The Glorious Cause (26 page)

Cornwallis had little contact with the man, knew him much more by reputation, knew that the nickname “Gentleman Johnny” had come from the man’s own troops, a reflection on Burgoyne’s empathy to the conditions of his men, something Cornwallis was known for as well. Though Cornwallis believed that Burgoyne was content to sail home to a prestigious retirement, he could see now that the man had spent his time in England carefully nursing his ambition, and had certainly succeeded in finding the willing ear of the king. And among Howe’s command, Burgoyne clearly had his allies.

Cornwallis was surprised at Howe’s tolerance of the dissent, but the protests were mild, respectful, and when the officers had run through their words, Howe said, “Your concerns are noted, gentlemen. I have no wish to impugn the reputation of General Burgoyne.”

Cornwallis saw frowns, thought, That’s exactly what you intended. He looked at the map again, tried to fathom the plan, but he couldn’t assemble it in his mind.

“Sir, forgive me. I am trying to understand. General Burgoyne must sail the length of Lake Champlain. He must thus attack Fort Ticonderoga, must then move his wagons and artillery across this terrain, here. That is a great deal of countryside.”

“Yes, General. You are stating the obvious.”

Cornwallis ignored the comment, continued, “Do we have the means . . . how is he to navigate the country?”

Howe jumped at the question, said, “He is to be guided by a thousand Indians! Marvelous! And to add to his movements, it is believed that the loyalists in the area will flock to his march as well, providing their own assistance. Can you imagine that, General? His Majesty’s good citizens marching side by side with the savages who torment them.”

Grey stood now, and Cornwallis saw anger on the man’s face, and Grey said, “Sir! I must protest! Do you deny that this plan could end this war?”

Howe glared at Grey.

“And what of
us
, General Grey? What of the soldiers in
this
army, who have given so much to the king’s service? We have suffered the agonies of war, vanquished our enemy, as we have been bloodied by him. I have repeatedly offered my own strategies to Lord Germain, and now I receive word of this ridiculous plan of action. Will General Burgoyne succeed? Possibly. Will it bring this war to a conclusion? I have my doubts. I have insisted to Lord Germain for months now that this rebellion will be crushed by the year’s end and that we can accomplish that from right here!” His words choked away, and Cornwallis saw red-faced anger, understood now. Of course, if Burgoyne ends the war, he reaps the rewards. That’s what this is about, after all. Howe had his composure again, and Cornwallis said, “Sir, if the purpose of this plan is to capture Albany, why cannot we pursue that goal from this direction? If General Burgoyne was to bring his forces to New York, is not a campaign in force up the Hudson River a more effective means of reaching that place? His army could join with the troops already here. The rebels could not possibly hold back such strength.”

Howe looked at him for a moment, and Cornwallis saw weariness. Howe said, “You are not a student of history, General. The route through New York has always come from Canada. The route southward through Lake Champlain has been consecrated by history. Lord Germain and His Majesty both appreciate that, General. We must adhere to tradition.”

Grey said, “General Cornwallis, the strategy is to blaze a chasm through the colony of New York that will divide the rebel effort. From what I have seen of General Burgoyne’s strategy, Albany is merely the junction. His army to ours. Certainly there will be a combining of forces.”

The enthusiasm that had filled him was gone, and Cornwallis looked at Howe, said, “We are to join him in Albany? Move our forces north?”

Howe said, “General Burgoyne anticipates that we will effect a junction with his army once he has captured Albany. I have no doubt that once we know him to have arrived there, we can move a portion of our strength upriver. We should have sufficient time to complete
my own plans
.”

The words were spoken with slow gravity, Howe watching them all for reaction.

“General Burgoyne is not the only man who has secured the approval of Lord Germain. I did not intend this meeting to focus entirely on Gentleman Johnny’s war. I am preparing orders for each of you. This army will soon commence to march across New Jersey, with two purposes. First, I intend to draw the rebel army out of their base in Morristown in order to destroy them once and for all. General Cornwallis, you have made this attempt and failed. It is not for any lack of skill on your part. You simply did not have the resources at hand to offer Mr. Washington a sizable enough prize. I propose to march eighteen thousand men toward the Delaware River, with a train of supplies and boats, sufficient to allow us to cross unmolested. If we are fortunate, however, we
will be
molested. Mr. Washington cannot just sit in his hilltops and watch us go by. He must come down and offer us a fight. What he may not expect is how large a fight that will be.” Howe paused, clearly enjoying the moment.

