The Glorious Cause (65 page)

50. CORNWALLIS

J
ANUARY 18, 1781

The report came in by the hand of a green-coated horseman, but the shame on the man’s face showed him more of what had happened than Tarleton’s words on paper. Nearly eleven hundred of Cornwallis’ finest soldiers had engaged Morgan’s rebels, and less than three hundred had come away. He didn’t know the exact casualty count, but Tarleton’s report made clear that most of the British troops engaged at Cowpens were now Morgan’s prisoners.

As word of the disaster raced through the camps, Cornwallis began to hear the hot words against Tarleton. It came mainly from the veteran officers, outraged that this
boy
should have had such a command, should have been allowed the opportunity for such a spectacular failure. Cornwallis expected the criticism, knew it was just one more part of any defeat. If Tarleton had crushed Morgan’s army, the same critical old men would have climbed over each other to be his champion.

He had not yet written his official report to Clinton or Germain. That would come later. He would wait for Tarleton himself to arrive, to offer more details and, perhaps, some acceptable explanation how such a disaster could have occurred. But he knew Tarleton well enough, knew that the young man possessed that one ugly trait so common to men of ambition. His priority would be the high-sounding excuse, that no matter the judgment Cornwallis would hold, Tarleton would be more focused on the response of King George, on how his exploits would read in the London papers. Such men always dream of titles, medals, proclamations in Parliament. Rarely did such men seem to understand that, first, they had to win a war.

Cornwallis only had seven hundred troops around his headquarters, was desperate for Leslie to arrive from Ninety-Six with the reinforcements. The added strength would give Cornwallis enough of a force to make a serious pursuit of Morgan’s rebels. It was the only reasonable strategy, the strategy Clinton would insist upon. No enemy who had inflicted such a deadly strike should simply be allowed to wander off. It mattered little if Morgan intended to pursue some further assault, or if he was content to retreat and rejoin his army to Greene’s. The only possible disruption to Cornwallis’ plan could come from Greene himself, if the rebels showed some sign of launching a two-pronged attack on the British outposts. But Cornwallis had heard nothing of an advance by Greene. Thus Morgan was the target. Whether it was sound strategy mattered less than pride. The army would expect it, Clinton would expect it. It didn’t even have to make sense. It was simply the rules.

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.

R
AMSOUR
’
S
M
ILL,
N
ORTH
C
AROLINA,
J
ANUARY 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 own 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.