The Glorious Cause (60 page)

46. WASHINGTON

S
EPTEMBER 25, 1780

He had not reached Arnold’s headquarters in time for the evening meal, had sent his sincere regrets, advising Arnold instead that he would arrive for breakfast. Along the way, Knox had joined him, the artillery commander on his own mission to inspect the batteries that spread along the Hudson. The fortifications had not been tended to in a long while, and Washington had considered the pleasant social evening at West Point to be a lower priority than accompanying Knox to examine his guns.

The headquarters house was across the river from the fort itself and slightly downstream. It had been the home of Beverley Robinson, a prominent Tory who had escaped the wrath of his neighbors by fleeing to New York. Washington had not questioned the location, knew the house was well guarded by thick woods and tall, close hills. The house was a suitable mansion for such an important command, could accommodate a large staff as well as room for visitors.

As he rode into Arnold’s yard, he knew they were late yet again, Lafayette and Hamilton chiding him gently to speed up the inspections. The young men were clearly looking forward to the breakfast as much as he was. Washington was surprised by the lack of activity, the yard empty. He had expected a grand reception from the man who had been so very grateful for this influential command. But there was no concern, his mind occupied by the view of the wide river, the long sweeping vista that reminded him so much of Mount Vernon.

Hamilton had dismounted, and Washington still expected Arnold to emerge from the house. As Hamilton moved toward the entrance, Washington saw an officer appear, a small thin man, his hat in his hand. Hamilton spoke to the man, then both men moved across the yard toward him.

“Sir, this is Major David Franks, aide to General Arnold. The general was called away. Some business across the river.”

Franks moved closer now, seemed embarrassed.

“My apologies, General. General Arnold received a note, and left immediately. He said he would be at the fort, and requested you be rowed across. I am truly sorry, sir.”

Washington glanced toward the river, said, “No matter, Major. I should enjoy inspecting West Point as well.”

He left the officers behind, sat in the stern of the wide boat. The fort was a looming hulk of stone, gripping the stark rocky face like some huge claw. He examined the gray walls, the gun ports that lined the rocks, felt a pride, the sense of power. They will never strike here, he thought. Not even Clinton would be so arrogant to think he can sweep through this place.

The boat was pulled ashore, and Washington was surprised that no one was waiting for him. He saw the same surprise on the face of the sergeant, the man who commanded the oarsman.

“My apologies, sir. They don’t seem to have been expecting you. I’ll fetch a guard.”

The sergeant scrambled up the hill, and Washington heard shouts, a flurry of activity above him. He stepped out of the boat, climbed up over small round rocks, could see the guards, surprised men sliding quickly down the trail. He saw an officer now, recognized the man, John Lamb.

“Sir! My deepest apologies, sir! We were not informed of your arrival.”

He was growing weary of that word.

“
Apology
not necessary. Colonel Lamb, did not General Arnold inform you I would be joining him here?”

Lamb seemed confused by the question.

“Um, no sir. I have not yet seen General Arnold, sir.”

“He is not here?”

“No, sir. I assure you, sir, I would be aware.”

Now Washington was confused. He looked back across the quiet river, said, “Well, Colonel, since I am here, perhaps you will allow me to inspect your command.”

“By all means, sir. I would be honored.”

“Perhaps, in time, we will find what has become of General Arnold.”

He had returned to the mansion to find Arnold still absent, his aide reporting only that the general’s boat had not returned. He expected nonetheless to pass the time by the pleasant company of the young Mrs. Arnold, but she had yet to emerge from her bedroom. Arnold’s aides could only offer the familiar apologies.

He was shown to a small bedroom, a polite accommodation offered by Major Franks. As the aide escorted him into the room, Washington could not help a glance above him, seeking some telltale sign that Peggy Arnold was stirring in the upstairs bedroom. Franks caught the look, said, “General, my deepest regrets. Mrs. Arnold was not well this morning. I had hoped she would make her appearance by now, but I have learned that it is best not to disturb a woman in such a state.”

“Quite so, Major. Think nothing of it. Once General Arnold returns, I’m sure we shall have a fine gathering.”

Franks moved away, and Washington closed the door. He removed his coat, brushed his hand over his shirt, wiping at the dust of the long ride, the grime from the construction of the still-unfinished fort. He sat on the small bed, glanced around the small room. It was typical of so fine a home, a soft narrow bed, one tall window, a spray of sunlight that fell across a small chest of drawers. He noticed a fat china vase, bursting with flowers. It was a touch that Martha would have approved, and he said a silent thank-you for the attention to the small pleasant detail. He looked down at his dusty boots, thought of removing them, heard a small sound above him, a slight squeak from a bed. He listened for footsteps, but there was only silence, and he frowned, disappointed by whatever ailment had kept her upstairs.

