Winnsboro, South Carolina

January 1, 1781

CHAPTER XXVIII

* * *

Colonel Banastre Tarleton hunched his shoulders against the cold rain as he picked his way through the black, puddled water and mud from his office to the British headquarters building at Winnsboro, South Carolina. He stopped at the door long enough to scrape mud from his boots on the metal scraper, then pushed into the anteroom to throw water from his tricorn, straighten the drooping green plume, and shake his cape. He hung them on a hook, then walked into the foyer.

A major rose from a desk.

“Good morning, sir. General Cornwallis has instructed me to show you in upon your arrival.”

Tarleton shook his head as he followed the officer down the hardwood hall, their boots thumping loud. “Miserable out there. River’s up. Creek’s flooding. Miserable.”

The major opened the door into a plain room with a plain desk. Tarleton entered and came to attention.

“Reporting as ordered, sir.”

Cornwallis remained seated at his desk. “Take a seat. We have much to discuss.”

Tarleton drew a chair to face Cornwallis, aware of a strong sense of frustration in the general. Cornwallis spread a map on his desktop, gestured Tarleton to his feet, and wasted no time.

“We’re here at Hillsboro, west of Camden.” He shifted his finger as he spoke. “Mister Greene is here, at Cheraw Hill, gathering troops for his army. Mister Daniel Morgan is here, west of Cheraw Hill at Grindall Shoals on the Pacolet River. Morgan’s routed one of our commands here, near William’s Plantation, and he’s threatening others right now.”

He paused to let Tarleton catch up.

“We lost most of another command here, at Hammond’s Store, at the hands of William Washington and James McCall.”

Tarleton broke in. “William Washington?”

“A relative of George Washington. An experienced cavalryman and a strong leader.” Cornwallis paused to gather his thoughts, then tapped the map with a heavy forefinger, and Tarleton saw the dilemma in his troubled eyes.

“If I attack Greene, I leave Morgan open to strike Ninety-six and Augusta. If I attack Morgan, I leave Camden exposed to Greene. If Greene were to join with Francis Marion, or Sumter, or Pickens, they could likely carry it off—defeat what few troops would be left at Camden, and have our winter supply of stores and munitions. I have not forgotten what became of Patrick Ferguson’s command at King’s Mountain.” Cornwallis’s face darkened, and Tarleton could hear the anger in his voice. “That horde of illiterates destroyed him completely. The loss forced me to abandon the plan to invade North Carolina. I had to retreat and regroup.”

Tarleton stared at the map for a moment, puzzling over where Cornwallis was going with all this.

Cornwallis continued. “I am still authorized to invade North Carolina, and I plan to do so immediately, and then on to Virginia. But I refuse to do so with both Greene and Morgan within striking distance of vital positions.”

Cornwallis stopped, Tarleton looked him full in the face, and in that instant Tarleton knew what was coming.

“I want you to take a force north, cross the Broad River, find Morgan, and drive him over the Pacolet River toward King’s Mountain. I will give you time, then I’ll march with General Leslie to be waiting just this side of King’s Mountain. With you behind, and us ahead of him, he will be trapped. We can destroy him altogether. That will leave Greene with half his army gone. We move quickly east to strike him, and with him crushed, there will be no one able to stop us as we move north.”

Cornwallis paused and waited.

“How many in my command?” Tarleton asked.

“Your legion of five hundred fifty, two hundred of the Seventy-first Infantry Regiment of Highland Scots, and a detachment of Royal Artillery, with a pair of field guns—grasshoppers—fifty infantry from the Seventeenth Dragoons, and two hundred new recruits from the Seventh Regiment—the Royal Fusiliers.”

For a few moments Tarleton stood silent, weighing it in his mind. “Nearly eleven hundred men—mostly trained—and two field guns,” he murmured, more to himself than Cornwallis. He straightened and his voice firmed. “That’s a strong fighting force. When do you want me to march?”

“Your written orders will be delivered before noon. Leave today if possible. The Seventy-first Regiment is on notice, along with the Royal Artillery detachment. Draw sufficient rations before you go.”

“Anything else?”

“No. You are dismissed.”

