Light-Horse Harry: A Biography of Washington’s Great Cavalryman, General Henry Lee (Heroes and Villains from American History)

by Noel B. Gerson

  Nathanael Greene had won a victory as strange as any in military history. By abandoning his siege, he had accomplished his objective of forcing the British to abandon Ninety-Six. There were now no major enemy strongholds in the interior of South Carolina and Georgia. Lord Rawdon was ever-conscious of his own weaknesses when too far removed by seacoast bases that afforded him the support of the British fleet, and sensibly concluded that he could keep his corps intact only in Charleston.

  Greene promptly and courageously decided to move closer to his foe, even though the Army of the South was dangerously short of munitions — and boots. The corps wearily went back into South Carolina, and the Legion was given a mission of the sort that had first won Harry Lee fame. He was ordered to raid British supply columns and send back everything he could capture.

  From late June until the end of July 1781, the elite cavalry-infantry force acted as raiders and foragers, often venturing close to Charleston and swooping down on wagon trains sent out from the city to outposts in the vicinity. For weeks the Legionnaires ate fish, rice, and frogs’ legs, but managed to send considerable quantities of beef and corn back to the main body.

  Harry was so adept at this type of work that it afforded him no challenge. He was bored, his men were physically uncomfortable, and the Legion, which had thought of itself as the finest offensive team in the entire Continental Army, was miserable. Harry replaced some of his sick and wounded with Marylanders in order to bring the Legion up to its full authorized strength again, but he craved action more exciting than taking donkey carts from British quartermasters, and he inundated Greene with letters that begged the general to launch another major drive.

  Soon after he rejoined the Army of the South at the end of July, a series of unexpected developments strengthened Harry’s hand. The largest and most powerful French fleet in New World waters was expected to sail north momentarily from West Indian waters, intending to blockade British-held ports. As a result, according to a letter that Washington sent to Greene, Cornwallis was preparing to evacuate his base of operations at Wilmington, North Carolina, and move into Virginia.

  There Cornwallis would be Washington’s concern, not Greene’s, and the Army of the South would be free to concentrate its complete attention on the corps at Charleston. There, too, unexpected changes had altered the situation. Lord Rawdon, who had been ill most of the summer, had sailed for a holiday in the West Indies. The officer he had left in charge was Colonel Alexander Stuart, an exceptionally able if somewhat reckless officer. Himself worried about the French fleet, Stuart had left only a small garrison at Charleston, and had moved inland and north to a pleasant spot called Eutaw Springs.

  For a time the Americans were unaware of Stuart’s new deployment, but some of the Legion cavalry that Harry happened to be leading in person on a scouting mission came across a large British reconnaissance party. There was a sharp skirmish in which most of the Redcoats were killed. Harry sent the survivors to the rear for questioning, pushed forward rapidly and learned of Stuart’s presence at Eutaw Springs. He immediately notified his general of his discovery.

  This seemed to be Nathanael Greene’s best chance yet to force a showdown. Circumstances would never be more favorable for a battle, he believed, and he immediately marched with his entire Army toward Eutaw Springs. The Legion was given its usual assignment of acting as the vanguard.

  Apparently the Redcoats had no idea that a major American force was in the area. The Legion came across two companies of British dragoons that had been sent out on a foraging expedition, and Harry immediately divided his cavalry into two sections, one under Rudolph and the other under Eggleston, who had just been promoted to the rank of major. The American horsemen advanced on the flanks of the enemy, and the Legion infantry, which Harry commanded himself, held the center.

  The British dragoons fled, and most escaped, carrying word to Colonel Stuart that the Americans were in the vicinity. Harry reunited the Legion and continued toward Eutaw Springs. By the time he drew close to the place, Stuart was ready for him, and British cannon halted the advance. Instead of pulling back and rejoining the main body, however, Harry elected to hold his ground and sent back an emergency request to Greene for guns.

