by Jeff Shaara
D’Estaing sniffed.
“General Greene, in two days’ time this bay could be a trap for my fleet. Admiral Howe is not a man to sail silently into the night. We do not know what resources he may draw upon in New York. I, however, have no resources at all but what you see here. I have already given the order. The ships in this fleet that are capable of sailing are already doing so. My king was explicit in his instructions, General. Should this fleet meet with any disaster, or should we be confronted by a superior British force, I am to seek safe refuge in Boston. I intend to follow the instructions of my king.” He looked at Lafayette. “Do you have any objections to that, Marquis?”
“Of course not, Admiral.”
“Well, then, gentlemen, I do not wish to be rude. But I must prepare this ship to sail and concern myself with the care of my fleet. Is that not in your best interest as well?”
Greene thought a moment, could feel Lafayette looking at him, silent caution. Don’t worry, young man, I’ll not destroy this alliance before it has begun. He said, “Admiral, my concern is for the men in my command, who must now face a formidable enemy without the assistance of our ally. I shall convey your message to General Sullivan. We shall eagerly await your return.”
As the last ships sailed out of Narragansett Bay, the realization that their French allies had abandoned them drained the fight from the militia. Within hours after word had spread, nearly three-fourths of them shouldered their muskets and went home. The sudden weakness in the American lines could not be hidden from Robert Pigott, and the British surged out of their works around Newport and pushed a hard attack into Sullivan’s lines. There could be no effective defense, and Sullivan withdrew to the north end of the island, then ordered the remaining troops to be ferried to the mainland. The work was done by Glover’s Marblehead fishermen, the same boatmen who had performed such good service so many times before.
Sullivan was furious, and his reports to Washington were hot and undiplomatic, and he unwisely revealed his sentiments to the public. Washington might understand d’Estaing’s concerns, but the New England citizenry did not, and a public outcry followed the French fleet to Boston. The civilian newspapers were quick to echo Sullivan’s insulting tone, but in the army, there was much more at stake than careless criticism. The alliance was too fresh and too untried to be destroyed by such a swift turn of events, and Sullivan was quickly reined in, his words tempered. Lafayette’s temper was boiling as well, as much for his embarrassment at d’Estaing’s timidity as for the insults to his country that spilled out in the local communities.
With nothing to be gained by further confrontation at Newport, Washington summoned Greene and Lafayette back to headquarters in New Jersey. There was still hope in the American camp that d’Estaing would yet emerge as the great equalizing force on the sea, that another attempt might be made to assault Clinton’s stronghold in New York. But then came word from Boston. The repairs to the French fleet were nearing completion. But instead of sailing back down the coast, d’Estaing would respond to a new urgency, the likely conflict with the British over the islands in the Caribbean. As the final repairs were made, the French fleet raised its sails and disappeared, twenty-three warships and four thousand marines, now on their way to the West Indies.
As Greene rode south, the long hours in the saddle were passed by quiet thought, the sadness and frustration of the mission. There had been failures before, and no one in the army believed that these troops would sweep through every confrontation they would yet have against the British. But Greene knew this failure might have consequences far beyond their inability to recapture a city. All the hopes that had come with the French alliance were suddenly set aside, and Sullivan’s anger had spread throughout much of the army as it had spread through New England. No treaty, no alliance was a guarantee that this war would soon be over.
40. CORNWALLIS
WALLABOUT BAY, NEW YORK,
NOVEMBER 27, 1778
The ship sat heavy in the water, a soggy hulk that would never see its sails rise again. She was called the Jersey, was one of several craft that lay at anchor in the shallows of the bay. Her hull was rotting, her crooked masts bare, and behind the closed covers of the gun ports, her cannon had long been hauled away. The men who served as her crew were not even sailors, were often stationed in this duty as punishment, soldiers or loyalist militia who had shown no talent for facing the fire of the enemy. Some were Hessians, men who had been branded as thieves or worse. Now, they roamed the upper decks of the Jersey bearing clubs and whips, while beneath their feet, hundreds of men lay cramped together in a darkened hell. The Jersey was now a prison.
