by Jeff Shaara
“You gentlemen claim you can shoot.”
The line of men seemed to stiffen, one man holding up his rifle, and the man said, “I’ll put Lilly here up against any of your Virginia boys, sir!”
There were laughs now, and Morgan smiled.
“Is it custom for you Carolina boys to carry your sweethearts into battle? I’d be concerned about being distracted, especially when you go to loadin’ ’em.”
There were more laughs, and Morgan glanced up, could see the stars fading in the gray light.
“You think you’re better marksmen than my Virginia boys, so I want you to prove it. You’ll line up across the face of this ridge, spread out near three hundred yards. The enemy will come out of those trees, show themselves way before you’ll have a shot. Keep a sharp eye, but don’t get nervous. No wasted shots. They’ll see you, and commence to marching straight at you. Every damned one of you is going to have a clean shot. I want you to take two. Any man here ever thought about putting his fist into an officer’s teeth?”
Hands went up, more laughter, and Morgan said, “Now’s your chance. Look for the fancy uniforms, but if he’s not right in front of you, pick out a sergeant. I want to see their whole command taken down. You’ll throw so much fright into those boys, they may up and run. But don’t depend on that. Take your second shot at the man with the bayonet. If he’s still coming, it means he’s as brave as you. Then I want you to pull back quick. Don’t stand there and try to fistfight ’em. They’ll be too many of ’em. Behind you, there’ll be a solid line of militia, watchin’ you with big scared eyes. Show ’em how to be soldiers. Pull back into their line in good order, and keep shooting. The militia will get the same orders as you. I’m headin’ there now. They’ll fire two shots, then run like hell.”
The marksmen had spread out in the field, and there was just enough daylight that he could see the faces of the militiamen. “As you boys form your line here, there’s one thing I want you to remember. In General Washington’s army, we have learned one lesson. The best way to use militia in a fight is to put ’em square in the center of the line. And then, when the first man runs, we shoot him.”
He waited for the effect, heard low voices.
“Which is why you’re gonna like this particular plan. All I need you to do is stand tall for a little while. You’ll see the marksmen out there in front of you, and they’re gonna put on a show for you. Every one of ’em thinks he can shoot the head off a bird at three hundred yards. But I already told ’em. The first man who tries that today . . . I’ll shoot him. I need them to let the enemy march right up in front of ’em. They’ll do their job with their rifles, and fall back toward you. They are not running away! That is, after all, your job.”
He was enjoying this, could hear nervous laughter all down the line.
“Most of you have never seen the enemy in a battle line. Scary damned thing. All fancy and proud, sticking those bayonets out toward you so’s you think about that before they get to you. We’re gonna give ’em exactly what they’re looking for. When those Carolina marksmen fall back to your line, all I ask you to do is wait, and watch the enemy parade. When they get close enough, your officers here will give the order, and you’ll take your shot. Don’t forget to aim. The British never aim. You know that? Damnedest stupid way to fight a war I ever seen. Those fool generals put so much work into making their uniforms all parade-ground perfect, and then they forget to teach their soldiers how to shoot a musket. They shoot from the chest, and so, every volley goes high. Right over your heads. Watch them. You’ll see for yourselves. But I don’t want you to watch too long. I want you to do what Benny Tarleton expects you to do. I want you to turn and run like scared rabbits. Shoot twice, if you can, then pull back to the left flank. There’s a line of continentals behind you to give you cover. Nobody’s gonna catch you. The British don’t run worth a damn. Once you’re back out of harm’s way, don’t start building no campfires and thinking about cooking dinner. Just stay put. We may need you again.”
He could hear the drums first, a low echo rolling up from the mist of the trees. He rode slowly forward, kept his field glasses focused out beyond the line of marksmen. He saw flickers of motion now, a small group of horsemen. They came up through the mist, and he could see details, green coats, tall hats of thick black plumes. They stopped in the same place he had stopped the day before, and he could see one man pointing, the others spreading out slowly, examining the ground. He smiled, said, “Good morning, Benny.”
Then just as quickly, they were gone.
