The Glorious Cause (61 page)

It was not the reception he expected.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Please, Nathanael, formalities are not required.”

“You still outrank me, sir.”

“Not any longer. With your arrival, my service to this army is concluded. I shall return to my home in Virginia. I have learned that there is no place in this army for a man who trusts too deeply in the abilities of his soldiers.”

Greene was not yet prepared to regard Gates as a civilian, said, “I’m not certain I understand, sir.”

“Unlike so many in General Washington’s command, I have been a champion of militia. I have always believed that a man will fight more fiercely and more dependably if he is close to his own home. Without the support of militia, I do not believe I could have defeated General Burgoyne. However, the Almighty has played a tragic game in this theater. I had every reason to believe these men would show the courage of their brothers at Saratoga. A foolish mistake. They have done me in, Nathanael. They have put an end to my career, erased my laurels. Your journey here took you through Philadelphia, certainly. Tell me what you heard.”

“I’m not certain I can comply, sir.”

“Then I’ll tell you. ‘He ran away. The gallant Gates abandoned his army.’ They weren’t here, Nathanael. It was shameful in the extreme. No man should be expected to lead such a rabble of cowards and misfits. I believed in them, and they rewarded me with disgrace. I take my leave of this place with no apology. If these men did not do their duty, Nathanael, it is no fault of mine.”

Greene was grimacing at the sound of his own name, thought, Does he believe he is my friend? Why is he even trying? Gates took another drink from the glass, and Greene saw the familiar smirk, the arrogance of a man with full confidence in everything he does. There was nothing Greene could say, no argument about strategy or mistakes that Gates would hear. There was nothing left for Gates to do but leave.

“Sir, if I may inquire, what is the troop strength here now?”

Gates laughed, poured his glass full again.

“Troops? Oh, you have some men scattered hereabouts. By my count, perhaps two thousand. Of those, not more than half fit for duty.”

Greene absorbed the numbers, far fewer than he had expected.

“Are there still units to be assembled here?”

Gates laughed again.

“You mean, men from my . . .
former
command? Not likely, General. If you intend to build an army, you will do it from fresh recruits. I am certain that this colony will offer you little support at all. They seem rather to prefer the British.”

Gates’ word stuck in his mind: colony. Greene felt more uncomfortable now, could not avoid thinking of Charles Lee. Gates and Lee were both Englishmen by birth, with deep connections to the British army. Neither man had been particularly missed by their former commands, and now Greene realized that Gates was perhaps more inspired by revenge against those British officers who had forgotten him than by a devout allegiance to America.

Gates finished his second glass, said, “I am told you brought some fresh militia. Virginians?”

“North Carolina. I am pleased by their willingness to sign full enlistment papers.” He stopped, thought, Tell him nothing. He claims, after all, to be a civilian now. He need know nothing of my plans.

Gates seemed oblivious to Greene’s sudden caution.

“Did the militia cheer you, Nathanael? Did they welcome you with glad tidings, vast expressions of loyalty? Do not be fooled. If you trust them, they will carry you to your doom.”

Gates seemed unsteady, the effects of the odd brew. He poured himself another glass, and Greene slid the chair away from the table, said, “Excuse me, sir. I should see to my men. There is much to be done.”

He stood, and Gates seemed not to notice, the man absorbed in his own gloom. Greene turned away, stepped to the front door, moved out into a bracing chill, the air washing away the staleness of the house and its occupant. The officers had gathered, seemed to be waiting for him. He saw a few familiar faces, acknowledged them with a nod.

“Gentlemen, the transfer of command is complete. Mr. Gates is, by his own admission, no longer a part of this army. I am aware that we have considerable labor before us if we are to engage the British on favorable terms. I would advise you that you do not discuss our strategy, nor seek the counsel of General Gates. While I will extend every courtesy to him, as I would to any prominent visitor to this camp, let there be no confusion. This department is commanded under the full authority of the congress and General Washington. From this moment forward, we shall have but one purpose. We shall make every effort to organize, train, and equip the men of this command to confront and defeat our enemy. There is no other reason for anyone to be here.”

