The Glorious Cause (43 page)

32. HOWE

P
HILADELPHIA,
A
PRIL 1778

The play was
Henry IV, Part One
, and he had whisked his mistress through the hall in a flurry of color, her gown swirling around them in a grand display that was meant only for her. He knew she enjoyed the attention, seemed oblivious to the stares and low comments. He paid little attention to the response from the other officers, and even less to their disapproving wives. Those voices were faint enough as it was, muted by the overwhelming number of officers whose arms were draped by mistresses of their own. Many were a product of the hospitality of Philadelphia, some had come from England. By now, any mention of scandal was nearly rehearsed, simply a part of the show, of each evening’s entertainment. It had become the dreary routine, the long winter evenings punctuated by whatever form of gala could be arranged. The effort came primarily from Major John André, a man who seemed adapted to life in the center of a social whirlwind. André had organized the theater company, was usually its star actor, a man clearly at home in front of an adoring audience, especially an audience of so many women. He was the perfect man to lighten the dark mood of winter, to fill the calendar with every manner of ball and celebration, plays and performances by anyone who might break the monotony of winter quarters. The manic social scene had been a delight to Howe, for a while. But the plays were becoming redundant, only so many roles for André to master, only so many times Howe could sit through yet another performance of Shakespeare. Tonight had been a particular chore, and despite the delight of Mrs. Loring’s parade through the crowd, Howe had finally conceded, he had absorbed as much of Philadelphia as he could. He was bored to death.

The daylight hours were passed by the occasional drill, some meaningless march by some regiment through the streets, the unnecessary reminder of their presence to a civilian population who were increasingly hostile to the army in their midst. There was little of Philadelphia that reminded any of its citizens of what once was, not even to the most basic functions of government. The British had swept aside any municipal position, from police to street cleaning, all administration now a part of the army’s duty. The city was, after all, a fortress, the home to a British force that numbered nineteen thousand men. There was no place in the daily routine for the concern of private citizens, while the army’s needs were so great. The result was a city that was falling slowly into ruin. Howe avoided the unpleasantness of the filthy streets, kept himself behind closed doors of the mansion that was his headquarters. As the snow had melted, the smells had emerged, and he avoided the inquiries that came even from his own generals. From civilian and soldier came the protests for how the sanitary concerns could have been ignored, and what might be done now that the spring thaw was certain to ripen the sewers even more. The civilians were actually becoming organized in their protests, and he had deflected the outcry from some annoying committee by simply blaming the Hessians. He had sent an official complaint to General Knyphausen, pointing out the unfortunate habit of the Hessians to stable horses inside various homes, and worse, to deal with their sanitary problems by shoveling the manure straight into the basements. With the warmer weather, the consequence of that was driving even the Hessians to find different quarters, the houses they left behind utterly destroyed. When Howe first learned of this unusual form of abuse, he was amused by the Hessian efficiency. When his remedy had no effect, either on Knyphausen or the outrage of the citizens, he issued a new order, this one to the civilians. Anyone who sought to interrupt the business of the army by voicing loud protest was offered the opportunity to leave, a subtle suggestion that they should perhaps make arrangements to join Mr. Washington at
his
camp.

As the distractions of theater and Mrs. Loring had begun to grow stale, he had taken to the faro hall, a gambling den established to provide entertainment even to the lowest-ranking officers. It was yet another scandal, and he endured another round of complaints, some of the commanders speaking out on behalf of their subordinates. The card game was less entertainment than a place for young lieutenants and captains to be sheared with the precision of a barber, and throughout the winter, some of the least experienced officers had gambled themselves into bankruptcy, some even forced to resign their commissions. Howe’s investigation of the game had been conducted by means of his regular participation. Whether or not the game was honest hardly mattered. General Howe seemed to win with astounding regularity. Any further complaints were simply ignored.

Is there still no attack to be made?” The room was quiet, no one willing to respond, and he looked toward Charles Grey, said, “Well, General? Are we to sit here, captive in our own complacency?”

