by Ron Carter
The aging Gates waited, face pleasant, amiable, ever the politician, the conciliator. He set his notes on the table beside two scrolled maps to greet each officer as he entered, and gesture him to his chair. Seated immediately to his right was Major General Baron Jean de Kalb, born to Bavarian peasants in 1737, a professional soldier, six feet tall, powerfully built, spartan in his personal habits, energetic, a model much admired by the men he led.
De Kalb had been in command of the American forces in South Carolina until replaced by Gates through an act of Congress. It was de Kalb who had seen the tremendous blow that could be struck by taking the huge British supply depot at Camden. Loss of the guns and munitions and food and medical supplies that sustained the British regulars through central South Carolina could cripple the entire British campaign, perhaps fatally. He pored over maps and intelligence reports from his scouts and carefully crafted a plan to move his patchwork American army of Southern militia and New England Continentals through the hills of Mecklenberg and Rowan counties, where the farmers were friendly to the Americans and the barns and chicken coops and pig pens were full and available.
Upon the arrival of Gates, the darling of Congress, de Kalb relinquished command to him and stepped down to second in command. Overnight he learned that while Gates agreed with the military decision to assault Camden, Gates saw no need to march the army through friendly country, when they could save nearly four days by marching due south through country filled with Tories loyal to the Crown. Gates read the reports of de Kalb’s scouts, describing the hostility of the Tories bordering the shorter route. He listened to their emphatic statements that the Loyalists had stripped their farms of everything that might be used or eaten by the Continentals, and he listened to the heated arguments of de Kalb and Otho Williams against marching his troops through such hostile country in the devastating August heat and humidity.
He listened and he set his heels and called a council.
De Kalb took his seat as directed, wiped the sweat from the leather hatband of his tricorn with a handkerchief and set it on the table, and with the others, waited.
Gates cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, your presence is appreciated. We have many things to discuss, so with your permission I shall proceed without delay.”
He referred to his notes.
“You are aware that General Clinton has returned to New York. General Cornwallis has assumed command of the British army remaining here. He has done nothing since his arrival regarding the depot at Camden.”
He unrolled one of the scrolled maps, spread it before the officers, and reached for a wooden pointer three feet long and moved the stick as he spoke.
“We are here, at Rugeley’s Mills, some five miles west of the Wateree River, here.”
He waited while all eyes studied the geography.
“South of us, here, is Hobkirk’s Hill, and directly below is the village of Camden, here, on the east bank of the river.
“Scouting reports confirm the British have a critical number of cannon and muskets stored there, with a large supply of gunpowder, shot, medicine, food, and blankets.”
His face took on an intensity as he continued. “The entire depot is guarded by a very small company of British regulars. Two things are obvious. Loss of that depot would be a serious blow to them, and, there are far too few men to defend it against a major attack.”
He laid the stick down.
“We have about seven thousand troops in our command.”
De Kalb turned startled eyes to Stevens. Seven thousand? Ridiculous! Less than half that many can march and fight! Most of them are North Carolina and Virginia militia who have never faced a major battle. He turned back to Gates and remained silent, listening intently, waiting his opportunity to speak. The distant sounds of the camp and the drill sergeants and the insects buzzing everywhere were forgotten as Gates went on.
“I have decided we shall strike the depot as quickly as possible, before General Cornwallis realizes his mistake. To do that, time is critically important. We can save three or four days of marching by moving directly down to the depot. My intelligence reports support this decision, since we can carry some rations and there are farmers sympathetic to our cause who will help.”
De Kalb and Stevens glanced at General Richard Caswell of the North Carolina militia, who had pleaded with Gates for such an attack, claiming it was critical to boost flagging morale and asserting that there would be sufficient food to maintain the army on a direct march. De Kalb’s reports to the contrary, Gates had listened to Caswell. Every man at the table swabbed at their sweaty faces with damp handkerchiefs as Gates continued.
He picked up the pointer. “Under my orders, Colonel Thomas Sumter of the South Carolina militia is leading his command west of us, across the Wateree River to strike a supply column coming to Camden, which is a decoy maneuver to make the British believe that is our objective. Half an hour ago Colonel Francis Marion received my orders to proceed southeast down the Santee, here, to destroy all watercraft and effectively close the river as a major escape route for the British when we strike. If we succeed as we should, we will have them trapped against the river. We can destroy most of them at will.”
He laid the pointer down. “Questions?”
De Kalb raised a hand. “This morning’s effectives report shows we have just over three thousand men who can march and fight. Is the report incorrect?”
Gates shook his head. “My report shows seven thousand.”
“Seven thousand effectives? Most of them are inexperienced militia.”
Gates kept his voice even, conclusive. “Seven thousand in the command. Certainly, the effectives, whatever the number, are sufficient to our need.”
A shudder ran through de Kalb. Knowing the strength of your own command was the first maxim of war. Not knowing it, or worse, knowing it and refusing to give it proper weight, was tantamount to suicide. The words had rolled off Gates’s tongue like one of the golden euphemisms he had used so generously to dazzle and charm Congress. In those hallowed halls such phrases rang rich and irresistible; on the battlefield, where men lived or died by the words of their commanders, they were a death knell.
