The Glorious Cause (17 page)

Howe had stayed behind, rising very late, had been gracious enough to allow Cornwallis and the army to begin the march without him. It was a blessed relief, and Cornwallis had the troops up and on the road quickly. Cornwallis had put a spark of energy in his orders, knowing that Washington had increased the space between them slightly. If he could inspire the men to a day or two of hard marching, they might still catch the main rebel column. But the army was encumbered by the weight of its packs and the fatigue in its legs, and the rebels were close to the one place that might finally offer them another escape, this time into Pennsylvania. Beyond Trenton was the Delaware River, and a wide river could mean opportunity for either side. If Washington’s troops could be caught on the near shore of the river, unable to find a means across, their despair and panic would surely result in a rapid surrender, and Howe would have a glorious victory. But if the rebels crossed the river . . .

He would not focus on that, knew that Pennsylvania would allow Washington to move in many directions, his meager force vanishing into the vast farmlands. It is winter, after all, and there can be no long marches in winter. The weather had continued to change, from chilly and dry to the icy misery of blinding storms. He tried to imagine the scene in the rebel camp, each day closer to bloody disaster or some kind of salvation. Washington knows his situation, of course. The man is no fool. He has a dwindling army of shopkeepers and farmers, and he cannot stand up to us at all, not now, not after so much of his strength has simply fallen away. He needs the river, and he needs us to dawdle and delay. Cornwallis turned in the saddle, looked back down the moving column, did not see Howe. He felt relief, looked again to the front, saw a church steeple above a thicket of trees, then more buildings, small houses, shops. They had reached Trenton.

The troops raced ahead of him, and he waved them forward with the sword, but there were few sounds, scattered pops, the sudden burst from one cannon. But it was not a fight, there were no lines of rebels waiting for them, the cannon his own, a futile shot across the river.

He reined in the horse, looked across from a high bluff, could see rebels in motion, pulling boats up the far bank. The shoreline was a solid mass of boats, all shapes and sizes, some crude and unfinished, fishing vessels and simple rafts. But the boats were empty, their human cargo already gone. His men were firing across the river, at the last of Washington’s rear guard, but there was little return fire. He ignored the pleas from his staff to back away, knew there was no danger. No, it could not have been more perfect. We gave them exactly what they required, exactly the amount of time they would need to safely cross the river. General Howe will have his critics again, his enemies in London claiming he delayed with purpose, leniency to the rebels. They will not know how it is to be out here, marching this army through eighty miles of bad roads and dismal weather.

He felt himself sagging in the saddle, drained by the long days of this ridiculous pursuit, this absurd chase through land that meant nothing to anyone but General Howe. The last of the rebels were moving off, disappearing into the trees, while around him, his men continued to form solid lines along the edge of the river. Officers were beginning to gather, and he heard the curses of the sergeants, could hear Hessian troops shouting something across the river, their own curses. There was no shooting, the targets far away, the enemy beyond even his own imagination. The word rolled through his brain,
Pennsylvania,
his mind a fog of weariness and anger. He felt paralyzed, could not even see the river, stared at nothing, swallowed up by the great wide hole in his mind, the abyss, where that man and that ridiculous army had disappeared, had escaped again.

D
ECEMBER 14, 1776

They had stayed in Trenton for several days, the army settling into their camps in a dull haze of frustration. He had sent scouts out along the river, and the reports had not surprised him at all. There were no boats to be found, none, of any shape or kind. Washington had been very thorough. For many miles in both directions, the rebels had pulled every craft that could float to the west side of the Delaware River.

He was pacing the shoreline, staring at muddy water, had made this his routine now, walking out every day, while Howe kept to his lavish and comfortable headquarters. But Cornwallis did not dwell on the mud and the stark skeletons of trees, the dreariness of winter in New Jersey. His mind was on Jemima, imagining the sight of her waiting on the wharf, standing alone, as though he was the only passenger on the ship, just husband and wife, coming together after the torment of the months of separation. He thought of his walk down the plank, maintaining his decorum, teasing her, seeming to search the wharf for someone else, all the while watching her, until finally she scolded him, Charles! Pay attention! It was their private argument, and there was no hostility to it, just the tease, when his mind would drift away to some other place, or the writing of some letter that was not for her. Charles! What of me? And he would pretend to go on with his work, wait for her to move closer, trying to distract him, and he would suddenly drop the pen, push the papers away, wrap his arms around her thin frame, bathe himself in her perfume.