Grey was an older man, thoroughly capable, and Howe had always felt the man’s subtle lack of respect.

“I have made my reports previously, General Howe. I have no reason to amend them.”

“Ah, yes, indeed, General Grey. I am merely attempting to make more current that which I must communicate to Lord Germain. By your reports, then, I may advise the ministry that the rebels have continued to occupy an unassailable position at Valley Forge. Any attempt on our part to dislodge them would cost us far more than the benefits to be gained. Is that our consensus?”

He scanned the room, saw dull stares, some heads down, still no one speaking.

“Now, gentlemen, let us not give these meetings such a downward cast. Despite what may be transpiring in Parliament, or what excuses General Burgoyne may be presenting there on his own behalf, it is not
this
army who has suffered a defeat. It is not
this
army who has forced Lord Germain and Lord North to champion the cause of capitulation to the rebels. No, gentlemen,
this
army is holding well to its guns! Spring is drawing close! No matter what superior position Mr. Washington now commands, the rebel army is disintegrating before our very eyes! Once conditions permit, our new campaign will make short work of our foe, and of this war!”

He concluded the meeting, did not speak to anyone as they left the grand hall, the dining room of his headquarters. He stayed in his chair, waited for the last man to leave, Knyphausen, the old Hessian looking at him with undisguised sadness. His aides were there now, and he said, “Away! Close the door. Do not disturb me.”

The cavernous room was silent, and he sat back in the chair, let the feigned enthusiasm slip away, thought, It was a grand show. But I am truly sick of it, of the advice, of the criticism, of the meaningful glances. What was that look from Knyphausen? Pity? Every one of them knows that this command is tottering on the precipice. He thought of his words,
new campaign
. He had already received instructions from Lord Germain, a shift in strategy. It was widely assumed that the French were close to some agreement with the rebels, and if a French fleet was to throw their weight to the war, it could be a disaster for British land forces. Already, a strong line of British warships was required to maintain the flow of supplies up the Delaware River, and if the French attempted to blockade the waterway, the results could prove disastrous, not just to Howe in Philadelphia, but to Clinton’s forces in New York. From Newport to the Chesapeake there was simply not enough British shipping in American waters to protect itself, while also protecting the army. The ministry’s answer was to shift the entire focus of the war, from a land-based operation to a naval war. He stared at the table in front of him, reached for the half-empty wineglass, thought, The might of the British, conducting a war of plunder and arson. That’s all it will amount to, blockading and burning cities, from Charleston to Boston. No man who has ever been a soldier would agree to such conduct. What honor is there in a war waged from the safety of a ship, against an enemy who can evade you by moving himself a mile inland? What victory can be gained? Asinine!

He had heard of the debates in London, the king’s opposition launching an all-out assault against the continuation of the war. The rumors that France would enter the war had rattled the complacency of Parliament, men who might suddenly find their seaside estates under fire from French warships. The opposition leaders had introduced a measure to satisfy all demands of the colonies, to reverse all those policies that had inspired the war in the first place, granting the colonies every demand they had sought except outright independence. Even now, he thought, they are putting the absurd policy into action, a new
peace commission
, preparing to sail over here to . . . what? To pretend this army doesn’t even exist? To beg for mercy from that ridiculous congress? This is the cost, this is the price I must pay, the empire must pay for Burgoyne’s folly! It is not bad enough that he hurls himself into a wilderness he knows nothing about, that he relies on savages to guide him. Now, while his entire command is held prisoner in Boston, he is allowed to return to London and regale the Parliament with all the justifications for his failure. Certainly he is laying blame squarely at my feet. It is his nature, his very character to cast fault in every direction. How am I to defend myself from so far away? Who will speak for me? My wife?

He had received a letter from his wife, Frances, that she had indeed petitioned the ministry to give him a fair hearing, not to toss away his career solely on the words of John Burgoyne. It was an embarrassment to him, made worse when he learned that his mother, Dowager Countess Howe, had joined in the campaign. We go to war, and it is our women who must do the fighting. Well, my dear, you are not so well informed. I have already sought my relief from this unfortunate predicament. If anyone is to speak on my behalf, it must surely be me. But first, I must be allowed to leave
this
infernal place.

