by Jeff Shaara
“Don’t be concerned. King Louis requires a bit of sobriety occasionally. From what I was told, the audiences cheered you more loudly than anything His Majesty has heard in a while. Your accomplishments and the respect you have earned in America are gratefully appreciated here. Perhaps that will influence both the king and Count Vergennes the next time they choose a man to command French troops in America.”
He was testing Lafayette’s reaction, and the young man seemed to choose his words carefully.
“Doctor, I regret the difficulties which arose in the affair at Newport. Count d’Estaing is a most capable man.”
“More than capable. I have heard that his forces are faring well in the West Indies. The British are in something of a lather, loud voices in Parliament calling on King George to focus more of his attention to the islands than to his, um, colonies. I am privy to such things.”
“That would be a fortunate decision for America, Doctor.”
“As fortunate as the Marquis de Lafayette assuming command of the next French force to cross the ocean?”
The young man’s guard seemed to slip away, and Lafayette showed the enthusiasm again.
“Thank you for that kindness, Doctor. I only hope to give assistance to General Washington in the manner he will find useful. I admit to having some ambition to command such a force. There would be no difficulties such as we had at Newport.”
“I agree. However, my influence is limited, General. Is it acceptable to refer to you as general?”
“I accept whatever title you wish, sir. In the French army, I am but a captain.”
“Hmm. I prefer general. It is likely that before much time has passed, your king may agree.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“I have recently been called upon to assume the office of Superintendent of Naval Affairs for America. Marvelous title, yes? The congress has added that one to my ever-increasing list. I’m not yet sure what it entails, except that French naval officers are now adding their appointments to my calendar. There is some discussion of a plan to mount an invasion force to threaten England directly. Are you aware of this?”
“More than aware, sir. The plan was, in principle, my own. I had hoped to command such a force. It is the primary reason I asked to meet with you, Doctor.”
“Thank you for your candor, General. Now, I must be candid as well. Your government is not comfortable with your plan. There is concern that the effort required in the West Indies could leave the French navy in a precarious position should a serious fight erupt in the English Channel. I cannot speak of what your role should be, and I dare not insert my views in places where they do not belong. Your notoriety and your value to General Washington will ultimately determine where your duty is best performed. As for causing injury to the British from the sea, I have my own view. It has come as a surprise to many here that America has in fact produced something of a navy. Thus far, there has been one extremely useful benefit of this. American ships have begun to appear in foreign ports of call, patrolling European waterways, protecting American shipping interests. It both amuses and distresses me that until our ships appeared in their waters, some European governments considered America as some strange mythical place. It is a peculiar notion that my country was little more than a rumor until our flag appeared from the masts of warships.”
“Doctor, from what I have heard in America, there were some in your country who knew nothing of King George until his warships destroyed your towns. People often believe what is convenient.”
“Quite so. Your king and some of his generals may not believe it is convenient to have you off commanding an army somewhere. I can understand your disappointment. But that does not mean we will not cause our own havoc.”
Lafayette could not hide his mood, but Franklin saw curiosity as well.
“General, a French warship has been refitted and offered to an American captain, to use as he will in the waters around the English coast. With the additional support already promised him from several French vessels, I believe he can cause considerable discomfort in British ports. I have advised him only to avoid barbarism, not to exact revenge on British civilians for the brutality their navy has inflicted in America. His family is Scottish, and he’s a Virginian now. Perhaps you know him? His name is John Paul Jones.”
The ship was now called the Bonhomme Richard, a tribute to Franklin himself, his Poor Richard’s Almanack now extremely popular throughout France. Captain Jones had become popular himself, had already given birth to a reputation in France as a keen naval officer who preyed effectively on British merchantmen. But he had yet to face a challenge from a British warship, and when his small fleet sailed for British waters, the French officers he commanded were not yet convinced this American could even survive a serious naval battle, much less command one.
The British ship was the Serapis, a forty-gun frigate that was newer, larger, and far more maneuverable than the Bonhomme Richard. The fight began at dusk, the two ships swirling about each other in a storm of fire and smoke. When Jones could not outflank the Serapis, he rammed her, his crew casting hooks over her rails. With the two ships locked together, their gunners poured a continuous hell of grapeshot and canister into the faces of the enemy. On the Bonhomme Richard, Jones sent marksmen up into the rigging, musket fire now adding to the carnage below. On the deck of the Serapis, no man could survive, and finally, with both ships taking on water at a dangerous rate, an American shell was lobbed into the main hatchway of the British ship. The explosion ripped the Serapis apart from within, and with both crews exhausted and bloodied, Jones himself aimed a single gun at the main mast of the Serapis and fired. As the mast toppled into the sea, the British lowered their flag.
The extraordinary victory had been achieved within sight of a stunned audience on the British shore, and though the destruction of both ships could not be measured as any sizable loss to either side, the prestige gained by the fledgling American navy sent a shock through all of Europe.