Even when the children came, they had their privacy, and neither of them would allow parenthood to prevent their playfulness. He thought of her laughter, like soft music, her beautiful voice, those eyes, that beautiful face.

The image faded, his thoughts jolted by the sounds of the horse, the sight of his aide. He knew that Howe expected him for lunch, a tradition now, and Cornwallis felt a dull sickness in his stomach, could not think of food. His aide dismounted, said nothing, the message known to both of them already. Cornwallis could see the man’s anguish, said, “Yes, yes, Colonel, do not be so troubled. I’m coming. I do not wish to keep General Howe waiting.” The man seemed relieved, and Cornwallis moved past him, climbed on the horse, slapped the reins. The streets were crowded with Hessians, formations of sharp blue, polished helmets in long straight rows. They stepped aside with precision, their officer stiffly at attention as he passed, and he nodded to the man, habit now.

As he approached Howe’s headquarters, he could not avoid looking out toward a wide field, out behind a row of houses. He had seen it first from the window of Howe’s headquarters, something Howe himself had not noticed. Cornwallis had pointed it out, and Howe had dismissed his suggestion with a brief shrug of his thick shoulders, and so Cornwallis would not mention it again. But each time he rode by the field, he stared out at this place, the sawmill, row upon row of cut timbers, a vast field of the raw materials they could have used to build boats.

He rode up slowly to Howe’s headquarters, stepped down heavily off the horse, adjusted his coat over the discomfort in his stomach. There was music coming from inside, some kind of odd Hessian horn, the irregular beats of a large drum. A guard held the door open for him, and he stepped inside, was jolted by the smell, something hard and pungent. The table was piled with large platters of fat tubes, some gray, some red, some seemingly no color at all. The men saw him now, calls of good cheer, some in broken English, and he stepped forward, put on his best effort at a smile.

Howe was at the head of the table, said aloud, “Welcome, General! We have a surprise today! Colonel Rall has insisted that his camp prepare our lunch. It seems that we are in a part of the colonies where some of his people have settled.”

Rall stood now, an older, frail man, with a stiff, unsmiling formality, and Cornwallis said, “Well, Colonel, thank you for your kindness.”

Rall looked to the side, an aide whispering to him, and Cornwallis thought, Of course, the good colonel speaks no English at all. He was familiar with Rall’s aide, a friendly young lieutenant named Piel. Piel motioned to a chair, said, “General, if you please. We have procured some of the finest luxuries of our own country from the farms around Trenton. It has given our soldiers much joy. Please.”

Piel was still pointing to the chair, and Cornwallis sat, the smell numbing him. He stared at the massive platters, could not help the thought: It appears to be one very large intestine. He still had the smile, felt his jaw stiffening, saw Howe now stabbing at a fat sausage, the juice spraying the table. Cornwallis scanned the rest of the table, saw no vegetables, nothing to delay the inevitable, and he reached out with a fork, carefully stabbed a sausage of his own. The Hessians had waited for him, and now there was a surge of forks, men heaping the plump links on their plates.

He could see Howe thoroughly enjoying himself, and Howe said, “Excellent, when you acquire the taste. Enjoy, General.”

Cornwallis poked and prodded, knew he was being watched, cut a small sliver off the end, brought it to his mouth. Howe said, “General, we have been discussing the winter quarters. I believe it is best to have the Hessians remain here. We will establish outposts back through New Jersey, generally on the same route of our march, Princeton, Brunswick, and so forth.”

Cornwallis did not taste the meat in his mouth, stared at Howe, who frowned, said, “Is there a problem, General? Dinner not to your liking?”

He swallowed the meat, said, “No, sir, the meal is fine. Winter quarters? Are we not to pursue the enemy?”

Howe laughed, said, “Pursue whom? Where? Really now, General. In winter, one makes winter quarters. You are well aware there is no purpose served by attempting any march through winter conditions. The conditions here are far too severe for us to take the field. We currently occupy a string of towns that will provide us adequate shelter and a friendly environment. It would be foolish to move farther into unfamiliar terrain. I have decided to place Colonel Rall in command here, with Colonel von Donop down the river in Bordentown. General Grant will assume command at Brunswick, and you . . .” Howe paused, seemed to inflate, a knowing smile. “You, General, may make plans for a visit home. I believe that sort of thing is in order. You may accompany me to New York, and make preparations for a crossing.”

