RODNEY RIDES WITH THE DRAGOONS
After the battle of Camden, in which Gates was sorely defeated by
Cornwallis, affairs in the South looked very dubious for the American
forces. A large part of the people in South Carolina and Georgia were
loyalists, and their relations with their Whig neighbours were
exceedingly bitter. Except for small bands of patriots under daring
leaders like Marion and Sumter, "The Carolina Gamecock," as his
followers proudly called him, the British and their Tory allies held
possession of Georgia and South Carolina and were planning to sweep
northward into North Carolina and on into Virginia. Cornwallis' fame
was in the ascendant.
Such were the conditions on that October day when Rodney Allison
joined the army of Gates. Two days later came the cheering news that a
force of Tories under the command of Colonel Ferguson had been almost
annihilated at King's Mountain by a body of pioneer Whigs, most of
whom came from the border settlements over the mountains. A number of
those captured, known to be guilty of murder, were hanged and the
impression made on other Tories in those states was very depressing.
The Americans now expected great assistance from the militia of those
states, but the British emissaries among the Indians incited them to
attack the frontier settlements, thus making it necessary for those
brave fellows who had won the battle of King's Mountain to return home
to protect their families from the savages.
When finally General Nathaniel Greene, at Washington's request, was
sent to supersede Gates, he found an army of only about two thousand
men, poorly equipped, the enemy strongly entrenched, the country swept
bare of subsistence and winter approaching.
Through the influence of General Morgan, Rodney was assigned to duty
with Colonel Washington's dragoons. It was a proud moment for the lad
when he found himself associated with the finest body of cavalry in
the army. Those daring horsemen were the terror of the Tories and
young Allison rode with them on many a daring exploit, a full account
of which would fill a volume. The lad had now grown to man's stature
and sat his horse like a veteran. How often on those wild rides he
longed to be on the back of Nat once more! Poor fellow, what had
become of him? The sight of the spur-scarred, hard-ridden horses of
the British cavalry filled him with fury as he thought it probable the
fate of his beloved colt had been like theirs.
Finally came the day when General Morgan was to add another to the
long list of his successes. Cornwallis and Colonel Tarleton, "the
bloodhound," had planned to trap Morgan and annihilate his force. The
latter was compelled to retreat and Tarleton was sent in pursuit. When
he believed Morgan was fleeing from him he threw caution to the winds
and hurried his force on to what he doubted not would be the capture
of the doughty leader.
Morgan has since been criticized for hazarding a battle. His force was
far inferior to Tarleton's and did not include artillery as did the
latter's. Moreover, with Morgan were many raw militia who could not be
depended upon to face the veterans under the British leader, knowing,
as they did from sad experience, that little quarter would be granted
them if defeated. But he had the veteran Marylanders who had fought so
bravely at Camden, and the support of Colonel Washington's dragoons.
Furthermore, shrewd leader of men that he was, he felt that the moment
had come when he must fight. To continue his flight meant capture or
dispersion of his forces. He believed that Tarleton would be
over-confident and so run headlong into whatever trap he might set,
and this was just what happened.
At a place called the Cowpens he found the position he desired. Here
were two small hills, one behind the other and with a river at the
rear; no place for a scared militiaman to escape, nothing to do but
fight to his last gasp, because he knew that if he offered to
surrender he would be ruthlessly bayoneted.
The night before the battle it is said Morgan did not sleep. His men,
enraged at the cruelties inflicted upon their country by the invaders,
were longing for revenge. This spirit Morgan fanned to flame.
Throughout the night this big, brawny man, whose fame for success in
many perilous undertakings inspired the confidence of every man who
came to know him, walked among the soldiers and talked with them. His
was the appearance of a man perfectly confident that the next day
would bring victory and glory to American arms. He laughed and joked
with them. "Just hold up your heads, boys; give 'em three fires and
you are free. The Old Wagoner will crack his whip over Ben Tarleton in
the morning, sure as he lives. Think of what your wives an'
sweethearts will say when you go home an' tell what ye did."
Ah! How they loved and admired the big fellow who was one of them. He
had stormed the defences at Quebec after leading his men through an
almost impassable wilderness; he had led his Rangers in wild charges
against the regulars under Burgoyne and driven them; he would win, and
they would help him, to the last drop of blood in their veins.
In that spirit of implicit confidence in their stalwart leader even
the raw recruits never thought of trembling on that raw morning in the
middle of January, 1781, when the outposts came riding back with the
report that Tarleton was approaching. They had been placed down in
front with the Marylanders at their backs to support them, and Colonel
Washington's dragoons screened behind the hill waiting for the word
to charge. In front of the Carolina and Georgia militia, between whom
Morgan had excited a spirit of rivalry as to which body should behave
with the greater bravery under fire, riflemen had been stationed.
