Last time, we stood at Moore’s Creek Bridge and listened to Old Mother Covington speak. In three violent minutes, a Loyalist rising collapsed and Governor Josiah Martin’s promise of ten thousand men dissolved into smoke and swamp water.

But that battle was only half the story.

Three thousand miles away, in Cork, Ireland, the British Empire was assembling the force that was supposed to make Moore’s Creek irrelevant. Seven regiments. Artillery. Royal confidence. This was the hammer meant to fall in coordination with that uprising and split the colonies in half. On paper, it looked elegant. Cheap victory. Minimal commitment. Maximum effect.

Instead, Cork became a lesson in delay, delusion, and the dangers of believing your own optimism.

Recruiting faltered. Ships were scarce. Deadlines slipped from December to January to February. When the fleet finally sailed, it ran straight into the wrath of the Atlantic. Storms scattered the convoy. Transports sank. Soldiers drowned before they ever saw America.

This episode is the other side of Moore’s Creek. The British side. The paper army. The missed signals. The pride that refused to turn back.

Old Mother Covington did not win the war that morning.

But Cork made sure Britain never had the chance.