He looked behind him toward the second rise, could see the continentals in a tight line. Just in front of him the militia had spread into a thinner line, Pickens sitting up high on a horse beside them. He nodded to Pickens, who stared ahead with a hard frown, and Morgan thought, Nothing I can say to him now. He knows the plan. Every man has his own thoughts before a fight. Pickens is probably deep into some prayer, talking to the Almighty. A good many of those boys doing the same thing. He thought of his orders to the militia, and it nagged at him. He had heard enough low protest to understand that he had given offense to some of them, inexperienced men who believed they could stand up to anything. He had seen it before, big talk, hard words from men who marched out to face the enemy, then collapsed into tears. I don’t want anyone trying to prove me wrong. The orders were plain enough. If this plan is going to work, they must shoot, then run away. No heroes today.
He could still hear the sound of drums, raised the field glasses again, saw only the mist. Won’t matter, he thought. When this line starts to go, they’ll all go. Some of ’em might even keep going. He looked out to the side, toward the thin trees beyond the field. No swamps. That’s a blessing. Anytime there’s a swamp, it’s the first place they head to. He put the glasses down again, felt his hand shake. He realized he was nervous, felt a sharp chill. The pain in his hip was nagging him slightly, but not serious, and he said his own prayer. Punish me tomorrow if You have to. But give me today. Not too much to ask, dammit. If this doesn’t work, there won’t be much of a tomorrow anyway.
He saw motion, raised the glasses again. Horsemen rode out of the trees, and he tried to count, guessed four dozen. They spread out into a single line, and he saw red coats, thought, Not Benny’s boys. The dragoons instead. He’ll save his Legion for later, for the last glorious charge. He sniffed now, felt a wave of disgust. That way, Benny, you can claim the prize, your boys alone clearing away the last of the rebels. All right then, I’m depending on you. Before this is over I want to see those green coats of yours. Show me why you’re so damned tough.
He could see behind the British dragoons now, a thick line of infantry, marching up out of the trees. The drums were louder, a hint of a rhythm, the sounds still deadened by the mist. The lines advanced in a steady march, the precise movement of white pants and black boots beneath the solid lines of red. The scouts had told him that Tarleton had brought only British regulars, no Tory militia, and he could see it for himself, thought, So, Benny, you don’t care much for militia either.
He focused again on the horsemen, caught a glint of metal, their sabers drawn. He felt his heart racing, thought, All right, redcoats. Do your job. Push those skirmishers back. The dragoons began to move more quickly, now, and he fought the urge to ride ahead, to see the charge from up close. It was always the most glorious show, men who carried the pride of their own history, who faced their foe and by the sheer gallantry of their ride, drove so many enemies into panic.
“Come on, my boys. Come on!”
He had trouble holding the glasses still, his own nervousness affecting the horse.
“Easy, easy. Just a bit closer . . .”
The marksmen were mostly down in the grass, and he saw puffs of smoke, rising in a thin line above the ground. Now the sound reached him, a hundred clapping hands, and he could see the line of dragoons suddenly lurching about, riderless horses turning in all directions. He lowered the glasses again, saw heaps of red down in the
grass, the dragoons pulling together, backing away. He strained to see, thought, A third of them went down. And no horses, no one shot at a damned horse. Nice shooting, boys. I’m impressed so far.
The dragoons vanished behind the massive line of infantry, and now the rhythm of the drums was clear, the foot soldiers advancing up the gentle rise. For a long minute there was only the sound of the drums, the thick red line sliding forward through the brown grass. The marksmen fired a second volley, then Morgan could see the British line punched by small gaps, officers swept from their horses. He raised a fist, a silent cheer, watched as the gaps healed, the line solid again, the good work of their sergeants. The marksmen were up now, pulling back toward the line of militia, and he was surprised that some of them were firing still, reloading on the move. Well done, boys. You can stand beside my Virginians for certain now.