De Kalb pushed on. “General Cornwallis has had his patrols out. Are we certain he has not yet guessed the plan? Taken steps to defend his depot at Camden?”
“As of this morning the depot remains vulnerable.”
“Would it be prudent to order Colonel Sumter, or Colonel Marion, to scout the roads into the depot? Ten of their men could do it and never been seen.”
“Colonels Sumter and Marion have their orders. Are there any other questions?”
For a moment talk went around the table, but no questions were posed to Gates.
“Prepare your commands to march by ten o’clock tomorrow night. I will have written orders delivered to each of you today defining the marching order. You are dismissed.”
The six officers rose, picked their tricorns from the table, and without a word walked out of the tent into the sweltering heat. De Kalb paused for a moment to peer south as though in the looking he could span the miles between himself and General Cornwallis and the British regulars, to see them and know their minds. Where was General Cornwallis? Had his scouts and his spies discovered Gates’s plan to attack Camden? And if they had, what was Cornwallis doing about it?
De Kalb broke it off and continued striding toward his horse. He had a command that must be prepared to march out in thirty-six hours, should they happen to survive the crushing heat.
To the south, General Lord Charles Cornwallis, stout, perspiring, mounted on a bay mare in the midmorning heat, gave orders, and his column of marching red-coated regulars came to a halt as they approached the great Camden depot. He sat tall in the saddle to turn his head slowly, intently studying the lay of the huge supply depot at the edge of town, with the British Union Jack on the pole, hanging dead and limp in the heat. He estimated the number of cannon, then the barrels of gunpowder, the crated muske
ts, and then the great stacks of boxed food, blankets, medicines, uniforms.
He located the headquarters building and turned to his aide. “I’ll take quarters in the command building. Have the troops set up camp and get inside their tents out of this sun. Then assemble the officers in the war council room immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
Forty minutes later Cornwallis stood at the head of the table in the sweltering hot war council room, facing eight officers, their tricorns on the table, each wiping at the sweat trickling down their faces. He tapped a stack of papers with a thick index finger.
“There are two matters we are going to address. First, I have quickly reviewed the items and supplies on today’s inventory of this depot. If it were all to fall into American hands or be destroyed, our campaign in the south would be seriously crippled.”
No one moved.
“Second, I have reports from our patrols and spies that General Gates has assembled a large force north of us. The core of his command is Continentals, not southern militia. I can reach but one conclusion. He means to attack this depot.”
Instantly the room was filled with open talk, exclamations, gestures. Cornwallis allowed the stir to dwindle before he raised a hand and it stopped.
“I do not intend letting him get within cannon range of our stores. A cannon barrage for one-half a day could have most of this depot burning, perhaps destroyed. To prevent that, we are marching north to attack him.”
Again talk erupted and Cornwallis waited.
“My reports estimate his effective troops at about three thousand. With our regulars and militia, we have about two thousand. However, two-thirds of the American forces are militia—North Carolina and Virginia. Worse for them, their Continentals and militia have never been together in battle. I calculate their militia will not stand and fight. Of our two thousand, seventeen hundred are regulars. On that basis, I believe the numbers of competent soldiers favors us.”
He stopped and waited for complete silence.
“Time is against us. Have your commands erect their tents and take rest during the heat of the day. Have them provisioned and prepared to march north at by ten o’clock tomorrow night.”
Surprise showed on the faces of the officers. “Ten o’clock tomorrow night, sir?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * * * *
The sounds of an army marching in the night are somehow distorted, magnified, eerie. The tramping of six thousand feet and the muffled clomping of two thousand horses’ hooves and the rumble of six-foot-tall wheels on cannon carriages and the creak of freight wagons fill the darkness with an ominous din. All creatures of the forest slink away to leave the sounds of man echoing in the forests and across the rivers and swamps, unreal, daunting. Soldiers going to battle march in subdued silence, peering into the darkness, seeing phantom enemies in the forest a thousand times as they move on. Time loses proportion; minutes become hours, hours become endless.
The American column moving south through the dank smell of the dead and decaying things in the swamps and bogs was led by Colonel Charles Armand and his cavalry. Behind them came the militia regiment of Virginia, followed by the tough Continentals commanded by General Jean de Kalb. Following was the regiment of North Carolina with the heavy guns and supply wagons.
In the ranks of General de Kalb’s Continentals, Lieutenant Billy Weems glanced at the waning moon low in the southwest, then at the stars overhead, and continued the pace on the dirt road running nearly due south from Rugeley’s Mills to Camden. From his right came the high-pitched voice of Sergeant Alvin Turlock.
“Past one o’clock. Close to two.”
Billy nodded and wiped at the sweat on his forehead and said nothing. He turned his head to glance back at his men from the Massachusetts regiment, assigned to de Kalb, then straightened and kept marching.
The sudden pop of a musket far ahead brought every head up and every eye straining to see ahead in the faint light, and there was nothing. Two seconds later the popping of four other musket shots slowed the entire column, and then the rattle of pistols and muskets came loud to stop them in their tracks.
