The Glorious Cause (22 page)

Hamilton was all seriousness, gave a crisp order, his crew loading the brass six-pounders, and he put his hand on the wheel of one gun now, said, “General, upon your order, sir.”

The musket fire was still coming from Nassau Hall, and Washington heard one ball whiz closely overhead, could see a British soldier in a first-floor window, the man staring at him with recognition, and Washington thought, No need to give him another opportunity.

“Captain, you may fire.”

The two guns jumped to life, the blasts of smoke rising quickly, and Washington could see shattered brick, a ragged hole in the wall just around the corner where his British assailant had been. Now there was a shout, and a dozen men surged forward, began to push through the doors of the Hall. The windows were vacant now, the British position in obvious turmoil, and suddenly, from the same window where the marksman had missed his opportunity, a white cloth appeared. More white began to emerge from the windows of the upper floors, and more of Washington’s men pushed inside. Quickly the British were herded out, a dozen, then more, their number growing. From around the college officers were gathering troops, sending them quickly to surround the British, who continued to flow out of Nassau Hall. Washington backed away, saw Hamilton pulling the guns back, making room in the open yard. Finally the men who emerged through the doorway were his own, and Washington scanned the British, silent, sullen faces, nearly two hundred men, half a regiment of prisoners.

His troops were gathering still, some only staring, others laughing, calling out to the British, who did not respond, the captured men seeming to press together, closing ranks against this new kind of assault. Washington thought, How odd that they would fear us. Are we so unknown to them?

He saw one man burst out of the doorway of the Hall, the man running toward the cannon now, gripping a bottle of some dark liquid, and the man shouted toward Hamilton, “Captain, you’re a fine shot, sir! You blowed a hole right through a painting of King George!”

From the upper floors of Nassau Hall, more of his men were cheering, calling out, some displaying bits of uniforms, British hats, swords. There was no longer any battle, the mood of the army changing abruptly to a celebration. All through the surrounding houses and shops, men were emerging with British prisoners, supply officers mostly, noncombatants. Others carried all manner of British uniforms, packs, supplies of every kind. One man was pulling a small wagon by himself, and Washington could see the cargo, a stack of white cloth, fresh tents, blankets. He would not stop them, knew that out on the Post Road Mercer’s men were holding tight, a careful eye toward Trenton, artillery pieces now doing the job of destroying the bridge over Stony Brook. He knew Cornwallis would surely be coming, but for the moment, there was no danger. The men had desperate needs, and the blankets and clothing of the British would replace many of the rags his men carried. He was actually enjoying the spectacle, the pure joy of his army, another extraordinary day, another gift to the nation, another victory.

Men began to emerge from Nassau Hall again, and there was something new, a man holding a loaf of bread, and another a bottle, the man shouting, “There’s a fine feast here! We done interrupted their lunch!”

Men began to flood into the hall, and Washington knew he could not keep them from a meal, would not try. The officers were filling in the gaps around the British prisoners, were now herding them away in the road, and Washington felt his own hunger, could smell what the troops had discovered, some kind of soldier’s mess in Nassau Hall, a delicious odor of something still cooking. He climbed down from the horse, and Tilghman was beside him, the young man stepping in front of him, blocking the way. Washington stopped, said, “It seems the British have obliged us with a meal. If we are fortunate, there will be enough for all. However, if we do not make haste, the men may consume every scrap before we can find something for ourselves.”

Tilghman did not reflect Washington’s good spirits, seemed not to hear him, said, “Sir, I have to say . . . you put a mighty fright in us today. We all thought . . . well, sir, we all thought you had put yourself in harm’s way. We were greatly relieved that you survived.”

He was surprised by Tilghman’s emotions, looked at the rest of the staff, some men nodding, echoing what Tilghman had said. He tried to recall the moment, the horse carrying him out in front of the men.

“Gentlemen, a commander must lead his men.”

Tilghman began to protest, and Washington held up a hand.

“I am grateful for your concern. In the heat of battle, we do not always think of our own safety. And, as you can see, on this day, I was blessed by the hand of the Almighty. Indeed, on this day . . . we were all blessed.”

He rode back across the wide hillside, the ground still littered with heaps of red. Some of the wounded had been moved, but there were many more still to be tended, and he moved past them holding the thought away from his mind. On the crest of the hill, the two farmhouses were now hospitals, and before he could put his army into motion again, before he could begin any kind of new march, he had to visit the men who would stay behind. And one of them was Hugh Mercer.

He stepped into the house, could hear the sounds of the dying, sharp screams and low groans. Every room was lined with men, and their clothing showed a mix from both armies. He saw women, kneeling, wrapping bloody limbs, and he moved past them without speaking, thought, The farmer, perhaps, his family. Their peaceful home was suddenly the center of a battlefield, and yet they remain here to help. We are blessed with such people as these.

