The Glorious Cause

by Jeff Shaara

  Cornwallis watched the fleet of flatboats continuing to gather along the narrow beach, those still full weaving their way through the chaos of the empty boats, the sailors losing their discipline, shouts and curses, some striking out with their oars and push poles. A ship with sickness is a curse to anyone who sails her, and tempers were hot, impatience with the mass of traffic along the shore. The sailors had suffered the company of the soldiers who had come to hate every part of the voyage, and every part of the ships that brought them. As each boat released another swarm of exhausted faces, Cornwallis shared the feeling with them, that the useless torment, the absurd torture of this fine army was finally past.

  Howe had allowed three days of rest for the grateful soldiers, who regained their stamina in relative quiet along the banks of the Chesapeake. The supply officers had been busy, organizing the Head of Elk into a massive depot for provisions, unloading the extraordinary amount of equipment from the huge armada of transports. As the camps were erected, there had been sightings of rebel troops, but no combat. Cornwallis had seen the reports from the scouting parties. They were hardly troops at all, small companies of local militia, led by no one who seemed willing to risk an encounter. It was far different from the camps in New Jersey, where his men were harassed and tormented by riflemen with deadly aim.

  Despite the peacefulness of the camps at Head of Elk, Cornwallis was as eager to move as his men. His division would lead the advance, seven thousand men who finally seemed fit for a new campaign. They marched away from Head of Elk on August 28, led by Tory guides, the only men among them who had any idea what might lie ahead.

  From the first day out of New York Harbor, the weather had been insufferably hot, and the ships had become steaming ovens, their decks too small to accommodate the sheer numbers of men who suffered beneath them. Once dry land was beneath their feet, the morale of the troops had soared, but there was little relief from the heat, and the enthusiasm for the march had quickly drained away. They moved northeast, past wide swamps and patches of scrub forest, the air dense and wet, swarming with insects. After several days, Howe had granted them the privilege of marching at night, but the darkness did not cool the air, and there was no breeze to carry away the invisible pests. As the men grew accustomed to starlight, the march seemed to pick up momentum. There had even been music again, drummers setting the cadence, fifes and bugles and bagpipes carrying the men forward. But then, the rains came.

  SEPTEMBER 8, 1777

  Cornwallis pulled his coat tighter around him. It was not a chill, but the soaking wetness of his uniform. The wind was flailing the trees above him, the darkness complete. Despite the effort of his staff, no lantern was surviving the gale. He had given up trying to see anything, no need to look ahead, nothing in front of him but soldiers, each man keeping to the road by following the tracks of the man in front of him. Still he would make the attempt, the rain pelting his face, driving hard into his eyes. He leaned forward in the saddle, lowered his head, tried to blink the water away, but he knew immediately that it was a mistake, a gust of wind driving a stream of warm water under his collar, down his back. He sat upright again, twisted slightly in the saddle. The slow rocking of the horse was scraping him from below, the soaking wetness turning his undergarments into harsh rags. He tried to find a comfortable position, settle into the rhythm of the horse’s gait, but the animal seemed as miserable as he was, picked its way through the mud with uneasy steps.

  The horse was new to him, one of the few that had survived the journey. It had dismayed him to see the horses coming ashore, emaciated animals disembarking from their own small fleet of flatboats. He had seen the staggering animals led by their handlers, sad men whose duty gave way to pity, leading the horses to patches of green, any kind of grass the animals would try to eat. After a short time, Cornwallis could not watch them, had turned away from the pitiful sight of exposed ribs, hollow stomachs. The length of time the ships spent at sea had surprised the supply officers, and as the journey lengthened, it became clear that the ships could not carry enough forage for the horses to survive. In just a few weeks they began to die. He had no special love for horses, had always enjoyed a capable mount, but the long sea journey had opened up a new horror in him, the spectacle of the helpless animal who endures its own starvation without complaint. Once it began, it was constant. Each day the animal transport ships met the dawn by sliding carcasses over the side, the animals who had not survived the night. When Howe ordered the armada out of the Delaware River, it was obvious that the fleet had many long days still to sail, and the request came from the supply officers, permission to cast off the weaker animals, those whose survival was in doubt. They would simply be pushed overboard, the most humane way for the horse transports to preserve the supply of grain and fresh water for those animals that still had strength. Cornwallis had objected at first, horrified at the waste and the cruelty. Even Howe had reacted to that, and Cornwallis could not avoid the feeling that Howe might have more sympathy for the horses than for the suffering of his men. But the supply officers made their case, and Howe had given the order with one condition: The crews of the transports would carry out the grim duty after dark. Even now, in the roaring misery of the rain, Cornwallis could hear that awful sound, the heavy splashes that would echo across the black water. He thought of the one small consolation, the only kind of peace he could find through those dreadful nights. At least, as they drown, they don’t cry out.

