The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [301]
From behind the left flank came the thunder of a mass of horses, and around the crest of the hill, Washington’s cavalry emerged, riding hard, straight into the dragoons. The British cavalry wavered, then began to pull back, but Washington’s horsemen were too many and too quick, and suddenly, the entire company of red-coated horsemen was surrounded, sabers dropping, Washington’s men swarming among their new prisoners. Beside him, the continentals were shouting, one man’s voice clear.
“Sir, they’re still coming!”
Along the hillside below the continentals, the British infantry had re-formed, were pushing up the hill again. But the line was ragged, uneven, one flank far in front of the other. He moved his horse back toward the center of the line, had nothing to say now, the veterans in front of him knowing their job. The British momentum was nearly gone, exhausted men dropping to their knees, many more staggering up toward his regulars, and Morgan looked down the line, saw the continental officers holding their swords in the air. As the first wave of British drew close, the swords went down.
The blast from the mass of muskets jolted his horse, and Morgan could see the British formation through the gray haze, a sea of red tumbling down in the grass. Many more of the redcoats had simply stopped, some facing his men with muskets dragging, hands rising in the air. The continentals advanced around the British troops, taking prisoners of their own. He spurred the horse, moved toward the right flank, could see the British dragoons on that side of the line still in tight formation, the foot soldiers there still pushing up toward the continental line. The British advance had extended to the right beyond the end of his own line, and he moved out that way, saw John Howard, the Marylander, shouting orders to his men, the flank pulling back at a right angle to the main line. Morgan watched as the British moved close, heard a strange screaming sound, realized now it was bagpipes, the Highlanders, coming hard toward Howard’s outnumbered flank. Morgan felt the familiar chill again, the excitement now mixed with a stab of fear, Howard’s line too weak to hold away the assault. He drew his own sword, and Howard saw him, the man’s face a deadly glare. Howard pointed to the apex of the angle his men had created, shouted something, his voice drowned out by a sudden eruption of sound. Morgan looked out past the flank, could hear cheers, a loud squalling cry, tried to see the source, could see the Highlanders suddenly halt, some firing their muskets in a scattered volley. Now the voices had form, and Morgan was surprised to see Pickens leading a wave of militia toward the stunned British assault. The Highlanders made a fight, but the militia were on them quickly, a violent collision of bayonets, fists, and clubbed muskets. He watched in stunned amazement, looked back to the rear, realized that the retreating militia had gone completely around behind the main hill, circled right back into the fight. Now the Highlanders were dropping their muskets, men backing into groups, arms rising, the bagpipes silent.
Morgan pulled the horse around, the fear turning to laughter, shouted, “Pickens, you wonderful son of a bitch!”
He spurred hard, his sword still in his hand, rode down across the field where his men were gathering prisoners, some already tending to the British wounded. The sounds of the fight had passed, no music, the rhythm of the drums now silent. He reined the horse up, looked down toward the trees. Washington’s cavalry had continued down, more prisoners gathered up, and he could see Washington himself in a sharp fight with a small group of British horsemen.