Cornwallis said, “Forgive me, sir, but if he chooses not to confront us . . .”

“General, if he does not confront us, then he will enable us to pursue the second goal of this plan. He may sit on his hills all the while and enjoy the spectacle of this army crossing into Pennsylvania and capturing Philadelphia!”

The word flowed through the room, each man digesting it, and the response was muted, not what Howe was expecting.

“Gentlemen, do you not see? It lies there as a great ripe plum, guarded by the most fragile of militia! The rebel capital! It is the one positive advantage we can gain from General Burgoyne’s mission. The rebels must stay focused northward. Mr. Washington may perhaps divide his army and send reinforcements to their people around Albany. We can perhaps make a feint, move ships upriver toward the Highlands, drawing their attention in that direction. But any move the rebels make will come to naught! Once we are in Philadelphia, the heart of this rebellion will be crushed. How can these rebels wage war if their capital is conquered?”

Cornwallis had finally seen the letter from Burgoyne, the plan spelled out in enormous detail. There was no confusion as to either the line of march or the ultimate goal. Burgoyne insisted that with Howe’s strength added to his own, their combined armies could devastate any rebel opposition and subdue all of New England in short order. There was one confusing gap in the plan, and Cornwallis was still not certain how the two armies were to join, whether Burgoyne expected Howe to advance farther northward than Albany, or whether Howe was to remain in New York and wait for Burgoyne to summon him up the Hudson. In either case, Howe did not seem concerned, his own orders from Germain granting him the discretion to march on Philadelphia in the manner he chose. Howe had settled the disagreements with his subordinates, reassuring Grey and the others that once the rebel capital had been secured, they could return to New York in plenty of time to join forces with Burgoyne.

If both armies were successful, Cornwallis believed the combined loss could crush the rebel spirit out of every colony, and he began to spread Howe’s enthusiasm to his men. Finally, after so many months of waiting, the army would resume their march.

They embarked from the wharves at Amboy on June 12, began to march inland over the same roads that had carried Howe’s army to Trenton six months before. As Cornwallis led his men along the southern banks of the Raritan, he tried to share their high spirits. It was, after all, the soldiers’ opportunity for revenge, to sweep away the disasters of winter. But his gloom was returning, and he scolded himself, his enthusiasm dampened by the cold image in his mind, another great column of men and equipment, three hundred miles to the north, beginning their march as well. The grand strategy required cooperation and timing between two separate armies who were too distant from each other to communicate, and Cornwallis knew that no matter how sound the mission, how complete the plan, each army was led by a commander whose eyes were firmly focused on his own place in history.

Howe ordered him to maneuver as far west as Hillsborough, Cornwallis leading one wing of the army while Knyphausen’s Hessians moved on a more southerly route toward Princeton. But there was no rebel army to face them. Washington had advanced his army out of his camp at Morristown, but only as far as Middlebrook, settling the rebels into another series of stout hills, this time within ten miles of Brunswick. As Howe marched his army toward Princeton, Washington would not take the bait, and abruptly, Cornwallis received orders to turn back, to gather the entire army at Brunswick. Howe was determined to bring Washington off his hills, and the next march was north, toward Metuchen, an attempt to outflank the rebels. But again Washington stayed in his defenses, and Howe’s frustration spread through the entire army. But Cornwallis knew that no matter how much his men wanted a fight, Howe would not order them to attack a position they could never carry. After eighteen days of marching and countermarching, Cornwallis realized that Howe had made a huge mistake. Howe’s plan was to continue on to Philadelphia, but Cornwallis knew they could not just march past Middlebrook as though the rebels weren’t there. Washington’s army would be coiled for a strike at the rear of Howe’s army, could seriously torment the flanks and rear guard all the way to the Delaware River. If Howe attempted to move into Pennsylvania, Washington could strike him during the crossing of the river, the very tactic Cornwallis had failed to accomplish in December. As Cornwallis watched Howe’s plan unravel, he knew that Howe was still focused on Philadelphia, the strategy fixed in his mind, stubborn and inflexible. If they could not assault the rebel capital by land, Howe would find another way.