In a freezing South Carolina January afternoon rain, Tarleton’s command slogged out of their Winnsboro campground onto a dirt road turned to mud twelve inches deep, cursing their way north, toward William’s Plantation and the Pacolet River beyond. For three days they gritted their teeth as they plowed through mud and winter rain before they found a passable ford to cross the flooding Enoree River, and another four days to fight their way across the dangerously swollen Tyger River, pushing ever north in their hunt for the elusive Daniel Morgan.

On the eighth day, two scouts cantered their horses into the British camp to tell Tarleton that Morgan was six miles east of the Old Iron Works ford on the Pacolet River.

Tarleton reflected for a moment. “If he’s six miles east of the ford, that’s where we’re going to cross the river. That will put us between Morgan and Greene and cut off any chance one may come to help the other. And, from that position we can attack Morgan. Get the men into marching order.”

The British had not marched six hundred yards when two of Morgan’s scouts, invisible in the trees on the north bank of the river, watched through slitted eyes long enough to understand where the British column was going. They faded back, mounted wet saddles, reined their horses around, and raised them to a gallop, following the river east.

Half an hour later Caleb and Primus sat their horses in a fine, misty rain, watching the scouts pull their jaded mounts to a mud-splattered stop ten feet from General Morgan to make their report. Caleb glanced at Primus, then spurred his mount forward, Primus following, to gather with others close enough to hear the scouts.

“Sir, Tarleton’s headed for the Old Iron Works ford. It ’pears he figgers to cross the river and get between us and Greene. From there, who knows.”

Morgan’s answer was instant. “If he’s headed for the ford, so are we. If he tries to cross, he’ll do it under our rifles. Get the men on their feet. We’re marching.”

A murmur arose among the men as they turned to form with their units.

Marchin’ back to the ford? We was just there!

This walkin’ back and forth in the mud’s got us nowhere!

At Tarleton’s camp, an hour later, with soldiers adding wet wood to sputtering evening cook fires, half the troops stopped to watch a weary, mud-splattered horse lope through, to halt before the command tent. The scout dismounted to stand stiff-legged for a moment before advancing to the picket.

“Lieutenant Yoder back from scout to report to the Colonel.”

Two minutes later Yoder was facing Tarleton inside the cold tent.

“Morgan guessed where we’re going. His command is camped right across the Pacolet River at the ford, ready to fight. We cross, we’ll be under their guns the whole way.”

Tarleton started. “He’s waiting over there for us to try to cross?”

“No doubt about it.”

“Well,” Tarleton exclaimed, “then we march down to the lower ford and cross in the dark tonight. We’ll attack in the morning.”

Once more the tired British command shouldered their muskets and mounted their horses, and under cover of night and a drizzling rain, marched six miles downstream. In the blackness, the cavalrymen jumped their horses into the high-running stream and slipped from the saddles to hang off the upstream side of their mounts as the frightened horses struck out swimming for the other side of the rain-swollen stream. The infantry soldiers wrapped their cartridge belts about their necks to keep the powder dry, raised their muskets above their heads, and waded into the cold water, straining to hold their balance as they battled through to the muddy far bank. Through the night the command continued their crossing, with Tarleton organizing them into rank and file as they arrived. With sunrise an hour away, Tarleton drew his saber and shouted his orders.

“Follow me. We’ll be on them before the sun’s up.” In the darkness, Tarleton did not see nor hear Morgan’s two hidden scouts who sprinted back to their waiting horses and leaped into their saddles to race upstream toward Morgan’s camp.

In the gray, swirling mists of a night fog rising from the river, the scouts came in on galloping mounts, eyes wide, shouting as they rode. Caleb and Primus and half the men in camp set their plates of breakfast down to come at a run, feeling the beginnings of fear. They had been playing a deadly guessing game with Tarleton for days, and there was not a man among them who misunderstood that the first wrong guess, the first mistake, could be their last. They gathered in a silent circle around the guide, who was facing Daniel Morgan in the darkness, talking too loud, too fast.

“They crossed the river last night. They’re on this side, just five miles downstream, and they’re coming this way as hard as they can.”

A gasp went through the command. Morgan threw the steaming breakfast broth from his wooden cup and turned to Colonel James McCall. “Get the men mounted. Now! We march in ten minutes for Thicketty Mountain. There’s a place there called Cowpens. We can be there in half an hour.”

McCall stammered, “But sir, the men are still cooking breakfast.”

“Forget breakfast! Get them moving. Now!”

