The Glorious Cause (34 page)

“What you meant, sir, is that a man can learn a great deal about those around him if they don’t know he is listening.”

“Does that offend you, General? It might certainly offend General Howe.”

Cornwallis thought a moment, Yes, it certainly might.

“Why, sir, have you revealed this to me?”

Knyphausen looked at him, seemed to study him for a long moment.

“Why did you come here, General? Surely you did not wish to speak of the weather. General Howe is gone to Germantown, so you cannot be here to discuss strategy.”

“I felt the need to offer my appreciation, sir. Since I am in command of the garrison in the city, I am pleased that your command . . . um, I had hoped to express . . .” The words were choked away, and he stopped with a self-conscious lurch. Knyphausen held up a crooked hand, soothed him with another smile.

“My men . . . we are behaving ourselves, eh, General? You are welcome. Tell me, are you comfortable speaking about General Howe?” Cornwallis saw a sharp glint of steel in the old man’s eye, no sign of the haze he had seen at the councils. Knyphausen seemed to sense the awkwardness of his question, said, “You may be assured, General, these doors are closed. It is simply that I have some concerns. I believe you share them.”

“Forgive me, sir, I’m not certain I understand.”

“That’s what you are supposed to say. But I believe you understand very well.” Knyphausen tapped the book beside him, said, “Gibbon. Englishman. Knows something of history. There is history right here, General, this city.
We
are history, you and me. And General Howe. There is a tragedy brewing here. For you. Not so much for me.”

Cornwallis was hanging on the man’s words, could feel the wisdom, not just from the man’s years, but more, something unexpected.

“I’m sorry, sir. Why not for you?”

“I am a mercenary, General! Even now, Colonel von Donop is supervising the accounts, preparing the casualty lists from the battle along the Brandywine Creek. Once the lists are complete, they must be presented to your king. For every man in my command that was killed, King George must pay the archduke three times the normal price per soldier. General Washington and his rebel marksmen have done a fine job in bringing gold to my country’s treasury.” He laughed, shook his head. “You find it disturbing that a general is pleased with the death of his men? I admit, it is an arrangement that has its problems. For example, we may claim a man as killed, if he is only missing. This means, if one of my men deserts, the archduke is paid. You can imagine, General, that places me in a difficult situation. As a commander, I am supposed to punish deserters. But to please my monarch, I am to allow them, even
encourage
them, to run away.” Knyphausen seemed to lose focus, and Cornwallis waited for more, thought, What has this to do with General Howe? The old man rubbed his face, wiped his eyes. “This is not how I was trained to fight a war.” He looked at Cornwallis, the sharpness in his eye returning. “As your hireling, I am to obey every order and submit to the strategy of General Howe. It has sometimes been difficult.”

Cornwallis said nothing, was not sure how far Knyphausen would go.

“How will you end this war, General Cornwallis?”

He thought a moment, said, “We must first defeat the rebel army.”

Knyphausen seemed to jump at the words.

“Yes! So then, why do we sit in this pleasant city? Winter is still far away, and I feel as though I am in winter quarters.”

Cornwallis felt the discomfort returning, said, “Sir, General Howe is aware of our mission. We will attack the rebels when the time is right.”

“Please, do not take offense, General. I do not mention this to insult you, or General Howe. This is a conversation between two good soldiers, nothing more.”

Cornwallis heard the compliment, said, “Thank you, sir. But, you must understand, I am not comfortable criticizing my superior officer. It is not appropriate, sir.”

“All right then, I will speak, and you just listen. You have your honor to protect, your duty to perform. I have been through all of that. An old man learns that time is short. If I do not speak my mind while I am able . . . well, death provides ample time for silence. It cannot be helped.” He laughed again, and Cornwallis could not help a smile. “You still have time to win this war, General. But your army has made two mistakes in this campaign. You have captured the rebel capital as a substitute for capturing its army. There is no value here. General Howe would disagree, and he may have convinced London of that. But even the rebels know that we have done nothing here to end this war.” He paused, looked at Cornwallis with a hard stare. “I was surprised that you supported General Howe’s decision to capture this city. You are certainly a good tactician. I had thought you were a better strategist.”

“You said
two
mistakes, sir.”

