The Glorious Cause (53 page)

“Is it terribly late?”

He moved close to the bed.

“No. Not at all. Barely daylight. I’m sorry to disturb you.”

She lay back again, and he saw the soft smile, the perfect beauty that had captured him so completely.

“I should rise. Ruthie worries so.”

He put his hand on her shoulder.

“She worries no more than I do. But if you feel tired, there is no need . . .”

“Charles, will you stay?”

He leaned close, kissed her forehead.

“Certainly. We can spend the entire day in this bed, if that is what you want. Ruthie can bring your breakfast right here.”

She took his hand.

“Help me to sit.”

He lifted her from behind, and she sat back against the headboard.

“No. Not just today. Will you stay here? Is it so important that you return to that terrible place?”

He felt her gaze, the soft eyes piercing him. He glanced at the nightstand, the pad of paper, his notes, so much to do, so much disrepair. He felt a rush of energy, stood, moved to the small window. He stared out across the bare gardens, the dull brown grass, leafless trees, thought, So much is required, so much that is my responsibility. He thought of Clinton, of New York, the images hard and ugly in his mind. He turned, saw her still watching him, her face framed by the low light from the window.

“There may be no better time. There is so much to do here, and so little to be accomplished over there. I had so hoped it would be concluded by now, that I would be here . . . that I would return to you, to the children.”

She seemed surprised by his response.

“What do you mean, Charles? Are you saying . . . you will stay? I did not expect you to agree. Your duty, it is all I hear from the family. Your sister says I should not prey so on your feelings, I should not be such a burden. Your duty is so very important. This awful war.”

“I am not certain I even have a duty now. This
war
? I’m not certain that word even applies to what we are enduring in America. Wars are fought by soldiers, men who stand tall on a field and show their courage and their skill by facing their enemy and destroying him. It is the very thing that inspires any man to become a soldier, to test one’s own resolve, one’s own courage. It is certainly what inspired me.” He moved to the doorway, felt himself growing angry, aimed his words out beyond the room. “I am sorry, my love. I do not wish to upset you.”

“Nonsense, Charles. You are angry. Please. I have waited so long for you to be here, to tell me all that has happened.”

He turned to her again.

“What has happened is that we have created a war only to avoid fighting it! We have made prisoners of our own army! We serve men in London who make war by issuing decrees, who move us about like pieces on a chessboard. We are not even allowed to fight. We back away from our enemy and allow him to grow strong. While we delay and debate, we grant him precious time to make powerful alliances. Is there no one in England who desires to
win
this war? Now that I am here, I begin to understand how very far away it is. It is simply not
real
. To the ministry, even to His Majesty, it seems that America is only some place on a map, some piece of the empire that must be preserved because history demands it. But those men know nothing of this war. They could never imagine ten thousand rebel soldiers, they have never seen the king’s finest cavalry swept from their mounts by the muskets of farmers. No war can exist without the will of those who must wage it. The rebels
have
that will. I am not certain that we do.” He paused, saw her still watching him. “I am so very sorry. I have no right to burden you with this.”

“Charles, I am burdened only by your absence. If you are serious about remaining here, I understand what that means. Are you saying you would resign? You would turn away from your command?”

“My command. I serve a man who believes my every moment is spent in conspiracy to replace him. I have come to pity Henry Clinton. He is but another sacrificial lamb. One by one the ministry offers temptation to good men, a place in history, the opportunity to return home to thunderous applause. It has become nothing more than a competition. Who has the greatest ambition? Who can be tempted to believe that going to America might open the way for lasting rewards, the praise of a nation, the favor of our king? Thomas Gage? Johnny Burgoyne? William Howe? The garbage heap of history is a cluttered place.” He stopped, realized he was nearly shouting, took a deep breath, lowered his voice. “And yet, they are all good men, they are all good soldiers. Any one of them could have already won this war. Now Henry Clinton has been provided the opportunity to fail. And if the war is still not decided, then who will follow?” He moved to the bed, sat, the anger draining out of him. “Please forgive me, my love. One does not say these things around headquarters. I fear I have held tightly to these thoughts for some time.”