One hour later Tarleton’s lead ranks of cavalry cantered their horses into the abandoned camp, sabers drawn, heads swiveling as they looked for an ambush. There was none. The leader dismounted and walked to the nearest campfire, still smoldering beneath a huge, black frying skillet with strips of charred pork belly sizzling in the hot grease. He remounted and loped his horse to the far end of the vacant grounds, and for several seconds studied the tracks of men and horses in the soft mud. A smile of anticipation formed, and he spoke to the sergeant beside him.

“Maybe a thousand, without much cavalry, and it looks like a lot of militia. They sure left in a hurry. Maybe some of our boys would like a little of their warm breakfast.”

The sergeant grunted a laugh but said nothing.

“I think we’ve got them. Better get back and tell the Colonel.”

Three miles ahead, Daniel Morgan raised a hand, and his force stopped. He studied the sandy hill rising ahead and slightly to their right. Swamps and bogs flanked both sides, and the top was nearly barren of trees. Five hundred feet behind the hill ran the rain-swollen Broad River, wide and strong.

“There it is,” Morgan exclaimed. “Cowpens. This is where the Quakers gather their cattle, and this is where we make our stand.”

He turned to McCall. “Get the officers here, and their men gathered around behind them. I got to give them their battle orders and positions, and we don’t have time to waste.”

“Sir,” McCall said, “do you mean to take positions on that hill?”

“Right on top.”

“There’s no trees up there. Nothing for cover. With the Broad behind, and the swamps on both flanks, it looks like a death trap to me, sir.”

Morgan’s eyes drove into the man like knives. “I hope to the Almighty that Tarleton sees it the same.”

McCall shook his head in confusion, and wheeled his horse to shout orders to the men to gather. Morgan sat his big bay gelding and watched the men come running, tense, white-faced, silent. Caleb and Primus were less than twenty feet from Morgan when Morgan’s voice boomed.

“All right. This is where we meet Mr. Tarleton. Listen close, because I don’t have time to say this twice.”

The only sound was the squeaking of saddles as the horses breathed.

“Colonel Washington, you take your command of Continentals and cavalry up to the far end of the hill. Stop five hundred yards this side of the Broad River. You got infantry with rifles. Get them in a line with their backs to the river. Get your cavalry behind them, with their sabers ready. You hold all those men in reserve until I give you orders to attack, and then you come like a horde from the netherworld.”

“Yes, sir.”

Morgan turned to James Eager Howard. “About two hundred yards in front of Washington’s cavalry, you put your infantry—all four hundred thirty of them—in two ranks, the front one kneeling, the rear one standing so everyone can fire. I’ll be somewhere near you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

He turned to Andrew Pickens. “Colonel, you line up your men in two ranks, one about seventy yards in front of Howard’s men, the other one about fifty yards in front of them for a skirmish line. You got some crack riflemen with those Deckhard rifles. Put them in the front line and tell them the first ones they shoot are the ones with the gold epaulets on their shoulders. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Morgan paused for a moment, then shouted, “Now listen to this, and make no mistakes.”

He waited until every eye was on him. “Pickens, Tarleton’s going to come at you at a run, likely with his cavalry. Your front line is to wait until they’re about fifty yards away, and fire one timed volley, then a second one. When that first line has fired that second volley, break in both directions—right and left. Run around and take up a position with Howard’s men. Then your second line is to start shooting as soon as Tarleton’s men are within range of those Deckhard rifles. Two timed volleys, break in the center, run right and left, around and take a position with Howard’s command. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, sir.

He turned to James Howard. “The whole battle plan comes down to your men. Tarleton’s going to think he’s done what he’s always done—scared Pickens’s men into full retreat. If Pickens’s men follow orders, you’ll have his riflemen mixed with yours—about six hundred muskets and rifles, all firing from high ground. Tarleton’s going to keep coming, right at you. Your men can’t break. Keep those rifles hot. Don’t miss. Ride right in among your men and calm them, make them hold their ground. If they’ll keep up a sustained fire they can take down anyone coming up the hill. Clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

He turned to Washington. “No telling what Tarleton will do, but at some point he’s going to try to rally, or find a soft spot. That’s when I give you the signal, and you come out from behind us with your cavalry and their sabers and your infantry with their rifles, and you hit wherever Tarleton sends his men, and don’t back up.”

