The Glorious Cause

by Jeff Shaara

  “We must continue the march. I had hoped the citizens here would provide more than their parlors.”

  O’Hara tried to sit up.

  “It is a singular outrage, sir! These people have benefited from His Majesty’s every favor. All the reports of their loyalty, their generosity. They have proven false in every particular. We should not remain another day in the company of such ungrateful people. Scotsmen, indeed!” He dropped back, and Cornwallis saw a twist of pain on the man’s face.

  “Easy, General. It is not necessary for you to exert yourself.”

  O’Hara was breathing deeply.

  “Quite right, sir. It won’t happen again. So, if I may, sir, when do we march?”

  “Tomorrow. I have decided to make for Wilmington.”

  O’Hara looked at him for a long moment.

  “I would have thought . . . Camden.”

  It was Cornwallis’ private debate, the agony of a decision only he could make.

  “If we continue toward the coast, the rebels will likely follow. That will prevent any danger to Camden, or the other outposts. Wilmington will afford us the protection of the navy, and a reliable source of supply. This colony is a spiderweb of infernal rivers, and I must consider that the rebels will seek opportunity to strike us at vulnerable points. The route to Wilmington is not so inconvenient.”

  O’Hara looked away for a moment, and Cornwallis thought, He knows as well as I. If we march to Camden, it is a declaration of defeat, the termination of this campaign.

  Cornwallis backed away.

  “I will look in on General Webster. You will be put on a wagon in the morning.”

  “Thank you, sir. I trust you will order the engineers to smooth out the rough ride.”

  Cornwallis managed a smile, turned, moved out into the main room. The women were gone, and he heard low voices, the rear of the house. He lowered his head, took a long hard breath, fought again through the smell.

  He had been surprised that Greene did not follow him past Cross Creek. Every report suggested that the rebels were moving southward, returning to South Carolina. The information caused a new debate, a decision whether to make some effort to reinforce Rawdon. But Greene had the head start, and if the rebels intended to strike hard in South Carolina, Cornwallis was simply too far away to prevent it.

  Though Greene’s army was gone, the march out of Cross Creek was an ordeal nonetheless. He had expected that the Cape Fear River would provide a comfortable avenue for moving his men, but the waterway was not as navigable as he had hoped. Nearly all the men were barefoot, and the rigors of the march shredded the remnants of their uniforms. As the country flattened into the sandy plains of the coast, they were met by astonishing swarms of insects, every night a torturous misery of mosquitoes and other unseen tormentors. During the day, rebel partisans seemed to spring out of every patch of woods, peppering the army’s misery with musket fire. He would make no effort to confront them, knowing that these people were at home in their swamps, that any troops who pursued them would gain no advantage, would only slow their progress. For seven agonizing days, the soldiers pressed forward, their numbers shrinking as the sick and weak fell away. He had endured the march as well as the strongest of his men, but then came one hard jolt, the news sent back from the wagons to the front. James Webster had died. Cornwallis had tried to shield himself from what he could not deny, that Webster’s wounds had indeed been mortal. It was yet another cruel reminder of the price of their glorious victories.

  WILMINGTON, NORTH CAROLINA, APRIL 1781

  In just a few days the army had become healthier. O’Hara was up off his bed, was slowly making his way back to duty. Cornwallis sent a steady stream of messages to Charleston, orders for Balfour to relay any news from Rawdon’s post at Camden, any sign of a confrontation with the rebels that might endanger the other outposts as well. But each transport that arrived in the harbor brought little news that would cause Cornwallis to sail his troops for Charleston. It was a blessed relief.