She put a hand on his arm, moved closer to him, rested her head against his shoulder. The anger was gone now, and he stared out toward the window. He felt her frailty leaning against him, and she said, “There is much to be done here. The house certainly. The gardens need tending. We could do that together. I should enjoy seeing you get your hands dirty.”

His fury had passed, but his determination to be free of the frustrations of the war had not. His resignation was accepted by the king without debate. He was grateful for George’s kindness, the king seeming to understand that the war had become a tedious nightmare for anyone who had the integrity of a good soldier.

He returned to Culford feeling very much the master of the modest estate. The plans for the repairs to the house were more detailed now, and he learned quickly that he had the skills of neither a carpenter nor a mason. He sent word to the village that come spring, services would be required. The winter was bleak and miserable, and there was little for anyone to do beyond the confines of the house. He passed the time with the journals of the estate, a challenge of numbers and accounts. His routine continued, and he actually enjoyed the quiet moments before dawn, had finally relieved Ruthie of the chore of rising so early just to prepare his breakfast.

He stayed close to the house for several days, the excuse always the bleakness of the weather. But Jemima’s routine had changed as little as his own, long hours in the darkened room. His resignation from the army had brought her out for several days, and the house had brightened, all the promise of a spring that was still to come. He had been surprised at his own sense of relief, that his retirement had meant more to him than he would ever have believed. He had spent as much time as her energy would allow in talking to her about the repairs, all the projects he was beginning to plan. She had listened politely, pretended to share his enthusiasm, until he finally understood that details of woodworking were boring even to him. Their talk had turned to travel, the chance to visit Ireland perhaps, places he had long taken for granted. Her happiness had opened up a place in him he had never known, so different from a soldier’s life. It was as though the war didn’t exist, and the very criticism he had voiced of the government had instead become a blessing. It was indeed so very far away, and so very removed from this family, this soldier who was now only a husband and father.

But the winter had dragged on, and the enthusiasm they shared was weaker now, cut down by the return of her ailment. He still tried to bring her out of the bed, waking her to a new day, hopeful that she would feel the energy. But the humor, the playfulness had faded away. As he slipped quietly from their room, he had grown more afraid that she might never find the strength to share all the joyful plans.

He had fashioned a study out of a side room off the large entrance hall, but could not avoid the uncomfortable dampness that plagued so much of the house. He had been absorbed in his reading, a manual on herbs and flowers, something he had bought for Jemima. He set the small book aside, reached for the tea, cold, had let it sit too long. There were padded footsteps in the hall, and he said, “Yes? Who’s there? Ruthie?”

The old woman peered around the door.

“Aye, sir. Would you be needin’ a thing from the kitchen, then?”

He glanced at the teacup.

“No, quite all right.”

“If you’re sure, then.”

She did not move away, and he looked at her now.

“Is there something else?”

He could see the concern on her face, and she seemed to hesitate.

“I don’t mean to be troublin’ you, sir. I’m a mite worried about Miss Jemmi.”

He looked down, felt himself sinking into the chair.

“She’ll be all right. We must allow her to rest.”

The old woman said nothing, backed away, and he said, “What else should we do?”

It was a question he had asked himself every day, and she said, “I don’t know, sir. Everyone says that with you coming home, she’ll be up and right just anytime. I just don’t know . . .”

“It will still be that way, Ruthie. I’m not going anywhere now. Nothing is as important to me as Jemima, and getting her strength back. She has been . . . somewhat better.”

“I hope so, sir. It’s all she’s talked about, you coming home. You two ought to be together.”

He stood now, moved past her into the hall. He looked at the stairway.

“You’re right. Surely, that’s all it will take.”

F
EBRUARY 14, 1779

The doctor had come, a younger man, had stayed with Jemima for most of the afternoon. But he was gone, no answers to their questions, only reassuring words that convinced no one.

Jemima had not left the room in two days, and Cornwallis had climbed the stairway to look in on her yet again. Ruthie had brought tea, the tray on the floor outside the door, and he opened the door slightly, the small dark room holding tight to the odor of sickness.

“Jemima?”

He waited for her response, small movement in the bed, but the room was silent. He eased inside, put a hand on the blanket, said again, “Jemima? There’s tea. Ruthie has prepared . . .”