“All right, General, you do not have to justify your decisions to me. The second mistake. You have failed to assist General Burgoyne. General Clinton is in New York furious that he is unable to obey Lord Germain’s order, to support your army up north. I too receive letters. Baron von Riedesel commands the Brunswick troops with General Burgoyne. He is a good man, a very good soldier. He has communicated his displeasure, and the displeasure of General Burgoyne that so little cooperation has been provided by General Howe. I was told, as were you, that General Howe would capture Philadelphia and return in time to assist General Burgoyne’s campaign. And yet, here we sit, a very long way from New York, with a rebel army still opposing us. There is talk in your headquarters that General Howe has expressed his wish that General Burgoyne’s mission fail. Is that accurate?”

Cornwallis felt the heat of embarrassment rolling up his face, looked down at the floor.

“No need to answer. I said I would talk. General Howe believes that he will have favor with your king if he succeeds, and Burgoyne is defeated. That is a serious error in judgment. General Howe is the commander in chief. On this continent, he is responsible for every victory, and every defeat.”

Cornwallis slowly raised his head, saw Knyphausen looking at him, a strange sadness on the man’s face. The old man tapped the book again.

“Remember Gibbon, General, the lessons of history. Your king rules an empire as did the Caesars. You and I, we serve, we share the same duty, to defeat the king’s enemies. If we fail,
this
old man will return to Hesse-Cassel with stories for his grandchildren. What will you do?”

Cornwallis shared the man’s sadness now, said, “I will continue to serve. Surely, an old soldier knows that.”

“Yes, of course. But good soldiers should have good commanders. It does not always happen, of course. That’s why men like Edward Gibbon have so much to write about.”

There was a soft knock on the door, and von Donop appeared, said, “General Cornwallis! Forgive me, sir. There is an urgent message from General Howe. His troops are engaging the rebels at Germantown.”

He led three regiments, men who had heard the sounds of the fight well before he did. They marched through the fog along the bank of the Schuylkill, and when the river made a sweeping turn to the left, he rode straight, the guides leading him toward the heart of Germantown, and the low roll of thunder. As they reached the first houses, the fog began to lift, and for the first time he could see the town itself, one main road leading away to the west. The sounds were drifting away on the far side, the battle slowing, scattered shots, the artillery silent. As he moved past the houses, there was a new sound, closer, the houses already filled with wounded, makeshift hospitals. It was a sound every soldier dreaded, and the men behind him seemed to quicken their step, the column pressing forward. He responded as well, spurred the horse, thought, The fight is moving well beyond the town. We are surely driving them back. He looked behind him, the officers waiting for his order, and he saw Leslie, said, “Prepare to advance. I will locate General Howe.”

There were still low patches of fog, and he saw horses, flags, a cluster of color riding toward him. He stopped his horse, and Leslie moved up beside him, and he said in a low voice, “I seem to have found him.”

The riders came slowly, a deliberate parade, Howe leading the pack. They were close now, and Howe raised his hand, punched the air with a fist.

“General Cornwallis! Perfect, marvelous day! The matter has been concluded! Dare I say, this was a fine victory for His Majesty’s soldiers!”

Cornwallis saluted him, said, “General, three regiments at your service, sir.”

“No need! Did you not hear me? The matter has been settled! The rebels have been swept completely away! I must say, that rabble did a sprightly job of stumbling about the place. The fog was quite a disadvantage for them. There was a moment when I thought we were in a serious scrape, that Washington had sprung quite the surprise. But, hah! In short order, we found our mettle and drove them right back into their forest!”

He had never heard Howe so animated, the man now turning to his aides.

“Make careful count of the rebel casualties. This will play well with Lord Germain!” He looked at Cornwallis again, said, “They dared to come right at us, and we stood tall! London will find no fault with this command on this day!” Howe looked past him, seemed to see the column of reinforcements for the first time.

“Too late, General! This one was mine! I’d say you should return your men to the city.”

Howe moved away, his entourage keeping pace. Leslie was beside him now, and Cornwallis said, “It seems the commanding general did not require our services after all. Have the column rested, issue them some food. And then, Mr. Leslie, I suppose we should return to Philadelphia.”

The order passed along the line behind him, the drummers taking up the call, and his men began to file out beyond the houses. He nudged the horse, moved forward, made his way past more of the houses, saw broken glass, one roof punched by an artillery shell. As he moved toward the far side of the small town, he could see troops dragging the bodies aside, lining up the dead, a long row of red uniforms. Beyond, he saw fences draped with color, blue and brown, more rebel bodies spread out in a small field. He rode forward, saw a patch of open ground to the left, one large stout house, the yard a vast carpet of bodies, nearly all rebels, several British soldiers picking through them. He saw an officer, moving slowly around the house, and Cornwallis stopped the horse. The man noticed him, stood upright, but no salute. Cornwallis could see he was very young, short red hair, saw a smear of blood on the man’s face, and he said, “Well fought, Lieutenant.”