  The general obliged by sending forward all his light artillery. The Legion had dug into positions in the hills, and Harry employed his cannon so effectively that he pinned down Stuart, making it impossible for the enemy to advance. The artillery duel continued while Greene came forward with his entire army, and both sides drew up battle lines for the major engagement that had so long been inevitable.

  The Legion was assigned the key place on the right flank, and Harry was ordered to act as an anchor. He was instructed to advance if possible, but not to withdraw under any circumstances. He was providing stability in a key sector, as the rest of the American right was held by militia units. That closest to the Legion was Francis Marion’s brigade, the Swamp Fox having allowed himself to be persuaded by Greene, although with deep misgivings, to let his men participate for the first time in a formal battle.

  Stuart held a strong position in the hills, and his force was perhaps the best the British had put into the field in a long time. Stuart’s own regiment had seen service against the enemy for years, and was proud of its record. Cruger’s hard-bitten garrison troops from Ninety-Six had already demonstrated their valor. And the cavalry, commanded by Loyalist Major John Coffin of Boston was as expert as Tarleton’s dragoons, although less well known. The Americans would have their hands full before the day ended.

  Cautiously, very slowly, Armstrong’s troop of Legionnaires and Coffin’s dragoons approached each other. Coffin made a mistake and, thinking he faced the entire Legion, decided to strike a swift blow that could shatter the best unit in the American Army. He ordered a general advance of his entire cavalry, and Harry was quick to exploit the development.

  He ordered Armstrong to fall back toward the Legion infantry, and meanwhile sent Rudolph and Eggleston on a wide sweep around the enemy. The Legion cavalry executed its tactics perfectly, and struck with such force into the rear of Coffin’s dragoons that the British dropped back in confusion.

  The entire American right advanced, Harry timing his pace to suit the less certain gait of Marion’s militiamen. Meanwhile Stuart moved up rapidly to support Coffin, and Greene countered by sending his center and left forward. The two armies met in violent collision.

  Most of the American units faltered, but the Legion continued to push the enemy back, and Greene’s men rallied. To their astonishment, the entire British line seemed to fall apart simultaneously, and the Redcoats fled along a road that ran parallel to the Santee River. For the first time in its history, the Army of the South was on the verge of sending its foes flying from the field.

  The Americans drove straight into what had been the British camp, and there found a profusion of riches. The Americans gaped at barrels of beef and flour, at smoked hams and loaves of the first wheat bread that many of the back country men had ever seen. There were wagons laden with spare clothing, boots, and ammunition. Most tempting of all were barrels of rum and brandywine.

  The troops of a dozen militia units were unable to resist the joy of looting. They fell over themselves and each other as they seized the enemy stores, and many began to drink the liquor on the spot. Harry, Colonel Otho Williams, and other Continental commanders were as helpless as the militia’s own officers to halt the idiocy. Nathanael Greene rode forward himself, and in a loud voice pleaded with the men to reform their lines for a final thrust that could drive the enemy from the field. But the militia, starved for the good things of life they had been denied through all the long, lean years of the war, were deaf to his voice.

  Colonel Stuart had the breathing spell he needed to rally his disorganized men and force them back onto the field. The Redcoats came forward again, and the Legion, aided by Colonel William Washington’s dragoons, charged them while the American infantry officers tried to restore order. The discip
lined Legionnaires held their own, but Washington’s cavalry met Coffin’s in a head-on clash, and Colonel Washington, who was wounded, was captured.

  The fighting that followed in the next two hours was wild, confused, and savage. The two opposing forces surged back and forth across the field of battle, with one side gaining the initiative for a short time, only to lose it again. The British tried to erase the stain of their disgraceful fight, and at times only the Continentals held firm. On three different occasions the Legion drove forward with such force that it swept aside all opposition — but had to withdraw again when other American units were unable to maintain the same pace.

  The carnage on both sides was so great that General Greene sent a courier to the enemy under a flag of truce to suggest a breathing spell so that both sides could remove their wounded from the field and bury their dead. Colonel Stuart, mistakenly believing that victory was in sight, was afraid he would lose whatever initiative he had gained, and refused. The slaughter went on.

