Brave Enemies

by Robert Morgan

  Men ran in front of me and on each side of me. I jumped over bodies and hit others with my rifle and the ramrod. I looked back over my shoulder at the dragoons bearing down.

  “Hie, hie!” the horsemen shouted, as if we were foxes they were riding after. They raised their sabers to chop off arms and heads. A bugle splashed out its sound. I had not reloaded the rifle and there was nothing to do but run as hard as I could.

  A horse raced up beside me and the dragoon slashed the neck of the man in front of me. The head went rolling like a ball and the neck spurted blood as the body kept running before it fell. Horses dashed on both sides of me so close I could smell them. I figured I was next. I held the rifle up to protect my neck. The taste in my mouth was bad as the smell in my pants.

  But suddenly as they came, the dragoons ripped away. The bugle played again and they fell back. I ran harder than ever, thinking this was my chance. The shot pouch banged against my side. I jumped over a tuft of bushes and dashed between two black gum trees. We were past the Maryland line now, heading off toward the north, toward the pine trees.

  I couldn’t tell where we were going, but everybody seemed to be running in the same direction. Men jumped over each other and shoved each other. They cursed and dodged each other. I didn’t see anybody I knew. It looked like we were running back to where we’d camped the night before.

  Just then I saw why the dragoons had turned back. Out of a little dip behind the hill came Colonel Washington’s cavalry galloping toward us and past us. They had a bugle too, and their hooves rumbled loud as the Greens’ horses had. Their white-and-blue coats shone in the sun, and they had their sabers out and flashing as they rode past us. “Whoo-ee!” they yelled, and galloped around us flinging up dirt and grass.

  But we didn’t slow down, for we didn’t know what else might be coming after us. I just wanted to get away, from the bullets and smoke, and the bayonet blades. I wanted to get away where the air was cool enough to breathe. As I ran the air got cleaner and I breathed deeper, but then I saw an officer ahead pointing back toward the redcoats. And there was a boom behind us like the sky had cracked open. It sounded like everybody on the field was shooting their muskets at once. The air itself burst open, and it felt like my ears broke, or my head. There was a sick feeling behind my eyes, and all over me. Flocks of bullets groaned around me and above me, like passenger pigeons whistling through the air. Somebody in front of me stumbled and I jumped right over him.

  A big tall man ran out in front of us and yelled, “Turn back and reload!” He pointed back toward the field, but we ran right past him. If I stopped or even slowed down the men behind me would trample me. The tall man screamed and waved his arms. I couldn’t look back.

  Something hit me from behind. I reckon it was the barrel of a musket that struck me in the middle of the back. The lick almost knocked me down. I dodged around an oak tree and ducked under the limbs of another.

  Behind us the firing went on, pop pop pop, and one cannon roared and then another. I heard screams of men that got hit, and shouts of officers and soldiers. I couldn’t see where I was going and just followed those in front of me. We ran through scattered trees and around a farther ridge. Lt. Joseph Hughes of the South Carolina militia jumped out in front of us waving his hat. He had blood on his face.

  “You damn cowards!” he yelled. “Stop and fight or we’ll all be lost.” His face glowed with fury. All I could think of was how sweet it would be to reach the quiet woods where nobody was shooting at me and no bayonets were pointing at me. I wanted to reach the swamp and thicket and hide there. It was hard to remember meadows and quiet streams where people weren’t shooting and stabbing each other.

  Lieutenant Hughes darted around us and in front of us. “Tarleton will ride you down and chop you to pieces,” he shouted. “Your only hope is to turn and fight. Remember the Waxhaws.”

  Beyond the foot of the hill was a little gully, and beyond that stood a clump of pine trees. The pines grew in a kind of island in the field. The trees were thicker at the north end of the Cowpens, but this little stand of pines stood out from the other woods.

  Lieutenant Hughes caught up with us again. He ran out in front and stopped by the pine trees. “Don’t be fools,” he shouted. “You’ve got to reload and make a stand.”