Cornwallis was stunned that Howe would have taken such notice of his sentiments.

“General Howe, I am grateful. I assure you, sir, I would return as rapidly as possible.”

“Of course, General. I consider the journey to be one of refreshment. I would request that you return after a stay of no more than a month, in time for us to resume this campaign at the appropriate time. I have already issued a dispatch to be sent to the ministry, advising Lord Germain that I do not feel there is the smallest prospect for finishing this matter before spring.”

The British troops were marching eastward, on the same muddy road that had brought them to the edge of Pennsylvania. Cornwallis stayed a while longer in the town, fought the urge to push himself quickly back to New York. He was already planning the time he would have with Jemima, but the army had no such luxury, and he would not parade his own privilege of a journey to England in front of the men who would keep to their posts in this dismal place. His duty was still in Trenton, seeing to the disposition of the defenses there, and he had already met with Rall, to offer the Hessian some last-minute instructions, ensure the man’s preparations for the security of his position. The shore of the Delaware River was, after all, the farthest post in a line that stretched all the way to New York. But Rall had been arrogant, even dismissive, seemed to be insulted that Cornwallis would question his judgment. It was a discussion that could do no one any good, and Cornwallis knew when to step away. Howe was right after all. Winter in this part of the colonies was a miserable affair, and nothing would be decided until spring. In the meantime, he could enjoy an all-too-brief visit with his family.

He climbed the horse, moved out past his staff, knew they would fall in line behind him. He followed the column out to the main road, the horse bouncing him unevenly, felt the rumble in his stomach, the Hessian delicacy not settling comfortably. Most of his men were well out on the road, the town occupied only by Hessians. He pushed the horse past another formation of blue coats, saw the familiar rigid salute from an officer, the carefully drilled show of respect. They are not all as stubborn and arrogant as Colonel Rall, he thought. But no one can question his qualifications as a soldier. He has fought all over Europe. He can certainly handle himself in Trenton.

12. WASHINGTON

They had kept to the roads with as much energy as anyone could expect, often without the opportunity to prepare the most simple of meals. In the open roads between the towns they would often eat what was available only in the greatest haste, no time for campfires, the men subsisting mostly on raw flour. What had not been left behind in Fort Lee had been burned along the march, tents, blankets, anything to lighten the load, and to prevent the stores from falling into the hands of the British. Through each town they marched, the citizens who were still there had come forward, curiosity turning to horror, and finally, to pity for this amazing sight, barefoot men with rags for clothes, marching two by two, relentless in their retreat.

All along the journey, Washington had sent letters northward to Charles Lee, whose unopposed forces nearly doubled what Washington had on the march. The letters were polite, suggestive, imploring Lee to send what he felt he could spare, any strength he felt comfortable parting with. Lee had responded with a disturbing lack of concern, vague pronouncements to Washington that Lee felt his army should continue to remain whole, that his own position was the more important. Around Washington, the senior commanders were beginning to bristle toward Lee, astounded at the man’s arrogant assumption of an independent command. Washington responded by making his letters more direct, finally ordering Lee to march southward to add his forces to Washington’s, but again, Lee made excuses. To men like Greene and Stirling, Lee was insubordinate at best, and treasonous at worst. But Washington held down any such talk, kept his own anger inside, continued to order Lee to march. He would not yet believe that this man who was so loved by the army, who was thought to be the consummate professional soldier, would blatantly disobey Washington’s orders. When Lee finally agreed to bring part of his forces to join Washington, he moved with deliberate slowness, the message clear again. Certainly Lee knew that once he was alongside Washington, he would no longer command his own situation, could not play his particular game of war free from Washington’s interference.

Horatio Gates had been ordered to send reinforcements from the outposts he commanded north of Albany, the force that had been deployed to protect against a British advance from Canada. Gates had delayed as well, but did not have Charles Lee’s backbone for flagrant disobedience. Washington learned that Gates had sent nearly fifteen hundred troops on the march toward Trenton. There was still no word from Lee on how many men he would bring, but Washington had kept his optimism, believed that by the time Lee reached Trenton, the army would be strong enough to make some kind of effective resistance against Howe. But both columns of reinforcements were still many miles away when Washington marched into Trenton. Once his army had crossed the Delaware River into Pennsylvania, not only were Lee’s forces of no help, they were in a perilously isolated position of their own. Until the reinforcements arrived, Washington’s army had dwindled to fewer than three thousand men, and the escape over the river was not cause for a celebration to anyone. The lookouts had kept a sharp watch on Howe’s army as it gathered across the river, but there was no sign that Howe intended to come across. Washington made no great show of his wise strategy, the removal of all boats from the New Jersey shore, though around him, the entire army believed that it was the only thing keeping Howe on the far side of the river.

