The Fallon Blood, page 45
part #1 of Fallon Series
“Of course,” Henri said, “the other side has partisans, too, though they organize like regular militia. They rob and burn out anyone who hasn’t sworn loyalty to King George. Cunningham’s back, and Browne. And then there’s a fellow named Wemys, and M’Girth, and, of course, Tarleton and Huck. And Justin. We mustn’t forget Justin.”
“Brielle,” Michael said. “Gabrielle, turn around and look at me. Look at me, I said.”
His eyes seemed to drill into her. “Daniel was just doing what I told him,” she said finally “Don’t look at me like that, Michael. Darling, I did it for your own good.”
“My own good! God’s teeth, woman, what are you talking about?”
She stiffened. “Yes, your own good. If you’d known there was even a spark of resistance left, you’d have already returned, to get in the fighting again.”
He slammed his walking stick on the table. “And I damn well will.”
“You can’t. Don’t you understand that? You can’t.” She fought back desperately. “Henri and Louis are putting the best face on it they can, but listen to them. The Tories are regular militia, the patriots just farmers hiding in the swamps. One American army has been lost at Charlestown, and another at Camden. Do you think there’ll be a third? The Carolinas are done for. As far as we’re concerned, the revolution is over.”
“Damn it, Brielle, it isn’t over, and it’ll never be over so long as one man still believes in liberty.”
“It’s been a fine struggle, Michael, perhaps even a noble struggle. But it’s over with. I don’t want to see you hang for treason. I don’t want to take my, my child to live on the charity of Papa and Justin. You say you want to take us back to Tir Alainn, but you seem bent on leaving James and me in poverty.”
“If the revolution is lost, then Tir Alainn is lost, and the rest with it. God’s blood, if you don’t believe in what we’re fighting for any longer, you still must see that we have to win. Or you and I and James will spend our lives running and hiding. Aye, and Louis and Henri, too.”
“Once it’s over the British will be ready to rebuild. There’ll be pardons for everyone, except a few like John Rutledge. Full pardons, Michael. We’ll be able to take up our lives, and our property, again.”
“Do you know me so little, then? For this, you lied to me. You lied to me!”
“Michael, I—”
His face a mask of cold rage, he turned away from her. “Louis, how many men of the Legion can you gather?”
Louis hesitated, glancing at Gabrielle before speaking. “Not many, I’m afraid. They’re mostly dead, or prisoners. I can find two or three hundred if you’ll take volunteers.”
“No, only men who were with us before. For one thing, there’s no time to train them, and for another it’s hard to tell who to trust.”
“Whatever you say, Colonel. Now, horses are going to be a problem, but Henri knows a man—”
Gabrielle stared at Michael’s back. He’d shut her out. He wasn’t going to listen. It didn’t matter how much sense she made. He’d wrapped himself in his stubborn male pride, damn him. Well, she could be stubborn, too. There was a weapon she could use to get through to him, a weapon to force him to give up this mad idea of going back. She turned and blundered up the ladder to the loft before she was tempted to use it.
On the cornshuck mattresss she shared with Michael, she wept bitterly. All she had to do was tell him she was with child again, and needed him until after the baby was born. So much could happen in that time. Then why didn’t she? The answer leaped to mind. He wouldn’t believe her. He’d assume it was just another lie, and instead of pulling him closer it’d be a wedge to force him away more quickly. She put her hands to her stomach and wondered how much longer it’d be before she could feel the stirrings of life. And whether the child would be born with a father still alive.
31
Michael straightened his uniform, patched and cleaned by Martha, before riding out to inspect the Legion. Gabrielle had refused to touch it—or to do anything else to help him leave. Their talk was limited to her attempts to stop him. And that always made him think of how he’d been kept there, and lied to. Lied to! Damn it, couldn’t she realize how important the cause was? He mastered his rage before it built into another cold rage.
The uniform, and his presence, put a spark in the men. For the first time they sat their saddles as if they really were the Irish Legion again.
