by Ron Carter
Open buzzing rose around the table, then died.
“M’lords, I now must make a lengthy jump to a new subject, and I request your patience until the matter is finished.” He turned to Jenkinson. “You have lately expressed an opinion regarding the economics of this matter that is at least intriguing.” He gestured toward the papers stacked before Jenkinson. “I trust you brought the nub of it to be presented here.”
Jenkinson nodded. “I did.”
“I yield the time.” Germain sat as Jenkinson stood, and Jenkinson did not hesitate.
“May I state my conclusion first, then retreat to the support. I conclude that the entire campaign to subdue the American revolt has been conducted at the wrong end. We started in the north. It should have been in the south. The reason is painfully—nearly embarrassingly—obvious. It appears beyond question that the military powers—the militia and Continental Army—of America lie almost exclusively in New England. South of Pennsylvania, there is very little militia or organized military force to be found. Further, it is a practical impossibility for any of the New England militia to travel to the south to support the southern colonies. Should we shift our entire approach to, say, Georgia, it is a foregone conclusion that colony would capitulate at once. From there, we might proceed north through the Carolinas and Virginia to the Hudson River, and then blockade the northern colonies. It would only be a matter of time before they would topple. There are about four hundred thousand African slaves in the south who would be only too willing to rise up against their masters, should we liberate and arm them.”
Jenkinson paused to allow a murmur to pass around the table, then went on.
“There is a second argument that is possibly even more persuasive. It is based on the economics of the two regions. New England is dependent on our products. Even today they are buying them at inflated prices through middlemen in Nova Scotia and Canada. They will always do so. On the other hand, happily there is nothing New England produces that is vital to our economy.”
He stopped to refer to his notes.
“However, the tobacco trade and its profits are in worldwide demand. It is the sole product coming from the colonies that is worth controlling. Should we take the southern colonies, the tobacco trade and the profits would be ours. Our current Act of Trade has near totally ignored the economic considerations that so clearly augur in favor of subduing the south, gaining the tobacco trade, and strangling the north into submission through the means of a naval blockade. Giving greater attention to the provisions of the Act of Navigation could bring this to reality.”
Heads nodded in agreement as Jenkinson concluded. “If I should happen to be right, how very mistaken and deluded have been the people of this country for more than a century past. I bow with reverence to the Act of Navigation, but I pay very little respect to the Act of Trade.”
For a moment Jenkinson stood thoughtfully, then sat down.
Germain stood and nodded his approval to Jenkinson, then turned to Knox.
“Undersecretary Knox, I am cognizant of two memoranda bearing your signature, addressing the same issue. Would you be so kind as to expand on them?”
Knox stood. “I see no reason to multiply words. It has been my view from the beginning that we erred seriously in attacking the Americans where they were strongest—in New England. We should have begun in the south. I have land-holdings in Georgia and speak with some sense of personal experience when I say there is virtually no military force in that state to oppose us. With Georgia under our control, both Carolinas would fall. As for Virginia—at this moment that colony is having critical problems with the Indian population. With the Indians marauding, and our navy blockading the Virginia coast, and the Continental Army and most of the militia forces located too far north to be of assistance, Virginia will eventually capitulate. In short, as I understand it, I am in basic agreement with the proposition made by Undersecretary Jenkinson.”
Germain cleared his throat loudly, then addressed Undersecretary Eden. “Would you share with us some of the proposals you have drafted and discussed regarding these matters?”
Eden rose. “I have long been grieved by what appears to be our inability to defeat the Americans decisively. Now it appears they have shown an ability to defeat us decisively, if we can believe the lesson to be drawn from Saratoga. I am unable to conclude anything other than that it is time for us to make a clean break, and a new beginning. Sweep aside all existing acts of Parliament relative to the American campaign, dismiss all who created those acts, abandon any notions of a land war, direct all our energies to a naval war, and appoint a commission to study all possibilities of settling the dispute with America on any basis necessary, short of granting them complete independence.”
Eden’s proposals struck like a thunderclap. A dead silence held for several moments before anyone dared murmur. Taken at face value, Eden had just proposed that half the men at the table be dismissed instanter from their present positions, Germain among them, and that all they had labored for over the four years of war be swept aside!