D
ECEMBER 15, 1776

He rode the horse through a stand of tall trees, the limbs stark and bare. He looked across to the church steeples, the streets of Trenton teeming with colorful activity, all of it from the army of William Howe. He felt no danger, could see no visible sign that anyone on that side was even paying much attention to the river. He retrieved the new field glasses, a gift from his friend Robert Morris, so much more compact than the long spyglass. Morris was a member of congress, one of the strong voices in Philadelphia who continued to support Washington in a city where the defeats of their army were causing many to wonder if the selection of this Virginian to be commander in chief had been a mistake. Washington gripped the ivory glasses, felt the gold trim, the lenses a much better quality than anything he had used before. He had wondered how expensive they were, but he knew that Morris was a wealthy man, and some were already talking about him as the most qualified man in congress to engineer the financing so desperately required to maintain the army. He focused the glasses, thought, If we continue to lose so much of our strength, money might not be a concern. There might not be an army left to feed.

He could see a column of red-coated British now, moving up a long rise beyond the town, then disappearing to the east. He thought, Howe is dividing his army, weakening his position. But we cannot be certain those troops will not suddenly appear somewhere else, upriver perhaps. Washington had considered that Howe might attempt a flanking movement, to ford the river beyond the view of his lookouts. It was the lesson learned from the fight on Long Island, and if Howe had forgotten the flanking tactics that gave the British such success, Washington had not. Washington had been meticulous in removing any boats, and if the British were to cross the river, they would have to make a march of fifty miles into a wintry wilderness that could defeat them much more effectively than anything Washington could do. He studied the British column again, nearly gone now, thought, No, this is not any plan of attack. He will spread his army east, reinforce Princeton certainly. He has no great artillery park here, no massed wagons. His supplies are somewhere behind him, and he must protect them. He is certainly aware that General Lee is marching down on his flank and rear, and he cannot risk ignoring us in that quarter.

It was as optimistic a thought as he could form about Lee’s position. The letters had still come, more of Lee’s insubordination, couched in the phrases of a man who is growing more and more bold with his own importance. Lee had now proposed that he keep himself completely free of Washington, suggesting that only an incompetent commander must remain close to his superior’s oversight. The letter had done little to endear Lee to the generals around Washington’s camp, and even his admirers were beginning to ask how much more of this kind of arrogance Washington would tolerate. But rather than pull Lee in by the collar, Washington had no choice but to submit. Lee’s position and the army around him were too important for Washington to give in to a dispute about rank and protocol. Lee insisted he should remain near Morristown and maintain a threat to Howe’s outposts. Lee had been matter-of-fact in his belief that Howe was intending to march all the way to Philadelphia, winter or not. Washington had read Lee’s rambling analysis with a quaking anger, but he would still not reveal that to anyone else, no matter what the sentiment in headquarters was toward Lee. He knew that Lee was wrong, could see it now for himself. Howe was not massing an army along the river. He was already drawing back.

As the British column disappeared to the east, he focused on the town, saw more troops in formation, Hessians, filling an open green, a sharp reflection of sunlight from their brass helmets. Behind them, rows of dark low buildings were shrouded in the smoke from their chimneys, and Washington lowered the glasses now, thought, No, they are not going anywhere. They are in winter quarters.

Riders were coming up behind him, and he turned the horse, his escort of guards moving aside. He saw Tilghman, was surprised to see Greene, riding beside him. Greene had been spending most of his time with his own division, constant drilling. It was some sort of penance for the disaster of Fort Washington, and Washington could not interfere, knew that the responsibility was shared by both of them. But Washington would answer to the congress. Greene was answering to himself. There had been no reproaches, no need for Washington to make mention of the awful mistake, the poor decision to try to hold the forts. Greene would learn from the tragedy, and nothing like it would ever happen again.

The two men moved through the trees toward him, unsmiling, no calls of greeting, and Washington waited for them to draw close, said, “Official business, gentlemen?”

