by Jeff Shaara
“It has always been difficult to secure the approval of Lord Germain for some plan of which he is not the author. But I have prevailed. From London, the war must seem like one grand theater, from Boston to the islands, one place indistinguishable from the other. The king places enormous value on the West Indies, and thus, we move troops to the West Indies. If he feared for Pensacola, we would no doubt be called upon to send troops to Pensacola. I have protested that weakening New York to such a degree has placed this army in grave peril. Those concerns have been ignored, until now. Perhaps it is perseverance on my part, perhaps the ministry has suddenly remembered that we are still fighting to preserve all of the empire, not just the land of sugar cane. In any event, Lord Germain now agrees with me that we cannot make war with the French and simply ignore the colonies. We have afforded Mr. Washington too many advantages as it is.”
Cornwallis would not allow Clinton to bait him into some criticism of William Howe.
“I am relieved, sir, by Lord Germain’s change of heart. I had feared the rebels would be allowed to remain unmolested. It can only add to their strength, and their arrogance.”
“The arrogance, General Cornwallis, is ours! From the beginning of this war, we have done exactly what the rebels would ask of us. We have assaulted them at their strongest point! From the horror we inflicted on ourselves at Breed’s Hill, to John Burgoyne’s stubborn invasion, we have pointed our spear in one direction, and allowed the rebels to slap it aside. Would you have us repeat that absurd strategy?”
Cornwallis took a deep breath.
“Sir, does not the defeat of Mr. Washington end this war? Should that not be our goal?”
“How often have we defeated him thus far, General? We drove him out of New York, we drove him out of New Jersey, we drove him out of Philadelphia. What has it achieved? Look at us! For nearly a year, this command has been hampered by London’s indecision. We weaken ourselves further, send troops to all corners of the earth, while across the Hudson River, our enemy stands tall and taunts us. Now, I am criticized in London for having done so little. How dare those mindless politicians insult me so! For nearly a year, they have granted me a free hand to make raids along the coast. Admirable work, that! Throw terror into farmers and fishermen! Well, General, now there is a new plan! My plan! We have learned a valuable lesson from our success in Georgia, and that success will be repeated in South Carolina. We are no longer going to strike the enemy at his strongest point. We are going to consume him in pieces, one powerful thrust at a time. Once the Carolinas are in our control, we will launch a major assault into Virginia, conquering both that colony and the Chesapeake Bay. What will become of this war if the colonies lose half their territory?”
“I suppose . . . the rebel congress could be compelled to end the war.”
“Yes, General. Then we are in agreement. I will summon the senior staff. General Knyphausen will remain in command in New York, with sufficient force to keep the rebels at bay. I am withdrawing General Pigott and his command from Newport, to add to our defenses here. With the change in the direction of our campaign it is no longer necessary to extend our forces so far to the north. You and I will lead the rest of the army to an assault on Charleston!”
The word punched him, and Cornwallis could see the fierce gleam in Clinton’s eye. Of course. Charleston. The overall plan could work, the Carolinas peopled by enough loyalist support that the rebels would have no means to hold the place. But first would come the landing, the necessary capture of the one place that was a dark stain on Clinton’s record. It had been an embarrassment for Cornwallis as well, his first confrontation of the war, a clumsy and arrogant attack against an invulnerable position, manned by rebels who were commanded by Charles Lee. That was an embarrassment as well, even though the rebel prisoners themselves had no respect for Lee, claimed only to serve William Moultrie. Moultrie had constructed the fortification that Clinton and Admiral Peter Parker had tried to destroy, and the result was catastrophic for the British navy. Both the strategy and the planning had been disastrous, the first experience Cornwallis had with arrogant assumptions of rebel weakness. Whether Clinton had learned those lessons from nearly four years before remained to be seen. But Cornwallis knew that if Charleston was the first objective, those memories would be hard in Clinton’s mind.
DECEMBER 1779
“Do you believe he is correct?”
Cornwallis studied the old man for a long moment, said, “Does it matter?”
