Glenn Beck - Miracles and Massacres - True and Untold Stories of the Making of America

Jouett pretended to be absorbed in his own thoughts while he tended to his steed, but as more tavern patrons came and went, he eavesdropped on their conversations. Today, with British cavalry loitering just outside the Cuckoo, the locals were more guarded than usual. Jouett listened in to their still-energetic discussions, which became more energetic and less guarded with each draft of hard cider or flagon of rum. They soon veered toward politics. “The stubborn boys in Maryland came around,” a patron shouted atop the noise. “Did you hear they finally signed the Articles?”

“I suppose every man—and colony!—has their price,” belted another.

A feisty argument erupted over Maryland and Virginia’s simmering land-rights feud and Maryland’s long-delayed ratification of the Articles of Confederation. The Second Continental Congress had become the Confederation Congress three months earlier, but most people still didn’t know quite what to call their fledgling government.

The discussion turned to Thomas Jefferson and the impending end of his tenure as Virginia’s governor. “He’s in mourning!” one patron loudly guffawed. Another pointed out that, for several days, there might be no governor. “Appoint me!” slurred a man hunched over the bar, his gnarled fist firmly hugging his precious pewter mug.

But none of this, of course, was Jack Jouett’s real interest. He was there to hear what foes, not friends, might reveal. So far, he had heard nothing to justify risking the noose. Perhaps, he thought, it was time to call a halt to this perilous adventure and just ride away.

Suddenly, Sallie again called out and skittishly pulled her rope taut. Jouett moved to provide her with more water. As he bent down something caught his ear. He wasn’t sure, but . . .

Right before him was the infamous Colonel Banastre Tarleton, commander of the Dragoons—one of the most hated of all the new nation’s foes. Sallie had always been a good judge of bad character.

Jouett had difficulty making out exactly what Tarleton said. Fearing to advance any closer toward the colonel, he strained to catch whatever information he could. The words were soft and the background noise made it difficult to hear clearly, but Jouett was able to understand two words clearly: Monticello and Charlottesville .

That was all he needed to know.

Near Cuckoo Tavern

10:30 P.M.

Colonel Banastre Tarleton’s uniform clung to his chest like a wet wool blanket. Like most British soldiers fighting the war, Tarleton believed the only thing worse than the insects and thick Virginia humidity was the morale of both America’s people and Washington’s army. The would-be nation’s independence hung by a thread in the early summer days of 1781 and Tarleton lusted to sever it with his saber.

General George Washington knew that the soldiers’ grievances against their officers and the Continental Congress over supply shortages and pay were legitimate. He’d experienced deplorable conditions and supply problems himself during a brutal winter in Valley Forge just three years earlier. He knew what shoeless, bleeding, frozen feet and empty stomachs did to a patriot’s mind.

Tarleton and his fellow British commanders were well aware of the festering discontent that racked the Continental camp. It was their job to stir the pot and hope that discontent would boil over into chaos—and, so far, that job was going very well. The most important year of the war had begun with the New Year’s Day mutiny in the ranks of the Pennsylvania Continentals.

It was no secret that many of the Pennsylvanians had been unpaid since receiving the twenty-dollar bounty bestowed for their three-year enlistments. Tired and angry, with their families facing destitution back home without them, they were ready to walk away from the front lines and return to their loved ones. Meanwhile, other colonies were enticing men with much larger sums, as high as one thousand dollars in neighboring New Jersey. General Washington and his officers did their best to prevent defections to the British, but Tarleton and his allies schemed at every turn to lure them away with fortune and impressive military appointments. With this strategy, they hoped to break the American spirit and finally deliver victory for the king and Parliament.

Washington, however, was intelligent enough to know that additional pay alone wouldn’t solve the problem. What good was another twenty dollars when you had no musket balls or powder and wore the same ragged, lice-infested uniforms for weeks on end? Washington recognized what the British already knew and were capitalizing on: his men couldn’t fight both the Royal Army and such insufferable conditions for much longer.

Alerted to the mutiny among the Pennsylvania Line, Washington stood with his men and demanded that additional resources be provided. After negotiations—and despite the British using the uprising to further hunt for Loyalists among the disenchanted American soldiers—the episode ended peacefully and the vast majority of soldiers were back in the fight within weeks.

Tarleton was impressed by such loyalty, even to a cause he considered disloyal. But, to his great delight, a mutiny in the New Jersey Line just a few weeks later ended quite differently.

Washington had quickly realized that the Pennsylvania Line’s mutiny would only inspire other disgruntled troops to demand similar concessions. He needed to send an important, possibly war-saving message to the whole army: mutinies would not be tolerated. He quickly stamped out New Jersey’s insurgency and court-martialed its ringleaders. Two were executed. All twelve members of the firing squad had also participated in the mutiny. George Washington, when he had to, could play very rough indeed.

Though he liked little about Americans in general, Tarleton secretly admired Washington’s aggressive tactics to quell the insurrection. If given the chance, Tarleton would have done the same thing with his own men—though he would have liked to carry out the executions himself. Unlike some of his colleagues, he liked to get his hands dirty.

• • •

Attired in a bright white coat and high black boots polished to a shine as bright as the Virginia sun, Colonel Tarleton now watched two men stumble out of Cuckoo Tavern and exchange whiskey-weakened blows. “Such unlicked cubs,” he muttered to himself.

Then, without a word, he pointed with his saber west up the road and his two hundred Dragoons fell in line behind him.

Backwoods Trails to Monticello

11:45 P.M.

Snap!

Another branch punished Jouett’s forehead, but the rider knew his wounds and shredded clothing would have to wait. Plus, with Tarleton and his Green Dragoons headed west on the only main road to Monticello, Jouett knew that the mountain trails and back roads overgrown with dense thickets were his only hope for beating the British to Thomas Jefferson’s front door.

Sallie stumbled to her side and Jouett hung on tight to keep his massive frame upright. His mind wandered, to images of Jefferson and members of the Virginia legislature gathered in the safety of the governor’s famous retreat on the outskirts of Charlottesville. The great patriot Patrick Henry was there. So were Benjamin Harrison, Richard Henry Lee, and Thomas Nelson—each of them signers of the Declaration of Independence. They’d all fled Richmond and the red-hot pursuit of British general Charles Cornwallis as the war had moved south.

Even the most intoxicated patron at Cuckoo Tavern that night would have understood that the men atop the mountain at Monticello were in great danger. Relatively peaceful conditions in Virginia had sent the majority of its best fighting men northward. The local militia, though spirited and anxious to break free from British tyranny, were too few and without enough resources to battle the brutal Tarleton.