by Jeff Shaara
Washington’s lookouts on the Jersey coast had been given word to anticipate them, and by the first light of dawn, the topsails were in plain view. They had seen warships before, a constant parade of British frigates and larger ships of the line, the comings and goings of Lord Howe’s fleet, or the arrival of new British vessels, merchantmen and transports from across the ocean. As the lookouts watched the sails grow closer, the details of this new fleet began to emerge. It was a stark clear morning, and it was not long before they could count twenty-three ships, many of them much larger than anything the British had in the harbor. By midday the troops in the observation posts were reinforced by a gathering of curious citizens from the farms and villages, a crowd of onlookers massing all along the Jersey shore. To most, the fleet was no different from any they had seen before, but it was the lookouts with the long spyglasses who observed one difference indeed. The flags were French.
They were commanded by Admiral Charles, Count d’Estaing, a man of surly temperament and a long history of service in the French navy. He had received a colonel’s commission before he was seventeen, a very young man with what seemed a very bright future. But after thirty years the fire in the young officer had withered, and d’Estaing had become a stodgy and merely competent senior officer. Though he had rarely demonstrated any particular flair for command, his longevity in the service to his monarchs had earned him moderate prestige. From the coasts of India to the English Channel, he had spent his career in combat with one enemy, had built an intense hatred for the British. It was enough reason for King Louis to believe him perfectly capable of commanding the French expedition to America that would bring a swift end to such a risky war.
The British warships at anchor in New York Harbor numbered half the French fleet, and in the city, the British command understood that they were suddenly in a precarious, and possibly fatal position. But d’Estaing could not simply burst into the harbor without knowing the waters, would rely on the skill of harbor pilots supplied by Washington. It was the pilots who turned American hopes into utter frustration. The French warships were larger indeed, so much so that they required a depth of twenty-seven feet. The mouth of New York Harbor was crossed by a sandbar whose depth at low tide was a good deal more shallow. If the French ships attempted to enter the harbor, there was a very good chance they would run aground.
Washington had sent Hamilton and John Laurens to confer with d’Estaing, but there would be no convincing the French to pursue such a dangerous course. Alternatives were considered, and the most obvious choice was made. The French would set sail for Newport, Rhode Island, to assault the only remaining British stronghold.
The British force in Newport was close to six thousand men, commanded by General Robert Pigott. If Pigott’s force could be captured, it would be as serious a blow to the British effort as the loss of Burgoyne. To d’Estaing, it would be an extraordinary prize.
While the British had a firm command of Newport, the mainland around them was occupied by barely a thousand continental troops now commanded by John Sullivan. It was not a force strong enough to make any threat to the British, and Washington issued a call to militia in the area, hoping to attract several thousand more. He dispatched Lafayette with another two brigades, fifteen hundred experienced veterans, and sent them by foot toward Rhode Island. Though d’Estaing’s fleet was a formidable threat to the British from the sea, Sullivan’s command on land would be strengthened even more by the human cargo the French ships had brought with them: four thousand French marines. As the allied forces converged on Newport, there was feverish anticipation in Washington’s headquarters. For the first time, a large British outpost would be confronted by a combined assault from both land and sea.
With Clinton’s army now contained in New York, and Washington securing his outposts all along the Hudson River, it seemed clear that the rest of the summer would pass in a quiet stalemate. Washington’s spies were active in New York again, and the reports from Clinton’s headquarters showed that as a result of the brutal march from Philadelphia, the British strength had been reduced by nearly two thousand men. Half that number were casualties of either the fight or the heat around Monmouth Court House, but far worse for the British, the Hessians had deserted in astounding numbers, many slipping back toward the various German communities in Pennsylvania. Washington’s army was in comparably better condition, and the men welcomed the return to garrison life along the Hudson. With the British now completely off the mainland, the farmers had begun to supply the army again, Greene’s quartermaster staff finding a much warmer reception from farmers whose best customers were long gone.