He saw her face now, the sad frailty replaced by a quiet calm. He moved close, put a hand on her cheek, felt the soft cold stillness. His hand shook, and he backed away, felt a hard icy hole open inside of him. He reached behind him, felt for the open door. He could not look away from her, backed away still, was outside the room now, his eyes fixed on her face. He wanted to speak to her, some words, her name, but there was no voice in him, no sound at all, and with a trembling hand, he closed the door.

He could not stay in the house, wrote brief detailed letters to his family, all the affairs of his life put onto paper. As he rode toward London, there were no thoughts of gardens and estates, or trips and laughter. The countryside was unfamiliar, the carriage carrying him past woods and deep winding creeks whose memories had been swept away. He felt no attachment to the land, the towns, the country. With her death, something had left him, some piece of his own soul taken with hers.

He was on his way to see Germain, had requested an audience as well with the king. There was only one place now where he could feel at home, where no one would speak of wives and illnesses and country estates. If the king would allow it, if the government would only understand that he could still be a good servant, that he still knew something of discipline and honor, then he could still give them what it took to be a soldier. All he wanted was to leave this place. The only comfort left for him now was his life in the army. He would go back to America.

41. WASHINGTON

S
PRING 1779

It had been a strangely mild winter, and all through their bases along the Hudson, Washington’s men had enjoyed a peaceful winter quarters. If there was misery at all, it was due mainly to the boredom.

They had constructed their own cabins, the lessons carried forward from Valley Forge. There had been mistakes made that previous winter, the cabins topped by roofs of mud and grass, which kept the cabins wet and unhealthy. The forests near the Hudson had supplied a greater supply of wood planking, and the new cabins were healthier places. They had flooring as well, another lesson learned, separating the blankets of the men from the ground beneath them.

Despite the depressing turn the French alliance had taken at Newport, the news from across the Atlantic was still positive. The merchant ships had continued to bring their precious cargo, and nearly all of Washington’s army received fresh uniforms. There were shoes as well, a better quality and a greater number, and for the first time since the siege of Boston, his men were not forced to perform their drills and marches in bare feet.

As the new year had begun, there had been little sign the British would move at all from their crowded base in New York. There had been raiding parties, foraging expeditions along the New Jersey shore, the occasional bloody confrontation with surprised outposts. But for the most part, Clinton seemed determined to maintain the inflexible British custom of delaying any new campaign until winter had completely passed.

With little activity that required his presence along the Hudson, Washington had gone to Philadelphia, the invitation both social and official. Martha had joined him there, and the city had responded with a series of lavish affairs, grand balls and banquets. He had expected celebrations for the success of his army, the recognition from a grateful nation that their enemy had been driven away. But as the weeks passed, he could see that the festive atmosphere in Philadelphia had little to do with the army at all. It was more a city returning to its routine, a decadent display of excess and wastefulness, as though no one in the city was aware that not so far away, two armies faced each other across a river, waiting to resume their bloody war.

He could not avoid every party, but made excuses nonetheless, finding some refuge in the business of the war. Much of the time had been spent with his friend Robert Morris, the man who had already done so much good work as the nation’s unofficial financier. It was Morris who kept the avenues of commerce open to France, who had completed the process begun by Silas Deane. The merchant ships were still under threat from British patrols, but now, with the French fully in the war, the supply ships were protected by French men-o-war, and Lord Howe’s warships could no longer make easy prey of the French and American cargo.

Morris had been successful in business long before the war. In the years before the Declaration, many of the colonial merchants had been the strongest voice against any controversy that might endanger their cozy relationships with their British suppliers and customers. Morris had been outspoken from the beginning in his support for independence. But he also possessed the caution of the conservative businessman, and unlike many of the radicals in congress, Morris had thought the Declaration itself was too much too soon. With the keen eye of the economist, he warned that the fledgling nation had no financial foundation to support itself against the might of the British empire. But when the vote had passed the congress, Morris had signed the Declaration after all, and from that moment, had never wavered in his support for Washington’s efforts.

The lunch with Morris had been modest, at Washington’s request. He had suffered several days of an uncomfortable malady, the result of too much feasting at too many lengthy banquets. Morris seemed to understand, and Washington appreciated that his friend had no need to make a display of abundance.

