by Jeff Shaara
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.”
Washington waited for Lafayette to walk again, was close to his tent now, could see the staff at work, another campfire. Lafayette began to move away.
“With your permission, sir. I must tend to my bandage.”
The young man disappeared into a tent, and Washington could see the man’s shadow moving in the glow of candlelight. It would take a European officer to see war that way, he thought. They have been fighting the same enemies for centuries, and one more day of battle changes very little. If he is correct, then I have much to be thankful for. But there is still tomorrow, and we may awake to find ourselves close
ly pursued by the enemy. Surely they will not allow us to escape, while they celebrate their victory. If General Howe presses his advantage, how will we respond? And if these men will indeed make another stand, will their commander be up to the challenge?
He could smell something cooking, saw the staff gathering around a low crude table. There was laughter, surprising him, and he wanted to scold them, quiet them with some stern command. Is it not disrespect, after all? We have left men dead on the field today, and there must be respect. We must repay our debt.
He could not hold the anger, felt his eyes closing, forced them open. He backed away into the darkness, could not share their mood, thought, I am not yet ready to look past this day. Mr. Lafayette may be correct, and there will certainly be another opportunity for this army. But I have believed it would ultimately be decided by one sharp engagement, a single massive blow, that this war will be won or lost in one awful bloody day, on ground just like we lost today. Congress believes that, the entire nation seems to believe it. Our enemy has that capability, the power to accomplish that. But I am not certain that we do. And if we cannot strike such a blow, then we have but one other course. We must simply lengthen the war, test the resolve of our enemies by wearing them down. How much support will their Parliament give to an endless conflict? And the congress? He thought of Lafayette, the man’s enthusiasm, his willingness to do whatever is required. We need a great many more like him, officers, certainly, but soldiers as well. That spirit may be this army’s one salvation, since we are deficient in so many ways, so unlike those countries whose history is so shaped by war and professional armies. The British show no discomfort employing foreign soldiers to support their cause. It may be that our best hope of victory will come from a foreign shore as well. French ships filled with cloth and gunpowder are all well and good, but it may be that unless we are strengthened by the power and the spirit of their army, this war will simply drain this country dry.
Howe resumed his pursuit of Washington’s army with the same dedicated slowness that had marked his entire campaign. For two weeks the two tired armies parried in a tedious twisting dance through the Pennsylvania countryside, kept apart by Washington’s careful maneuvering and the deep waters of the Schuylkill River. If Washington’s army was indeed prepared for another hard fight, Howe seemed unwilling to expend the energy required to bring it to pass. Finally, with Washington unable to do anything to keep Howe from accomplishing his primary mission, on September 26, the British army made a joyful parade of marching unopposed into Philadelphia.
24. CORNWALLIS
PHILADELPHIA, OCTOBER 1777
He had led the column that marched into the city, and while the enthusiasm from the citizens was exactly as he had expected, he was surprised that the crowds who lined the streets were mostly women and children. But it was a grand show nonetheless, an outpouring of grateful relief, a city offering its salute, as though the king himself had brought liberation to their city, and with one swift blow had destroyed the rebellion. What followed had been expected as well, parties, dinners, offerings of lavish gifts, the social matrons and their daughters fluttering about these gallant heroes with a generosity that Cornwallis found embarrassing.
While Howe and many of the British officers seemed to bask in the glow of the giddy attention from their new hosts, Cornwallis had focused on housing his men, and it had not escaped him that so many of the fine homes that were available to the army had simply been abandoned by their owners.
He knew better than to mention the matter to Howe, that from the first campaigns into New Jersey, both Howe and the ministry in London had been cavalier in their expectations that so many colonists were still loyal to the crown. For so many months, throughout every campaign the British had launched onto the soil of New Jersey, and now Pennsylvania, Howe and Germain had always believed that a vast army of loyalists would emerge from their tormented hiding places and flock to the army, would provide much-needed troop strength that Howe required to crush Washington’s rebels. Instead, the Tories had been strangely silent, and beyond the occasional show of a British flag, placed hastily in a shopwindow, or some farmer who might offer a wagonload of supplies, these same loyalists had shown very little inclination to actually fight for their cause. If Howe was dismayed by the indifference of the citizens, he hid it well, continued to issue the calls to arms, as though he still believed there were vast pockets of loyalist sympathy, that great throngs of men would still gather to take up the king’s muskets as well as his flag. Lord Germain had accepted Howe’s vision with certainty, had even used those expectations as the excuse to put off Howe’s unending pleas for reinforcements, the troops who Cornwallis knew would be needed if the British were to make a quick end to the war. While some smaller units of fresh soldiers had arrived from England, they had proven to be more of an inconvenience than a blessing.
