University of Virginia Library

43. CHAPTER XLIII.
PORGY CRITICISES THE BATTLE — MILITIA FASHION.

The British power in Carolina was broken at Eutaw. True,
there was no complete victory for the Americans. But the result
was almost the same, though less immediate than it might
have been. Even the field was retained by our partisans;
Colonel Hampton's command being left in possession of it, while
the army of Greene retired a few miles to the rear, where they
could procure food and water. It was the purpose of the American
general to renew the action next day; but he pressed the
pursuit in vain. The retreat of Stewart was too rapid even for
the eager impulse of our mounted men. But we must not follow
the general events of the war, to the neglect of our special
dramatis personœ. Let us return to those.

Night had fallen; a clear and pleasant night of stars and
gentle breezes. Among the pines, the scattered groups of our
partisans were bivouacked, mostly without tent or covering,
save that of the trees and the heavens. One of these groups,
alone, will demand our attention. Seen in the blazing camp-fires,
a dozen manly forms sate, or reclined, together, under a
clump of pines, with a little brooklet trickling by, along the
slopes. Heat and fatigue, toil and wounds, had produced their
natural effect, in exhaustion and great weariness. There was

no bustle, no parade. When they spoke, it was mostly with an
evidence of languor, if not of sadness. They were sad. They
had reason to be so. They had to mourn the loss of friends and
comrades, and to think, with trembling, of the wounds of others
which might possibly be mortal. Most of this group were officers.
Some of them had griefs and anxieties of a more personal
and touching nature still, which kept them silent. Sinclair was
one of this group; St. Peyre another; Captain Porgy a third.
The latter was in the hands of the surgeon at this very juncture.
He was hurt in the thigh, not seriously, but he had suffered considerable
loss of blood, which had served, in some degree, to
modify his usual elasticity. Still, he was less subdued than the
rest; and his words flowed almost as freely as ever. He was
in an irascible mood, and showed no small impatience at the
deliberation, and searching examination, of the surgeon while
attending to his hurt.

“There,” said he, “that will do! The thing is nothing. I
knew, all the while, that it was a flesh wound only — nothing
to make a fuss about. It will take a long-winded bullet to make
its way fairly into my citadel.”

“You bled like a stuck pig, nevertheless,” said Mellichampe.

“Had you said `stuffed' instead of `stuck,' I had never forgiven
you, Ernest. The comparison is irreverent, anyhow!

Don't risk another, my dear boy, lest you make me angry.
I am in the humor to resent any impertinence to-night. I have
been in the humor to fight any, the best friend, half-a-dozen
times to-day. Wounds of the body, I feel none. I got this in
the beginning of the action. It was smart not pain. But pain
there is! Great God! to think of our useless loss to-day: of
the profligate and blundering waste of life; of those poor fellows
of Washington's legion, most ridiculously sacrificed; of a
complete victory suffered to slip out of our hands, when we had
only to close upon them, and make it secure?”

“Nay, Porgy, no more! What good will it do to canvass the
affair so close? We have got the advantage, if not the victory.
We shall be wiser of our mistakes hereafter. We shall know
better next time.”

“Pardon me, my dear Sinclair, but it is you that mistake.
We shall never repair this sort of blundering if we never expose