He sat back in the chair, watched as Morris filled a pipe, tamping the tobacco down slowly, carefully. Morris caught his look, said, “My one true pleasure. Virginia’s gift to the civilized world.” He lit the pipe, extinguished the long match, winked at him. “Well, one gift. She has a talent for supplying good generals.”

Washington was surprised by Morris’ good spirits, said, “Forgive me, Robert, but I expected you would be in a somewhat sour state. I saw the newspaper this morning.”

Morris shrugged.

“Today they assaulted
me
. Last month, those same writers spewed forth so much bilge in
your
direction. I should be flattered at the attention.”

“Does it not bother you that some are questioning your honesty? The article today came very near calling you a thief, stealing from the public funds.”

“I am neither angered nor threatened by it, George, because I know the source. They are the same voices who have assaulted the integrity of Silas Deane, men of intense ambition and no means to realize it. Jealousy, George. There are men in this nation, men in this congress, for God’s sake, who sit on their hands and spout furious criticism at every turn. They speak against me, against you, against your quartermaster, Mr. Greene. They lash out at any policy, any decision that calls for someone to actually
do
something. They are infuriated that the congress is not allowed to exist solely as a social gathering. They bristle at the notion that a congressman should shoulder some actual responsibility. It infuriates them. They find me especially infuriating. I am, after all, in business. I make a profit from what I do. How dastardly of me!”

“There is no shame in business, I would think.”

“NaÏve, George. Permit me the lack of humility, but I happen to be very good at managing my affairs, and the affairs of my company. I have profited by those affairs, and would have done so whether or not there was a war. That’s a simple fact that escapes my critics. It is assumed that anyone who acquires profit in these times must be a thief of one sort or another. Often, that kind of criticism is just. There is immense abuse, George, right here in Philadelphia. You see it everywhere you go. Have you attempted to purchase a saddle for your horse? New boots, perhaps? A bushel of grain? All are necessities of war, you might say. And all are being offered at exorbitant prices by men who have come to see the war as an opportunity to steal from their country. Those people expect only to be considered to be in business as well. Thus it is a simple matter for the newspaper to hang us all with the same noose. My crime? I make a small commission on every shipload of cargo my company receives and delivers. On the other side of the Atlantic, Mr. Deane was guilty of the same offense. Thus we are condemned for feeding at the public trough, as though we should offer our services for free. No matter that I must feed my family by the purchase of meat that is no less plentiful than a year ago, but is ten times the cost.”

Washington thought a moment, said, “We are suffering some difficulties at Mount Vernon. I can barely afford the cost of seed, of cloth. All manner of goods have become expensive beyond reason. Yet, all around Philadelphia I see abundance of supply, merchants with full shelves. Is there no sense of patriotism here? Would a man rather have a full storeroom than give help to his country? What kind of man has so little good conscience? You are the expert in such thing, Robert. What is to be done?”

“Bayonets.”

Morris continued to draw on the pipe, the smoke drifting into a cloud above him. Washington absorbed the word, saw a slight smile, said, “It is a poor joke, Robert.”

“Possibly. But, when the British army was around this city, the talk was survival, not profit. The war has disappeared from Philadelphia, and so, the threat has disappeared as well. One way to change that. Bring in a few more bayonets. Patriotism must sometimes be encouraged. Your Mr. Greene has been a master at stirring that pot. Perhaps he should be given an even freer hand, remind these people that there is more at stake than the value of the paper dollar.”

“That would not sit well with the congress, Robert. They protest enough that we have such a presence of troops here now. General Arnold’s command . . .” He stopped, saw Morris shake his head.

“General Arnold.”

“Is there a problem with Mr. Arnold of which I am not aware?”

Morris pulled at the pipe again, said, “Have you enjoyed all these feasts given in your honor?”

Washington was puzzled, said, “I have thought them to be somewhat excessive for my taste.”

