Washington's General (36 page)

On January 13, Greene dispatched a jaunty message to Morgan: “Col.
Tarlton is said to be on his way to pay you a visit. I doubt not but he will have a decent reception and a proper dismission.”

Three days later, with Tarleton at his doorstep and a river to his rear, Morgan decided to make a stand near the North Carolina border in a place called Cowpens, so called because it had been used as quarters for cattle. It was an odd choice for the American commander–the area was wide-open, practically inviting Tarleton's cavalry to gallop through the American position with swords flailing. But Morgan decided he would rather stand and fight, even in such a position, than be attacked on the march.

On the morning of January 17, Morgan deployed his men in three lines and gave them very specific instructions, crafted to take advantage of his strengths and, at the same time, to concede his weaknesses. His forward line consisted of about a hundred and fifty sharpshooters. They were militiamen, prone to run away at the first sign of trouble. Morgan brilliantly incorporated this inevitablility into his order of battle: the sharpshooters were to fire twice–from fifty yards–and then retreat. A second line, made up of militia under the command of Andrew Pickens, would do likewise. Morgan told them to aim for Tarleton's officers.

After the men on the second line did their damage, they would fall back and re-form as a third American line of defense, positioned on high ground, prepared for the final British push. In reserve, ready to counterattack as the British moved forward, were American cavalrymen under William Washington. “Just hold up your heads, boys,” Morgan told his troops, “and then when you return to your homes, how the old folks will bless you, and the girls kiss you for your gallant conduct.”

It was a brilliant plan, and its influence on Greene would prove to be profound.

After a four-mile predawn march, the most feared British commander of the war, Tarleton, and his crack troops assailed the American position just before seven o'clock on the morning of January 17. What followed was nothing short of a military miracle. Morgan's sharpshooters fired a deadly volley at Tarleton's overconfident cavalry, forcing them to fall back. The sharpshooters then filed out of the forward position, as Morgan had planned.

As the British cavalry re-formed, Tarleton's infantry marched toward the second line, manned by Pickens and his troops. The Americans waited until the British were nearly at point-blank range, fired two devastating volleys, and then retreated. Washington's cavalry charged the British right and then circled around the British rear. Tarleton assailed the right flank of Morgan's third and final line of defense, but his men were driven back.

After an hour of intense fighting, hundreds of British troops put down their weapons and surrendered–their discipline utterly broken. A stunned Tarleton retreated.

The British casualties were appalling: of their eleven hundred troops, they lost one hundred killed, more than two hundred wounded, and six hundred captured. By contrast, only a dozen Americans were killed and about sixty wounded.

Cowpens was a spectacular American victory and an unmitigated disaster for the British. A minute before Tarleton sent his troops toward Morgan, the American cause in the South seemed as hopeless as it had ever been. An hour later, all had changed. Cowpens transcended mere casualty figures; it gave heart to the region's patriots, and it stunned loyalists. Greene was extremely conscious of public opinion and perception, understanding that patriot civilians would be more inclined to join local militia or the Continental army if the cause did not seem lost. Cowpens showed that it was not.

Several days passed before Greene received a message from Morgan, dated January 19: “The Troops I had the Honor to command have been so fortunate as to obtain a compleat Victory over a Deatchment from the British Army commanded by Lt. Colonel Tarlton.” Greene was delighted but also relieved; Morgan had taken a huge gamble and, in fact, had ignored Greene's plea to avoid combat. But, as Greene indicated in a letter to Washington, the brilliant victory at Cowpens could not mask the huge difficulties the American army still faced. Greene was worried, too, that the politicians who controlled money and supplies–however scarce and few–might be inclined to relax after hearing about Cowpens. Greene told his friend James Varnum that the “Army is in a deplorable
condition; and not withstanding this little success, must inevitably fall [prey] to the enemy if not better supported. . . . Don't imagine that Lord Cornwallis is ruined: for depend upon it, the Southern States must fall, unless there is established a well appointed Army for their support.”

