by Ron Carter
Morgan was aghast.
“Every man in my command is on starvation rations. We don’t have three days’ rations available as of this morning. If there is any sense of discipline, of military protocol, I have yet to see it. I’ve never in my life encountered such a demoralized horde as we have here. They seem to think being in this army gives them the privilege of plundering the local citizenry to get anything they want. They’ve stripped the barns and orchards and granaries and chicken houses clean for a radius of fifty miles. The countryside is terrified of them.”
Morgan’s eyes were flashing. “Thought about shooting a few of them?”
“I’d shoot them myself if I thought that was the answer. I think the problem is much deeper. I think I need to move away from this camp. Find a new place, and start over. I sent General Tadeusz Kosciuszko on a mission to locate such a place, and he returned two days ago. His advice is to move to a location at Cheraw Hill, over on the Pee Dee River. Considering his qualifications as an engineer, I believe he is right. What’s your opinion?”
“Kosciuszko? The Polish general? He worked miracles at Saratoga. That bridge, the fortifications—miracles. If he says Cheraw Hill—wherever that is—I’d likely do it.”
Greene nodded, then fell silent for several seconds, head bowed in deep thought. Morgan shifted in his chair, but remained silent. The soft sound of fine rain beginning to fall turned both their heads toward the window for a moment.
Greene went on. “Now I’m going to propose something that runs cross-grain to one of the fundamental rules of war. I am going to split my force, and when I do, you’re going to be square in the middle of it.”
Morgan’s jaw dropped for a moment. “What do you mean, split your force? In the face of a superior enemy? Isn’t that a bit . . .”
“Foolhardy? It took me two days to adjust to the idea, but the longer I thought on it the more I became convinced it is the right thing, under the circumstances.”
Shock and doubt were written all over Morgan. “Go on. I’m listening.”
“The way I see this, as of today, and for the foreseeable future, my forces stand no chance of winning a battle with the British. We couldn’t even inflict appreciable damage on them. If we remain here, in a single body, one quick attack by General Cornwallis would eliminate us altogether.”
Greene paused, intently studying Morgan’s expression, then continued.
“I think that’s what Cornwallis will do just as soon as he has scouted us out. Now consider this. If we divide our forces, he can’t catch us all in one place. He’ll have to divide his forces if he means to engage us. That means we will only have to deal with half his army at any one time or place.”
Morgan’s eyes were narrowed as he tracked Greene’s thinking.
“Now consider one of our strongest natural resources down here. I refer to the Southern leaders who operate independently. Marion, Pickens, Sumter, Davie, Davidson, to name a few. In these hills and valleys, man for man, they’re the deadliest fighters in the South. They can do things we Continentals cannot. With Cornwallis’s forces divided, there would be two separate British commands, wide open to those lightning strikes from Marion and his kind. They could do twice the damage in the same amount of time. I propose we contact them with one message: We are not down here to replace them, but to work with them. They can strike a hundred times, but unless they have an organized army to come in behind them to stabilize their gains, they’ll not succeed. If we can cooperate with them—let them do that at which they are masters—with us to move in behind them and hold what ground they’ve gained, I believe two things will happen. One, the chaos that now exists in the Southern States will disappear, and two, the southern population will unite to support us.”
Greene stopped and waited for Morgan’s response.
Morgan cleared his throat and shifted again in his chair, mind leaping forward. “Split your forces? What happens if Cornwallis doesn’t split his forces, but goes after yours one at a time?”
“We won’t stand and fight. Just fade back into the forest while the other half of our forces continue with their business of lightning strikes by the southern fighters, followed up by our Continentals.”
Greene paused to give Morgan time to cleave to the bottom of the proposition.
Morgan reached to stroke at his chin. “I would never have thought of it, but once it settles in, it feels right.”
