TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

RONDO - STAVE LIX

R O N D O

S T A V E

LIX

The North Carolina Backcountry

February 3, 1781 – 5:00 A.M.

Geordie heard the watercourse before he saw it, a hiss like a serpent waiting in the dark. It quickened, the sound of water spilling over rocks. Rains had swollen the lazy Catawba to a torrent half-mile across, shielding the Rebels on the opposite bank. For days Cornwallis watched them. Even with it receding, it should be days before an attack. But this was Cornwallis and the Enemy must watch.

A night march, always a night march, Geordie knowing its Ways and Features. They rule the night, stalking or lying in wait, and always in a miserable season when the hunted should feel safe – the barrier insurmountable: fog, storm, high cliff . . . But this army thrived on the Impossible. It had no choice.

"My situation is most critical," Cornwallis wrote to Lord Rawdon in January who commanded Ninety-Six, a fort protecting his southernmost flank. "I see infinite danger in proceeding, but certain ruin in retreating. I am therefore determined to go on, unless some misfortune should happen, which God forbid."

Despite brilliant victories, Cornwallis was in ruin – no medical supplies and a third of the men with Fever – and two major defeats suffered by his chief lieutenants. The day Leslie's force arrived, the camp was in a State. "We've received a 'check' by Daniel Morgan," Lord Charles informed Leslie, his reserved expression grave; when he'd received the news that morning, he leaned so hard on his sword, it broke.

"A check? It happens." Leslie hoped to minimize.

"Tarleton's detached division at Hannah's Cowpens – one hundred dead; forty of them officers. Eight hundred taken prisoner . . ."

"Good Lord."

". . . their arms, Tarleton's grasshoppers, his wagons, horse, ammunition, the Negroes, regimental colours . . ."

"His entire force?"

"All our light infantry."

"The popinjay!"

"Not to blame him," the earl said.

"Was he surprised? Outnumbered? A trap?" Leslie flustered. "Is he dead as he should be?"

"Thank goodness, no."

"And Morgan's condition?"

"Intact and trying to hook up with Greene's main army. He's heading for the Catawba River with our captured light infantry. We must move straight away. I plan to catch him and have those men. Now you're here we'll give our loyalist friends in North Carolina a fair trial; if they behave like men, it may be of greatest advantage. And if they are as fucked as our friends to the south, we must leave them to their fate and secure what we've got." If Southern warfare had taught Cornwallis anything, it was only his Regulars could bring victories; Provincial troops, as good as they may be, suffered under their Provincial officers. The loyalist militia, the South Carolina to be exact, were "dastardly and pusillanimous." In private conversation, they were "shit in fact: to give them muskets was like throwing away good arms – he might as well give them to the Rebels."

Geordie's stomach growled from the pan fried mush of Indian corn they had rasped with the edge of their canteens. Provisions gone; Cornwallis burned them along with their tents and stores, even the rum. The army must be light and fast – no ponderous baggage as plagued Burgoyne. Lord Charles set the example by burning his possessions first; up went his marquee, his bed and his camp desk, his trunks, glassware and linens, his cases of Chateau Lafitte. His commanders followed with cheerful bravado, the bond fire festive like a Holiday. So too the soldiers in good spirits, although over 300 deserted, mostly Germans, but officers and men were leveled, sleeping on the open ground. All that was left were the ammunition and hospital wagons. Cornwallis determined to destroy Nathanial Greene's rebel Army of the South and would hound them – hound them, General Greene, hoped to the Cornwallis' exhaustion.