by Jeff Shaara
During his time in Philadelphia, the young Frenchman had attended meetings and hearings in the congress, was flattered to be received as an honored guest, granted the opportunity to speak, to offer his services. He had hoped to ride northward, to find the camps of Washington’s army, but then came word from his hosts that Washington would soon be in the city, a pleasant surprise. He was flattered to receive an invitation to a dinner, and the promise of an introduction to Washington. Though he held a title in the French court, though he had dined in the very presence of his king, the opportunity actually to address the commanding general threw him into knots of nervousness. His lack of experience, his very youth was betraying him. He was, after all, not yet twenty years old.
The young man could not keep the nervousness away, dressed for the dinner with clumsy fingers fumbling with the fineries of French silk and lace. Throughout the long journey, he had worked on his English, and he continued to practice, stood in front of a narrow mirror rehearsing his introduction, a formal sweeping bow, then again, with no bow at all. The nervousness grew worse, and he tried to calm himself by speaking to the mirror, imagining the introduction to the great Washington, very soon now, and he made the bow again, one last time, said, “With your pleasure, General, I am Marie-Joseph-Paul-Yves-Roch-Gilbert du Motier, the Marquis de Lafayette.”
Washington had tried to be discreet, rode through the city streets with no fanfare, but the word of his visit had preceded him, and by the time he reached the City Tavern, there was already a crowd.
He was not sure who would attend the dinner beyond his friend Robert Morris, and of course, a variety of congressmen. He had received word of a foreign guest, and the news had smothered whatever enthusiasm he felt for this social occasion. He had learned to dread any meeting with yet another in the unending line of foreign dignitaries, men who flowed over with self-importance, with their boisterous demands for authority. He thought of Greene’s word, peacock, so aptly describing the spectacle of the grand uniforms, filled by so many men of loud ambition and no ability. His dread had only increased when he learned that this particular guest was hardly a man at all, but a boy who brought a man’s title, and who no doubt had expectations of receiving a man’s respect. Still, the young man was French, was said to have some close acquaintance with King Louis. The French had continued to plague Washington’s headquarters with their insistence on assuming immediate command, none more so than the ever-vocal du Coudray, who had assaulted both congress and Washington himself with his demands for a senior command in the next confrontation with the British.
As Washington climbed down from the horse, he acknowledged the polite cheers of the small crowd, thought of Greene, relieved that his subordinate was not accompanying him. No, Mr. Greene, this would not be your sort of affair. This might be an evening of careful diplomacy. Your impatience would not do. Our cause is not aided by insulting the very people whose assistance we require so desperately. If this young marquis is truly close to King Louis, we should, at the very least, be polite to him.
The dinner had been a mix of boisterous good cheer and subdued advice, and Washington had endured it all with a graciousness that had drained his energy. The wine was flowing freely now, and the conversation was steering away from talk of the war, the one subject that had kept the evening entirely sober. Washington had given up any thoughts of using the evening to campaign for the urgent needs of his army. The few members of congress were concerned mostly with their short time left in the city. It was not quite panic, but it was clear that every one of the dinner guests had his eye on the door, each one planning his journey southward. There was talk of assembling the congress at York, Pennsylvania, far enough from the potential danger, yet close enough to Washington so the lines of communication would not likely be cut. Throughout all the talk, Washington could not bring himself to further destroy their good cheer by reminding them that if his army was not supplied, the British could conquer much more than Philadelphia.
As the evening had grown late, the pleasantries and good manners were replaced by more serious talk of the danger to the city, more advice on military defenses from men who had never seen their enemy. Washington would not offer any details of his plans for the defense of Philadelphia, knew that even among friends, strategy was a risky thing to divulge. He endured instead the advice, allowing the men to point their fingers at him, the wine loosening their inhibitions, and their tongues.