He had known Peggy’s family for many years, knew the girl as a young teen. He had always suspected she would marry well. Even as a youngster her charms were magnified by her lack of shyness. When he learned that Arnold had won her, he was surprised. He attributed her affections to the strange effects of war. He would never mention this, of course, assumed Arnold had endured enough discomforting talk at the hands of the society belles of Philadelphia.

Peggy had seemed to be comfortable in any setting, especially in those social gatherings where the elite were certain to take notice. Washington found her behavior refreshing, this young confident girl who refused to play the expected role of the shy coquette. He had anticipated visiting with her as much as with Arnold himself, knew the young officers who accompanied him felt the same way. He cast his eyes toward the ceiling again, smiled, thought, Yes, it was always so. The young men are all in love with Peggy.

There was a sharp knock on the door, and Washington said, “Do come in.”

Hamilton was there, and Washington saw a bundle in his hand.

“Sir, these just arrived. The courier has a message from a Lieutenant Colonel Jameson, sir.”

“Yes, I know Colonel Jameson. He is in command of the outposts along the British frontier down the river.”

“It seems the colonel was most insistent that these be delivered only to your hand, sir.”

Washington took the letters, spread them on the bed. He saw a sketch, a crude drawing, held it up, could see now, it was the layout of West Point. He felt a stirring in his brain, looked at the other papers in turn, saw a letter from Jameson himself. He read for a moment, and his hands shook, a burst of cold spreading through him.

“A man has been apprehended, name of Anderson, bearing these documents on his person. And, bearing this as well, a pass signed by General Arnold. Mr. Hamilton, summon Mr. Lafayette and Mr. Knox.
Now
.”

Washington scanned the papers, could see details of troop numbers and placements. There was one other note, written in a different hand, a flourish of lines and swirls, the hand of a man with a talent for writing. It was a lengthy request for leniency, a strange explanation of deeds not detailed. Washington scanned down, more of the same, wordy explanations why the man should not be considered a spy. And then, one line caught his eye:

The person in your possession is Major John André, Adjutant General of the British Army.

The hall was filled with motion now, and Washington saw Lafayette buttoning his shirt, looking curiously at the papers on the bed.

“I was preparing for dinner, sir . . .”

“Is there still no sign of General Arnold?”

“No, sir.”

“Then it seems we have been betrayed.” He shouted, “Mr. Hamilton!”

“Sir!”

Ride quickly down the river, go to the King’s Ferry outpost. Determine if they have observed the passing of General Arnold’s boat. If not, make every effort to apprehend it.”

“Apprehend . . . General Arnold, sir?”

“
Now,
Mr. Hamilton!”

His hands were shaking, and he scanned the papers again, saw a page with familiar words, realized they were his own, notes from a meeting with Arnold a few weeks before. He felt a swirling fever of anger, a hard black fist coiling up in his brain. He looked up at Lafayette, said in a low growl, “We must make every determination of the damage this has caused. But first, I should like to see Mrs. Arnold.”

He knocked, heard nothing, had no time for manners. He pushed the door open, saw her curled up on the bed, holding tightly to her infant child. He had not expected to see the baby, had forgotten entirely that she had given birth. She looked at him with hard, wild eyes, and he said, “Mrs. Arnold . . . Peggy. Do you know where your husband has gone?”

“He cannot protect me! He is gone!”

She began to cry, heavy sobs, holding the baby close to her chest, the baby now crying as well. Washington felt suddenly helpless, and behind him, Arnold’s aide was there, said in a soft voice, “Mrs. Arnold, it is General Washington. He will protect you.”

“No! It is not General Washington!
He is here to kill my baby!”
she screamed, sat up in the bed, backed away from him, staring wild-eyed, the picture of utter madness. The baby was in her lap now, and he could see she was wearing only a dressing gown, the thin material now pulled askew. He turned his head, embarrassed at her immodesty, and she stopped crying, said, “Yes!
You are the one!
My husband cannot protect me from you! He suffers so! They have put hot irons on his head!”

She crawled toward him across the bed, her gown falling open completely, and he backed away, felt the door behind him, said, “Mrs. Arnold, I am not here to kill your baby. Please.”