  After another hour, both sides were exhausted, bled white. Both withdrew from the field, although Stuart lingered just long enough to claim a hollow victory. Actually, both sides had suffered severely, with the Americans losing more than four hundred dead and wounded, the British seven hundred. Most of the senior American commanders had been hurt or killed, and among the Continentals, only Harry Lee and Otho Williams had escaped unharmed.

  Nathanael Greene grieved over what he believed had been a stalemate. Not until the passage of time and subsequent developments gave him a better perspective was he able to see that he had completely broken the offensive power of the enemy in his theatre of operations. The British no longer had the mobility to roam at will through the Carolinas and Georgia or to engage in a major battle. Stuart was forced to retire to Charleston, and there licked his wounds.

  The American Army of the South retired to regroup and rest, and Greene glumly considered his own position. He, too, had been weakened, and saw no prospect of victory without substantial help from the commander-in-chief. Washington, he knew, was in an excellent position at the moment. The largest and best-equipped American force ever to take the field had Lord Cornwallis under siege at Yorktown, Virginia, and the French fleet had arrived to cut off a British evacuation by sea.

  Perhaps, he thought, Washington might soon be in a position to send him the reinforcements he needed so badly in order to win a decisive campaign. He wrote a long, unusually frank letter to the commander-in-chief, explaining his situation in detail and laying particular stress on his unwillingness to rely on militia. He begged for men, arms and equipment, cannon and cavalry and Continentals.

  But the letter, in and of itself, was not enough, General Greene believed. He decided to send his message by special courier, and wanted someone who could give Washington a strong verbal report that would substantiate his own account of conditions in the theatre. Lieutenant Colonel Harry Lee, who enjoyed the personal friendship and favor of the commander-in-chief, seemed like the perfect choice for the mission. Greene called him in for a discussion, and Harry agreed to make the trip north, leaving Major Rudolph in temporary command of the Legion.

  Harry rode north alone, arriving at the joint American-French camp outside Yorktown on September 10. Washington was busy supervising the siege, but received him warmly, read Greene’s letter with care and spent two evenings questioning Harry in detail about operations against the enemy in the Carolinas. Until the Yorktown siege ended in either victory or defeat, however, the commander-in-chief was in no position to decide what help, if any, he could give Greene. The siege promised to be a long one, and he gave Harry a ten-day leave of absence, literally the first holiday the young cavalryman had enjoyed in a year.

  The first stop was Leesylvania, where Harry found his family in a patriotic ferment. In fact, his father was so excited over the siege on Virginia soil that he spoke of leading the county militia to Yorktown. Harry, still filled with bitter memories of unreliable militia that allowed themselves to be butchered, gently and discreetly dissuaded him.

  The greatest pleasures to be enjoyed at Leesylvania were those of bathing regularly, changing one’s personal linen and eating three meals daily at a table laid with a white cloth. For seventy-two hours Harry did nothing but revel in the practices of civilization that had been denied him for a year.

  Then he went to Stratford, on the Potomac, to see Matilda Lee. Virtually nothing is known of this visit in detail other than that Harry found his cousin to be a lovely adult of nineteen years, a girl accomplished in the playing of the harpsichord, at dancing and in other pursuits common to gentlewomen. There can be little doubt that he paid serious court to her, and that she accepted his proposal. By the time he returned to Yorktown at the end of his short leave, they had agreed to marry, and although no public announcement of their betrothal was made, the news was quietly circulated in the Lee family. It is unlikely, however, that a date had as yet been set. Harry was unable to make personal plans until the fate of Cornwallis was determined at Yorktown and the decision made regarding reinforcements for General Greene.

  The young cavalryman was deeply impressed by the sumptuous mode of living he found at the American-French camp outside Yorktown, and after the hardships he and the other members of the Army of the South had suffered in the past year, he found the spectacle depressing. Senior officers entertained one another nightly at feasts, and everyone seemed well supplied with good wines and hard spirits. The larger tents were pavilions, each furnished with a comfortable bed, and it disturbed Harry to see such comfort when Greene and his officers were forced to endure the most primitive field conditions.

