The Glorious Cause (32 page)

“He is already mistaken, Mr. Lafayette. Either General Howe is upstream, or he is not, and I have letters claiming both.” All the excitement of the morning, all the optimism was drained from him, and he spread the papers on the small table in front of him, shook his head, heard a loud noise outside, a hard shout, and Lafayette was out quickly. The noise continued, coming into the house now, angry and profane, and Washington could not erase the daze in his mind, saw Lafayette again, who said, “Sir, there is a gentleman here, who claims to have information.”

The man pushed into the small office now, and Washington stared up at a fierce hulk of a man, the dark skin of an Indian.

“I am no gentleman, sir! But I do have information! If you do not withdraw this army, you will be surrounded! The British are coming across the creek at Jeffries Ford this very minute!”

Washington felt himself pushed back in his chair, pressed by the man’s thunderous voice. He could see others coming into the room, guards, men with bayonets, and the big man ignored the commotion behind him, said, “I will not speak to anyone but you, sir! You are in great peril!”

“Who
are
you, sir?”

The man backed away, seemed caught off guard by the question.

“I am Thomas Cheney. A farmer. I was riding along the creek up north a ways, and I ran straight into a flock of those lobster-backs!”

“Mr. Cheney, do you not think I would have been informed of this? General Sullivan . . .”

“Bah! Sullivan! I tried to tell him, and he ignores me, his men laughing, say I’m crazy-drunk. I am neither, sir!”

Tilghman was beside the man now.

“Are you aware, farmer, that spies are hanged? General, I am deeply sorry. I just returned . . . if I had been outside, he would not have been allowed to enter.”

Cheney ignored Tilghman, said, “I am not a spy, I am not a Tory, and I am not lying!” Cheney glanced at Washington’s papers, saw a map, said, “Look! See here!” He grabbed the map, ran his finger over the lines, said, “No, this is wrong! Up here, there is a ford. Jeffries! That’s where they are coming across!”

Washington felt a growing anger, blending with his frustration.

“Sir, I cannot just take your word. We have scouts in that quarter. Mr. Tilghman, escort this gentleman outside. Mr. Cheney, we will hold you here. You must understand . . .”

“Oh, I understand, sir! I will go out there and sit under a big oak tree, and watch your army get swallowed up!”

The man turned, and Tilghman followed him out, the guards moving out as well. His head was swirling, and he looked at the map. Wrong? The map is wrong? Is that man lying? How do we know?

Lafayette was in the doorway, said quietly, “Sir, General Greene has returned.”

“Yes, I’m certain he has.”

There was the sound of boots now, and Greene burst into the room, his face a black flame.

“
Why,
sir? We were in position, there was no sign of opposition! Why did we halt?”

“Calm yourself, General. Mr. Sullivan reports that there is no sign of the enemy upstream. From the nature of his information, it is possible that General Howe made a feint in that direction to mislead us. You might have advanced your division into the entire British army. We have no choice but to hold our position, Mr. Greene. We must know where the British strength lies. We must find General Howe.”

Greene stared at him with an open mouth, said nothing, and Washington added Greene’s impatience to his own. There was a knock at the door, and Hamilton was there, seemed surprised to see Greene, said, “General Washington, General Sullivan awaits your next instruction. He assumed that in light of his new information, you would not want to risk having his division cross the creek.”

Hamilton seemed unsure, seemed to wilt under Greene’s hard scowl. Washington felt a wave of misery now, the perfect plan, the carefully arranged trap now replaced by a complete lack of initiative.

“Mr. Hamilton, I wish you to return to General Sullivan and instruct him to continue scouting the crossings above his position. We must locate General Howe.”

Tilghman burst into the room, pointed behind him, said, “Sir! You must come!”

Tilghman was gone again, and Washington thought, What else must we endure? He pulled himself up from the chair, could hear shouts from outside, moved past Greene, who followed him outside.

The staff was all there, and all faces were turned to the north. He could hear it now, a steady roar of sound, not from the far side of the creek, but up above them, behind Sullivan’s line. It rolled across the low hills and thick brush in a steady rumbling wave, a storm of muskets, punctuated by the deep thunder of cannon fire. All around him, the voices were silent, each man trying to grasp the obvious, that Sullivan was suddenly engulfed in a fight no one predicted, from a direction no one had expected. Greene moved out in front of him, stared as they all stared, said in a cold hiss, “It seems that General Howe has found
us
.”

The collapse of Sullivan’s flank was complete, some units fleeing in utter panic, but most holding themselves in good order, fighting as they retreated. As Howe’s assault against Sullivan’s position roared to life, the Hessians had responded as well, had launched their own assault across Brandywine Creek over the same fords that Greene had abandoned. Though pockets of resistance slowed the British advance, Washington knew he could not hold his position, and by nightfall, the ground along Brandywine Creek was fully in British hands. With Greene serving as a strong rear guard, Washington gathered those troops who could still fight and withdrew them to the town of Chester.

The strange farmer was long gone, and Washington stood in the dark, thought of the man’s name, Cheney, his profane fury at being ignored. Indeed, sir. You were correct in every detail.