Morgan stopped, wiped at his mouth while he gathered his thoughts, and concluded. “Any questions?”

There were none.

“All right, boys. I picked this hilltop because there’s no way out. Not for us, not for Tarleton. Once he commits and comes up the hill after us, we got the river behind us and swamps on both sides, and Tarleton in front. We beat Tarleton, or we’re all dead or captured. Just remember what I’ve told you, and keep cool heads. We can beat this man. Now get to your positions.”

Caleb and Primus swung into their saddles and waited for Washington to trot his horse before them.

“Follow me,” he shouted, and his command of cavalry and infantry fell in behind as he spun his horse and raised it to a trot toward the river. He gauged the distance and held up his hand to halt his men five hundred yards short of the Broad.

“Cavalry behind,” he called. “Infantry in front, rank and file. Be certain your powder’s dry, because when this thing starts there’ll be no time. Move!”

Caleb and Primus loped their horses to the high point on the barren, sandy hill, and turned them, then dismounted. They tied them in the foliage as the long line of Washington’s cavalry formed, then trotted to join the infantry where their Deckhard rifles were needed, as the foot soldiers quickly fell into rank and file before the line of horses. They found their place, and with every man in the unit, knocked the rifle frizzens  open, dumped damp powder, tapped fresh from their powder horns, snapped the frizzens shut, flexed the hammers, and settled, waiting, silently looking down the slight incline.

Two hundred yards ahead of them the lines under James Howard’s direct command formed, Morgan off to one side, watching, while Pickens settled his men in front to take the attack. It was a few minutes past eight o’clock on January 17, 1781.

There was no prologue, no time for the men to allow their fears to create monsters in their heads, no time for nerves to fray. One moment the road below was vacant, the next, Banastre Tarleton in his green uniform with that huge green plume was there. He stopped his horse, looked to his right long enough to identify the first line of Pickens’s men on the barren, sandy hill, glanced both directions to be certain of the lay of the land, and turned in his saddle. He drew his saber, pointed up the hill, and his shout could be heard by everyone in Morgan’s command.

“Dragoons, charge their skirmish line!”

His vaunted cavalry wheeled their horses toward the hill, slammed their spurs home, and in three jumps were at a full gallop, sabers drawn, howling as they swept upward.

“Steady, steady,” Pickens called. “Fifty yards. Wait. Fifty yards. Pick out the ones with the gold braid and the chevrons on their sleeves. Wait.” With narrowed eyes he calculated distance, raised his hand, and his shout rang out.

“Now! Fire!”

The Deckhards cracked and nearly half the green-jacketed dragoons sagged from their saddles to roll loose on the ground, finished. Stunned, those still mounted hesitated but for a moment, then charged on, sabers raised.

“Steady, steady, reload.” Pickens watched his men standing firm, reloading with practiced hands.

“Fire!” 

The second volley blasted, and more of the charging cavalry threw their arms in the air to tumble, officers and sergeants first among them.

“Break! Break!” Pickens shouted, and his skirmish line divided in the middle to run right and left, out of sight.

Below the shooting, a contemptuous smile began to form on Tarleton’s lips at the familiar sight of rebel militia in what appeared to be full retreat before his elite cavalry. He turned to his infantry.

“Move up the hill, rank and file. Show them the bayonet!”

With drums banging, the foot soldiers began their march upward, straight at Pickens’s second line of riflemen. The British held their muskets at the ready, the wicked bayonets menacing in the dull light of the overcast morning.

Once again Pickens moved among his men. “When they get in range, pick out the epaulets and the chevrons, and open fire. Two volleys. Steady. Wait.”

Tarleton’s oncoming infantry sensed something that sent a chill through them. The first line had seemed to disappear in a panic-driven retreat. What was the second line doing, kneeling and standing, calm, waiting? They put aside their questions and continued their march in the soggy, damp morning.

Pickens voice rang. “They’re in range! Pick your targets and fire!”

A sustained, ragged volley erupted, and once again the officers grunted and crumpled, and men all up and down the advancing British lines staggered and fell. Still they came on, into the sustained fire. Some lowered their muskets to fire at the American lines, still far out of accurate musket range.

“Break!” shouted Pickens.

