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Jack Jouett:
The Ride That Saved America
Albemarle County, Virginia
June 3, 1781
10:15 P.M.
A thin dogwood branch slashed across the riderâs face like a leather whip. But the sting was no worse than any of the dozen that came before. A quarter mile earlier, a limb had cut him so deeply that blood flowed from a gash high on his cheek to the corner of his mouth.
Captain John âJackâ Jouett rode on.
With forty miles to go, the muscular twenty-six-year-old sliced through the night and gave thanks for the full moon. It could not protect his face or clothes, but it might safely deliver him and his bay mare Sallie to the green lawns of Thomas Jeffersonâs beloved and now-endangered Monticello estate.
It was possible, Jouett knew, that the future of the revolution might very well depend on how fast he got there.
The Cuckoo Tavern
Louisa, Virginia
One Hour Earlier
Jack Jouett had decided to live dangerously.
The British army was on the march in Virginiaâeven that damnable traitor Benedict Arnold had been assigned thereâand Jouett had been lucky enough to capture one of Arnoldâs men. He might have been content to simply turn the man over to army jailers, but a daring idea had seized him. Jouettâs captive was an unusually big man, roughly his own size. âOff with your clothes!â Jouett ordered him.
The prisonerâs brilliant red coat festooned with equally grand gold braid fit him as though it had been tailored just for his six-foot-four-inch frame. The grand plumed hat only added to the picture. Now dressed as his enemy, Jack Jouett mounted his steed Sallieâsaid to be the best bred and fleetest of foot in seven countiesâand hurried off to see if he might find more of the enemy. The British were up to no good, and Jouett wanted to know exactly what that might be.
Not long after riding off in his new attire, Jouett quickly stumbled across the British in the form of a fearsome detachment of Green Dragoons near the local tavern. He rode up cautiously, worried that someone might willingly or accidentally reveal his true identity. Jack Jouett was playing a very dangerous game.
A stranger wiped sweat from his unshaven face with his soiled coat sleeve as he passed Jouett outside the tavern doors. âCaptain, do something about this dreadful June air, would you?â The man laughed over his shoulder and slyly shouted, âWhatâs a soldier of the king for if not to fight for better weather?â
Jouett wasnât sure if he had been recognized but he certainly wasnât about to ask. In any case, he remained outdoors, enjoying what passed for a breeze. Sallie whinnied from her hitching post. âI know, Sallie. I know.â
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. âThe stubborn boys in Maryland came around,â a patron shouted atop the noise. âDid you hear they finally signed the Articles?â
âI suppose every manâand colony!âhas their price,â belted another.
A feisty argument erupted over Maryland and Virginiaâs simmering land-rights feud and Marylandâs long-delayed ratification of the Articles of Confederation. The Second Continental Congress had become the Confederation Congress three months earlier, but most people still didnât know quite what to call their fledgling government.
The discussion turned to Thomas Jefferson and the impending end of his tenure as Virginiaâs governor. âHeâs in mourning!â one patron loudly guffawed. Another pointed out that, for several days, there might be no governor. âAppoint me!â slurred a man hunched over the bar, his gnarled fist firmly hugging his precious pewter mug.
But none of this, of course, was Jack Jouettâs 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 wasnât sure, but . . .
Right before him was the infamous Colonel Banastre Tarleton, commander of the Dragoonsâone of the most hated of all the new nationâs 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 Tarletonâs 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 Americaâs people and Washingtonâs army. The would-be nationâs 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 soldiersâ grievances against their officers and the Continental Congress over supply shortages and pay were legitimate. Heâd 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 patriotâs 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 chaosâand, so far, that job was going very well. The most important year of the war had begun with the New Yearâs 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 wouldnât 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 couldnât 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 negotiationsâand despite the British using the uprising to further hunt for Loyalists among the disenchanted American soldiersâthe 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 Lineâs 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 Jerseyâs 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 Washingtonâs aggressive tactics to quell the insurrection. If given the chance, Tarleton would have done the same thing with his own menâthough he would have liked to carry out the executions himself. Unlike some of his colleagues, he liked to get his hands dirty.
⢠⢠â˘
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. âSuch unlicked cubs,â 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 Jouettâs 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 Jeffersonâs 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 governorâs famous retreat on the outskirts of Charlottesville. The great patriot Patrick Henry was there. So were Benjamin Harrison, Richard Henry Lee, and Thomas Nelsonâeach of them signers of the Declaration of Independence. Theyâd 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.
We have Jefferson!
Jouettâs imagination heard the words burn across the hills and directly to the ears of General Cornwallis. He knew it wouldnât be long before news of Jeffersonâs captureâor, he shivered at the thought, deathâwould sail across the seas to the king. It would be shorter still until word spread among the colonies that the British had taken the author of their Declaration of Independence. What then? Morale and optimism were already in short supply. The capture of patriots like Jefferson, Henry, and Lee might just be more than the fragile army could handle.
More voices found audience in Jouettâs mind:
We have them all!
Virginia is ours!
One signer, two signers, three signers, four! Hanging from the gallows, traitors no more!
Jouett knew the lives of important men werenât the only jewels at stake if Tarletonâs infamous butchers successfully took Charlottesville and Monticello. Both the city and the mansion that overlooked it held gold, silver, and something even more valuable: information. The patriots gathered at Jeffersonâs estate would surely be discussing war plans and coordination with their top Virginia spies. If Tarleton and his Dragoons succeeded they could ride off with men, maps, and even letters. Perhaps, Jouett allowed himself to wonder, sensitive correspondence to General Washington himself.
He drove his heels into Sallieâs sides and urged her to gallop even faster.
Plantation Near the Louisa County Courthouse
June 4, 1781
12:15 A.M.
âThe men and horses need a pause.â One of Tarletonâs lieutenants had approached him to deliver the news.
Unaware that Jouett was dashing ahead via the backwoods trails to Monticello, Tarleton and his men rested for several hours at a large plantation near the Louisa Court House. Tarleton sat near at his own private fire at the edge of camp, satisfied that theyâd ridden that night with duty and purpose, if not breathless urgency.
Weeks earlier, General Cornwallis had been provided with an intercepted dispatch revealing that Thomas Jefferson and members of the Virginia legislature had convened in Charlottesville. Cornwallis assigned the task of tracking and capturing Jefferson to Colonel Tarleton, an officer Cornwallis admired for his athleticism, strength, and daring. For better and sometimes, Cornwallis knew, for worse, Tarleton was known for impatience in battle.
Tarleton had found great personal satisfaction and public acclaim for early-war success in raids carried out in New York, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey. When the war moved south, Tarleton added to his fearsome reputation at the battles of Cowpens, Blackstocks, Fishing Creek, Camden, Monckâs Corner, and Charleston. But it was at Waxhaws, South Carolina, that his legacy had finally been sealed. There Tarleton attacked the unprepared Continental Army with a vengeance and overwhelmed them. With surrender the Americansâ only option, Tarleton coldly ignored their white flag and allowed his troops to butcher as many patriot soldiers as they could. More than one hundred Continentals died and another two hundred were injured or captured.
âSir, may I?â One of the younger British Dragoons approached Tarleton at the fireâs edge as the other men rested to prepare for the rest of the ride to Monticello.
Tarleton nodded without looking up, and the two men sat in silence for a long time. âDid you know I was just twenty-three years of age when promoted to lieutenant colonel of the British Legion?â Tarleton finally asked.
âI did not,â the young soldier said.
Tarleton looked at him. âBut they say my legend is even older than I am.â For the next half hour the leader of the Dragoons spoke in the third person, painting himself as a rare breed who was simultaneously fearless and fea...