One man stared out through an open porthole, the only source of light and air, stared across the East River to the city. He had been captured at the fight for Fort Washington, marched down to the water’s edge by angry men in uniforms he had never seen. He had been crowded onto a flatboat with so many others, men from his own company, others strange to him, but all sharing the horror of their defeat. When he first saw the Jersey, it had seemed like some glorious blessing. It was a prison ship to be sure, but a place where the men would be safe from the rabble of New York, from the spreading filth of a city too crowded by so many seeking refuge from the war. As he had marched onto the ship, his legs had been chained, and when he was pushed down the hatchway, stumbling in the darkness over men who had gone before him, he began to understand that it was not a blessing after all.
For two years he had survived, had stopped wondering why, his mind stripped clean by the unending horrors. He had one piece of good fortune, his chains were fastened to the bulkhead near one of the high portholes. If he had the strength to pull himself upright, he could see the sunsets, like so many blazing torches settling low over the city, and he had learned to savor every moment, every piece of the fading light. For many months his mind had held away the fear, but time was the enemy, too many nights and too many awful sounds. Now, the darkness brought the madness, the voices and cries holding him frozen, his exhausted mind giving way to the numbing fear, his eyes fighting to see the beasts who made such sounds. At first he had suffered the darkness knowing that the sounds came only from the men whose chains tortured their wounds, or whose sickness had poisoned their sanity. But after two years, his fragile hold on his own sanity had loosened, the voices of the suffering men inseparable from the voices now rising in his own mind.
With each dawn, the demons grew quiet, and the sounds became the voices of the men, so many so close to him, the slow agony of sick minds praying for death. He would not succumb, would pull himself up to the porthole, escape to the peaceful river. On the clear mornings, the river would come alive with the bits of reflection, the sunlight tickling the surface. He had long imagined escape, a dream made real for this one moment, the rising sunlight pulling him out away from the ship like some blessed wave, carrying him over to the city, beyond, his home in New Jersey. But there had been no escape, even for the men who had slipped their chains, bolts ripped from the rotting decks beneath them. Some found the strength to fight, would strike out at the soldiers who brought them food. It was a desperate foolishness that brought bayonets into the hatches, the guards firing randomly into the mass of prisoners. Worse, it took away the food, and for a day or more, nothing would come.
He had learned the skills of the survivor, knew when to reach for the food, knew that many of the men around him were too weak to make the effort. The food would come in scattered heaps, raw, sour pork, hard bread crusted with mold, flour cakes infested with vermin a starving man learned to ignore. For many weeks, he had been charitable, had offered bits of his food to the men nearest him, the men who were too weak to reach for their own. But those men were long gone now, and his generosity was a memory. It was another part of the horror, that each new dawn would find so many more who had not survived the night, who would be dragged up through the hatches by cursing soldiers, corpses to be buried in the soft mud of the riverbank.
It had been
the same this morning, the food already eaten, his gut in a hot turmoil, the putrid odors of new sickness rolling through the crowded deck. He had pulled himself up again, stared at the river, the homes along the far shore, had felt the flecks of sunlight opening up the small dark places in his own mind.
He did not know much of Clinton, whether one of the grand mansions was the British headquarters. He knew little of Monmouth or Brandywine, and nothing of Valley Forge. He had heard some rumors of Burgoyne’s defeat, loudly denied by the guards. If there was a war at all now, he would know only by the talk of the prisoners, the new men to take the place of so many now buried. For a while, they would have the strength, would speak of their capture, some fight in some place that had no meaning. But soon their voices would grow silent as well, the madness consuming them as it had the rest, what remained of their strength giving energy only to the beasts in the darkness.
