by Jeff Shaara
He was uncomfortable with the reports he heard about Tarleton’s Legion, claims of brutality from rebel prisoners, other protests coming even from loyalists. But Cornwallis would not press the man for details, would not lecture his most effective fighter on the proper rules of war. The militia on both sides had shown complete disregard for mercy and civilized conduct in the field. Cornwallis would not condone such brutality, but he could not deny it had become a very real ingredient of the war in South Carolina. If Tarleton strayed beyond the bounds of decency, Cornwallis did not have the luxury of shifting troublesome officers from one post to the other. Tarleton seemed immune to the protests, and if the young man was not impaired by the outcry that followed him, Cornwallis could readily accept that. Tarleton was simply too important to his plans.
He waited for the young man in his office, glanced at his watch. He was becoming accustomed to Tarleton’s habit of arriving late, but he was annoyed, had lost his tolerance for affectations, especially from a subordinate officer. His capacity for patience had been crushed by a serious illness, the same fever that had stricken many of his men. Though Cornwallis had pronounced himself free of the disease, the weakness and its effects on his mood were not entirely gone. He called out, “Lieutenant?”
A young man appeared at the door.
“Send word to Colonel Tarleton. I am not amused by pacing around my office.”
“Right away, sir.”
He moved to his desk, thought of the aide, said in a low voice, “Must they always be so young?”
He had spent so many days of misery, first the sickness, then the complete boredom of keeping himself in his headquarters, essential to maintaining the web of outposts. He had tried to encourage the friendship of the junior officers, something unusual in the British command. It was certainly unusual for him. But despite the responsibilities and the tormenting details of command in such a hostile place, and though he certainly did not miss Henry Clinton, he found himself missing the meetings, the councils. He shared so much experience with men like Grey and Grant and even Howe, but now, with the army spread in such a wide array of outposts, he rarely saw his own senior staff. Balfour commanded in Charleston, Rawdon in Camden, Leslie still down in Ninety-Six. It was a strange surprise to him that he felt the need for company, for someone who could engage him in some kind of intelligent conversation. The only other possibility was Tarleton, a man young enough to be his son.
“Sir, he’s here.”
Cornwallis moved around behind the desk, waited for the usual show. Tarleton never entered a room without appraising it first, halting at the door, careful to note who his audience might be. He was there now, removed the plumed hat with a slow flourish, no smile, a brief look of impatience.
“Do come in, Colonel. I trust you are not ill? Horse managing all right?”
It was an attempt at sarcasm. Tarleton was oblivious.
“Quite, sir. Ready for a go, I’d say. The Legion is rested and fit.”
“Sit if you like. I wish to know details of your intelligence reports.”
Tarleton did not sit, stood stiffly just inside the door. It was another affectation, some strange habit of making himself the first one in any meeting to leave the room.
“Information is difficult to gather, sir.”
He saw Tarleton staring out past him, and he thought, Not if gathering it is your job.
“That may be, Colonel. However, anything you can provide is far superior to what I have here.” Cornwallis picked up a piece of paper, read, “I walked as far as the fishing creek, and there I saw Willy McBride’s wife, who told me she saw Tom Ridgely who saw Sam Wiley’s wife who said she saw some men walking on the Sibley road last Tuesday.” He put the paper down, saw an amused smirk from Tarleton. Cornwallis was not smiling. “This is not intelligence, Colonel. But it’s all I have. The rebels have cut off every avenue of information. The civilians are too frightened to offer anything useful. We cannot pass dispatches between here and Ninety-Six without losing a courier to an ambush. Now, I will repeat my request. I wish to know of your intelligence reports.”
Tarleton seemed to deflate, and Cornwallis waited.
“We do know, sir, that General Greene has divided his army. The reports of my scouts show General Morgan has been detached, and is advancing on a route from the northwest, moving possibly toward Ninety-Six. General Greene’s movements are not certain.”
Cornwallis stared at him, said, “Did you not consider that sufficiently important to mention it without my asking?”
Tarleton seemed bruised, said, “I had intended to inform you, sir. I thought I should prepare as well a plan of attack. I have assembled the Legion, and suggest an accompaniment of infantry.” He pulled a paper from his coat, handed it to Cornwallis. “By my figures, sir, a thousand men should be sufficient.”
“What is Morgan’s strength?”
“We’re not certain, sir. He has possibly been joined by some of the partisans. I am not concerned on that account.”
“All right, Colonel. The mission is yours. You will seek out General Morgan’s force and prevent him from completing his mission, whatever that might be. Since you have approximate knowledge of his direction of march, I would advise you to make haste. There is no reason to allow the rebels time to amend their plans. I cannot assume their intelligence is as ridiculous as mine. As for Greene, I have ordered General Leslie to rendezvous with what small force I have here. Combined, General Leslie and I will field some three thousand men. If you can eliminate Morgan as an effective force, Greene should offer us a very satisfying target.”
