by Ron Carter
Silas nodded, then moved on. “Heard about the mutiny? In the army?”
Kathleen came to instant focus. “Margaret said something about it ten days ago.”
Silas shook his head. “Sad. New Year’s Day. Over at that place near Morristown. Mount Kemble, I think. The soldiers learned Congress had offered to pardon and release common convicts in prisons, and to give them good pay in silver, and some land in Pennsylvania at the end of the war, if they’d enlist in the army. Congress did not make the same offer to the soldiers who had already been enlisted and fought for three years. Made them angry.”
Kathleen started. “It wasn’t fair!”
Silas nodded. “The soldiers mutinied. General Anthony Wayne was their commander, and he took their side. Tried to get them to settle down and offered to take their case to Congress, but the soldiers don’t trust Congress. They raided the magazines and got cannon and muskets and did some shooting. One officer was killed, two others wounded. Then they marched on Princeton and on to Trenton where they demanded to meet with Joseph Reed. He came, and the soldiers settled their differences with him. Those who wanted to be discharged were allowed to go, with the firm promise of Pennsylvania to pay their back wages. That should have ended it, but it flared again, this time at Pompton in New Jersey.”
Kathleen covered her mouth with her hand, fearful of what was coming next.
“Mutiny is a dangerous thing. Let it get started, and there might be no end to it. General Washington was a torn man. He knew how unfairly Joseph Reed and the Pennsylvania Supreme Council had acted, and said so. But he could not allow the mutiny to spread. They caught the leaders, and had to hang two of them—two of their own—men who had spent three years fighting for the cause of liberty. How I felt for General Washington. I know the man suffered over it.”
Kathleen leaned back in her chair. “Ohhhhh,” she moaned. “How terrible. I didn’t know about it.”
“It’s over and done with, but there were a few days when it looked like the revolution was going to end with the entire Continental Army in mutiny, walking out, going home.”
“General Washington? Did he resign?”
“No. I’ve never known such a man. He hung two of his own to save the battle for freedom.”
“I wonder if Matthew knows.”
“Probably not.” He stood. “Well, I should be moving along. Just thought I’d deliver the letter.”
Kathleen smiled and shook her head. “No, you just knew I needed you to stop by and listen to me complain. Thank you. More than I can say.”
Silas shrugged. “Didn’t do much of anything. Mattie said she’d likely stop by in a day or two. In the meantime, dead mice and tears are the order of the day. Give my love to Matthew when you write next.”
Notes
Kathleen Dunson and her brother and sister, Charles and Faith, and Reverend Silas Olmsted are fictional characters.
However, the letter Kathleen received from Matthew correctly sets forth information regarding an ongoing conflict between the navies of England, France, and Spain, in the West Indies, now known as the Caribbean area. The British claimed Barbados, Jamaica, and other islands in the Caribbean, while France claimed St. Lucia and others, and Spain claimed Puerto Rico and others. The Dutch were also incidentally involved to protect their holdings in the area. A substantial war was in progress in those islands, with the French and Spanish navies trying to displace the British. The navies and the admirals involved are correctly presented and were to later play a crucial role in the Chesapeake Bay, at the battle of Yorktown (Mackesy, The War for America, 1775–1783, pp. 375–82).
Further, the mutiny discussed, beginning at Mount Kemble, near Morristown, New Jersey, is briefly but accurately described, with Pennsylvania offering common criminals rewards they did not offer the veterans. The officers named and the incidents related are true and accurate, including the fact that General Washington finally arrested the mutineers at Pompton and hanged two of the leaders (Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 591–93).
Winnsboro, South Carolina
January 1, 1781
CHAPTER XXVIII
* * *
Colonel Banastre Tarleton hunched his shoulders against the cold rain as he picked his way through the black, puddled water and mud from his office to the British headquarters building at Winnsboro, South Carolina. He stopped at the door long enough to scrape mud from his boots on the metal scraper, then pushed into the anteroom to throw water from his tricorn, straighten the drooping green plume, and shake his cape. He hung them on a hook, then walked into the foyer.