He did not know what month it was, but the air cut through the porthole with a sharp chill. He could recall the last time it had been winter, the cries of the beast deadened by the cold. Many men had died then, too many for the guards to notice. It was a strange blessing, food tossed down onto the bodies of those who would not need it, a small feast for those who still survived. The wind ripped at his face, the memories of those months long past, and he felt a hard shiver, wetness in his pants clinging to him. He stared at the rippling sunlight, blessed warmth, saw the reflections in motion, a ship, tall white sails. She was large, a grand man-o-war, moving out through the harbor by the power of the chilling breeze. He watched her until she drifted away, the familiar dream filling him, standing in her bow, the open sky in front of him, the wind carrying him away to some glorious place. He was alone on the ship, no one to cry out, no one to suffer beside him, just the sunlight, washing over him, carrying him home.
The ship disappeared beyond the edge of the bay, and the wind began to bite his face, the tears cutting his cheek. He leaned away from the porthole, his legs giving way, the energy gone, and he sat, settled down into the smells, the cries, and the madness.
Cornwallis had boarded the ship at first light, stood on the deck in the brisk biting wind. Above him in the East River, he could see the prison ships, a ragged line of useless hulks, motionless, no sign of the grotesque cargo below their decks.
He looked toward Long Island, toward the home he had occupied, a pleasant manor house owned by some Tory aristocrat, the man long gone, imprisoned by the rebels perhaps. Cornwallis would not take up residence in the city, had no need for the astounding debauchery of the place. If he visited the city at all, it was to attend Clinton’s headquarters, a grand mansion called the Kennedy House, on the southernmost end of Broadway. Even without the degrading behavior of the officers, the city had become its own nightmare, the ruins from the fire providing shelter for anyone who could not afford to buy themselves into British luxury. The poor, and many not so poor had massed into the ruins to construct a makeshift village of shacks and scraps of tents, which had become known as Canvastown. With the army keeping mainly to itself, Canvastown had become the most dangerous place in the city. Crime and disease were commonplace, and the utter lack of sanitation had created a massive open sewer that far surpassed the horrors they had left behind in Philadelphia.
Cornwallis had attended some of the parties, could hardly decline an invitation from Clinton himself. He had learned quickly why both the officers and their society damsels seemed to bathe themselves in so much perfume. From the depths of Canvastown, and even from the narrow streets that had escaped the fire, the concentration of refugees had created a permanent stench throughout the city that even the elite could not avoid. Since no one had any kind of solution for absorbing the influx of loyalists, they could only try to mask themselves from their presence. Even Cornwallis had to agree that a substantial dousing of perfume was an acceptable alternative to the fog of odor that even the wealthy could not escape.
Though Clinton felt he should remain in the city, that responsibility was not shared by Cornwallis. Long Island had become a place to play. From his new home, Cornwallis had ample opportunity for hunting and fishing, long rides through the hills that two years before had framed bloody battlefields. Many of the senior officers took advantage, and seemed far more enthusiastic about the outdoor distractions than what they left behind in the city. But the carefree life was fragile, and no matter the pageantry of the fox hunts or the pheasant shoots, the stark reality could not be avoided. Long Island itself was far from secure, and every foraging party or social gathering was subject to the presence of guards. Every day, patrols and cavalry units probed and swept across the countryside. Not so far from the shores of the East River, Long Island was a lawless and hostile place, peopled by highwaymen, or worse, common citizens who still felt allegiance to Washington and his rebels. No matter the illusion of holiday, Cornwallis knew that beyond the next hill, past the scenic pasture or meadow might lie a band of musket-toting farmers who would thrill at the opportunity to take aim at a British officer.
Jemima’s letters continued to bring despair, hints that she was growing weaker, some frightening affliction that neither of them could name. He knew so little of medicine or disease, had convinced himself that it was his absence that had caused her such misery. All throughout the year, he had thought of her in every quiet moment, and his sanctuary in the Long Island countryside could not erase an aching homesickness. With the army already making plans for winter quarters around the city, Cornwallis knew that, for long months to come, his duty would be painfully dull. He had prepared a lengthy argument, would present Clinton with all the reasons why the army did not require its second in command to endure the New York winter. He had expected protest, had been surprised, thankful when Clinton agreed. The only condition was that Cornwallis make a special effort to visit Clinton’s family, to return with some bits of personal greeting from those who inspired a homesickness in Clinton himself.
