University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.

If every thing was doubtful and uncertain in the
camp of Gates, the state of things was very different
in that of Cornwallis. That able commander knew
his ground, his own men, and the confidence and the
weakness alike of his enemy. That weakness, that

unhappy confidence, were his security and strength.
His own force numbered little over two thousand men;
but they were tried soldiers, veterans in the British
southern army, and familiar with their officers. The
troops of Gates—two-thirds of them at least—had
never once seen service; and the greater number only
now for the first time knew and beheld their commander.
They had heard of his renown, however, and this
secured their confidence. It had an effect far more
dangerous upon his officers; for, if it did not secure
their confidence also, it made them scrupulous in their
suggestions of counsel to one who, from the outset,
seemed to have gone forth with the determination of
rivalling the rapidity, as well as the immensity, of
Cæsar's victories. To come, to see, to conquer, was
the aim of Gates; forgetting, that while Cæsar commanded
the Roman legion, Horatio Gates was required
first to teach the American militia. Cornwallis seems
perfectly to have understood his man. They are said
to have once seen foreign service together; if so, the
earl had studied him with no little success. He now
availed himself of the rashness of his opponent, and,
though inferior in numbers, went forth to meet him.
We have seen their first encounter, where Gates, contrary
to the advice of his best officers, commenced a
march after nightfall, requiring of undrilled militia the
most novel and difficult evolutions in the dark. Having
felt his enemy, and perceived, from the weight of
Colonel Porterfield's infantry fire, that the whole force
of the Americans was at hand, Cornwallis drew in his
army, which had been in marching order when the
encounter began; and changing his line to suit the
new form of events, proceeded to make other arrangements
for the dawning.

The firing still continued, in the advance, though
materially diminished and still diminishing, when Cornwallis
gave the orders to recall his forces. The order
was a timely one. In that moment, the advance of
Porterfield had pressed heavily upon the British van,
and was driving it before them. The mutual orders

of the two generals, both dreading to risk the controversy
on a struggle so unexpectedly begun, closed the
affair for the night. Dismounting beneath a clump of
trees, Cornwallis called around him a council of his
officers. The tall, portly form of the earl rose loftily
in the midst of all, with a cool, quiet dignity, that indicated
command. His face was one of much expression,
and spoke a character of great firmness and quick
resolve. His features were bold and imposing; his
cheeks full and broad, nose prominent, forehead rather
broad than high, his lips not thin, but closely fitting.
His eye had in it just enough of the kindling of battle
to enliven features which otherwise would have appeared
more imperious than intelligent. His carriage
was manly, and marked by all the ease of the courtier.
Standing erect, with his hand lightly resting on the hilt
of his sword, and looking earnestly around him on his
several officers as they made their appearance—a
dozen lightwood torches flaming in the hands of the
guards around him—his presence was majestic and
noble. Yet there was a something in his features
which, if not sanguinary, at least indicated well that
indifference to human life, that reckless hardihood of
atrocity, which marked too many of his doings in the
South. His looks did not belie that callosity of soul
which could doom his fellow-men, by dozens, to the
gallows—the accusation unproven against them, and
their own defence utterly unheard.

Beside him, conspicuous, though neither tall nor
commanding in person, stood one to whom the references
of Cornwallis were made with a degree of familiarity
not often manifested by the commander. His
person was of the middle size, rather slender than full,
but of figure well made, admirably set, and in its movements
marked alike by ease and strength. He was
muscular and bony—though not enough so to command
particular attention on this account. The face alone
spoke, and it was a face to be remembered. It was
rather pale and thin, but well chiselled; and the mouth
was particularly small and beautiful. Its expression was

girlish in the extreme, and would have been held to indicate
effeminacy as the characteristic of its owner,
but for its even quiet, its immobility, its calm indifference
of expression. The nose was good, but neither
long nor large: it comported well with the expression
of the mouth. But it was the eye that spoke; and
its slightest look was earnestness. Every glance
seemed sent forth upon some especial mission—every
look had its object. Its movements, unlike those of
the lips, were rapid and ranging. His hair was light
and unpowdered; worn, singularly enough at that period,
without the usual tie, and entirely free from the
vile pomatum which disfigured the fashionable heads
of the upper classes. His steel cap and waving plume
were carried in his hand; and he stood, silent and observing,
beside Cornwallis, as Lord Rawdon, followed by
the brave Lieutenant-colonel Webster, and other officers,
came up to the conference. The warrior we have
endeavoured briefly to describe, was one whose name
had its own particular terror in the ears of the Southrons
in that region and reign of terror. He was the notorious
Colonel Tarleton, the very wing of the British
invading army: one, striking and commanding in aspect,
gentle and dignified in deportment, calm and even
in his general temper; but fierce and forward in war,
sanguinary in victory, delighting in blood, and impatient
always until he could behold it flowing.