  But even as he yelled a few boys broke away and dashed into the trees. I guess some of them had their horses tied in the thickets. Others must have kept running till they reached the swamps.

  “The Tories will come after us and kill us and burn our houses,” the lieutenant shouted. “We’ve got to reload and stand by the Continentals up there on the hill.”

  As we rounded the clump of pines we all stopped. I don’t know what came over us. It was a mystery, like everything else that day. Lieutenant Hughes hollered at us and pointed back toward the line. As soon as we got behind the pines the terrible panic went out of us. It all happened at once. We saw there was no use to run.

  “Though we haven’t got bayonets, we’ll ram our rifles up their arses,” the officer shouted.

  The lieutenant came staggering up all out of breath, and Colonel Pickens rode up too. But we’d already stopped. There must have been several hundred of us, all out of breath and some of us were bleeding. Everybody was dirty and had powder and soot on their faces.

  “Reload and go back to the line,” Hughes said.

  “Our brothers from Maryland and Virginia are taking all the fire,” Colonel Pickens said. “We must go back and do our part.”

  We could hear the pop pop pop pop of muskets, and from time to time the roar of a volley and the boom boom of the two cannons. Crows in the white pines cursed at us.

  “Form into ranks,” Colonel Pickens called. “And reload while you march back up the hill.” I was surprised to see I was still holding the ramrod in my left hand and the rifle in my right. I hadn’t even thought of the gun while I was running.

  JOHN TRETHMAN

  IT HAD BEEN TWO weeks and I thought constantly of Josie. As we roved over the wilderness of South Carolina I had no news from Pine Knot Branch or North Carolina. But my thoughts of Josie helped sustain me.

  I felt we were tending toward some great battle and the outcome would be terrible. Josie was with me every day and every hour in my thoughts and prayers. I didn’t know where she was, or even if she was still alive. For all I knew she was burned on the tree outside our cabin. Yet I was certain in my heart she must be alive and that I would see her again some day.

  It was one of the miracles of my life that Josie was sent to me. I had never thought I would have a wife, a companion for my pilgrim ministry and for my person. She was sent to me as such a surprise, and in such a way I could not avoid her. It was inevitable that I should come to love her.

  The past two weeks we had swung through much of the backcountry of South Carolina. Often I did not know where we were. We waded swamps and swam rivers. We fought our way through thickets and briars and tangled vines. We veered from Fort Ninety Six to the Enoree River, parting endless canebrakes.

  Once we passed a little church in the wilderness called Zion Hill, and tears came to my eyes, seeing a place of worship set there in the pines, and the name from the Bible, so far from any town. It reminded me that the Lord is everywhere, and of the debt we owe those who came before us, and handed the church down to us.

  I had come to care for those men and respect them, in spite of their depredations to the country. I had even come to love them, for they were tired and scared, confused and disheartened, however much they kept to discipline and protocol. Even those who swaggered and swore were worn out and uncertain. Twice we had been attacked by militia hidden in the woods, and at least a dozen men of the Royal Fusiliers had been killed.

  The colonel’s dragoons fought at Hammond’s Store in December and many were killed. I conducted the funerals, and sang and read from the Book of Common Prayer, and I was grieved as if they were my own people.

  More than ever I had come to see the
hopelessness and futility of war. War was repugnant to me, and useless in the end, for violence only leads to violence. One act of hate only leads to another. We are commanded to love one another, not to kill one another. We are commanded to turn the other cheek and to forgive seven times seventy. If a dispute cannot be settled by love and reason, it cannot be settled.

  I began to see I had been sent there to learn that the only true way was the way of peace. I was not just being punished. I was also learning. My service with that army had made me rededicate myself to my ministry and to my love. The cruelty I had seen, and the loss, reminded me of my choice of the way of prayer and praise. I was more convinced than ever that I had chosen the right path. In the past I sometimes doubted my call. And I doubted my worthiness to follow the call. But there in the wilderness, the brutality of men unredeemed had made my mission clear. Only a message of love and peace could win. Only humility and compassion could see us through to a better life. I was weak and I was an imperfect vessel, but the message was clear.

