The Glorious Cause (68 page)

Cornwallis had remained in the open fields around guilford Court House, but it was not some symbolic claim of the victor. It was bloody necessity. For two days, the wounded on both sides were gathered and treated, every home, barn, and shed now a hospital. Cornwallis had sent letters to Greene, imploring the Americans to provide for their own, and Greene responded with wagons of medical supplies, surgeons, any means he could provide to ease the suffering of the wounded.

He had expected Cornwallis to pursue him, and he put his men into as good a defensive position as the land would allow. But the enemy did not come. Very soon he understood why. It was the surgeons who sent word, along with their urgent requests for more help. Cornwallis had lost a quarter of his strength, nearly six hundred casualties. The British were in no condition to pursue anyone.

Greene had tried to make some estimate of his own casualties, and none of the officers believed they had lost more than four hundred men, out of four thousand engaged. But there was a far greater problem. The North Carolina militia had not only deserted the field, they had deserted the army. Over a thousand men had simply disappeared.

The day after the battle, the rains had come, adding to the utter misery of those unsheltered wounded. Greene was concerned as well for the morale of his entire army, especially the hard veterans, whose victory had been thrown away. As the rain turned the river’s edge to deep mud, Greene stayed close to his own tent, receiving the reports, putting together the final numbers he would have to send northward.

He had kept Harry Lee’s Legion in the field, scouting for any sign of movement by the British. He still expected to hear some word of a British advance. Though Cornwallis had been badly mauled, he was still very far from his base of supply. Greene had to be prepared that Cornwallis would have no choice but to continue the attack.

T
ROUBLESOME
C
REEK,
N
ORTH
C
AROLINA,
M
ARCH 18, 1781

The rain was relentless, the tent leaking in a dozen places. He had placed the small camp desk in the one dry corner, stared at blank paper, his first attempt at preparing the report for the commanding general.

“Is this the sanctuary?”

He looked up, saw a dripping Lee, the young man smiling as he wiped the rain from his eyes.

“You may enter, Colonel. Sorry to say, it’s not much drier in here.”

“Oh, I would disagree with you, there, sir. My horse would like to come in as well, if that’s all right.”

It was Lee’s usual mood, and Greene did not share his smile.

“No? Well, I suppose not. If I may sit, sir?”

Greene nodded, pointed to the low camp stool.

“Thank you, sir.”

Lee shed his heavy coat, tossed it in a heap outside the tent. He sat now, his knees up in front of him, and Greene stared at the blank paper.

“I assume, Colonel, that the enemy is enduring the same misery we are?”

“More so, sir. They don’t have tents. We picked up a couple deserters who said Tarleton was wounded. They lost a barnful of officers.”

Greene thought of the one man, leading the assault on the First Maryland. I should have killed him myself.

“Names?”

“Not yet. We’ll find out, sir.”

Greene still studied the paper, and Lee said, “Excuse me asking, sir, but you writing a letter? I can come back.”

“It’s all right, Colonel. It’s my report to General Washington. Or, it will be. Not sure how to begin.”

“Well, sir, I’d start by telling the commanding general that this army has bested the finest army in the world.”

Greene looked at him, saw the same smile.

“I’d prefer to tell him the truth, Colonel. You object to that?”

Greene was not in the mood for conversation, saw Lee’s smile slip away, and Lee said, “You think, sir . . . because the British are sitting in those fields, that we lost that fight?”

“Don’t you? Colonel, I was given the responsibility to command this department for one reason. General Washington believes I have the ability to achieve success. I have not done so. It is my duty to inform him of that fact.”

Lee was wide-eyed, said, “General, I’d appreciate it if you would set that paper aside for now. You need to see the facts in the daylight, sir. This rain’s soaked right into your brain . . . pardon me for saying.”

Lee let out a breath now, and Greene was surprised at the man’s frankness. He pushed the paper away, said, “Is there anything else, Colonel?”

Lee started to stand, thought better of the effort, settled back down on the stool.

“Sir, we whipped the British good back there. The only thing they won was that piece of ground. Excuse me, sir, but I’d sell them another piece of ground at the same price.”

“We paid a price as well, Colonel.”

“You mean the North Carolina boys? We didn’t lose anything by it. They weren’t soldiers, and they didn’t do anything for this army. We have a bigger problem with the Virginia boys. I hear they’re going home.”

