The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [304]
The infantry that pursued Morgan to Cowpens had not begun their march until they had been stripped of every nonessential piece of equipment and baggage. The result was a division of British light troops who could cover far more ground in far less time than usual for such a large number of men. But the light troops were gone, most of those who survived Cowpens now marching under Morgan’s guards, to some destination Cornwallis did not yet know.
He began to walk back toward his tent, the words still pricking his brain. He is two days ahead of us, and we cannot even park our wagons without a decision by committee.
I WANT IT ALL BURNED. EVERY PIECE OF CUMBERSOME EQUIPMENT, EVERY wagonload of extra uniforms, every officer’s finest ballroom garb.” They stared at him with open mouths, and after a long, silent moment, Leslie said, “The officers . . . ?”
“Especially the officers, General. What is the purpose of this pursuit? Is it not to catch our enemy? At our present rate of progress, if I may use that word, we will lose more ground every day. We do not even know the country, must still seek out the fords of the rivers. Many of Morgan’s men reside here.”
The two men absorbed his words, staring into the campfire. Each was perched on a short stool, both men balancing a china teacup on one knee. Cornwallis looked out into the utter blackness, heard the night sounds, waves of insects, strange croaks and cries from the river. Leslie spoke now, said, “But, sir, the men will not respond well to such a sacrifice.”
“What is the greater sacrifice, General? Leaving behind your brandy and extra store of molasses, or marching this army to exhaustion while our enemy continues to thrive in the field? If we eliminate the encumbrance of our wagons, we will greatly enhance our pursuit. We will maintain the bare necessities of medical supplies, salt, other essentials. The men can carry what they require on their backs.”
The officers looked at each other, and he saw resignation in their faces, nods of approval.
“This is all I require of you, gentlemen. You must see past old habits. Look at this camp. We march with so few men that one significant engagement can decide our fate. The enemy has shown he can draw men from these colonies in great numbers, can replace his wounded, even his deserters. We can do nothing of the sort. General Clinton, when he chooses to write, never concludes a letter without expressing his utmost confidence that we will yet receive an outpouring of loyalist troops, waves of new recruits at every outpost, every village on our march. What choice do I have but to play out the farce? In every town I perform the same ritual, post the notice, issue a call to loyalists to join us on the march. This afternoon, I witnessed a gathering of six men, and when the provost attempted to lead them to the recruitment station, they claimed only to be curious, had never seen a British soldier before. Loyalist sympathy? Allegiance to His Majesty’s cause? No, gentlemen, they wanted to know what we looked like.” He saw his own mood reflected on their faces, and he realized it was something he had not seen since New York. He was too accustomed to the arrogance of Tarleton, the other younger men who seemed to have no understanding of the difficulties they were facing. He was grateful for the presence of Leslie, and the other man, Charles O’Hara, one of Leslie’s brigadiers. Both men were closer in age and experience to Cornwallis, both men seeming to understand that