Washington's General (13 page)

Though Henry Knox didn't see it, Caty Greene must have had a serious side, for she became fast friends with Martha Washington, who certainly possessed a sense of propriety. Twice Caty's age, dowdy but more confident and self-assured than the young woman from Block Island, Martha took a motherly interest in Caty Greene after they met in Boston during the siege. They renewed their acquaintance in New York until Caty suddenly left in late June, after learning that her son, George Washington Greene, was ill. Frantic, she sailed back to Rhode Island to be greeted with wonderful news: young George was recovering nicely.
Mother and son enjoyed a warm reunion, but soon Caty's thoughts drifted away from hearth and home. She longed for the company of her husband and his friends, and the excitement of New York. She quickly returned to the city, much to the surprise and annoyance of her husband. Henry Knox told Lucy, who had returned to Boston, that his friend would “have rather lost his arm than to have seen [Caty] here at this time.” The British buildup had begun.

As he awaited the enemy onslaught, Greene renewed an acquaintance with John Adams, whom he had met during the siege of Boston. The timing of this new and potentially useful relationship was not entirely accidental. In early spring 1776, just after Boston was taken, Greene's friend and ally Samuel Ward Sr. died of smallpox. Ward was Greene's conduit to Congress, a fellow Rhode Islander, the father of his friend Sammy, the father-in-law of his brother Christopher. Greene counted on Ward to keep him informed of the latest intrigues in Philadelphia and to make sure that Greene's views did not go unheeded in the capital.

At the time of his death, Ward had become a well-respected leader and a voice for independence. Greene mourned the loss of his friend but also seized on his meeting with Adams to cultivate a new ally in Congress.

Greene, who had grown up in a colony where there was little difference between political and personal loyalties, understood the importance of having an ally in Congress. Amazingly, for a man so conscious of his lack of formal education, he was secure enough to approach one of the Revolution's least approachable figures, John Adams, a Harvard graduate and lawyer. It was becoming clear that although he remained extremely sensitive to criticism, Nathanael Greene did not lack for nerve, a trait that would serve him well in the battle to come.

Greene's correspondence with Adams constitutes a fascinating colloquy between two headstrong individuals representing often-clashing interests: the military and the political wings of the American revolutionary movement. That larger conflict informed their debate over who
should control promotions, with Greene arguing that Washington–as the commander in chief–ought to make those decisions, and Adams countering that only Congress, as the representative of the people, should have that power. Greene said that Adams's policy was bound to be “dangerous, often injurious and sometimes very unjust” because occasionally an inferior officer “may get promoted over the superior [officer] if a single instance of bravery is a sufficient reason for . . . promotion.” Adams replied that giving Washington sole power of promotion was no guarantee of justice and was likely to be “more dangerous to the public liberty.”

Greene may have argued from principle, but he also had a selfish motive. He lusted for higher rank and figured his best chance for advancement lay with Washington, not Congress. He already was lobbying for promotion to major general, and his campaign was neither subtle nor flattering. “As I have no desire of quitting the service, I hope the Congress will take no measures that lay me under the disgreeable necessity of doing it,” he told Washington. In other words, if he didn't get the promotion he sought, he would quit the army. These were not necessarily the sentiments of a pure patriot and dedicated republican. But Greene simply couldn't help himself; still insecure, still fearful that others might be whispering about his limp or his lack of education, he monitored the horizon in search of impending insult.

No insult was forthcoming. When Congress announced the names of new major generals, Greene was on the list.

Other exchanges between Greene the soldier and Adams the politician continued to reflect the tensions of a democracy at war, tensions that did not end with the Revolution. At one point, Greene accused Adams, and Congress, of playing a “desperate game” because they refused to recruit and pay for a large regular army, preferring to rely on part-time militia. But the concerns Greene expressed in these letters were not always so cosmic. Just as often, he badgered Adams about pay increases for officers (Adams was not sympathetic) or government pensions for the families of soldiers killed or maimed in action (this argument made better headway than the pay issue).