It was one more ingredient in Greene’s despair.

“They only agreed to six-week enlistments, Colonel. I imagine in a week or so, they’ll all be gone. Twelve hundred men. And, unlike the men from North Carolina, the Virginians
did
fight. When they go, we’ll have barely sixteen hundred continentals left in this camp. How much success will that ensure us? We have an enemy not more than a day’s march away, who knows he must either fight us or go home. I don’t know how much more I can ask of these men.”

Lee looked down between his knees, thought for a moment.

“Sir, you asked me if there was anything else. My apologies, sir, but when General Washington hears what you did down here, well, sir, he’s going to agree more with me than with you. It’s not just the battle. Don’t you see that, sir? Once this rain stops, two things can happen. The enemy will come after us, or they won’t. If they attack us, these boys will fight again. But if they don’t, if Cornwallis marches away from here, it means . . . by God, sir, it means you’ve won . . . the campaign.”

52. CORNWALLIS

M
ARCH 18, 1781

His men had eaten nothing for nearly a full day before the battle. For a day after, they suffered the utter misery of the torrential rains. But finally the rains stopped, and the quartermasters had conjured up barrels of rancid flour, enough to provide some kind of ration for the march.

He had already sent forward as many of the wounded as could travel, over four hundred men, who filled a column of confiscated wagons. The army would follow, knowing that behind them, a hundred more had been left in the town, too severely injured, cared for by those few surgeons he could spare. Any man who survived the horror of the makeshift hospitals would certainly become Greene’s prisoner.

The march was strangely quiet, even the musicians subdued. There were far fewer drummers and fifers now, some killed at Cowpens, many more killed or captured at Guilford. For a while Cornwallis could hear one drum, far in front of him, one man who still had the spirit, who would still offer a proud rhythm to the march. But the steady beat had suddenly grown quiet, and soon Cornwallis understood. He had ridden past the drum itself, tossed aside, punched and ripped by the angry stab of a bayonet. It was not a surprise that Cornwallis’ own sour mood would be reflected by the men.

He had issued yet another proclamation, a call for loyalists to celebrate their victory at Guilford by flocking once more to the king’s flag, and for any rebels who surrendered themselves to be pardoned for all crimes. As soon as the notices were posted, he regretted the decision, scolded himself for such a mindless show of optimism. It was more than a sad joke this time, it was cruel and deadly to anyone naÏve enough to respond. Once he realized he had to abandon Guilford, he knew that anyone who actually tried to comply would find no protection at all, would certainly be set upon by the rebels.

The reports would be written soon, and he knew that Guilford Court House would be described as a glorious victory, another in a long series of crushing blows to the rebellion. By the time the reports reached London, they would be received according to the political bent of the reader. The king’s men would trumpet the success as one more sign the war was going their way. The opposition would have a different view, and he imagined the speeches in Parliament, the king’s enemies growing more bold with each bit of news. No matter how much Germain and Lord North colored the facts, the opposition would know what Cornwallis knew himself. Throughout most of the war, the British had proven superior on the field, the rebels reduced to fighting from positions of weakness, resorting to tactics that would make bandits proud. On every field where Cornwallis had led the assault, his regulars had driven the rebels away. But now, as he marched his army away from their tragic victory at Guilford, he understood that the rebels could only succeed in a war fought exactly as they had fought it. And now, six years after it had begun, the rebels were clearly winning.

He had begun to see their commanders in a different light, appreciated now that their talents exceeded what a trained officer typically brought to the field. He had never thought of Washington as a military mind, had viewed Fort Washington and Brandywine as stupidly executed disasters. But the rebels were a different kind of army, and so, their commanders were different as well. Both Howe and Clinton had allowed too much time to slip by, too many opportunities for the rebel commanders to learn from their mistakes. The rebels had grown into their roles, men like Greene and Morgan and Lafayette learning how to shape their tactics around the abilities of their men. Greene’s retreat from Guilford was perfectly timed. As Cornwallis moved his men into position for a final grand assault, the rebels were exactly where Cornwallis needed them to be. Then, Greene had pulled them away, and Cornwallis knew now that Greene had saved the rebel army from utter destruction. And so, one more disaster had become instead one more valuable lesson, and today, Greene would be a better commander.

