The Glorious Cause (30 page)

Tilghman was motionless, staring out, and Washington stretched his arms, thought of coffee, realized now that the others were staring away as well, at the road to the south. Now he heard the sound, the hoofbeats, then more, and he could see soldiers, the guards, emerging from the gray light. The horses were pulled to a stop, and one man dismounted, came toward him quickly, a civilian. The man held up a paper, said, “Your Excellency! I bring you a message from Philadelphia, from John Hancock, sir!”

Tilghman had the paper now, handed it to Washington, who broke the wax seal, held the paper out, fought the dim light, tried to focus on the words. He read for a moment, felt a low fire rising inside of him, his mind clearing, the orders forming, the instructions for the new day. He looked at Tilghman.

“Colonel, prepare the men to move. We will march south, through Philadelphia. According to Mr. Hancock, the British fleet has been sighted well up the Chesapeake Bay. It seems that General Howe is coming ashore after all.”

The staff was gathering close, and Washington began to give instructions to each man, Hamilton writing it all down on paper. They began to move away, and he turned, stepped into the tent, stood for a long moment, thought of Howe. Your men will be anxious to leave their ships, to march on dry land again. And if we are blessed, we will find good ground, we will stand firmly in your way, and give you a fight that will send you home. And perhaps I will have the opportunity to ask you myself. Why did you abandon General Burgoyne?

22. CORNWALLIS

A
UGUST 25, 1777

He stepped onto dry land for the first time in more than six weeks. Behind him, the men filed out of the flatboat in a wave of grateful relief, their sickness and misery already drifting away with the breezes that swept out across Chesapeake Bay. The shoreline was swarming with troops, and there was very little order, the officers allowing their men to drift away from the beach, every man thanking God and General Howe for finally putting them ashore. Within the first few minutes of their landing, whole companies had surged inland, a desperate exodus away from the water, as though the water itself was the plague that had so infected them.

They had made the landing at a place called the Head of Elk, the northernmost tip of the Chesapeake. Cornwallis had studied the charts and maps of the area, knew that the army would make their base on a piece of land that was still sixty miles from their goal. Philadelphia was no closer now than it was to Brunswick, the same camps where his army had spent so many months of useless waiting. A march southward across New Jersey might have taken two weeks, a confrontation with the rebels already decided a month or more ago. Now, they would begin a campaign across an unknown piece of ground, a countryside he had never seen, seeking an enemy who might appear around any curve, on any ridge.

Cornwallis watched the fleet of flatboats continuing to gather along the narrow beach, those still full weaving their way through the chaos of the empty boats, the sailors losing their discipline, shouts and curses, some striking out with their oars and push poles. A ship with sickness is a curse to anyone who sails her, and tempers were hot, impatience with the mass of traffic along the shore. The sailors had suffered the company of the soldiers who had come to hate every part of the voyage, and every part of the ships that brought them. As each boat released another swarm of exhausted faces, Cornwallis shared the feeling with them, that the useless torment, the absurd torture of this fine army was finally past.

Howe had allowed three days of rest for the grateful soldiers, who regained their stamina in relative quiet along the banks of the Chesapeake. The supply officers had been busy, organizing the Head of Elk into a massive depot for provisions, unloading the extraordinary amount of equipment from the huge armada of transports. As the camps were erected, there had been sightings of rebel troops, but no combat. Cornwallis had seen the reports from the scouting parties. They were hardly troops at all, small companies of local militia, led by no one who seemed willing to risk an encounter. It was far different from the camps in New Jersey, where his men were harassed and tormented by riflemen with deadly aim.

Despite the peacefulness of the camps at Head of Elk, Cornwallis was as eager to move as his men. His division would lead the advance, seven thousand men who finally seemed fit for a new campaign. They marched away from Head of Elk on August 28, led by Tory guides, the only men among them who had any idea what might lie ahead.

From the first day out of New York Harbor, the weather had been insufferably hot, and the ships had become steaming ovens, their decks too small to accommodate the sheer numbers of men who suffered beneath them. Once dry land was beneath their feet, the morale of the troops had soared, but there was little relief from the heat, and the enthusiasm for the march had quickly drained away. They moved northeast, past wide swamps and patches of scrub forest, the air dense and wet, swarming with insects. After several days, Howe had granted them the privilege of marching at night, but the darkness did not cool the air, and there was no breeze to carry away the invisible pests. As the men grew accustomed to starlight, the march seemed to pick up momentum. There had even been music again, drummers setting the cadence, fifes and bugles and bagpipes carrying the men forward. But then, the rains came.

