by Ron Carter
“Yes, sir.”
He turned to Washington. “No telling what Tarleton will do, but at some point he’s going to try to rally, or find a soft spot. That’s when I give you the signal, and you come out from behind us with your cavalry and their sabers and your infantry with their rifles, and you hit wherever Tarleton sends his men, and don’t back up.”
Morgan stopped, wiped at his mouth while he gathered his thoughts, and concluded. “Any questions?”
There were none.
“All right, boys. I picked this hilltop because there’s no way out. Not for us, not for Tarleton. Once he commits and comes up the hill after us, we got the river behind us and swamps on both sides, and Tarleton in front. We beat Tarleton, or we’re all dead or captured. Just remember what I’ve told you, and keep cool heads. We can beat this man. Now get to your positions.”
Caleb and Primus swung into their saddles and waited for Washington to trot his horse before them.
“Follow me,” he shouted, and his command of cavalry and infantry fell in behind as he spun his horse and raised it to a trot toward the river. He gauged the distance and held up his hand to halt his men five hundred yards short of the Broad.
“Cavalry behind,” he called. “Infantry in front, rank and file. Be certain your powder’s dry, because when this thing starts there’ll be no time. Move!”
Caleb and Primus loped their horses to the high point on the barren, sandy hill, and turned them, then dismounted. They tied them in the foliage as the long line of Washington’s cavalry formed, then trotted to join the infantry where their Deckhard rifles were needed, as the foot soldiers quickly fell into rank and file before the line of horses. They found their place, and with every man in the unit, knocked the rifle frizzens open, dumped damp powder, tapped fresh from their powder horns, snapped the frizzens shut, flexed the hammers, and settled, waiting, silently looking down the slight incline.
Two hundred yards ahead of them the lines under James Howard’s direct command formed, Morgan off to one side, watching, while Pickens settled his men in front to take the attack. It was a few minutes past eight o’clock on January 17, 1781.
There was no prologue, no time for the men to allow their fears to create monsters in their heads, no time for nerves to fray. One moment the road below was vacant, the next, Banastre Tarleton in his green uniform with that huge green plume was there. He stopped his horse, looked to his right long enough to identify the first line of Pickens’s men on the barren, sandy hill, glanced both directions to be certain of the lay of the land, and turned in his saddle. He drew his saber, pointed up the hill, and his shout could be heard by everyone in Morgan’s command.
“Dragoons, charge their skirmish line!”
His vaunted cavalry wheeled their horses toward the hill, slammed their spurs home, and in three jumps were at a full gallop, sabers drawn, howling as they swept upward.
“Steady, steady,” Pickens called. “Fifty yards. Wait. Fifty yards. Pick out the ones with the gold braid and the chevrons on their sleeves. Wait.” With narrowed eyes he calculated distance, raised his hand, and his shout rang out.
“Now! Fire!”
The Deckhards cracked and nearly half the green-jacketed dragoons sagged from their saddles to roll loose on the ground, finished. Stunned, those still mounted hesitated but for a moment, then charged on, sabers raised.
“Steady, steady, reload.” Pickens watched his men standing firm, reloading with practiced hands.
“Fire!”
The second volley blasted, and more of the charging cavalry threw their arms in the air to tumble, officers and sergeants first among them.
“Break! Break!” Pickens shouted, and his skirmish line divided in the middle to run right and left, out of sight.
Below the shooting, a contemptuous smile began to form on Tarleton’s lips at the familiar sight of rebel militia in what appeared to be full retreat before his elite cavalry. He turned to his infantry.
“Move up the hill, rank and file. Show them the bayonet!”
With drums banging, the foot soldiers began their march upward, straight at Pickens’s second line of riflemen. The British held their muskets at the ready, the wicked bayonets menacing in the dull light of the overcast morning.
Once again Pickens moved among his men. “When they get in range, pick out the epaulets and the chevrons, and open fire. Two volleys. Steady. Wait.”
