The Glorious Cause

by Jeff Shaara

  Our assault was planned with coolness, and executed without embarrassment. I had thought, sir, that the main body of the army would have come to our support.”

  Cornwallis stared at Tarleton with no expression, thought, So that’s the best you can do? Of course, I cannot be surprised. I did not launch an all-out assault to assist you. Never mind that my total command here was two-thirds the size of yours.

  Tarleton stared past him, his usual pose, seemed not to care if Cornwallis responded or not.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “General Leslie’s men have arrived here only this morning. We will pursue the rebels as soon as those men have rested. I will require your eyes on the march, therefore I am hopeful we will succeed in gathering the remnants of your Legion.” He paused, said, “How many men will that be, Colonel?”

  Tarleton showed no reaction to the question, said, “I would estimate two hundred or more. There will be sufficient strength, sir.”

  The young man’s arrogance was grating on him, and Cornwallis said, “You are dismissed, Colonel. See to your men.”

  Tarleton was gone without another word, and Cornwallis stared at the open doorway, felt drained by the young man’s arrogance. There would be no lectures, no public shame for Tarleton. Cornwallis had never agreed with that kind of bombast, public embarrassment so often heard from Henry Clinton. The facts of the engagement alone would stain Tarleton’s reputation to the entire army. The young man had returned to camp with fewer than seventy of his Legion, and many of them were already talking, relaying the last bit of the story that Tarleton himself would never repeat. When the battle had been clearly decided, Tarleton had called for a final assault by his Legion, a hard charge that might yet have turned the fight. The green-coated horsemen were fresh, rested, had not yet been a part of the battle. But on his command, most of the Legion, over two hundred fifty men, had responded to his order by simply riding away. In a battle that had claimed eight hundred of their comrades, Tarleton’s Legion never faced the enemy. They had already begun to straggle into camp, but the shame of their performance would infect Tarleton more than his men. It was a punishment far more severe than anything Cornwallis could say. He still stared out through the open door, thought, No, young man, this is not how legends are created.

  RAMSOUR’S MILL, NORTH CAROLINA,

  JANUARY 25, 1781

  His intelligence from the civilians was worthless, no real information about Morgan’s line of march. With the defeat at Cowpens, the loyalists had simply disappeared, no one having any faith that the British army could be counted on to provide them any protection. The loyalist militia was nearly nonexistent as well, other than those units still manning the important outposts at Camden and Ninety-Six, men who were close enough to their homes to risk fighting for their own land. His scouts had finally picked up Morgan’s trail, and the best guess was that the rebels were marching northeastward, possibly to move along the Catawba River, deeper into North Carolina. Cornwallis had received word from farther east that Greene’s main body of troops had pulled out of Charlotte and was marching north as well.

  He allowed the army to gather and rest around Ramsour’s Mill, a small cluster of homes perched on the Little Catawba River. They were close to Morgan’s march, but not close enough. Those citizens of Ramsour’s who had remained had been certain in their claims that Morgan had crossed the river two days earlier.

  Cornwallis had ordered his staff and his own baggage placed in a tent. He did not intend to remain long enough to annoy some local farmer by moving into his home. As the last of the troops had marched into Ramsour’s, he had stood out by the main road, examining the men as they moved by him. They had found a vast pile of leather, the good work of some industrious tanner, and as his men marched past him, Cornwallis had seen the ragged condition of their boots. The order had already been given, each man to resole his own shoes. He did not know how far they would have to march, but for a while, at least, they would not go barefoot.