Greene still held the official title of quartermaster, and had no direct command of his former division. The certainty of a quiet summer, and the renewed efficiency of the supply officers meant that Greene could feel comfortable asking Washington for some time with his family. With the march by Lafayette already under way, Greene had offered to serve in Rhode Island in whatever capacity the commanding general thought appropriate. Greene did not hide his desire to make a brief stop at his home along the way, and Washington would not object. Though Greene technically outranked Sullivan, he had readily accepted Sullivan’s command for this mission, would serve under Sullivan at the same level of authority as Lafayette. All three men understood that Greene’s presence was an asset. The Rhode Islander would certainly add spark to the willingness of his local militia to serve.
COVENTRY, RHODE ISLAND, JULY 30, 1778
Greene sent Major Hovey on his way, to report their arrival to Sullivan, with word that Greene would join him tomorrow. He had arrived at his home knowing that the stay would be brief, one night in his own bed. He had hoped to surprise her, but the sound of horses was unmistakable, and before he could climb down from the saddle, she was standing in the doorway.
She met him with the same teary smile that he had kissed at Valley Forge. He held her for a long moment, could tell from the softness that she had gained weight, the obvious sign of her pregnancy. Her letters had said very little of any difficulties, her attempt to put aside his concerns. But he was skeptical, could not remove the fear for her health until he could see for himself.
He held her out away from him, searching her face, some telltale glint in her eye of some ailment she would not disclose. She still smiled, and he felt the fears slipping away, her soft warmth filling the dark places in his mind. She began to pull at him, moving both of them inside the house. He closed the door, and she said, “Come. There is someone you must meet. The general must do his duty.”
He could see the humor in her face, and he gently wiped at the tears, said, “The general has remained outside. It is the father who has returned.”
He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and they eased slowly down the narrow hall. She stepped softly, and so he did the same, could not help the nervousness, his heart pounding. She led him to the small bedroom, stood aside.
“Go on in. She’s sleeping.”
He could not take his eyes from hers, saw the tears coming again, felt his own. He turned slowly into the room, saw a small wooden bed, moved closer, silent steps, sweat on his hands, the pounding in his chest driving an icy chill all through him. He leaned close, could hear the soft rhythm of the child’s quiet breathing. He felt suddenly huge, overpowering, a clumsy giant standing so close to such frail perfection. The floor beneath him creaked, and he backed away, would not disturb her, but it was too late. The sound jarred the toddler’s sleep, and she turned her head, made a long stretching yawn. She looked at him with wide blue eyes, seemed to study him, curious. Then she raised one hand, pointed at him with tiny fingers.
“Papa.”
Kitty was beside him, and he felt her hand slide around his waist, and she said, “That’s right, Martha.”
He had no words, put his hands out as well, slow, careful, and for the first time, he held his daughter.
TIVERTON, RHODE ISLAND, AUGUST 5, 1778
“We shall be pleased to partic
ipate in this plan at your command, General Sullivan. However, we are concerned that your forces here are, forgive me, inadequate to the task.”
Greene waited for the explosion, could say nothing. The command was Sullivan’s, and no one but Sullivan would respond. Sullivan rose from his chair, and Greene watched the short stout man run a hand through his thinning hair, turn away from the table, pacing slowly. He seemed to be holding tight to his words, and Greene thought, Careful, John. It is time for diplomacy. Sullivan spun around now, hands on his hips, and Greene saw defiance in the man’s face, the words slow and precise.
“Admiral d’Estaing, the militia are arriving daily. I had hoped to have more in camp by now, but it cannot be helped. Their commander, General Hancock has assured me that General Washington’s plea has reached every village in the area. They are coming.”
“That would be . . . John Hancock?” D’Estaing seemed impressed now. “We have heard much of this man. He is a great leader. Certainly he will assume command here?”
Sullivan seemed to deflate, and Lafayette said, “Excuse me, General Sullivan, if I may.”
