The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [269]
CHARLESTON, JUNE 3, 1780
He traveled to the city with the Irishman, Francis Rawdon, a young colonel who had recently arrived with his regiment of Irish volunteers. Rawdon had sailed from New York just in time to witness the fall of Charleston. He was in his midtwenties, but carried himself with the bearing of an older man, the result of strict aristocratic breeding. As he rode beside Cornwallis, the two men were a marked contrast, the general’s wide girth settling heavily in the saddle, while Rawdon sat tall, a dark lean man who easily conveyed a sense of command and authority. Rawdon had formerly served directly under Clinton, but had resigned his post, chose instead to lead his Irish troops in the field. Cornwallis knew that to be the official version. The truth was that Rawdon despised Clinton, had gone so far as to author an inappropriately scathing letter to the commanding general as a prelude to his resignation. Clinton had no difficulty releasing Rawdon to other duties. Cornwallis liked the young man immediately.
In Camden, the troops were still organizing their bases of operation and defense, but no one had any reason to make haste. The countryside had been swept virtually clean of any rebels by the swift and utter brutality of another young man, Banastre Tarleton. Colonel Tarleton had been with the army for some time, and commanded the light cavalry known as the British Legion. But he had performed no service worth any serious mention, until now. It was the same with so many of the young officers, that once they were clear of the oppressive influence of New York, they seemed to blossom into their roles. Tarleton had engaged in attacks on several groups of militia, some who had attempted to aid the rebels in Charleston, others simply escaping from South Carolina altogether. The results had been consistent. Tarleton had quickly established a reputation in both armies as a master of savage brutality. His horsemen pursued their foe without pause, and fought them without mercy. To the rebels, and to the civilians, Tarleton was a beast. To Cornwallis, he was a godsend.
In Camden, he had left behind Colonel Nisbet Balfour, a man with a few more years and a few more distinctions on his record than the two younger colonels. Balfour had served as far back as Boston, had been wounded at Breed’s Hill. He was another man who appealed to Cornwallis as dependable, one who would manage his own post without the necessity of Cornwallis keeping him on some leash.
It was the nature of the army that the familiar names would fade away, and new ones rise to the surface. Along with James Grant, Charles Grey was gone as well, had returned to England to pursue a more fulfilling service than he had found in America. Cornwallis had thought he would miss the familiar faces, that the army would suffer from such changes in command. But there was energy in youth, and the young subordinates had already proven that they were prepared to command in this new theater of the war. Whether or not Clinton approved, or even recognized their service, Cornwallis had already begun to shape them to suit his own style of command.
He had wondered if Clinton would remain in Charleston, or like William Howe, Clinton would feel the appalling need to ride beside his troops in their daily routines. The morale of his command was rising daily, and Cornwallis had fretted that Clinton’s arrival in Camden could sweep all of that away. But the fretting had been short-lived. Word had come of a new French fleet mobilizing across the Atlantic. There was no hint of its intentions, but Clinton had to believe New York was now under threat. It was a logical decision, and with Charleston, and presumably all of South Carolina in solid British control, Clinton had no need and no desire to remain. He was going back to New York.
The thought of returning northward, of remaining planted beneath the insufferable weight of Clinton’s authority had driven Cornwallis nearly to sickness. But there was a pleasant