it. We are altogether too mealy-mouthed when we come to the
discussion of the faults and blunders of the great. As for improving
hereafter, I do not believe it, so long as we serve under
the same leaders. And, there is a particular reason why we
poor militiamen, rangers, riflemen, and partisans, as we are
called, should lay bare, whenever we can, the vices and the
worthlessnesses of these martinets, and regulars, who invariably
excuse their own defeats by charging their disasters upon the
militia. Gates had it, that the militia ran at Camden. And,
no doubt, they did. And very right too. But he, himself, was
among the first to run. I do not so much blame him for that.
He had a particularly large carcass to take of, and a world of
genius and ability to economize and preserve for other more
auspicious occasions. But how can a militia be expected to
stand fight, when their general conducts them into a false position,
and finds himself in the thick of battle without dreaming
of the approach of an enemy? Now, one of the very first
necessities of a general is, to inspire his men with confidence.
But when the general's own incompetence is so glaring that the
meanest camp follower is able to detect it, how should you
expect to inspire this confidence? The militiamen, who had no
weapons but our mean, long-handled, bird guns, without bayonets,
are pushed forward, in the first rank, to encounter British
regulars, all of whom are armed with the best Tower muskets
of large bore, and bristling with bayonets. They seem to be
put forward, as David put forward Uriah, to be slain certainly.
Why are they thus put forward; forming a regular line of battle,
when they have no means of resistance when it comes to
the push of steel? To be slain? Well, no; not exactly: but
really to draw the enemy's fire, in order to lessen the dangers to
the regulars when the bayonet is required to be used! In other
words, they are food for powder. Their lives are nothing. We
can waste them — expose them — and, just in proprotion as they
are shot down, will you lessen the same danger to those who
follow them. Well, a militiaman understands all that. He sees
that there is no scruple shown when he is to be sacrificed — that
his general has no sympathy with him — that he exhibits no
such economical regard for his life, that he shows for his regulars;
and that he should be expected to stand the charge of a
weapon which he himself does not use, is quite enough to make
him distrustful of a generalship, which requires him to take the
worst risks of the battle, merely to lessen the danger to his
favorites. No wonder that he runs.”

“But our fellows did not run to-day, Porgy, until the bayonets
were almost into them.”

“True; and why? Because they are mostly old soldiers,
and because their own favorite generals were immediately in
command. And let me say, that no militia in the world, and
few regulars, ever behaved better than our boys to-day. Had
you swopped guns with the regulars, and put them forward, to do
the same business, and endure the first brunt of the battle, as
our fellows did, you would have had them all scampering at the
first volley. But the case is not altered because our fellows
stood fire manfully. I repeat, that this whole plan of battle is
false, and immoral, which thus makes a first regular column of
attack, of a badly-armed militia.”

“It is the usual plan, nevertheless.”

“And it is the secret of so many of our disasters! It is a
vicious plan, and might reasonably be expected to work us
defeat in every action. For, do you not see that, once taught
to understand that he is expected to run, if not shot, the instincts
of the militiaman are always ready; — well, he runs, and,
though it is expected that he will run, the effect of such an
example is necessarily bad upon the regular; he has not only an
example, but a plea for running also. But, if the militia, en
masse, and in their panic, fling themselves back upon an advancing
column of regulars, it is scarcely possible to escape that
degree of confusion, which is next in effect to panic; and the
whole army is thus demoralized. No. You must employ militiamen
— call them what you will, sharpshooters or rangers, on
the flanks, and as skirmishers, or, when they are old soldiers,
you must intermingle them with the regulars, either in alternate
bodies, or, as a second line, when the army is displayed for
battle. Any plan but the present. Disparaged if not despised,
denounced as only made to run; without the proper weapons
for close combat; they are yet required to exhibit all the moral
forces which are needed for the first encounter; why, every
school-boy's experience might correct this folly. There is not

an urchin, knee-high to a cock-sparrow, but will tell you that
the first blow is always half the battle.”

“Well, but, Porgy, it is admitted that the army to-day suffered
nothing, from the first line being made up wholly of militia-men.”

“But they suffered! But that is nothing to the argument.
Answer me! Suppose the same endurance, hardihood, and audacity,
which our boys showed to-day, in the case of men who,
after disorganizing the entire British line by their sharp-shooting,
were prepared, with proper weapons, to start forward at
the pas de charge, and do you suppose that a single company
of the enemy could have escaped annihilation? That is the
true question. The army lost nothing in the affair to-day,
perhaps, because of their first line being militia. Marion and
Pickens have the art, always, of keeping their men firm so
long as they are disposed to keep the field themselves. But
how many such leaders as Marion and Pickens are you to find
in the armies of the world? Suppose, however, that their troops
had been employed in the woods and on the flanks as skirmishers,
while the regulars had played their game from the first, and
all the while, as manfully with their bayonets as the militia did
with their shot-guns and rifles — what, then, must have been
the result? The annihilation of the British army! When the
British line pressed upon the militia, and they melted away out
of the path of the continentals, the British column was already
dreadfully disorganized — in fact, hardly a line at all, but undulating,
in ridges of advances; here a billow, and there a gulf
— here a swell, and there a hollow — and comparatively easy
game for a uniform charge of bayonets brought squarely up to
the business. And I am free to allow that the continentals did
their part handsomely. They came up to the scratch in beautiful
style; and here, if anywhere in America, the British regulars
were met, hand to hand, and beaten at their own weapon,
the bayonet — driven from the field before the bayonet! But,
would they have been thus driven, but for the previous havoc
made by our shot-guns, and their subsequent demoralization at
the hands of our militia?”