Sullivan said nothing, made a quick wave of his hand, and Lafayette said in French, “Admiral, John Hancock commands militia only. He is not an officer in the regular Continental Army. General Sullivan is the commander here.”
“Marquis de Lafayette, I have seen nothing here except militia. Even the men you brought here seem unlikely to wage a serious fight.”
Lafayette lowered his head for a moment, said, “Admiral, with all respect, the two brigades who accompanied me here are veteran units. They are some of the finest soldiers in General Washington’s army.” He looked at Sullivan. “My apologies, General. I did not wish to be rude. We should converse only in English.”
D’Estaing shrugged his shoulders, said to Sullivan, “The marquis explains to me that this is your command. I am pleased to cooperate. Your plan is sound. Your troops will cross over to the island from here. My ships will approach from the western side. I will land the marines as you make your crossing.”
Sullivan stopped his pacing, seemed surprised by the sudden agreement.
“That is fine, Admiral. Thank you. I propose August 10. That will allow us time to complete assembly of the militia.”
D’Estaing stood now, his aides behind him rising as well.
“I will return to my ship now.”
The men around the table all stood, and d’Estaing made a short bow to Sullivan, marched out of the room. Sullivan waited for them to move outside the house, stepped toward the window, watched as the men were led to carriages, the short ride to the shore boats. He looked back at the men around the table, focused on Lafayette, said, “I trust he will comply with our wishes.”
Lafayette nodded.
“General Sullivan, the admiral knows his duty. We should have every confidence in this mission.”
Sullivan reached for his hat, moved toward the door.
“I appreciate your hopefulness, General. I assure you, we will complete our part of this.” He motioned to the guard beside the door, the door opened for him, and Sullivan said, “I must see to the militia. Hancock promised another thousand by this afternoon. Anyone to accompany me?”
He was out the door now, and the others followed. Greene waited for a moment, then he was alone with Lafayette, said, “It was a fortunate insult.”
“In what way, sir?”
“Fortunate that John Sullivan does not speak French.”
“Should I not feel the insult as well, sir? Those brigades are my command. I am well aware of their abilities.”
Greene sat now.
“I would imagine to a French admiral, we are all militia. We had best become accustomed to it.”
Lafayette shook his head.
“It is not necessary for Admiral d’Estaing to insult this army. I fear his attitude may cause some injury.”
Greene laughed.
“Not as long as he keeps his insults in French.”
AUGUST 9, 1778
The British had responded to the arrival of the French fleet by burning the few ships of their own that lay at anchor around Newport, preventing d’Estaing from making easy capture of the vessels that were so clearly outgunned. Pigott had already abandoned the few outposts beyond the main island where Newport lay, gathering his troops into the strong defenses the British had constructed months before. But even with their forces concentrated on the single island, the British were strung out in a dangerously weak position, and Pigott wisely withdrew his troops southward, concentrating them around the town itself. With the island’s northern defenses now empty of troops, Sullivan could not resist taking advantage, ordered a rapid crossing from the mainland, and placed his men in control of that part of the island. The move was concluded with precision, unopposed by any British troops. The only difficulty came from d’Estaing. Sullivan had launched into action a day sooner than the French expected. While the tactics were reasonable, the protocol was not. On the French flagship, senior officers reacted with bristling protest. But the controversy was cut short by a far more serious discovery. Beyond the mouth of Narragansett Bay, a mass of sails began to fill the horizon. The British general Pigott had accomplished much more than the strengthening of his own defenses. His dispatch had gone to New York, and Clinton and Lord Howe had responded. Strengthened by reinforcements from England, Lord Howe had assembled a fleet of his own, more than thirty warships. If d’Estaing did not remove his fleet from the confines of Narragansett Bay, the French could be bottled up and destroyed piecemeal. But more, to a navy man, the British fleet was a target that he could not resist. With Sullivan still expecting the French to land their four thousand marines, d’Estaing suddenly raised his sails, and the entire French force vanished into the Atlantic.
