The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [296]
The guides were commanded by Andrew Pickens, a tall lean Scotsman. Pickens was another of the partisan commanders, whose harassment of the British had been centered mainly near his home at Ninety-Six. Morgan had been surprised by Pickens’ stern demeanor, a prim, devoutly religious man not given to the fits of drunken vulgarity that seemed so common in some of the camps of the partisans. Pickens had not begun the war with quite the coldhearted hatred toward the British that inspired men like Marion and Sumter. When Ninety-Six fell under British control, Pickens had offered his parole, had gone home expecting only to tend to his large farm. But he could not escape the violence that rolled across his state, and eventually his home had been destroyed by the mindless plunder of loyalist troops. It proved to be a costly mistake for the British. The fire had been lit, and Pickens tore up his parole and returned to the fight. He now led a command of more than a hundred riflemen, men whose pride in their marksmanship rivaled that of Morgan’s Virginia marksmen.
FOR TWO DAYS, THE ROADS HAD BEEN GUMMED BY THE SOAKING MISERY of a winter rain. The misery had extended into Morgan as well. He suffered from rheumatism and other ailments, waves of pain that would tear through his back and hips. The muddy roads and the thick mist in the air had increased his suffering, souring his mood and his patience. He had tried to walk, hoping to relieve the torment from the horse’s uneven gait. But walking through thickening mud was even harder on his back, and he had climbed onto the horse again.
He looked up through the bare trees, could see the dull gray clouds finally thinning out, bringing an end to the rain. Daylight was beginning to fade, and Morgan’s temper was scraped raw by the jolts of pain and the lack of information from Pickens’ scouts. He was waiting for confirmation of a place they had told him about, where a vast meadow spread north toward the Broad River. For many years it had been used by cattle farmers, a natural clearing that offered forage to large herds. It was called Hannah’s Cowpens.
He finally succumbed to the urge, looked back to the officers behind him, said, “Stay here. I’m going ahead. Dammit.”
The air was finally dry, the horse finding its way with a steady gait, giving blessed relief to the throbbing in his hip. He knew his men would not allow him to just ride out alone, and he waited for someone to appear beside him. He expected a junior officer, some young man willing to endure his profanity. It was a more acceptable duty than bearing a message to General Greene that they had lost Daniel Morgan in the woods.
He heard hoofbeats, was surprised to see William Washington beside him now.
“Well, hello, Will, you tired of following our tracks?”
“I was coming up to see you, saw you riding ahead. I assumed you decided to take a look for yourself.”
“We can move fast or slow, Will, but we’re going to end up in that Cowpens place sooner or later. I have to know if it’s sooner. How far back is old Benny?”
“Sir? You mean . . . Tarleton? Five miles, not a bit more. It was ten yesterday.”
“So he’s wearing out his men.”
“Definitely. He clearly intends to catch us no matter the cost. They haven’t stopped for more than a few minutes since last evening.”
The woods began to thin, and men began to appear along the road, emerging from dim trails that cut out through the tall trees. He saw confused expressions, recognized several of Pickens’ scouts.
“Fall in with us, boys! We’re not done looking yet.”
He cleared a large patch of tall hardwoods, the ground rising in front of him, and he stopped, said, “Can someone tell me if this is the place?” There was silence, and he turned in the saddle, a sharp burn cutting across his back. “Where the hell are we?”
He heard a young voice, a nervous quiver in the man’s words.
“This is the Cowpens, sir. Straight ahead, about five miles, is the Broad River.”
Morgan straightened