by Jeff Shaara
“No! It is not General Washington! He is here to kill my baby!” she screamed, sat up in the bed, backed away from him, staring wild-eyed, the picture of utter madness. The baby was in her lap now, and he could see she was wearing only a dressing gown, the thin material now pulled askew. He turned his head, embarrassed at her immodesty, and she stopped crying, said, “Yes! You are the one! My husband cannot protect me from you! He suffers so! They have put hot irons on his head!”
She crawled toward him across the bed, her gown falling open completely, and he backed away, felt the door behind him, said, “Mrs. Arnold, I am not here to kill your baby. Please.”
She began to cry again, and Washington backed out of the room, stood in the hall, saw Lafayette staring past him, wide-eyed, and Lafayette said, “My God. Poor suffering child.”
Arnold’s aide moved again into the room, the soothing words again. Washington felt a hot twisting in his stomach, moved down the narrow stairs. He saw Franks, said, “Major, what transpired this morning?”
“Sir?”
“You said General Arnold received a note from Colonel Lamb?”
“Um, well, yes, sir. We assumed it was Colonel Lamb. The general did not reveal the contents. He received the note, then returned to his room. He spoke to his wife, then . . . called for his boat.”
He heard hoofbeats, and Franks opened the front door, said, “Major Hamilton has returned, sir.”
Washington pushed through the door, saw Hamilton halting his horse, the young man jumping down. Hamilton ran toward him, said, “Sir! We encountered a courier from King’s Ferry! General Arnold was observed down the river, but he has gone, sir. The lookouts report that he was seen boarding a British ship . . . the Vulture, sir.”
Washington stared out to the river, said, “At least he had the decency to say good-bye to his wife.”
OCTOBER 2, 1780
Word had traveled quickly, and Washington began to receive entreaties through the British lines. The most insistent came from Clinton himself, that André be released, some absurd excuse that the man was under a flag of truce. André himself had attempted long-winded explanations of his capture, each contradicting the one before. Despite all the pleas, Washington would only agree to one term for André’s release: a simple exchange, John André for Benedict Arnold. Clinton refused.
He could not find reason to arrest Peggy Arnold, and once she was allowed to leave, and provided transportation to Philadelphia, her condition seemed to improve dramatically. Washington granted her a favor. If she desired to be joined with her husband, he would not object.
Among his own staff there was disagreement on how Major André should be regarded, whether the man’s favored position in the British command required special circumstances. But Washington would hear no pleas for leniency, for treating André as anything other than a spy. The trial was brief and the verdict definite. No argument could be offered to prevent André’s execution. Despite André’s own request that a man of his lofty status be allowed to choose the manner of his own death, Washington made the decision himself. On October 2, John André was hanged.
47. GREENE
Horatio Gates had arrived in North Carolina to assume command of a ragged and exhausted army. Several regiments of continental regulars had been marched southward, adding to the few survivors from Charleston. They were accompanied by cavalry, a necessity in this part of the country, where so much flat open land invited rapid assault. The newly arrived troops had made a torturous march through inhospitable land, and when Gates arrived, many were still suffering the effects of their ordeal. The horses of the cavalry were in poor condition as well, many not surviving the long ride south. Gates was met with urgent requests from the officers that the entire army required time to refit and replenish their strength. But Gates would not wait. If the cavalry was not prepared to ride, they would be left behind. The men would fare as best as the land would provide. Gates started them on another grueling march, his eye focused squarely on the British outpost at Camden. It was a ripe target, unsuspecting and vulnerable, and as Gates gathered militia units from North Carolina and Virginia, he had begun to see his army as invincible. Camden would be his first prize.
If Gates believed his attack would be a surprise, the British commander, Francis Rawdon, disappointed him. At first, Gates seemed to have the upper hand, and presented his forces in such a way that the British wisely pulled back. Gates interpreted the move as an all-out retreat, but Rawdon was merely buying time, reorganizing and reinforcing his lines. By the time Gates met the British again, they were stronger and better prepared, and now, were commanded by Cornwallis himself.
Gates pursued the attack with perfect vigor, but he had positioned the raw Virginia militia along a key position of his line. Confronting Cornwallis’ regular infantry, they fired one volley, then turned and ran, completely abandoning the field. Their collapse endangered Gates’ entire position, and inspired a massive panicked retreat. The only units that held their ground were the veteran regiments from Maryland and Delaware, William Smallwood’s regulars, who had shown their astounding bravery as far back as Long Island. With most of Gates’ army dissolving in front of him, Cornwallis turned his entire force on Smallwood, a power the veterans could not resist. With no alternative except annihilation, Smallwood retreated as well.
While the fight had been a crushing defeat, it was Gates himself who placed the final punctuation mark on a perfectly disastrous ordeal. As his army fled piecemeal through woods and swamps, Gates himself rode hard and fast, as he made his own retreat as well. When he finally brought himself under control, he had ridden for better than three days, to Hillsboro, North Carolina, a distance of one hundred eighty miles. Though his report to congress insisted he was seeking a point from which to best reorganize his command, his beaten army had a different view. As his junior officers rallied the scattered troops toward Gates’ new sanctuary, the men themselves understood that Horatio Gates, the hero of Saratoga, the savior of their cause, had in fact led them to utter disaster, and then, abandoned them on the field.