  He had moved the headquarters staff into an extraordinary mansion that had been abandoned by its loyalist owner early in the war. The headquarters there had been established by Major James Craig, who had come to the Carolinas with Alexander Leslie. While Cornwallis felt enormously rested by the languid atmosphere of Wilmington, it was an uncomfortable reminder of Philadelphia, the grandeur of stately homes, memories of dress uniforms and ballrooms. But there was one stark difference. In Wilmington there was no Howe or Clinton. It was his command, and his headquarters. There was one other difference as well. With the approach of summer, the Carolina coast became a nest of suffering, the men assaulted by a far more dangerous enemy than the rebels. It was fever season. He had seen the consequences of it in Charleston, heard the stories from Savannah, had even suffered the effects himself the year before. Whatever the source of this particular plague, he knew it could devastate his army. They could not remain in Wilmington.

  He had been stunned to learn of Benedict Arnold’s sudden rise to command, especially in a place as crucial as Virginia. Technically, Virginia was under Cornwallis’ command, but Arnold had been sent there by Clinton without ever seeking Cornwallis’ approval. Cornwallis had never corresponded with Arnold, and had no wish to do so now. A traitor is a traitor no matter his uniform, and Cornwallis could not think of Arnold without considering the fate of John André. André had always seemed a pitiable excuse for a British officer, but by circumstances Cornwallis did not yet understand, André had become trapped in a ridiculous and worthless web of intrigue, his execution strange and grotesque. If André’s execution was justified, there should be some kind of justice for the man who had put him in that position. If it was not to be Henry Clinton, it must surely be Benedict Arnold. As much as Cornwallis had disagreed with the strategies of Henry Clinton before, he could not stomach the thought of treating Arnold as some sort of trusted subordinate. Now he would not have to. Though the flow of letters from Clinton had been blessedly scarce, one letter had given Cornwallis enormous relief. Clinton had sent William Phillips to Virginia to take the command away from Arnold. Even better, Clinton had provided Phillips with better than two thousand reinforcements. Phillips was a capable, if not brilliant officer, a fat, affable man that Cornwallis had known well for twenty years. Phillips would serve well as Cornwallis’ junior, and if Arnold was to remain in Virginia at all, he could be Phillips’ problem and not his own.

  The heat began to settle on Wilmington, lengthening days, steamy nights. He had heard almost nothing from Rawdon, and little from the scouts he sent into the countryside. The British intelligence system was nonexistent, and he could only assume Greene was still moving southward. The feeling was familiar to him, warmer weather fueling growing impatience, frustration that once again, a very good army was sitting idle, while its commander consumed his time pacing through someone’s luxurious home.

  The plan began to form in his mind, the idea tempered by concerns for events that could still occur in South Carolina. He would ponder it in the dark hours, would wake in the middle of the night to sweating bedclothes, a warm breeze that filled the curtains like great winds billowing the sails of the stout ships. With the sleep erased he would stare up in darkness, his mind working over the maps, counting the regiments, imaginary discussions with the officers who were far away. In the daylight, he would go to his office, put pen to paper, the maps again, and then, letters, to Phillips first, seeking his agreement. The letters went as well to Clinton and Germain, but he expected no answer. By the time they could respond, it would make no difference anyway. Their letters would not find him quickly enough. There would be ample time for him to exercise the discretion Clinton had given him, to put into motion the one plan that he believed might still work. Clinton sat idly in New York with a great mass of power, while in the Carolinas and Georgia, the British held tightly to the important towns and crossroads. It was a plan Clinton would have to approve, even if Cornwallis did not need him to. The most important colony i
n America had become Virginia, the great yawning abyss that lay between north and south. The Chesapeake was always crucial, but never more so than now.

  The more he tinkered with the plan, the more his old enthusiasm returned. He had erased all thoughts of South Carolina from his mind, had to trust that his commanders there could hold away any assault Greene would offer. Phillips would await him with the fire they had shared as young officers, two men who could depend on each other to stand tall against their enemy. It was nearly too simple a concept, and as he organized another long march, he tried to imagine the reception he would yet receive from the king, from Germain, even from Clinton. The campaign would be brilliant by its very simplicity, a weakly defended colony that held the key to the entire war. If Virginia fell, America must follow.

