The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [294]
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,