  He could hear the wind again, knew there were thick trees around him, another deep patch of woods. He heard the familiar whine, the mosquitoes darting around his face. He wiped at the air, a useless gesture, the movement opening up a new part of his uniform to a small flood of water. The mosquitoes swarmed over them from the woods, the patches of low ground, swampy, the birthplace of so much human misery. These narrow roads were the only way through, and he knew that out in front, the skirmish line was probably massed into the road itself, that no officer would order his men into these swamps at night. It hardly matters, he thought. The rebels are nowhere to be seen. They are in their homes, with their wives. Dry clothes.

  There was a sudden burst of light above him, a hard slam of thunder. The lightning reflected off the men in the road, and he jumped as they did, jarred awake by the startling sight. The horse seemed to stagger, and he held the reins hard, pulled the animal to halt. The horse grew calm again, and he nudged it with his boots, the animal resuming the uneven gait. A fresh gust of rain blew into his face, clouding his eyes yet again, and he blinked hard, thought, Even the ships were not this bad. Well, perhaps.

  He felt a sharp sting on his ear now, slapped it away, could not help a small quiet laugh. A soldier’s life. Torture by design. He thought of the stories from his childhood, the stern lesson from a frightening schoolmaster. We shall be punished for our sins. And, so, here we are, in all our biblical absurdity. We have suffered the plague of locusts, and the flood of Noah. What is left? Shall Mr. Washington part the colony of Pennsylvania, and swallow us up? Perhaps that will be the fate of General Burgoyne, guilty as he is of the sin of ambition. How dare this man usurp the glory rightfully due to General Howe?

  The horse stumbled, and he pitched forward, caught himself on the horse’s mane. Behind him came a voice, one of his aides, “Sir! You all right?”

  “Quite so, Major.”

  The humor was gone now, and he pulled himself upright, thought, So they are watching you after all. Not everyone sleeps in the saddle. I suppose, if this army is going to match the successes of our rivals, we should stay perfectly awake. Gentleman Johnny must have no advantage.

  They had received news of Burgoyne’s capture of Ticonderoga with a mix of congratulation and dismay. Howe had sent his formal letter of salute of course, a job well done. But Cornwallis knew that Burgoyne’s victory had given a new urgency to Howe’s own plans, that if the insurrection in the colonies was to be defeated, it must still be decided on Howe’s terms, and not by the actions of this playwright who ha
d so boldly thrust himself into Howe’s war. But then the mood around headquarters had changed, Howe himself spreading a strange jubilation, and Cornwallis realized that Burgoyne’s success meant that Howe could proceed with his own march toward Philadelphia, not be so concerned about returning to New York after all. Clearly, in the Champlain Valley, Burgoyne had matters in hand.

  Before Howe had set sail, the army had received reinforcements, and Cornwallis knew that his division marched in the lead of an army of nearly eighteen thousand men. No one could be sure of the exact rebel strength, but Washington’s seasoned veterans could not number more than three or four thousand. Tory spies had assured Howe that any larger force the rebels brought to a confrontation would be composed of fresh troops and worthless militia.