On June 30, the army was ordered to march again, this time back to Amboy, to board the boats that would carry them to Staten Island. Once again Cornwallis shared the mood of his men, the utter disbelief that nearly three weeks of maneuvers and marching had gained them a few sharp skirmishes and nothing else. As Cornwallis stepped away from the wharf at Amboy, he fought the despair, the frustration mixed with a growing sense of alarm. Precious time had been lost, the time they would need to capture Philadelphia and return to assist Burgoyne, the time they would need to bring this war to a conclusion before another winter brought Howe and his grand strategies to yet another standstill.

20. GREENE

J
ULY 1777

For weeks he had maintained his position on the hills north of the Raritan, watching the great one-sided chess game play out below him, the British throwing up earthworks around Brunswick, then marching west, then back again. Washington had finally ordered him down to pursue Howe’s rear guard, and when the British had turned and marched back to Brunswick, Greene had followed. He had maneuvered his troops with great care, knew that if the British realized he had come down from the safety of the hills, they might suddenly turn back on him, his men perhaps caught in the open, no time to build their own defenses. But when Howe had abandoned his march toward Princeton, it had been no ruse, no bait to draw Greene too close. It was as though the British were more focused on their own display, a strategy that made little sense to Washington.

Greene would not be careless, kept close enough to the British to monitor their movements, but not so close that a sudden burst of British mobility might catch his division in a fight he didn’t want. But there was nothing about the British that suggested mobility, either in their movements or the planning of their commander. Greene could only wonder at the mind of William Howe, that once the man put some plan to paper, the strategy required no further thought, simply did not allow for the possibility of change.

When the British had gathered back into their defenses at Brunswick, Washington had ordered Greene once more to pull back to the safety of the hills, in case Howe ordered a sudden thrust toward Princeton. But when the British took to the road again, they went north, leaving Greene to worry if Washington had fortified the passes into the hills with sufficient strength. But Stirling was there, a strong force dug into good ground, and the British thrust at Washington’s eastern flank had dissolved as quickly as it began. This time, when Howe withdrew his men back into Brunswick, they did not stop to occupy their own carefully built defenses. As Greene eased down from the heights again, the redcoats were already marching east, this time toward Amboy. Greene had pursued them, small skirmishes, quick jabs at the British rear, but the British were in full retreat, had boarded their boats at the wharves and, just as quickly, sailed away. When Greene reached Amboy, not a shot had been fired. As Greene’s men spread along the waterfront, Howe’s baffled troops were once again pitching their tents on Staten Island.

Greene had stood with his troops, astounded that the British would expend so much energy, and waste so much time only to see their commander change his mind. Then the amazement of Greene’s men changed to celebration. It was not so much a victory as it was satisfaction, the British march across New Jersey ending where it had begun so many months before.

As he glassed the British ships now anchored close to Staten Island, Greene thought of Washington, who had accepted the blame for the defeats in New York, who shouldered the despair of the entire nation that they could not bring to the field enough strength to hold the British away. Greene would never forget that one awful day, the catastrophe at Fort Washington. The commanding general had placed no blame, but Greene knew what others had said, knew there was grumbling in congress. Nothing was ever said in headquarters, and Greene knew now that Washington was not a man to cast blame away from himself, would not allow any criticism of his commanders to be voiced in the camps.

Throughout the desperate retreat across New Jersey, Greene had realized that the men who kept to the march were held by a loyalty to Washington that had nothing to do with strategy. Greene did not know how to explain it, knew it was something in the men’s heart. He wondered if Washington himself was aware of the affection and loyalty of the men in this army. That loyalty had been tested, and might be again, but for now, they had their reward. As he stood on the shores of Amboy, he knew that for the first time in many months, not a single British soldier had his foot in New Jersey.