  Cornwallis watched as the rear guard escorted the wagons, the painfully slow progress, a variety of farm wagons and carriages piled high with all the baggage of the army. As they moved past him, they turned into a wide field, and Cornwallis had seen enough, thought of returning to his tent. But an officer caught his eye, a high screeching voice, arms flailing madly, oblivious to Cornwallis, the man clearly in command of his private world. Cornwallis was curious now, could see the officer was one of the quartermasters. He was guiding the wagons into line, silent stares from crusty wagon masters, weary horses hauling their teetering loads. Another officer appeared, more high-pitched shouts, the two men directing their wrath at each other. The argument turned quiet, some crucial decision reached, and the first man shouted to the wagoneers, pointing out to one side. Whips began to crack, and the wagons jerked into motion again, shifting their position. It was a dark comedy, but Cornwallis was not smiling, could see wagons extending down the road beyond his sight. He turned away, stared toward the river, thick woods on the far side, tall timber on rolling hills, thought, We are two days behind them. Tomorrow it will be three.

  The infantry that pursued Morgan to Cowpens had not begun their march until they had been stripped of every nonessential piece of equipment and baggage. The result was a division of British light troops who could cover far more ground in far less time than usual for such a large number of men. But the light troops were gone, most of those who survived Cowpens now marching under Morgan’s guards, to some destination Cornwallis did not yet know.

  He began to walk back toward his tent, the words still pricking his brain. He is two days ahead of us, and we cannot even park our wagons without a decision by committee.

  I want it all burned. Every piece of cumbersome equipment, every wagonload of extra uniforms, every officer’s finest ballroom garb.” They stared at him with open mouths, and after a long, silent moment, Leslie said, “The officers . . . ?”

  “Especially the officers, General. What is the purpose of this pursuit? Is it not to catch our enemy? At our present rate of progress, if I may use that word, we will lose more ground every day. We do not even know the country, must still seek out the fords of the rivers. Many of Morgan’s men reside here.”

  The two men absorbed his words, staring into the campfire. Each was perched on a short stool, both men balancing a china teacup on one knee. Cornwallis looked out into the utter blackness, heard the night sounds, waves of insects, strange croaks and cries from the river. Leslie spoke now, said, “But, sir, the men will not respond well to such a sacrifice.”

  “What is the greater sacrifice, General? Leaving behind your brandy and extra store of molasses, or marching this army to exhaustion while our enemy continues to thrive in the field? If we eliminate the encumbrance of our wagons, we will greatly enhance our pursuit. We will maintain the bare necessities of medical supplies, salt, other essentials. The men can carry what they require on their backs.”

  The officers looked at each other, and he saw resignation in their faces, nods of approval.

  “This is all I require of you, gentlemen. You must see past old habits. Look at this camp. We march with so few men that one significant engagement can decide our fate. The enemy has shown he can draw men from these colonies in great numbers, can replace his wounded, even his deserters. We can do nothing of the sort. General Clinton, when he chooses to write, never concludes a letter without expressing his utmost confidence that we will yet receive an outpouring of loyalist troops, waves of new recruits at every outpost, every village on our march. What choice do I have but to play out the farce? In every town I perform the same ritual, post the notice, issue a call to loyalists to join us on the march. This afternoon, I witnessed a gathering of six men, and when the provost attempted to lead them to the recruitment station, they claimed only to be curious, had never seen a British soldier before. Loyalist sympathy? Allegiance to His Majesty’s cause? No, gentlemen, they wanted to know what we looked like.” He saw his o
wn mood reflected on their faces, and he realized it was something he had not seen since New York. He was too accustomed to the arrogance of Tarleton, the other younger men who seemed to have no understanding of the difficulties they were facing. He was grateful for the presence of Leslie, and the other man, Charles O’Hara, one of Leslie’s brigadiers. Both men were closer in age and experience to Cornwallis, both men seeming to understand that this could possibly be their last good opportunity to destroy Greene’s rebel army. O’Hara was a dark, handsome Irishman, had risen in rank through the Coldstream Guards, one of the most prestigious units in the army. He stared into the fire, said, “General, how far do we pursue? How do we force an engagement with the rebels?”

