The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [291]
“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