by Jeff Shaara
“Go, rest up. Maybe you’ll be back yet.”
“Don’t think so, Nat. I’m crippled up. This ain’t something that’s just gonna go away.”
There was a silent pause, and Morgan said, “You think you can beat him?”
“Cornwallis? I don’t think we have to, Daniel. All we have to do is hurt him once or twice. He’s too far from Charleston, and he has the same problem we have: He can’t get ammunition. That’s why I need people, Daniel. I need to hold him as long as I can. He’s a very long way from his outposts in South Carolina. He can’t refit, and he has no close base of supply. The one thing I cannot do is risk destroying this army. Another reason I need the reinforcements. The only way Cornwallis succeeds is if he annihilates us. I don’t intend to let that happen.”
“Pick your ground, Nat. Make use of the militia. But don’t depend on them.” Morgan paused, shook his head. “You don’t need my pea-brained counsel. You’ve had the best teacher a soldier can have. If I see George before you do, I’ll let him know how his student turned out. Not bad for a book-learned Rhode Islander.”
Morgan stood slowly, and Greene could see hard pain on the man’s face. Morgan raised one arm, a slow stretch, put his hand against the canvas above him.
“When I get home, I’ll see what I can do to round up some cloth. Half this army’s runnin’ around naked.”
Greene smiled.
“I’ve given that some thought. Could be to our advantage. Imagine an attack led by a line of naked men. Would strike certain fear in the hearts of the enemy.”
Morgan managed a small laugh.
“I don’t think the commanding general would approve. Unless, of course, it worked.” Morgan turned away now, moved to the opening in the tent, stopped.
“I ain’t much for sentiment, Nat. You got some good men here. Hope you make the best use of ’em. God help me, if I could fight with you, I would.”
GUILFORD COURT HOUSE, NORTH CAROLINA,
MARCH 15, 1781
Toward the end of February, Greene ordered his army to recross the Dan River and advance carefully along the roads where Cornwallis had withdrawn. The British did not wait quietly, Cornwallis throwing Tarleton forward in strike after strike, to find some way to maneuver Greene into the fight the British wanted. Though Greene knew he had to prevent the British troops from recovering from the damaging march, he was not yet prepared to offer a fight of his own. He felt his army was still too small. He could only hope to keep the British on the move by teasing them with the threat of an engagement. Cornwallis responded in the only way he could, seeking a confrontation with as much energy as Greene used to prevent one. After nearly three weeks, Greene’s careful dance around the guns of the British accomplished what he’d hoped it would. The reinforcements finally began to arrive.
Greene expected to hear a great deal of Banastre Tarleton, the one man Cornwallis would rely on to seek the vulnerability in Greene’s position. But Tarleton’s effectiveness had been countered by the good work of William Washington and Harry Lee, sharp duels and crisp clashes, a violent chess game by the horsemen that allowed Greene the necessary time to gather his army. He had time as well to find the one piece of ground that would offer the best advantage for a good fight.
So much of the land close to the Virginia line was dense woods, no place for either army to make a stand. But on the long retreat, Greene had passed through Guilford Court House, where a patchwork of farms and open fields divided the forests. As his cavalry continued to clash swords with Tarleton, Greene moved his army back to Guilford. Finally, he was prepared for a fight. He summoned the horsemen to Guilford, placed them as Morgan had done at Cowpens, behind the flanks of his army.
Greene had his numbers, over four thousand men now spread in lines west of the small town. He had his good ground, the wide ridges, open fields surrounded by stands of trees. He could only wait for his invitation to be answered, for the enemy to understand that if they wanted a fight, they would have to march to Guilford. Cornwallis did not disappoint him.
