Prelude to Glory, Vol. 6

by Ron Carter

  He cleared his throat, used a handkerchief to wipe at the perspiration on his face, and continued.

  “I move on to the second major item. We have done two things: established a strong base here, in the heart of the American South, and, we have completely eliminated their defending army. It may be that we have struck the blow that will undo the entire revolution. Time will tell. But in any event, we are now in a position to begin our march northward, according to the campaign orders of King, Parliament, and Lord Germain. That is precisely what I intend doing.”

  Chairs squeaked as the men leaned forward, hanging intently on Clinton’s next words.

  “We do not know what the Americans will do. Will they send northern troops down to shore up what little remains of their southern forces? If they do, how many? How far will they go in weakening their forces surrounding New York? And who will they send here to lead? We have no control of these critical matters. We will simply wait, and watch, and deal with them as they occur.”

  There was brief movement at the table, then silence again.

  “Equally important, what resistance will we meet from the rebels here in the South? Will the fanatics among them organize and rise up against us? I do not foresee that as a serious threat, but it must be considered. There is little we can do except deal with it as it occurs. In the meantime, I intend moving steadily north, through North Carolina, then Virginia. We will move as rapidly as possible, depending on circumstances as they arise.”

  He laid the papers down. “I expect that from time to time most of you will receive orders to engage small groups of radicals who will harass our positions where possible. Should that occur, under any circumstance, do not strike a nonmilitary target. Be conspicuous in your refusal to not engage or destroy civilians or their property. Am I clear?”

  Heads nodded in the silence.

  Clinton drew a deep breath and paused to collect his thoughts. “If there are no questions, I will have written orders delivered to each of you within the day. You are dismissed.”

  Open talk arose as the officers reached for their tricorns, pushed their chairs back, and stood. They broke into groups of two and three and started for the door in the sultry, oppressive heat, minds working on the unexpected policies announced by their commander. Conciliation? Pardons? Paroles? Cannon and muskets one day, the hand of fellowship the next? Strange. Strange, indeed.

  Few noticed when Major Predmore halted Colonel Tarleton at the door. “Sir, the General has asked that you remain for a moment.”

  The two officers with Tarleton glanced at him, then Clinton, shrugged, and were gone. Predmore closed the door, and Tarleton walked back to the table.

  “You wished to see me, sir?”

  Clinton nodded. “Be seated.” Tarleton sat in the first chair to Clinton’s right as the general reached for a scrolled parchment and took his seat facing him.

  “Colonel, my spies have reported that an American command of about five hundred troops was on its way to Charleston to join the defense of the city when they learned it had already fallen. About three hundred fifty Virginia Continentals, mixed with survivors of another company that was overrun. Their commander is Colonel Abraham Buford. When they learned Charleston was ours, they reversed and started north.”

  He unrolled the scroll, then spent a moment tracing lines with his finger.

  “They are presently here. Up north, near the North Carolina border, at a place called Waxhaws. I have prepared written orders for you to take your command of cavalry, find them, and destroy them if you can.”

  For several seconds Tarleton studied the map. There were three major rivers between Charleston and the Waxhaws, an unknown number of smaller ones, marshes and bogs and swamps scattered everywhere, and in the entire state of South Carolina, there was not one straight road to be found in the jumble of hills and valleys.

  Tarleton’s eyes narrowed for a moment before he raised his face to Clinton.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When can you leave?”

  “Within the hour.”

  “Very well. Remember the policies announced today. Under all circumstances exercise every principle that will promote conciliation. Do nothing that will provoke divisiveness among the Americans in the region. Do you understand?”

  “I do, sir.”

  Clinton reached for a small sealed document and laid it on the table before Tarleton.

  “Your written orders. Under all circumstances, promote reconciliation among the people in the countryside. Report back to me upon your return.”

  Tarleton slipped the document inside his tunic and stood. “I shall, sir.”

  Clinton nodded, face impassive. “You are dismissed.”