Greene breathed easier. “I think it will hit Cornwallis the same way it did you, at first. Then I think he’ll divide his forces and come after us. Now think of this. If he does divide his forces, we will have established our pattern for the game we’re going to have to play with him. He’ll be reacting to us, not us to him. Where we go, he’ll have to follow. We fight when and where we choose. We will essentially have taken control of the entire southern campaign.”
Morgan leaned back, stretched his legs, grunted a chuckle, and said, “I’m just an old wagonmaster, and not too bright, but one thing I know. This whole notion is either going to be brilliant or a natural disaster. You said I’m going to be right in the middle of it. What’s in your mind?”
“You’re going to command the western half of our forces.”
Morgan snapped forward. “Me? Take half this army?”
“You’re going to Cheraw Hill to harass the British at Hillsboro and Camden, and wait for half of Cornwallis’s army to come get you. Francis Marion’s over there. The man is a master at hit-and-run tactics. Use him wherever you can. Remember, General Washington gave specific orders that we are to pacify the citizenry in the South, and pull them together in our support. Be careful. Do not offend them. Use their small bands of fighters to best advantage, and be sure they understand they’re a critically important part of this campaign. We’re here to support them, follow in behind them, hold the gains they’ve made.”
Greene stopped, and for ten seconds the room was locked in silence. Then Morgan spoke. “Where will the other half of the army be?”
“At a place on the Pacelot River, five days east of here. They will be under the command of General Isaac Huger, and I will be there with them.”
“When am I to leave?”
“As soon as possible. I’ll have written orders delivered to you today.”
Morgan shook his head and laughed. “Well, this ought to get interesting in a hurry. Got any remedy for this miserable weather? Rain all the time, cold, mud, swamps. Won’t get cold enough to snow or warm enough to dry out anything.”
Greene smiled. “You’ll have to take that up with The Higher Authority.”
Morgan stood. “I know, I know. Sometimes I think we about wore Him out already. Well, sounds like I got a lot to do. Unless there’s something else, I better get at it.”
“That’s all.”
Morgan started for the door and Greene spoke. “One more thing.”
Morgan turned and looked back at his friend.
“Daniel, I’m grateful you’re here. You take care of yourself. I need you.”
For a moment something profound passed between the men before Morgan answered.
“You, too, Nathanael. You, too.”
The rain stopped at noon, and by one o’clock the clouds cleared. The sun raised a dank humidity from the puddles and the wet forest to drift cold in the heavy foliage and the Spanish moss hanging thick in the trees.
It was midafternoon when Caleb and Primus, shivering in clothing still damp from the rain, reined their horses off the Charlotte Road, toward the Continental Army camp west of the town. They carried their rifles across their thighs, right hand on the trigger and hammer, left hand holding the reins of their mud-spattered mounts. They held their horses to a walk and stopped when a bearded, ragged picket stepped from the woods, musket raised.
“Who comes there?”
“Caleb Dunson, Continental Army. This is Primus. He’s with me.”
The picket snorted. “Continental Army? A white man and a black one? Ridin’ horses like those? Not lik
ely. I better take you in.”
Caleb shrugged. “Fine with us.”
“You go where I say, and remember, I’m right behind. I got this musket loaded with buckshot.”
He gave orders, and they walked their horses into the camp. Soggy tents stood at random with thin, bearded men in tattered clothing stopping to watch them pass, silent, staring. They stopped before a log cabin, and the picket held the musket on them as they dismounted and walked to the pine-slab front door, waiting. The picket rapped, a voice called, “Enter,” and he motioned Caleb and Primus to proceed ahead of him. He said nothing of their rifles.
With weapons in hand, they walked into the crude, single room to face a short, gaunt officer wearing homespun, covered by an unbuttoned Continental Army tunic. He leaned back in his chair, surprise plain on his thin face.
He spoke sharply to the picket. “Who are these men? What are they doing in here with rifles?”
