by Jeff Shaara
JUNE 1778
Greene rode the horse up on the plateau, moved along past the rows of cabins. He knew Kitty was waiting for him, by now had completed the details of her packing, was preparing to board the carriage that would carry her northward. He had wanted her to come along, just a brief ride through the camp, to hear a final cheer from the men who were making ready to leave themselves, the entire army stirring in a restless awakening. But she had stayed with her bags, and he knew better than to argue. She was fighting the sadness, another good-bye that would likely divide them for many months. He would succumb to it himself, and he knew that this ride was the distraction, delaying the scene that he could not delay much longer. He had experienced it before, knew that the tears would come, her soft crying, her fragile arms holding tightly to him. She would tell him of her prayers, how every night the Almighty would hear her soft voice pleading for his safety, for his return.
He turned the horse, heard his name, a group of men loading rolls of new white canvas into wagons. He acknowledged them with a brief wave, spurred the horse, and moved toward the artillery park. He looked for Knox, didn’t see him, wondered if Lucy would be as emotional as Kitty, more so perhaps, a woman who held nothing back. He smiled, could see the two of them together, the Knoxes, a perfect marriage, pure joy in each other, pure joy for life. And Henry Knox, pure joy indeed for the guns in his command.
He rode to the edge of the hill, could see the headquarters, knew that Martha was preparing to leave as well. The women shall be missed, and not just by their husbands, but by the army. When they arrive, it changes the entire camp, and now, when they depart, it will change us again. He turned the horse, stared out toward the southeast, toward the city where so many of the enemy were making their own preparations, some plan he did not yet know. The women may miss us, may even curse us for what we do, but we will not spend our nights in tearful loneliness. We have a new companion, coming to life again out beyond those low hills. And before much longer we will receive the reports, and the order will come, and this army will leave behind these cabins, will move down from these heights, this horrible, wonderful place.
35. CORNWALLIS
JUNE 8, 1778
He arrived after a journey of seven weeks, a crossing made bearable by lengthy card games and grand dinners with the men who were assigned the task of bringing the new peace proposals to America. The ship was the Trident, and though passengers were few, the staffs and servants of the peace delegation occupied nearly every available space on a man-o-war that was not constructed for comfort. But the optimism of the peace commissioners set the tone for the voyage, and he was grateful for their lighthearted approach to their mission. To a man, they believed they would reach Philadelphia to find a grand celebration of their certain success. They believed they carried the one means by which this war would draw to a close, two nations blending again into one, ruled by a benevolent king who had made an extraordinary apology for his mistakes. The only man on the ship who had serious doubts about their mission was Charles Cornwallis.
His visit home had been a marvelous rest, a time of peace and comfort. Jemima had welcomed him as he had imagined she would, all the tenderness of tears, the grateful softness of a woman who understands her husband’s duty, who holds no resentment or anger for the long absences. But this time there was more than the usual sadness, and as he slipped away from the last touch of her hand he felt an uneasy concern. From the first day of his arrival, he had been surprised at her frailness, Jemima growing thinner in his absence, her laughter and buoyant spirit tempered by a weakness that alarmed him. She had dismissed it, would not admit to any ailment, scolded him for his worries. After too few weeks together, their parting had been as they had always been, more tears and soft kisses. Once at sea he could not think just of Philadelphia and his new duties without wondering if her new fragility was more than just a symptom of his absence.
He was still a member of the House of Lords, though he cared so little for politics. But England was now festering in politics, and so he had obeyed his sense of responsibility and attended the meetings at Parliament. The turmoil was complete, King George’s opposition bolstered by the agonizing defeat of Burgoyne and the horrors of the new French alliance with the rebels. The speeches were bold and spectacular, and that one dreaded word had finally made its way into the halls of Parliament, independence, sharp calls for the king to conclude the war by a full admission of his government’s failings. The prime minister, Lord North, had offered his resignation, but George III knew that a collapse of North’s ministry would bring an opposition figure to power. The king would not accept such a shameful defeat within his own government, would not succumb to the will of his hated opposition. North’s resignation had been refused. The only alternative was appeasement to the colonies. Cornwallis has endured the debates and haranguing speeches with utter disgust, and a deep embarrassment for his army’s failure. The peace delegation believed they carried the only answer acceptable to both King George and the colonies, but Cornwallis had no such optimism.
As the Trident made her way across the Atlantic, he had spent many hours gazing at the open water, occupying his mind by searching for some break in the smooth line of the horizon. If there was a French alliance, there was a French fleet, and if the ministry had not responded quickly enough, the waters off the coast of Delaware and New Jersey might already be swarming with warships that would make any peace plan useless. Though none of the others seemed to notice, he had glimpsed the New Jersey coast with relief. As the ship sailed into the mouth of the Delaware River, it was a welcoming hug from strong arms, British warships at anchor all along the wide river. But it was a state of affairs the peace commissioners had not expected, finding this avenue to the British headquarters such a fortified bastion. The commissioners believed the most optimistic predictions of the ministry, expected to find a land where the rebels had been suppressed, their army nearly crushed out of existence, a land where a rebel congress would eagerly welcome a convenient means to ending a hopeless war. Instead, the British warships made it clear that the land beyond the river was untamed and uncontrolled. At any time, at any point, the deck of their ship might suddenly be ripped by musket fire, rebel patrols who regarded the Trident as simply one more target.