A major rose from a desk.
“Good morning, sir. General Cornwallis has instructed me to show you in upon your arrival.”
Tarleton shook his head as he followed the officer down the hardwood hall, their boots thumping loud. “Miserable out there. River’s up. Creek’s flooding. Miserable.”
The major opened the door into a plain room with a plain desk. Tarleton entered and came to attention.
“Reporting as ordered, sir.”
Cornwallis remained seated at his desk. “Take a seat. We have much to discuss.”
Tarleton drew a chair to face Cornwallis, aware of a strong sense of frustration in the general. Cornwallis spread a map on his desktop, gestured Tarleton to his feet, and wasted no time.
“We’re here at Hillsboro, west of Camden.” He shifted his finger as he spoke. “Mister Greene is here, at Cheraw Hill, gathering troops for his army. Mister Daniel Morgan is here, west of Cheraw Hill at Grindall Shoals on the Pacolet River. Morgan’s routed one of our commands here, near William’s Plantation, and he’s threatening others right now.”
He paused to let Tarleton catch up.
“We lost most of another command here, at Hammond’s Store, at the hands of William Washington and James McCall.”
Tarleton broke in. “William Washington?”
“A relative of George Washington. An experienced cavalryman and a strong leader.” Cornwallis paused to gather his thoughts, then tapped the map with a heavy forefinger, and Tarleton saw the dilemma in his troubled eyes.
“If I attack Greene, I leave Morgan open to strike Ninety-six and Augusta. If I attack Morgan, I leave Camden exposed to Greene. If Greene were to join with Francis Marion, or Sumter, or Pickens, they could likely carry it off—defeat what few troops would be left at Camden, and have our winter supply of stores and munitions. I have not forgotten what became of Patrick Ferguson’s command at King’s Mountain.” Cornwallis’s face darkened, and Tarleton could hear the anger in his voice. “That horde of illiterates destroyed him completely. The loss forced me to abandon the plan to invade North Carolina. I had to retreat and regroup.”
Tarleton stared at the map for a moment, puzzling over where Cornwallis was going with all this.
Cornwallis continued. “I am still authorized to invade North Carolina, and I plan to do so immediately, and then on to Virginia. But I refuse to do so with both Greene and Morgan within striking distance of vital positions.”
Cornwallis stopped, Tarleton looked him full in the face, and in that instant Tarleton knew what was coming.
“I want you to take a force north, cross the Broad River, find Morgan, and drive him over the Pacolet River toward King’s Mountain. I will give you time, then I’ll march with General Leslie to be waiting just this side of King’s Mountain. With you behind, and us ahead of him, he will be trapped. We can destroy him altogether. That will leave Greene with half his army gone. We move quickly east to strike him, and with him crushed, there will be no one able to stop us as we move north.”
Cornwallis paused and waited.
“How many in my command?” Tarleton asked.
“Your legion of five hundred fifty, two hundred of the Seventy-first Infantry Regiment of Highland Scots, and a detachment of Royal Artillery, with a pair of field guns—grasshoppers—fifty infantry from the Seventeenth Dragoons, and two hundred new recruits from the Seventh Regiment—the Royal F
usiliers.”
For a few moments Tarleton stood silent, weighing it in his mind. “Nearly eleven hundred men—mostly trained—and two field guns,” he murmured, more to himself than Cornwallis. He straightened and his voice firmed. “That’s a strong fighting force. When do you want me to march?”
“Your written orders will be delivered before noon. Leave today if possible. The Seventy-first Regiment is on notice, along with the Royal Artillery detachment. Draw sufficient rations before you go.”
“Anything else?”
“No. You are dismissed.”
In a freezing South Carolina January afternoon rain, Tarleton’s command slogged out of their Winnsboro campground onto a dirt road turned to mud twelve inches deep, cursing their way north, toward William’s Plantation and the Pacolet River beyond. For three days they gritted their teeth as they plowed through mud and winter rain before they found a passable ford to cross the flooding Enoree River, and another four days to fight their way across the dangerously swollen Tyger River, pushing ever north in their hunt for the elusive Daniel Morgan.