He turned the horse, spurred hard, moved farther behind the line of Pickens’ militia, pulled the horse around high on the second ridge. The marksmen had completed their withdrawal, were blending into Pickens’ line. Morgan saw riders, a company of dragoons emerging on each flank of the British advance. He heard a sudden sharp thud, saw smoke from both flanks, British field cannon beginning their work. He watched the militia, shouted, “Stand there, dammit! Not yet! Wait!”
He could see Pickens moving quickly along the line behind his men, could hear the shouts of the officers, of the men themselves. He repeated the words in his mind, not yet, tried to gauge the space between the militia and the red line. Seventy yards . . . sixty-five. Not yet. Sixty. Wait, dammit! He heard a new sound, could see the British line erupt in cheering, the troops breaking their discipline, men holding their muskets high. Yes, you bloody devils, sing for it! Cheer for your grand attack! Cheer for your damned history, and the power of your damned army, and sing for that damned butcher who leads you. Now, I’ll show you what a butcher can do!
He saw Pickens raise his arm, and the line erupted into fire and smoke. The field below him was obliterated by the gray fog, and Morgan rode forward, had to see himself, could hear scattered pops. Now he saw the British formation, their advance falling into pieces, more riderless horses, a vast gaping wound in the center of their line. Their officers were moving quickly, trying to mend the break, and Pickens fired again, another surge of smoke covering the sight. He heard more cheers, but it was not the British. Pickens emerged from the smoke, his sword high overhead, and the militia line began to pull back, a perfectly chaotic retreat. They were coming close to Morgan, a steady stream to the left, and he shouted to them, “Run like hell!”
He looked down toward the British line, could see the dragoons coming forward on the left, in pursuit of the fleeing militia. He spun the horse, moved with Pickens’ men, then turned again, rode straight up the hill, the last crest, toward the line of continental troops, shouted, “It’s your time, boys!”
He moved through their line, spun the horse around, could see the dragoons closing on the retreating militia. There was genuine panic, the inexperienced troops racing to stay ahead of the steady pursuit from the British horsemen. The surging retreat was moving past the left flank of the continentals, and Morgan watched the dragoons, thought, Stay your course. Don’t turn this way. Chase them, dammit! The dragoons were moving into the retreat itself, sabers doing their vicious work on Pickens’ men. He punched a fist into his hand, said quietly, “It’s time, Mr. Washington!”
From behind the left flank came the thunder of a mass of horses, and around the crest of the hill, Washington’s cavalry emerged, riding hard, straight into the dragoons. The British cavalry wavered, then began to pull back, but Washington’s horsemen were too many and too quick, and suddenly, the entire company of red-coated horsemen was surrounded, sabers dropping, Washington’s men swarming among their new prisoners. Beside him, the continentals were shouting, one man’s voice clear.
“Sir, they’re still coming!”
Along the hillside below the continentals, the British infantry had re-formed, were pushing up the hill again. But the line was ragged, uneven, one flank far in front of the other. He moved his horse back toward the center of the line, had nothing to say now, the veterans in front of him knowing their job. The British momentum was nearly gone, exhausted men dropping to their knees, many more staggering up toward his regulars, and Morgan looked down the line, saw the continental officers holding their swords in the air. As the first wave of British drew close, the swords went down.
The blast from the mass of muskets jolted his horse, and Morgan could see the British formation through the gray haze, a sea of red tumbling down in the grass. Many more of the redcoats had simply stopped, some facing his men with muskets dragging, hands rising in the air. The continentals advanced around the British troops, taking prisoners of their own. He spurred the horse, moved toward the right flank, could see the British dragoons on that side of the line still in tight formation, the foot soldiers there still pushing up toward the continental line. The British advance had extended to the right beyond the end of his own line, and he moved out that way, saw John Howard, the Marylander, shouting orders to his men, the flank pulling back at a right angle to the main line. Morgan watched as the British moved close, heard a strange screaming sound, realized now it was bagpipes, the Highlanders, coming hard toward Howard’s outnumbered flank. Morgan felt the familiar chill again, the excitement now mixed with a stab of fear, Howard’s line too weak to hold away the assault. He drew his own sword, and Howard saw him, the man’s face a deadly glare. Howard pointed to the apex of the angle his men had created, shouted something, his voice drowned out by a sudden eruption of sound. Morgan looked out past the flank, could hear cheers, a loud squalling cry, tried to see the source, could see the Highlanders suddenly halt, some firing their muskets in a scattered volley. Now the voices had form, and Morgan was surprised to see Pickens leading a wave of militia toward the stunned British assault. The Highlanders made a fight, but the militia were on them quickly, a violent collision of bayonets, fists, and clubbed muskets. He watched in stunned amazement, looked back to the rear, realized that the retreating militia had gone completely around behind the main hill, circled right back into the fight. Now the Highlanders were dropping their muskets, men backing into groups, arms rising, the bagpipes silent.