Webster, equally, if not more brave than Tarleton, and
certainly a far better officer, bore a better character in
the southern warfare. His worth to his own army was
equally great, and there is no such odium coupled with
his exploits as shaded and stained the very best of
Tarleton's. His celebrity with the one never obtained
for him any unhappy notoriety with the other.

“The enemy is in force before us, gentlemen—so
our prisoners tell us. They confirm the reports of
the Marylander, Hughson, and come, as we could wish
them, fairly into our clutches.”

“And more than confirmed, I think, my lord, by the
severity of their fire from the infantry on the left. Such

a proportion on the march would at once speak for the
presence of their entire army.”

This was the remark of Webster. There was a
pause of a moment, in which Cornwallis appeared to
consult a memorandum in his hand. He spoke at
length to Tarleton.

“What horse, was the report of Hughson?”

“Armand's only—some sixty-five, your excellency.”

“And their late reinforcement of Virginians?”

“A perfect, but single regiment.”

“'Tis odds, gentlemen, large odds against us, if
these reports be true. The lines of Maryland and
Delaware—good troops these—the Virginia troops, the
North Carolinians, and native militia, make up five thousand
men at least—full five thousand—for the rebel
army. Ours is not three.”

“But quite enough, my lord,” was the prompt but
measured language of Tarleton. They are mere carrion,
half-starved, and De Kalb's continentals alone
excepted, will not stand a second fire. We shall ride
over them.”

“Ay, you, Tarleton—you will ride over them when
our bayonets have first given you a clear track,” said
Webster.

“Which you can soon do,” was the equally cool
but ready response of the other. “They have come
into our clutches, to employ the phrase of your excellency;
it will be our fault if we do not close our fingers
upon them. Half-starved, and perfectly undrilled,
they will offer little obstacle. The novelty of situation
alone is terror enough for these militia; that, indeed,
is the only terror, and that they never get over until
the third trial. This is the first, with two-thirds of
this hodge-podge army. We must see that they do not
get to a third.”

“There spoke the sabre,” said Rawdon, playfully.

“It should never speak twice,” responded Tarleton,
without a smile; “dead rebels never bite.”

“No, but they howl most cursedly before they die,
as you should know, Tarleton, above all others. We

hear the echoes even now from the Waxsaws, when
your sabres told upon Buford's regiment,” said Rawdon.

“Ay, that was a sad business, Bannister, though, to
be sure, you could not well help it,” was the additional
remark of Cornwallis, who yet looked approvingly upon
the person whom he thus partially censured. Tarleton
simply smiled; his thin lips slightly parting, and exhibiting
a brief glimpse of the closed teeth, as he replied—

“Better they should howl than hurt; their bark is
music; their bite might be something worse. You
may talk, gentlemen, as you please; but if you were
asked the question, you will much prefer the one to
the other, with the dawning of to-morrow's sun.”

“Our wish is for the fight, gentlemen,” said Cornwallis;
“my own opinion insists upon it as the preferable
measure. They outnumber us, it is true; but I
feel satisfied we can outfight them. Whether we can
or not, I think, at least, we should try for it. We gain
every thing by victory; the delay increases their force;
and even without defeat, it makes the difficulty of conquest
with us so much the greater. The suggestion
of Tarleton is one also of importance. The rebels are
half-starved men; their provisions have been unequal
and unsatisfactory for some time past. Disease, too—
so we learn from Hughson—has thinned them greatly;
and in every possible aspect, our condition imperiously
calls for fight. This is my opinion.”

“And mine,” responded Tarleton, slowly, letting down
his sabre, which rattled quiveringly in the sheath with
the stroke. The same opinion was expressed by Rawdon,
Webster, and the rest; the resolve for fight was
unanimous. Cornwallis then proceeded to arrange his
army in order of battle. They displayed in one line,
completely occupying the ground, one flank resting on
a swamp, the other on a slight ravine which ran
parallel with, and near it. The infantry of the reserve,
dividing equally, took post in a second line,
opposite the centre of each wing. The cavalry, commanded
by Tarleton, held the road, where the left of

the right wing met the volunteers of Ireland, a corps
which, thus placed, formed the right of the left wing.
On the right, Lieutenant-colonel Webster was placed
in command. To Colonel Lord Rawdon, the left was
assigned. Two six and two three pounders, under
Lieutenant M'Leod, were placed in the front line, and
two other pieces with the reserve. The arrangement
of this force, though at midnight, so perfectly drilled
and well-experienced had they been, was the movement
of machines rather than of men. Every step
was taken under the eyes of superior officers—every
cannon found its assigned place with a niceness, admirably
contrasting with the confusion which is supposed
to belong to battle. Each soldier, before the
dawn, had his supply of rum provided him; and officers
and men, resolute and ready, held their places in order
of battle, anxiously awaiting the approaching daylight.