Morgan’s troops were now commanded by Colonel Otho Williams, a brilliant young Marylander. Williams had been with the Maryland regiments since Boston, had been seriously wounded and captured at Fort Washington. Later exchanged for a British prisoner, Williams was one of the few bright spots in Horatio Gates’ disaster at Camden. Greene believed he was capable of taking the reins from Daniel Morgan. Greene’s other senior commander was a brigadier, Isaac Huger, who had once commanded the militia in Georgia and South Carolina. Huger’s family was prominent in South Carolina, but Greene had come to rely on the man for more than his recruitment value. After Cowpens, when Greene had left the main body of the army to travel northward with Morgan, Huger had been left behind to command the retreat. He had executed his assignment with the same dexterity and skill as Greene would have done himself. Once the two wings of the army had reunited, Greene knew that Huger was more than some aristocratic product of plantation wealth. He was a capable leader of troops.
The stars had been swept away by a clear icy dawn, the grassy fields touched by a soft white blanket of frost. Greene had ridden forward, down along the edge of a wide deep valley, thick with tall trees. The road out of Guilford continued westward and Greene moved out into the center, stopped, held up his hand, his staff halting as well. They kept silent, listened for the sounds of some kind of fight, some sign that Cornwallis was close. He stared down the road into the dull light of the silent forest, said, “Difficult to hear anything here. The trees will mask the sounds.” He looked to his staff, said, “Major, send a rider. He should find Colonel Lee on this road. If the enemy is advancing, it is likely that Colonel Lee will be engaged. I must know his disposition.”
The order went out, and a horseman was past him now, dropping off down the steep hill, the man’s hoofbeats quickly muffled by the terrain. Greene glanced at his pocketwatch, eight-thirty, stabbed the watch back into his coat. He turned the horse, looked back up the long rise. He had hoped to see the courthouse itself, the small buildings of the town. But the view was blocked by a thick mass of trees. That will make it difficult, he thought. The officers will have to manage their own part of the fight.
The road climbed up through a long open field, black earth flecked with the remains of cornstalks. Out in the center of the field, a ragged fence intersected the road, and behind the fence, the first line of militia stood ready.
He had taken Morgan’s experience to heart, the extraordinary strategy that had worked so well at the Cowpens. The first line would be the men from North Carolina, nearly a thousand nervous militia, most of whom had never seen their enemy. The fence would give them blessed protection, split rails stacked in a snaking line. It was Morgan’s lesson, to put the least reliable men in a place where they had little to do but make a show. Greene stood now where the enemy should first appear, and he guessed, four hundred yards to the fence, perhaps more. The open ground in front of them would offer ample opportunity for several clean volleys, and once the British had moved close, the militia knew to withdraw. The militia were protected on their right flank by William Washington’s cavalry, and companies of veteran marksmen, most of the men hidden in the woods that lined the cornfield. Once Harry Lee returned, his horsemen would take up position on the left flank, more protection, and a perfect position to enfilade the British advance.
Behind the North Carolinians, the woods engulfed the road, and here Greene had placed the Virginia militia, another thousand men, huddled now in the protection of the trees. Behind them, another open field led to the town itself, where Greene had placed his most seasoned troops, two regiments of Virginia Regulars under Huger, and two regiments of Marylanders under Otho Williams. If the British advance reached the third line, they would confront the finest soldiers Greene had on the field.
He pointed up the rise, said, “We will take up our position behind the regulars. Until we hear from Colonel Lee, we have no alternative but to wait.”
He heard hoofbeat
s, looked back down the draw, saw riders rounding a distant curve. They climbed the hill, were clear of the tree-sheltered road. He could see now, it was Harry Lee.
Lee reined up, saluted him, his horse blowing clouds of hot breath, still jostling the young man about. Lee pulled hard on the reins, said, “Whoa, easy there! Sir, I’m surprised to see you here! You intend to start this fight yourself?”
Lee’s joviality was always infectious, but Greene was not in the mood for pleasantries. He looked past Lee, stared down the road, could see the rest of the horsemen in column, moving quickly up the hill.
“You have a report, Colonel?”
“Indeed, sir. Right down thataway is a whole flock of redcoats. A few greencoats too. We had a little confrontation with Tarleton’s boys. Did like you said, held them up a bit, made sure they knew what direction we wanted them to go. As I said, sir, unless you plan to take your place on the skirmish line, I’d be moving on back. Should I send my men out to the left flank, sir? I see the militia boys are set.”