The man seemed unsure, looked around at the rebel bodies, some moving slightly, badly wounded.

“It was very close, sir. There was good fortune here today. If not for the bloody fog, they might have run straight over us. I’m ashamed to say it, sir, but so many of my men wouldn’t fight. They just ran away. It was a bloody awful surprise, sir.”

The young man seemed dazed, and Cornwallis said, “Are you wounded, Lieutenant?”

The young man put a hand inside his coat, felt, probed.

“A small one, sir.”

Cornwallis saw the man’s bloody fingers now, said to Leslie, “Get him some assistance. Now.”

The staff was down, moving toward the man, helping him toward a horse. Cornwallis moved past the large house, the road opening up beyond the town, larger farms, more rebel bodies spread along the fences, some in the road. He saw a blue coat, dirty white pants, the body of a rebel officer, the man lying facedown in thick grass. He looked at the man’s uniform, gold braid on the collar, a short sword still in his hand, thought, He died moving forward, leading his men. He felt a strange anger, thought of Howe. Enjoy your bloody damned parade, General. But there was more to this day than your perfect little victory. We soundly defeated these rebels at Brandywine, and yet, here they are again. He looked out across the open ground, a hundred bodies, more, thought, This was no skirmish, no raiding party. It was a well-planned, large-scale attack. That lieutenant may be correct. Fortune, indeed. General Howe can tell London anything he damned well pleases. But these rebels are far from defeated.

25. WASHINGTON

O
CTOBER 7, 1777

He assembled the army near Shippack Creek, a march of twenty miles from the site of their chaotic fight at Germantown. Their casualties nearly equaled what they had lost at Brandywine, more than a thousand men killed, wounded, and captured, and in the space of three weeks, the two fights had cost Washington more than twenty percent of his army.

The British encampment at Germantown had been a wonderfully ripe target, the town itself approachable by several good roads. From all he had learned about the British position, Washington knew that if they made their march at night, two strong forces could converge on the enemy lines in a pinching assault that not even Howe’s regulars could withstand.

He had advanced along the main road with Sullivan, while Greene led his division up to the north, would come into the town on the British flank. It was good strategy, driven by the fire of the men who saw the chance to avenge their defeat at Brandywine. The initial attack had driven the British back in total confusion, but then the confusion had swept over both armies, the entire field shrouded in dense fog. But the key to the strategy was coordination between the two prongs of the attack, the timing that both divisions would begin their assault at the same time. Greene’s route had been longer than expected, his division led by a guide whose self-proclaimed skill had proven dreadfully overstated. Though Sullivan’s attack had panicked the British into a stampeding retreat, when Greene’s men finally arrived, they stumbled right into Sullivan’s flank. Blinded by the fog, and their own nervousness, both wings of Washington’s assault began to fire into their own positions. When the British managed to re-form and make a stand, the confusion in Washington’s lines became panic. Since Washington still believed they had achieved a complete victory, he was astounded to witness the sudden collapse of his entire attack, waves of his men returning out of the fog, pursued by little more than the sound of their own footsteps. Despite the utter vulnerability of Washington’s panicked troops, Howe did not drive forward a pursuit. Once clear of the town, the retreat had slowed, and as had happened at Brandywine, Washington’s army managed to salvage itself.

As the army gathered, Washington was surprised that the men who shouldered the muskets seemed to take it in stride, were even boastful of having carried an attack straight to the heart of the British headquarters. There was little evidence of shame in the camps, more the sense that it could have worked, that this time, success was very close, a fight that was turned more by bad fortune than any fault of their own.

But if the foot soldiers could shrug off the stain, Washington could not, and immediately he began to hear a new round of criticism. The defeat at Germantown gave new energy to those who were unraveling the frayed edges around his command, men whose frustrations were giving volume to their angry voices. Some of the dissenters, like Joseph Reed, were long gone. But there were others, men who Washington had believed were supportive of his efforts, surprised when they began to carry their disaffection to the congress. Some were valuable officers who had grown miserable under Washington’s command, men like Benjamin Rush, the physician who had served as surgeon general, or Thomas Mifflin, the field commander who had become quartermaster general. There were open discussions now, suggestions of incompetence and indecision, complaints that Washington was too reliant and too respectful of unproven officers like Greene and the young Lafayette. Even Washington’s staunch supporters had to wonder if the commanding general was so burdened by the hardships of pursuing the war that he had lost his ability to make sound decisions.