The long encampment at Morristown had revitalized the army. Their stunning accomplishments on the battlefield had inspired new confidence that brought in an amazing abundance of food from the farms. They were strengthened as well by the arrival of French merchant ships, bearing the fruits of the careful negotiations in Paris. Besides the much-needed supplies of cloth and gunpowder, the army was receiving troop strength as well, a sudden inflow of new volunteers to the regiments. Greene had shared Washington’s despair at the loss of so many of the veterans whose enlistments had expired, but Greene could not find fault with those men who wished to return to their homes. With the British firmly in their winter camps, the desperation had tempered, and the deluge of new recruits swelled the army to nearly eleven thousand men, many persuaded to sign eighteen-month enlistments. Though Greene had little faith in new recruits, and no faith at all in local militia, he hoped that the commanders would have the luxury of time, perhaps two months of drill and training to bring the army back to its feet. As the long weeks passed, Greene had grown nervous, knew that the recruits were still too raw, still finding their way into the soldier’s life. Washington had cautioned them to expect a new British campaign by April, but they had been granted yet another luxury, this time by their enemy. Amazingly, the British camps had remained quiet until June.

With the army safely protected by the hill country around them, many of the commanders could enjoy the refreshing company of their wives. Martha Washington had arrived in March, and the monotony of headquarters had changed into a whirlwind of gaiety. He had seen the immediate change in Washington himself, and it made his own loneliness that much more difficult. Greene had spent many long nights deeply worried about his wife, Kitty. Her pregnancy had been difficult, made more so by the sudden chaotic presence of the British troops who had swarmed into Rhode Island under Clinton. But the baby had come in March, and though Kitty was as ill afterward as she had been during the pregnancy, her letters began to come more often, softening his worry. He had been surprised that anyone around the headquarters would share his concern, would distract themselves with his troubles during the pleasant mood of the winter camp. He was more surprised that the wife of his commander would do so much to comfort his fears, that she would help him write the soothing letters to his ailing wife, would share and celebrate his grateful relief when the baby girl was born safely. It was only fitting that the infant would be named Martha Washington Greene.

When Howe began his chaotic march through New Jersey, Washington ordered the social fineries to end. By mid-June, the wives, Martha included, were on their way home.

There was a noticeable quiet, the mood around the table considerably subdued. Greene sat to Washington’s right, studied the formal document, ignoring the dense brick of corn bread on his plate. He finished reading, his appetite crushed by a hard twist of anger. Sullivan sat across from him, said, “Do you agree?”

Greene tossed the paper toward the center of the table.

“Of course I agree. What manner of fools do we obey? Are they so consumed by their vanity. . . ?” He stopped, glanced at Washington, who was eating, seeming to ignore the anger. Knox sat at the far end of the table, leaned forward on his heavy arms, his round face a portrait of gloomy resignation.

“Has anyone actually heard of this fellow? Du Coudray?”

Greene pushed his plate away.

“Of course not. He’s another in the parade, another feathered peacock, bringing his French superiority to the congress in yet another grand display! And they bow and coo and adorn him with all manner of compliments. And, the finest compliment of all, Mr. du Coudray, since you have come all the way from France, please accept this gift of our army. It is
yours
.”

Sullivan sat back, his anger more subdued.

“Not the army, actually. Just the artillery.”

The word seemed to punch at Knox, the heavy man sinking lower in his chair. Greene grabbed for the document again, fought the urge to crush it in his hands, said, “You are too generous, John. By their gracious and trembling hands, the congress has dated his rank of major general so far back as to predate our own commissions. He outranks us. He has never even seen a continental soldier, and yet, because of his sublime French manner, and his skill at flattering the congress, he now will supersede our commands.”

He tossed the paper down again, looked at Washington, saw the man mashing the dry corn bread into a plate of dark gravy. Washington filled a fork, raised it toward his mouth, the contents now spilling off onto the plate. Washington huffed, began the process again.

“The food has grown worse since the wives have left.”

Greene knew Washington was ignoring their hot protests, felt his anger draining away slowly.

“Sir, do you not share our outrage at the congress? This fellow . . .” He looked at the paper again. “This fellow Philippe-Charles . . . du Coudray brings here some letter of recommendation from Silas Deane, and suddenly, the congress decides he is in command of everything in this army!”

Washington prodded the corn bread again.

“Mr. Greene, if I reacted with anger to each foolishness that emerges from the congress, I would be in a constant state of agitation.
That
would be of very little benefit to this army. Do I share your outrage? Certainly. But we are all under the authority of the congress. This very country can maintain its existence only by the will of the congress.”