The second line divided and disappeared. Some of the raw recruits, who had never seen battle began to run, angling for the horses tied in the trees, and for a moment it appeared they would take half the line with them. Instantly Pickens gave a hand signal to his second in command, Hughes, and the two of them raced their horses ahead of the frightened militia. “Back! Get back! Hold your ground! The battle’s in our hands!”

The terrified men stopped, took hold of themselves, and ran back to their ranks.

At the sight of the momentary panic in the Americans, Tarleton sensed his opportunity. He turned and shouted, “All dragoons, CHARGE!”

The green-clad mob surged forward, up the hill, unaware until the last moment that Howard’s command of riflemen, now joined by Pickens’s militia and regulars, waited for them just over a small rise, with those long, deadly Deckhards. As the galloping horses crested the high ground, Howard shouted, “Fire!” and six hundred rifles blasted.

Nearly the entire leading rank of incoming cavalry went down. Stunned, shocked, the balance faltered. Some veered to their left in an attempt to flank Howard’s lines, and as they dug their spurs home, Morgan raised a hand to Washington and pointed. Instantly Washington, short, fat, unlikely, and one of the toughest natural cavalrymen in the American army, kicked his horse to an all-out gallop, shouting, “Follow me!”

His cavalry swept around the right flank of Howard’s men, head-on into Tarleton’s oncoming troops, and did not slow. They plowed straight in, sabers flashing, knocking men and horses toppling, shouting like insane men as they turned the pride of the English army—Tarleton’s cavalry—and drove them back, back, knocking them down.

Behind came Washington’s infantry, sprinting, and at fifty yards the leading ranks went to one knee to steady their rifles, Caleb and Primus among them. They settled the thin blade of the front sight on the third button of the green tunics, and squeezed off their first volley. Dragoons tumbled and lay still, while Caleb and Primus and those with them rose, trotting forward, reloading as they came, to kneel a second time and coolly send their second deadly volley into the dragoons.

Watching from a distance, Tarleton stared. For the first time he sensed that something was badly wrong. He had watched the first two American lines turn and retreat, as they always had when his dragoons swept down like a raging torrent. But that third line? They were standing solid, cool, disciplined. His dragoons had tried to flank them when from nowhere the American cavalry had ripped into them, stopped them, turned them. Tarleton turned and shouted, “Highlanders, move up!”

The Scots came with their bagpipes screeching, muskets and bayonets at the ready, into the American right, and Howard ordered his men to reform to meet them. The movement startled Morgan, who came at a gallop, shouting to Howard, “Are your men beaten?”

Howard shook his head violently. “Do beaten men march like that?”

A grin creased the Old Wagonmaster’s broad, homely face. “No, they don’t. Carry on!”

Tarleton saw the movement, and began to relax. At last the Americans were beginning to collapse!

From a distance, Washington saw the movement, and he watched the hard-fighting Scots marching in on the Americans. He stood tall to shout to his cavalry, “Break it off. Follow me!” He dug his spurs into his horse one more time, and led his men back toward the advancing Scots.               

At that moment Morgan signaled Howard. On my command, halt your men and have them turn and fire one volley before Washington collides with the oncoming Scots and the infantry.

At precisely the right moment, Howard’s Virginians, Marylanders, and Georgians stopped in their tracks, turned, calmly picked their targets, and poured a thundering volley into the British lines. With the smoke still hanging in the dead air, Washington’s cavalry once again tore into them with sabers swinging.

For a moment the British faltered, and then they took one step back, and then they broke. They turned, threw down their arms, and in three seconds were a broken, disorganized, terrorized horde, running for their lives.

Caleb slowed and stopped and reached for his powder horn to reload while he searched for the long green plume. He saw it, drove the .54-caliber ball down the barrel of his hot rifle with the ramrod, shoved it in its receiver, and started to raise his rifle, then lowered it.

Too far. Six hundred yards. Too far. While he watched, the horse carrying the most feared cavalry officer in the British army reached the bottom of the hill and at stampede gait, disappeared into the trees.

The battle of Cowpens was over. It was not yet nine o’clock in the morning.

Almost as quickly as it had begun, the shooting stopped. Morgan’s men herded their prisoners into a circle at the center of the hill and stationed Continentals around them to hold them. The others went about the grisly business of counting casualties for both sides, and tending the wounded as best they could.

It was close to noon before Caleb and Primus and others gathered around Morgan to hear the report from Andrew Pickens.