  Notes

  The geological origins of South Carolina, including the Appalachian Mountains, the Blue Ridge Range, the three major watershed systems, the smaller rivers, the swamps and marshes, and the five natural regions are as stated. The wildlife, flora, fauna, and forests are accurately described. The peopling of the South, beginning with the aborigines, and continuing to the coming of the white people from many European countries, and finally the arrival of slaves, is correctly stated. Edgar, South Carolina: A History, pp. 1–81.

  The arrival of British General Clinton in Charleston following a hurricane that held him and his invading fleet off the Atlantic coast for weeks, together with the brief battle that resulted in American General Lincoln surrendering his entire army is as described herein. The descriptions of Banastre Tarleton, General Clinton, and General Cornwallis are accurate. The statistical report of the catastrophic damage done by the British to the Americans in the taking of Charleston is correct (Lumpkin, From Savannah to Yorktown, pp. 41–49; Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 148, 507–11, 523–27).

  The principle General Clinton detailed to his staff, that is, conciliation with the Americans and healing old hatreds between the wealthy and the poor, is correct, as set forth in his Proclamations of May 22 and June 1, 1780, wherein he offered full pardons to all Americans who submitted to British authority. The incident in which captured American muskets exploded, killing more than fifty British soldiers, resulted in Clinton generously protecting the Americans from bloodthirsty Hessians who wanted revenge (Wallace, South Carolina: A Short History, pp. 295–301; Leckie, George Washington’s War, p. 518).

  The ordering by General Clinton of Colonel Banastre Tarleton to proceed north to the Waxhaws District to intercept and destroy a body of American soldiers under command of Colonel Abraham Buford is accurate (Lumpkin, From Savannah to Yorktown, p. 50).

  The Waxhaws District, near the Northern border of South Carolina

  Mid-May 1780

  CHAPTER XVIII

  * * *

  Caleb Dunson and Primus sat slumped against an ancient, decaying palmetto log near a bog, shirts soaked, sweat running in the sweltering midday heat as they drank tepid water from battered wooden canteens. Scattered in the thick undergrowth beneath towering oak and palmettos were the five hundred men under the command of Colonel Abraham Buford. Most of them were collapsed on the sodden ground, hidden by the heavy foliage of the dense South Carolina forest just south of the North Carolina border. They had been under forced march for days, dodging British patrols as they worked their way north, away from the fallen Charleston and the swarming British, searching for any American force they could find.

  It had rained in the night, a steady, drenching downpour that dwindled and stopped with the rising of the sun. By eight o’clock the woods were steaming, sucking the moisture and the strength from the men. By ten o’clock they could go no further, and Colonel Buford called a stop for one-half hour before they slogged on, following a dirt wagon trace that wound northward through the rolling Carolina hills. At half-past twelve Buford called their second halt and the men had dropped where they were, wanting only water and to be left alone.

  They heard the sounds of a man running through the forest before they saw him, and Caleb and Primus lifted their heads to
watch a soldier plunge past, face pasty white, gasping for air. Half a dozen men rose to see the man disappear in the direction of the head of their column.

  “He be scared. Somethin’ wrong,” Primus said.

  Caleb heaved himself to his feet. “Come on.”

  They seized their muskets and trotted north, guided by the sound of the man ripping through the forest ahead. They were into a small clearing before they realized they were at the head of the column, where they saw the man standing before Colonel Buford, shoulders heaving as he panted out his frantic message, arm extended, pointing back south.

  “I seen ’em, sir. British cavalry. Hunnerds—less’n half an hour behind an’ comin’ fast. Green uniforms an’ the leader has that big green feather stuck in his hat. Has to be Tarleton.”

  Buford held up a hand to stop the man. “Did they have muskets? Did you see?”

  For a moment the man searched his memory. “Didn’t see no muskets. Just swords.”

  “Did you get a count?”

  “Not all. Only the first hunnerd or so. But there’s a lot of ’em.”

  “Did they see you?”

  “No. If they’da seen me I wouldn’t be here.”

  Buford stared south, weary mind reeling as he tried to force some coherence to his thoughts. For several seconds he studied the wagon trace they had been following, then turned to a major and a captain standing near by.

