The Glorious Cause (46 page)

Greene followed him, his curiosity growing now, and they reached the edge of the river, Lafayette now staring down into the water.

“General Greene, it was not a comfortable evening in this house.”

“No, I cannot say I enjoyed the dinner . . .”

“I do not refer to the dinner. I share Colonel Tilghman’s embarrassment for the commanding general, and especially so for Mrs. Washington.”

“I understand that. But there is nothing to be done about Charles Lee’s personal habits. General Washington believes that he is a valuable commander. We have no choice but to accept his role in this command.”

“I am not so certain of that. Before I retired, I engaged in a brief conversation with General Lee. I was attempting to offer my congratulations on his freedom. His response caused me considerable . . . agitation.”

“What did he say?”

Lafayette looked at him now, shook his head.

“General Lee has vigorous opinions of the commanders in this camp. I do not repeat gossip, sir. But his words were more than . . . unkind. I have not experienced such a man before.”

“His ambitions have been made known to the commanding general before. General Lee feels that what is good for him is good for the country. He places great value in his own abilities and dismisses the abilities of everyone else.”

“What
are
his abilities?”

Greene sniffed, thought a moment.

“Apparently, he makes a good prisoner. From all he tells us, the British fell over themselves to make him comfortable. One must wonder what he offered them in return.”

“You do not suggest, surely . . .”

“That he’s a traitor? I wouldn’t go that far. But I must be honest with you, General. I do not believe that man will perform any good service for this army. General Washington would not be pleased to hear me say that. And I am certain General Lee has a good deal to say about me as well.”

Lafayette looked down now, said, “I cannot repeat anything, sir. But I cannot believe General Washington would have faith in such a man if he is what you describe.”

Greene shrugged.

“General Washington is not blessed with the luxury of opinion or of choice. He must make do with the material he has at hand. I hope to God I am mistaken in my feelings for General Lee. But if I am not, I pray General Washington is not made to suffer some disaster because of it.”

The office was crowded, all the senior commanders present, except for one conspicuous absence. Lee had not yet emerged from his room. Greene could see the annoyance on Washington’s face, and Washington said, “We shall begin. Those not present can be advised later. We have been informed of the imminent arrival in Philadelphia of a new delegation from London. They have supposedly been accorded the power to grant concessions toward a cessation of hostilities between our countries. I have been advised that this power excludes one significant concession. They do not come with any offering of independence.”

Washington looked around the room, and Greene felt a strange anger brewing in the man.

“I am pleased that the congress is not regarding this commission in a positive light. I am advising you of this so that you do not allow yourselves, and the men in your command, to view this in any way other than as an act of desperation. I believe, and this view is shared by congress, that King George and his ministers have been . . . um . . . the only term I can use is . . . frightened. Word of our alliance with France has certainly burned its way through London. But rather than concede that a wider war, with greater loss of life is so abhorrent that peace should be sought, they have instead responded by an outrageous attempt to divide our country. This is a ruse, diabolical and base. It has one purpose, to distract us from our cause. Any man who might waver from support of this war might now be tempted to see this offer as a ray of hope. The English continue to perplex me with their misunderstanding of the American will. They come to us now, driven by the fear of a new and powerful enemy, and they offer those terms which we sought with such energy three years ago. They ignore that their armies have killed and maimed and distressed so many of us, and offer us a crooked and brittle branch from a poisoned olive tree.”

The room was silent, the men glancing at each other. Greene was surprised by the show of rage from Washington, said, “Sir, can we be certain that the congress agrees with your assessment? Can we depend on their firmness?”

“Without question, Mr. Greene. Without question.”

“Then, sir, we should not despair the resolve of the American people. If this delegation offers no more than a fantasy of a return to some halcyon days, it is likely that their mission will be brief.”

Washington seemed calmer, looked around at the faces.

“I pray to the Almighty you are correct, Mr. Greene. This, however, is not my only purpose for calling you here. My scouts report from Philadelphia that a large quantity of British ships have raised sail and have departed the city. In fact, the suggestion is that a considerable majority of their craft have sailed. I have confirmed this from several good sources.”

The room came to life, a hum of comments. Greene looked around, could see the sudden glow of enthusiasm. Greene saw Stirling raise his hand, the man’s words hinting of a Scottish burr. “Sir, do we know where they’re off to? Might be hightailing it back to New York, eh? Should we be preparing to march, then, sir?”

Washington held up his hands.

“My apologies, gentlemen. Perhaps I was not clear. I meant to say that the British
ships
have left Philadelphia, but not their army. There is no sign that troops are yet going anywhere. The ships are said to have carried sympathetic civilians, and likely, equipment.” He paused a moment. “And baggage.”

Greene looked at Stirling, said, “If their baggage has sailed away, then a march cannot be far behind.”