“Far more than one hundred British dead, among them thirty-nine officers. Two hundred twenty-nine wounded. Six hundred prisoners, including twenty-seven officers. Two field cannon, eight hundred muskets, one hundred cavalry horses, and thirty-five wagons with munitions and food supplies.”

Morgan nodded. “Our casualties?”

“Twelve dead, sixty wounded.”

Open talk erupted. No man among them could recall such a lop-sided victory. With fewer men than Tarleton, and far fewer of them trained in combat, Morgan’s small army had all but destroyed the best fighting force in the British army, in a stand-up fight in the classic European style so loved by the British.

By nightfall, Tarleton had gathered the tattered remains of his dragoons, and rode all night to find General Cornwallis, twenty-five miles from the place he had promised to be on the north bank of the Broad River. A beaten, weary man on a jaded horse, Tarleton approached Cornwallis’s tent and was given entrance by the picket.

Cornwallis gaped at the sight of him. “What’s happened?”

“Sir, I . . . we engaged Morgan. We were defeated.”

Cornwallis stammered, “An ambush?”

“No. At Cowpens. On a hill.”

“Where’s your command?”

“Gone, sir. All except the few outside.”

“Gone? How many gone?”

“Over nine hundred. Dead, wounded, or captured. I do not know how many were killed.”

Cornwallis was dumbstruck, incredulous. “Was Greene with Morgan? Did they have too many men?”

Tarleton shook his head. “No, sir. Morgan was alone. We had slightly superior numbers.”

The news of the catastrophe spread through the British ranks like wildfire. Recriminations poured in. Tarleton defended himself until it became clear there was no other way to settle the matter, and he wrote a request to Cornwallis.

“Regretfully I request a court-martial be convened at earliest opportunity that I might have opportunity to defend my honor.”

Cornwallis shook his head. “There will be no court-martial.” On January 30, 1781, he issued his official letter ending the matter.

“ . . . and Lieutenant Colonel Banastre Tarleton is exonerated in all particulars . . . his means in bringing the enemy into action were able and masterly in every respect . . .”

After the drums sounded taps and the lights in camp winked out, General Cornwallis sat in the silence of his quarters, staring at the wall, struggling to grasp the realities of where his southern campaign had come. The thoughts came, and he examined each one, weighed it, put it in its proper place, and waited for the entire mosaic to develop.

He had designed to move north, taking North Carolina and Virginia in succession, then on to take the Chesapeake in Virginia. The plan had crumbled with the loss of Patrick Ferguson and his command at King’s Mountain. He delayed the plan and had fallen back until he could regroup. He had then moved north a second time, and again disaster struck, with the unimaginable destruction of Banastre Tarleton’s elite fighting force at Cowpens.

The question now lay naked before him.

Do I once again delay the plan? Fall back once again?

Slowly he shook his head. No! I will not retreat again! Our forces have suffered enough humiliation . . . first in New England where we failed to end this war, and now it is repeating in the South. I will pursue General Morgan, and I will find him, and I will defeat him, and then I will find General Greene and destroy his command.

He rose from his chair and went to his bed, to drift into a troubled sleep.

Notes

On January 1, 1781, General Cornwallis ordered Colonel Banastre Tarleton and his elite fighting force to find and destroy the command of General Daniel Morgan. The dates, places, officers, and events are correctly presented in this chapter, including the unorthodox positions in which Morgan placed his men on an open hilltop. The order of the battle, the movement of the troops of both sides, the routing of the British by the Americans, and the unbelievable results of the battle at Cowpens were as represented herein. Following his catastrophic defeat, Tarleton reported to Cornwallis, to find that criticism against him became extreme, and he requested a court-martial to clear his name. Cornwallis refused and wrote a letter justifying Tarleton in all particulars. Parts of the letter are quoted herein verbatim. Thereafter, Cornwallis determined to follow and attempt to destroy Dan Morgan’s command. Because the British held the Americans and their army in such disdain, they refused to refer to American officers by their military titles, purposefully calling them “Mister,” as in this example of General Cornwallis and his description of American generals Greene and Morgan (Lumpkin, From Savannah to Yorktown, 116–34; see diagram of the battle, 128; Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 599–602, and see diagram of the battle, p. 601; Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, pp. 366–68).