Tarleton’s oncoming infantry sensed something that sent a chill through them. The first line had seemed to disappear in a panic-driven retreat. What was the second line doing, kneeling and standing, calm, waiting? They put aside their questions and continued their march in the soggy, damp morning.
Pickens voice rang. “They’re in range! Pick your targets and fire!”
A sustained, ragged volley erupted, and once again the officers grunted and crumpled, and men all up and down the advancing British lines staggered and fell. Still they came on, into the sustained fire. Some lowered their muskets to fire at the American lines, still far out of accurate musket range.
“Break!” shouted Pickens.
The second line divided and disappeared. Some of the raw recruits, who had never seen battle began to run, angling for the horses tied in the trees, and for a moment it appeared they would take half the line with them. Instantly Pickens gave a hand signal to his second in command, Hughes, and the two of them raced their horses ahead of the frightened militia. “Back! Get back! Hold your ground! The battle’s in our hands!”
The terrified men stopped, took hold of themselves, and ran back to their ranks.
At the sight of the momentary panic in the Americans, Tarleton sensed his opportunity. He turned and shouted, “All dragoons, CHARGE!”
The green-clad mob surged forward, up the hill, unaware until the last moment that Howard’s command of riflemen, now joined by Pickens’s militia and regulars, waited for them just over a small rise, with those long, deadly Deckhards. As the galloping horses crested the high ground, Howard shouted, “Fire!” and six hundred rifles blasted.
Nearly the entire leading rank of incoming cavalry went down. Stunned, shocked, the balance faltered. Some veered to their left in an attempt to flank Howard’s lines, and as they dug their spurs home, Morgan raised a hand to Washington and pointed. Instantly Washington, short, fat, unlikely, and one of the toughest natural cavalrymen in the American army, kicked his horse to an all-out gallop, shouting, “Follow me!”
His cavalry swept around the right flank of Howard’s men, head-on into Tarleton’s oncoming troops, and did not slow. They plowed straight in, sabers flashing, knocking men and horses toppling, shouting like insane men as they turned the pride of the English army—Tarleton’s cavalry—and drove them back, back, knocking them down.
Behind came Washington’s infantry, sprinting, and at fifty yards the leading ranks went to one knee to steady their rifles, Caleb and Primus among them. They settled the thin blade of the front sight on the third button of the green tunics, and squeezed off their first volley. Dragoons tumbled and lay still, while Caleb and Primus and those with them rose, trotting forward, reloading as they came, to kneel a second time and coolly send their second deadly volley into the dragoons.
Watching from a distance, Tarleton stared. For the first time he sensed that something was badly wrong. He had watched the first two American lines turn and retreat, as they always had when his dragoons swept down like a raging torrent. But that third line? They were standing solid, cool, disciplined. His dragoons had tried to flank them when from nowhere the American cavalry had ripped into them, stopped them, turned them. Tarleton turned and shouted, “Highlanders, move up!”
The Scots came with their bagpipes screeching, muskets and bayonets at the ready, into the American right, and Howard ordered his men to reform to meet them. The movement startled Morgan, who came at a gallop, shouting to Howard, “Are your men beaten?”
Howard shook his head violently. “Do beaten men march like that?”
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A grin creased the Old Wagonmaster’s broad, homely face. “No, they don’t. Carry on!”
Tarleton saw the movement, and began to relax. At last the Americans were beginning to collapse!
From a distance, Washington saw the movement, and he watched the hard-fighting Scots marching in on the Americans. He stood tall to shout to his cavalry, “Break it off. Follow me!” He dug his spurs into his horse one more time, and led his men back toward the advancing Scots.
At that moment Morgan signaled Howard. On my command, halt your men and have them turn and fire one volley before Washington collides with the oncoming Scots and the infantry.
At precisely the right moment, Howard’s Virginians, Marylanders, and Georgians stopped in their tracks, turned, calmly picked their targets, and poured a thundering volley into the British lines. With the smoke still hanging in the dead air, Washington’s cavalry once again tore into them with sabers swinging.