He glanced into a small room, saw a man in a British uniform, the insignia of a doctor, bent over, tending to a man in a blue coat. Washington looked over the doctor’s shoulder, saw the wounded man’s face, and his heart turned cold. It was Mercer.

The doctor looked up at him, no recognition, and Washington said, “Sir, if you please, I would speak to my officer.”

The doctor said nothing, moved quickly to another man, and Washington knelt, relieved to see Mercer’s clear eyes, said, “General, it is nothing serious, I pray.”

Mercer smiled slightly.

“Can’t say for sure, sir. Told that chap I’m a doctor myself, he didn’t believe me, wouldn’t tell me anything. I do know one thing, sir. I’m about as full of holes as a man can be and still be in one piece.”

Washington could see bloody rips in Mercer’s coat, spots of blood on the man’s legs.

“They thought I was you, sir.”

Washington was puzzled, said, “The British?”

Mercer nodded. “Thought they had captured the commander in chief. They were mighty rude about it too, as though General Washington would have been so unwise as to walk himself right into the line of fire. I took it as an insult, sir. On your behalf, of course. No excuse for myself.”

Washington could not help thinking of the scolding from Tilghman, and Mercer took a long deep breath, gripped Washington by the arm, raised his head slightly, said, “We hurt ’em, General. Dropped a good many. We got off three good volleys, but I give the redcoats their due, they kept coming. They shot my horse, didn’t have much choice but to lead the men on foot. But we couldn’t stand up to the bayonets. I ordered them to fall back, and then . . . well, I wasn’t about to let a redcoat insult you, sir.”

Mercer laid his head down, another long breath, and Washington felt the man’s grip loosen on his arm.

“You did your part, General. We won the day.”

The man’s eyes were closed now, and Washington felt himself shake, put a quivering hand on a bloody stain on the man’s chest, could still feel movement, soft slow breaths, thought,
Thank God
. He looked for the British doctor, but the man was out of the room, and Washington stood, stared down at the old Scotsman, blood on every part of his clothes. He backed away slowly, the smell of the room filling him, the doctor moving past him again, carrying a wad of white linen, going about his work with calm precision. Washington stood in the doorway for a moment, looked again at Mercer.

“God bless you, General. We won the day.”

After the food had been consumed, and the army had gathered as much of the British supplies as they could carry, he assembled the officers to survey the condition of his troops. The British supply depot at Brunswick was another hard day’s march, and Cornwallis would be pursuing them from behind, but no matter how much speed the British commander could make, Washington’s men had the head start. He was still not sure of the British troop strength at Brunswick, the reports from the scouts inconsistent. Some believed it was unprotected, and Washington wondered if those reports were more wishful thinking than good scouting. But others believed that Howe had continued to send reinforcements from Amboy, and any move on Brunswick might involve another sharp fight. The spirit of the army might be willing, but every officer understood that to push the men on yet another forced march, to the probability of yet another fight would exceed what his men could endure. With Cornwallis in pursuit, any hesitation on the march, any need to stop the army even for a brief rest could result in a sudden disastrous attack from behind.

The road to Brunswick divided at Kingston, the army arriving at dark as a storm of fresh snow began to cover the trees. When the army reached the intersection, their commander agonized still over his decision, the dangerous temptation to continue marching the men toward Brunswick. Most of the men were still in rags, again leaving a trail of bloody footprints, and no matter the stores that might wait for them in Brunswick, they were still a brutally exhausted army. Few of the men knew what the intersection meant, and when Washington gave the order to march on the left fork, few knew that they were heading northward, to a place called Morristown. There they could make camp safely, would be protected, surrounded by great fat hills. Cornwallis would not follow them, would listen instead to the orders from General Howe, the British commander who would finally be allowed his winter quarters. If Washington’s men didn’t know the roads, didn’t realize that they would finally have some rest, every man understood that in the past ten days, the tall man on the large white horse had led them through the battles that had inspired their nation, shocked their enemy, and changed the war.

PART TWO

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

17. FRANKLIN

J
ANUARY 1777

He had arrived on the coast of France in early december, after a tormenting voyage that had aggravated every ailment he suffered. In the past, crossing the Atlantic had always been an adventure, a time for experiment, long hours testing the currents, the water temperature, all the fun of exploration. But his age was betraying him, and though he turned his efforts again to the science of the ocean, the aches and pains sapped him of any enthusiasm. By the time the ship moved close to the French coast, he was ready to feel dry land under his swollen feet. But there was one more torment. The winds kept the ship away from its intended port of call, and in frustration he disembarked at the wretched coastal town of Auray, welcomed by no one.