  “Tarleton’s coming. Get the men up here and hide them in the woods on the south side of the road. Not a sound, not a movement, until the British are within ten paces. Then on my command every man that has a musket will fire. Understand?”

  At the name Tarleton the two officers gaped and hesitated for a moment before they answered. “Yes, sir.”

  “Move!”

  Caleb and Primus stared in disbelief. Tarleton! Bloody Tarleton! The red-haired, fiery-tempered Scot was the most feared and hated officer in the British army. Fearless. Clever. Merciless in the field.

  Fatigue vanished as they spun and sprinted back toward their place in the ranks, listening as the two officers ahead of them shouted men to their feet.

  “Tarleton! On your feet! Get into the woods on the south side of the road and take cover. Do not fire until you hear the order. Hold your fire until you hear Buford’s order.”

  Within five minutes the only sign the Americans had been there was the trampled and broken foliage. Not a squirrel chattered, not a bird warbled; the only sound was the click of grasshoppers and the hum of the clouds of mosquitoes and swamp insects that rose and settled. Not one man remembered his thirst or fatigue as they remained still, dripping sweat, straining to hear the first sounds of the approaching force.

  Hearts pounding, they crouched in ambush to kill the British soldiers. The heat and fatigue and fear played tricks with their minds. Sounds they had heard all their lives suddenly became different— loud, menacing, and time lost any dimension—seconds became hours, minutes became days. Faces flitted in their brains—mother, sister, wife—and then the face of the man each was about to kill. Will it be round? Square? A long face? Will he be old, bearded? Will he be young, wide-eyed, frightened? Will he look like someone I know?—a friend? a brother? Will he be a good man? With a wife? With children? Or will he be a bad man? What might he look like, and what kind of man will he be?

  The thoughts and the images came and went, and the crouching Americans waited, struggling to breathe, sweaty thumbs hooked over the heavy hammers of their muskets.

  First they felt the vibrations of horses’ hooves in the earth beneath them, then came the sounds of grunting horses and the rattle and clank of equipment. A moment more and they caught flashes and glimpses through the trees of men wearing green uniforms, hunched forward in their saddles, swatting branches aside as they urged their mounts forward, intense, watching, listening. Their uniforms were sweated black at the arms and between their shoulder blades, and there was a look of weariness on them. They had covered one hundred fifty-eight miles in fifty-four hours, and their jaded mounts were streaked with sweat, white lather rimming the saddle blankets and the leather straps of the bridles.

  Caleb gauged distance and numbers, slowly leveling his musket. One hundred yards . . . eighty . . . fifty. He heard Primus breathe beside him and did not look. Thirty yards . . . twenty—and he was staring at a young cavalryman, so near that Caleb saw he had not shaved for five days and could see the fear in his eyes and the ridges along his jaw where he had his mouth clamped shut too tight.

  Then they were ten yards away, and Caleb felt a stab of panic in his stomach. They were too close—too close—if the Americans fired now they would not have time to reload in time for a second volley, and the surviving green-coated cavalrymen would be among them with their sabers. Without bayonets or sabers of their own, the Americans would have no chance against the crack cavalry of Banastre Tarleton.

  Without warning, the command came from behind Caleb—“FIRE!” and he jerked the hammer back and pulled the trigger at near point-blank range. His musket bucked and the startled young cavalryman pitched backward from his saddle and disappeared and for two seconds the world was filled with the deafening roar of muskets and white smoke hung in the air and hid the oncoming cavalry and then the green-coated demons were among the Americans, swinging their sabers with deadly efficiency and the Americans were throwing down their useless muskets and thrusting both hands upward, shouting, “Quarter—quarter!”

  Instantly Buford realized his awful mistake and rigged a white shirt on a tree branch and sent an officer running toward the British, crying “Quarter—quarter—we surrender—we surrender” and a pistol cracked and the American officer slumped, rolling, dead, and another American seized the fallen white flag and raised it and a cavalryman swung his saber and the man toppled.