Greene stared down into the woods, moved his horse a few steps forward, listened. Lee’s horsemen were moving past him now, and Greene said, “Yes, proceed to the left flank, Colonel. Dismount your men, put your best marksmen in front.”
Lee gave the order, his officers now leading the way. Lee moved up beside Greene, and, after a long moment, the woods seemed to pulse with a low sound. Gradually the sounds grew louder, and Lee said, “Their drummers are in fine form today, sir.” Lee pointed down into the woods, and around the far curve riders appeared, men with green coats, a flag, the drums rattling a sharp rhythm up the hill.
“As I reported, sir. You were hoping for a fight. I think you have one.”
It was midday before the British emerged in force on the low road. They spread into a heavy line, began as they always began, stepping in unison through the field, pushed on by the sounds of the drums. Yet it was not quite like Cowpens. Guilford Court House was a much more vast area, the heavy stands of trees blocking Greene’s view of his deployment. There was another difference as well. The British strength was double what Tarleton had led to Cowpens, and were not commanded by an impetuous young cavalryman. They were led by Cornwallis himself.
From his vantage point near the courthouse, Greene could only know when the British appeared by the first hard thump of his cannon, two six-pounders placed in the road that divided the fence line. The British field guns responded, smaller pops of the light three-pounders. He knew it was more for demonstration than for any real effect, that the British would cease their fire when their troops marched out into the field. After a duel of several agonizing minutes, the British guns finally fell silent. It was the first genuine sign that the battle had begun.
The British moved out toward the fence line, faced the militia, but the discipline was not in those men, and many of the North Carolinians fired their first round when the British were barely in range. The redcoats absorbed the uneven volley and kept their near-perfect march to within fifty yards of the fence. Then they stopped, the drums suddenly quiet, and, for one long moment, the two lines faced each other. The British pointed their bayonets to the front, every man in their line focusing on the terrified faces of the men along the fence. Behind the frozen stares of the North Carolinians, an officer moved his horse slowly, raised his sword, shouted a single word, the command that would decimate the arrogance of the British formation, would sweep away the enemy in front of them.
“Fire!”
But the men along the fence did not answer the command, were consumed instead by the fear of the bayonets, and in one sudden massive wave, they pulled away, threw down their loaded muskets, and ran.
As the British continued their advance, the cavalry and riflemen in the woods on either flank took careful aim, and small gaps began to appear in the British line. But it was not enough to hold them back, and the British saw there was safety in the trees. In the dense woods, the Virginia militia held their positions, and when the British marched into the edge of the trees, the thick underbrush erupted into sharp volleys that rolled back the first British line.
Greene could see only the woods, a long thick cloud of white smoke rising through the treetops. He paced the horse, raised field glasses, but there was nothing else to see. He rammed the field glasses into their pouch, felt angry frustration at his blindness. He thought of riding forward, moving up close behind the woods, but he could do no real good there. Ultimately, the most important part of the day could come right where he was. He had expected to see the Virginia militia retreating back out of the woods by now, and the frustration gave way to curiosity, and then, outright surprise. The Virginians weren’t pulling back at all. They were making a fight of it.
He had seen remnants of the chaotic retreat of the North Carolinians, men without muskets, shedding coats and blankets, canteens and packs, furious officers riding among them, swatting them down with the flats of their swords. But the panic was complete, and the militia would not be stopped, many of them far beyond the field now. He began to realize, of course, the Virginians had seen that as well. They would not bear the same disgrace. They had, after all, the protection of the dense woods.