  SEPTEMBER 9, 1777

  The rain had stopped with the sunrise, and Howe had ordered a halt to the march. The men flowed out into rolling fields, and Cornwallis was relieved to see that the landscape was changing, more of the rolling farmlands than the miserable swamps. The farms were not as groomed as they had been in New Jersey, fewer stout fences, few of the stone walls that had given the rebel marksmen such effective cover. Out in front, the lead units had spread out into a line of defense, the usual precaution against the sudden appearance of rebel riflemen. But there had been no sounds of firing, no resistance at all. For several days the scouts had spread out through the countryside without detection, and most had already brought their reports. The main force of rebels had marched through Philadelphia and advanced down near Wilmington. It was clear that Washington intended to bar the approach to Philadelphia, had moved the rebel army southward as Howe had moved north. The Tories had brought estimates every day of what they were facing, talk of as many as twelve thousand rebel troops, a number Howe considered ridiculous. But Cornwallis knew that numbers might not be as important as ground, and Washington would choose his ground with great care.

  Cornwallis’ uniform was still soaking wet, and he led his men into a vast grassy field. He saw officers gathering, one moving toward him with a bearing of stiff formality.

  “Sir, we regret to report that the men have lost the use of much of their powder. The storm has caused quite the inconvenience, sir.”

  “Major, there is no apparent sign of the enemy. Do what you can to dry the powder stores, and send word to General Howe that most of our cartridges are likely ruined. We will feed the men as adequately as we can. I have no doubt that General Howe will resume this march with all haste.”

  The officers moved away, and he looked at the sky, a sea of small clouds moving eastward. The air was thick and hazy, and he felt a warm breeze, thought, At least no rain today. If the roads dry out, we will make good time.

  There was a splashing of hoofbeats, and he saw Howe’s flag emerging from down the road, let out a deep breath, no breakfast just yet. He stepped close to his horse, could see Howe himself. He glanced to his staff, saw them already climbing up into their saddles, thought, All right, so we will now learn what we are to do today. He pulled himself up into the saddle, felt the heavy wetness in his clothes. Howe was coming toward him, and he saw Charles Grey now as well, a long line of staff officers. Howe said, “Good morning, General. I regret we must make brief our rest. There is considerable news this morning.”

  There was no pleasantness in Howe’s words, the man not even looking at him. Cornwallis had seen the look before, thought, Something has happened.

  “Is the news to be shared with your command, sir?”

  Howe focused on him now.

  “Oh, quite, General. No need for secrets these days. The letter was brought from the fleet this morning. It seems that General Burgoyne has run into some difficulty. His jaunty parade through the wilderness was struck a somewhat unfavorable blow. Some place called Bennington, I believe. A large contingent of his Hessians was sent off on some foraging expedition, and was rather rudely handled by the rebels.”

  Howe seemed distracted, stared away, and Cornwallis felt uneasy, said, “Is that all, sir? What of General Burgoyne? How great a loss, sir?”

  Howe seemed not to hear, and Cornwallis felt his impatience rising. Howe turned to an aide.

  “The letter, Colonel, if you please.”

  The aide retrieved a folded paper from a bag, and Howe held it up, said to Cornwallis, “The fates are on the side of General Burgoyne, even if the Gods of War are not. This unfortunate incident has cost General Burgoyne a thousand good men, irreplaceable in his present situation. And, in an annoying display of coincidence, I have also received this letter, sent to me by Lord Germain, dated back in May. Damnably slow ships. Lord Germain feels it is imperative that this army cooperate with General Burgoyne as our first priority. While he assures me that he supports my designs on capturing Philadelphia, we have been instructed to complete this mission, then make every effort to return to New York, in time to lend assistance to General Burgoyne.” Howe paused, stared away again, said, “I never considered Lord Germain to possess the talents of a seer. But clearly he had his doubts about General Burgoyne’s plan from the beginning. It is a mystery, then, why he approved that plan.” Howe looked at the paper without reading it. “It is almost as though this was never intended to reach me before we sailed.”

  Grey moved closer now, said, “General Howe, we cannot withdraw now. We have come too far . . .”