On the eighth day, two scouts cantered their horses into the British camp to tell Tarleton that Morgan was six miles east of the Old Iron Works ford on the Pacolet River.
Tarleton reflected for a moment. “If he’s six miles east of the ford, that’s where we’re going to cross the river. That will put us between Morgan and Greene and cut off any chance one may come to help the other. And, from that position we can attack Morgan. Get the men into marching order.”
The British had not marched six hundred yards when two of Morgan’s scouts, invisible in the trees on the north bank of the river, watched through slitted eyes long enough to understand where the British column was going. They faded back, mounted wet saddles, reined their horses around, and raised them to a gallop, following the river east.
Half an hour later Caleb and Primus sat their horses in a fine, misty rain, watching the scouts pull their jaded mounts to a mud-splattered stop ten feet from General Morgan to make their report. Caleb glanced at Primus, then spurred his mount forward, Primus following, to gather with others close enough to hear the scouts.
“Sir, Tarleton’s headed for the Old Iron Works ford. It ’pears he figgers to cross the river and get between us and Greene. From there, who knows.”
Morgan’s answer was instant. “If he’s headed for the ford, so are we. If he tries to cross, he’ll do it under our rifles. Get the men on their feet. We’re marching.”
A murmur arose among the men as they turned to form with their units.
Marchin’ back to the ford? We was just there!
This walkin’ back and forth in the mud’s got us nowhere!
At Tarleton’s camp, an hour later, with soldiers adding wet wood to sputtering evening cook fires, half the troops stopped to watch a weary, mud-splattered horse lope through, to halt before the command tent. The scout dismounted to stand stiff-legged for a moment before advancing to the picket.
“Lieutenant Yoder back from scout to report to the Colonel.”
Two minutes later Yoder was facing Tarleton inside the cold tent.
“Morgan guessed where we’re going. His command is camped right across the Pacolet River at the ford, ready to fight. We cross, we’ll be under their guns the whole way.”
Tarleton started. “He’s waiting over there for us to try to cross?”
“No doubt about it.”
“Well,” Tarleton exclaimed, “then we march down to the lower ford and cross in the dark tonight. We’ll attack in the morning.”
Once more the tired British command shouldered their muskets and mounted their horses, and under cover of night and a drizzling rain, marched six miles downstream. In the blackness, the cavalrymen jumped their horses into the high-running stream and slipped from the saddles to hang off the upstream side of their mounts as the frightened horses struck out swimming for the other side of the rain-swollen stream. The infantry soldiers wrapped their cartridge belts about their necks to keep the powder dry, raised their muskets above their heads, and waded into the cold water, straining to hold their balance as they battled through to the muddy far bank. Through the night the command continued their crossing, with Tarleton organizing them into rank and file as they arrived. With sunrise an hour away, Tarleton drew his saber and shouted his orders.
“Follow me. We’ll be on them before the sun’s up.” In the darkness, Tarleton did not see nor hear Morgan’s two hidden scouts who sprinted back to their waiting horses and leaped into their saddles to race upstream toward Morgan’s camp.
In the gray, swirling mists of a night fog rising from the river, the scouts came in on galloping mounts, eyes wide, shouting as they rode. Caleb and Primus and half the men in camp set their plates of breakfast down to come at a run, feeling the beginnings of fear. They had been playing a deadly guessing game with Tarleton for days, and there was not a man among them who misunderstood that the first wrong guess, the first mistake, could be their last. They gathered in a silent circle around the guide, who was facing Daniel Morgan in the darkness, talking too loud, too fast.
“They crossed the river last night. They’re on this side, just five miles downstream, and they’re coming this way as hard as they can.”
A gasp went through the command. Morgan threw the steaming breakfast broth from his wooden cup and turned to Colonel James McCall. “Get the men mounted. Now! We march in ten minutes for Thicketty Mountain. There’s a place there called Cowpens. We can be there in half an hour.”
McCall stammered, “But sir, the men are still cooking breakfast.”
“Forget breakfast! Get them moving. Now!”