These debates, filled with passion and sound arguments, soon seemed a good deal less important. Beginning in late June, great events overshadowed academic disputes between friends over the salaries of American officers.

On the morning of June 29, an American rifleman in New York on his way to an outhouse chanced to look out on the city's glorious harbor. In the distance, where Staten Island and Long Island reached out toward each other, he saw something that took his breath away. “I spied, as I peeped out the bay, something resembling a wood of pine trees trimmed,” he wrote. “I could not believe my eyes . . . when in about ten minutes the whole bay was as full of shipping as ever it could be. I do declare that I thought all London was in afloat.”

It was not all of London. It was merely the advance guard of General William Howe's invasion force, sailing in on more than a hundred ships to do battle with the impudent rebels of America. As more ships sailed into the harbor, the invading force grew to nearly thirty-two thousand men. Warships under the command of General Howe's brother, Admiral Lord Richard Howe, assembled off Staten Island to support the army. There would be no more embarrassments, like those that had disgraced His Majesty's forces in and around Boston. Overwhelming force, applied vigorously by land and by sea in New York, would end the rebellion once and for all. The British, together with German mercenaries, set up camp on Staten Island and awaited their marching orders.

Opposing this vast British force were just nineteen thousand men, most of whom were inexperienced, and many of whom were sick. As he continued to supervise the defensive works on Long Island, Nathanael Greene also diagnosed the illness that was plaguing the American camp. The soldiers' health, he proclaimed, suffered from eating too much fried meat–an assertion that no doubt puzzled many fellow officers, given Greene's utter lack of medical knowledge. Showing himself to be a man well ahead of his times, Greene ordered the commissaries to serve more vegetables and fruit, and that meat, if it had to be consumed at all, should
be roasted rather than fried. (“Vegetables,” he told Washington, “would be much more wholesome” than meat.) He also reemphasized the importance of hygiene, ordering extra supplies of soap and again demanding that latrines be properly maintained–the old ones filled up and new ones dug every three days–and that “all Filth and Putrid matter” be buried. “The General Also forbids in the most Positive Terms the Troops easing themselves in the Ditches of the Fortifications, a Practice that is Disgracefull to the last Degree,” he wrote.

This sick, undermanned, inexperienced army seemed to be ripe for the taking in early July, save for the fact that on July 9, the troops heard stirring words that reminded them of why they were gathered under arms in New York. At six o'clock on that summer's evening in New York, brigades of men from New England and Pennsylvania and Virginia–men who would have believed, even a year ago, that they had nothing in common–gathered by order of George Washington on their respective parade grounds. They grew silent as they were read the words drafted in Philadelphia and approved on July 4. Washington said he hoped those words would “serve as a fresh incentive to every officer and soldier to act with Fidelity and Courage.”

The men cheered, and later that evening, the local Sons of Liberty made quick work of a fine lead statue of King George III in the city's Bowling Green. The statue showed George dressed as a Roman emperor, majestically astride a noble steed. By the time the Sons were finished with George, he was headless and otherwise in pieces.

Then it was back to reality.

The Americans expected an attack at any moment. Nervous sentries on night patrol near Greene's headquarters fired into the darkness when they heard footsteps or saw a sudden movement. Greene confessed to Adams that he was worried that he had too few troops to oppose the mighty force encamped across the Narrows on Staten Island. He could see his opponents gathering strength by the day; one morning he rose before dawn and rode to Red Hook to monitor the British fleet in the distance. It's hard to imagine what private thoughts passed through his mind as he spied this huge armada assembling to test the defenses that
he–Nathanael Greene of Rhode Island, late of Nathanael Greene & Company–was building on the hills above the East River. The finest soldiers in the world were drilling across the harbor on Staten Island, and one day soon, they would attack in force. How would he react? Would they make a mockery of his forts and fences and other defensive works? Would he panic as the sun caught the glint of the bayonets? Would he die, leaving little George fatherless, leaving Caty a widow? She was back home now and pregnant again.