S
EPTEMBER 8, 1777

Cornwallis pulled his coat tighter around him. It was not a chill, but the soaking wetness of his uniform. The wind was flailing the trees above him, the darkness complete. Despite the effort of his staff, no lantern was surviving the gale. He had given up trying to see anything, no need to look ahead, nothing in front of him but soldiers, each man keeping to the road by following the tracks of the man in front of him. Still he would make the attempt, the rain pelting his face, driving hard into his eyes. He leaned forward in the saddle, lowered his head, tried to blink the water away, but he knew immediately that it was a mistake, a gust of wind driving a stream of warm water under his collar, down his back. He sat upright again, twisted slightly in the saddle. The slow rocking of the horse was scraping him from below, the soaking wetness turning his undergarments into harsh rags. He tried to find a comfortable position, settle into the rhythm of the horse’s gait, but the animal seemed as miserable as he was, picked its way through the mud with uneasy steps.

The horse was new to him, one of the few that had survived the journey. It had dismayed him to see the horses coming ashore, emaciated animals disembarking from their own small fleet of flatboats. He had seen the staggering animals led by their handlers, sad men whose duty gave way to pity, leading the horses to patches of green, any kind of grass the animals would try to eat. After a short time, Cornwallis could not watch them, had turned away from the pitiful sight of exposed ribs, hollow stomachs. The length of time the ships spent at sea had surprised the supply officers, and as the journey lengthened, it became clear that the ships could not carry enough forage for the horses to survive. In just a few weeks they began to die. He had no special love for horses, had always enjoyed a capable mount, but the long sea journey had opened up a new horror in him, the spectacle of the helpless animal who endures its own starvation without complaint. Once it began, it was constant. Each day the animal transport ships met the dawn by sliding carcasses over the side, the animals who had not survived the night. When Howe ordered the armada out of the Delaware River, it was obvious that the fleet had many long days still to sail, and the request came from the supply officers, permission to cast off the weaker animals, those whose survival was in doubt. They would simply be pushed overboard, the most humane way for the horse transports to preserve the supply of grain and fresh water for those animals that still had strength. Cornwallis had objected at first, horrified at the waste and the cruelty. Even Howe had reacted to that, and Cornwallis could not avoid the feeling that Howe might have more sympathy for the horses than for the suffering of his men. But the supply officers made their case, and Howe had given the order with one condition: The crews of the transports would carry out the grim duty after dark. Even now, in the roaring misery of the rain, Cornwallis could hear that awful sound, the heavy splashes that would echo across the black water. He thought of the one small consolation, the only kind of peace he could find through those dreadful nights. At least, as they drown, they don’t cry out.

He could hear the wind again, knew there were thick trees around him, another deep patch of woods. He heard the familiar whine, the mosquitoes darting around his face. He wiped at the air, a useless gesture, the movement opening up a new part of his uniform to a small flood of water. The mosquitoes swarmed over them from the woods, the patches of low ground, swampy, the birthplace of so much human misery. These narrow roads were the only way through, and he knew that out in front, the skirmish line was probably massed into the road itself, that no officer would order his men into these swamps at night. It hardly matters, he thought. The rebels are nowhere to be seen. They are in their homes, with their wives. Dry clothes.

There was a sudden burst of light above him, a hard slam of thunder. The lightning reflected off the men in the road, and he jumped as they did, jarred awake by the startling sight. The horse seemed to stagger, and he held the reins hard, pulled the animal to halt. The horse grew calm again, and he nudged it with his boots, the animal resuming the uneven gait. A fresh gust of rain blew into his face, clouding his eyes yet again, and he blinked hard, thought, Even the ships were not this bad. Well, perhaps.

He felt a sharp sting on his ear now, slapped it away, could not help a small quiet laugh. A soldier’s life. Torture by design. He thought of the stories from his childhood, the stern lesson from a frightening schoolmaster. We shall be punished for our sins. And, so, here we are, in all our biblical absurdity. We have suffered the plague of locusts, and the flood of Noah. What is left? Shall Mr. Washington part the colony of Pennsylvania, and swallow us up? Perhaps that will be the fate of General Burgoyne, guilty as he is of the sin of ambition. How dare this man usurp the glory rightfully due to General Howe?