AUGUST 12, 1778
The winds had begun in the middle of the night, and Greene had been shaken from his bed by a screaming gale. With the dawn had come more wind and rain, and through the windows of the small house, he could see that the bay was a frenzy of foaming waves.
For two days, the armies had stared at each other along the large island, both sides eager for some word of what was happening beyond the mouth of the bay. As the storm finally cleared, Greene had a greater concern than the outcome of a naval battle. The camps of his men were a shambles, mud-soaked equipment, tents that had simply blown away. Worse, most of the army’s ammunition was ruined. He could only hope that the British camp had suffered as much from the amazing storm.
AUGUST 20, 1778
Sullivan had finally begun the fight, and for five days his troops, backed by John Hancock’s militia, pressed the British defenses. Progress was limited, and Greene began to realize that what should have been quick work, the utter destruction of a sizable British force, was instead destined to become a siege. The one element that might yet cause the breakthrough was the addition of the French marines. After so many days at sea, the French fleet began to appear again in Narragansett Bay. As the Americans huddled in their British-made trenches, they cheered the ships. Most had never seen the aftermath of a naval battle, and many stared in shock at the damage. Broken masts hung from rigging, railings were stripped away from decks, planking and gun covers were torn from the sides. When d’Estaing finally made his landing, he did not bring news of any kind of fight with Lord Howe. The two fleets had hardly begun to maneuver around each other before the storm appeared, tossing and scattering the ships, sweeping some far out to sea. Both fleets had suffered equally, neither side capable of any kind of battle. To the relief of the French, Lord Howe had limped his way back to New York.
Greene boarded the flagship, followed by Lafayette. The Languedoc was the largest ship in d’Estaing’s fleet, a magnificent fighting fortress holding ninety guns. But her masts were shattered, the rigging still a tangled mess across the decks. Sailors worked in groups, men with knives, slicing ropes, others gathering what could be salvaged into great fat coils. He heard the sound of an axe, one man in t
he bow cutting through a spar, working to free some piece of rigging. From the plank, a passage had been cleared, and Greene followed the French escort down through a hatchway, short steep steps that dropped into darkness. He saw a flicker of light, a candle lighting the passageway. They moved toward the stern of the ship, and he could see sunlight, the grand quarters where d’Estaing waited for them. As they entered, Greene felt a grinding under his feet, broken glass, could see a pile of shattered china swept into one corner. D’Estaing was sitting in a tall red chair, facing away from them, staring toward the glow of light through a shattered window frame. The officer announced them, and d’Estaing turned the chair, glanced at both men, said, “My apologies for the condition of my office, gentlemen. I have instructed the crew to see first to our transport. The amenities of luxury may wait.”
Lafayette said, “I do not understand, Admiral. Transport?”
“We are in a precarious state here, Marquis. I do not know how many capable vessels the British may suddenly bring. I require that my ships make ready immediately. We must put into port for repair.”
Greene felt a nervous turn in his gut.
“Which port, Admiral?”
“Unless you are aware of some place that is better equipped to effect our needs, we will make for the port of Boston. We must set sail quickly.”
Lafayette stepped forward now, closer to d’Estaing.
“Admiral, General Sullivan awaits with great anticipation the arrival of your marines. There is still a fight to be made here, sir. With the additional strength, General Sullivan believes . . .”
“You may tell General Sullivan that the marines will remain on board the ships. They will accompany the fleet to Boston. Until I am certain what dangers await these ships, I will not release them.”
Lafayette looked at Greene with a glimmer of panic, and Greene said, “Admiral, General Lafayette and I have come here to provide the plan of attack as devised by General Sullivan and his command, myself included. The British forces here have nowhere to go, no escape. Alone, we do not have the strength to break their defenses. With your marines, we do. The matter could well be decided in two days. Only two days. That is all we ask.”
