The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [314]
Lee was wide-eyed, said, “General, I’d appreciate it if you would set that paper aside for now. You need to see the facts in the daylight, sir. This rain’s soaked right into your brain . . . pardon me for saying.”
Lee let out a breath now, and Greene was surprised at the man’s frankness. He pushed the paper away, said, “Is there anything else, Colonel?”
Lee started to stand, thought better of the effort, settled back down on the stool.
“Sir, we whipped the British good back there. The only thing they won was that piece of ground. Excuse me, sir, but I’d sell them another piece of ground at the same price.”
“We paid a price as well, Colonel.”
“You mean the North Carolina boys? We didn’t lose anything by it. They weren’t soldiers, and they didn’t do anything for this army. We have a bigger problem with the Virginia boys. I hear they’re going home.”
It was one more ingredient in Greene’s despair.
“They only agreed to six-week enlistments, Colonel. I imagine in a week or so, they’ll all be gone. Twelve hundred men. And, unlike the men from North Carolina, the Virginians did fight. When they go, we’ll have barely sixteen hundred continentals left in this camp. How much success will that ensure us? We have an enemy not more than a day’s march away, who knows he must either fight us or go home. I don’t know how much more I can ask of these men.”
Lee looked down between his knees, thought for a moment.
“Sir, you asked me if there was anything else. My apologies, sir, but when General Washington hears what you did down here, well, sir, he’s going to agree more with me than with you. It’s not just the battle. Don’t you see that, sir? Once this rain stops, two things can happen. The enemy will come after us, or they won’t. If they attack us, these boys will fight again. But if they don’t, if Cornwallis marches away from here, it means . . . by God, sir, it means you’ve won . . . the campaign.”
52. CORNWALLIS
MARCH 18, 1781
HIS MEN HAD EATEN NOTHING FOR NEARLY A FULL DAY BEFORE THE battle. For a day after, they suffered the utter misery of the torrential rains. But finally the rains stopped, and the quartermasters had conjured up barrels of rancid flour, enough to provide some kind of ration for the march.
He had already sent forward as many of the wounded as could travel, over four hundred men, who filled a column of confiscated wagons. The army would follow, knowing that behind them, a hundred more had been left in the town, too severely injured, cared for by those few surgeons he could spare. Any man who survived the horror of the makeshift hospitals would certainly become Greene’s prisoner.
The march was strangely quiet, even the musicians subdued. There were far fewer drummers and fifers now, some killed at Cowpens, many more killed or captured at Guilford. For a while Cornwallis could hear one drum, far in front of him, one man who still had the spirit, who would still offer a proud rhythm to the march. But the steady beat had suddenly grown quiet, and soon Cornwallis understood. He had ridden past the drum itself, tossed aside, punched and ripped by the angry stab of a bayonet. It was not a surprise that Cornwallis’ own sour mood would be reflected by the men.
He had issued yet another proclamation, a call for loyalists to celebrate their victory at Guilford by flocking once more to the king’s flag, and for any rebels who surrendered themselves to be pardoned for all crimes. As soon as the notices were posted, he regretted the decision, scolded himself for such a mindless show of optimism. It was more than a sad joke this time, it was cruel and deadly to anyone naÏve enough to respond. Once he realized he had to abandon Guilford, he knew that anyone who actually tried to comply would find no protection at all, would certainly be set upon by the rebels.
The reports would be written soon, and he knew that Guilford Court House would be described as a glorious victory, another in a long series of crushing blows to the rebellion. By the time the reports reached London, they would be received