When the congress again fled Philadelphia, they carried fresh dispatches from up north, the first reports of the struggle Horatio Gates was waging against Burgoyne. It was one report in particular that gave Washington’s critics fresh ammunition. Word came of a victory against the British, a place called Freeman’s Farm, that had halted Burgoyne’s campaign and possibly placed Burgoyne’s army in some jeopardy. There could be no quick confirmation, but those who were speaking out against Washington took advantage, some already making a champion of Gates, the man some felt was the most likely to achieve some success in this war. With Charles Lee still in the hands of the British, many had begun to anoint Gates as the new savior, the one man certainly capable of finding the victory that had so eluded the helpless Washington.

As he had done at Chester, Washington waited for the darkness and walked among the campfires. His gloom was absolute, a dark chasm of private despair that he would not inflict upon the men at his headquarters. After the fight at Germantown, the army had extended their march to nearly forty-five miles in two days, a stunning display of energy from men who were still without shoes and much of anything to eat. For two days they had collapsed around Shippack Creek in heaps of exhaustion, recovering not just from that one extraordinary march, but from the weeks of marching and fighting, the constant pursuit and escape from Howe’s army.

He moved along a thin line of trees, stepped into the open where the campfires flickered in a ragged pattern across the fields. He heard the crack of a twig behind him, did not turn, knew it was the guards, keeping their discreet distance. He knew that Tilghman would not let him just wander off, would send at least a few of the handpicked Virginians to follow him. Thank you, Mr. Tilghman. With you in my camp, I have no need of a Guardian Angel. He could not blame the young aide, knew that where the lookouts were posted, a nervous sentry might see this large man slipping quietly through darkness and make a tragic mistake. No, Mr. Tilghman, I will not endanger myself.

He moved closer to the nearest fire, the light catching a row of dark bundles, realized it was men sleeping in the open. He moved away, would not disturb them, saw movement around another fire, a man standing up, another coming out of a small tent. He stayed back, heard their voices now, more men gathering close, and he could see something on the ground between them, playing cards, a game of some sort. He did not approve of gambling in the camps, had seen too many fights, had issued too many orders for punishment for such a destructive activity. But exercises in discipline seemed meaningless now. He could not deprive these men of anything they needed, not after his latest mistake, another battle whose failure cut a deep swath through any optimism he could muster. He thought of Greene, Sullivan, Knox, the men he must rely on, must hold to the same standards that the congress was placing on him. There seemed to be a new standard now as well, so much encouragement coming from Gates and his stand against Burgoyne. Washington knew Gates well, a former British officer who had settled in Virginia. He had a reputation as a disagreeable, combative man, which was only enhanced by his appearance. He was very short, somewhat round, peered at the world through amazingly thick spectacles, his face locked in a perpetual frown. He had come to the Continental Army at Washington’s own request, was the first adjutant the congress had named, had been the first to serve Washington as Tilghman did now.

Though Washington had been far less critical then many around the headquarters, he had never thought Gates particularly capable of command. But he could not openly question the accuracy of the reports from Gates, knew that his critics would jump on his doubts as a show of jealousy, pettiness toward the one commander in this army who might actually be succeeding.

He was still staring out toward the fires, tried to sweep the image of Gates from his mind. You cannot dwell on that which you cannot change. This is what is important, this ground, this camp, so many good men. Is there faith still, that I can lead them into another fight? There is a burden enough in being outfought by your enemies. But this command is under a siege of a different sort, from congress, from the successes of Mr. Gates. If he prevails, what shame and dishonor will these men suffer if they are outdone in
every
instance? This is not Europe, these are not men compelled to serve, we are not such an army that we do not
feel
these things. Will they continue to obey this command if I do not give them something in return?