He was distressed to find that gates had been accurate with his numbers. As Greene inspected the camps, he discovered better than half the men present unfit for duty, either from sickness, wounds, or injuries from their retreat at Camden. The morale was worse than their physical condition.

Washington had ordered him to prepare his own report on the conduct of Gates, something that would stretch beyond the certain bias of Gates’ own version. To gain as much information as he could, Greene listened to anyone who would offer their own story, details of what had happened at Camden. It was clear that Gates had relied far too much on the raw militia, and by striving to meet the British on favorable ground, he had driven his men mercilessly in long night marches, neglecting their need for food and rest. The more Greene learned, the more he realized that with the tactics Gates had used, he was fortunate to have kept two thousand men.

The flow of supplies began to increase from Virginia, von Steuben’s efforts showing results. Greene had sent William Smallwood home to Maryland, considered that his skills at recruiting were of even more value to the army than what Smallwood brought to the field. The new recruits began to arrive, some already influenced by von Steuben’s zeal, entire companies marching with good order. Others simply wandered in, stragglers who had escaped Charleston or Camden, who had no better place to be. There were others as well, farmers who left their land for the winter months, to offer what help they could. Greene welcomed them all. As the training began in earnest, Greene used the lessons he had learned at Valley Forge, and though the numbers grew slowly, the men in his command were indeed becoming an army.

J
ANUARY 1781

It was a show Greene had seen before, the huge Virginian announcing himself with a grand parade. Back in the summer, Daniel Morgan had been ordered to accompany Gates to the Carolinas, but had resigned from the army instead. Morgan claimed sickness, but many in Washington’s camp believed that Morgan simply refused to serve under Gates. Greene was among them. With the collapse at Camden, Gates had sent an urgent request for Morgan to reconsider, and surprisingly, Morgan had complied. Gates had assigned him to command a unit which, for Morgan’s own reasons, was rarely in the same camp with Gates. Now, with Gates gone, Morgan had decided that joining Greene was more to his liking.

Greene had watched as Morgan passed the headquarters, the last bit of his grand entrance, leading his familiar riflemen, those men only a small part of his command now. He had inspired his usual audience, the troops coming out of their tents, gathering along the road, most of them cheering. Morgan was no stranger to this army, and even the men who had never seen him had heard tales. Greene knew that some of the stories were accurate, though, of course, many more were not. Greene had caught Morgan’s attention, a short nod from the big Virginian toward the window where Greene watched him. A summons was not necessary. Morgan knew his duty, would make his appearance at the appropriate moment.

Greene was still writing his report on Gates, struggled with the words. Morgan’s arrival had been a welcome distraction, but Greene had returned to the work, driven by thoughts of Washington, the request to sort out the truth.

His thoughts were jarred by the cascade of sounds outside. The door opened, and Burnet said, “Sir. General Morgan is here.”

“He knows I’m here, Major!” Morgan burst past the startled young man, seemed to fill the room, leaned across the desk, put a huge hand in front of Greene. Greene took the hand, felt the man’s strength, a hearty shake, and Morgan sat heavily, said, “Thank God Almighty, Nat! That’s what every one of ’em is saying! Thank God Almighty! Now we have a commander!”

“Welcome to headquarters, Daniel.”

“It’s a different army already! All over the countryside, all the way to the mountains. Those boys over there, rowdy bunch. Had nothing good to say about Gates, but they like you, Nat! The word is, old Cornwallis is done for. He just don’t know it yet!”

Greene felt engulfed by the man’s joy.

“That’s all very kind, Daniel. But we require more than good wishes, or strong morale. We require good officers, men who can both lead and train their men. You know as well as I do that General Washington has never had great confidence in militia. Yet militia is nearly all we have to work with.”