He had nearly forgotten the young Frenchman. Lafayette sat against the far wall, had spent most of the long evening smiling politely. He was a small man, thin, not especially handsome, with red, nearly blond hair that had already receded above a tall forehead. Washington was surprised that he been so quiet, did not seem to carry the air of the self-important. There had been toasts to the French alliance, to Lafayette himself, but the young man never placed himself at the center of attention. It was a relief to Washington, that the evening might not be a spectacle of vanity after all.
The voices were droning on around him, and he could not focus, was feeling the strain of his day in the saddle. He shifted himself slightly in the chair, blinked hard through tired eyes, looked across at the young Frenchman now, saw fatigue, thought, Yes, young man, ambition is a strenuous cause. You’ve no doubt been hard at it. Throughout the evening, Washington had noticed Lafayette watching him, the young man especially attentive when Washington spoke. He could see the young man fidgeting now, strangely nervous, and Washington thought, Well, I cannot avoid the issue much longer. At least he does not seem to be as bold as Mr. du Coudray. He waited for a lull in the conversation.
“Tell me, Mr. Lafayette, what are your intentions here?”
Washington regretted his bluntness, tried to smile, take the rude edge away from his words. Lafayette looked at him with wide eyes, the room now silent. The Frenchman stood.
“General Washington, I have here a document.” He fumbled in his pocket, produced a folded piece of gray paper, opened it, and Washington could see the young man’s hands shaking. “Sir, since I am still learning the complications of your language, it is possible that I can answer best by reading to you the commission your congress has so generously bestowed.” Lafayette read now,
Whereas the Marquis de Lafayette, in consequence of his ardent zeal for the cause of liberty in which the United States are engaged, has left his family and friends, and crossed the ocean at his own expense to offer his services to the said states without wishing to accept of any pension or pay whatever and as he earnestly desires to engage in our cause, Congress have resolved, that his services be accepted, and that, in consideration of his patriotism, his family and illustrious relations, he shall hold the rank and commission of major general in the army of the United States.
Washington felt the familiar stab in his stomach, could hear Greene’s voice in his mind, the explosion of sarcasm. Major general? Well, he is after all, only nineteen. A lieutenant general should be at least twenty. Lafayette was looking at him with gentle hopefulness, and Washington realized that the young man was not demanding anything.
“Mr. Lafayette, while I certainly respect the wisdom of our congress, I must ask you again. What are your intentions? Do you expect me to provide you with your own command, something appropriate to your . . . rank?”
He dreaded the answer, waited, the room completely silent now, all eyes on Lafayette. Washington could see the young man’s expression change, the nervousness replaced by confidence.
“General, I have every wish to command a division in your army. But I do not yet have the experience. I was most insistent on one point to the congress, and asked them to make special mention in this document. Since I am not yet of much value to your cause, I do not wish to be paid. I requested the rank they assigned to me, because I believe I can be of service in that rank. But I remain a volunteer, sir. I have come here to learn, not to teach.”
Lafayette sat down, and the faces turned to Washington. The young man was still looking at him, and Washington again
saw the confidence, the eyes of a man who seemed above all to be honest with himself. Washington had never thought himself wise in reading a man, in knowing a man’s character by the look in his eye. But he had seen that look before, Henry Knox, Nathanael Greene, the men who had become his most trusted commanders. He had seen it as well in the most loyal and reliable member of his staff. Washington had to convince a reluctant congress to promote Tench Tilghman to lieutenant colonel, but Tilghman would still not take pay for his job. If Lafayette was truly a volunteer, it was a welcome comparison. Lafayette seemed to be waiting for his response.
“Mr. Lafayette, this army will survive on the backs of its volunteers. I should like you to begin your service by joining my staff.”
AUGUST 22, 1777
Washington was stunned to learn that Howe’s navy had disappeared off the Delaware capes, the great mass of ships abruptly raising their sails and vanishing beyond the horizon as quickly as they had appeared. The reports from the outposts offered no answers, and for several days he had felt a rising alarm, the familiar despair, wondering if Howe had indeed fooled him, that even now the British navy was sailing again through New York Harbor, already launching a massive push up the Hudson River that Washington was too weak and too distant to stop.
