The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [310]
From his vantage point near the courthouse, Greene could only know when the British appeared by the first hard thump of his cannon, two six-pounders placed in the road that divided the fence line. The British field guns responded, smaller pops of the light three-pounders. He knew it was more for demonstration than for any real effect, that the British would cease their fire when their troops marched out into the field. After a duel of several agonizing minutes, the British guns finally fell silent. It was the first genuine sign that the battle had begun.
THE BRITISH MOVED OUT TOWARD THE FENCE LINE, FACED THE MILITIA, but the discipline was not in those men, and many of the North Carolinians fired their first round when the British were barely in range. The redcoats absorbed the uneven volley and kept their near-perfect march to within fifty yards of the fence. Then they stopped, the drums suddenly quiet, and, for one long moment, the two lines faced each other. The British pointed their bayonets to the front, every man in their line focusing on the terrified faces of the men along the fence. Behind the frozen stares of the North Carolinians, an officer moved his horse slowly, raised his sword, shouted a single word, the command that would decimate the arrogance of the British formation, would sweep away the enemy in front of them.
“Fire!”
But the men along the fence did not answer the command, were consumed instead by the fear of the bayonets, and in one sudden massive wave, they pulled away, threw down their loaded muskets, and ran.
AS THE BRITISH CONTINUED THEIR ADVANCE, THE CAVALRY AND riflemen in the woods on either flank took careful aim, and small gaps began to appear in the British line. But it was not enough to hold them back, and the British saw there was safety in the trees. In the dense woods, the Virginia militia held their positions, and when the British marched into the edge of the trees, the thick underbrush erupted into sharp volleys that rolled back the first British line.
Greene could see only the woods, a long thick cloud of white smoke rising through the treetops. He paced the horse, raised field glasses, but there was nothing else to see. He rammed the field glasses into their pouch, felt angry frustration at his blindness. He thought of riding forward, moving up close behind the woods, but he could do no real good there. Ultimately, the most important part of the day could come right where he was. He had expected to see the Virginia militia retreating back out of the woods by now, and the frustration gave way to curiosity, and then, outright surprise. The Virginians weren’t pulling back at all. They were making a fight of it.
He had seen remnants of the chaotic retreat of the North Carolinians, men without muskets, shedding coats and blankets, canteens and packs, furious officers riding among them, swatting them down with the flats of their swords. But the panic was complete, and the militia would not be stopped, many of them far beyond the field now. He began to realize, of course, the Virginians had seen that as well. They would not bear the same disgrace. They had, after all, the protection of the dense woods.
The fight in the trees was a solid roar of sound, and he stared in amazement, thought, The longer they hold, the greater the chance the British will back away! If so, the continentals should advance, give support. He began to move forward, rode out in front of the regular troops, heard cheers now, all along the line, but it was not for him. He looked down to the trees, could see a wave of men emerging from the right, some of the Virginians finally pulling away from the fight. He raised the field glasses, could see officers, some sign of order, a ragged line as they retreated up the hill. There was still musket fire in the woods, but not as steady now, most of the sounds