There were only bits and pieces of uniform among them, but their tack was well cared for, he noted, and he never found a speck of dust on saber or pistol or carbine. They weren’t as pretty as they’d been so long ago at Tir Alainn, but these men were hard, the best of the Legion. Forty-seven men, ready to ride behind Louis and Henri. And the flag. He stopped in surprise.
Young Tom Jarvis had ridden forward. “I did like you said, Colonel. I laid low till I heard the Legion was forming again.” He lowered the flag toward Michael. “My mama did the stitching, sir.”
He saw right away what the boy meant. Stars, a little cruder than the rest, had been added. The last had a jagged streak of red across it, as if it were broken.
“For Charlestown,” Louis said. “Where the Legion died.”
Henri laughed. “But the Archangel Michael raised his hand, and we are reborn. Stab me if we’re not.”
Louis moved closer and spoke quietly. “Michael, the boy has a right to be here. For all his youth, is he less a man than those of years who’ve signed the King’s oath from fear?”
“Very well, then. Back to your places.” He glanced toward the cabin. Gabrielle showed briefly in the door. Deliberately she turned her back and went inside. Martha was outside, holding an excited James by the hand, but at a peremptory call from the cabin she carried the protesting boy inside. Oh, hell. He whirled his horse to face the troops. His voice cracked like thunder.
“We are the last unit of the American Army in Georgia.” Suddenly the October air seemed colder, and the group smaller. “And that might well go for South Carolina, and most of North Carolina. Now, you’ve heard of the partisans, Marion and the rest. They are no army. Oh, they’re running the redcoats ragged, making them protect against raids instead of moving on a campaign, but it’ll take ten years to chase the British out that way, and then only if they decide it’s no longer worth the price to stay. It takes an army to defeat an army, and that’s why we’re not going to join the partisans. We’re going to North Carolina. And if there’s no army to be found there, then we’ll become the cadre for one. Major Fourrier, prepare the Legion to move out.”
He took a last look at the cabin, but the door was still empty. With a rigid face he rode to the head of the column, moving north.
In early December Michael found the American Army, at Charlotte, in North Carolina. As he led his men down from the high ground around the town his heart sank.
The only sentries were in the camp down in the hollow, ragged, thin, and miserable in the sharp wind and icy, misting rain. The rude shelters, of canvas and half-burned boards, hardly deserved the name. Garbage littered the camp, and a heavy stench hung in the air. Weary men stared numbly into fires, not even looking up as the Legion rode past. The sentries, shifting on rag-wrapped feet, eyed them sullenly.
“Hell and death,” Louis muttered. “They make us look ready for a dress parade.”
Michael frowned, studying the sea of churned red mud. Only luck had kept it from already freezing into knife-edge ridges that’d slash the feet of men and horses alike. If the army didn’t move soon, it’d die there.
A heavyset officer in a white coat with blue facings, and a leather jockey-cap, rode toward them. “I’ll be damned,” Louis said. “If William Washington’s here, things can’t be as bad as they seem. Colonel Washington! Colonel Washington!”
Washington reined in. “Fourrier! By God, I thought you were dead at Camden.”
“Not so, as you can see. Colonel Washington, let me present Colonel Michael Fallon, of the Irish Legion.”
“Pleased to meet you, Fallon. Fine-looking bunch of men, and the good Lord knows we can use them.”
Michael gripped a firm hand. “Thank you, Colonel. If you’ll forgive me, from what I can see you can use a whole army. I’m considering taking my men on, and try joining with the men who fought at King’s Mountain in October. An army that’s won one battle can win others; I’m afraid your men look ready to lose again.”
Washington shook his head. “You won’t find many if you do. They were overmountain men, you know, and they considered it a personal thing. Ferguson sent threats to them about what he’d do if they didn’t swear loyalty to the King.” He laughed. “Stupid thing to do, most of those men barely cared what was happening this side of the mountains. Then he threatened them. And once they’d killed him and wiped out his command, they went home. Or most of them did. The rest will be joining us right here. We’ve a new commanding general. Nathaniel Greene.”
