazing show of strength and fighting ability of the rebel partisans. Every supply line, every depot, every unguarded troop position was subject at any moment to a sudden torrent of musket fire. Cornwallis had responded by sending Banastre Tarleton and his brutally efficient horsemen stampeding after the elusive rebels. But Tarleton’s success was most pronounced against small units often in retreat, refugees or stragglers the Legion pounced upon with a terrifying lack of mercy. But Tarleton was not always successful. In one sharp fight against Thomas Sumter, at a place called Blackstock’s Plantation, Tarleton had been severely embarrassed, losing twenty percent of his strength. Though Cornwallis continued to have faith in the Legion as his most valuable weapon, his frustration grew. If anything was to be accomplished in the Carolinas, he could not merely sit and wait for rebel militia to make a mistake. There was still a war, and there was still a rebel army to pursue. In their one confrontation, Cornwallis had nearly destroyed Horatio Gates and his entire force. He could do the same to Nathanael Greene.