Ah, he thought, but Greene gave us the field. That is what will matter to Henry Clinton and George Germain. I will be congratulated, no matter that I now have barely fifteen hundred hungry, shoeless soldiers. And if we do not find supplies soon, we may simply collapse into no army at all.

He had sent word down to the outposts both at Wilmington and Camden, an urgent order for forage and food to be sent to Cross Creek. The town was a vibrant Scottish settlement sprawled along the headwaters of the Cape Fear River. It was believed to be a solidly loyalist area, the Scots fiercely proud of their allegiance to the king. The quartermasters had already marched ahead, leaving behind encouraging words for the troops, that once they reached Cross Creek, the army could rely on a fresh outpouring of loyalist sentiment in the form of both supplies and recruits. It was optimism Cornwallis had heard before.

He was not surprised to learn that Greene’s army was pursuing him, though the only confrontations had come from the cavalry, Tarleton’s men holding away the light horse of Lee. But Greene would stay close, and even if the rebels were too badly bruised to make a fight, he knew Greene would trail him to Cross Creek, seeking some opportunity to strike. It was all the incentive Cornwallis needed to push his army in a desperate march. Though he had to believe his troops would still have the spirit for a fight, they were lacking one essential ingredient. Since they had burned their wagons at Ramsour’s Mill, there had been no means to resupply their cartridge boxes. Though food was an urgent necessity, a lack of ammunition meant they could not force a general engagement. Even if they relied on the bayonet, they could not survive another
victory
like Guilford.

C
ROSS
C
REEK,
N
ORTH
C
AROLINA,
M
ARCH 29, 1781

The Scotsmen had met Cornwallis’ call for support the same way most of the Carolinas had responded. The British were ignored. As the army marched into Cross Creek, they were delivered only four days of forage for the desperately weak horses, the quartermasters admitting sheepishly that the countryside was devoid of the essential needs for the men. They would again survive on hard biscuits and miniscule rations of dried beef.

The wagons of the wounded had stopped at Cross Creek as well, the horrified citizens reluctantly opening their homes as hospitals. One house had been reserved for the officers, and Cornwallis stepped up on the porch, could already smell that familiar, awful odor, dropped his head for a moment, then stepped through the door. He saw women, a mother and two girls, a heap of clothing already torn into brightly colored bandages. The women ignored him, and he moved past them, followed the smells to a parlor, peered inside. O’Hara was on a small narrow bed, looked up at him, said, “Ah, General, you here to part me from my miseries? I had feared seeing the Almighty before I saw you, sir.”

He was surprised at O’Hara’s spirits, said, “I thought I should see how you’re faring.” He looked at the thick bandage on O’Hara’s leg, and O’Hara said, “That’s the one that hurts, I admit.” He put a hand on his chest, patted gently. “I have been assuming, of course, that this one would be the final blow. The surgeon tells me I barely escaped the reaper. Not so . . . some of us.”

O’Hara’s buoyant mood had no energy behind it, the smile quickly gone. Cornwallis was ashamed, had forgotten that the man’s son did not survive the battle. Lieutenant O’Hara was an artillery officer, had been buried where he was struck down.

“I regret the loss of your son, General.”

“He died the best way a man can, sir. His mother will not understand, of course. Women don’t appreciate those things a soldier accepts. He was a good lad, sir. They are all . . . good lads.”

There was a silent moment, and Cornwallis saw O’Hara fighting himself to hide the emotion.

“I’m hoping, General, that we will have you back in action quite soon.” He paused, said, “How’s General Webster? Any word?”

O’Hara seemed to welcome the change of subject, said, “Webby hasn’t been awake for a while, I’m told. Poor chap. Did the best work of any of us. Took his people straight into that Maryland bunch. Hardest fight of the day. He’s in the rear bedroom. He’d appreciate you looking in on him, sir.”

Cornwallis nodded, knew that O’Hara’s appraisal was right. Webster had driven his men straight up to the heart of Greene’s third line, had been struck down in a horrific confrontation. O’Hara said, “I hear young Tarleton lost a finger.”

“Two, actually. He was fortunate.”

“We are all fortunate, General, those of us who can tell about these exploits. If you don’t mind, sir, can you tell me what our plan is now? I hear the rebels are on our tail.”

“We must continue the march. I had hoped the citizens here would provide more than their parlors.”

