The Glorious Cause (62 page)

“I shall not ignore anyone who can assist us.”

“It’s like that all over this place, Nat. Partisans and militia. But the word is out there. They’re hearing that finally, the whole country is joining their fight. Washington has done sent his best man. You draw up a plan, they’ll carry it out. That goes for me, as well.”

Greene pushed the papers aside, could see a smile on Morgan’s broad face, the telltale gap of missing teeth.

“Well, then, Daniel, as soon as the men here are fit, I think it’s time we take this fight back into South Carolina.” He pointed at the bottle cradled in Morgan’s hand. “If you don’t mind . . . if I’m going to fight with these fellows . . .”

Morgan seemed to hesitate, then handed the bottle across the desk. Greene pulled the cork, the aroma ripping into his nose. He held the bottle away, looked at the strange clear liquid.

“If they have the courage to drink this . . . no wonder they can fight.”

48. CORNWALLIS

W
INNSBORO,
S
OUTH
C
AROLINA,
J
ANUARY 1781

He had chosen a headquarters that would place his regular troops close enough to give support to as many of the outposts as possible. They were many and spread far apart, from Augusta and Charleston to Camden, Ninety-Six and Rock Hill. It was essential to offer the citizens of the colony a visible presence, a reminder that this place was ultimately under the control of King George. But the display alone would never be effective without the power of the army. Every examination of the maps, every plan for a new campaign brought out his wrath for what Henry Clinton had done to his army.

Each of the outposts had come under some assault, some sharp probe from at least one of the partisan rebel commanders who ran rampant through the rugged countryside. The result was that a substantial part of his meager army had to remain in place, guarding the crossroads that united the army in this loose-knit web of supply lines. If he was to make any move northward, any invasion of North Carolina that would have good effect, he desperately needed more men.

He had summoned Alexander Leslie from Virginia, with a major portion of the troops Clinton had sent to the mouth of the Chesapeake. Clinton’s plan had been to follow the conquest of the Carolinas with a massed assault on Virginia. The troops there were included in Cornwallis’ command, and despite Clinton’s blanket optimism, Cornwallis knew that his diminished army would need considerable help in South Carolina before any further campaign could begin. Leslie had brought another twenty-three hundred troops, easing the strain on the outposts. But there were other problems besides vulnerability to attack. Each outpost had to be fed and supplied, and though South Carolina was ripe with fertile and productive farmland, none of the outposts could safely draw forage far beyond its own fortifications.

Cornwallis had established a system of supply that originated in Charleston, but the transport ships were few, another infuriating lack of support from Henry Clinton. Those supplies that did arrive were warehoused in Charleston, much of the goods now in useless piles. On his return to New York, Clinton had taken not only the cavalry, he had taken the draft horses and wagons as well. So there was almost no means of moving the essential goods overland. South Carolina’s vast web of waterways, rivers, and navigable streams provided some means of transport, but small boats were as scarce as wagons. Clinton’s assumption had been that the vast population of loyalists would come to the army’s aid, providing all the transportation required. But the loyalists had proven to be more of a headache for Cornwallis than a help.

It was the sad result of Clinton’s decree, which had inspired a stunning display of brutality throughout the colony. Anyone who coveted a neighbor’s land or had some personal grudge, any creditor who wished to pressure his client, could exact his toll by simply claiming his target to be a rebel. Old scores between feuding families were settled now with outrageous violence, the criminal acts protected by the simple explanation that the aggressors were loyalists, doing good work for their king. Cornwallis was appalled, and ordered his officers to intervene, to find some means to stop the absurd abuses, but the army itself was nearly powerless. No matter the outrage or injustice, even those loyal to the king knew that regardless of which army moved through their towns, they had much more to fear from their neighbors.

After the fall of Charleston, Clinton and Cornwallis had both assumed that South Carolina could easily be controlled by the army’s establishment of a civil authority. In fact, Cornwallis now understood, the British had no control at all. Far from sweeping away the last dying groans of a rebellion, the British army had stumbled into a colony that was engulfed in its own civil war.

Since Clinton had left him with barely enough troops to maintain civil order in the larger towns, it was essential to bring as many Tories under arms as he could. But any enthusiasm the loyalists had for carrying British muskets had been swept away at Kings Mountain. The only true British soldier there had been Patrick Ferguson, and both Ferguson and his loyalist militia had been annihilated. Worse was the butchery that followed, and never were the signs of civil war so apparent. Many of the loyalist prisoners had been massacred by the rebel militia, retribution for so many of the atrocities committed by the loyalists. Nowhere in the entire theater of the war had the violence been so brutal between American civilians, with almost complete disregard on both sides for the authority of their army.

Clinton had sailed away filled with confidence that the colony was indeed wiped clean of rebel influence. In the months that had followed, that confidence had been strongly reinforced by Cornwallis’ spectacular success against Gates. That would certainly satisfy Clinton, and Cornwallis had even trumpeted his optimism to London. It had seemed certain that in a few short months, North Carolina would come under control as well. But then had come a dozen minor battles, the amazing show of strength and fighting ability of the rebel partisans. Every supply line, every depot, every unguarded troop position was subject at any moment to a sudden torrent of musket fire. Cornwallis had responded by sending Banastre Tarleton and his brutally efficient horsemen stampeding after the elusive rebels. But Tarleton’s success was most pronounced against small units often in retreat, refugees or stragglers the Legion pounced upon with a terrifying lack of mercy. But Tarleton was not always successful. In one sharp fight against Thomas Sumter, at a place called Blackstock’s Plantation, Tarleton had been severely embarrassed, losing twenty percent of his strength. Though Cornwallis continued to have faith in the Legion as his most valuable weapon, his frustration grew. If anything was to be accomplished in the Carolinas, he could not merely sit and wait for rebel militia to make a mistake. There was still a war, and there was still a rebel army to pursue. In their one confrontation, Cornwallis had nearly destroyed Horatio Gates and his entire force. He could do the same to Nathanael Greene.