The picket stammered, “I forgot about the rifles. They showed up out west of camp. The white one said he’s Continental, and he sounds like he’s from the North. The black one—I don’t know. They come in on good horses. Looked suspicious.”
The officer turned to Caleb. “You a Continental soldier?”
“Yes.”
“You mean yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“From where?”
“Boston.”
The thin-faced officer grunted. “Boston. Just how did you get down here?”
“Sent down by my commander up there, to join General Lincoln at Savannah. Got captured and broke out. This man came with me. We joined Francis Marion for a while, then decided to come north to find the Army.”
“You been with Marion?”
“We were at Waxhaws, and King’s Mountain.”
The officer’s face fell. “You was at King’s Mountain?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How do I know that?”
“You don’t.”
“That was two months ago. Where you been since?”
“Dodging Cornwallis and running all over two states, looking for someone from the North.”
“Where’d you get horses? And those rifles? Those is good Deckhards.”
“Given to us by Captain Chelsey. One of Colonel Marion’s men. After King’s Mountain.”
“You got any papers?”
“Not now. I had written orders from my New York regiment. Got lost in the battles.”
“Who else was at King’s Mountain?”
“Our side or theirs?”
“Ours.”
“Campbell. Williams. Sevier. Shelby. Lacey. Others.”
“Their side?”
“Mostly Ferguson.”
“What happened to Ferguson?”
“Dead.”
“How?”
“I shot him. Me and about fifty others. I helped bury him up there on the southwest slope. Big pile of rocks.”
“How many of Ferguson’s men got away?”
“None. All dead or wounded, or captured.”
The officer interlaced his fingers on his desktop. “Well, I guess you was there, and on our side. You know about King’s Mountain, and you’re carrying those rifles from over-the-mountain, not British muskets. What you got in mind about bein’ here?”
“I don’t know what units are here. I’m looking for anyone from New England.”
“Gen’l Nathanael Greene got here two weeks ago from New York. Brought a few with him. They’re camped on up the road a quarter mile. Go join them.”
“Yes, sir.”
Caleb walked out the door, Primus following, and they mounted wet saddle seats to ride the muddy road further west. They reined in among sagging tents and two dripping log huts. An officer walked out the door to demand an explanation of who they were. Half an hour later they were building a lean-to and covering it with pine boughs, then cut more to lay on the muddy ground. They wrapped their damp blankets about their shoulders and sat down on the boughs, rifles across their laps, and waited, beginning to shiver with the chill of sunset.
A bearded, thin, spiritless sergeant with a partially withered arm walked to face them.
“Don’t recall seein’ you before.”
“We’re new.”
“Who sent you?”
Caleb pointed. “An officer in that building—Captain Cox—said we could stay. Told us to build this lean-to.”
“What’s your names?”
“Caleb Dunson. This is Primus. Who are you?”
“Dunphy. Sergeant. You signed up with us?”
“Not yet.”
“Got anything to eat?”
“A little cooked possum meat in a sack.”
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Add it to the pot, and you can share some hot broth.”
Caleb lifted the small bag from the pine boughs and tossed it to the sergeant. “I’ll need the sack back,” he said.
“Soon’s we finish evenin’ mess.”
Two privates walked up behind the sergeant, staring at Caleb and Primus.
“Who are they?” they asked.
“White one’s Dunson. Black one’s Primus. Come to join up.”
“What’s in the sack?”
“Possum meat for the pot.”
Talk stopped, and for five full seconds Dunphy and the two privates stood still, staring down at a white man, and a black man. Then they turned on their heels and were gone.
Caleb watched them go, aware of their resentment at finding a black man coming into their midst.
The wet firewood smoked and sputtered until the broth was steaming, and Dunphy silently handed battered wooden bowls to Caleb and Primus, but no spoons. They took their share and went back to their lean-to, to sit wrapped in their blankets and sip at the gruel. They returned to silent men seated on logs ringed about the fire for more broth, but there was none. The sunken eyes of the soldiers never left the two of them as Caleb turned to Dunphy.