The ship tacked slightly to the east, and Cornwallis could see the sun finally rising above the horizon, warming him against the sharp wind sweeping the deck. He could smell the salt spray rising from white foam, could feel the ship rolling in slow rhythm to the growing waves. They were clear of Staten Island now, the land falling away. He looked up toward the men above him, sailors doing the good work, tightening and securing the rigging, preparing for a month on the open sea.
SUFFOLK, ENGLAND, DECEMBER 29, 1778
The voyage had been unusually rapid, and a strong westerly breeze swept the ship across the Atlantic in less than four weeks. He had made his official greeting to Lord Germain, but London could not hold him for more time than duty required. Germain had graciously furnished him with a carriage, seeming to sense that Cornwallis had only one priority. Despite the signs of winter, the rolling hills and brown meadows had seemed especially beautiful. He passed by the familiar, hidden places he had explored as a boy, patches of woods, narrow swift streams that flooded him with memories. As he rode up to the house, he was surprised to see no one outside, no gardeners working the beds, only cold silence from the small stable. It was clearly an estate in need of a master.
The home was called Culford, and it was no one’s portrait of a grand estate. His father had not been as wealthy as so many who cherished their precious titles, the entire family working their way to maintain the oh-so-important bearing of the aristocrats.
He had been up early, never able to escape the routine of the army. He slipped out of their room with silent steps, leaving her to a fitful sleep that had kept him awake most of the night. The surprise of his arrival had already begun to wear off, and he was dismayed by her strange gloom. For months, the letters from his family had insisted that his presence alone would be the cure she needed, but even the coming of Christmas had done little for her spirit. He had not expected to be home in time for the holiday, the surprise adding to the pure joy in the children. But they were away now, returning to the routine of their schooling. With the house suddenly quiet, he had es
tablished a routine of his own, a quiet breakfast alone, while Jemima sought strength from long hours in bed.
Her maid had been in the kitchen before him, would accommodate him by preparing a simple fare, biscuits, a pot of tea on the stove. The maid’s name was Ruthie, a short round elderly woman who scurried through the house like some desperate mouse. Ruthie had been with her mistress since Jemima was a baby, and Cornwallis knew to stand aside, that when matters of the house were involved, Ruthie was in absolute command. He had no idea of her age, her plumpness hiding her years. But her loyalty and her love for Jemima were as strong as his own.
It was barely daylight, and he finished his cup of tea, moved up into the main hall, heard no one moving. He peeked into a small parlor, saw a pad of paper, pulled a pencil from his pocket. It was his way of passing the time, his quiet patrolling of the house. The house itself was clumsy in design, dark and dank spaces, a central courtyard that never saw light. He moved through halls that were too narrow, paused at the door to the dining room, shook his head at the thoughtlessness of the design. The room had been placed with the windows facing a setting sun, so that the evening meal was uncomfortably warm. He scanned the room, made notes of the disrepair, rotting timbers. He had seen the dark stains, small leaks beneath the windows that would certainly grow worse. He climbed the stairway, ran his hand over rough plaster, cracks large enough to accommodate a finger. He reached the second level, stopped, the musty smells surrounding him. The bedrooms were small, tight spaces, and he waited for a moment, then eased slowly toward her room, listened for a moment, then slowly opened the door. He peered through the dull light, could hear her breathing, the space in the bed beside her, his space, still vacant. He wanted to move close to her, felt a desperate need to lift her spirits, to give her some part of himself, his own energy, to bring her back to that wonderful time they had once shared. She moved now, soft stirring, a rustle of covers, and he saw her looking at him.