“Well, then, we had best make preparations for a fight!”

The words came from behind them, and all heads turned toward the doorway. Greene saw Lee, adjusting his dusty uniform, his matted hair standing up stiffly on his bare head. Washington said, “General Lee, thank you for joining us. What do you make of the movement by the ships?”

“Quite clear. They’re planning an attack. It will come at us here, or it will come at our cities to the south, Baltimore, Wilmington perhaps. General Howe is certain to strike a hard blow at our weakest point. That would narrow the decision to our position here. We cannot stand up to an attack, not with the command structure we have at present.”

There was silence in the room, and Greene felt an explosion building in his chest. Washington pulled himself up out of his chair, said, “I am not clear on just what message the British navy is offering us. I am certain however of the following. Mr. Lee, you have been understandably without communication since your release, due to your necessity of travel. This is an opportune moment for me to inform you, as I intended to inform all of you. We have received word that within the past few days General William Howe has been relieved of command. His successor is Henry Clinton, which should surprise no one.”

There were more comments, and Greene saw Washington lowering his head, staring down at the floor, the room growing quiet again.

“I am certain as well that General Clinton would not send his ships
away
from a place where he intended to commence a campaign.” He paused, and Greene wanted to cheer, thought, Of course not. There will be no attack here, or anywhere around here. He fought the urge to look back at Lee’s smugness, and Washington seemed to avoid Lee as well, said, “I anticipate that we will learn the enemy’s intentions soon enough. To that end we shall prepare to leave Valley Forge.”

J
UNE 1778

Greene rode the horse up on the plateau, moved along past the rows of cabins. He knew Kitty was waiting for him, by now had completed the details of her packing, was preparing to board the carriage that would carry her northward. He had wanted her to come along, just a brief ride through the camp, to hear a final cheer from the men who were making ready to leave themselves, the entire army stirring in a restless awakening. But she had stayed with her bags, and he knew better than to argue. She was fighting the sadness, another good-bye that would likely divide them for many months. He would succumb to it himself, and he knew that this ride was the distraction, delaying the scene that he could not delay much longer. He had experienced it before, knew that the tears would come, her soft crying, her fragile arms holding tightly to him. She would tell him of her prayers, how every night the Almighty would hear her soft voice pleading for his safety, for his return.

He turned the horse, heard his name, a group of men loading rolls of new white canvas into wagons. He acknowledged them with a brief wave, spurred the horse, and moved toward the artillery park. He looked for Knox, didn’t see him, wondered if Lucy would be as emotional as Kitty, more so perhaps, a woman who held nothing back. He smiled, could see the two of them together, the Knoxes, a perfect marriage, pure joy in each other, pure joy for life. And Henry Knox, pure joy indeed for the guns in his command.

He rode to the edge of the hill, could see the headquarters, knew that Martha was preparing to leave as well. The women shall be missed, and not just by their husbands, but by the army. When they arrive, it changes the entire camp, and now, when they depart, it will change us again. He turned the horse, stared out toward the southeast, toward the city where so many of the enemy were making their own preparations, some plan he did not yet know. The women may miss us, may even curse us for what we do, but we will not spend
our
nights in tearful loneliness. We have a new companion, coming to life again out beyond those low hills. And before much longer we will receive the reports, and the order will come, and this army will leave behind these cabins, will move down from these heights, this horrible, wonderful place.

35. CORNWALLIS

J
UNE 8, 1778

He arrived after a journey of seven weeks, a crossing made bearable by lengthy card games and grand dinners with the men who were assigned the task of bringing the new peace proposals to America. The ship was the
Trident
, and though passengers were few, the staffs and servants of the peace delegation occupied nearly every available space on a man-o-war that was not constructed for comfort. But the optimism of the peace commissioners set the tone for the voyage, and he was grateful for their lighthearted approach to their mission. To a man, they believed they would reach Philadelphia to find a grand celebration of their certain success. They believed they carried the one means by which this war would draw to a close, two nations blending again into one, ruled by a benevolent king who had made an extraordinary apology for his mistakes. The only man on the ship who had serious doubts about their mission was Charles Cornwallis.

His visit home had been a marvelous rest, a time of peace and comfort. Jemima had welcomed him as he had imagined she would, all the tenderness of tears, the grateful softness of a woman who understands her husband’s duty, who holds no resentment or anger for the long absences. But this time there was more than the usual sadness, and as he slipped away from the last touch of her hand he felt an uneasy concern. From the first day of his arrival, he had been surprised at her frailness, Jemima growing thinner in his absence, her laughter and buoyant spirit tempered by a weakness that alarmed him. She had dismissed it, would not admit to any ailment, scolded him for his worries. After too few weeks together, their parting had been as they had always been, more tears and soft kisses. Once at sea he could not think just of Philadelphia and his new duties without wondering if her new fragility was more than just a symptom of his absence.