Most of the army’s equipment had been salvaged, and the camp was taking shape in the darkness around him. He watched as a group of men nursed a small fire, brush and sticks piled on, the flame growing, a soft glow spreading across the ground around him. As the fire engulfed the darkness, his eyes were captured by the light, and for a long moment, he felt lost in the flame. He had not allowed himself a moment’s rest in nearly two days, and he stood alone in the soft glow, his mind drifting through a soft fog. In so many of these quiet moments, he saw the face of his older brother, saw it now, Lawrence, the good soldier, leading him on the wonderful expeditions through the rugged country around Mount Vernon. His brother was the scout, the experienced woodsman, but as Washington had grown older, his brother had grown curious about the surveyor’s instruments that Washington would carry. As Washington taught himself more and more of the craft, Lawrence paid more attention, and the memory still brought a smile, the one day when they stopped on the trail, when the sixteen-year-old began to explain how to map the valley below them, details of the ground, turning the landmarks into mathematics, mapping his way through an unknown land. It was the first time he actually impressed his older brother, the first time he knew that Lawrence respected him. But the guiding hand fell away, Lawrence weakening, the horrible fits of coughing from the consumption that would kill him. Lawrence had died when Washington was only twenty, and Washington had often wondered that if his brother had survived, would he be in the commander’s shoes now? The years had not dimmed his reverence for the man who had so impressed the boy, the man who still might have been Virginia’s finest soldier. And today, he thought, I have brought shame to you yet again. But it is different than the defeats of a year ago. It was not for lack of courage, there was little of the pure raw panic of untested soldiers. On this day, we put up a good fight, there was no chaotic retreat. But it was a retreat nonetheless, the utter and complete failure of a very good plan. And if it is not the men, if this army had indeed been ready for a fight, then the failure was nowhere else but in their commander.

He had walked out in the open field to hear the words of his men, as though they would not notice him, would pour out their anger whether he was there or not. It would be his penance, to overhear their protests, that if he heard a vocal gathering around a campfire, he would invite them to face him, to pour out their frustration. But there had been none of that, the men tending to their business, the business of making camp, caring for the wounded, the companies and regiments finding their own from the scattered masses in the retreat.

He knew there would be noisy outrage about this day, if not in his own camp then certainly from the congress, hasty calls for blame, some falling on John Sullivan. He would not listen to any of that, would do everything to deflect the responsibility from anyone in his command. There can be only one man responsible for this kind of failure. If the congress must pass judgment, they will do so on me, not on these soldiers. He turned away from the fire, could not escape the irony, the one talent in the boy that his brother had felt such pride. Washington knew maps, could survey the land as well as anyone in Virginia. And on this day, the defeat, the collapse had come for want of one good map.

Cheney had been right about that as well, that the maps Washington had were both inaccurate and incomplete. He knew the name now, not just from the strange dark man, but from Sullivan’s officers. Jeffries Ford was barely two miles above Sullivan’s position, not twelve, and if Washington knew nothing of it, Howe certainly did. By the time Sullivan realized he was outflanked, the British artillery was already firing into his lines.

The staff was putting his headquarters together, and Washington knew they were preparing some sort of supper, whatever could be gathered together. He turned away from the fire, his eyes blinded by the darkness, thickened by exhaustion. He blinked hard, wiped his face with dirty hands, heard a voice behind him.

“May I intrude, sir?”

Washington looked for the face, his eyes still adjusting, but the voice was familiar.

“You are not intruding, Mr. Lafayette. Is the supper prepared?”

“Very soon, sir. I thought I should see to your service. May I get you something?”

The young man’s face was lit by the glow of fire, and Washington began to walk, saw Lafayette following him, the Frenchman moving with a pronounced limp. He stopped, said, “Are you injured, General?”

Lafayette put a hand on his leg, said, “A minor wound, sir. It is wrapped securely. It is proof that the British are poor marksmen. No one would purposely shoot a man performing such minor duties as myself.”

It was pure modesty. Washington knew that Lafayette had ridden out through Sullivan’s retreat, had rallied the men into defensive lines, had done as much as anyone on the field to keep the army in good order.

“I should like to examine that wound myself, Mr. Lafayette. We should not chance carelessness. This army cannot afford to lose the services of its most able officers.”

He strained to see the bandage, could tell only that it was tied in a bundle above the young man’s boot top. He realized Lafayette was staring at him, and the young man said, “You embarrass me with the compliment, sir.”

Washington straightened, said, “The embarrassment is mine. No, that is too generous. The shame is mine. This army deserved more from its commander.”

Lafayette did not respond, and he was grateful for the silence. He did not want this exchange of platitudes, meaningless conversation to soothe the wounds to his pride. He began to walk again, slowly, allowing for the young man’s limp. Lafayette said, “May I inquire, sir, what you were doing? Were you speaking to the men?”

“No, I was . . . listening, actually. I thought perhaps it would be a good thing, that I should walk among the men and hear their words.”

“If I may be allowed to ask, sir, what did you expect to hear?”

Washington looked down, thought a moment.

“Anger. Despair. After today, I wonder how many of them will be driven to desert. I hoped to dissuade them, convince them that this was not
their
defeat.”

Lafayette stopped, and Washington saw him massaging his leg, and the young man said, “I have heard nothing like that.”

“No, I can’t say I did either. Surprising.”

“I cannot agree, sir. This army knows defeat, and it knows victory. I have heard the stories of your militia leaving the field in great haste, never to be seen again. But that is not these men. The enemy won this day, but only this day. These men are still an army, they are still prepared to fight. There will be
another
day.”