by Jeff Shaara
“Sir! Withdraw! Sir!”
He turned the horse, glanced back, tried to see the British officer, but the field was a mass of smoke and writhing bodies, heaps of bloody horror, the fight growing into a deafening chatter. He spurred the horse, moved down to the other Maryland line, men not yet engaged. These were Williams’ men as well, but Williams was still directing the fight on his left. Greene rode up behind them, saw the junior officers watching him, could see relief on their faces. Down toward the woods, more British units were emerging, finding their way to what had now become the main fight. In front of Williams, he could see British troops falling back again, driven away by the thunderous blows from the First Maryland. The retreating British came together again, but many of them had shifted into line with the fresher troops. They were re-forming now, barely a hundred yards away, and he could see that many of them had seen enough of the First Maryland. He waved his hat high, shouted, “Maryland will stand tall today! Show them, boys! Show them!”
The British began to advance again, and Greene saw Williams, riding toward him, his hat gone, sword in hand. Williams shouted to his men, “Prepare to receive them! Wait for the order to fire!”
Greene backed his horse away, could see down to the woods, the last British troops to emerge. They were advancing well up the rise, and he looked at Williams, said, “Colonel, this is your command. I must see to General Huger. If the Virginia Regulars will make such a fight, this day is ours!”
He heard the first roar of Williams’ new fight, turned, expected to see a vast wave of smoke, more devastation along the British advance. This part of the Maryland line was the Fifth Regiment, and they were not the veterans that had come through so much of the war. They were Smallwood’s fresh recruits, men who had not yet seen a fight, who did not yet know what it was to stand tall in the field. The thunderous volley had not come from their ranks, was all on the side of the British. Greene stared, was stunned to see the entire line suddenly pulling back, men running without firing a single round. The British seemed as surprised as he was, began to advance again, but the fresh Marylanders did not have the steel of their brothers, and before the British could even make use of the bayonet, that part of Greene’s main line was simply gone.
The fight consumed two hours, and faced with a continuing pressure from Cornwallis’ disciplined army, Greene finally had no alternative but to order a retreat. By nightfall, his exhausted army found their way nearly seven miles, to an easily defensible position in a place called, ironically, Troublesome Creek. Though Tarleton’s men eventually attempted a pursuit, the wooded countryside after dark was no place for cavalry. Greene was able to gather in many of his stragglers and lead the orderly march himself. He rode beside the proud and infuriated veterans, the men who had so nearly prevailed but were denied the victory by the curse so common to this army now, the failure of the inexperienced soldiers.
Cornwallis had remained in the open fields around guilford Court House, but it was not some symbolic claim of the victor. It was bloody necessity. For two days, the wounded on both sides were gathered and treated, every home, barn, and shed now a hospital. Cornwallis had sent letters to Greene, imploring the Americans to provide for their own, and Greene responded with wagons of medical supplies, surgeons, any means he could provide to ease the suffering of the wounded.
He had expected Cornwallis to pursue him, and he put his men into as good a defensive position as the land would allow. But the enemy did not come. Very soon he understood why. It was the surgeons who sent word, along with their urgent requests for more help. Cornwallis had lost a quarter of his strength, nearly six hundred casualties. The British were in no condition to pursue anyone.
Greene had tried to make some estimate of his own casualties, and none of the officers believed they had lost more than four hundred men, out of four thousand engaged. But there was a far greater problem. The North Carolina militia had not only deserted the field, they had deserted the army. Over a thousand men had simply disappeared.
The day after the battle, the rains had come, adding to the utter misery of those unsheltered wounded. Greene was concerned as well for the morale of his entire army, especially the hard veterans, whose victory had been thrown away. As the rain turned the river’s edge to deep mud, Greene stayed close to his own tent, receiving the reports, putting together the final numbers he would have to send northward.
He had kept Harry Lee’s Legion in the field, scouting for any sign of movement by the British. He still expected to hear some word of a British advance. Though Cornwallis had been badly mauled, he was still very far from his base of supply. Greene had to be prepared that Cornwallis would have no choice but to continue the attack.
TROUBLESOME CREEK, NORTH CAROLINA,
MARCH 18, 1781
The rain was relentless, the tent leaking in a dozen places. He had placed the small camp desk in the one dry corner, stared at blank paper, his first attempt at preparing the report for the commanding general.
“Is this the sanctuary?”
He looked up, saw a dripping Lee, the young man smiling as he wiped the rain from his eyes.
“You may enter, Colonel. Sorry to say, it’s not much drier in here.”
“Oh, I would disagree with you, there, sir. My horse would like to come in as well, if that’s all right.”
It was Lee’s usual mood, and Greene did not share his smile.
“No? Well, I suppose not. If I may sit, sir?”
Greene nodded, pointed to the low camp stool.
“Thank you, sir.”
Lee shed his heavy coat, tossed it in a heap outside the tent. He sat now, his knees up in front of him, and Greene stared at the blank paper.
“I assume, Colonel, that the enemy is enduring the same misery we are?”
“More so, sir. They don’t have tents. We picked up a couple deserters who said Tarleton was wounded. They lost a barnful of officers.”