Though there was no hint where the ships had sailed, Washington began to receive a different report from the scouts along the south Jersey coast, that several British vessels had attempted to pass his artillery positions, coming under a brisk fire from guns whose effectiveness was doubtful. But when Howe’s ships confronted the obstructions Putnam had placed in the river, they made no attempt to slip through. Unlike that dismal day on the Hudson, when Nathanael Greene could only watch Howe’s ships mock the barricades, this time, the British had turned back, did not attempt to pass. It was a surprise, and Washington had to believe that, finally, Putnam had devised a means to block a river that might actually have worked. But that success had come with a disadvantage. If Howe could not sail up the Delaware, he had certainly altered his plan. It was a question that burned in Washington’s mind. What was Howe’s new plan?
The army made camp north of Philadelphia in a small village called Germantown. Washington found himself with no strategy of his own, no way to know if anything he did would be the correct move. As the days passed, there was still no information, no word from any quarter to explain where Howe had sailed.
The rumors began to fly, word of a panic in Boston, a great fleet appearing on the horizon that was actually no more than a bank of fog. The debate swirled through the camps, some of the men believing that Howe had gone farther south, would attack Charleston. Through it all, Washington kept his focus on two fronts. The sheer size of the fleet meant that Howe could not simply play a game, was still vulnerable to the wind and seas, would have to point his armada in one direction. It was a massive operation, and with the enormous number of troops on board, there had to be a mission far more serious than just another feint. If the British navy was at home on the water, their army, especially the Hessians, certainly was not. Washington had to believe that no commander would inflict such senseless discomfort on so many good soldiers for long.
Washington stayed close to his tents, passed the time by studying his maps, holding himself awake in dull candlelight until the lines on paper blurred into sleep. His officers had stopped offering their own theories, exhausted as well by the pure guesswork, strategy that meant nothing until Howe gave them the answer.
It was very late, and sleep had not come. He stood in the warm air outside his tent, listened to the sounds of the night, the low chatter of insects, felt the sweat in his clothes. There was no breeze, and he strained to hear the sound, the familiar rhythm of hoofbeats that would break the silence, the blessed courier who would bring him word. Spread out beyond the town, the army was mostly asleep, and he was as tired as any of his men, but there was no rest tonight, a dull pain from a hard knot in the back of his neck that would not give him peace. He could see a soft glow in a nearby tent, knew it was Tilghman, the young man probably watching him even now, keeping out of sight until Washington gave some sign, some hint that he required his aide. Washington stared at the light, saw flickers of motion, the night creatures drawn to the glow. His mind was drifting, and he fought it, tried to keep himself in the moment. How much longer can we remain here? He had asked himself the question every night, and his officers were asking as well, some believing still that Howe would appear at Charleston before anywhere else. If that is true, we will not know for many days yet, and there will be little we can do about it. Seven hundred miles on foot would destroy this army.
He pushed the thought away. No, Howe will still come to Philadelphia, or he will go back to New York. If Philadelphia cannot be assaulted by way of the Delaware River, the alternative is the Chesapeake Bay. If he returns to New York, it is possible he has received explicit orders from London, to unite his army with Burgoyne. He shook his head, sorted through the fog of thoughts. That is the one great mystery, more perplexing than where they have taken their ships. How can he simply abandon Burgoyne? It would have been logical to wait in New York for Burgoyne to march southward, some plan perhaps to push up the Hudson at the appropriate time. But for Howe simply to sail away, put such a great distance between their forces . . . how can London have approved such a strategy?