One hour later Tarleton’s lead ranks of cavalry cantered their horses into the abandoned camp, sabers drawn, heads swiveling as they looked for an ambush. There was none. The leader dismounted and walked to the nearest campfire, still smoldering beneath a huge, black frying skillet with strips of charred pork belly sizzling in the hot grease. He remounted and loped his horse to the far end of the vacant grounds, and for several seconds studied the tracks of men and horses in the soft mud. A smile of anticipation formed, and he spoke to the sergeant beside him.
“Maybe a thousand, without much cavalry, and it looks like a lot of militia. They sure left in a hurry. Maybe some of our boys would like a little of their warm breakfast.”
The sergeant grunted a laugh but said nothing.
“I think we’ve got them. Better get back and tell the Colonel.”
Three miles ahead, Daniel Morgan raised a hand, and his force stopped. He studied the sandy hill rising ahead and slightly to their right. Swamps and bogs flanked both sides, and the top was nearly barren of trees. Five hundred feet behind the hill ran the rain-swollen Broad River, wide and strong.
“There it is,” Morgan exclaimed. “Cowpens. This is where the Quakers gather their cattle, and this is where we make our stand.”
He turned to McCall. “Get the officers here, and their men gathered around behind them. I got to give them their battle orders and positions, and we don’t have time to waste.”
“Sir,” McCall said, “do you mean to take positions on that hill?”
“Right on top.”
“There’s no trees up there. Nothing for cover. With the Broad behind, and the swamps on both flanks, it looks like a death trap to me, sir.”
Morgan’s eyes drove into the man like knives. “I hope to the Almighty that Tarleton sees it the same.”
McCall shook his head in confusion, and wheeled his horse to shout orders to the men to gather. Morgan sat his big bay gelding and watched the men come running, tense, white-faced, silent. Caleb and Primus were less than twenty feet from Morgan when Morgan’s voice boomed.
“All right. This is where we meet Mr. Tarleton. Listen close, because I don’t have time to say this twice.”
The only sound was the squeaking of saddles as the horses breathed.
“Colonel Washington, you take your command of Contin
entals and cavalry up to the far end of the hill. Stop five hundred yards this side of the Broad River. You got infantry with rifles. Get them in a line with their backs to the river. Get your cavalry behind them, with their sabers ready. You hold all those men in reserve until I give you orders to attack, and then you come like a horde from the netherworld.”
“Yes, sir.”
Morgan turned to James Eager Howard. “About two hundred yards in front of Washington’s cavalry, you put your infantry—all four hundred thirty of them—in two ranks, the front one kneeling, the rear one standing so everyone can fire. I’ll be somewhere near you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
He turned to Andrew Pickens. “Colonel, you line up your men in two ranks, one about seventy yards in front of Howard’s men, the other one about fifty yards in front of them for a skirmish line. You got some crack riflemen with those Deckhard rifles. Put them in the front line and tell them the first ones they shoot are the ones with the gold epaulets on their shoulders. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Morgan paused for a moment, then shouted, “Now listen to this, and make no mistakes.”
He waited until every eye was on him. “Pickens, Tarleton’s going to come at you at a run, likely with his cavalry. Your front line is to wait until they’re about fifty yards away, and fire one timed volley, then a second one. When that first line has fired that second volley, break in both directions—right and left. Run around and take up a position with Howard’s men. Then your second line is to start shooting as soon as Tarleton’s men are within range of those Deckhard rifles. Two timed volleys, break in the center, run right and left, around and take a position with Howard’s command. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir.
He turned to James Howard. “The whole battle plan comes down to your men. Tarleton’s going to think he’s done what he’s always done—scared Pickens’s men into full retreat. If Pickens’s men follow orders, you’ll have his riflemen mixed with yours—about six hundred muskets and rifles, all firing from high ground. Tarleton’s going to keep coming, right at you. Your men can’t break. Keep those rifles hot. Don’t miss. Ride right in among your men and calm them, make them hold their ground. If they’ll keep up a sustained fire they can take down anyone coming up the hill. Clear?”