Greene thought of the one man, leading the assault on the First Maryland. I should have killed him myself.
“Names?”
“Not yet. We’ll find out, sir.”
Greene still studied the paper, and Lee said, “Excuse me asking, sir, but you writing a letter? I can come back.”
“It’s all right, Colonel. It’s my report to General Washington. Or, it will be. Not sure how to begin.”
“Well, sir, I’d start by telling the commanding general that this army has bested the finest army in the world.”
Greene looked at him, saw the same smile.
“I’d prefer to tell him the truth, Colonel. You object to that?”
Greene was not in the mood for conversation, saw Lee’s smile slip away, and Lee said, “You think, sir . . . because the British are sitting in those fields, that we lost that fight?”
“Don’t you? Colonel, I was given the responsibility to command this department for one reason. General Washington believes I have the ability to achieve success. I have not done so. It is my duty to inform him of that fact.”
Lee was wide-eyed, said, “General, I’d appreciate it if you would set that paper aside for now. You need to see the facts in the daylight, sir. This rain’s soaked right into your brain . . . pardon me for saying.”
Lee let out a breath now, and Greene was surprised at the man’s frankness. He pushed the paper away, said, “Is there anything else, Colonel?”
Lee started to stand, thought better of the effort, settled back down on the stool.
“Sir, we whipped the British good back there. The only thing they won was that piece of ground. Excuse me, sir, but I’d sell them another piece of ground at the same price.”
“We paid a price as well, Colonel.”
“You mean the North Carolina boys? We didn’t lose anything by it. They weren’t soldiers, and they didn’t do anything for this army. We have a bigger problem with the Virginia boys. I hear they’re going home.”
It was one more ingredient in Greene’s despair.
“Th
ey only agreed to six-week enlistments, Colonel. I imagine in a week or so, they’ll all be gone. Twelve hundred men. And, unlike the men from North Carolina, the Virginians did fight. When they go, we’ll have barely sixteen hundred continentals left in this camp. How much success will that ensure us? We have an enemy not more than a day’s march away, who knows he must either fight us or go home. I don’t know how much more I can ask of these men.”
Lee looked down between his knees, thought for a moment.
“Sir, you asked me if there was anything else. My apologies, sir, but when General Washington hears what you did down here, well, sir, he’s going to agree more with me than with you. It’s not just the battle. Don’t you see that, sir? Once this rain stops, two things can happen. The enemy will come after us, or they won’t. If they attack us, these boys will fight again. But if they don’t, if Cornwallis marches away from here, it means . . . by God, sir, it means you’ve won . . . the campaign.”
52. CORNWALLIS
MARCH 18, 1781
His men had eaten nothing for nearly a full day before the battle. For a day after, they suffered the utter misery of the torrential rains. But finally the rains stopped, and the quartermasters had conjured up barrels of rancid flour, enough to provide some kind of ration for the march.
He had already sent forward as many of the wounded as could travel, over four hundred men, who filled a column of confiscated wagons. The army would follow, knowing that behind them, a hundred more had been left in the town, too severely injured, cared for by those few surgeons he could spare. Any man who survived the horror of the makeshift hospitals would certainly become Greene’s prisoner.
The march was strangely quiet, even the musicians subdued. There were far fewer drummers and fifers now, some killed at Cowpens, many more killed or captured at Guilford. For a while Cornwallis could hear one drum, far in front of him, one man who still had the spirit, who would still offer a proud rhythm to the march. But the steady beat had suddenly grown quiet, and soon Cornwallis understood. He had ridden past the drum itself, tossed aside, punched and ripped by the angry stab of a bayonet. It was not a surprise that Cornwallis’ own sour mood would be reflected by the men.
He had issued yet another proclamation, a call for loyalists to celebrate their victory at Guilford by flocking once more to the king’s flag, and for any rebels who surrendered themselves to be pardoned for all crimes. As soon as the notices were posted, he regretted the decision, scolded himself for such a mindless show of optimism. It was more than a sad joke this time, it was cruel and deadly to anyone naÏve enough to respond. Once he realized he had to abandon Guilford, he knew that anyone who actually tried to comply would find no protection at all, would certainly be set upon by the rebels.
The reports would be written soon, and he knew that Guilford Court House would be described as a glorious victory, another in a long series of crushing blows to the rebellion. By the time the reports reached London, they would be received according to the political bent of the reader. The king’s men would trumpet the success as one more sign the war was going their way. The opposition would have a different view, and he imagined the speeches in Parliament, the king’s enemies growing more bold with each bit of news. No matter how much Germain and Lord North colored the facts, the opposition would know what Cornwallis knew himself. Throughout most of the war, the British had proven superior on the field, the rebels reduced to fighting from positions of weakness, resorting to tactics that would make bandits proud. On every field where Cornwallis had led the assault, his regulars had driven the rebels away. But now, as he marched his army away from their tragic victory at Guilford, he understood that the rebels could only succeed in a war fought exactly as they had fought it. And now, six years after it had begun, the rebels were clearly winning.