Tilghman glanced at Greene, said, “A packet of letters has arrived, sir, addressed to Colonel Reed. The colonel is in Philadelphia, and I thought, sir, in light of events, there might be some importance in reviewing their contents.”

Washington still didn’t know why Greene was there, said, “You suggesting I read Mr. Reed’s private mail, Major?”

“I’m not at all certain it is private, sir. It could certainly be something official. The packet is from the headquarters of General Lee.”

Washington was unsure why this was important, but clearly Tilghman was agitated, and Washington held out his hand, said, “Yes, well, you may be correct, Major. Let’s have a look.”

Joseph Reed was Washington’s staff secretary, a Philadelphia lawyer. Washington made use of the man’s considerable talent for writing by having Reed draft orders and compose many of the letters Washington had to issue as part of the routine business of command. Reed was a definite contrast to Tilghman, the two men roughly the same age, but the redheaded Tilghman was more plainspoken, with an unrivaled passion for the cause of independence. Unlike the more professional Reed, who saw the staff work as employment, Tilghman had volunteered, was unpaid, and carried no rank as authorized by congress. The title of “major” was Washington’s own salute to the young man, whose discretion and loyalty to Washington was absolute.

Washington examined the letters, saw one with Lee’s own handwriting, something with which he was quite familiar by now. He hesitated, thought, Well, yes, this one could certainly be official business. He opened it slowly, began to read, stopped, looked at Greene, who sat expressionless. Washington read further,

. . . lament with you that fatal indecision of mind which in war is a much greater disqualification than stupidity or even want of personal courage . . . eternal defeat and miscarriage must attend the man . . . cursed with indecision.

It felt like a fist, a sharp punch in his stomach, and he lowered the letter, a silent moment, and Greene said, “More of the usual, sir? More recommendations on how we should better serve Lee’s strategy?”

Greene had become Lee’s most vocal critic, and Washington would not have allowed such a comment in headquarters. But out here, Greene was only stating what Washington was feeling himself. He did not respond to Greene’s sarcasm, said, “It seems that Mr. Reed has been in correspondence with General Lee . . . on the subject of my unsuitability to command this army.” He paused, felt a cold fog in his chest, said, “This is not for the camp, gentlemen. I have revealed too much already.”

Tilghman was wide-eyed.

“Oh, certainly not, sir.”

Washington looked at Greene.

“General? Am I understood?”

Greene stared at the paper in Washington’s hand, said, “There is a great deal of this kind of talk going around, sir. Not here, but in Philadelphia, certainly.”

“I am aware, General, that there are those in congress who have their own designs on my command. It is a cross every commander bears. I had hoped that among my own staff . . .” He saw the image of Reed in his mind, a man he considered a friend. “I had hoped there would be loyalty.”

Greene did not hold back, said angrily, “No commander should bear scheming and duplicity. This is near treasonous, sir. Colonel Reed is conspiring with General Lee . . .”

“No, Mr. Greene. Colonel Reed has apparently expressed some misgivings to General Lee, and General Lee has responded with his own view. There is no act of treason here. Merely opinions. I regret they should come from my own staff.”

“And, sir, where is Colonel Reed now? He is in Philadelphia, speaking those words to members of congress. No doubt had he received this letter first, he would have related Lee’s message as well.”

Washington was weary of the subject, said, “We will discuss this no further. These men have a right to feel discouraged. This army has done very little to inspire anyone to our cause. I admit, I am distressed by Colonel Reed’s willingness to communicate his feelings directly to General Lee. But we know, gentlemen, that their views are not isolated ones. Look around you, Mr. Greene. Entire companies have abandoned this army. Enlistments are expiring daily, and you might as well attempt to stop the wind as to prevent them from going home. Many of the reinforcements we received from General Gates arrived in camp only to depart again. I was distressed to learn that General Gates has failed to secure their reenlistment before he sent them to this command. Many more terms expire at the end of the year. If I cannot find some means of persuading these men to remain with this army, by January, we will have in this camp fewer than fifteen hundred men.” He paused, could see Greene absorbing the words, the numbers. “So there is disaffection? Discouragement? A lack of faith in my abilities? That can be no surprise, gentlemen. I had so hoped to persuade General Lee to join his men to this camp. He inspires the congress and the army in ways I do not. We must not be so concerned with allegiances and loyalties, and who conspires against whom. We must do everything in our power to hold this army together. If we do not, then I believe . . . the game is nearly up.”