The horse stumbled, and he pitched forward, caught himself on the horse’s mane. Behind him came a voice, one of his aides, “Sir! You all right?”

“Quite so, Major.”

The humor was gone now, and he pulled himself upright, thought, So they are watching you after all. Not everyone sleeps in the saddle. I suppose, if
this
army is going to match the successes of our rivals, we should stay perfectly awake. Gentleman Johnny must have no advantage.

They had received news of Burgoyne’s capture of Ticonderoga with a mix of congratulation and dismay. Howe had sent his formal letter of salute of course, a job well done. But Cornwallis knew that Burgoyne’s victory had given a new urgency to Howe’s own plans, that if the insurrection in the colonies was to be defeated, it must still be decided on Howe’s terms, and not by the actions of this playwright who had so boldly thrust himself into Howe’s war. But then the mood around headquarters had changed, Howe himself spreading a strange jubilation, and Cornwallis realized that Burgoyne’s success meant that Howe could proceed with his own march toward Philadelphia, not be so concerned about returning to New York after all. Clearly, in the Champlain Valley, Burgoyne had matters in hand.

Before Howe had set sail, the army had received reinforcements, and Cornwallis knew that his division marched in the lead of an army of nearly eighteen thousand men. No one could be sure of the exact rebel strength, but Washington’s seasoned veterans could not number more than three or four thousand. Tory spies had assured Howe that any larger force the rebels brought to a confrontation would be composed of fresh troops and worthless militia.

S
EPTEMBER 9, 1777

The rain had stopped with the sunrise, and Howe had ordered a halt to the march. The men flowed out into rolling fields, and Cornwallis was relieved to see that the landscape was changing, more of the rolling farmlands than the miserable swamps. The farms were not as groomed as they had been in New Jersey, fewer stout fences, few of the stone walls that had given the rebel marksmen such effective cover. Out in front, the lead units had spread out into a line of defense, the usual precaution against the sudden appearance of rebel riflemen. But there had been no sounds of firing, no resistance at all. For several days the scouts had spread out through the countryside without detection, and most had already brought their reports. The main force of rebels had marched through Philadelphia and advanced down near Wilmington. It was clear that Washington intended to bar the approach to Philadelphia, had moved the rebel army southward as Howe had moved north. The Tories had brought estimates every day of what they were facing, talk of as many as twelve thousand rebel troops, a number Howe considered ridiculous. But Cornwallis knew that numbers might not be as important as ground, and Washington would choose his ground with great care.

Cornwallis’ uniform was still soaking wet, and he led his men into a vast grassy field. He saw officers gathering, one moving toward him with a bearing of stiff formality.

“Sir, we regret to report that the men have lost the use of much of their powder. The storm has caused quite the inconvenience, sir.”

“Major, there is no apparent sign of the enemy. Do what you can to dry the powder stores, and send word to General Howe that most of our cartridges are likely ruined. We will feed the men as adequately as we can. I have no doubt that General Howe will resume this march with all haste.”

The officers moved away, and he looked at the sky, a sea of small clouds moving eastward. The air was thick and hazy, and he felt a warm breeze, thought, At least no rain today. If the roads dry out, we will make good time.

There was a splashing of hoofbeats, and he saw Howe’s flag emerging from down the road, let out a deep breath, no breakfast just yet. He stepped close to his horse, could see Howe himself. He glanced to his staff, saw them already climbing up into their saddles, thought, All right, so we will now learn what we are to do today. He pulled himself up into the saddle, felt the heavy wetness in his clothes. Howe was coming toward him, and he saw Charles Grey now as well, a long line of staff officers. Howe said, “Good morning, General. I regret we must make brief our rest. There is considerable news this morning.”

There was no pleasantness in Howe’s words, the man not even looking at him. Cornwallis had seen the look before, thought, Something has happened.

“Is the news to be shared with your command, sir?”

Howe focused on him now.

“Oh, quite, General. No need for secrets these days. The letter was brought from the fleet this morning. It seems that General Burgoyne has run into some difficulty. His jaunty parade through the wilderness was struck a somewhat unfavorable blow. Some place called Bennington, I believe. A large contingent of his Hessians was sent off on some foraging expedition, and was rather rudely handled by the rebels.”