Greene was right about Cornwallis–he was far from finished. Enraged by the British defeat at Cowpens, he was newly determined to crush his enemy. The Americans still were divided, but he was reinforced. Along with twenty-five hundred troops, Cornwallis set out in search of Morgan, who was retreating toward North Carolina. After finishing off Morgan, he would turn his attention to Greene. To speed his pursuit, he ordered his troops to burn all their excess baggage, wagons, and provisions. Even the army's rum was thrown aside, the unkindest sacrifice of all. The British would now move faster, but they would have to live off the land–a circumstance Greene surely would have advised against. Legend has it that when Greene heard that his formerly well-supplied nemesis had so rashly put a torch to his precious cargo, he smiled, perhaps for the first time since assuming his command. “Then he is ours!” he said.

Greene decided he must reunite his army or face disaster. After giving orders for his wing to march toward Salisbury, North Carolina, he set out to meet with Morgan on his own, with only a handful of men to protect him. He was alarmed when Morgan sent a dire message, describing himself as “emaciated” and saying that he was growing “worse every hour.” Plagued by painful back ailments and rheumatism, Morgan hinted in his message that he could no longer function in the field–and this, with Cornwallis gaining ground on him.

Greene and Morgan linked up on January 30 after a perilous, soggy ride of more than a hundred miles through loyalist country. Greene had hoped that Cowpens would inspire local militia units to turn out as a confrontation with Cornwallis neared. But during his ride through the countryside, Greene discovered that there had been no such outpouring. “The people have been so harassed for eight months past and their domestick matters are in such distress,” he wrote to Congress, “that they will not leave home; and if they do it is for so short a time that they are of
no use.” He deplored the lack of patriotism, but he had neither time nor energy to expend on regrets. Cornwallis was nearby, and Greene knew his enemy would attack as soon as he could. The Americans had to move quickly or be crushed.

Greene understood that he had one very important advantage. Although he was being chased, he at least would be moving north, toward his supply centers in Virginia. Cornwallis, on the other hand, was moving farther away from his supply base in South Carolina–and he was marching with light troops newly stripped of their tents, their baggage, and their provisions. The more Greene marched, the wearier Cornwallis would become. His rum-less troops could be forced to wander through the winter landscape of North Carolina, made to ford the region's rambling rivers, made to climb up and down slippery hills. Greene's strategy soon became evident: he would bait Cornwallis into a chase. Morgan was skeptical of Greene's plan, preferring his own idea of retreating into the countryside of South Carolina. He said he would not be responsible for the disasters he foresaw. “Neither will you,” a testy Greene replied. “For I shall take the matter upon myself.”

Greene sent Morgan on his way north, staying behind by the Catawba River in hopes of recruiting new militia forces. The mission was in vain, however, and when Greene heard that Cornwallis was across the river, he rode hard to Salisbury to catch up with Morgan. According to legend, as he arrived at Steele's Tavern in Salisbury, an exhausted Greene met an army acquaintance who was stunned to find the commander of the Southern Department traveling by himself.

“What! Alone, general?” the acquaintance supposedly said. “Yes,” Greene replied, “tired, hungry, alone and penniless.” As Greene's biographer Theodore Thayer pointed out, it's hard to believe that Greene actually rode without even a small guard. But the glum summary of his condition sounds entirely true. The wife of the tavern's proprietor was moved by the sight and words of this downcast general. She disappeared from her guest's sight for a moment, then reappeared bearing two bags of coins. “You need them more than I do,” she told Greene. Damp-eyed, Greene accepted the offering of a patriot.

Rather than wait for the the other wing of his army to arrive in Salisbury, Greene changed the location of the planned linkup to the town of Guilford Court House, farther north in North Carolina. The British continued to match Greene step for step, and at one point, Cornwallis believed he had Greene trapped with his back to the Yadkin River. But the command of detail that had marked Greene's service as a quartermaster served him well in the field; he had boats ready to take him across the river–literally in the nick of time. When Cornwallis reached the Yadkin, now stripped of boats, the Americans were camped on the other side. To vent his fury, Cornwallis ordered his artillery to fire on the American camp, with little effect. According to eyewitnesses, Greene was writing letters when a ball landed near his headquarters. “His pen never rested,” the eyewitness reported.