O’Hara tried to sit up.

“It is a singular outrage, sir! These people have benefited from His Majesty’s every favor. All the reports of their loyalty, their generosity. They have proven false in every particular. We should not remain another day in the company of such ungrateful people. Scotsmen, indeed!” He dropped back, and Cornwallis saw a twist of pain on the man’s face.

“Easy, General. It is not necessary for you to exert yourself.”

O’Hara was breathing deeply.

“Quite right, sir. It won’t happen again. So, if I may, sir, when do we march?”

“Tomorrow. I have decided to make for Wilmington.”

O’Hara looked at him for a long moment.

“I would have thought . . . Camden.”

It was Cornwallis’ private debate, the agony of a decision only he could make.

“If we continue toward the coast, the rebels will likely follow. That will prevent any danger to Camden, or the other outposts. Wilmington will afford us the protection of the navy, and a reliable source of supply. This colony is a spiderweb of infernal rivers, and I must consider that the rebels will seek opportunity to strike us at vulnerable points. The route to Wilmington is not so inconvenient.”

O’Hara looked away for a moment, and Cornwallis thought, He knows as well as I. If we march to Camden, it is a declaration of defeat, the termination of this campaign.

Cornwallis backed away.

“I will look in on General Webster. You will be put on a wagon in the morning.”

“Thank you, sir. I trust you will order the engineers to smooth out the rough ride.”

Cornwallis managed a smile, turned, moved out into the main room. The women were gone, and he heard low voices, the rear of the house. He lowered his head, took a long hard breath, fought again through the smell.

He had been surprised that Greene did not follow him past Cross Creek. Every report suggested that the rebels were moving southward, returning to South Carolina. The information caused a new debate, a decision whether to make some effort to reinforce Rawdon. But Greene had the head start, and if the rebels intended to strike hard in South Carolina, Cornwallis was simply too far away to prevent it.

Though Greene’s army was gone, the march out of Cross Creek was an ordeal nonetheless. He had expected that the Cape Fear River would provide a comfortable avenue for moving his men, but the waterway was not as navigable as he had hoped. Nearly all the men were barefoot, and the rigors of the march shredded the remnants of their uniforms. As the country flattened into the sandy plains of the coast, they were met by astonishing swarms of insects, every night a torturous misery of mosquitoes and other unseen tormentors. During the day, rebel partisans seemed to spring out of every patch of woods, peppering the army’s misery with musket fire. He would make no effort to confront them, knowing that these people were at home in their swamps, that any troops who pursued them would gain no advantage, would only slow their progress. For seven agonizing days, the soldiers pressed forward, their numbers shrinking as the sick and weak fell away. He had endured the march as well as the strongest of his men, but then came one hard jolt, the news sent back from the wagons to the front. James Webster had died. Cornwallis had tried to shield himself from what he could not deny, that Webster’s wounds had indeed been mortal. It was yet another cruel reminder of the price of their glorious victories.

W
ILMINGTON,
N
ORTH
C
AROLINA,
A
PRIL 1781

In just a few days the army had become healthier. O’Hara was up off his bed, was slowly making his way back to duty. Cornwallis sent a steady stream of messages to Charleston, orders for Balfour to relay any news from Rawdon’s post at Camden, any sign of a confrontation with the rebels that might endanger the other outposts as well. But each transport that arrived in the harbor brought little news that would cause Cornwallis to sail his troops for Charleston. It was a blessed relief.

He had moved the headquarters staff into an extraordinary mansion that had been abandoned by its loyalist owner early in the war. The headquarters there had been established by Major James Craig, who had come to the Carolinas with Alexander Leslie. While Cornwallis felt enormously rested by the languid atmosphere of Wilmington, it was an uncomfortable reminder of Philadelphia, the grandeur of stately homes, memories of dress uniforms and ballrooms. But there was one stark difference. In Wilmington there was no Howe or Clinton. It was his command, and his headquarters. There was one other difference as well. With the approach of summer, the Carolina coast became a nest of suffering, the men assaulted by a far more dangerous enemy than the rebels. It was fever season. He had seen the consequences of it in Charleston, heard the stories from Savannah, had even suffered the effects himself the year before. Whatever the source of this particular plague, he knew it could devastate his army. They could not remain in Wilmington.