  “General O’Hara, if we do not engage the rebels, we have no purpose in being here. General Clinton believes that by simply maintaining our outposts in South Carolina, we have claimed a victory, that the rebellion in that colony has ended. I would suggest that Colonel Tarleton has experienced otherwise. It is entirely within my authority to withdraw our forces to those outposts and simply remain there. We might as well sail for England. The decision must be made. If we remain immobile, we will face certain ruin. If we advance, and pursue the rebel army, we face infinite danger. General Clinton has his view. Mine is somewhat different.” He paused, shook his head. “I admit to being puzzled, gentlemen. Why do the rebels retreat? Morgan won a significant victory, and yet, instead of becoming emboldened by his success, he chooses to withdraw.”

  Leslie said, “Morgan cannot assume we will make another such mistake.”

  He knew it was a veiled reference to Tarleton, would not allow Leslie the opening.

  “Whether or not it was our mistake or their good fortune is not my concern. By their retreat, the rebels have chosen the path of this war. If we are to claim victory, we must engage them. To engage them we must catch them. Once we have shed our baggage, I intend to pursue General Greene to the ends of the earth!”

  It was already a massive bonfire, and Cornwallis stepped through the gloomy throng of soldiers, carried a fat heavy trunk. They backed away, and he turned, saw them all watching him. He turned to the fire, the flames growing higher, far taller than he was. He felt the heat on his face, the weight of the trunk in his arms. There was a voice, “Sir! May I assist you?”

  He did not respond, stepped close to the fire, squinting against the heat, and with one heavy grunt, launched his trunk into the blaze. He looked at them again, saw officers coming forward, more baggage, the men following his example. Before the night was over, the fire was fueled by the excess baggage of the entire command, excess grain, rolls of cloth, wool and cotton, and all but a handful of wagons. By morning, the shock had settled on every man along the march, that behind the long column, no wagons followed, nothing to slow them down, to keep them from pushing their pursuit of the enemy.

  FEBRUARY 1781

  They continued northward, led by the word from Tarleton’s scouts, who pushed out ahead of the column, probing the roads for the direction of the enemy. They captured the usual rebel stragglers, who brought news Cornwallis had not expected. Greene himself had apparently left the main body of his army, had ridden across country to join Morgan’s retreat. It was curious news to his officers, but Cornwallis understood. Greene appreciated the gravity of Morgan’s position. If Cornwallis himself was in pursuit, Greene would take charge of the men being pursued.

  At each river crossing Cornwallis was forced to halt the army in a maddening routine, stopping the march while scouts sought out a shallow crossing. Every few days the rains would come, and the men had no choice but to huddle in soaking misery as they waited for the clouds to clear, and then for the river levels to drop. It was more frustrating because Greene was not so disadvantaged, and Cornwallis was beginning to appreciate the man’s tactic. Along many of the roads, he had seen the tracks of the rebels punctuated by narrow ruts in the mud. He assumed it was cannon. But soon the scouts brought him the word: The rebels were actually transporting their own boats, rolled along on makeshift axles. To add to the rebel advantage, Greene had sent men ahead to secure more boats, small fleets of craft that ferried their men safely and quickly across each river. Cornwallis had no such luxury, could only march his men along the water’s edge until a crossing was found. Some were hazardous still, men pushing chest deep through swift currents, while on the far side, militia would wait in the trees, along the banks, to harass and pick at the helpless men with deadly musket fire.

  After each crossing he expected Greene to make a stand, that finally the rebels would have had their fill of the unending retreat. But Greene pushed on, and when the rebels reached Guilford Court House, the two wings of Greene’s army united. But even then, Greene did not stop, drove his men northward, and Cornwallis knew now that the rebels intended to march all the way to Virginia. Cornwallis could only continue the pursuit because he had no good alternative. He pushed the column toward the last barrier out of North Carolina, the Dan River, thought, Surely, now we will find him. But Greene had planned well, and the Dan was no different than the rivers before. There were boats as well, and merely twelve hours before Cornwallis reached the Dan, the last of Greene’s army was landed on the northern banks, safely across the river.

  As Cornwallis stood on the banks of the Dan staring into Virginia, it was a miserable reminder of Trenton, the enemy escaping him beyond the Delaware River. He was as exhausted as his men, took no comfort from the thought that Greene would be worn-out as well.