PREAKNESS, NEW JERSEY, OCTOBER 22, 1780
“Mr. Greene, we are faced with a crisis of some urgency.”
He looked at Washington with a strange urge to laugh, the words so completely familiar.
“Yes, sir.”
“You are aware by now of the difficulties which Mr. Gates has suffered. This army has survived an astounding volume of catastrophe, and I am confident we will survive this one as well. It has become something of a lesson for me, that positive change is often born of disaster.”
“Would it not be better if we could avoid disaster altogether?”
Washington looked at him, cocked his head to one side.
“Who, in this army, is capable of such a feat?”
Greene knew the question applied to him as well, his own failure at Fort Washington still a scar.
“Mr. Greene, the congress has placed in my hands the authority to select a successor to General Gates. In times of crisis, their confidence in my ability shows considerable increase.” Washington paused. “No, that is not appropriate. There are many still in that body to whom this nation is indebted.”
“And a good many to whom we are not, sir.”
Washington said nothing.
“My apologies, sir. I did not mean to suggest the congress is opposed to our cause.”
“Mr. Greene, there is no one who has endured the arrows of that body more than you. But you have friends as well.”
“I may have friends, sir. The quartermaster general does not.”
“That’s why I sent for you. Your duties in that department have, for the most part, been terminated. Once your accounts have been settled, you are free to assume a new post.”
Greene had already heard the talk. As word of Gates’ defeat flew through the army, it inspired all manner of speculation, some aimed directly at him. The summons to Washington’s headquarters had put the rumors in a new light, Greene allowing himsel
f to believe that the talk was not so far-fetched after all.
“Most of my accounts are settled now, sir. There is some dispute as you know, some members of the congress who will not accept anything I submit without assuming some dastardly scheme on my part.”
“Those voices have grown quiet in recent days, Mr. Greene. One more benefit of a sudden crisis. I am recommending to the congress that you be granted the appointment as commander in chief of the Southern Department.”
He had expected it, but the words seemed unreal. He looked at Washington, saw no change of expression, the message matter-of-fact. Greene didn’t know what to say.
“May I assume this meets with your approval, Mr. Greene?”
He could not hide his smile.
“Quite so, sir.”
“I have not been informed of either the strength of the enemy’s forces, or our own. I can give you no particular instructions. I must leave you to govern your actions entirely according to your own judgment, and the circumstances of that command. You may realize nothing more than embarrassment, Mr. Greene. But I can rely on no other officer in this army with a responsibility so grave.”
“Thank you, sir. Will the congress agree?”
Washington smiled, the first break in his sober mood.
“Consider, Mr. Greene, your most vocal opponents. Whether or not they appreciate the gravity of this duty, or the depth of my confidence in you, some of them will certainly delight in seeing you gone.”
NOVEMBER 1780
The appointment required Greene to appear before the congress, and he was surprised to see that Washington was entirely correct. Even those who had spoken of him with such bile made a show of gratefulness toward his good service, so many offering their unguarded assurances that command in the Southern Department would now be in the most qualified hands. Whether his former enemies shared Washington’s faith in his abilities or simply wished him to disappear southward, his appointment received the full support of congress.
He had been accompanied by von Steuben and Harry Lee, both men essential to the strategy of his new command. Washington and Greene agreed completely that Gates’ failure had much to do with the lack of training in his army, and von Steuben had already proven himself the master of that particular problem. Lee would command his legion of cavalry, would correct the enormous error made by Gates in ignoring the value of the light horse.
As they moved south, Greene had insisted on visiting Mount Vernon, a favor to a grateful Washington. It was purely social, and Martha offered as much generous hospitality as Mount Vernon could provide. But Greene would not linger, could see the house in disarray, Martha already preparing for another journey north, yet another Christmas with her husband in the bustling confines of a new headquarters. Though the visit was brief, polite small talk of Kitty and his children, he did as much as he could to send her on her own journey with words of encouragement, a playful challenge that she would now have new generals and a new army to charm. This time they would be French.
Greene knew that the key to success, and possibly survival in the Carolinas, would be the availability of supplies that would originate in Virginia. But that state was a chaos of military disorganization, a product of the philosophy of its governor, Thomas Jefferson. Like John Adams, and so many of those who had fashioned the very existence of the country, Jefferson believed a permanent army was a potential threat to liberty. Even the periodic raids from British warships could not alter his perception that local militia responding to a crisis was a far better solution for Virginia than a regular military force. Though congress had authorized Greene to raise continental regiments there, the resistance in Virginia was fierce. To confront that challenge, von Steuben was left in Richmond, to put his considerable energies into convincing Jefferson and the rest of Virginia that there was truly a greater need beyond their own borders.