He was accompanied by his two grandsons. Temple was now seventeen, the boy displaying an interest in politics that would not be considered unusual, given his father’s notoriety as one of King George’s most loyal governors. Franklin had been careful not to influence Temple by speaking ill of the boy’s father, even though Temple was more aware than anyone that the break between his father and grandfather was permanent and absolute. Franklin had convinced himself that the boy’s eagerness to accompany him abroad, possibly as his secretary, was a victory of sorts, if not for America, then for the old man himself.

Benny was seven, his daughter Sally’s son, and politics was nowhere in the younger boy’s mind. The journey was the adventure of a lifetime, the youngster traveling with his grandfather to worlds that barely existed in a seven-year-old’s imagination.

The difficulties of the sea voyage extended onto land. Since they had not disembarked at a major seaport, finding comfortable passage inland was a challenge. Eventually, they reached Paris, after a nerve-fraying ride through desolate forests said to be overrun with ruthless bandits. For Benny, it was yet another adventure. For Franklin, it was the final tormenting chapter in a journey that had been far too difficult a distraction for the work he had come to do.

When they finally reached Paris, he moved them into the comforts of the Hotel d’Hambourg. Franklin was relieved to find that Temple could manage mostly for himself, the young man adapting immediately to the social settings, basking in the attention his famous grandfather attracted. The young man was already catching the eye of a number of flirtatious daughters of society.

But Franklin was uneasy about caring for Benny. He was, after all, only a child, and would still require considerable schooling. Franklin had once believed that his influence, his wise counsel would be all the boy would ever need, but it was an old man’s vanity, and he learned that quickly on the long voyage across the Atlantic. Sally had warned him of her son’s boisterous curiosity, and Benny had engulfed his grandfather in endless questions about ships and oceans and France. Even if Franklin had wanted to provide so much enlightenment, his ailments dampened his enthusiasm for the sudden foray into being a parent.

Franklin had been involved in the negotiations with France for over a year, but only in the most discreet and secretive way. To any foreign government America was still officially a part of the British empire, and no one in the French government would risk a confrontation with their eternal enemy by openly meddling in King George’s internal affairs. But the finances of making war had created a disaster for the American cause far worse than any rout on a battlefield. Congress was operating in bankruptcy, and no amount of debate or meetings in committees could solve the problem of supplying Washington’s army. The troops themselves might be accustomed to late pay, but many did not yet know what Franklin knew, that the congress had exhausted every means of feeding and clothing them, not to mention the purchase of guns and ammunition, horses and wagons.

From the earliest days of the congress, Franklin had supported the attempt at a foreign alliance, that in order to achieve independence, there might first have to be some kind of dependence on a foreign power who saw the loss to England as a gain for themselves. The most logical choice was France, the one country whose conflicts with England had produced centuries of warfare. But France was not eager to renew a war she had lost thirteen years earlier.

With Franklin’s prodding, France had offered a gesture of friendship by accepting an unofficial visitor from congress, whose duties would be harmless enough, a man who would only provide information of events in America. That man was Silas Deane, a Connecticut congressman with a particular talent for finance. Despite the public face of the French court, Deane’s real mission was to pursue any form of assistance France would be willing to provide, presumably in the form of military hardware. But France could not do business directly with America without risking war with Britain. Thus, Deane’s mission had involved him in convoluted deal-making, the French nervously offering minimal assistance through nefarious business channels. The result had been a slow trickle of munitions from French manufacturers which could reach America only after sailing through the French West Indies, where the goods could be transferred to American ships.

Once the Declaration of Independence had been signed, the French government could feel more comfortable speaking directly to official representatives of the American congress, though a war with Britain was still the likely outcome. As the desperation in supplying Washington’s army increased, congress responded by naming three commissioners to openly negotiate for French involvement. Deane would remain in Paris as one of them. Franklin was an obvious choice, with his experience in Paris, and his familiarity with the French court. The third commissioner was to have been Thomas Jefferson, and Franklin had been enthusiastic to be working again with the young Virginian. He had enormous respect for Jefferson’s mind, and for his humility. The negotiations with the French would be ticklish certainly, and Jefferson would never be one to make some grand show in Paris, placing his own ambitions ahead of the job at hand. But as Jefferson was preparing to sail for France, his wife had fallen ill, and the young man had chosen to remain in Virginia. The congress replaced him with a man who contrasted completely with Jefferson’s quiet subtlety, another Virginian. His name was Arthur Lee.

Lee was the brother of one of the stalwart champions of the Declaration of Independence, Richard Henry Lee. But Arthur Lee possessed none of his brother’s gift for diplomacy or passion for any cause other than his own. Franklin had known him from their time in London, Lee serving as the colonial representative from Virginia, as Franklin had done for four other colonies. Lee fancied himself a shrewd manipulator of public policy, and while in London he grew close to those members of Parliament who openly opposed the policies of King George. Once the king declared the colonies to be in open rebellion, there was no official purpose to Lee staying in London. To his few friends in Philadelphia, it was an appropriate next step for Lee to join Deane’s efforts in France. But the news that Arthur Lee would be arriving in Paris seriously dampened Franklin’s enthusiasm. He had no confidence that Lee would bring anything to the negotiations beyond loud impatience. Even worse, Franklin was certain that Arthur Lee despised him.