He was uncomfortable with the reports he heard about Tarleton’s Legion, claims of brutality from rebel prisoners, other protests coming even from loyalists. But Cornwallis would not press the man for details, would not lecture his most effective fighter on the proper rules of war. The militia on both sides had shown complete disregard for mercy and civilized conduct in the field. Cornwallis would not condone such brutality, but he could not deny it had become a very real ingredient of the war in South Carolina. If Tarleton strayed beyond the bounds of decency, Cornwallis did not have the luxury of shifting troublesome officers from one post to the other. Tarleton seemed immune to the protests, and if the young man was not impaired by the outcry that followed him, Cornwallis could readily accept that. Tarleton was simply too important to his plans.

He waited for the young man in his office, glanced at his watch. He was becoming accustomed to Tarleton’s habit of arriving late, but he was annoyed, had lost his tolerance for affectations, especially from a subordinate officer. His capacity for patience had been crushed by a serious illness, the same fever that had stricken many of his men. Though Cornwallis had pronounced himself free of the disease, the weakness and its effects on his mood were not entirely gone. He called out, “Lieutenant?”

A young man appeared at the door.

“Send word to Colonel Tarleton. I am not amused by pacing around my office.”

“Right away, sir.”

He moved to his desk, thought of the aide, said in a low voice, “Must they always be so young?”

He had spent so many days of misery, first the sickness, then the complete boredom of keeping himself in his headquarters, essential to maintaining the web of outposts. He had tried to encourage the friendship of the junior officers, something unusual in the British command. It was certainly unusual for him. But despite the responsibilities and the tormenting details of command in such a hostile place, and though he certainly did not miss Henry Clinton, he found himself missing the meetings, the councils. He shared so much experience with men like Grey and Grant and even Howe, but now, with the army spread in such a wide array of outposts, he rarely saw his own senior staff. Balfour commanded in Charleston, Rawdon in Camden, Leslie still down in Ninety-Six. It was a strange surprise to him that he felt the need for company, for someone who could engage him in some kind of intelligent conversation. The only other possibility was Tarleton, a man young enough to be his son.

“Sir, he’s here.”

Cornwallis moved around behind the desk, waited for the usual show. Tarleton never entered a room without appraising it first, halting at the door, careful to note who his audience might be. He was there now, removed the plumed hat with a slow flourish, no smile, a brief look of impatience.

“Do come in, Colonel. I trust you are not ill? Horse managing all right?”

It was an attempt at sarcasm. Tarleton was oblivious.

“Quite, sir. Ready for a go, I’d say. The Legion is rested and fit.”

“Sit if you like. I wish to know details of your intelligence reports.”

Tarleton did not sit, stood stiffly just inside the door. It was another affectation, some strange habit of making himself the first one in any meeting to leave the room.

“Information is difficult to gather, sir.”

He saw Tarleton staring out past him, and he thought, Not if gathering it is your job.

“That may be, Colonel. However, anything you can provide is far superior to what I have here.” Cornwallis picked up a piece of paper, read, “I walked as far as the fishing creek, and there I saw Willy McBride’s wife, who told me she saw Tom Ridgely who saw Sam Wiley’s wife who said she saw some men walking on the Sibley road last Tuesday.” He put the paper down, saw an amused smirk from Tarleton. Cornwallis was not smiling. “This is not intelligence, Colonel. But it’s all I have. The rebels have cut off every avenue of information. The civilians are too frightened to offer anything useful. We cannot pass dispatches between here and Ninety-Six without losing a courier to an ambush. Now, I will repeat my request. I wish to know of your intelligence reports.”

Tarleton seemed to deflate, and Cornwallis waited.

“We do know, sir, that General Greene has divided his army. The reports of my scouts show General Morgan has been detached, and is advancing on a route from the northwest, moving possibly toward Ninety-Six. General Greene’s movements are not certain.”

Cornwallis stared at him, said, “Did you not consider that sufficiently important to mention it without my asking?”

Tarleton seemed bruised, said, “I had intended to inform you, sir. I thought I should prepare as well a plan of attack. I have assembled the Legion, and suggest an accompaniment of infantry.” He pulled a paper from his coat, handed it to Cornwallis. “By my figures, sir, a thousand men should be sufficient.”

“What is Morgan’s strength?”

“We’re not certain, sir. He has possibly been joined by some of the partisans. I am not concerned on that account.”

“All right, Colonel. The mission is yours. You will seek out General Morgan’s force and prevent him from completing his mission, whatever that might be. Since you have approximate knowledge of his direction of march, I would advise you to make haste. There is no reason to allow the rebels time to amend their plans. I cannot assume their intelligence is as ridiculous as mine. As for Greene, I have ordered General Leslie to rendezvous with what small force I have here. Combined, General Leslie and I will field some three thousand men. If you can eliminate Morgan as an effective force, Greene should offer us a very satisfying target.”

The meeting concluded, and Tarleton swept out of the office with his usual dramatic flare, a wave of the hat, a sharp spin on his heels. Cornwallis could not sit at the desk, began to pace again. He felt an odd clarity, imagined Greene in his mind, a man he had never seen. This is not, after all, about militias and partisans and outposts in some bloody miserable frontier. It is about armies and generals, and what kind of fight we will drive into their hearts. I have allowed myself to dwell on absurd distraction. Loyalist atrocities and rebel butchery will matter very little if Greene is swept away. I have to trust Colonel Tarleton’s information, and so, I must believe that Greene has divided his army. It is a significant mistake. Now, we shall show him why.