HOME AGAIN
Back at the scene of the battle Rodney found preparations were being made for the little army to march, leaving a detachment behind to dispose of the dead and care for the wounded. No one seemed to know where they were to go. Many thought, in view of the fact that the British had been defeated and Tarleton put to flight, Morgan would remain in the vicinity for reinforcements and await an attack by Cornwallis. Few realized what a daring thing he had already done.
Had Tarleton’s headlong charges thrown his meagre forces into confusion they would have had little opportunity to retreat and most of them would have been cut down. Morgan afterwards was criticized by the envious for having risked a battle under the circumstances. He believed he knew that it was necessary to fight that battle and he had won against odds. The “Old Wagoner” didn’t propose to wait while Cornwallis should overtake him with a superior force and recapture the prisoners and spoils and annihilate his forces. Instead, though he concealed his plans, he resolved upon making the quickest retreat possible. 288 To do this he marched toward a ford which was nearer to Cornwallis than to him. It was a great risk but he felt he must take it.
“If you’ve got a home, you better get to it, my lad,” the kindly doctor had said while hastily bandaging the lad’s wounded arm. “This may give ye trouble, though I hope not.”
“That’s good advice,” said Morgan, who chanced to overhear the doctor’s words and recognized Rodney. “You report to Colonel Washington and tell him Morgan has ordered you home to Charlottesville. This war has eaten up too many of my Rangers already.” With that parting advice he mounted his horse and rode away.
There remained for Rodney nothing to do but obey orders, though he was loath to leave. The spirit of victory was in his soul. That had been a glorious battle and the right had triumphed. The bloodhounds had put their tails between their legs and fled. He did not realize that they would rally and soon be close upon the heels of the retreating Americans, and that nothing would save the latter but the winter floods which were to fill the rivers and delay the British.
Through a land ravaged by war, over roads deep with mud, where might be found only the poorest accommodations for man or beast, Rodney Allison rode homeward. His arm give him little trouble except the fear it might always be stiff. The nearer he came to home the more he longed to be back with the army. It troubled him to think that in the victories 289 he was sure would follow he could not have a part.
“I’m never able to win promotion,” he said to himself, rather bitterly. The picture of that winter night, the witching face of Lisbeth and her mocking laugh as she rode away, kept recurring to his mind. What a girl she had been, the best playmate even a boy might wish; always ready for a lark, daring, mischievous, with wit as keen as a blade and quick as a flash. He could not think of her as dead, and the bitterness of his heart at the trick she had played upon him troubled him now as he looked back upon it. “She didn’t know what she was doing, did she, Nat, old boy?”
Nat had been plodding along but now lifted his head with some show of interest. The hard life he had led since the day Mogridge had stolen him had not quite broken his spirit, though he was gaunt and worn with cruel service.
“I’ve got you, Nat, if I haven’t got a promotion, and of the two I’d rather have you,” said his rider, patting his shoulder.