When Lee reached Paris, he initiated an immediate conflict with Silas Deane, and a small flood of letters from Lee was already sailing to Philadelphia. Deane’s offense had been to carry on business negotiations without Lee’s involvement. It was the worst kind of wound to a man like Arthur Lee. He was accusing Deane of ignoring him.

Deane was deeply immersed in a complicated arrangement for French loans that had to be funneled secretly through a private company. Franklin trusted Deane, and by the time he had reached Paris, he understood that Deane’s negotiations were nearly complete, and the transfer of funds to congress was already in progress. He welcomed Deane’s talents in the areas of high finance, and Deane returned the favor by suggesting that Franklin serve as the spokesman for the commission, an obvious choice, since Franklin was quite simply the most famous American in the world. Once again, Arthur Lee’s prickly sensitivity was bruised.

With his grandsons firmly in the care of motherly hands, Franklin began to focus on his mission. They did not have long to wait, the first official welcome coming to Franklin’s hotel, an invitation for their first meeting at the French Foreign Ministry.

J
ANUARY 9, 1777

The man’s name was Charles Gravier, and he carried the title of the Count of Vergennes, had held the position as the Minister of Foreign Affairs to King Louis XVI since the young king’s ascension to the throne barely two years earlier. Vergennes was an immensely intelligent and charming man, and had become an immediate favorite of both Louis and the young king’s Austrian wife, Marie Antoinette. Louis had inherited a court divided in its support for the American cause, but Vergennes had been firmly on the side of the Americans from the beginning. His opposition had come mainly from the stubbornness of the conservative finance minister, Baron Turgot. But Turgot was soon replaced, the young king showing no patience for disagreements in his court. Though Vergennes brought the support of his king to the negotiating table, Franklin believed that there must still be some discomfort for a well-entrenched monarch like Louis. The only news from America was a dismal report of loss and retreat by the American army. It would certainly be inappropriate to ask the French for a commitment of troops or a fleet of ships. Louis would be cautious, hesitant to risk a war with England by granting full support to a rebel army that had yet to prove it could stand up against the might of the British.

Franklin was concerned as well that the issue at the very core of their negotiations was independence for a people who were struggling to throw off the yoke of their own monarch. Whatever value Vergennes placed on American independence, George III and Louis XVI were of the same mold. England and France were traditional enemies, and Louis might delight in King George’s crisis, but if the Americans were successful, the passion for independence might spread, and every monarch in Europe might suddenly find himself immersed in a revolution of his own. It was a delicate political reality, and Franklin knew that Vergennes would have to tread carefully. There was indeed a game to be played.

Vergennes had not yet arrived, and the Americans had been led to what the servant described as a parlor. The room was enormous, ornate powder blue walls trimmed with delicate designs in gold leaf, and in the center of each wall hung an enormous mirror. There was a fireplace on one wall, dwarfed by an enormous portrait of King Louis, his image carved into a disc of white marble nearly three feet wide.

Franklin was familiar with the grand halls of royalty, had been entertained in some of Europe’s most imposing mansions, but as he studied the ornate gilded carvings that framed one of the enormous mirrors, he could not help but be impressed. The French do have a way, he thought. Dwarf the man by engulfing him in splendor. It is a statement, I suppose, a lesson for the
little
people, the very notion of a monarch who so towers above us all. He backed away from the mirror, felt his sore feet cushioned by a soft Persian rug that spread across the width of the room.

To one side, Deane was studying a part of the oak floor not covered by the rug, an intricate design of diamonds and detailed parquet. He put his hand down, feeling the wood, said to Franklin, “Marvelous, I must say. Not merely a floor, but a work of art!”

Deane’s secretary, Edward Bancroft, stood close by, seemed amused by Deane’s sense of wonder.

Franklin had thought it appropriate for at least one secretary to be present, that anything said in these meetings must surely be recorded. Bancroft was the obvious choice, a Massachusetts man who had worked with several of the colonial representatives in London. Franklin had known him for years, a pleasant and sociable man, and he had been pleased to hear that Deane had secured Bancroft’s services. Franklin was still determined to groom his grandson Temple as his own secretary, but the position was too new to the seventeen-year-old to bring him to such an important meeting. Bancroft could certainly fill the role for all three of them.

Arthur Lee had moved to the far end of the room, as detached from the others as he could be and still be in the same space. Lee was staring at a mirror, and Franklin caught the man looking at him in the reflection.

“Rather lovely place, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Lee?”

He put as much pleasantness in the words as he could, some means of breaking through the shroud of gloom that enveloped Lee. Lee did not turn, said, “Lovely, yes.”