The Glorious Cause (67 page)

“As I reported, sir. You were hoping for a fight. I think you have one.”

It was midday before the British emerged in force on the low road. They spread into a heavy line, began as they always began, stepping in unison through the field, pushed on by the sounds of the drums. Yet it was not quite like Cowpens. Guilford Court House was a much more vast area, the heavy stands of trees blocking Greene’s view of his deployment. There was another difference as well. The British strength was double what Tarleton had led to Cowpens, and were not commanded by an impetuous young cavalryman. They were led by Cornwallis himself.

From his vantage point near the courthouse, Greene could only know when the British appeared by the first hard thump of his cannon, two six-pounders placed in the road that divided the fence line. The British field guns responded, smaller pops of the light three-pounders. He knew it was more for demonstration than for any real effect, that the British would cease their fire when their troops marched out into the field. After a duel of several agonizing minutes, the British guns finally fell silent. It was the first genuine sign that the battle had begun.

The British moved out toward the fence line, faced the militia, but the discipline was not in those men, and many of the North Carolinians fired their first round when the British were barely in range. The redcoats absorbed the uneven volley and kept their near-perfect march to within fifty yards of the fence. Then they stopped, the drums suddenly quiet, and, for one long moment, the two lines faced each other. The British pointed their bayonets to the front, every man in their line focusing on the terrified faces of the men along the fence. Behind the frozen stares of the North Carolinians, an officer moved his horse slowly, raised his sword, shouted a single word, the command that would decimate the arrogance of the British formation, would sweep away the enemy in front of them.

“Fire!”

But the men along the fence did not answer the command, were consumed instead by the fear of the bayonets, and in one sudden massive wave, they pulled away, threw down their loaded muskets, and ran.

As the British continued their advance, the cavalry and riflemen in the woods on either flank took careful aim, and small gaps began to appear in the British line. But it was not enough to hold them back, and the British saw there was safety in the trees. In the dense woods, the Virginia militia held their positions, and when the British marched into the edge of the trees, the thick underbrush erupted into sharp volleys that rolled back the first British line.

Greene could see only the woods, a long thick cloud of white smoke rising through the treetops. He paced the horse, raised field glasses, but there was nothing else to see. He rammed the field glasses into their pouch, felt angry frustration at his blindness. He thought of riding forward, moving up close behind the woods, but he could do no real good there. Ultimately, the most important part of the day could come right where he was. He had expected to see the Virginia militia retreating back out of the woods by now, and the frustration gave way to curiosity, and then, outright surprise. The Virginians weren’t pulling back at all. They were making a fight of it.

He had seen remnants of the chaotic retreat of the North Carolinians, men without muskets, shedding coats and blankets, canteens and packs, furious officers riding among them, swatting them down with the flats of their swords. But the panic was complete, and the militia would not be stopped, many of them far beyond the field now. He began to realize, of course, the Virginians had seen that as well. They would not bear the same disgrace. They had, after all, the protection of the dense woods.

The fight in the trees was a solid roar of sound, and he stared in amazement, thought, The longer they hold, the greater the chance the British will back away! If so, the continentals should advance, give support. He began to move forward, rode out in front of the regular troops, heard cheers now, all along the line, but it was not for him. He looked down to the trees, could see a wave of men emerging from the right, some of the Virginians finally pulling away from the fight. He raised the field glasses, could see officers, some sign of order, a ragged line as they retreated up the hill. There was still musket fire in the woods, but not as steady now, most of the sounds coming from the left, from the men who were still holding their position. He scanned the officers on the right, too far away to see faces, thought of the commanders, Stevens and Lawson, men he barely knew, men he never expected to hold their ground against the full might of a British advance. The smoke began to drift away, and more of the Virginians emerged from the right, some pulling the wounded back with them. The quiet spread all down through the trees, the left now starting to give way as well. The retreat was uneven, the right already falling back behind the flank of the continentals. On the left, the Virginians were just now emerging from the trees, just beginning their climb. As the musket fire in the woods grew quiet, Greene was surprised to hear another hard fight, far out to the left, well beyond the woods, thought, Lee! He is still engaged on the flank! He scanned the continentals on both sides of him, thought, There is nothing we can do to assist him. Lee is too far forward. They must have assaulted him directly. He saw horsemen now, Washington’s cavalry, following the retreat of the Virginians, protecting their withdrawal on the right. I cannot send them to Lee. We must still protect the right flank. He felt suddenly helpless, the great strength of his army beside him, no way to send any help to Lee’s fight. Couriers were close behind him, and he pointed that way, said, “Send a message . . . Colonel Lee cannot allow himself to be cut off! If the enemy continues to advance, we will require his horsemen on our left flank! Unless a withdrawal will place him in jeopardy, he must retreat to our main position, and assume the flank! Go!”

The courier was quickly gone, and Greene stared down at the trees, the last wave of Virginians now coming up from the left, many turning to fight the enemy still hidden by the woods. Yes, by God! You have done your job!

He could see movement along the timberline to the right, bits of red, felt his heart jump. Very well! We shall see what you have left!