Morgan pulled the horse around, the fear turning to laughter, shouted, “Pickens, you wonderful son of a bitch!”
He spurred hard, his sword still in his hand, rode down across the field where his men were gathering prisoners, some already tending to the British wounded. The sounds of the fight had passed, no music, the rhythm of the drums now silent. He reined the horse up, looked down toward the trees. Washington’s cavalry had continued down, more prisoners gathered up, and he could see Washington himself in a sharp fight with a small group of British horsemen. But it was not dragoons, the coats were not red. They were green. Morgan retrieved the field glasses, focused on the final clash, the last bit of action on the field. The fight was brief, and Washington seemed to let them go, and Morgan thought, Yes, wise, no need to pursue them farther. Keep the army together. He saw the green-coated horsemen riding hard down toward the trees, slowing their retreat, not pursued by Washington’s men. They had nearly disappeared, and Morgan saw one man stop, staring up toward him, field glasses of his own. Morgan felt the sword in his hand, waved it in a slow arc, said aloud, “Go on home, Benny. We’ll take good care of your boys!”
50. CORNWALLIS
JANUARY 18, 1781
The report came in by the hand of a green-coated horseman, but the shame on the man’s face showed him more of what had happened than Tarleton’s words on paper. Nearly eleven hundred of Cornwallis’ finest soldiers had engaged Morgan’s rebels, and less than three hundred had come away. He didn’t know the exact casualty count, but Tarleton’s report made clear that most of the British troops engaged at Cowpens were now Morgan’s prisoners.
As word of the disaster raced through the camps, Cornwallis began to hear t
he hot words against Tarleton. It came mainly from the veteran officers, outraged that this boy should have had such a command, should have been allowed the opportunity for such a spectacular failure. Cornwallis expected the criticism, knew it was just one more part of any defeat. If Tarleton had crushed Morgan’s army, the same critical old men would have climbed over each other to be his champion.
He had not yet written his official report to Clinton or Germain. That would come later. He would wait for Tarleton himself to arrive, to offer more details and, perhaps, some acceptable explanation how such a disaster could have occurred. But he knew Tarleton well enough, knew that the young man possessed that one ugly trait so common to men of ambition. His priority would be the high-sounding excuse, that no matter the judgment Cornwallis would hold, Tarleton would be more focused on the response of King George, on how his exploits would read in the London papers. Such men always dream of titles, medals, proclamations in Parliament. Rarely did such men seem to understand that, first, they had to win a war.
Cornwallis only had seven hundred troops around his headquarters, was desperate for Leslie to arrive from Ninety-Six with the reinforcements. The added strength would give Cornwallis enough of a force to make a serious pursuit of Morgan’s rebels. It was the only reasonable strategy, the strategy Clinton would insist upon. No enemy who had inflicted such a deadly strike should simply be allowed to wander off. It mattered little if Morgan intended to pursue some further assault, or if he was content to retreat and rejoin his army to Greene’s. The only possible disruption to Cornwallis’ plan could come from Greene himself, if the rebels showed some sign of launching a two-pronged attack on the British outposts. But Cornwallis had heard nothing of an advance by Greene. Thus Morgan was the target. Whether it was sound strategy mattered less than pride. The army would expect it, Clinton would expect it. It didn’t even have to make sense. It was simply the rules.