Captain Prescott, marching ten feet ahead of Billy, turned and raised his hand to shout, “Steady! Hold your ground!”
Billy turned and surveyed his men to be certain they didn’t break. They dropped to their haunches, but held their positions, waiting, listening to the sound of musket and pistol fire escalate to a full-out battle. It held for a time, then began to dwindle. Billy narrowed his eyes to concentrate on the sounds, trying to read what was happening half a mile ahead.
Turlock exclaimed, “That’s no skirmish. Sounds like Armand’s cavalry ran into something big.”
“No cannon. It wasn’t an ambush. Muskets and pistols. That could be cavalry against cavalry with swords.”
“Could be.”
Ahead, Billy saw a few of the Virginia militia break from the road toward the forest, and he trotted forward, calling, “Back into ranks! Get back! Wait for orders. Follow your officers.”
The errant soldiers pivoted and ran back to their positions and dropped to their haunches with the others. Billy stopped and waited for a moment, then walked back to his own command shouting, “Hold your positions! Stay down! Wait for orders! Wait!”
The firing stopped as suddenly as it began. Men reached to wipe nervously at their beards, straining to see, wondering in the blackness who had fought, and who had won and who had lost. Then from ahead came the sound of a horse running at stampede gait, and an officer, dim in the moonlight, hauled his mount skidding to a stop to shout, “General de Kalb—report to General Gates!” He rammed his spurs home and continued his sprint toward the rear of the column while de Kalb broke out of the ranks and reined his mount forward. Two minutes later the officer came galloping from the rear of the column with two more officers behind, following.
The four officers reined in their heaving mounts and swung to the ground where a low lantern cast yellow light on the ground near General Gates. He waited until they were crowded around him before he faced Colonel Armand.
“Repeat what you reported to me.”
Wide-eyed, still breathing heavily, Armand poured it out. “One minute they were not there, the next they were, shooting in the dark. No plan of attack—we simply stumbled into them or they stumbled into us. Cavalry against cavalry. We shot back. Pistols, muskets, then went to our sabers.”
“Do you know who they were?”
“Tarleton!”
The officers caught their breath but did not speak.
“How do you know?”
“We heard him! We heard officers call his name. Two men were close enough to see that big feather he wears in his hat. It was Tarleton’s cavalry.”
“What came of it?”
“Nothing. Tarleton came head-on. Things got confused in the dark and a few of our men got separated and somehow got nearly to his flanks. He backed away and tried to form a battle line. A few more shots were exchanged and we both withdrew because neither of us knew how many we were fighting. I came here to report.”
“Was it just Tarleton? His command only?”
“No. Our men who got past him onto his flank reported running into infantry. His cavalry was riding advance for a column, just like us.”
“Any conclusions?”
“Yes! For whatever reason, Cornwallis was coming north to surprise us. He didn’t know we were coming south to surprise him, and we collided by purest accident.”
Gates mouth narrowed. “There you have it, gentlemen. I’ve called you together for a decision on what to do.”
In the shadowy light of the single lantern, de Kalb stared in disbelief. A war council? With a deadly enemy somewhere in the dark, and gun smoke still in the air from the first engagement? If ever there was need for a commander to take charge and issue orders, it was now. He glanced around the circle and found every man doing the same—waiting for someone else to stat
e the obvious. Retreat. Fall back. Regroup and wait for another time, another day.
Not one man spoke, and suddenly de Kalb understood. No one wanted to be the first to suggest such a thing. Then, in the silence, Colonel Edward Stevens, brave but foolish, blurted, “We must fight! It is now too late to retreat. We can do nothing else. We must fight!”
A dead silence set in while Gates stared at Stevens, then his officers, and in a quiet voice, almost timid, apologetic, he said, “We must fight, then. Listen while I give you the battle order.”
He stepped from the tiny circle of light for a moment to draw a scrolled map from the bags on his horse, and returned to spread it on the ground. With the officers circled about, he pointed as he spoke.
“We’re here on the Charlotte Road. We’re flanked on both sides by swamps, but we can get cannon through. Behind us is open road, and fairly open country for us to maneuver. Behind the British is Saunders Creek. Nearly two hundred feet wide, with but one bridge. They have no avenue of escape or room to maneuver.”
He paused, then stood to give assignments.
“Brigadier Mordecai Gist, you will hold the right flank on the west side of the road with your Delaware and Maryland regiments. General de Kalb, you will take command there. Colonel Caswell, you will hold the center with your militia. Colonel Stevens, your Virginians will hold the left with support from Colonel Armand’s cavalry. Brigadier Smallwood, you will hold your Maryland brigade in reserve behind the front line. Move all seven cannon to the front and load them with grapeshot in the event of a British charge. My command post will be six hundred yards behind the front line.”
De Kalb gaped! The entire left of the line was to be held by untested and untrained militia! In the face of a charge by Tarleton’s cavalry, or a bayonet attack by seasoned British regulars, there was no chance the militia would survive! They would break and run, or they would die, and either way, once the British had breached the lines, the battle would be lost!