He turned his head to the side, pulled at the knot in his neck, tried to relieve the dull ache in his head. He turned into the tent, a faint glow of light, the one candle nearly burned down, a small flame barely surviving above a small pool of wax. He stared at the light, thought, It must be New York after all. Perhaps that is best. We cannot hope to confront them down here in a general engagement. There is little cause to sacrifice this army merely for the protection of Philadelphia. The congress would never understand that of course. If we can make a wise confrontation, we will do so, but ultimately the city has no value beyond the symbolic. If Howe occupies the city, he must fortify it, and that will be so much more difficult than defending the island of New York. Surely he knows that the congress will simply move to another location. It is one luxury we have, a government that is mobile. Nothing like that in Europe, certainly. And, there is still Burgoyne. He fought the blur in his mind. New York. He will go to New York, and we must return as well. We will march tomorrow. But . . . would Sullivan not have sent word?
He shook his head, moved to the bed, sat down. The exhaustion was complete now, his head pounding, and he reached out toward the candle, pinched the flame between his fingers. He expected darkness, was surprised that he could still see, the walls of the tent a dull gray. He wiped his hands on his face. So, another day has begun. He took a deep breath, stood up slowly, thought of Tilghman. I hope you are more wise than I am, Colonel. Perhaps you had some sleep. He stepped out into the dawn, still no breeze, a low mist hugging the ground. He could see campfires now, brought to new life by the men who rose early, the night sounds replaced by an army slowly coming awake. He saw Tilghman emerging from his tent, others as well, Hamilton, and now the different uniform, the young Lafayette. They began to move toward him, and he tried to summon the energy, fought to keep his eyes open, tried to think of the instructions, what might happen today. We should go to New York. We have waited long enough.
Tilghman was motionless, staring out, and Washington stretched his arms, thought of coffee, realized now that the others were staring away as well, at the road to the south. Now he heard the sound, the hoofbeats, then more, and he could see soldiers, the guards, emerging from the gray light. The horses were pulled to a stop, and one man dismounted, came toward him quickly, a civilian. The man held up a paper, said, “Your Excellency! I bring you a message from Philadelphia, from John Hancock, sir!”
Tilghman had the paper now, handed it to Washington, who broke the wax seal, held the paper out, fought the dim light, tried to focus on the words. He read for a moment, felt a low fire rising inside of him, his mind clearing, the orders forming, the instructions for
the new day. He looked at Tilghman.
“Colonel, prepare the men to move. We will march south, through Philadelphia. According to Mr. Hancock, the British fleet has been sighted well up the Chesapeake Bay. It seems that General Howe is coming ashore after all.”
The staff was gathering close, and Washington began to give instructions to each man, Hamilton writing it all down on paper. They began to move away, and he turned, stepped into the tent, stood for a long moment, thought of Howe. Your men will be anxious to leave their ships, to march on dry land again. And if we are blessed, we will find good ground, we will stand firmly in your way, and give you a fight that will send you home. And perhaps I will have the opportunity to ask you myself. Why did you abandon General Burgoyne?
22. CORNWALLIS
AUGUST 25, 1777
He stepped onto dry land for the first time in more than six weeks. Behind him, the men filed out of the flatboat in a wave of grateful relief, their sickness and misery already drifting away with the breezes that swept out across Chesapeake Bay. The shoreline was swarming with troops, and there was very little order, the officers allowing their men to drift away from the beach, every man thanking God and General Howe for finally putting them ashore. Within the first few minutes of their landing, whole companies had surged inland, a desperate exodus away from the water, as though the water itself was the plague that had so infected them.
They had made the landing at a place called the Head of Elk, the northernmost tip of the Chesapeake. Cornwallis had studied the charts and maps of the area, knew that the army would make their base on a piece of land that was still sixty miles from their goal. Philadelphia was no closer now than it was to Brunswick, the same camps where his army had spent so many months of useless waiting. A march southward across New Jersey might have taken two weeks, a confrontation with the rebels already decided a month or more ago. Now, they would begin a campaign across an unknown piece of ground, a countryside he had never seen, seeking an enemy who might appear around any curve, on any ridge.