The fight in the trees was a solid roar of sound, and he stared in amazement, thought, The longer they hold, the greater the chance the British will back away! If so, the continentals should advance, give support. He began to move forward, rode out in front of the regular troops, heard cheers now, all along the line, but it was not for him. He looked down to the trees, could see a wave of men emerging from the right, some of the Virginians finally pulling away from the fight. He raised the field glasses, could see officers, some sign of order, a ragged line as they retreated up the hill. There was still musket fire in the woods, but not as steady now, most of the sounds coming from the left, from the men who were still holding their position. He scanned the officers on the right, too far away to see faces, thought of the commanders, Stevens and Lawson, men he barely knew, men he never expected to hold their ground against the full might of a British advance. The smoke began to drift away, and more of the Virginians emerged from the right, some pulling the wounded back with them. The quiet spread all down through the trees, the left now starting to give way as well. The retreat was uneven, the right already falling back behind the flank of the continentals. On the left, the Virginians were just now emerging from the trees, just beginning their climb. As the musket fire in the woods grew quiet, Greene was surprised to hear another hard fight, far out to the left, well beyond the woods, thought, Lee! He is still engaged on the flank! He scanned the continentals on both sides of him, thought, There is nothing we can do to assist him. Lee is too far forward. They must have assaulted him directly. He saw horsemen now, Washington’s cavalry, following the retreat of the Virginians, protecting their withdrawal on the right. I cannot send them to Lee. We must still protect the right flank. He felt suddenly helpless, the great strength of his army beside him, no way to send any help to Lee’s fight. Couriers were close behind him, and he pointed that way, said, “Send a message . . . Colonel Lee cannot allow himself to be cut off! If the enemy continues to advance, we will require his horsemen on our left flank! Unless a withdrawal will place him in jeopardy, he must retreat to our main position, and assume the flank! Go!”
The courier was quickly gone, and Greene stared down at the trees, the last wave of Virginians now coming up from the left, many turning to fight the enemy still hidden by the woods. Yes, by God! You have done your job!
He could see movement along the timberline to the right, bits of red, felt his heart jump. Very well! We shall see what you have left!
The British emerged in a ragged wave, and a cheer went up around him, and he thought, A salute to the Virginians, or perhaps . . . their enemy. Greene rode down to the left, out in front of the Marylanders, who could finally see the British troops. He turned toward them, raised his hat, and more cheers went up, the men seeing him, all of them knowing their part of this fight would
now begin.
He faced the enemy again, could see British officers strengthening their line, evening the formation. He saw one man, clearly in command, a small staff following the man as he rode behind his troops. I should like to know you, sir. What do you see at this very moment? You have been battered and bloodied by men you must certainly have believed could not fight. Now, you must face the finest soldiers in America! Are you even aware of that? Let us see what you will do!
The British line began to move, but they were compact, not spread across the field, their officers pulling them tighter, a heavy fist, moving up the rise, shifting toward the left half of the continental line. Greene jerked the horse, moved farther that way, saw Otho Williams, sitting tall in the saddle, watching the advance draw up directly toward him. Greene moved close, said, “It will be your fight, Colonel! It seems Cornwallis has chosen to make his assault on Maryland!”
Williams was nervous, stared at the vast red wave moving closer.
“Then we shall show him his mistake, sir!”
The Marylanders held their fire, the perfect discipline of veterans. The British were close now, less than a hundred yards, and Greene felt the tightness in his throat, searched for the flag, their commander, found him now, could see the man’s scarlet coat glistening in the sharp clear sunlight, points of gold light from his polished brass buttons. Greene felt a surge of raw fury, glanced beside him, thought, A musket, just this one time. Or better, the lines should part, and we should ride out, meet close enough so that I may strike you down myself. He drew his sword, held it high, brought the point down slowly, focused on the man’s chest, studied every part of him, the white dusty wig, the calm stare on the man’s face. The British line halted now, thirty yards in front of the Maryland troops. Their front line suddenly dropped down to one knee, two rows of muskets pointed straight at the troops in front of them. Williams did not wait, and Greene heard his shout. The Maryland line fired first in a massive volley. Greene felt himself shouting, a hot angry cheer, saw Williams rush forward, shouting orders, driving his horse close up behind his men. The Marylanders made their charge, swarmed through the British line, the fight now with the bayonet. But the British held their discipline, some firing as well, the Maryland line staggered by the sudden blow. Williams drew them back, a withdrawal in good order, the British stumbling back as well, then drawing up, coming together again. There was musket fire on both sides now, and Greene could hear the sharp whistle of the ball past his head, felt a hand on his arm, saw Burnet, pulling him back.