“Got a cleanup detail? I can help.”
“Every man for hisself.”
“Who owns this bowl? I’d like to return it after I wash it. And I need that sack.”
Dunphy pointed with his chin. “Sack’s over there. Those bowls belonged to two dead men. Keep ’em.”
Caleb got the sack and walked back to Dunphy. “How about wood detail in the morning? We can cut wood.”
“Already assigned.”
Caleb shrugged, turned back to Primus, and walked back toward the lean-to, feeling the cold eyes of every man in the circle behind him boring into his back. He had gone twenty yards when he heard footsteps behind, and turned, rifle up and ready.
“It’s me, Dunphy. This ain’t goin’ to be pleasant, but I got to tell you. We never had a black man among us before. There’s some hard feelings back there. Might be a good idea to find some other place for him. There’s a place about half a mile east of here where the blacks camp. Alone. Strange things go on there.”
Anger rose hot inside Caleb. “Go tell your men they got a black among them now.”
Dunphy shook his head. “You don’t understand. Bad things are—”
Caleb cut him off, his voice rising. “This man fought alongside us whites at the Waxhaws, and at King’s Mountain. Saved my life once, when we escaped from the British at Savannah. He led me north and found Francis Marion. Black or white, he’s a good man. A good soldier. He stays. Anybody around here takes exception, send them to me. We’ll discuss it.” Caleb was trembling with rage, fingering his rifle.
Startled, Dunphy took a step back. “I just came to tell you. You been warned. Do as you please.” He turned and strode back to the fire. Caleb turned and walked back to the lean-to, Primus following. Caleb tossed the wooden bowl onto the pine boughs and sat down with his blanket about his shoulders. Slowly Primus wrapped himself in his blanket and settled beside him. For a time neither man spoke. Then Primus began quietly.
“I got to go.”
“No you don’t.”
“Th
is happen to me all my life. I know what happens next. I get beat. One way or another I get beat. Got too many scars. I got to go.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way. Stand your ground.”
“Got no ground. I a piece a property, like a hog, or a goose.”
Caleb’s voice rose, angry. “You’re a man! You’re a soldier!”
Primus shook his head. “I nothin’. If they’s a camp off to the east where they put us slaves, I go there. Won’t bring no trouble down on you that way.”
“Forget about me. Nobody’s going to hurt me. Stay here.”
“No, Massa Caleb, I not—”
Caleb grabbed the front of Primus blanket. “Don’t you ever call me Massa. I’m not your Massa. Nobody’s your Massa. Nobody on this earth.”
Primus turned his troubled face to Caleb, and for one brief, fleeting moment, Caleb saw something in his eyes. For the first time in his life, a white man he respected had told him he was a man, accountable only to his own conscience and the Almighty. Caleb saw the faint flicker of hope in the black eyes, and his heart ached as it passed and was gone.
“No, I go. Don’t want no trouble.”
Primus rose, gathered his blanket and rifle, and Caleb came to his feet. “You won’t stay?”
“No. Bad things happen.”
Caleb reached for his rifle. “I’ll go with you.”
“You come see, then you come back here?”
“If you say so.”
They took the first trail angling eastward and walked through the wet, thick forest in deep dusk, watching and listening for the camp of blacks. They had gone six hundred yards when the first faint lights appeared through the foliage, and as they walked on, the sounds of drums and chanting reached them. They walked silently on and slowed in the forest fifty yards from a clearing lighted by a huge fire in the center. They crept forward to drop to their haunches at twenty yards, with Caleb staring in stark disbelief.
Before them was a ring of men and women, eyes wide as they pounded on drums and chanted in a strange language Caleb had never heard. Inside the circle were the glistening bodies of men stripped to the waist, sweating in the chill of oncoming night, eyes closed as their arms and heads and feet rose and fell with the rhythm, slowly circling the fire.
