The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [299]
HE COULD HEAR THE DRUMS FIRST, A LOW ECHO ROLLING UP FROM the mist of the trees. He rode slowly forward, kept his field glasses focused out beyond the line of marksmen. He saw flickers of motion now, a small group of horsemen. They came up through the mist, and he could see details, green coats, tall hats of thick black plumes. They stopped in the same place he had stopped the day before, and he could see one man pointing, the others spreading out slowly, examining the ground. He smiled, said, “Good morning, Benny.”
Then just as quickly, they were gone.
He looked behind him toward the second rise, could see the continentals in a tight line. Just in front of him the militia had spread into a thinner line, Pickens sitting up high on a horse beside them. He nodded to Pickens, who stared ahead with a hard frown, and Morgan thought, Nothing I can say to him now. He knows the plan. Every man has his own thoughts before a fight. Pickens is probably deep into some prayer, talking to the Almighty. A good many of those boys doing the same thing. He thought of his orders to the militia, and it nagged at him. He had heard enough low protest to understand that he had given offense to some of them, inexperienced men who believed they could stand up to anything. He had seen it before, big talk, hard words from men who marched out to face the enemy, then collapsed into tears. I don’t want anyone trying to prove me wrong. The orders were plain enough. If this plan is going to work, they must shoot, then run away. No heroes today.
He could still hear the sound of drums, raised the field glasses again, saw only the mist. Won’t matter, he thought. When this line starts to go, they’ll all go. Some of ’em might even keep going. He looked out to the side, toward the thin trees beyond the field. No swamps. That’s a blessing. Anytime there’s a swamp, it’s the first place they head to. He put the glasses down again, felt his hand shake. He realized he was nervous, felt a sharp chill. The pain in his hip was nagging him slightly, but not serious, and he said his own prayer. Punish me tomorrow if You have to. But give me today. Not too much to ask, dammit. If this doesn’t work, there won’t be much of a tomorrow anyway.
He saw motion, raised the glasses again. Horsemen rode out of the trees, and he tried to count, guessed four dozen. They spread out into a single line, and he saw red coats, thought, Not Benny’s boys. The dragoons instead. He’ll save his Legion for later, for the last glorious charge. He sniffed now, felt a wave of disgust. That way, Benny, you can claim the prize, your boys alone clearing away the last of the rebels. All right then, I’m depending on you. Before this is over I want to see those green coats of yours. Show me why you’re so damned tough.
He could see behind the British dragoons now, a thick line of infantry, marching up out of the trees. The drums were louder, a hint of a rhythm, the sounds still deadened by the mist. The lines advanced in a steady march, the precise movement of white pants and black boots beneath the solid lines of red. The scouts had told him that Tarleton had brought only British regulars, no Tory militia, and he could see it for himself, thought, So, Benny, you don’t care much for militia either.
He focused again on the horsemen, caught a glint of metal, their sabers drawn. He felt his heart racing, thought, All right, redcoats. Do your job. Push those skirmishers