  Sometimes I lay awake at night and looked at the stars, and thought of the silence and cruelty in the world. God seemed far away from those mad skirmishes. But I knew it was we who had pushed Him away, and it was our own cruelty that we witnessed day after day.

  On the worst days I was reminded I was being punished for my weaknesses and my deceptions. It was I who had failed my congregations, and failed Josie, by my deception, by my lack of courage. My penance was to lose Josie and to serve with Tarleton.

  It was my privilege also to be called to serve. I had known no greater honor than to pray with those men so far from home, and comfort them with Scripture and song. Rough soldiers came to me late at night and early in the morning to weep and confess their sins. Officers asked me to pray with them.

  Even our brash young Colonel Tarleton sometimes showed his weaker side. By day he was all confidence and bluster. He never paused but acted on impulse. His forthrightness was admirable in an officer, though he may have put his men at risk too often. He did not swagger so much as plunge ahead from task to task, from order to order, never looking back. By day he had his campaign, and by night he had his wine and the several women who traveled with the regiment.

  A number of women followed the army in wagons and carts. They were mostly for the officers, though women in some wagons offered themselves to private soldiers for a shilling, it was said. Colonel Tarleton also had a good supply of wines and spirits, as well as tea and coffee. And one wagon was loaded with barrels of rum for the men’s daily ration of grog.

  After the cavalry returned from Hammond’s Store with many wounded and several dead, Colonel Tarleton called me into his tent. He was drinking from a silver flask and his eyes were swollen, as if he had been weeping. We had just buried several of his dragoons, and I had helped nurse the wounded.

  “Tell me, parson,” the colonel said. “Tell me why these wretched people are so determined to betray the Crown.”

  “I don’t know, sir,” I said.

  “They have gone mad,” the colonel said, and slammed the table with his fist. “They will be damned for their blasted perversity.”

  I dared not comment on the patriots and the American cause in his presence. I had come to understand the frustration and fury he and his men felt.

  “Why will they not surrender and return to law and order?” Colonel Tarleton said. He glared at me as though he blamed me for the rebellion. I stared at the ground to avoid his eyes.

  “I’m just a preacher and a hymnodist, sir,” I said.

  “If you are so wise, tell me this,” the colonel said. His eyes burned at me and his words came out as scalding hisses. “Tell me why your god permits such suffering and slaughter. Who is the author of so much pain in the world?”

  The colonel was so grieved by the loss of his men his voice trembled He was shaken by the rebellion that had gone on and on. “Tell me what satisfaction your god can get from this unending calamity,” he said.

  I told him what I could, that the ways and purposes of the Lord were often a deep mystery, beyond our limited human understanding. Perhaps we were not meant to understand all.

  “You parsons always talk that way,” he said. There was anger in his voice, but also grief and confusion. I had not seen him so shaken. His face was flushed and his eyes glistened. I wondered if I should leave his presence. Was I embarrassing him in his justified grief? I was about to turn away when he said, “Is that all you have to offer, padre?”

  “My only comfort is in humility and prayer,” I said.

  “Then pray with me,” he said.

  I sank slowly to my knees, for it didn’t seem right to stand there. I dropped to my knees, and much to my surprise the colonel knelt also. He took a drink from the flask and closed his eyes.

  “Lord, we do not understand the trials and pains of this journey,” I said. “We do not understand the grief and danger, the anger and loss of life.”

  I prayed as plainly and directly as I knew how. I prayed with the colonel as I would with any other supplicant or mourner. My prayer was one of submission and surrender. I felt inspired to be simple and truthful. When I finished the colonel thanked me and turned away. I left the tent and stood beside a campfire and stared into the flames.