Morgan laughed.

“That suited Gates just fine, you know. He loved to ride through their camps, just to hear the salutes. You know, Nat, the real reason he kept so many green troops around is that they’d never take him anywhere so he’d come under fire. It used to be a joke, Nat. After Camden, not so funny anymore.”

“My fear, Daniel, is that Cornwallis will not allow us the time we require to train them. Where do we get the officers? Sending untrained militia into battle against a professional army is suicide.”

“No, Nat. Worse. It’s murder.” He looked at the papers on Greene’s desk. “You writing up a report for Washington?”

“Yes. Trying to be fair . . .”

“Fair? God Almighty, Nat. The man should be hanged! No, first he should be whipped by every orphan he created. Damnably stupid man!”

There was fury in Morgan’s words, and Greene put a finger on the papers in front of him, said, “Shall I include your opinion to the commanding general?”

“Damned right. But be clear on one thing, Nat. Gates failed because he wore out his men, then stuck a bunch of scared Virginia farmers in line against Cornwallis’ best infantry. But you can’t just fault the militia. This is a different place than up north. These boys down here live in some pretty rugged country. Some of them spend their whole lives trekkin’ through the mountains, keeping Indians away from their families. They can fight. Look at what happened at Kings Mountain.”

Greene had been amazed by details of a stunning victory just below the South Carolina border. The men were militia, scattered units from the Carolinas and Virginia, an assembly of rough troops who had never shared any field. They had been commanded by their own officers, names unfamiliar to anyone in Washington’s camp, Shelby and Campbell, McDowell, Williams and Cleveland. But they led a perfect assault against the ultimate display of British arrogance. Colonel Patrick Ferguson marched his troops blithely through the region, claiming to sweep the last semblance of rebel influence out of South Carolina. When Ferguson learned of the rebel force pursuing him, he chose not to seek the safety of the British outposts, instead invited an assault by perching his men up on a rocky, narrow hill. The militia surrounded him, and methodically worked their way up through the rocks, and the result was a near massacre. The militia swarmed completely over the British position, killing Ferguson along with most of his men. It was an amazing accomplishment that erased much of the stain and despair of Camden. Yet, farther north, almost no one had yet heard of Kings Mountain. Since Gates himself had not been involved, he made scarce mention of it in his own reports. There was, after all, no credit he could claim.

Greene had realized that a good many of the troops who were adding to his ranks were there because of the heroic performance of their own militia. Morgan was right. It was a different place.

“So, Nat, you got any spirits around here?”

Greene pointed to a small cabinet, the same one Gates had used.

“Look in there. Some interesting potions.”

Morgan poked through an assortment of bottles, retrieved one, studied it.

“Ahh, do you suppose?” He pulled a cork, took a short sniff, twisted his face. “Yessiree! Marion’s brew. He calls it
Swamp Elixir
.” He looked at Greene, raised the bottle toward his mouth, said, “You mind, Nat? Just a shot.”

Greene waved his hand, and Morgan took a short sip, waited a brief moment, then took another. He squinted hard, said, “Woo! Yep. Those boys over there work some kind of magic. You had any dealings yet with those fellows? Marion? Sumter? The
Swamp Fox
and the
Gamecock
. Quite a pair.”

“I haven’t had the pleasure. Will they fight with us, Daniel?”

“They’ll fight, that’s for sure. They been a plague to the British from the start of the war, well before anyone up north thought this place was important enough to fight for. Can’t say they’ll line up beside you and march. Not their way. They pop out of the swamps and hit hard, then disappear. They don’t have enough men to do much more than that. Francis Marion’s not usually got more than fifty or a hundred men under him. But, I bet you Cornwallis don’t know that. They fight like half a division.”

“Will they follow orders?”

“If the orders make sense. After Camden, they wouldn’t even talk to Gates. He ignored them, thought they were a bunch of bandits. Big mistake.”