Knyphausen shouted the words, “Of course it matters! No matter if General Clinton is right or wrong, it will matter! This war cannot last for so many more years. I receive news from my king. He is concerned that already this war is bankrupting your empire. Now we fight the French as well? You cannot sail to South Carolina and pretend you are simply doing the bidding of your commanding officer! You have a part in this! You owe that to your king!”
Cornwallis accepted Knyphausen’s scolding, felt weak, a dull sense of shame.
“I will perform what duty I am required to perform. I do not believe General Clinton will allow me much authority. He still believes I am his enemy.”
“He believes every officer in this command is his enemy.” Knyphausen laughed, surprising Cornwallis. “I have never seen anyone like him, General. He is truly skilled at strategy, far more than General Howe. But I wonder if he has the ability to take a plan from the paper to the field. That must be your duty. You are the skilled hand at tactics. Together, the two of you are an ideal command. Ah, but to General Clinton, there is no . . . together.”
“How will you fare here?”
The old man shrugged.
“There will be no trouble here, unless the French navy comes. Even then . . . I am not too concerned. Both of you, your navy, theirs. Is it so difficult to find an admiral who does not sail his ships like a blind man stepping through rocks? It is fortunate for both you and the French that you build good ships. You do not build good sailors.”
Cornwallis would not argue the point, said, “They are still good men. They are used poorly. Someone will emerge, when there is need.”
Knyphausen raised a finger, smiled.
“Ah, but on which side?”
Cornwallis stood.
“I should return. The men are boarding the flatboats. The loading is to commence.”
Knyphausen rose slowly, and Cornwallis saw a sadness on the old man’s face. Knyphausen moved toward him, stood close, touched his arm.
“When next I see you, it is possible the war will be over. You may be the hero. I wish that for you.”
Cornwallis felt a hard knot in his throat, lowered his head. He felt angry at himself, embarrassed. Since his return, it had been difficult for him to control his emotions. The soft wound inside him was opened up too easily, and he wiped at his eyes, took the old man’s hand.
“My apologies, sir. I shall miss your counsel. It is quite possible that you may be the hero as well.”
Knyphausen shook his head.
“No. General Clinton has chosen the right man to stay behind. You must make certain he has chosen the right man to lead his attack.”
DECEMBER 26, 1779
It took more than two weeks to move the army to the big ships. The weather had turned quickly, erasing any hope that this winter would be as mild as the one before. December had brought dark days of deep cold, and the harbor was alive with floes of ice. The fleet finally set sail in a hard gale, snow driving across the decks of a hundred ships. From the first day at sea, there were destructive problems from the weather, some transports blown uncontrollably to founder in the shallows, one disappearing altogether, far beyond the horizon to the east. As the fleet worked its way southward, the storms were relentless, and the pitching waves shattered bulkheads and cracked masts. Though the conditions were so very different from Howe’s disastrous journey to Pennsylvania, the results were eerily similar. Horses could not endure the tumbling chaos of the holds, and many died, carcasses cast overboard. The men f
ared poorly as well, sickness magnified by the sharp cold and icy rains.
The journey required more than a month to complete, and the fleet was so badly damaged, any thoughts of an immediate assault on Charleston were set aside. By early February, the army was put ashore near Savannah, and within a few weeks, they finally began the mission by a march over land toward Charleston.
The rebel forces in the city were commanded by Benjamin Lincoln, a Massachusetts man who had distinguished himself from the first days of the siege of Boston to the defeat of Burgoyne. Lincoln had nearly four thousand men in his defenses, and continued to call in every militia unit and other strength he could gather into the fortified city. It was a disastrous mistake.