It was typical for recruits to create problems of discipline, but over the past few months, the poor quality of the new troops seemed to point to an even greater problem. Howe paid little heed to the new units, was too focused on his own strategies to make introductions to unfamiliar junior officers. But Cornwallis recognized quickly that the men who marched from the ships now were a different breed of soldier. The ministry was obviously scouring the prisons, and entire companies of men carried criminal records. Others seemed to have no history at all, their officers admitting that the recruitment drives had been such a failure, that men were being swept up into the service straight from their wretched homes in the filthy streets of the British cities. Despite all of Howe’s optimism that an army might yet emerge from the colonial countryside, the message coming from England was that under the king’s very nose, the war was becoming more and more unpopular.
It was still a mystery to him where so many of the men of Philadelphia had gone. Even if the Tories were unwilling to offer more than words to His Majesty’s cause, Cornwallis could not fathom that so many capable men from the colonial capital would accept a role in the army of the rebellion. As he made his rounds through the camps of his men, visits to the officers under his command, he studied the abandoned homes, wondering if their leaving the city might have nothing to do with loyalty to one cause or another. Perhaps the men of Philadelphia were too accustomed to the soft and pleasant life of America’s largest community to serve any cause at all. Perhaps they had simply disappeared into the countryside, and once the war had concluded, they would return to their homes and their families, prepared to serve whichever government awaited them. Regardless, the women who remained weren’t revealing anything, beyond a not-so-subtle ability to charm the officers who were occupying their homes.
He knew many of his officers were taking full advantage of the hospitality, and he would not object to it as long as the army kept its overall discipline. There had not yet been any serious problems of looting, or abuse of the citizens, which surprised Cornwallis. All around the camps, notices had been posted, warnings of strictest discipline for those who would violate the civilians or their property. On the march from the Head of Elk, there had been the usual problems, houses burned, pantries and barns ransacked, debate in the ranks if the Hessians had been more responsible than some of the new British recruits. There was punishment, of course, and several soldiers had been hanged, dozens were flogged. But Cornwallis had long ago issued his own order to his division. There would always be hanging for the most serious offenders, but the use of the whip was stopped. He had long believed that flogging was simply a man’s ticket to misbehave, that any man could endure a bloody back if his crime was to his liking. To some of the old veterans, scars from the whip were a badge of honor, a sign of their virility, and he had heard of men who goaded their comrades into some criminal act just to test their mettle. He knew that you could not change a man’s character by punishing him, that if a man was inclined to abuse or steal from a citizen, the whip was merely his cost. He focused instead on the officers, inspiring his junior commanders to exercise discipline over their me
n under the threat of censure from the high command. The threat of demotion in rank or dismissal from the service was a severe embarrassment to a British officer, and Cornwallis knew that threat would be more effective than any damage that could come from a whip.
OCTOBER 4, 1777
While Cornwallis occupied Philadelphia, Howe had established his main headquarters at Germantown, five miles north of the city. Washington’s army was still close, and with Cornwallis protecting the city from direct assault, Howe felt that dividing his army, and placing a large force in a more rural area would allow them better mobility to respond to any sudden moves that the rebels might make.
Cornwallis was relieved that the Hessians seemed content to stay in their camps, had caused no problems in the city. Under the command of Wilhelm Knyphausen, the Hessians seemed more subdued, more accepting of order. Cornwallis had wondered if there was more to the man than he had seen of de Heister. Both were aged men, veterans of many wars and several monarchs. With Knyphausen in command the change in the Hessian camps was clear, and Cornwallis could not let that pass without some attempt at understanding their commander.
Knyphausen still spoke no English, and at the councils, Howe had lost patience with the translators, had begun to avoid speaking toward the old man at all, addressing his remarks directly to von Donop, or whoever else might be by Knyphausen’s side. It was a serious show of disrespect, and Cornwallis had wondered if Knyphausen was as unaware as he seemed, or in fact, if the old man’s dazed expression hid a greater understanding than anyone realized.
He turned out of the main street and rode through the front entrance trailed by his surprised staff, stopped the horse on a wide platform of flat stones. He looked toward the front yard, the river, saw no one moving, and he knew he was hesitating, his eye following the splendor of the house, the ornate woodwork along the roof. He looked toward the back door, realized there were guards standing stiffly to each side, green-coated jagers, their helmets polished to a silver sheen, each man’s hair braided in a tight black queue that reached nearly halfway down his back. He expected them to acknowledge him, but they stared ahead, ignoring him and his staff. He studied them for a moment, thought, I suppose it’s a bit late to just turn around and leave. Surely they will tell someone.