  Harry’s welcome at the headquarters of the mighty could not have contributed to his distress. On the contrary, he was accepted as an equal, as a distinguished comrade-in-arms by virtually all of the more important men in the Allied camp. He dined several nights with Major General the Marquis de Lafayette, and he renewed his friendship with Colonel Alexander Hamilton. He discussed literature, philosophy, and bookbinding with General Henry Knox on several occasions, after the Chief of Artillery had spent a busy day bombarding the Redcoats in Yorktown, and on at least one memorable evening he drank to excess with General Anthony Wayne.

  The causes of Harry’s strange, restless mood are difficult to determine. One of the simplest explanations of his unhappiness was his own physical exhaustion. After so many years in service, capped by his strenuous campaigning in the Carolinas and Georgia, he was bone-weary. Matilda was on his mind, too, and certainly he resented the plenty he saw in the camp. Mere lieutenants in the Army of the North were enjoying luxuries denied to Major General Nathanael Greene.

  Another, none too subtle reason for Harry’s malaise was that he had nothing to do. Loving and needing action, he was condemned to play the role of an observer. It galled him when his old foe, Colonel Tarleton, led the British dragoons on raids intended to disrupt the American siege — and he had to watch other, less competent men repel the assaults. Everyone else was busy, everyone else was earning fresh laurels, but he was a mere spectator at the most lavish military banquet American troops had known since the beginning of the war.

  On several occasions he applied for a more active role, but his requests were denied. He was still the commander of Lee’s Legion and Chief of Cavalry in the Southern Department. Washington, a stickler for military etiquette, believed that even a temporary duty assignment would have been an insult to Nathanael Greene. So Harry glumly spent his days in idleness with the commander-in-chief’s personal staff as the drama of Yorktown unfolded.

  The noose around Cornwallis was tightened, several sharp engagements were fought, and finally, on October 19, the British reached the end of their endurance. Cornwallis sent Washington a note asking for an armistice so that terms of surrender could be arranged. The fighting ceased abruptly, and Harry attended a festive dinner given jointly by Generals Friedrich von Steuben and Benjamin Lincoln, both of them his admirers and friends.

  He a
ttended the formal surrender ceremonies with Washington’s staff, again as an observer, and watched the tragi-comedy as Brigadier General Charles O’Hara of the Guards, Cornwallis’ deputy, almost spoiled the solemnity of the occasion by repeatedly offering his sword to officers not authorized to accept it.

  The defeat of Cornwallis was a decisive blow that signaled the end of major military operations and guaranteed America’s independence. Sir Henry Clinton remained bottled up in New York Town and the survivors of Eutaw Springs huddled in Charleston, but for all practical purposes the war was ended. At the many victory celebrations that were held nightly, scores of officers began to think seriously of a return to civilian life.

  Among them was Harry Lee, who now was troubled by still another thorn of discontent. The official report on the Battle of Eutaw Springs had just been published, and his name was not included among the list of officers who received special praise. He, who had accomplished more than anyone else, had been either deliberately or accidentally ignored. He found it difficult to believe that Greene had slighted him, but even harder to accept the omission as inadvertent.

  With nothing better to occupy him until Washington decided what help to send the Army of the South, he brooded. The commander-in-chief was exceptionally busy, which gave Harry too much time to himself, and in his frustration he spoke openly of resigning his commission.

  Late in October he received a fresh dispatch from General Greene, urging him to persuade Washington to send a force south by sea, via the French fleet. If such a corps were to land at Charleston, Greene argued, the war in the Carolinas could be terminated overnight, too.

  Harry dutifully presented the case to Washington, who saw the advantages of such action. But the commander-in-chief was not free to dispose of the French warships as he saw fit. On the contrary, they had been sent to his assistance for a limited period only. America’s war was only one phase of a much larger struggle between France and Great Britain, and the fleet was needed at once in the Caribbean.