The American army was formed with similar precision,
and at the same hour. The second brigade of
Maryland, with the regiment of Delaware, under General
Gist, took the right; the brigade of North Carolina
militia, led by Caswell, the centre; that of Virginia,
under Stevens, the left. The first Maryland brigade
was formed in reserve, under General Smallwood.
Major-general Baron De Kalb, charged with the line
of battle, took post on the right, while Gates, superintending
the whole, as general-in-chief, placed himself
on the road between the line and the reserve. To
each brigade a due proportion of artillery was allotted;
but the wing of the army—the horse—was utterly
wanting. The cavalry of Armand, defeated at the first
encounter of the night, is thought, by some of the simple
countrymen who witnessed their rapidity, to be flying
to this very day. Gates's line of battle has been criticised
with the rest of his proceedings in this unhappy
campaign. His arrangements placed the Virginia
militia, an untried body, which had never before seen
service, on the left, a disposition which necessarily put
them in front of the enemy's right, consisting of his veterans.
The better course would certainly have been,

to have thrown the continentals, our regulars, upon the
left; by which arrangement, the best men of both armies
must have encountered. This was the plan of Lincoln
in previous events, and certainly that plan most conformable
to, and indeed called for by, the circumstances of
the case. The flank of the American, like that of the
British army, rested upon a morass; and, thus disposed,
it awaited upon the ground, and in the given order, for
the first glimpses of daylight and the enemy.

With the dawn of day, the British were discovered
in front, in column, and on the advance. This was
communicated to the adjutant-general, Williams, who
soon distinguished the British uniform about two
hundred yards before him. Immediately ordering the
batteries to be opened upon them, he rode to General
Gates, who was in the rear of the second line, and informed
him of what had been done, communicating his
opinion at the same time that the enemy were displaying
their column by the right; but still nothing was clear
enough in the proceedings of the opposite army for
certainty on either side. Gates heard him attentively,
but gave no orders, and seemed disposed to await the
progress of events; upon which the adjutant-general
presumed upon a farther suggestion.

“Does not your excellency think that if the enemy
were attacked briskly by Stevens, while in the act of
displaying, the effect—”

“Yes, sir,” said Gates, hurriedly interrupting him;
“that's right—let it be done, sir.”

These were almost the last orders given by the unhappy
commander. Quick as thought, Williams seized
the commission, and, readily obedient, General Stevens
advanced with his brigade to the charge, all seemingly
in fine spirits. But the instructions came too late—the
evolution of the enemy was complete; they were already
in line, and prepared to receive the attack. But
this did not alter the determination either of Stevens
or the adjutant. Assigning a force of fifty men to the
latter to commence the action by firing from the cover
of trees as riflemen, in the hope to extort the premature

fire of the British, Stevens cried out to his brigade, as
he saw the column moving down upon him in front—

“Courage, my men, and charge—charge! You have
bayonets as well as they.”

His words were drowned, and lost, in the wild huzzas
and the fierce onset of the opposing British, who
fired as they came on, with their pieces in rest, for
the charge of bayonets. The militia was seized with a
panic, and, in spite of all the efforts of the gallant Stevens,
could not be persuaded either to stand the charge
or to return the fire. A few only stood with their leader.
The great majority, throwing away their loaded
arms, fled in every direction; and, catching from them
the unworthy panic, the North Carolinians—a single
regiment under Colonel Dixon alone excepted—followed
the shameful example. In vain did Stevens and
Caswell endeavour to stem the torrent of retreat. The
fugitives were not to be restrained; and sought, in desperate
flight, for that safety which flight seldom gives,
and which it most certainly denied to them. They broke
through the line, leaving the right still firm, and pressing
down upon the reserve, disordered them while
passing through. From his place, the commander-in-chief
beheld the disaster with an emotion he had never
anticipated. His hair withered at its roots as he surveyed
the rout, and madly he pressed towards them,
with head uncovered, waving his hat and crying to them
as they flew—

Stand—turn—brave men—men of Virginia! I come
to lead you back. Turn, cowards—for your country—
for yourselves! Shame me not—shame me not; but
rally. Come with me; look—I myself will lead you!”

