The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [300]
“Come on, my boys. Come on!”
He had trouble holding the glasses still, his own nervousness affecting the horse.
“Easy, easy. Just a bit closer . . .”
The marksmen were mostly down in the grass, and he saw puffs of smoke, rising in a thin line above the ground. Now the sound reached him, a hundred clapping hands, and he could see the line of dragoons suddenly lurching about, riderless horses turning in all directions. He lowered the glasses again, saw heaps of red down in the grass, the dragoons pulling together, backing away. He strained to see, thought, A third of them went down. And no horses, no one shot at a damned horse. Nice shooting, boys. I’m impressed so far.
The dragoons vanished behind the massive line of infantry, and now the rhythm of the drums was clear, the foot soldiers advancing up the gentle rise. For a long minute there was only the sound of the drums, the thick red line sliding forward through the brown grass. The marksmen fired a second volley, then Morgan could see the British line punched by small gaps, officers swept from their horses. He raised a fist, a silent cheer, watched as the gaps healed, the line solid again, the good work of their sergeants. The marksmen were up now, pulling back toward the line of militia, and he was surprised that some of them were firing still, reloading on the move. Well done, boys. You can stand beside my Virginians for certain now.
He turned the horse, spurred hard, moved farther behind the line of Pickens’ militia, pulled the horse around high on the second ridge. The marksmen had completed their withdrawal, were blending into Pickens’ line. Morgan saw riders, a company of dragoons emerging on each flank of the British advance. He heard a sudden sharp thud, saw smoke from both flanks, British field cannon beginning their work. He watched the militia, shouted, “Stand there, dammit! Not yet! Wait!”
He could see Pickens moving quickly along the line behind his men, could hear the shouts of the officers, of the men themselves. He repeated the words in his mind, not yet, tried to gauge the space between the militia and the red line. Seventy yards . . . sixty-five. Not yet. Sixty. Wait, dammit! He heard a new sound, could see the British line erupt in cheering, the troops breaking their discipline, men holding their muskets high. Yes, you bloody devils, sing for it! Cheer for your grand attack! Cheer for your damned history, and the power of your damned army, and sing for that damned butcher who leads you. Now, I’ll show you what a butcher can do!
He saw Pickens raise his arm, and the line erupted into fire and smoke. The field below him was obliterated by the gray fog, and Morgan rode forward, had to see himself, could hear scattered pops. Now he saw the British formation, their advance falling into pieces, more riderless horses, a vast gaping wound in the center of their line. Their officers were moving quickly, trying to mend the break, and Pickens fired again, another surge of smoke covering the sight. He heard more cheers, but it was not the British. Pickens emerged from the smoke, his sword high overhead, and the militia line began to pull back, a perfectly chaotic retreat. They were coming close to Morgan, a steady stream to the left, and he shouted to them, “Run like hell!”
He looked down toward the British line, could see the dragoons coming forward on the left, in pursuit of the fleeing militia. He spun the horse, moved with Pickens’ men, then turned again, rode straight up the hill, the last crest, toward the line of continental troops, shouted, “It’s your time, boys!”
He moved through their line, spun the horse around, could see the dragoons closing on the retreating militia. There was genuine panic, the inexperienced troops racing to stay ahead