The wounded optimism of the peace delegation was shattered completely when they reached Philadelphia. While Parliament had consumed long weeks debating the mission of the peace commissioners, word of the French alliance had already reached the congress. The alliance had been ratified, and even celebrated. The terms of the peace treaty offered by King George had been published and circulated to a people who saw it for exactly what it was: desperation, a means of preempting the French alliance, of preventing the colonies from finding the means to a military victory. The proposals were already the object of scorn, in congress and in the streets of American towns. The commissioners were dismayed to learn the very thing that Cornwallis had quietly predicted, that the colonies were too far removed now from British rule ever to go back. If the war was to end, it would have to end on the battlefield.
JUNE 9, 1778
He was not surprised to learn that Howe was already gone. Cornwallis had been told by Germain that Henry Clinton would officially take command in mid-May. He had no doubt that once Clinton arrived in Philadelphia, Howe would make haste to leave. There was embarrassment enough in his resignation and recall, and Cornwallis knew well that neither Howe nor Clinton would feel comfortable in the presence of the other, certainly not in any public setting.
Cornwallis still had to report to his new commander, was making his first ride through the streets of the city, a hot and steamy morning. He moved past the headquarters of so many of the officers, stables of horses, quartermaster depots, small groups of soldiers guarding every warehouse, every official outpost. It had all the signs of a fortified citadel, and none of what had once been a grand and prosperous city. There were few civilians in the streets, and those who still went about their
daily routines were sullen, no one saluting him, or even acknowledging him. He rode close to a man carrying a large bundle on his back, the man struggling under the weight. The man glanced up at him, and Cornwallis made a slight bow, said, “Good morning, sir. Do you require assistance?”
The man looked back toward the small cluster of staff officers, said, “If I had my horse, I’d not need anyone’s assistance. It was requisitioned.”
It was a distinctly military word, the army’s ever-present justification, the needs of the soldier taking precedence over the needs of the civilian. Cornwallis had nothing else to say to the man, moved on past, thought, He was paid, certainly, and with the king’s currency, not the ridiculous paper the rebels offer. He realized now that there were no horses in the street at all, the few civilians all on foot. Well, of course. It has one meaning. The army is mobilizing. We require all the beasts of burden we can find. There was a sound behind him, the voice of one of his aides, no words, just an odd grunt. Cornwallis turned in the saddle, was suddenly engulfed in a putrid smell, put a hand to his face. He looked down a small side street, a dark alley now a river of black water. There was a flurry of motion, rats, some scurrying through the water itself. He prodded the horse, moved past the scene, looked across the way, another side street, saw two large black birds perched on a large mound, thought,
36. WASHINGTON
He had not ridden through Philadelphia, had not considered making some grand show of the British evacuation. The city was now under the command of Benedict Arnold, the man nursing a wound in his leg received during the last great fight with Burgoyne. Arnold commanded a sizable militia, but Washington had no fears for the city, knew that once the British had ferried across the Delaware River, Clinton’s intentions were plain. The move had surprised only one man, the one who still insisted that the British would strike southward: Charles Lee. Even as Clinton led his army deeper into New Jersey, Lee challenged every inclination Washington had to attack them, to take advantage of the drawn-out line of march, the slow progress of an army so encumbered by its excess of equipment. Lee held surprising influence over many of the junior officers, and some of the senior staff as well, including Stirling, and even Henry Knox. Washington could not just ignore Lee’s suggestions, nor would he simply impose his will on his officers, or on the army. Before any significant move, any major decision, he continued to rely on the councils of war. Washington believed the structure and authority of his command was still fragile, the effects of the intrigue of Conway, Mifflin, and Gates. Lee had already proven he was capable of dissension, but unlike Gates, he was still popular with the troops. If Lee’s unusual ideas about strategy exploded into outright disobedience, it could endanger the entire fabric of the army. Washington had no choice but to give Lee his due, to form a strategy that would accommodate the man’s ambitious temperament.
Washington’s troop strength had grown during the last few weeks of winter quarters, new recruits responding to the spreading word of the health and pride of the army. Von Steuben’s drills and lessons had imparted that pride not only to the men who marched under his sharp calls, but to the civilians far beyond the camps at Valley Forge. With their fields planted, a vast number of farmers had enlisted, and some of the unreliable militia were signing up for extended duty, to receive the training that would make them soldiers. By the time the British had made their crossing into New Jersey, Washington was able to mobilize a force of over thirteen thousand men, a number nearly equal to what Clinton had on the march toward New York. Though the British had a head start, their slow progress gave Washington precious time to assemble a march of his own. Despite Lee’s insistence that Clinton was simply offering bait to lure Washington into some deadly trap, the pursuit began. Six hundred men marched out under the command of William Maxwell, striking quickly across what Washington believed to be Clinton’s intended route of march. Maxwell’s troops were to disrupt the roadways, cutting trees, destroying bridges, an effort to slow the British even further. Six hundred skilled marksmen were sent out under Daniel Morgan, a harassing force to torment Clinton’s flanks, possibly to force the British to stop marching altogether.