The meeting concluded, and Tarleton swept out of the office with his usual dramatic flare, a wave of the hat, a sharp spin on his heels. Cornwallis could not sit at the desk, began to pace again. He felt an odd clarity, imagined Greene in his mind, a man he had never seen. This is not, after all, about militias and partisans and outposts in some bloody miserable frontier. It is about armies and generals, and what kind of fight we will drive into their hearts. I have allowed myself to dwell on absurd distraction. Loyalist atrocities and rebel butchery will matter very little if Greene is swept away. I have to trust Colonel Tarleton’s information, and so, I must believe that Greene has divided his army. It is a significant mistake. Now, we shall show him why.
49. MORGAN
JANUARY 16, 1781
His men had been strung out on a march that was taking far longer than he had hoped. It was typical of Morgan to get bored riding with the main column, fighting the temptation to ride out ahead, to do the work of the skirmishers. Usually it was simple impatience, but this time he was anxious, uncertain, and now, he might be in serious trouble.
The scouts had come to him with regular reports, and too many of them had brought the same information. He was being pursued, and very soon the pursuit would become an engagement. If his men continued to march in such a ragged formation, spread out along the roads, Banastre Tarleton would cut them to pieces.
He knew of Tarleton only by reputation, a fiery young man who loved the saber. Morgan was amused by the nightmarish descriptions of the British Legion, the hushed talk around campfires of beastly men who showed no hesitation in butchering prisoners, who, in the aftermath of battle, would walk among the wounded with sabers flashing, to finish their gruesome job. But the danger was now very real, and it had less to do with some monstrous quality to Tarleton’s men than the vulnerability of Morgan’s position. Once Tarleton’s pursuit was confirmed, Morgan spread the word to every unit. There was no reason to keep it secret. If the men knew it was Tarleton in their rear, it would most certainly quicken their march.
The cavalry unit Greene had given him was commanded by William Washington, a relative of the commanding general. Morgan had sent Washington’s horsemen to the rear of the column, keeping a sharp eye on the enemy who pursued them. Out to the front, Morgan had sent scouts, militiamen familiar with the land, their mission to find good ground, a safe place to make camp and, possibly, the place where
they would make their stand.
Morgan’s original mission was to march all the way to Georgia, to inspire a wave of new recruits to join Greene’s army. But it was clear now that the plan was far too dangerous. Cornwallis had made the correct response, and Morgan realized that he could not have free rein to march around the main British position without attracting the kind of attention he was getting from Banastre Tarleton.
Morgan had believed much of what he had told Greene about the spirit of the partisan militia, but nearly a third of this column were raw recruits, men from North Carolina and Virginia. The remainder were veterans, tough partisan militia plus continental regulars, the regiments of Marylanders, the men from Delaware, who had stood tall through nearly every major battle of the war.
The guides were commanded by Andrew Pickens, a tall lean Scotsman. Pickens was another of the partisan commanders, whose harassment of the British had been centered mainly near his home at Ninety-Six. Morgan had been surprised by Pickens’ stern demeanor, a prim, devoutly religious man not given to the fits of drunken vulgarity that seemed so common in some of the camps of the partisans. Pickens had not begun the war with quite the coldhearted hatred toward the British that inspired men like Marion and Sumter. When Ninety-Six fell under British control, Pickens had offered his parole, had gone home expecting only to tend to his large farm. But he could not escape the violence that rolled across his state, and eventually his home had been destroyed by the mindless plunder of loyalist troops. It proved to be a costly mistake for the British. The fire had been lit, and Pickens tore up his parole and returned to the fight. He now led a command of more than a hundred riflemen, men whose pride in their marksmanship rivaled that of Morgan’s Virginia marksmen.
For two days, the roads had been gummed by the soaking misery of a winter rain. The misery had extended into Morgan as well. He suffered from rheumatism and other ailments, waves of pain that would tear through his back and hips. The muddy roads and the thick mist in the air had increased his suffering, souring his mood and his patience. He had tried to walk, hoping to relieve the torment from the horse’s uneven gait. But walking through thickening mud was even harder on his back, and he had climbed onto the horse again.
He looked up through the bare trees, could see the dull gray clouds finally thinning out, bringing an end to the rain. Daylight was beginning to fade, and Morgan’s temper was scraped raw by the jolts of pain and the lack of information from Pickens’ scouts. He was waiting for confirmation of a place they had told him about, where a vast meadow spread north toward the Broad River. For many years it had been used by cattle farmers, a natural clearing that offered forage to large herds. It was called Hannah’s Cowpens.
He finally succumbed to the urge, looked back to the officers behind him, said, “Stay here. I’m going ahead. Dammit.”
The air was finally dry, the horse finding its way with a steady gait, giving blessed relief to the throbbing in his hip. He knew his men would not allow him to just ride out alone, and he waited for someone to appear beside him. He expected a junior officer, some young man willing to endure his profanity. It was a more acceptable duty than bearing a message to General Greene that they had lost Daniel Morgan in the woods.
He heard hoofbeats, was surprised to see William Washington beside him now.
“Well, hello, Will, you tired of following our tracks?”
“I was coming up to see you, saw you riding ahead. I assumed you decided to take a look for yourself.”