Clinton did not repeat his errors of four years before. Despite a stubborn unwillingness to cooperate with Clinton’s detailed plans, Arbuthnot wisely did not attempt to engage the impregnable position at Fort Moultrie, instead slipped his warships quickly past the rebel artillery. Within days, Clinton was preparing the first of three major siege lines, and Lincoln’s strong defensive position became irrelevant. The maneuver required weeks to perform, and inspired uncomfortable memories of the slowness of William Howe. But even Cornwallis understood that a siege requires time. The final piece of the trap was laid when Cornwallis moved inland and severed Lincoln’s escape route. With the British lines moving ever closer to the city itself, the rebel command had no alternative. Benjamin Lincoln was forced to surrender the city, along with the entire army under his command. The collapse rivaled the rebel disaster at Fort Washington as their worst defeat of the war.
MAY 1780
With Charleston secure, Clinton had sent Cornwallis inland, establishing outposts at key crossroads and larger towns. Despite Clinton’s optimism, Cornwallis still expected resistance, but the occupation progressed with almost no confrontations. With Lincoln’s surrender, any organized command of rebel forces had disappeared.
Clinton had issued a proclamation, requiring the citizenry either to pledge an oath of allegiance to King George, or sign a parole, pledging not to take up arms against the British for the remainder of the war. Cornwallis had unpleasant memories of William Howe’s decrees, which seemed always to prompt more protest and hostility than any benefit the British received. But South Carolina was a different place from New Jersey, and Cornwallis was surprised to see the outpouring of signatures on the official ledgers. To Clinton, it was confirmation that South Carolina had never truly been an enemy of the crown. But Cornwallis saw past the signatures to the people themselves. In each small town they would come out and receive the British troops with quiet curiosity. Their names on a piece of paper meant little more than a means of easing their fears. Most never read the document, signed because men with bayonets stood close by. If the papers were signed, the bayonets went away. It made little difference what uniform the soldiers wore.
Cornwallis spent much of his time in the town of Camden, extending British control like the spokes of a wheel. With Clinton in Charleston, Cornwallis’ duty was relatively calm, and the entire command beneath him seemed to go about their duty as grateful as he was to be away from New York.
CHARLESTON, JUNE 3, 1780
He traveled to the city with the Irishman, Francis Rawdon, a young colonel who had recently arrived with his regiment of Irish volunteers. Rawdon had sailed from New York just in time to witness the fall of Charleston. He was in his midtwenties, but carried himself with the bearing of an older man, the result of strict aristocratic breeding. As he rode beside Cornwallis, the two men were a marked contrast, the general’s wide girth settling heavily in the saddle, while Rawdon sat tall, a dark lean man who easily conveyed a sense of command and authority. Rawdon had formerly served directly under Clinton, but had resigned his post, chose instead to lead his Irish troops in the field. Cornwallis knew that to be the official version. The truth was that Rawdon despised Clinton, had gone so far as to author an inappropriately scathing letter to the commanding general as a prelude to his resignation. Clinton had no difficulty releasing Rawdon to other duties. Cornwallis liked the young man immediately.
In Camden, the troops were still organizing their bases of operation and defense, but no one had any reason to make haste. The countryside had been swept virtually clean of any rebels by the swift and utter brutality of another young man, Banastre Tarleton. Colonel Tarleton had been with the army for some time, and commanded the light cavalry known as the British Legion. But he had performed no service worth any serious mention, until now. It was the same with so many of the young officers, that once they were clear of the oppressive influence of New York, they seemed to blossom into their roles. Tarleton had engaged in attacks on several groups of militia, some who had attempted to aid the rebels in Charleston, others simply escaping from South Carolina altogether. The results had been consistent. Tarleton had quickly established a reputation in both armies as a master of savage brutality. His horsemen pursued their foe without pause, and fought them without mercy. To the rebels, and to the civilians, Tarleton was a beast. To Cornwallis, he was a godsend.
In Camden, he had left behind Colonel Nisbet Balfour, a man with a few more years and a few more distinctions on his record than the two younger colonels. Balfour had served as far back as Boston, had been wounded at Breed’s Hill. He was another man who appealed to Cornwallis as dependable, one who would manage his own post without the necessity of Cornwallis keeping him on some leash.