What remained of Gates’ forces had gathered around Charlotte, and as Greene rode southward through North Carolina, he began to dread the meeting, the first confrontation Greene would have with the man he had come to replace.
CHARLOTTE, NORTH CAROLINA, DECEMBER 2, 1780
The town was small, barely two dozen homes, and beyond its streets lay the camps of the army. Greene was followed by his staff, Majors Burnet and Forsythe. Burnet was businesslike and studious. Forsythe was more outgoing, and Greene used him more as the liaison with the subordinate officers. Major Hovey was gone, had returned to his home near Boston, and though Greene felt his absence, he could not have denied the young man’s resignation. It was a common problem for the senior officers, finding energetic young men who accepted the grueling responsibilities of managing a command. It was unusual for a staff officer to survive the crushing work, and Hovey had kept to the job longer than most. Too many of the others came to the headquarters with dreams of their own command. Some sought the self-importance they gained from such closeness to authority. Greene thought of Hovey often, knew the young man had every ability to perform the job, had shown the same tenacity as Tench Tilghman. But Hovey had his own dreams, some notion of going into business, a bookseller perhaps, his quest receiving an enthusiastic endorsement from another former bookseller, Henry Knox.
Greene rode at the head of a small column of men who had once been North Carolina militia, two companies now signed on for a full enlistment. As he had journeyed southward from Virginia, he was surprised to find militia officers waiting for him, assembling their men in their village squares. It was more than a cordial welcome, many of the men now joining the ranks of the Continental Army. There was considerable shame in their ranks, the embarrassment for the collapse of the Virginians at Camden. In the small towns, Greene heard more details of that fight than he had received from Washington, certainly more than Gates would include in his official reports. The militia units themselves understood that their performance was poor, that if Greene was going to succeed, these men would have to become better soldiers.
He halted the column, and the officers took over, moving the men out of line, marching them toward the clusters of dingy white tents. Ahead, he saw a small tavern, and beyond, some sort of boardinghouse. Officers began emerging from the house, and he pulled the horse to the side of the wide road, studied them as they studied him. One last man came out, short and round, thick glasses perched low on a hawklike nose. It was Horatio Gates.
Greene dismounted, took his time adjusting his coat, annoyed with himself for his nervousness about confronting Gates. He fiddled with his saddle for a moment, saw a groom waiting patiently for the reins to the horse. Greene took a deep breath, handed the leather straps to the groom, who led the horse away. The meeting was unavoidable. Gates was right in front of him.
“General Greene! Welcome to Charlotte! A dusty ride, certainly. Come, we have some refreshment inside.”
The man’s politeness disarmed him, and Greene said, “Yes, certainly. Thank you.”
Gates led the way, the others standing aside, not following, clearly obeying some previous instruction from Gates. Greene moved inside, trailed Gates to a dimly lit dining room, a fat wooden table perched in the center. There was a lantern on the table, and Gates adjusted the light, the room now opening up in a dull yellow glow. Greene saw a bottle, something dark, and Gates retrieved two glasses from a small cabinet, said, “This potion is not what one would expect in New England, but it is passable. Some kind of grape, or perhaps not. A gift from General Sumter. Ah, but you have not met him. You will. Please.” Gates pointed to another chair, and Greene moved slowly, feeling wary, one animal circling another. He still expected some hostile burst from Gates, sat slowly. Gates held up a glass.
“To your success, General, the success of our cause.”
Greene raised his glass, tasted the liquid, something like wine, very sweet. Gates set his glass down, waited for a moment, said, “Is there something you need to tell me, General?”
“Yes, sir. I suppose I should make this official. General Gates, by order of the Congress of the Uni
ted States, you are relieved of command of the Southern Department of the Continental Army. I am your replacement.”
“I acknowledge your command. Congratulations, General Greene. May your fortunes be blessed to a greater degree than my own.”
It was not the reception he expected.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Please, Nathanael, formalities are not required.”
“You still outrank me, sir.”
“Not any longer. With your arrival, my service to this army is concluded. I shall return to my home in Virginia. I have learned that there is no place in this army for a man who trusts too deeply in the abilities of his soldiers.”
Greene was not yet prepared to regard Gates as a civilian, said, “I’m not certain I understand, sir.”
“Unlike so many in General Washington’s command, I have been a champion of militia. I have always believed that a man will fight more fiercely and more dependably if he is close to his own home. Without the support of militia, I do not believe I could have defeated General Burgoyne. However, the Almighty has played a tragic game in this theater. I had every reason to believe these men would show the courage of their brothers at Saratoga. A foolish mistake. They have done me in, Nathanael. They have put an end to my career, erased my laurels. Your journey here took you through Philadelphia, certainly. Tell me what you heard.”
“I’m not certain I can comply, sir.”
“Then I’ll tell you. ‘He ran away. The gallant Gates abandoned his army.’ They weren’t here, Nathanael. It was shameful in the extreme. No man should be expected to lead such a rabble of cowards and misfits. I believed in them, and they rewarded me with disgrace. I take my leave of this place with no apology. If these men did not do their duty, Nathanael, it is no fault of mine.”
