The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [303]
Tarleton showed no reaction to the question, said, “I would estimate two hundred or more. There will be sufficient strength, sir.”
The young man’s arrogance was grating on him, and Cornwallis said, “You are dismissed, Colonel. See to your men.”
Tarleton was gone without another word, and Cornwallis stared at the open doorway, felt drained by the young man’s arrogance. There would be no lectures, no public shame for Tarleton. Cornwallis had never agreed with that kind of bombast, public embarrassment so often heard from Henry Clinton. The facts of the engagement alone would stain Tarleton’s reputation to the entire army. The young man had returned to camp with fewer than seventy of his Legion, and many of them were already talking, relaying the last bit of the story that Tarleton himself would never repeat. When the battle had been clearly decided, Tarleton had called for a final assault by his Legion, a hard charge that might yet have turned the fight. The green-coated horsemen were fresh, rested, had not yet been a part of the battle. But on his command, most of the Legion, over two hundred fifty men, had responded to his order by simply riding away. In a battle that had claimed eight hundred of their comrades, Tarleton’s Legion never faced the enemy. They had already begun to straggle into camp, but the shame of their performance would infect Tarleton more than his men. It was a punishment far more severe than anything Cornwallis could say. He still stared out through the open door, thought, No, young man, this is not how legends are created.
RAMSOUR’S MILL, NORTH CAROLINA,
JANUARY 25, 1781
His intelligence from the civilians was worthless, no real information about Morgan’s line of march. With the defeat at Cowpens, the loyalists had simply disappeared, no one having any faith that the British army could be counted on to provide them any protection. The loyalist militia was nearly nonexistent as well, other than those units still manning the important outposts at Camden and Ninety-Six, men who were close enough to their homes to risk fighting for their own land. His scouts had finally picked up Morgan’s trail, and the best guess was that the rebels were marching northeastward, possibly to move along the Catawba River, deeper into North Carolina. Cornwallis had received word from farther east that Greene’s main body of troops had pulled out of Charlotte and was marching north as well.
He allowed the army to gather and rest around Ramsour’s Mill, a small cluster of homes perched on the Little Catawba River. They were close to Morgan’s march, but not close enough. Those citizens of Ramsour’s who had remained had been certain in their claims that Morgan had crossed the river two days earlier.
Cornwallis had ordered his staff and his own baggage placed in a tent. He did not intend to remain long enough to annoy some local farmer by moving into his home. As the last of the troops had marched into Ramsour’s, he had stood out by the main road, examining the men as they moved by him. They had found a vast pile of leather, the good work of some industrious tanner, and as his men marched past him, Cornwallis had seen the ragged condition of their boots. The order had already been given, each man to resole his own shoes. He did not know how far they would have to march, but for a while, at least, they would not go barefoot.
Cornwallis watched as the rear guard escorted the wagons, the painfully slow progress, a variety of farm wagons and carriages piled high with all the baggage of the army. As they moved past him, they turned into a wide field, and Cornwallis had seen enough, thought of returning to his tent. But an officer caught his eye, a high screeching voice, arms flailing madly, oblivious to Cornwallis, the man clearly in command of his private world. Cornwallis was curious now, could see the officer was one of the quartermasters. He was guiding the wagons into line, silent stares from crusty wagon masters, weary horses hauling their teetering loads. Another