He was still a member of the House of Lords, though he cared so little for politics. But England was now festering in politics, and so he had obeyed his sense of responsibility and attended the meetings at Parliament. The turmoil was complete, King George’s opposition bolstered by the agonizing defeat of Burgoyne and the horrors of the new French alliance with the rebels. The speeches were bold and spectacular, and that one dreaded word had finally made its way into the halls of Parliament,
independence,
sharp calls for the king to conclude the war by a full admission of his government’s failings. The prime minister, Lord North, had offered his resignation, but George III knew that a collapse of North’s ministry would bring an opposition figure to power. The king would not accept such a shameful defeat within his own government, would not succumb to the will of his hated opposition. North’s resignation had been refused. The only alternative was appeasement to the colonies. Cornwallis has endured the debates and haranguing speeches with utter disgust, and a deep embarrassment for his army’s failure. The peace delegation believed they carried the only answer acceptable to both King George and the colonies, but Cornwallis had no such optimism.

As the
Trident
made her way across the Atlantic, he had spent many hours gazing at the open water, occupying his mind by searching for some break in the smooth line of the horizon. If there was a French alliance, there was a French fleet, and if the ministry had not responded quickly enough, the waters off the coast of Delaware and New Jersey might already be swarming with warships that would make any peace plan useless. Though none of the others seemed to notice, he had glimpsed the New Jersey coast with relief. As the ship sailed into the mouth of the Delaware River, it was a welcoming hug from strong arms, British warships at anchor all along the wide river. But it was a state of affairs the peace commissioners had not expected, finding this avenue to the British headquarters such a fortified bastion. The commissioners believed the most optimistic predictions of the ministry, expected to find a land where the rebels had been suppressed, their army nearly crushed out of existence, a land where a rebel congress would eagerly welcome a convenient means to ending a hopeless war. Instead, the British warships made it clear that the land beyond the river was untamed and uncontrolled. At any time, at any point, the deck of their ship might suddenly be ripped by musket fire, rebel patrols who regarded the
Trident
as simply one more target.

The wounded optimism of the peace delegation was shattered completely when they reached Philadelphia. While Parliament had consumed long weeks debating the mission of the peace commissioners, word of the French alliance had already reached the congress. The alliance had been ratified, and even celebrated. The terms of the peace treaty offered by King George had been published and circulated to a people who saw it for exactly what it was: desperation, a means of preempting the French alliance, of preventing the colonies from finding the means to a military victory. The proposals were already the object of scorn, in congress and in the streets of American towns. The commissioners were dismayed to learn the very thing that Cornwallis had quietly predicted, that the colonies were too far removed now from British rule ever to go back. If the war was to end, it would have to end on the battlefield.

J
UNE 9, 1778

He was not surprised to learn that Howe was already gone. Cornwallis had been told by Germain that Henry Clinton would officially take command in mid-May. He had no doubt that once Clinton arrived in Philadelphia, Howe would make haste to leave. There was embarrassment enough in his resignation and recall, and Cornwallis knew well that neither Howe nor Clinton would feel comfortable in the presence of the other, certainly not in any public setting.

Cornwallis still had to report to his new commander, was making his first ride through the streets of the city, a hot and steamy morning. He moved past the headquarters of so many of the officers, stables of horses, quartermaster depots, small groups of soldiers guarding every warehouse, every official outpost. It had all the signs of a fortified citadel, and none of what had once been a grand and prosperous city. There were few civilians in the streets, and those who still went about their daily routines were sullen, no one saluting him, or even acknowledging him. He rode close to a man carrying a large bundle on his back, the man struggling under the weight. The man glanced up at him, and Cornwallis made a slight bow, said, “Good morning, sir. Do you require assistance?”

The man looked back toward the small cluster of staff officers, said, “If I had my horse, I’d not need anyone’s assistance. It was
requisitioned
.”

It was a distinctly military word, the army’s ever-present justification, the needs of the soldier taking precedence over the needs of the civilian. Cornwallis had nothing else to say to the man, moved on past, thought, He was paid, certainly, and with the king’s currency, not the ridiculous paper the rebels offer. He realized now that there were no horses in the street at all, the few civilians all on foot. Well, of course. It has one meaning. The army is mobilizing. We require all the beasts of burden we can find. There was a sound behind him, the voice of one of his aides, no words, just an odd grunt. Cornwallis turned in the saddle, was suddenly engulfed in a putrid smell, put a hand to his face. He looked down a small side street, a dark alley now a river of black water. There was a flurry of motion, rats, some scurrying through the water itself. He prodded the horse, moved past the scene, looked across the way, another side street, saw two large black birds perched on a large mound, thought,