“That, surely, is an argument, Porgy, in support of the present
practice.”

“Not so. It would be an argument, perhaps — though I deny
even that — were you always sure of your militia as you might
be always in the case of the brigades of Marion and Pickens;
but if sure of them, why not give them the bayonets also, and
let them rank with the regulars? The fact is, we are perpetually
making a distinction in this matter, where there is no substantial
difference. Look to the real meaning of your phrase,
and all veterans are regulars, and all raw troops suffer from the
inherent difficulties of an inexperienced militia. They are ranked
as militia only because they are raw; and no matter what the
weapons you put into their hands, an inexperienced body will
be apt to make very doubtful use of them, even if they make
any use at all, while the old soldier will work vigorously with
any sort of tool. It is, in fact, because of the rawness of the
British troops of late, that we have got most of our advantages
over them. Their new Irish recruits know nothing of drill, do
not appreciate the moral strength derived from the touch of a
comrade's elbow, have no knowledge of the gun, whether rifle
or musket, and are only beginning the necessary training for
battle when the battle is upon them. Here lies much of the
secret of our late successes, and particularly that of to-day,
when the two lines came to the push of the bayonet.

“But, dismissing this point, let us look to other matters which
more certainly cut us off from the victory of which we were
secure.

“The battle was clearly won when the British line was broken,
and their masses scattered and driven from the field. How
was it lost, then? By the dispersion of our regulars among the
tents; by the mad fury with which they fastened upon rum and
brandy. But where were their officers, that they were suffered
to do this?”

“Pendleton says,” was the remark of Singleton, “that when
Greene sent to Lee to charge Coffin, Lee was not with his cavalry
at all. Subsequently, he was found riding about the field
with a few dragoons, giving orders to everybody — in fact,
usurping the entire command.”

“Well, where was Greene, when his favorite was thus employed?
What was he doing? Should he not have been present?
Why did he not, instead of sending an army-surgeon to

tell Williams to sweep the field with the bayonets of his division
— why did he not gallop to their head, and lead them into
action himself? That was the moment when a general should
peril himself greatly, if necessary, in order to achieve great results.
It was the crisis of the action. The British were shaking
everywhere. If, then, the general had dashed to the
front, and, with all the thunders of his voice, had cried out to
his men, `Follow ME, boys, and let us sweep these red-coats
from the field!' they would have gone forward with a maddening
cheer; would have stormed the gates of h—l; would have
never paused nor faltered, never stopped for tents, or drink, or
gaudy equipage and plunder; and we should have had the
brick-house in our possession before Sheridan could have won
the entrance with a single man. Then, there could have been
no Lee to usurp the field, and assume the grand direction of
affairs. Where was your general all this time, that the subordinates
were playing fool and monkey? In the rear, and despatching
slow orders through unofficial agents, whom nobody
was bound to recognise.”

“Greene was very angry with Lee, according to Pendleton.”

“Angry! He should have ordered him under arrest — ordered
him to the rear — nay, cut him down — cut him out of the
path; anything, rather than suffer such an impertinent and ridiculous
proceeding. And had Greene been present — there — in the
very place, where he should have been — he probably would have
done nothing less! But, even this was really a small matter
compared with some other proceedings of this day. We owe
our worst mischief to other causes. When the British were
driven into the house, they held, in that, and one other position
only — the thick wood on the edge of Eutaw creek, where Marjoribanks
was posted with his flank brigade. Everywhere besides,
they were routed; flying in absolute, irretrievable defeat and retreat,
in all other quarters. What remained to us? Why, we
had them in our grasp completely. We had only to bring our
fieldpieces into action. Well. The fieldpieces were brought
up, and instead of taking position a hundred and fifty or two
hundred yards from the house, and battering it down at leisure,
what do the blockheads do, but rush both pieces up to within