The Bonhomme Richard did not survive another day, the damage too great, the leaking hull finally giving way. But her captain would fight again, and no matter his future, his place in history had been secured. It was the first American naval victory against a foreign man-o-war. Those who survived the fight would remember the two ships locked together, both captains fighting with sword and pistol. For a long while, the victory had seemed to favor the Serapis, her captain facing his foe with a haughty demand that the Bonhomme Richard accept certain defeat and lower her flag. It was the reply of her captain that would be remembered, the voice echoing out through the smoke and fire, heard by the men on both sides:
“I have not yet begun to fight.”
43. CORNWALLIS
SEPTEMBER 1779
He had returned to New York in July to a command that had absorbed the despair of the city around it. Clinton had put on a good show of welcoming him back, and if nothing else, his arrival was a distraction from the mundane duties of a paralyzed army. But the glad tidings had been swept away in a matter of days. Every officer in New York knew that Clinton saw Cornwallis as the primary threat to his authority, and the acrimony only worsened the mood in the headquarters. Cornwallis was not surprised by Clinton’s hostility, but he would not engage in the gossip and disparaging that seemed to provide an entertaining distraction to bored officers. He had returned to America because there were, after all, some personal connections for him in the army. He had rarely allowed himself to dwell on friendships with fellow officers, the nature of the army so mobile and transient. As he began the search for familiar faces, he learned that James Grant was gone, had been chosen by Clinton to lead the force that sailed to the West Indies. But others, Leslie, even Knyphausen, had welcomed him as the friend he had become. He was surprised they knew of Jemima’s death, the personal so often separate from the official. Their warmth had surprised him, as well as their kindness for the obvious pain he carried.
He felt no trace of homesickness for England, c
ould not even picture his children in his mind, a tormenting guilt that forced him awake in the late hours of sleepless nights. Their anguish was no less than his, but he was still consumed by grief, her death draining him of compassion so that he felt he had nothing to offer even his own family. He tried to forgive himself, reminded himself that his sister and brother had children of their own. They had always accepted his son and daughter in a spirit of family, and accepted them now. But the guilt would drive him to quiet tears, and he could not escape that they were so much a part of her, so much a part of what had been torn away from him. If it meant he was a failure as a father, that was a chain he would wear another day.
He spent most of his time in the house on Long Island, and it was no less a garrison now than it had been before. On every road, past every peaceful farm and field, cavalry was stationed, and the simple joy of a ride in the countryside was made ugly by the necessary presence of guards. But his love for the outdoors had not returned, and long days were made longer as he stayed close to his office. As much dread as he felt for any meeting with Clinton, the couriers who brought the orders had at least provided him some distraction. Though the summer heat had magnified the stench of the city, the discomfort of his own boredom took him to headquarters hoping that perhaps this time, some new plan had been approved. Despite Cornwallis’ personal despair, he had to have faith that Lord Germain and Henry Clinton would stumble far enough through their ongoing war of words to agree on a strategy, some plan to take this army again into the field.
Clinton sat hunched over behind his desk, the room silent, poised for another round of explosions. His face was red, a permanent state now, and Cornwallis waited with the others for the tirade to resume.
“Do they find some sport in this? I only imagine this to be some sort of perverse game. Lord Germain, Lord North, prancing around the drawing rooms of their grand estates in a brandy-soaked quest for some new means to torment me. It is a game they have mastered. This one, however, I must assuredly credit to Lord Sandwich. As first lord of the Admiralty, this would be his doing.”
The conversation was one-sided, and Cornwallis knew the rest of the officers would simply endure.
He was not surprised that Admiral Lord Howe was gone, had already returned to England. The two brothers Howe were in many ways a team, and though each man had responsibility for his own branch of the service, no one truly expected Richard Lord Howe to remain in America while William Howe was skewered by Parliament.
Before he had sailed from England, Cornwallis had been summoned to the official hearings, but would not provide ammunition for William Howe’s detractors. It was always so simple for the king’s opponents to make a target of one man, to hold him up as a symbol of so many failures of policy. Cornwallis knew both the successes and the failings of William Howe, knew that it was the failings that would plague Howe for the rest of his life. It was not up to Parliament to make it worse.
Admiral Howe’s replacements thus far had been a strange merry-go-round of inept commanders, and Cornwallis had observed the appointments from England with bewilderment. It was as though Lord Sandwich was toying with American naval operations as a means to provide his aging commanders their one final hurrah. As each man was shuffled into place, his incompetence would be revealed usually as an unwillingness to perform any real duty at all. For several months, the result had been a powerful navy willed into inaction by men who cared more for the peaceful glory of retirement than for actually confronting the French.
Clinton’s fury was directed at yet another man who had been dredged from the halls of the Admiralty, Marriot Arbuthnot, perhaps the most abrasive, unpleasant, and bombastic officer in the navy. Arbuthnot had been commander of the naval force in Halifax. Now, growing feeble in his late sixties, he was the latest selection by Lord Sandwich to rescue the war from the army and in the process, torment Henry Clinton.
“We will be graced presently by another of the highly exalted Old Ladies of the Admiralty. Certainly most of you have some acquaintance with Admiral Arbuthnot.”