Soon the American sharpshooters in front began firing and falling back
toward the militia, who never wavered. They had been ordered to hold
their fire and they obeyed implicitly.
Now the solid wall of British infantry is almost upon them, and a
sheet of flame spurts out along the American line; then another and
another, and those raw soldiers only retreat before overwhelming
numbers when it is apparent they can resist no longer, and then, like
veterans, slowly and under orders.
Over behind the hill Rodney Allison's knees grip his horse. This
waiting is worse than fighting, waiting for that soul-stirring word,
"Charge!" Now it rings out and echoes through the ranks, and like a
whirlwind they sweep right through the lines of Tarleton's cavalry
forming for a charge, and, wheeling about, come riding and slashing
back through them again. Colonel Howard is skilfully handling the
troops and the gallant Pickens rallying the militia. The British ranks
waver and become disorganized, the Americans charge and the British
throw down their arms and sue for mercy or flee from the field.
Tarleton is trying to rally his shattered horsemen when down upon them
come Washington's dragoons, with Colonel Washington far ahead of his
men.
Then it is that Tarleton tries to kill or capture his antagonist.
Washington's sword is broken at the hilt and, but for the assistance
of a boy, the brave Washington would have been struck down. Now his
men are at his back and Tarleton rides away with his fleeing men as
though pursued by demons.
Then come orders to pursue and the dragoons go riding out into the
country after the fleeing British. Most of them choose a wrong road
and only succeed in picking up a few stragglers.
Rodney had charged and wheeled and charged again. It had been his
fortune to be in the thickest of the struggle from first to last. Then
he joined in the pursuit.
The group of horsemen with whom Rodney was riding came to forks in the
road. Rodney's training among the Indians often proved valuable and
now he declared there were but two horses of the enemy on the road
they had come, also that they had divided at the forks, each taking a
different road. As many of the cavalry had come to the Cowpens over
this road early the same morning, there was a confusion of tracks and
a consequent confusion in the minds of the pursuers. Allison doggedly
stuck to his conclusion and rode on alone.
Judging from the tracks, it was evident that the fleeing British
cavalryman had ridden his horse at a mad gallop and Rodney urged his
own to the utmost.
On either side of the road stretched a scraggly growth of trees.
Suddenly his horse shied and at the same instant a pistol shot rang
out. The lad's left hand relaxed its grasp of the bridle and slipped
nervelessly to his side. The ball had broken his arm below the elbow.
Had his horse not been frightened and shied, the ball intended for his
heart probably would have hit the mark.
A British rider came crashing through the bushes. Finding there was
but one pursuer, and he wounded, the fellow had decided to fight. He
certainly had Allison at serious disadvantage, but the latter,
slipping the half drawn pistol back into the holster, grasped the
bridle with his uninjured hand and wheeled his horse sharply to meet
the foe, who was almost upon him.
For an instant each stared in astonishment at the other. Then into the
face of young Allison swept a savage fury. His gray eyes looked black
and blazing. He dropped the bridle and drew his sword, spurring his
unguided horse forward. The horse swerved and Rodney missed the blow
he aimed at the head of his antagonist. The latter was a better
swordsman on equal terms, and Rodney, unable to use his left hand, was
at a decided disadvantage.
Soon he was at his wits' end. Twice the thrust of his antagonist had
grazed his neck. Thinking he had Rodney at his mercy, the Englishman
rose in his stirrups and swung his blade with evident intent to cut
him down. In parrying the blow Rodney's inferior blade was broken near
the hilt, which was knocked from his hand. He struck his horse a smart
blow with his right spur, reached for his pistol and cried "Down,
Nat!"
Mogridge, for the Englishman was none other than the one who had
stolen Nat and nearly ridden him to death, again rose in his stirrups,
confident of cutting down his foe. The look of malignant hate in his
face changed to that of consternation; the horse under him was
kneeling!
Rodney draws his pistol. The foe is wickedly spurring and yanking the
bridle and cursing his horse. Every thrust of the spur into Nat's
gaunt flanks pricks Rodney as well. He aims to kill and his finger is
on the trigger, when, like a flash of light, he recalls Zeb's words:
"Killin' even an enemy is serious, an' not pleasant to dream about."
"Dismount and surrender your arms or I'll blow out your brains," he
cried.
Mogridge dared not disobey.
"You will now lead that horse back to camp. If he could ride you he
should have the chance, you cur."
"There's such a thing as courtesy even in war," replied Mogridge,
though he was careful to do as he was bid.
"Not with horse thieves."
"All's fair in love and war," retorted Mogridge, and then, seeing the
look in Allison's face, he wisely decided to say no more.