  For five seconds that were an eternity, Caleb stood with his musket in his hand in the midst of Americans with their arms raised, screaming their surrender while Tarleton’s cavalry rode among them in blood-lust with flashing sabers, cutting them down like wheat in a field—slaughtering them like cattle. Through the trees Caleb saw Tarleton with the great green plume in his hat and he saw his mount shudder and go down and Tarleton roll from the mortally wounded horse back onto his feet and then Caleb heard a horse coming in from his left and blind rage rose to choke him and he turned and danced backward and swung his musket smashing into the animal’s face and it screamed and reared and the rider was off balance but stayed mounted as Caleb leaped forward to throw his left arm around the man’s waist and drag him from the saddle slamming to the ground and Caleb was on top of him and hitting him in the face with his fist once, twice, three times and the man went limp and Caleb swept up the dropped saber and came to his feet, crouched, turning, poised, ready, swinging the sabre at horses and anyone wearing green and he saw the blood jump as the blade laid the horses open four inches deep and he didn’t know how many men he struck down and then he felt more than saw a man behind him and he pivoted and it was Primus swinging his musket like a scythe and they locked shoulders and began a retreat through the horses and the sabers and the men dead and dying on the ground and suddenly they were in the trees and the massacre was in front of them and they turned and ran blind through the forest until the sounds of the screaming men and horses were far behind them.

  Dripping sweat and splattered with the blood of horses and men, they sagged to their knees, fighting to breathe in the stifling heat, and Caleb bent forward and wretched smoking in the thick grass and he dropped the sword and toppled onto his side. He did not know how long he lay there, eyes clenched, seeing the massacre again and again as though in an evil dream. He heard a rustle beside him and opened his eyes and Primus was sitting there with blood on his arms and face and shirt and his clothes sweat-soaked and clinging to him, and his face and eyes blank as he stared at Caleb.

  For a time they did not speak and then Primus rose and walked a short distance to a clear-flowing stream and waded in and sat down and began to
scoop water over himself, rubbing his arms again and again, and his face, as though trying to wash away the memory of the slaughter along with the blood. Caleb followed and sat down in the water and for a time did nothing, and then he began to wash away the blood. They did not know nor care how long they sat in the cool water.

  With the sun settling toward the west, they rose and walked dripping back to the sword and the musket and sat down. For a long time neither spoke.

  Then Primus said, “We be lost. We follow the crik it take us to a river an’ maybe it be the Pee Dee and we find someone. Maybe we find Massa Marion. Someone got to tell Massa Marion the Buford men gone. Kilt. Someone got to tell him. He know what to do.”

  Caleb nodded assent. “We’ll travel at night when we can.”

  They went back to the stream to wash the blood from the sword and the musket, then laid down on the bank to wait for sunset. In the twilight the croaking began, and Primus caught four huge bullfrogs, cleaned them, and struck a fire with the flint from the musket to roast them. With a half-moon rising low in the east they waded into the knee-deep stream and went with the current, walking slowly, feeling their way in the soft silt that lay six inches thick on the bottom.

  Dawn found them at a place where the small stream emptied into a larger one, and they climbed the bank to rest—hungry, quiet, still half-numb in their minds as they remembered the sabers and the screams of men trying to surrender while they were being butchered.

  The frogs quieted and disappeared with the rising of the sun, and with the sun midway to its zenith, they felt hunger. Primus moved slowly ahead in the water, head turning from side to side, until he stopped and slowly raised his hand, pointing. It took Caleb twenty seconds to see the nearly invisible five-foot-long water moccasin stretched out in plain sight on the decayed skeleton of a pine tree that had been ripped from the ground by a hurricane more than a century earlier. The huge log, long since rotted and nearly all gone, was less than fifteen feet away with the big end on land and the small end in the water. Quietly Caleb closed within five feet of the snake before he swung the saber once. The severed head fell into the water while the body instantly curled and writhed, then fell splashing. Primus caught the flopping remains, and twenty minutes later they divided the cooked, white meat and ate.