The British emerged in a ragged wave, and a cheer went up around him, and he thought, A salute to the Virginians, or perhaps . . . their enemy. Greene rode down to the left, out in front of the Marylanders, who could finally see the British troops. He turned toward them, raised his hat, and more cheers went up, the men seeing him, all of them knowing their part of this fight would now begin.

He faced the enemy again, could see British officers strengthening their line, evening the formation. He saw one man, clearly in command, a small staff following the man as he rode behind his troops. I should like to know you, sir. What do you see at this very moment? You have been battered and bloodied by men you must certainly have believed could not fight. Now, you must face the finest soldiers in America! Are you even aware of that? Let us see what you will do!

The British line began to move, but they were compact, not spread across the field, their officers pulling them tighter, a heavy fist, moving up the rise, shifting toward the left half of the continental line. Greene jerked the horse, moved farther that way, saw Otho Williams, sitting tall in the saddle, watching the advance draw up directly toward him. Greene moved close, said, “It will be your fight, Colonel! It seems Cornwallis has chosen to make his assault on Maryland!”

Williams was nervous, stared at the vast red wave moving closer.

“Then we shall show him his mistake, sir!”

The Marylanders held their fire, the perfect discipline of veterans. The British were close now, less than a hundred yards, and Greene felt the tightness in his throat, searched for the flag, their commander, found him now, could see the man’s scarlet coat glistening in the sharp clear sunlight, points of gold light from his polished brass buttons. Greene felt a surge of raw fury, glanced beside him, thought, A musket, just this one time. Or better, the lines should part, and we should ride out, meet close enough so that I may strike you down myself. He drew his sword, held it high, brought the point down slowly, focused on the man’s chest, studied every part of him, the white dusty wig, the calm stare on the man’s face. The British line halted now, thirty yards in front of the Maryland troops. Their front line suddenly dropped down to one knee, two rows of muskets pointed straight at the troops in front of them. Williams did not wait, and Greene heard his shout. The Maryland line fired first in a massive volley. Greene felt himself shouting, a hot angry cheer, saw Williams rush forward, shouting orders, driving his horse close up behind his men. The Marylanders made their charge, swarmed through the British line, the fight now with the bayonet. But the British held their discipline, some firing as well, the Maryland line staggered by the sudden blow. Williams drew them back, a withdrawal in good order, the British stumbling back as well, then drawing up, coming together again. There was musket fire on both sides now, and Greene could hear the sharp whistle of the ball past his head, felt a hand on his arm, saw Burnet, pulling him back.

“Sir! Withdraw! Sir!”

He turned the horse, glanced back, tried to see the British officer, but the field was a mass of smoke and writhing bodies, heaps of bloody horror, the fight growing into a deafening chatter. He spurred the horse, moved down to the other Maryland line, men not yet engaged. These were Williams’ men as well, but Williams was still directing the fight on his left. Greene rode up behind them, saw the junior officers watching him, could see relief on their faces. Down toward the woods, more British units were emerging, finding their way to what had now become the main fight. In front of Williams, he could see British troops falling back again, driven away by the thunderous blows from the First Maryland. The retreating British came together again, but many of them had shifted into line with the fresher troops. They were re-forming now, barely a hundred yards away, and he could see that many of them had seen enough of the First Maryland. He waved his hat high, shouted, “Maryland will stand tall today! Show them, boys! Show them!”

The British began to advance again, and Greene saw Williams, riding toward him, his hat gone, sword in hand. Williams shouted to his men, “Prepare to receive them! Wait for the order to fire!”

Greene backed his horse away, could see down to the woods, the last British troops to emerge. They were advancing well up the rise, and he looked at Williams, said, “Colonel, this is your command. I must see to General Huger. If the Virginia Regulars will make such a fight, this day is ours!”

He heard the first roar of Williams’ new fight, turned, expected to see a vast wave of smoke, more devastation along the British advance. This part of the Maryland line was the Fifth Regiment, and they were not the veterans that had come through so much of the war. They were Smallwood’s fresh recruits, men who had not yet seen a fight, who did not yet know what it was to stand tall in the field. The thunderous volley had not come from their ranks, was all on the side of the British. Greene stared, was stunned to see the entire line suddenly pulling back, men running without firing a single round. The British seemed as surprised as he was, began to advance again, but the fresh Marylanders did not have the steel of their brothers, and before the British could even make use of the bayonet, that part of Greene’s main line was simply gone.

The fight consumed two hours, and faced with a continuing pressure from Cornwallis’ disciplined army, Greene finally had no alternative but to order a retreat. By nightfall, his exhausted army found their way nearly seven miles, to an easily defensible position in a place called, ironically, Troublesome Creek. Though Tarleton’s men eventually attempted a pursuit, the wooded countryside after dark was no place for cavalry. Greene was able to gather in many of his stragglers and lead the orderly march himself. He rode beside the proud and infuriated veterans, the men who had so nearly prevailed but were denied the victory by the curse so common to this army now, the failure of the inexperienced soldiers.