It was the nature of the army that the familiar names would fade away, and new ones rise to the surface. Along with James Grant, Charles Grey was gone as well, had returned to England to pursue a more fulfilling service than he had found in America. Cornwallis had thought he would miss the familiar faces, that the army would suffer from such changes in command. But there was energy in youth, and the young subordinates had already proven that they were prepared to command in this new theater of the war. Whether or not Clinton approved, or even recognized their service, Cornwallis had already begun to shape them to suit his own style of command.
He had wondered if Clinton would remain in Charleston, or like William Howe, Clinton would feel the appalling need to ride beside his troops in their daily routines. The morale of his command was rising daily, and Cornwallis had fretted that Clinton’s arrival in Camden could sweep all of that away. But the fretting had been short-lived. Word had come of a new French fleet mobilizing across the Atlantic. There was no hint of its intentions, but Clinton had to believe New York was now under threat. It was a logical decision, and with Charleston, and presumably all of South Carolina in solid British control, Clinton had no need and no desire to remain. He was going back to New York.
The thought of returning northward, of remaining planted beneath the insufferable weight of Clinton’s authority had driven Cornwallis nearly to sickness. But there was a pleasant surprise in the dispatches he received from Charleston. The decision whether or not to accompany Clinton was given blessedly to Cornwallis himself. Neither man had any desire to remain close to the other, and the opportunity handed him by Clinton was a generous gift. It was the easiest decision of Cornwallis’ career. Clinton would maintain overall control of the army from New York. But the command in the Carolinas would now belong to Cornwallis.
He had not yet spoken to Clinton face-to-face, and the ride to Charleston had begun as a formal departure ceremony, that certainly both men could offer a civil, perhaps even friendly farewell.
Cornwallis read Clinton’s decree with a cold hard knot in his stomach.
“What’s that you have there, General? My letter of authority? Should be quite pleasing to you. I believe we have addressed every issue.”
Clinton had been generous with his authority, allowing Cornwallis broad discretion, a crucial necessity, given the distance and the time it would require to receive orders and instructions from New York. But the paper in his hand was different, and Cornwallis read a moment, then showed it to Clinton, said, “No, sir. This is your latest decree.”
> “Ah, yes. What do you think? Consider this my parting gift to your command. This should solidify the entire colony to your service. You may, of course, use this as a model for North Carolina, when the time arrives. There is another document . . . ah yes, the troop dispositions. I feel justified in returning to New York with a significant portion of the troops here. Whether or not the French arrive, I am certain Mr. Washington is expecting us to mount a considerable campaign against his army. We shall not disappoint him.”
Cornwallis felt his mouth hanging open, measured his words.
“Sir. You are reducing our troop strength here?” He looked at the paper, counted the regiments, examined the different commands. “You will leave me with approximately . . .”
“Five thousand men. Sizable force. Should be quite sufficient for your needs. I expect you to make considerable use of the loyalist militia. Once this new decree is spread across the colony, you will receive a considerable number of new recruits, mark my words.”
Cornwallis backed away from Clinton’s desk, turned to one side, could not look at the man. Rawdon was behind him, said, “General, may I get you something?”
He shook his head, tried to pull himself upright, felt no strength, his legs softening rubber. He said, “Excuse me, sir. I require some air. The long ride, no doubt.”
Clinton seemed unconcerned, said, “Out you go, then. Perk up a bit, then I will discuss with you my plan for the conquest of Virginia. Magnificent, I must say. Two-pronged attack. We may force George Washington to sign his surrender papers on the front porch of his estate!”
Cornwallis did not respond, moved out into the hall, Rawdon close beside him.
“Sir, are you certain you are all right?”
“Outside, Colonel.”
He moved toward the door, a guard pulling it open, and the sunlight blinded him. He eased his way toward the short steps, saw chairs along the porch, guards down in the yard, Negroes tending the horses. He stopped, moved along the wide porch, close to one chair. He put his hand on the woven cane of the arm, sat slowly. The sun was still in his face, the heat filling him, and he waited for Rawdon to sit, then said, “What is it about command? When a man is promoted, is afforded such responsibility, such authority . . . is it so necessary that his mind stop functioning?”