  Howe exploded now, his voice punching the air, “Of course we do not withdraw! We are on this ground with purpose, and that purpose is to occupy the rebel capital! From everything we have heard, Mr. Washington is making ready to prevent that from happening. This is exactly what I had hoped, exactly the means I had laid out for winning this war!”

  Cornwallis saw a frown on Grey’s face, and understood that Grey was deferring to him, the only man who was senior enough to make an argument with Howe. Cornwallis said, “Sir, I agree that Philadelphia is still our goal. May I ask, sir, if Lord Germain’s orders allow us the discretion of completing our mission?”

  “Oh, we will complete our mission, General. Only then will we give serious consideration to General Burgoyne’s situation. The general has placed himself in jeopardy at his own responsibility. Assist him. Lord Germain should have known better.” Howe looked past Cornwallis, toward the field where the soldiers were drying their belts, tending to their equipment. “Prepare your men, General Cornwallis. We must resume the march.”

  Howe moved away now, and Grey lingered, moved close to Cornwallis, said nothing for a long moment. Cornwallis turned to his staff, said, “General Howe was clear in his orders. Inform the regimental commanders. Prepare the men to march.”

  The staff obeyed, moved quickly away, and Grey said in a low voice, “Lord Germain is not required to know better. We are to follow his orders.”

  Cornwallis shifted in his saddle, the dampness still scraping him.

  “Lord Germain is not here, Charles. A great deal can happen in a few weeks. If General Howe can win this war, John Burgoyne will not require anyone’s assistance. The contest will be done, regardless of who Lord Germain wishes to place in favor.”

  “So, is that what this is about, after all? I had hoped this command could rise above such bickering. Must this be some sort of tawdry race? All glory to the man most pleasing to Lord Germain? Is not the king best served by obedience to his orders?”

  “I am not privileged to know what pleases my king, Charles. It is not my place, or yours, to judge the actions or the motives of General Howe. It is our place to obey him. And right now, it is my duty to lead my troops into this road. You should do the same.”

  Grey seemed depressed by his words, saluted him, said, “Yes, sir. It will be done.”

  Grey moved away, followed by two aides who had stayed out near the road. Cornwallis watched him for a long moment, thought, He is too experienced to be so naÏve. None of this is new to this army. We all know of ambition and intrigue, glory and pettiness. It is simply the way. It has always been the way. If General Howe fails, he will pay the pri
ce, and we will follow someone else. Whether there is glory or blame cannot matter. What matters is those men who are waiting for us up ahead.

  SEPTEMBER 10, 1777

  The ground was rolling, open fields cut by shallow ravines, farmland and forest, intersected by narrow creeks. The scouts had led the skirmish lines toward a great mass of rebels, but they had not been in place long, there was no sign of a strong defensive line. Howe had ridden to the front with him, the two men scouting the land, seeking the strength of rebel positions. They found themselves scouted in return, rebels appearing close, across the banks of a narrow deep creek. They came within a hundred yards of each other, both parties withdrawing quickly. But Cornwallis had raised his field glasses, had caught a clear glimpse of one man, the distinct uniform of a senior officer. But his curiosity was replaced by Howe’s excitement, the army so close to the goal, so close to the confrontation, that finally Washington would give them a fight.

  The army continued to maneuver, and along the narrow stream, Washington responded, until finally, the two armies faced each other, skirmish line to skirmish line. Cornwallis studied the maps, sought out more of the local scouts, the men who could give him the location of the crossings, the valuable fords. The lines on the maps meant nothing to him except that the rebels had anchored their troops behind the stream. But as the Tories examined the maps, they added information to the drawings, and he was surprised when they told him of the shallow fords, so many places for an army to cross upstream, above the rebel position. As he worked and planned, he began to realize there was a weakness to the rebel position, a way of moving across the stream and assaulting the rebels from their flank. It was a surprise, that for all the advantages this ground provided the rebels, that they might have made a mistake, hasty reconnaissance perhaps, poor scouting of ground that might be unfamiliar to Washington as well.