For a moment the British faltered, and then they took one step back, and then they broke. They turned, threw down their arms, and in three seconds were a broken, disorganized, terrorized horde, running for their lives.
Caleb slowed and stopped and reached for his powder horn to reload while he searched for the long green plume. He saw it, drove the .54-caliber ball down the barrel of his hot rifle with the ramrod, shoved it in its receiver, and started to raise his rifle, then lowered it.
Too far. Six hundred yards. Too far. While he watched, the horse carrying the most feared cavalry officer in the British army reached the bottom of the hill and at stampede gait, disappeared into the trees.
The battle of Cowpens was over. It was not yet nine o’clock in the morning.
Almost as quickly as it had begun, the shooting stopped. Morgan’s men herded their prisoners into a circle at the center of the hill and stationed Continentals around them to hold them. The others went about the grisly business of counting casualties for both sides, and tending the wounded as best they could.
It was close to noon before Caleb and Primus and others gathered around Morgan to hear the report from Andrew Pickens.
“Far more than one hundred British dead, among them thirty-nine officers. Two hundred twenty-nine wounded. Six hundred prisoners, including twenty-seven officers. Two field cannon, eight hundred muskets, one hundred cavalry horses, and thirty-five wagons with munitions and food supplies.”
Morgan nodded. “Our casualties?”
“Twelve dead, sixty wounded.”
Open talk erupted. No man among them could recall such a lop-sided victory. With fewer men than Tarleton, and far fewer of them trained in combat, Morgan’s small army had all but destroyed the best fighting force in the British army, in a stand-up fight in the classic European style so loved by the British.
By nightfall, Tarleton had gathered the tattered remains of his dragoons, and rode all night to find General Cornwallis, twenty-five miles from the place he had promised to be on the north bank of the Broad River. A beaten, weary man on a jaded horse, Tarleton approached Cornwallis’s tent and was given entrance by the picket.
Cornwallis gaped at the sight of him. “What’s happened?”
“Sir, I . . . we engaged Morgan. We were defeated.”
Cornwallis stammered, “An ambush?”
“No. At Cowpens. On a hill.”
“Where’s your command?”
“Gone, sir. All except the few outside.”
“Gone? How many gone?”
“Over nine hundred. Dead, wounded, or captured. I do not know how many were killed.”
Cornwallis was dumbstruck, incredulous. “Was Greene with Morgan? Did they have too many men?”
Tarleton shook his head. “No, sir. Morgan was alone. We had slightly superior numbers.”
The news of the catastrophe spread through the British ranks like wildfire. Recriminations poured in. Tarleton defended himself until it became clear there was no other way to settle the matter, and he wrote a request to Cornwallis.
“Regretfully I request a court-martial be convened at earliest opportunity that I might have opportunity to defend my honor.”
Cornwallis shook his head. “There will be no court-martial.” On January 30, 1781, he issued his official letter ending the matter.
“ . . . and Lieutenant Colonel Banastre Tarleton is exonerated in all particulars . . . his means in bringing the enemy into action were able and masterly in every respect . . .”
After the drums sounded taps and the lights in camp winked out, General Cornwallis sat in the silence of his quarters, staring at the wall, struggling to grasp the realities of where his southern campaign had come. The thoughts came, and he examined each one, weighed it, put it in its proper place, and waited for the entire mosaic to develop.
He had designed to move north, taking North Carolina and Virginia in succession, then on to take the Chesapeake in Virginia. The plan had crumbled with the loss of Patrick Ferguson and his command at King’s Mountain. He delayed the plan and had fallen back until he could regroup. He had then moved north a second time, and again disaster struck, with the unimaginable destruction of Banastre Tarleton’s elite fighting force at Cowpens.
The question now lay naked before him.
Do I once again delay the plan? Fall back once again?
Slowly he shook his head. No! I will not retreat again! Our forces have suffered enough humiliation . . . first in New England where we failed to end this war, and now it is repeating in the South. I will pursue General Morgan, and I will find him, and I will defeat him, and then I will find General Greene and destroy his command.