She began to cry again, and Washington backed out of the room, stood in the hall, saw Lafayette staring past him, wide-eyed, and Lafayette said, “My God. Poor suffering child.”

Arnold’s aide moved again into the room, the soothing words again. Washington felt a hot twisting in his stomach, moved down the narrow stairs. He saw Franks, said, “Major, what transpired this morning?”

“Sir?”

“You said General Arnold received a note from Colonel Lamb?”

“Um, well, yes, sir. We assumed it was Colonel Lamb. The general did not reveal the contents. He received the note, then returned to his room. He spoke to his wife, then . . . called for his boat.”

He heard hoofbeats, and Franks opened the front door, said, “Major Hamilton has returned, sir.”

Washington pushed through the door, saw Hamilton halting his horse, the young man jumping down. Hamilton ran toward him, said, “Sir! We encountered a courier from King’s Ferry! General Arnold was observed down the river, but he has gone, sir. The lookouts report that he was seen boarding a British ship . . . the
Vulture
, sir.”

Washington stared out to the river, said, “At least he had the decency to say good-bye to his wife.”

O
CTOBER 2, 1780

Word had traveled quickly, and Washington began to receive entreaties through the British lines. The most insistent came from Clinton himself, that André be released, some absurd excuse that the man was under a flag of truce. André himself had attempted long-winded explanations of his capture, each contradicting the one before. Despite all the pleas, Washington would only agree to one term for André’s release: a simple exchange, John André for Benedict Arnold. Clinton refused.

He could not find reason to arrest Peggy Arnold, and once she was allowed to leave, and provided transportation to Philadelphia, her condition seemed to improve dramatically. Washington granted her a favor. If she desired to be joined with her husband, he would not object.

Among his own staff there was disagreement on how Major André should be regarded, whether the man’s favored position in the British command required special circumstances. But Washington would hear no pleas for leniency, for treating André as anything other than a spy. The trial was brief and the verdict definite. No argument could be offered to prevent André’s execution. Despite André’s own request that a man of his lofty status be allowed to choose the manner of his own death, Washington made the decision himself. On October 2, John André was hanged.

47. GREENE

Horatio Gates had arrived in North Carolina to assume command of a ragged and exhausted army. Several regiments of continental regulars had been marched southward, adding to the few survivors from Charleston. They were accompanied by cavalry, a necessity in this part of the country, where so much flat open land invited rapid assault. The newly arrived troops had made a torturous march through inhospitable land, and when Gates arrived, many were still suffering the effects of their ordeal. The horses of the cavalry were in poor condition as well, many not surviving the long ride south. Gates was met with urgent requests from the officers that the entire army required time to refit and replenish their strength. But Gates would not wait. If the cavalry was not prepared to ride, they would be left behind. The men would fare as best as the land would provide. Gates started them on another grueling march, his eye focused squarely on the British outpost at Camden. It was a ripe target, unsuspecting and vulnerable, and as Gates gathered militia units from North Carolina and Virginia, he had begun to see his army as invincible. Camden would be his first prize.

If Gates believed his attack would be a surprise, the British commander, Francis Rawdon, disappointed him. At first, Gates seemed to have the upper hand, and presented his forces in such a way that the British wisely pulled back. Gates interpreted the move as an all-out retreat, but Rawdon was merely buying time, reorganizing and reinforcing his lines. By the time Gates met the British again, they were stronger and better prepared, and now, were commanded by Cornwallis himself.

Gates pursued the attack with perfect vigor, but he had positioned the raw Virginia militia along a key position of his line. Confronting Cornwallis’ regular infantry, they fired one volley, then turned and ran, completely abandoning the field. Their collapse endangered Gates’ entire position, and inspired a massive panicked retreat. The only units that held their ground were the veteran regiments from Maryland and Delaware, William Smallwood’s regulars, who had shown their astounding bravery as far back as Long Island. With most of Gates’ army dissolving in front of him, Cornwallis turned his entire force on Smallwood, a power the veterans could not resist. With no alternative except annihilation, Smallwood retreated as well.

While the fight had been a crushing defeat, it was Gates himself who placed the final punctuation mark on a perfectly disastrous ordeal. As his army fled piecemeal through woods and swamps, Gates himself rode hard and fast, as he made his own retreat as well. When he finally brought himself under control, he had ridden for better than three days, to Hillsboro, North Carolina, a distance of one hundred eighty miles. Though his report to congress insisted he was seeking a point from which to best reorganize his command, his beaten army had a different view. As his junior officers rallied the scattered troops toward Gates’ new sanctuary, the men themselves understood that Horatio Gates, the hero of Saratoga, the savior of their cause, had in fact led them to utter disaster, and then, abandoned them on the field.