But they heard—they heeded nothing of his exhortations.
He threw himself directly in front of the
fugitives, and with drawn sword, striking around him,
as if among his enemies, he vainly endeavoured to compel
their return. Never were exertions and exhortations
more honest to this end. In his fury, hewing a soldier
hurrying past him, down, almost to the middle, at a
stroke, he vented his indignation in a torrent of oaths.

“Villains! cowards! for shame—for your country
—for me! Turn, for me—turn, you d—d rascals, turn!”

Vain were all his exhortations—vain his oaths—vain
his efforts. Panic is madness; it is more—it is contagion.
They bore him along by the rush of numbers;
and as he strove to turn, and for this purpose had
drawn his steed suddenly round upon a tall sergeant
who was hurrying away with the rest, the fellow did
not hesitate, with his sabre, to cut the bridle of the
animal, leaving the general without any control upon
him. In this situation, the tumult attained its ascendency.
The crowd bore him onward with it in its flight;
and the fiery steed which he rode, free from all restraint,
now imbibing some portion of the general panic, hurried
along with the flying mass more madly than the
rest. Gates had seen all of the battle which he was
destined to see. His hair grew white as he flew, a
token of that heart-felt humiliation which clung to him
during all his subsequent existence. Meanwhile, the
battle had become general throughout the field which he,
per force, had deserted. The British army, flushed with
the opening success, now advanced on every side; but
the onward course of conquest was arrested when they
encountered the continentals. Accustomed, as were
the latter, to frequent encounter, they beheld the rout
with little or no emotion. The panic touched not them.

“Stand your ground, brave men,” cried De Kalb, as,
with uncovered head, he rode calmly along through the
smoke and danger—“stand your ground, brave men,
and do no shame to you officers. Colonel Dixon,” said
he, addressing the officer in command of the only
regiment of North Carolinians who kept their places—
“Colonel Dixon, close up, and feel the Maryland regiment.”

Surveying the prospect as he rode, and seeing that
his flank, exposed by the desertion of the militia, was
now partly covered, the old veteran prepared for the
charge. His orders were given with the tone of true
valour, while his decision was that of experience.
Alighting from his horse, he turned him loose in the

rear, then advancing on foot before his men, he commanded
their instant preparation for that terrible movement.
He himself led the way, and fought on foot at
their head. His order to “charge bayonets,” uttered
in the imperfect tones of the foreigner, was heard distinctly
through the affray. Catching his spirit, as it
were, his line advanced without hesitation, and shouting
buoyantly as they did so, in a few moments the
line was overpassed which separated them from the
enemy's left, commanded by Rawdon. The rival muskets
were crossed, their bayonets linked, and for a few
seconds the opposing armies reeled to and fro, like so
many lock-limbed and coherent bodies: but the rush,
and the enthusiasm of the charge of De Kalb, were, for
the moment, irresistible, and Rawdon fell back beneath
it.

“Where is the commander-in-chief?” cried De Kalb,
in a fierce voice, as he beheld the adjutant-general,
Williams, advancing with his own, the 6th Maryland,
having actually driven the enemy out of line in front.

“Gone!” was the single word with which he announced
to the old soldier the isolation of his continentals.

“On, then, on!” was the immediate shout of De
Kalb; “look not to the right, nor to the left, brave men—
but on! You are alone: your own steel must work
your safety. Charge!”

A group of officers and soldiers—British and American
—was seen struggling in front. An officer was down;
a squad of soldiers was seeking to despatch him, and
two others unequally contending against them with
their swords. The wounded officer was an American.

“Again—once more, my brave fellows—once again
—through them to the hearts of the enemy—charge—
charge!” was the fierce order of De Kalb, in his imperfect
English; “through, and heed them not!”

“But the officers are ours—they are aids to the
general,” cried Brigadier Gist, in the hope to arrest
the desperate charge of De Kalb.

“And we are men,” was the response—“what are

these officers to us? onward! through them, brave men
—once more to the hearts of the enemy!”

The group sought to disperse; the assailing soldiers
fled away, leaving the wounded officer, and those who
had been fighting in his behalf, alone, before the charging
squadrons.

“Hold!” cried Colonel Walton, for it was he, advancing
as he spoke—“hold, I pray you, Baron De Kalb!
we are your friends—”

“On then—to the enemy!” cried De Kalb, unheeding
the exhortation; and, filled with his own fury—the fury
of desperation—the advancing line resolutely obeyed
him. The wounded man, and those who stood beside
him, must have been crushed, or gone along with the
pressing line; and the moment was, therefore, full of
peril to the group. Presenting his sword to his advancing
countrymen, Colonel Walton cried to the wounded
officer, who lay almost senseless at his feet—

“I will share your fate, Pinckney, if I cannot divert
it. I stand by you to the last. Hold, Americans!
What madness is this?—we are friends—would you
trample us down?”