He rose from his chair and went to his bed, to drift into a troubled sleep.
Notes
On January 1, 1781, General Cornwallis ordered Colonel Banastre Tarleton and his elite fighting force to find and destroy the command of General Daniel Morgan. The dates, places, officers, and events are correctly presented in this chapter, including the unorthodox positions in which Morgan placed his men on an open hilltop. The order of the battle, the movement of the troops of both sides, the routing of the British by the Americans, and the unbelievable results of the battle at Cowpens were as represented herein. Following his catastrophic defeat, Tarleton reported to Cornwallis, to find that criticism against him became extreme, and he requested a court-martial to clear his name. Cornwallis refused and wrote a letter justifying Tarleton in all particulars. Parts of the letter are quoted herein verbatim. Thereafter, Cornwallis determined to follow and attempt to destroy Dan Morgan’s command. Because the British held the Americans and their army in such disdain, they refused to refer to American officers by their military titles, purposefully calling them “Mister,” as in this example of General Cornwallis and his description of American generals Greene and Morgan (Lumpkin, From Savannah to Yorktown, 116–34; see diagram of the battle, 128; Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 599–602, and see diagram of the battle, p. 601; Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, pp. 366–68).
Near Morristown, New Jersey
March 23, 1781
CHAPTER XXIX
* * *
A raw March wind ruffled the mane and tail of Eli’s horse as he pulled it to a stop before the log home that served as headquarters for General Washington in the camp of the Continental Army at Morristown, New Jersey. He dismounted and tied the reins to the hitching post, stopped at the door facing the picket, and spoke.
“Eli Stroud to report a scout to General Washington.”
The picket’s forehead wrinkled in question. He was looking at a tall man with a strong nose and a three-inch scar on his left jawline, dressed in buckskin leggings, Indian moccasins, and beaded doeskin hunting shirt. The man’s hair was long and tied back, and his beard heavy. With mounting suspicion, the picket eyed the black tomahawk thrust into the weapons belt and stammered, “Scout? When? Where?”
“Washington sent me out nine weeks ago to scout down south. Told me to report to him directly when I got back. I’m back.”
The picket’s mouth fell open for a moment. “South? How far?”
“South Carolina.”
The picket recoiled in disbelief. “You been clean down to South Carolina?”
“Is the general here?”
“Inside, but I don’t—”
“If it’s all the same to you, I got a written message from General Greene, and I think General Washington’s waiting for it.”
The picket turned on his heel and opened the door for Eli and they entered a small anteroom. “Leave your weapons here,” he said. Eli stood his rifle in the corner and hung his weapons on a peg, and the two walked to a door on the right side of the foyer. The picket rapped and came to attention.
“Enter.”
Moments later Eli was standing before a scarred desk facing a grim and weary General Washington. The General gestured, and Eli drew up a chair to sit opposite him.
“I am glad to see you safely back,” the General said.
Eli nodded but remained silent, and General Washington continued. “I take it the Southern states were new to you?”
“They were. And the people. Different.”
“Did you find General Greene?”
Eli nodded and drew a document from his shirt. “He sent this.”
Washington removed the oilskin wrap, broke the blue wax seal, laid it on the desk top, and silently read.
. . . . With the invaluable cooperation of colonels Marion and Sumter, on March 15, 1781, we engaged the British forces of General Cornwallis at a small place in North Carolina called the Guilford Courthouse. After a warm exchange, I withdrew my command rather than risk them further. However, I believe we accomplished our objective since British losses were ninety-three dead, four hundred thirteen wounded, and many missing. We suffered seventy-eight dead and one hundred ninety-five wounded. Thus, while we yielded the field to them, their losses were more than twice ours. It is my judgment that we have critically reduced General Cornwallis’s ability to go forward with his now obvious design to move north into Virginia and the Chesapeake Bay. For that reason, I am determined to carry the war immediately into South Carolina.