  If I ever found Josie again I vowed we would go far away from armies and live in peace and honest work in some hidden valley. I would build a church and invite all to come. And I would raise a subsistence on my own fields.

  For I had come to believe there was really no right side or wrong side in war. All killing was wrong and all hatred was wrong. I guess I had come to think as a Quaker in that way. It made no sense to kill and then kill again. Better to avoid the fight. Better to be humble and forgiving.

  Those weeks in the wilderness had helped teach me that, and my weakness and my love had helped teach me that. For my love had sustained me, sinner that I was, and would sustain me, as I walked in that dark and lurking world.

  I ALWAYS THOUGHT there was something ominous about thunder in winter. After I had been with Tarleton’s legion about twenty days it began to rain, not a steady rain but violent cloudbursts that clawed at the canvas tent where I slept with several other men and threw cold water in my face while we were marching. The rain came suddenly, accompanied by thunder. I studied thunder the way I once had studied clouds. Sometimes the thunder grumbled around the edges of the sky and sometimes it barked in the night like a frightened dog.

  Winter thunder would rumor on both sides of the sky like a story repeated again and again until it was worn out. But then the thunder blasted and shouted as if the sky was tearing apart. One night I felt the thunder was talking to me, preaching to me. I felt it brought a message about my unworthiness, a warning about my future. I wished I knew how to interpret what the thunder said. I sat in the tent and tried to read a passage from Revelation about a new heaven and a new earth, after the great battle of Armageddon. I wondered what the new earth would look like as rain gnawed at the canvas and thunder barked its threats. The candle flickered as if reluctant to burn in the damp air.

  An orderly lifted the flap of the tent and said, “The colonel wants to see you.”

  The colonel usually disappeared into his tent at night with his whores and senior officers. I knew they played cards and drank fine brandy. Sometimes I heard them sing far into the night. It was odd he would summon me in the middle of a thunderstorm.

  I closed the Bible the colonel had given me and looked out into the night. A flash of lightning lit up the forest, turning the trees and sky blue. Rain touched my face like a swarm of little wings. A few campfires were burning but they gave little light. Tucking the Bible under my coat I ran to the colonel’s tent through mud and dripping brush. Thunder cracked the sky so loud it seemed time stopped, and the world was breaking apart. Rain fumbled at my eyes and I had to wipe my brow to see as I entered Tarleton’s tent. I expected to see several officers there playing cards, but found only the colonel and one of his girls.
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  “Reverend Trethman,” the colonel said, “thank you for joining us on such a beastly night.” A chessboard was set on the table before him. He pointed to the pieces and asked if I would honor him with a game.

  “I’m not very good,” I said, and told him I hadn’t played in years.

  “Nonsense, parson, I know you are a man of keen intelligence,” Colonel Tarleton said. He held a goblet in his right hand and fondled the girl with his left. I couldn’t help but look at her. She was a brunette with fair skin, and her shawl was open so her bosoms were exposed.

  “I’m a rotten player myself,” Colonel Tarleton said, “but Susie here has agreed to help me.” He stroked her breast as he spoke and I tried to look away. He offered me a goblet of brandy and I accepted. Rain hammered on the cloth of the tent and thunder shook the air and ground. The girl named Susie yelped with surprise.

  “I like a game of chess to sharpen my wits,” Colonel Tarleton said. “This war has turned me into a lout. Far from the theater, far from the gaming table, and far from family and his stable of horses, a man becomes a savage. It takes a woman to keep a man civilized.”

  He drew Susie to him and kissed her neck. She giggled and glanced at me. I could not take my eyes off the soft skin of her bosoms. I sipped the fine brandy and felt it burn across the back of my tongue and warm my throat.

  The colonel held out his closed hands and I chose the left, the black pawn. He replaced the pawns on the board and moved a white one. I moved a black pawn and he moved a knight. Our opening moves went like clockwork as he brought a bishop out to the center of the board. I took another sip and began to feel the lift of the brandy. I moved a bishop into my opponent’s territory.