  It was called a victory for the British and would cause celebration in London, would garner congratulations from Clinton and Germain. For the first time since the start of the war, not one continental soldier stood on Carolina soil. But Cornwallis did not celebrate. For now he truly understood Greene’s plan. Cornwallis’ army was barely two thousand strong, the men brutally punished by the extraordinary march. Their grand parade uniforms were as ragged as the clothes of the rebels, their newly soled shoes worn away again, their horses emaciated and sick. And, worse, the soldiers were starving. Greene had surrendered the Carolinas, and in the process had nearly destroyed Cornwallis’ army.

  51. GREENE

  FEBRUARY 1781

  He had not intended to retreat as far as Virginia. All along the extraordinary march, he had sent letters to von Steuben, requesting that the Prussian send down the new recruits he had raised in northern Virginia. But von Steuben had a crisis of his own, a considerable surprise in the person of General Benedict Arnold, now a brigadier in service to King George. Arnold commanded a force of twelve hundred men who had landed at Yorktown. Soon they had pushed hard up the Virginia peninsula, causing panic in Richmond. The influence of Thomas Jefferson had forced von Steuben to keep his recruits close at hand. Even if von Steuben had more men than he might require, the Virginia recruits had little interest in marching south to join a distant fight in the Carolinas when the danger to their own homes was so immediate.

  With his men safely on the north banks of the Dan River, Greene began to deal with the miserable condition of his troops. Clothing was scarce, the men marching in rags, much as Greene had seen throughout the campaigns in New Jersey. Shoes were scarcer still, and most of the continental regulars were once again barefoot.

  For all the difficulties he faced, the one most personal to Greene was the failing health of the man who was the most capable subordinate in his command.

  I cannot replace you, Daniel.”

  “That’s probably so, Nat. But beggin’ won’t help. I can’t do this, not anymore. It near kills me just to climb on my horse.”

  Greene sat slumped in his small camp chair, could see Morgan twisted slightly, the man’s broad shoulders curled forward. Even hunched over, Morgan seemed to fill the tent. Greene saw the man’s face clamped tight, no sign of the mischievous smile, could see sweat on the man’s brow.

  “You’re hurting. You have some spirits?”

  Morgan shook his head.

  “Won’t matter. Can’t climb my hor
se drunk or sober. And it’s a long ride. Probably better I can see straight. Don’t need to be falling off my saddle.” He paused. “I’m sorry, Nat. I’m going home.”

  There was already talk in the camp, an unkind slap at Morgan from officers who felt his antics and oversize reputation had pushed some of the more deserving of them out of their rightful place in the sun. All of his reasons for refusing to serve Gates were magnified now, as though the big man was some sort of whining brat, who either got his way or went home crying. The new rumors were that Morgan didn’t care for Greene’s tactics, would have preferred to stand and fight Cornwallis at any point during the retreat. As a result, Morgan was now going to sulk his way back to the Shenandoah Valley.

  Morgan had ignored the talk, seemed to appreciate that Greene did as well.

  “Nat, what you proposin’ to do? You need more people.”

  “Pickens should return soon. I still expect militia from up north. General Smallwood sent word, he’s sending some new recruits to add to the Maryland line.”

  “That’s not the people I’m talking about, Nat. You need veterans. Cornwallis may be beat to hell over there, but he’s still got the flower of his army. The more time you give him to rest up, the stronger he gets.”

  “I don’t intend to give him time, Daniel. I’m sending the cavalry down, Washington’s men, Harry Lee’s Legion. They’ll keep an eye on him, keep Tarleton from running roughshod along the river. Cornwallis has pulled back to Hillsboro, waiting to see what we’re going to do. We won’t keep him waiting much longer.”

  Morgan tried to sit up straight, grimaced, leaned to one side.

  “I wish I could stay with you, Nat. I’m no good to this army now. This has been comin’ on for a while. It was just a damned nuisance, but now . . . well, hell, I’m not going to cry to you. You ain’t my mama. If I could ride, I’d ride. If I could fight, I’d fight.”