“We can move fast or slow, Will, but we’re going to end up in that Cowpens place sooner or later. I have to know if it’s sooner. How far back is old Benny?”
“Sir? You mean . . . Tarleton? Five miles, not a bit more. It was ten yesterday.”
“So he’s wearing out his men.”
“Definitely. He clearly intends to catch us no matter the cost. They haven’t stopped for more than a few minutes since last evening.”
The woods began to thin, and men began to appear along the road, emerging from dim trails that cut out through the tall trees. He saw confused expressions, recognized several of Pickens’ scouts.
“Fall in with us, boys! We’re not done looking yet.”
He cleared a large patch of tall hardwoods, the ground rising in front of him, and he stopped, said, “Can someone tell me if this is the place?” There was silence, and he turned in the saddle, a sharp burn cutting across his back. “Where the hell are we?”
He heard a young voice, a nervous quiver in the man’s words.
“This is the Cowpens, sir. Straight ahead, about five miles, is the Broad River.”
Morgan straightened his hips in the saddle, the pain easing slightly.
“I thought as much. Let’s have a look.”
He led them out into the clearing, moved up the long rise, saw a ridge stretching across the field, beyond, higher ground still, another ridge. Along the edge of the fields were small patches of tall trees, and he pushed forward, stared out.
“The Broad River?”
“North and northeast of our position, sir. Five miles, or less. Should we bring the column up quickly, sir? Not much daylight.”
He turned the horse, looked for the voice. He saw a young man, a burst of red hair over a mass of freckles.
“How old are you?”
The young man glanced at the others, and Morgan heard small laughs.
“I’m old enough to fight, sir.”
“I’m not looking to send you home, boy. I just wanted to know how old you were.”
“Seventeen, sir.”
“Well, Mr. Seventeen, let me explain how an older man sees this ground. You’re thinking we should make for the Broad River. You think old Benny Tarleton might be too much for us to handle. You live around here?”
The young man was beginning to wilt under the attention, and Morgan could still hear the low laughs, smart comments from the others.
“Yes, sir. Up . . . thataway, sir. Across the river. My family’s got a farm . . .”
“Yes, I’m sure it’s a right lovely place. You itching to go home, then? It’s all right, boy, we’re all itching for something. Let me tell you what would happen to you if we crossed that river. You’d be thinking about that damned farm, your soft feather bed. Your mama probably cook up a big meal for you, your sweetheart would come cryin’ to you, all lathered up cause you’re home at last.”
“Sir, I wouldn’t run away . . .”
“Hell yes, you would, boy. A good many of your friends too. The rest of you, with your smart mouths. Militia, the lot of you. Some of you would stay with me, but the rest of you, you’d be like Mr. Seventeen here. Smell your mama’s cooking. Off you go. That’s why we’re going to stay down here, this side of the river.”
He looked out across the field.
“There’s another reason we’re going to stay here. You doubt I know something about the British?” He turned the horse, his back to the men, peeled off his coat. He pulled his shirt up, fought the stiffness in his back, the shirt now up to his shoulders, his bare back to the men. He heard the quiet gasps, smiled, said, “A long time ago, had some British boy about your age, Mr. Seventeen, thought he was an officer. Tried to tell me left was right, and when I argued the point, he slapped me with his sword. Ought not to have done that. I knocked him out of his boots.” He pulled the shirt down, turned, saw what he had always seen, wide-eyed stares, even from Washington. “They claimed they gave me five hundred lashes, but the British don’t count too well. There’s only four hundred ninety-nine. I told ’em they weren’t done, but they insisted. They still owe me one.” He let the story sink in for a minute. “If I know something about the British, it’s their arrogance. Benny Tarleton’s no different, maybe the worst of the lot. He’ll keep chasing us ’til he catches us. The only way to take care of him is pick the place. Let him find us where we want him to find us.” He looked at Washington, saw the man gazing out across the rolling grassy fields.
“You agree, Will?”
“We probably wouldn’t make the river anyway. Tarleton’s pushing his infantry hard. My cavalry’s not strong enough to hold him off for long.”
“Didn’t think so. Well, then, Mr. Seventeen, tell you what we’re going to do. You’re looking here at a very nice place to make a fight. I want you to go back and find Colonel Pickens, and tell him I need the militia up here as quick as they want to eat their supper. Take one of these smart mouths with you. We’ll camp out there, beyond that far hill. Get moving, boys!”
The young men seemed grateful to leave, pulled their horses around, and were gone. Morgan looked at Washington again.
“Bring the cavalry up here too. Plenty of hay in these fields. The horses will need their rest. If I’m right, Tarleton will be here in the morning. His men will have marched all night, and probably not eaten anything but the mud off’n their shoes. He’ll look to make quick work of us. He’ll prance out here, stand right on this spot, and he’ll probably laugh, see us spread out up there in that grass, and think he’s got us. He’ll make some joke to his officers, that we’ve made a jolly well bloody mistake.” He leaned forward on the horse’s neck, looked at the sun settling behind the tall trees. He patted the horse, said, “This could be more fun than a barn dance at Fat Lucy’s.”
HANNAH’S COWPENS, JANUARY 17, 1781