Greene stared at him, felt an explosion brewing, fought it, could not raise his voice to Washington.

“Sir!”

It was both a question and a complaint. Washington put his fork down, looked around the table.

“I do not know if Mr. du Coudray will become an asset to this army, but there is one inescapable fact. He is French. He brings with him not only a letter from Mr. Deane but the high regard of the French court. We are not in a position to insult or disregard French officers who have come to our shores to be of service. The congress has not met the needs of this army, despite my every plea. If they find pleasure in anointing foreign officers according to the splendor of their uniforms, we must accept that. Insulting congressmen will not secure shoes for our men. Allowing them to feel a constructive part of our efforts might.”

Knox stared at Washington with drooping sadness.

“Sir, does this mean I am no longer in command of the artillery?”

Washington took another bite, seemed to force a swallow.

“General Knox, you will command the artillery in this army until I order otherwise.”

Greene was feeling confused now.

“But, sir, you said we must obey the congress. This order says that this du Coudray fellow now outranks every one of us but you.”

Washington seemed to stifle a smile.

“Mr. Greene, I never said we must
obey
every whim of the congress. Since they delight in issuing paper, perhaps you gentlemen should issue some paper of your own. If three of my most experienced commanders threatened to resign, congress would respond with some outrage of their own. How dare you, and so forth. They might even request that I deal with your insolence by removing you myself.”

Greene felt a headache brewing.

“Sir, this is madness. With all this army has accomplished, must we be subject to this absurd meddling?”

Washington was all seriousness now.

“Mr. Greene, it is the nature of the world. What else can we do? There is fear enough in Philadelphia that this army will vanquish the British, and then vanquish the congress itself. They grant me the power to raise an army, and so fear that power that they do nothing to provide for the very army they seek. The meddling is constant because the fear is constant. They fear the dangers of military power, while they know that without this army, they would hang from British gallows. They meddle because they must. I accept that meddling because
I
must. I despair that this army will face destruction from the congress long before we face it from the British. Despite their rhetoric and their fears, every one of them knows this army is the only salvation. Despite their meddling, they must ultimately seek my approval.” He paused, and Greene saw the familiar sadness, the weight of so much settling on the man’s broad shoulders. “As for Mr. du Coudray, I have given thought to his position. Since he feels suited to an artillery command, I will recommend that congress grant him a title, something with grandeur that will satisfy the man’s ambition, such as inspector general of ordnance and military manufactories. You see, Mr. Greene? Often, it is no more than a game.”

Greene looked across at Sullivan, who was beginning to smile, saw Knox now rising a bit, his dark mood lifting. Greene was still angry, knew that Washington was trying to put the best face on a dismal portrait. He backed his chair away from the table, stood.

“With all respects, sir, if it is a game, it is a desperate game.”

J
ULY 10, 1777

Washington had repositioned the army, organizing the new recruits into their respective units and placing those units where they would be the most useful. The headquarters was still at Morristown, though Washington had stayed on the move, nervously inspecting the defenses up the Hudson toward Peekskill. Stirling’s division had been sent upriver, reinforcing Israel Putnam, who now commanded the defense of the Highlands. Greene remained near Brunswick, and all along the Jersey shore, lookouts kept a sharp watch for movement by the British ships. For several days, that movement had been continuous and confusing. Clusters of frigates would suddenly file up the Hudson, raising the alarm up toward the Highlands. But quickly the ships would reverse course and return to the harbor. Another small fleet would then raise sails and disappear eastward past Gravesend Bay. Soon, those ships would return as well, only to sail southward past Staten Island. Washington’s spies began to reach him with conflicting reports of British intentions. Some claimed that Howe was forming an armada to invade somewhere to the south, the Delaware River perhaps, some insisting that the British were planning another direct assault on the Jersey shore. Since every armada had eventually returned to its anchorage in the harbor, Washington realized that Howe was either maddeningly indecisive about his own intentions or was simply playing a game with him. Washington cautioned Greene and the others to stay vigilant, that despite all the apparent nonsense of the navy’s movements, eventually Howe’s true intentions would be revealed.