“Another one,” Michael growled. “I wonder when Congress will tire of sending their political cronies south. First Howe, who lost Savannah and most of his army. Then Lincoln, who lost Charlestown and all of his army. Then Gates. He only lost his army, without losing a city. I thought they’d make a hero out of him. But you say they’ve replaced him. Who’s this, Greene, do you say?”
“He was at Trenton, commanded a division at Brandywine, and then the main column at Germantown. Since then he’s been quartermaster general for the army. Cousin George, I mean, General Washington, handpicked him for us. Conditions will improve now. You’ll see. Come, I’ll show you where to camp. You know, I wanted to meet you back when we were in Charlestown.”
“And I’d hoped to meet you, Colonel.” He followed Washington, holding up his end of the conversation without really thinking about it. So Greene had been quartermaster general. Being moved to that from a field command wasn’t exactly a recommendation for a general. It seemed they were in for another long hard spell.
When Greene sent for Michael, two weeks later, he wrapped his blanket and his saddle cloth around his shoulders before trudging up to the red brick courthouse. He was morosely cursing frozen mud when the sentry let him in.
Greene waited until Michael had disposed of his wraps before gesturing to a chair. “Sit, Colonel Fallon.” His florid face was dominated by bushy eyebrows, and the backs of his hands were scarred.
“Thank you, sir.”
Greene pushed a paper across the desk as Michael sat. “That is from your Governor Rutledge, sent, I take it, as soon as he discovered you were hardy again. It’s a promotion to full colonel in the South Carolina militia.” Michael murmured his thanks. “Yes, yes. But I have something else for you, and I hope you’ll take it instead. A Continental commission. Lieutenant Colonel. I have some good Continental officers with me, but I need more.”
Michael kneaded his hands, still stiff from the cold, and shook his head. “I’m sorry, General, but I can’t accept. If I’m a Continental officer, you can send me where you want, if it’s all the way to New England. But it’s here I think I’m needed, and so long as I’m militia, I cannot be sent elsewhere.”
Greene limped to the fireplace and poked up the fire. “Would it change your mind if I told you I intend to make South Carolina the seat of the war?”
“Sir?”
“I intend to run Charles Cornwallis off his feet. I don’t dare face him with what I have now, not unless I have to. So I will split my forces, sending Dan Morgan—you’ll be assigned to him—to the west of Cornwallis, against Ninety-six. Ninety-six. It always strikes me odd to see such a prosperous village named for its distance from Charlestown. I will move down the coast trying to cut his supply lines. Whoever he turns against will run away while the other raises havoc. And when Cornwallis turns against that one, the first will strike. In that way we’ll dance him around the Carolinas until he’s run down and we’ve had a chance to whip some of these farmers into soldiers. Well, Fallon, does that sound like we’re going to New England?”
Michael was stunned. The plan was daring as hell, and twice as dangerous. Had he really thought that Greene would be timid because he’d been a quartermaster? “General, it sounds to me like we’re going to run his damned legs off. Almost do you convince me. Not quite, sir, but almost.”
Michael was watching a rabbit turn on a spit when the scouts rode into camp, but he quickly followed them to General Morgan’s tent. A crowd had already gathered. Washington and John Howard, who commanded the infantry, represented the Continentals. For the militia there was Davidson, from North Carolina, and McDowell, from over the mountains, and Pickens, who’d brought in his partisans.
Morgan worked his hands against the pain of arthritis all the while he spoke. “Cornwallis has got Benny out after us.”
That brought a buzz of “Tarleton, Tarleton.”
“What does he have?” Washington asked.
“The scouts give him plenty. He’s got his Legion, plus the Seventy-first Highlanders, the Seventh Foot, and the Seventeenth Light Dragoons. And at least two field pieces. I want camp broken in thirty minutes. William, you and Michael get screens out between us and them. It’s time to run, boys.”
Michael didn’t even have to tell Jarvis to blow To Horse. The alarm spreading through the camp already had the Legion mounted. Michael looked regretfully at the half-cooked rabbit and left it. It’d go bad before he could finish it.