What had he gotten himself into?

Doubts about his troops troubled his days. He told Adams he wished he had been given more time to discipline his men before they faced the inevitable onslaught. He may well have been wondering about his own discipline. Although he had witnessed death and destruction in Boston, and although he had heard the screams of the wounded and the dying, he had not yet experienced the full force of His Majesty's fury. What would it be like? He could not know, and perhaps it was better simply to dwell on duty rather than fear. He told Adams, “What falls to my lot I shall endeavour to execute to the best of my ability.”

What fell upon his lot was paperwork. Administrative duties were ceaseless, and Greene resented these burdens as they piled high on his beloved mahagony desk. With only minimal secretarial help, Greene was signing passes, dictating orders, presiding over court-martials, mulling requests for discharge from the service, and, of course, keeping up a lively communication with political leaders. He complained to Washington that the flow of paper was interfering with more important work.

[It] is impossible for me to attend to the duties of the day, which in many instances prejudices the service. . . . The science or art of War requires a freedom of thought and leisure to reflect upon the Various incidents that [daily] occur, which cannot be had where the whole of ones time is engrossed in Clerical employments. The time devoted to this employment is not the only injury that I feel, but it confines my thoughts as well as engrosses my time.

Still inexperienced, Greene didn't understand that paperwork and logistics were part of any commander's burdens–as a similarly burdened Washington might have told him. When he imagined himself on the battlefield, he saw glory, not chores. Caesar, after all, didn't write about his bureaucratic duties in Gaul, and Marshal Saxe hadn't offered instruction in managing paperwork.

Greene also didn't understand that it was his mastery of details that made him all the more invaluable as a member of the American high command. Washington had no way to judge Nathanael Greene as a battlefield commander, at least not yet. Instinct, however, told him that here was a competent and earnest leader of men, a self-taught general who kept his troops well drilled and reasonably happy, and one who, incidentally, kept the paper flowing. What more could one ask of a general on the verge of his first combat?

Greene's complaints did achieve some measure of relief: Washington, noting that “General Greene being particularly engaged at present,” allowed a lieutenant to sign passes that previously had required Greene's signature.

July passed without an enemy move on Greene's position. On the night of August 1, Greene rode to the Narrows after hearing a report that still more British ships were anchoring off Staten Island. He told Washington that he spotted thirty-six new vessels with troops aboard. Greene didn't know it, but the new arrivals were part of a British fleet that had attacked General Lee on Sullivan's Island, near Charleston, South Carolina, on June 28. The battle had ended in a British defeat and a hasty retreat.

Still, the British waited, causing Washington to observe that there was “something exceedingly mysterious in the conduct of the enemy.” The enemy's conduct was not only mysterious but scandalous. Lord Rawdon, a young and particularly smug officer who would cross paths with Greene years later in the South, was among the troops idling on Staten Island. He described to a friend, the earl of Huntington, how His Majesty's troops were keeping themselves entertained as they awaited their marching orders. “The fair nymphs of this isle are in wonderful tribulation,” he
reported. “A girl cannot step into the bushes to pluck a rose without running the most imminent risk of being ravished.” Rawdon noted, with jolly irony, that the island's young women took exception to wanton assaults; “they don't bear them with the proper resignation,” he said. As a result, “we have most entertaining courts-martial every day.”

As the hot, humid summer passed, hundreds of American soldiers came down with what Greene called “putrid fever”–probably typhoid. The army was woefully unprepared to treat so many sick soldiers, about a third of the army. Disease was, and remains, as much a part of war as mangled corpses and burned flesh, but Greene was unwilling to shrug his shoulders and leave the ill and the wounded to the fortunes of war. “Great humanity should be exercisd towards those indisposd,” he told Washington on August 11. “Kindness on one hand leaves a favorable and lasting impression; neglect and suffering on the other is never forgotten. . . . Something is necessary to be done [speedily] as many sick are in a suffering condition.”