O
CTOBER 18, 1777

The report came first to Putnam’s command in the Hudson River Highlands, was sent by rider across New Jersey, ferried across the Delaware by the same crossing where nearly a year ago, Washington had had his finest hour. But no one spoke of Trenton anymore, few seemed to recall the triumph of Princeton. Old memories are replaced by fresh triumphs, and the army had a new cause for celebration, a new roster of heroes, a cheerful outburst for that other army, far to the north, and the man who led them. The place was in every conversation, its name repeated by every soldier, in letters home, reports to congress and the states, a place high up the Hudson River called Saratoga. Putnam’s report said that Gates had not only defeated Burgoyne’s army, but had captured the entire force and would negotiate its surrender.

Washington had ordered Knox to fire a thirteen-gun salute, and he issued his own congratulations to Gates’ efforts, posted the words throughout the camp,
Let every face brighten, and every heart expand . . .

The details in the report were plain enough, but Washington had yet to hear any word from Gates himself, and despite the jubilation that rolled through his camp, Washington could not simply accept as fact the report that came by way of Israel Putnam, a man who was himself relying on information that had merely been passed along by courier. He held tight to his skepticism, knew that there was already the speculation that with Burgoyne eliminated, Gates would march south and join his army to Washington’s. The issue of who would assume overall command was already a hot topic in congress, and Washington knew that the rumors were drifting around his own headquarters as well, speculation that despite issues of rank, Gates would no longer serve as anyone’s subordinate.

Whether or not Gates saw himself as the new savior of the cause, Washington was still his commanding officer, and still felt entitled to the man’s report. After several days of complete silence, Washington lost all patience for waiting. At the end of October, he sent Alexander Hamilton on the long ride north, to visit Gates himself, the young man carrying Washington’s order for Gates to send a large percentage of his strength southward. Whether or not Gates would come himself, or even obey the order were concerns Washington kept to himself.

N
OVEMBER 4, 1777

The British had withdrawn their army entirely into Philadelphia, had fortified the city with a series of strong earthworks, Howe not risking any exposure to his army that might result in another surprise like Germantown. But the British had essentially cut themselves off from any reliable supply line, the ships at Head of Elk too far away to be of practical use. The danger to the British was their very hold on Philadelphia, that without the ships, the army simply could not be fed. The Delaware River was the most obvious artery for Howe, but a vast fleet of British supply ships was forced to wait far down the river. The Americans had constructed two significant forts on the New Jersey shore, Mercer and Mifflin, manned by enough artillery to keep any British shipping at bay. Both Howe and Washington recognized the critical importance of controlling the river, and for nearly a month, the British launched repeated assaults by land and sea, brutal and bloody attacks led by some of Howe’s finest officers. On November 15, the last American position was overrun, and the British finally controlled the Delaware. Though another devastating defeat for the Americans, both sides understood that the cost had been enormous, not just for the troops, but for their commanders. One name emerged from the reports, familiar even to Washington. Howe had lost one of his most able commanders, and the Hessians one of their finest officers. Among the dead was Colonel Karl von Donop.

N
OVEMBER 28, 1777

Washington knew that British troop strength had been weakened in the city, that the assault on the forts down the river had been led by Cornwallis himself. But Washington was weakened as well; Greene, accompanied by Lafayette, had led nearly three thousand men who were still on the New Jersey side of the river, the detachment Washington had hoped would rescue the beleaguered outposts. They had been too late to turn the fight, the forts already surrendered when Greene drew close. Now it would take several days for Greene to return, and Washington could only wonder if there was any way he could still drive the British out of Philadelphia.

He eased the horse along a wide crest, the hill overlooking the entire city. He was surprised they had seen no sign of a British outpost, no lookouts, no one patrolling the farms beyond the city itself. He stopped, raised his field glasses, thought, No, Howe is content to stay put. He is already thinking of his very pleasant winter quarters. He moved the glasses toward the river, could see a row of masts, the activity along the waterfront. The flags were evident as well, the perfect symbol for the British achievement, the flag of their king flying over the American capital. He had expected a great deal more outcry from the congress, knew that there would be ample amounts of anguish from a government that has lost its seat. But the congress was reestablished at York now, and though there was plenty of controversy, he had received very little of the shrill advice he expected, that Philadelphia should be retaken at all costs. No, this is not Europe after all, and even if General Howe does not understand that, we do. Philadelphia was a name on a map, and though most considered it the venue for the government, it had no real meaning as the capital city, nothing so historical that its loss was any kind of devastating blow to the army. In some ways, he thought, It serves us better. It is one quite visible place, just as New York. The enemy is
right there
, right where we can see them.