  On April 25, Cornwallis led what remained of his army, fewer than fifteen hundred men, on a march through the lowlands of coastal North Carolina. As they forded the rivers, the Tar and the Neuse, his men marched again through relentlessly hostile country. But then they crossed the Roanoke, and the misery of all they had endured in the Carolinas was behind them. By early May, Cornwallis was in Virginia.

  53. WASHINGTON

  JUNE 1781

  The invasion of Virginia by Benedict Arnold had inspired Washington to counter the move by sending Lafayette southward with as many troops as could be spared. Von Steuben’s efforts at raising militia were encouraging, and with the young Frenchman’s arrival there, Arnold’s threat could be minimized. Washington had given Lafayette one more order as well. If at all possible, Arnold was to be captured.

  For several weeks, Lafayette had prevented any effective British campaign, and Arnold’s men had done little more than pillage the countryside, terrorizing civilians whose farms and villages had already been stripped bare by the needs of their own army. Virginia seemed to have settled into the same kind of stalemate Washington had endured in New York. And then, he learned that Clinton had sent reinforcements and that, surprisingly, their commander was no longer Arnold, but Cornwallis himself.

  The news was agonizing for Washington, for reasons both military and personal. If Cornwallis secured the conquest of Virginia, Mount Vernon and, indeed, Martha herself might fall into British hands. Though he could not take his eyes off Clinton and the continuing threat of a British surge out of New York, he could no longer assume Virginia had the troop strength to defend itself. Weakening his army once more, Washington reluctantly sent Anthony Wayne southward, with another thousand troops. If Cornwallis did indeed force an engagement with Lafayette, at least the young Frenchman would have the power to mount an effective defense.

  Though Greene was technically in command of the Southern Department, he still deferred to Washington’s authority. The difficulties lay with communication. Letters took a month or more to travel from the Carolinas to Washington’s base along the Hudson. But Greene had done nothing to shake Washington’s confidence, and the news of Cornwallis’ departure from Wilmington had to be accepted as stunning evidence of Greene’s success. With Cornwallis gone, Greene would confront an enemy in South Carolina who seemed resigned to its fate. Though the British would certainly fight to maintain their outposts, their positions were isolated and unlikely to be reinforced. While Greene still had a great deal of work to do, his return to South Carolina would bring the partisans to his side, and, certainly, the people themselves.

  For long agonizing months Washington had planned and plotted for some means of assaulting New York. But the reality was pure frustration, Clinton’s strength actually increasing with a sudden arrival of reinforcements. Washington’s spies confirmed that New York was now bristling with nearly fifteen thousand British and Hessian troops. If there was to be any assault at all against Manhattan Island, Washington could do nothing without the support of the French.

  Washington had gone north again for another conference with Rochambeau. The French were maddeningly gracious, politely receptive to his maps and strategies, Rochambeau quick to repeat his assurances that he was there only to serve Washington’s needs. Washington endured the grand dinners and lavish parades, all the European pageantry that was designed to impress on him their respect for his command. But through each formal ceremony, and each toast to his name and his health, Washington was acutely aware that the French troops were still idle, the inadequate force of warships in the harbor at Newport were continuing to lie at anchor, while in New York, the British grew stronger still. The question burned inside of him, shielded by his smiling politeness to Rochambeau. Why were the French on American soil if they did not intend to fight?

  As Washington fumed about his headquarters, he was still convinced that the ridiculous stalemate could be broken. He had formed a plan for a quick strike into New York from the north, directed toward the King’s Bridge. But the plan required the added power of the French infantry. Rochambeau had finally agreed, and on July 4, while Washington endured more long weeks of French preparation and delay, the first French infantry forces finally arrived at Peekskill. But the intended assault was not to be. The plans were too complex, and the British outposts and sentries were simply too alert. By the time an assault could be launched Clinton was fully prepared. For Washington, it was one more piece of churning disappointment. The entire operation was called off.