“Under General Arnold’s command, this city has experienced a revival of excess and decadence that even General Howe would have found distasteful. It seems that Benedict Arnold has been captivated by his newly acquired wife, the former Miss Shippen. Peggy is a very young thing, who has a surprising maturity when it comes to her appreciation of . . . pampering. Forgive my lack of graciousness, George, but she has become somewhat legendary for her, um,
gratefulness
for those who provide her with life’s finer adornments. It seems not to matter to her that for a time, those baubles were provided by the British. Now, of course, she is provided for by General Arnold. In my humble estimation, her requirements have provided him with a full occupation.”

Washington said, “I have heard very little of this. There are always complaints about any commander who holds a senior post, especially one with the prestige of Philadelphia.”

“Just a word of advice, George. This is a place where corruption breeds.”

“I will be aware, certainly. If there is a new campaign soon, I will require my best field commanders close by. General Arnold is certainly that.”

“You anticipate a campaign soon?”

“I have learned that the British will defy my expectations at every turn. They have shown no sign of movement. It is possible that General Clinton is waiting for the French to show their intentions.”

Morris extinguished the pipe, tapped it on the table.

“I am concerned that King Louis considers us a low priority compared to his interests in the Caribbean. If the Newport affair is their best effort . . . God help us.”

Washington was surprised at Morris’ lack of faith, said, “It was the fault of one man. Admiral d’Estaing was not prepared to subordinate himself to an American commander. I must believe there will be a greater effort to work for a common goal. I have already taken steps to assist that process. Mr. Lafayette is on his way to France now. I have instructed him to use his influence to
clarify
our needs. He has proven himself to be a most worthy ally to my command, and to this nation.”

“Are you not concerned about time, George? I have no reason to doubt the young marquis’ abilities, but the British could strike out at any moment.”

Washington looked down at the table, put his hand flat on the smooth wood.

“The British have accommodated us before. Is it naÏve of me to have faith that they will do so again?”

Morris leaned forward, looked at Washington with the seriousness of a man in business.

“You know better than I. But Clinton’s inaction may be the best hope we have. Without the French, I do not see how the congress can provide for another campaign. There is no pay for your men, new recruits will be difficult to find.”

It was the same story, every new year bringing the same fears. Washington knew that the commissions of nearly four thousand of his regular troops would expire by late spring.

“Then I will continue to hope, Robert. Perhaps General Clinton is content to remain in New York. Perhaps he awaits reinforcements of his own, feels he is too weakened to begin a new campaign. We know from several reliable scouts that he has shipped out a great many men to the southern islands.”

“Then you are not naÏve after all. You have learned your enemy well, George. It is the mark of a good commander.”

As the spring gave way to summer, the British emerged from the city only to continue their small raids on supply depots and farms. Clinton made one serious push up the Hudson, capturing the valuable outpost at Stony Point. It was good strategy, a possible foothold they could use for a much larger campaign upriver toward Washington’s main fortification at West Point. But Clinton was careless, and left the newly captured prize undermanned. Washington responded with a quick strike by troops led by Anthony Wayne, and within days, Stony Point was back in Washington’s hands. But Stony Point was too weak a position for either army to defend, and Wayne was forced to withdraw, the British occupying the place yet again.

The tit-for-tat confrontations continued in several quarters, from the coast of New England to Virginia, and Washington became more and more confident that Clinton had no intention of mounting a major campaign. He could only assume that the British had as much need of a respite as the Americans. Regardless of what strategy Clinton might be planning for the future, for the present, the British were giving the Americans an enormous gift of time.

While the Hudson was the focus of much of the skirmishing, there was one brief and sharp action farther south, a swampy spit of land called Paulus Hook, which lay along the New Jersey coast opposite southern Manhattan. The British had grown careless again, the outpost manned by five hundred troops who guarded their sandy entrenchments, disregarding any threat from Washington’s troops. In the darkness, a handpicked force of three hundred light horsemen burst into the British lines and captured a third of their men, escaping as rapidly as they had come, with a loss of only five American casualties. It was a blow to British pride more than any great strategic victory, but it brought a new officer to Washington’s attention. The light cavalry had been commanded by a Virginian, a man whose family Washington knew well. While the young major had shown a talent for horsemanship, the cavalry had yet to prove itself as effective as their British counterparts. But after Paulus Hook, Washington realized that cavalry could be useful indeed, especially if they were led by effective officers, good men like this Virginian, the young major they now called “Light-Horse Harry” Lee.