The next few days were frantic, the Americans running, crossing rivers only hours before the British running to catch them. Michael and Washington kept a close eye on them, sometimes even close enough to hear Tarleton’s foxhunter’s cry of hoy, hoy, hoy, as he pushed his men on. Fatigue ran through both camps, but the British took no rest. They crossed the Pacolet River in the dark, just six miles below the American camp. Michael rode half asleep in the saddle as they abandoned camp, leaving the first food in days on the cookfires. That night they stopped six miles from the Broad, in a large, grassy area used for gathering cattle. Hannah’s Cowpens, it was called.
False dawn brightened into first light. The cavalry sat their horses calmly, waiting in reserve a few hundred yards behind the ridge on which General Morgan stood. Except for him they might well have been alone. There was no sound except the creak of leather, and a horse stamping.
Morgan had explained his plan to every officer, down to the rawest lieutenant, in a mass meeting, and he’d told them to explain it to their men the same way. On the morrow, he’d said, they’d be waiting for Benny.
But he hadn’t let it go at that. Michael had seen him a dozen times during the night, passing among the men, laughing and joking, calming fears, even stripping off his shirt to show the knotted scars where he’d been flogged by the British as a boy. More than one of the militia had calmed to the point of offering a jug of popskull. Morgan would take a modest swig, tell the man to take a swallow if he needed it, but warn him that a man too drunk to shoot straight might well get pinned to a tree by a bayonet. Generally the man looked at his jug, then corked it and put it away.
From over the hill drifted shouting, and the scattered rattle of musketry. Tarleton had arrived, and as hoped, he wasn’t delaying a minute in his attack. The musket fire grew louder. Here and there a man in the cavalry coughed nervously, or eased his saber in its scabbard.
“Easy,” Washington said.
Michael looked back at his men without speaking. They’d be ready.
Scattered militiamen were deployed as skirmishers before the ridge. Two shots, Morgan had asked. Two shots, and aim carefully. Then they could fall back, around the hill to the protection of the cavalry. Then it’d be up to the two lines on the ridge, the first militia who were time-expired regulars, the second Continentals. From the sound of the firing, some were shooting more than twice. And then the first running militia appeared coming around the ridge. But they weren’t alone.
“Damn,” Washington yelled. “Benny’s cavalry is on them.” He drew his saber. “Colonel Fallon, can your bugler give us a charge?”
Michael’s saber came free. “Bugler!”
The notes rang in the morning air, and with a concerted roar the cavalry sprang forward. Militiamen scattered to let the horsemen through. The green-coated dragoons of Tarleton’s Legion tried to swing their attention from hacking at fleeing men on foot to fighting mounted men with steel in their hands. The masses of cavalry merged.
Michael beat aside a descending blade and slashed at his attacker. The man screamed as blood poured down across his face. All around him was the clash of steel on steel, the grunts of men’s efforts to stay alive, the truncated screams of those who failed. His horse reared, screaming as a saber gashed its shoulder, but he mastered it. A burning pain along his leg told him he hadn’t entirely escaped the blow. He cut at a man in front of him, not knowing if that was his attacker or not.
Suddenly the British were streaming away. For the first time Michael could see they’d come forward onto the field before the ridge. The British infantry advanced, regiments abreast, with a measured tread, their bayonets sloped precisely. On the far side the brass helmets of the Seventeenth Dragoons gleamed. The field already had its first covering of dead, a notable number of redcoated officers and sergeants among them. From where the attack had started, two field pieces pounded the American lines on the ridge.
Washington rode up cursing. Tossing down a broken saber, he bent from the saddle to take one from the ground. “I almost had him. Damn it all, I almost had him, and the damned blade broke.”
“Who?” Michael asked.
“Benny, that’s who. Tarleton himself. He was with that lot. Look there. He’s trying to rally them to come again. We can take them.”
“We’d better take those guns.” The cannon belched fire through the clouds of powder smoke drifting around them.