The linkup at Guilford Court House, hampered by steady winter rains, was complete on February 9, when Greene held a rare council of war with three subordinates: Morgan, Brigadier General Isaac Huger, and Colonel Otho Williams. It must have pained Greene even to look at Morgan, for the hero of Cowpens was ailing again: he was thin after his march through the backcountry, and his rheumatism was flaring up once more. Shortly after the council, Morgan retired from the army, depriving Greene of one of his best field commanders.

Greene told his subordinates that the recombined army had fewer than fifteen hundred Continentals and about six hundred militia, many of whom, he said, were “badly armed and distressed for the Want of Clothing.” Chasing them, Greene reckoned, were as many as three thousand troops under Cornwallis. A dreadful choice presented itself: this weak army could turn and fight against overwhelming odds, or it could continue to retreat through North Carolina and into Virginia, a distance of some seventy miles, then it would cross the Dan River, near the main American supply depots, and see whether Cornwallis continued his pursuit or turned away. Rejecting the first option, Greene knew that the alternative–continued retreat–would mean the concession of North Carolina to Cornwallis. It was a mortifying scenario, particularly after Cowpens, but it was the only real choice Greene believed he had. Still, he
was loath to decide the issue on his own. Ever conscious of his reputation, of rumors and slanders casually whispered in the parlors of Philadelphia, he wanted consensus so that no enemy–Thomas Mifflin and his ilk–could say that Nathanael Greene lacked the will to stand and fight. He put the question to the other three officers (Morgan, Hugar, and Williams): should they fight Cornwallis now and so risk the army itself, or should they retreat into Virginia? The other officers agreed with Greene's gloomy assessment. “[It] was determined that we ought to avoid a general Action at all events,” they wrote.

After the council of war broke up, Greene sadly informed Washington that he would abandon North Carolina. It was yet another blow in a bleak season for the Continental army. Greene explained: “We have no provisions but what we receive from our daily collections. Under these circumstances I called a council who unanimously advised to avoid an action and to retire beyond the Roanoke [in Virginia].” Greene made sure to include a copy of the council's proceedings, so that Washington could see that the retreat was not just his idea.

But now Greene had to beat Cornwallis, only thirty-five miles away, to the Dan River. At several points during the chase so far, Cornwallis had covered as much as twenty miles in a day. If Cornwallis caught up with Greene before they reached the river, the Americans would be crushed.

The race for the Dan began on February 10, when Greene once again divided his force, sending some seven hundred under Colonel Williams to stay between the main American force and Cornwallis, whose line of march was roughly parallel with Greene's. The British commander was about to be outfoxed again, for he believed that Greene would have to cross one of the Dan's upper fords, and the British were deployed accordingly. But Greene already had arranged for boats to be waiting for him downriver at Irwin's Ferry.

Williams's screening force confused Cornwallis long enough for Greene to make good his escape toward the river. He and his men were exhausted; Greene told Williams that he had slept only about four hours in four days of marching. But the frantic pace of the march paid off on February 14, when Greene's army safely crossed the Dan to conclude
one of the most brilliant strategic retreats of the war. Greene sent a welcome message to Williams, who had carried out his assignment with great success: “All our troops are over and the stage is clear. I am ready to receive you and give you a hearty welcome.”

The Americans had crossed four rivers and marched two hundred miles since Cowpens, all the while drawing Cornwallis farther from his supplies, all the while avoiding the general action that might have ended in defeat not just of the army but of the Revolution itself. Alexander Hamilton, an admirer of Greene, said of the march to the Dan:

To have effected a retreat in the face of so ardent a pursuit, through so great an extent of the country, through a country offering every obstacle, affording scarcely any resources; with troops destitute of every thing ... to have done all this, I say, without loss of any kind, may, without exaggeration, be denominated a masterpiece of military skill and exertion.