Washington himself crossed the Delaware at Coryell’s Ferry, a few short miles from his triumphant assault on Trenton. With the smattering of intelligence that came from the scouts, he began to understand Clinton’s dilemma. Washington had marched his men on the more direct route, was now a few miles above Princeton. The alternatives for Clinton were clear: Attack Washington or avoid him. Unless the British intended to provoke a direct engagement, Clinton would have to turn away from the Brunswick–Amboy route, and march out across the sandy farmland to the east.
HOPEWELL, NEW JERSEY, JUNE 24, 1778
Each day had become an agony of delay, the uncertainty that comes from ignorance of the enemy’s intentions. The reports from Morgan had stopped completely, the marksmen now making their brief assaults along Clinton’s eastern flank, separated from Washington’s headquarters by the entire force of the British army. He knew that Maxwell’s men had done their work with admirable effectiveness, that the British were making incredibly slow progress. But the plodding march presented problems of its own. Until Clinton made a definite move to either the north or east, Washington could not know where to position his army or what strategy might be best employed. If the British were suddenly to increase their speed, Clinton might move his forces far enough away that Washington could not hope to catch them at all, and the extraordinary opportunity to strike the vulnerable British march would be lost. As he sat in his headquarters, suffering the silence of his scouts, his patience finally gave way. After the evening meal was consumed, he ordered the senior officers to gather in a council of war. There would be no decision made without the involvement of the men who would carry out the plan.
They filled the room, most standing, the few chairs occupied by the men who required them, Greene with his stiff leg, and Lafayette, still recovering from his leg wound at Brandywine. Washington waited for them to find their places, gentle maneuvering, and when the voices grew quiet, he said, “Gentlemen, the primary question before us is whether we should hazard an attack on the enemy. It is my intention not to allow a precious opportunity to escape us. General Clinton has obliged us by providing what could be a target of vast potential. Mr. Maxwell’s troops have done admirable work providing obstructions on all roadways in General Clinton’s path. It seems as well that the British are greatly encumbered by their train of supply. It is a mystery why General Clinton did not transport such a volume of baggage by sea. However, I am not so concerned with solving mysteries as I am confronting the result.”
Lee stepped forward, and Washington had expected it.
“Sir, there is nothing of mystery here. General Clinton is a man of considerable ability. The only possible explanation for his dallying march is the very result we see here tonight. With all respect, sir, you have fallen into his trap.”
Lee glanced around the room, seemed to appraise the response to his impertinence. Washington saw nods, many in agreement with Lee’s assessment, and Lee looked at him now with a confident smile.
“General Clinton is, at this very moment, sitting in his camp planning for our demise. He is hopeful that our bravado will carry us straight toward the points of his bayonets.”
Washington was becoming annoyed, fought to hide it, said, “May I assume then, Mr. Lee, that you believe the best strategy is to remain passive, allow the British to march unmolested to their destination?”
Lee laughed.
“Of course, sir! Was I not clear? A direct confrontation with the enemy at this time could prove to be a disaster, far worse than any we have previously suffered. To dare to confront such a well-disciplined army with the meager forces we have at hand is not only an invitation to destruction, but the height of arrogance!”
Washington felt a cold weight in his chest, his strength drained by Lee’s maddening certainty. He looked at the faces, saw a few frowns, even Lee’s
supporters uncomfortable with the man’s bombast.
“Excuse me! I protest!” The voice was von Steuben’s, and Washington could see the man’s face reddened by anger. “We are . . . prepared! No one can suggest that this army is not capable!” The Prussian seemed to run out of words, his English failing him, swept away by his temper. Lafayette pulled himself up from his chair, said, “I agree with General von Steuben, sir. It would be a disgraceful display if we allowed the British to march unopposed across New Jer
37. LAFAYETTE
ENGLISHTOWN, NEW JERSEY, JUNE 27, 1778
They had marched all through the night, and were now within five miles of the enemy camp, the crossroads at Monmouth Court House. The night march had been a blessing for the men, most not realizing that it was urgency rather than concern for their well-being. The days had been insufferably hot, the sand and dust of the roads smothering the British soldiers in a blanket of heat many could not escape. Even before Lafayette had begun his march, his men had been allowed to shed their coats and shirts, any baggage that would encumber them in the heat. But the British soldiers had no such luxury. Their uniforms had not changed since the stark days of winter, thick wool, layers of heavy garments that grew heavier on the march. Worse, each red-coated soldier carried arms and equipment that weighed nearly a hundred pounds. The result was an unexpected horror for Washington’s scouts, the men who trailed the British column. Instead of stragglers they were finding corpses, men who had simply fallen away from their column, some drifting off the road only to die in the sand and scrub woods. Washington knew that Clinton was driving them relentlessly toward the ships. If the British were not attacked very soon, they would reach the protection of the hill country nearer the coast.