There were small groans, and Clinton seemed pleased at the response.
“Yes, well, we shall come to know him in much more detail. If there is one benefit to his arrival, it is that he will not remain here long. There is some urgency in London that this command provide assistance to the governor of Jamaica. Apparently, the French fleet in the West Indies is preparing an invasion of that island, for what reason I have no possible idea. However, such a threat to the king’s interests must be answered, and this command has been ordered to supply troops. It is of no concern to Lord Germain that this post has already been depleted to the extreme. However, orders will be obeyed. Admiral Arbuthnot is to sail to Jamaica, transporting a force numbering some four thousand men. Someone in this room will command that force. Despite my better judgment, I would ask for your involvement.”
Cornwallis felt a ray of light cutting through him, said, “If it is acceptable, sir, I will go.”
The room fell quiet, and Cornwallis could see the surprise on Clinton’s face, twisting slowly into a smile.
“I am greatly pleased by your suggestion, General. I had thought a junior man, but, no, this matter requires our most serious consideration. You are a most appropriate choice. So it will be!”
LATE SEPTEMBER 1779
The mission was organized with astounding speed, and Cornwallis had no doubt that Clinton’s sudden efficiency had much more to do with his glee over his departure than with any concerns for Jamaica.
He had thought little of the conditions he would find in the tropics, or the heat and misery he might endure. No matter what challenges Cornwallis would confront, the mission would carry him far from the challenge of maintaining his sanity in New York. The bonus lay in the mission itself. Once in Jamaica, for the first time in his career, Cornwallis would have a truly independent command.
They sailed into a rising sun, the transports and escorting warships turning southward, sliding briskly along the New Jersey coast. They had been at sea three days, enough time for the troops to rid themselves of seasickness, the open air cleansing the depths of the largest transports. On the long voyages, Cornwallis had once passed the time by writing letters, most of them to Jemima. But now, he stayed on deck nearly all day, a slow methodical pacing, focusing first on the low dark strip of land to the west, then the amazing contrast, the open sea, the great yawning abyss to the east. When the call came from the lookouts, he had paid little mind, heard something from the officers of a signal from a small courier vessel. But when the ship lowered her sails, he forced himself to accompany the grotesque Arbuthnot to receive the smaller boat sliding alongside, the courier with the message. The ship had come up from the West Indies, and the news was not what anyone was expecting. Admiral d’Estaing had sailed north out of the Caribbean, not west. If there was a danger from the French fleet, it was now toward New York, or perhaps a second campaign to Rhode Island. Cornwallis was bewildered by Arbuthnot, the old man insisting the French must certainly invade Halifax. Regardless of the French intentions, it was clear that the threat to Jamaica was gone.
As the fleet turned about, Cornwallis went to his cabin and passed another three days in quiet despair. They would return the troops to New York, and once again, he would plant himself beside Henry Clinton, while the ministry tried to figure out what to do next.
Of all the thirteen colonies, the least settled and thus, the least political was Georgia. For the past year, the British had pushed up from their bases in Florida, had outmanned what resistance the colonial troops could offer. The spoils were Savannah and Augusta. While the loss of those two cities was not likely to change the outcome of the war, it was a clear sign that, with adequate leadership and sufficient force, the British could easily gain the upper hand. Though Georgia could be described as liberated from rebel control, much of the citizenry there had no great loyalty to either side. Subsistence and survival against hostile terrain and hostile Indians drew far more attention
than whose flag might fly in the fortified cities. But the British had established a base from which they could look elsewhere, another incursion perhaps, another colony that might be reclaimed for the king.
As Cornwallis endured another long month in New York, the mystery of d’Estaing’s intentions became known. The French fleet had arrived at Savannah, obviously intending to recapture the port from British hands. It was a doomed effort, too reminiscent of the debacle at Newport. In an astounding reminder of d’Estaing’s first failure, a violent storm scattered and damaged much of the French fleet, effectively ending the mission. The colonial forces in the south now had shared the same frustrating experience as Greene and Sullivan at Newport. D’Estaing responded by dividing his fleet, returning half his ships to the West Indies, while d’Estaing himself led the remainder back to France. Though Savannah was still British, d’Estaing had accomplished one unintended success. Clinton continued to sit quietly in New York.
The population, as far as we can determine, is evenly divided. Where we have failed in the past, General, was in believing that New Jersey and Pennsylvania would provide this army with overwhelming support. Time and again, General Howe’s expectations were not met.”
It was an accurate statement, and Cornwallis nodded slowly, still not certain why Clinton was telling him this.
“South Carolina holds opportunity. While I am not quick to leap to the same conclusions of my predecessor, nonetheless, it is a favorable climate for us. Am I wrong to anticipate considerable support for us there? I do not believe so.”
Clinton had answered his own question, and Cornwallis knew when his opinion was not required.
It was unusual for Clinton to summon him alone, and he was still not comfortable, felt as though the private meeting was meant to mask something, protect Clinton from some later blame for a plan that might emerge right now. Clinton had still not revealed any reason for the meeting, continued to talk.