P
REAKNESS,
N
EW
J
ERSEY,
O
CTOBER 22, 1780

“Mr. Greene, we are faced with a crisis of some urgency.”

He looked at Washington with a strange urge to laugh, the words so completely familiar.

“Yes, sir.”

“You are aware by now of the difficulties which Mr. Gates has suffered. This army has survived an astounding volume of catastrophe, and I am confident we will survive this one as well. It has become something of a lesson for me, that positive change is often born of disaster.”

“Would it not be better if we could avoid disaster altogether?”

Washington looked at him, cocked his head to one side.

“Who, in this army, is capable of such a feat?”

Greene knew the question applied to him as well, his own failure at Fort Washington still a scar.

“Mr. Greene, the congress has placed in my hands the authority to select a successor to General Gates. In times of crisis, their confidence in my ability shows considerable increase.” Washington paused. “No, that is not appropriate. There are many still in that body to whom this nation is indebted.”

“And a good many to whom we are not, sir.”

Washington said nothing.

“My apologies, sir. I did not mean to suggest the congress is opposed to our cause.”

“Mr. Greene, there is no one who has endured the arrows of that body more than you. But you have friends as well.”

“I may have friends, sir. The quartermaster general does not.”

“That’s why I sent for you. Your duties in that department have, for the most part, been terminated. Once your accounts have been settled, you are free to assume a new post.”

Greene had already heard the talk. As word of Gates’ defeat flew through the army, it inspired all manner of speculation, some aimed directly at him. The summons to Washington’s headquarters had put the rumors in a new light, Greene allowing himself to believe that the talk was not so far-fetched after all.

“Most of my accounts are settled now, sir. There is some dispute as you know, some members of the congress who will not accept anything I submit without assuming some dastardly scheme on my part.”

“Those voices have grown quiet in recent days, Mr. Greene. One more benefit of a sudden crisis. I am recommending to the congress that you be granted the appointment as commander in chief of the Southern Department.”

He had expected it, but the words seemed unreal. He looked at Washington, saw no change of expression, the message matter-of-fact. Greene didn’t know what to say.

“May I assume this meets with your approval, Mr. Greene?”

He could not hide his smile.

“Quite so, sir.”

“I have not been informed of either the strength of the enemy’s forces, or our own. I can give you no particular instructions. I must leave you to govern your actions entirely according to your own judgment, and the circumstances of that command. You may realize nothing more than embarrassment, Mr. Greene. But I can rely on no other officer in this army with a responsibility so grave.”

“Thank you, sir. Will the congress agree?”

Washington smiled, the first break in his sober mood.

“Consider, Mr. Greene, your most vocal opponents. Whether or not they appreciate the gravity of this duty, or the depth of my confidence in you, some of them will certainly delight in seeing you gone.”

N
OVEMBER 1780

The appointment required Greene to appear before the congress, and he was surprised to see that Washington was entirely correct. Even those who had spoken of him with such bile made a show of gratefulness toward his good service, so many offering their unguarded assurances that command in the Southern Department would now be in the most qualified hands. Whether his former enemies shared Washington’s faith in his abilities or simply wished him to disappear southward, his appointment received the full support of congress.

He had been accompanied by von Steuben and Harry Lee, both men essential to the strategy of his new command. Washington and Greene agreed completely that Gates’ failure had much to do with the lack of training in his army, and von Steuben had already proven himself the master of that particular problem. Lee would command his legion of cavalry, would correct the enormous error made by Gates in ignoring the value of the light horse.

As they moved south, Greene had insisted on visiting Mount Vernon, a favor to a grateful Washington. It was purely social, and Martha offered as much generous hospitality as Mount Vernon could provide. But Greene would not linger, could see the house in disarray, Martha already preparing for another journey north, yet another Christmas with her husband in the bustling confines of a new headquarters. Though the visit was brief, polite small talk of Kitty and his children, he did as much as he could to send her on her own journey with words of encouragement, a playful challenge that she would now have new generals and a new army to charm. This time they would be French.