The wave of sniping at his command had begun to reach him only a few weeks after he occupied Philadelphia. News of his victory at Germantown had been received in London with a far different eye than he expected. It was not seen as a victory at all, but another example of his own failure, the opinions voiced loudly in the Parliament that Howe had allowed the rebels to escape yet again. His critics had now become his enemies, their hostility so infecting the ministry that Germain had subtly stripped him of independence. It was not formal, nothing so humiliating. But Howe could feel Germain’s intrusions, the increasing flow of dispatches, less of the counseling and more direct instruction. Germain had always given priority to Howe’s own strategies, but that had changed. Now the orders were distinct and intrusive and left no room for discussion. With Burgoyne clawing at him as well, Howe had no choice. He could neither defend himself nor command as long as he was in America. The only alternative was to offer his resignation. His brother had done the same, a show of family unity. But Howe knew he was the target, not the admiral. All that remained was the word from Germain. Either the resignation would be accepted, and he could return to London to salvage some piece of his personal honor, or it would be refused. Refusal meant that Germain would have to back away again, allow Howe to manage his own strategy, that King George had somehow come to Howe’s defense. It is the only means I have left, he thought. The only way I can maintain this command is if the king himself supports me. He knew there was one point strongly in his favor. King George despised John Burgoyne.

The meetings with his commanders had become farcical, just like the one he had just concluded. No one would speak openly about anything that was not a safe subject, the old career men like Charles Grey and James Grant already secure enough in their retirement not to cause any ripples now. They all seemed to grow meeker with the absence of Cornwallis.

He could not deny the man’s request to sail to England, the same request that a year ago was preempted by Washington’s astounding success at Trenton. With Philadelphia secure, and the army firmly in winter quarters, Cornwallis had finally embarked in mid-December. Howe had heard nothing from his friends in London about any kind of intrigue or campaign by Cornwallis against him, thought, No, it is not his way. He has responsibilities of his own, and he is the one man in this command who truly misses his wife. He will enjoy his time there, as he well deserves to do. They will inquire of him though, Germain, North, perhaps even the king. They will seek his version of events, of my fitness for command. Surely he wants command of his own, would accept the promotion with enthusiasm. But it is not his way to conspire, certainly not with Burgoyne.

He finished the wine, set the glass aside, raised himself slowly out of the soft chair. He looked at another chair, the second one on his left. It was the position at the table where Cornwallis always sat, a strange tradition that Howe had never really noticed until recently. I rather miss the man, he thought. The others do as well. They sit around this room like so many stuffed pheasants, no one with an original idea. He will speak up, always has. He is not afraid of giving offense. It is not always the best sort of reputation to have. It has certainly damaged the regard this army has for Henry Clinton. Ah, but they are two different men. Clinton is a man driven by anger, a man who only wants to rule his roost, who will accept no counsel, no argument. It will likely serve him well. He is certainly next in line to
this
command. He moved to the tall windows, stared out at the empty street. He pictured Clinton in his mind, marching into headquarters like some rabid demon, his first task to sweep away any sign of William Howe. If that day is to come, I will not relish it. If there has been one advantage to our theater of war, it has been that Henry Clinton is far away from me. We have accomplished so much here, so many good fights, so much conquest. We sit here proudly in the enemy’s capital, their government vanquished, their army a rotting shambles. And yet, men like Clinton and Lord Germain, even my own generals, Knyphausen certainly, they believe we are losing this war. There is power in that kind of pessimism, the power to drain the fighting spirit from this army. How dare they, after all? I have earned my place at this table. And instead of recognition, I am criticized. This army stands poised, complete, strong, moving into a new spring, what will likely be the final spring of this war. I have never failed to drive the enemy before me, and yet my government despairs that we should fight them from ships.