fifty yards of the building, while the sharpshooters swept away
the artillerists as fast as they approached the guns. Where
were the commanding officers here? Where the sense, or generalship?
What next? Why we are to dislodge Marjoribanks
from his cover along the creek. And how is this to be done?
Marjoribanks, with three hundred picked infantry, well armed
with muskets and bayonets, and covered besides with a dense
forest of black-jack, is to be dislodged by horse. By horse!
Was ever such an absurdity conceived before? Washington's
cavalry is required to hurl itself upon this wall of black-jacks,
this forest of bayonets — a dense wall; a bristling barrier of
steel blades — and the fortress to be won by unsupported cavalry.
Why, had the object been the utter annihilation of the
corps, the device could not have been better chosen. Even
were there no bayonets, no muskets, no Marjoribanks, the black-jacks
would have proved impervious to all the cavalry in the
world; and so these poor fellows were really sent to be slaughtered;
and when half their saddles were emptied, you might
see the survivors, still wilfully obedient, failing to urge their
horses forward, wheeling about and trying to back them into
the thicket, while smiting behind them with their broadswords.
Of course, a moment's reflection shows us that when they were
ordered on such a duty, the wits of the general were in the
moon! Such folly is without example. And when we reflect
that the whole necessity was reduced to a simple use of the two
pieces of artillery! With one of these pieces battering down
the house at two hundred yards, with the other, stuffed to the
muzzle with grape and raking the copse where Marjoribanks
was covered, twenty minutes would have sufficed for dislodging
both parties; when, with Washington and Lee's cavalry, both
on hand, and our mounted men of Maham and Horry, we had
every man of them doomed as food for the sabre, and nothing
but prompt surrender could have saved the lives of a single
mother's son of them! I'll engage that if Marion had been the
master of the army to-day, we had done these very things, and
no less. Regulars, indeed! I tell you that, all old soldiers are
regulars, even though you arm them with pitchforks only.
Had our militia shown the white feather to-day, in the first of
the action, they would have been burdened with the whole discredit
of its failure. Had they been the troops to break into
the British camp, and to grow insubordinate, while wallowing
in strong drink, we should never have heard the end of it!
Luckily, they fought this day to make these continentals stare;
and we owe it to them, and their weapons, that all of these fine
regulars were not slaughtered in these tents. But for our covering
rifles, Coffin and Marjoribanks would have swept every
scamp of them into eternity.”

“Supper, maussa!” quoth Tom, the cook, entering at this
moment, and making a spread upon the turf.

“But you will eat nothing, Porgy,” said the surgeon.

“Will I not!” roared the other, looking round with great
eyes of indignation. “Shall a hole in my thigh insist upon a
corresponding hole in my stomach? Because I am hurt shall I
have no appetite? Because you would heal, have you a right
to starve me? This is a ridiculous feature, my dear doctor, in
your medical philosophy. Let me tell you that one great secret
of the art of healing is to strengthen the defence of Nature, so
that she herself may carry on the war against disease. And let
me tell you further, that one of Tom's suppers will hurt no man
who sleeps with an easy conscience. Starve your sinners as
much as you please, my dear fellow; they deserve it on moral
grounds, and it may help them in physical matters; but for a
virtuous soldiery, like ours, feed them well and they need no
physic. But, where would you go, Sinclair, now, just as supper's
coming in?”

“I wish none, Porgy. I have no appetite.”

“No appetite! Go after him, St. Julien. Something's
wrong. A Christian without an appetite is as strange an
anomaly as a soul without a wing!”

But St. Julien did not stir.

“Let him alone,” said he, “and do not observe him, Porgy.
He has need to be sad just now. He has much to trouble
him.”

“Well, there's a need of sadness, at times, if only to make
the sunshine agreeable. Let him go. We shall keep something
for him when he gits back. All ready, Tom?”

“You kaint be too quick wid de supper, maussa. He jist
warm enough for de swallow.”

“Draw nigh, and fall to, boys. What if there be blockheads
in camp, shall we go to bed supperless for that? Because there
are ambitious dunderheads, shall good soldiers feed on bullets
only? I dream of a time, when every man will, perforce, fall
into his right place! In other words, I think a millenium possible.
Meanwhile, let us eat, drink, and be satisfied, though to-morrow
we sup on steel!”