Greene knew that the key to success, and possibly survival in the Carolinas, would be the availability of supplies that would originate in Virginia. But that state was a chaos of military disorganization, a product of the philosophy of its governor, Thomas Jefferson. Like John Adams, and so many of those who had fashioned the very existence of the country, Jefferson believed a permanent army was a potential threat to liberty. Even the periodic raids from British warships could not alter his perception that local militia responding to a crisis was a far better solution for Virginia than a regular military force. Though congress had authorized Greene to raise continental regiments there, the resistance in Virginia was fierce. To confront that challenge, von Steuben was left in Richmond, to put his considerable energies into convincing Jefferson and the rest of Virginia that there was truly a greater need beyond their own borders.

What remained of Gates’ forces had gathered around Charlotte, and as Greene rode southward through North Carolina, he began to dread the meeting, the first confrontation Greene would have with the man he had come to replace.

C
HARLOTTE,
N
ORTH
C
AROLINA,
D
ECEMBER 2, 1780

The town was small, barely two dozen homes, and beyond its streets lay the camps of the army. Greene was followed by his staff, Majors Burnet and Forsythe. Burnet was businesslike and studious. Forsythe was more outgoing, and Greene used him more as the liaison with the subordinate officers. Major Hovey was gone, had returned to his home near Boston, and though Greene felt his absence, he could not have denied the young man’s resignation. It was a common problem for the senior officers, finding energetic young men who accepted the grueling responsibilities of managing a command. It was unusual for a staff officer to survive the crushing work, and Hovey had kept to the job longer than most. Too many of the others came to the headquarters with dreams of their own command. Some sought the self-importance they gained from such closeness to authority. Greene thought of Hovey often, knew the young man had every ability to perform the job, had shown the same tenacity as Tench Tilghman. But Hovey had his own dreams, some notion of going into business, a bookseller perhaps, his quest receiving an enthusiastic endorsement from another former bookseller, Henry Knox.

Greene rode at the head of a small column of men who had once been North Carolina militia, two companies now signed on for a full enlistment. As he had journeyed southward from Virginia, he was surprised to find militia officers waiting for him, assembling their men in their village squares. It was more than a cordial welcome, many of the men now joining the ranks of the Continental Army. There was considerable shame in their ranks, the embarrassment for the collapse of the Virginians at Camden. In the small towns, Greene heard more details of that fight than he had received from Washington, certainly more than Gates would include in his official reports. The militia units themselves understood that their performance was poor, that if Greene was going to succeed, these men would have to become better soldiers.

He halted the column, and the officers took over, moving the men out of line, marching them toward the clusters of dingy white tents. Ahead, he saw a small tavern, and beyond, some sort of boardinghouse. Officers began emerging from the house, and he pulled the horse to the side of the wide road, studied them as they studied him. One last man came out, short and round, thick glasses perched low on a hawklike nose. It was Horatio Gates.

Greene dismounted, took his time adjusting his coat, annoyed with himself for his nervousness about confronting Gates. He fiddled with his saddle for a moment, saw a groom waiting patiently for the reins to the horse. Greene took a deep breath, handed the leather straps to the groom, who led the horse away. The meeting was unavoidable. Gates was right in front of him.

“General Greene! Welcome to Charlotte! A dusty ride, certainly. Come, we have some refreshment inside.”

The man’s politeness disarmed him, and Greene said, “Yes, certainly. Thank you.”

Gates led the way, the others standing aside, not following, clearly obeying some previous instruction from Gates. Greene moved inside, trailed Gates to a dimly lit dining room, a fat wooden table perched in the center. There was a lantern on the table, and Gates adjusted the light, the room now opening up in a dull yellow glow. Greene saw a bottle, something dark, and Gates retrieved two glasses from a small cabinet, said, “This potion is not what one would expect in New England, but it is passable. Some kind of grape, or perhaps not. A gift from General Sumter. Ah, but you have not met him. You will. Please.” Gates pointed to another chair, and Greene moved slowly, feeling wary, one animal circling another. He still expected some hostile burst from Gates, sat slowly. Gates held up a glass.

“To your success, General, the success of our cause.”

Greene raised his glass, tasted the liquid, something like wine, very sweet. Gates set his glass down, waited for a moment, said, “Is there something you need to tell me, General?”

“Yes, sir. I suppose I should make this official. General Gates, by order of the Congress of the United States, you are relieved of command of the Southern Department of the Continental Army. I am your replacement.”

“I acknowledge your command. Congratulations, General Greene. May your fortunes be blessed to a greater degree than my own.”