He had begun to see their commanders in a different light, appreciated now that their talents exceeded what a trained officer typically brought to the field. He had never thought of Washington as a military mind, had viewed Fort Washington and Brandywine as stupidly executed disasters. But the rebels were a different kind of army, and so, their commanders were different as well. Both Howe and Clinton had allowed too much time to slip by, too many opportunities for the rebel commanders to learn from their mistakes. The rebels had grown into their roles, men like Greene and Morgan and Lafayette learning how to shape their tactics around the abilities of their men. Greene’s retreat from Guilford was perfectly timed. As Cornwallis moved his men into position for a final grand assault, the rebels were exactly where Cornwallis needed them to be. Then, Greene had pulled them away, and Cornwallis knew now that Greene had saved the rebel army from utter destruction. And so, one more disaster had become instead one more valuable lesson, and today, Greene would be a better commander.
Ah, he thought, but Greene gave us the field. That is what will matter to Henry Clinton and George Germain. I will be congratulated, no matter that I now have barely fifteen hundred hungry, shoeless soldiers. And if we do not find supplies soon, we may simply collapse into no army at all.
He had sent word down to the outposts both at Wilmington and Camden, an urgent order for forage and food to be sent to Cross Creek. The town was a vibrant Scottish settlement sprawled along the headwaters of the Cape Fear River. It was believed to be a solidly loyalist area, the Scots fiercely proud of their allegiance to the king. The quartermasters had already marched ahead, leaving behind encouraging words for the troops, that once they reached Cross Creek, the army could rely on a fresh outpouring of loyalist sentiment in the form of both supplies and recruits. It was optimism Cornwallis had heard before.
He was not surprised to learn that Greene’s army was pursuing him, though the only confrontations had come from the cavalry, Tarleton’s men holding away the light horse of Lee. But Greene would stay close, and even if the rebels were too badly bruised to make a fight, he knew Greene would trail him to Cross Creek, seeking some opportunity to strike. It was all the incentive Cornwallis needed to push his army in a desperate march. Though he had to believe his troops would still have the spirit for a fight, they were lacking one essential ingredient. Since they had burned their wagons at Ramsour’s Mill, there had been no means to resupply their cartridge boxes. Though food was an urgent necessity, a lack of ammunition meant they could not force a general engagement. Even if they relied on the bayonet, they could not survive another victory like Guilford.
CROSS CREEK, NORTH CAROLINA, MARCH 29, 1781
The Scotsmen had met Cornwallis’ call for support the same way most of the Carolinas had responded. The British were ignored. As the army marched into Cross Creek, they were delivered only four days of forage for the desperately weak horses, the quartermasters admitting sheepishly that the countryside was devoid of the essential needs for the men. They would again survive on hard biscuits and miniscule rations of dried beef.
The wagons of the wounded had stopped at Cross Creek as well, the horrified citizens reluctantly opening their homes as hospitals. One house had been reserved for the officers, and Cornwallis stepped up on the porch, could already smell that familiar, awful odor, dropped his head for a moment, then stepped through the door. He saw women, a mother and two girls, a heap of clothing already torn into brightly colored bandages. The women ignored him, and he moved past them, followed the smells to a parlor, peered inside. O’Hara was on a small narrow bed, looked up at him, said, “Ah, General, you here to part me from my miseries? I had feared seeing the Almighty before I saw you, sir.”
He was surprised at O’Hara’s spirits, said, “I thought I should see how you’re faring.” He looked at the thick bandage on O’Hara’s leg, and O’Hara said, “That’s the one that hurts, I admit.” He put a hand on his chest, patted gently. “I have been assuming, of course, that this one would be the final blow. The surgeon tells me I barely escaped the reaper. Not so . . . some of us.”
O’Hara’s buoyant mood had no energy behind it, the smile quickly gone. Cornwallis was ashamed, had
forgotten that the man’s son did not survive the battle. Lieutenant O’Hara was an artillery officer, had been buried where he was struck down.
“I regret the loss of your son, General.”
“He died the best way a man can, sir. His mother will not understand, of course. Women don’t appreciate those things a soldier accepts. He was a good lad, sir. They are all . . . good lads.”
There was a silent moment, and Cornwallis saw O’Hara fighting himself to hide the emotion.
“I’m hoping, General, that we will have you back in action quite soon.” He paused, said, “How’s General Webster? Any word?”
O’Hara seemed to welcome the change of subject, said, “Webby hasn’t been awake for a while, I’m told. Poor chap. Did the best work of any of us. Took his people straight into that Maryland bunch. Hardest fight of the day. He’s in the rear bedroom. He’d appreciate you looking in on him, sir.”
Cornwallis nodded, knew that O’Hara’s appraisal was right. Webster had driven his men straight up to the heart of Greene’s third line, had been struck down in a horrific confrontation. O’Hara said, “I hear young Tarleton lost a finger.”
“Two, actually. He was fortunate.”
“We are all fortunate, General, those of us who can tell about these exploits. If you don’t mind, sir, can you tell me what our plan is now? I hear the rebels are on our tail.”