  Rochambeau’s interpreter now was major general François-Jean de Beauvoir, Chevalier de Chastellux. He was also one of Rochambeau’s senior commanders, and the most educated and literate man Washington had ever met. While Chastellux was perfectly pleased to be interpreter, it was clear he was taking advantage of his position to gather information for a revealing book about life in America. It was a source of intense curiosity to Washington, if not somewhat intimidating. Washington realized that Chastellux might well record on paper every word Washington spoke.

  Rochambeau had made himself at home at Dobbs Ferry, a pleasant village perched in the Hudson highlands. The graciousness had continued, dinners in Washington’s honor, invitations to inspect the French troops. He had become accustomed to the arrival of parcels of all size, gifts from Rochambeau and the senior officers in his command, an amazing array of trinkets and artifacts that Washington accepted with polite appreciation.

  He accepted yet another invitation to visit Rochambeau, to witness some display of drill and small arms that the Frenchman seemed especially proud to demonstrate. But Washington had seen enough of the perfect white uniforms, had come to know by heart the particular regiments, signified by the color of their finely stitched trim. The display had been predictable, more about show than combat, the perfect precision of men on parade. Washington smiled with his host, applauded at what seemed to be the appropriate moments. It was not so different than what von Steuben had brought to Valley Forge, but to Rochambeau, and his entire command, it seemed a particular point of pride.

  The event had concluded, and Washington was already tired, was nagged by a dull pain in his jaw. His teeth had been giving him considerable difficulty, adding to his sour mood. But his hosts were all smiles, and Washington forced his own politeness. As the senior staff retired into Rochambeau’s lavish quarters, Chastellux moved close to him, said, “General, if you are so disposed, General Rochambeau wishes to speak with you privately.”

  “Certainly.” It was somewhat unusual, Rochambeau not often particular about the number of staff or officers who attended their meetings. Chastellux led him into Rochambeau’s office, stood to one side, and Rochambeau was there now, pulled the door closed behind him. Rochambeau did not sit, looked at Chastellux, who began to translate, “I must inform you, General, of a somewhat troublesome situation.”

  Washington felt the throb in his jaw, a hard burning pain. What now?

  “If we are to commence a new campaign against the British, the fleet at Newport is inadequate to serve our needs, as you are aware. Admiral Barras has been most insistent that since the infantry has removed itself from his protection, Newport is a dangerous place for him to stay. I admit to you, Gen
eral, with some embarrassment, that this is a disagreement that is annoying to me. The admiral wishes to remove his fleet to Boston, and has even suggested he begin a naval operation with the intent of assaulting British interests at Newfoundland.”

  Washington could not hold back.

  “Newfoundland?”

  Rochambeau smiled. “It is not of concern, General.”

  Washington moved to a chair, his weariness betraying him, sat down, said, “General Rochambeau, it is entirely my concern. If Admiral Barras does not intend to provide his warships for our assistance, we cannot accomplish a great deal anywhere in this theater of the war.”

  Rochambeau glanced at Chastellux, said, “General, I am in sympathy with you. Let us consider another possibility. Another theater, perhaps. If it was suggested that another fleet of warships was to arrive on this coast, a much larger fleet, would you agree that this could be put to valuable service?”

  Washington saw a puzzled look on Chastellux’s face, Rochambeau’s words obviously unexpected.

  “Certainly, General. Valuable indeed.”

  “If I was to tell you that a powerful fleet, commanded by Admiral de Grasse, might arrive, perhaps, at the Chesapeake Bay, would you consider that to be of value?”

  Washington said nothing, looked again at Chastellux, who seemed visibly uncomfortable. Washington was beginning to understand now, thought, there is nothing perhaps about this. Washington knew of de Grasse, a reputation as one of the French navy’s finest commanders. De Grasse had been sent from France to the West Indies with a sizable armada, was one of the primary reasons the French were faring so well against the British navy in their confrontations there.

  “General Rochambeau, is Admiral de Grasse en route to the Chesapeake Bay?”

  Rochambeau shrugged.