“On with us, then!” fiercely cried De Kalb, “on with
us, if you be friends! We know you not otherwise.”

“He is too much wounded,” cried Walton, pointing
to the insensible officer.

“This is no time, sir, to regard the dead or the
wounded. The field is covered with both; shall we
lose all for one man—officer or soldier? On with us,
Colonel Walton—there is no help else. On!”

It was the last command of De Kalb, who was already
severaly wounded. In that moment the fierce
onset of the continentals was arrested. A new obstacle,
in a fire from the right, restrained their progress.
This was Webster. Having thoroughly defeated the
American left, he was now free to turn his face upon the
isolated continentals. This small, resolute, and now
compact body, had moved forward irresistibly. The
fierce spirit of its commander seemed to have been
shared equally with his men; and though every step
which they took was with the loss of numbers, they

ceaselessly continued to advance—the fire of the British
left and centre still telling dreadfully upon them, but without
shaking their inflexible and reckless charge. The
sudden movement of Webster upon their flanks first
arrested their progress. He turned the whole force of
his infantry, together with the twenty-third regiment, upon
the exposed flank of the first, or Smallwood's brigade.
This had been commanded bravely by Colonel Gunby,
and other of its officers, the general himself not being
available for some time before. The shock of Webster's
charge upon this body was irresistible; they reeled
and broke beneath it. They were rallied, and once
more stood the assault. They stood but to perish; and
it was found impossible to contend longer with the vastly
superior and fresh force from the reserve which was
now brought to bear upon them. This shock, and the
effect of Webster's assault, at this critical moment,
saved the life of Walton and that of his wounded friend,
Major Pinckney. The fierce command of De Kalb was
no longer obeyed by the flank regiment, now compelled
to combat with another enemy. They faced Webster;
and Walton found himself on the extreme left, instead
of being in front of the body which, a moment before,
had been ordered to pass over him. In another instant,
the line reeled beyond him: he saw the enemy
pressing on, and he rushed to the front of the retreating
division of Americans. Again they were brought
to a stand; again the impelling bayonets of Webster
drove them backward; and while they yet strove bravely,
at the will of their officers, to unite more compactly together
for the final conflict, the shrill voice of Tarleton
was heard upon the left. Then came the rush of
his dragoons; the sweeping sabre darting a terrible
light on every hand, and giving the final impetus to that
panic which now needed but little to be complete
throughout the army.

“Spare! oh spare the Baron De Kalb!” was a cry
of anguish that went up from the centre of the line.
It was doubly agonizing, as the accents were uttered
evidently by a foreign tongue. Walton looked but an

instant in the direction where lay the old veteran, feebly
striving still to contend with the numbers who were
now pressing around him. The Chevalier Du Buysson,
a faithful friend, stood over him, vainly endeavouring
to protect him by the interposition of his own body.
His piteous cry—“Spare the baron! spare the Baron
De Kalb!” had little or no avail.

Eleven wounds already testified to the reckless courage
of the veteran, and the earnestness with which he
had done battle to the last for the liberties of a foreign
people. The bayonet was again lifted above him to
strike, when Colonel Walton pressed forward to his relief.
But, with the movement, he was himself overthrown—himself
exposed to the bayonet of the enemy.
He threw up his sword and parried the first stroke of
the weapon, which glanced down and stuck deeply in
the grass beside him. Another pinned him by his
sleeve to the spot; and his career in the next moment
would probably have been ended, but for the timely appearance
of Colonel Tarleton himself. His order was
effectual, and Walton tendered him his sword.

“You have saved my life, sir: my name is Colonel
Walton.”

The lips of Tarleton wore something of a smiling
expression, as, returning the weapon, he transferred his
prisoner to the guardianship of two of his troopers.
The expression of his face, so smiling, yet so sinister
in its smile, surprised Walton, but he was soon taught
to understand it.

The battle ceased with the fall of De Kalb. It had
been hopeless long before. Turning his eyes gloomily
from the thick confusion of the field, Colonel Walton
moved away with his conductors, while Tarleton, with
his eye kindled with fight, and a lip quivering with its
pleasurable convulsions, led his cavalry in pursuit of
the fugitives, marking his progress for twenty-two miles
from the field of battle with proofs of that sanguinary
appetite for blood, which formed the leading feature of
his character, according to history and tradition, in all
the fields of Carolina.