Germain did not wait for comment. “Lord Sandwich, speaking for the naval forces of His Majesty, what is your view on this?”
The big man rose, and his voice was piercing: “I have discussed this at length with Lord Amherst, and I believe we are in agreement. We must abandon a land war, and turn to our naval forces for resolution of the American problem.”
Germain turned to General Amherst. “Speaking for His Majesty’s army, are you in agreement with Lord Sandwich?”
“He and I have discussed this to a conclusion. We are in agreement. The matter must be concluded by our naval forces, not by ground forces, on any basis that preserves our control of the Americans.”
Germain nodded, then stood erect, face straight ahead, waiting. Talk died, and the room became silent, expectant. He turned to Lord North.
“M’Lord, may I now request that you share with us what you deem proper as a result of your exchanges with His Majesty?”
Slowly North rose to his feet and waited for complete silence. Soft, thick-lipped, heavy-jowled, fleshy, he spoke with a slight lisp. Knox leaned forward on his forearms, fingers interlocked, scarcely breathing. This is why Lord North is not conducting. He’s to put the cap on all this. Here it comes! Here it comes!
“His Majesty has authorized me to state that he, and I, and Lord Germain are in complete agreement with Lord Sandwich and Lord Amherst. Further, he has authorized creation of a new commission to study the American problem and recommend whatever changes are deemed required, both in the existing Acts of Parliament, and in the governmental structure that created such acts. I believe that is all he is prepared to state at this time. However, he has authorized Lord Germain to lay certain plans before you.”
Five seconds passed before breathing could be heard. No one uttered a word as North sat down and Germain once again spoke.
“Our forces are spread too thin. With France openly hostile to us, we must first protect our homeland, then those regions most critical to us. India. Minorca. Gibraltar. Cadiz. The West Indies. To do so will require a redistribution of forces. We will be sending almost no more military forces to America.”
No one at the table moved.
“Should General Clinton succeed General Howe, Clinton will be under orders to attempt to engage and defeat the Continental Army very quickly, and to attempt it only one time. If the single attempt fails, he will be authorized to abandon Philadelphia and gather his troops to New York.”
Eden glanced around the table as Germain proceeded.
“It is thought France will make a major effort to take possession of the rich sugar and rum trade in the West Indies to avenge what they gave up when they surrendered their claims to America to us in their defeat of 1762. Therefore, we shall strengthen our presence in the West Indies by bolstering our naval forces in that region, particularly St. Lucia, which gives us control of most of the French-held islands.”
Sandwich and Amherst
leaned back and for a moment glanced at the others, watching their eyes. Lord North sat erect, aware of what was coming next.
Germain cleared his throat and plowed into it. “We are going to abandon further land operations in New England. We shall send forces to Charleston, South Carolina, where we will go inland to take Georgia, and proceed north through South and North Carolina, then Virginia.”
Not one man moved.
“It appears certain General Lord Cornwallis will be appointed commander of southern forces. General Clinton will remain in New York to maintain a presence there. When we are in control of the south as far north as the Susquehanna River in Pennsylvania, we will place New England under a naval blockade, which shall continue until they capitulate. We will negotiate a settlement of their grievances on terms mutually agreeable, so long as we do not give them full independence.”
Knox heaved a great sigh. Open talk went around the table, then dwindled as Germain raised a hand. He laid his notes on the table, a clear signal the meeting was finished.
“M’Lords and gentlemen, I believe we have completed the business of the day. I trust you will exercise your usual prudence in guarding what has transpired here. For King and country, I thank you all for your presence, and your candid contributions, and your most valuable services.”
Quiet men rose from the table, brains struggling to accept the breadth of what they had just heard. Sweep aside all existing acts regarding America, cashier a staggering number of the Cabinet and undersecretaries, appoint a new commission to start all over again, abandon the war in New England, down with the army, up with the navy, invade the southern states.
Knox was oblivious to the whistling storm as he climbed into his carriage. He sat still, staring out the rain-streaked window as the carriage rolled down the nearly vacant street. Dark thoughts rose to cloud his brain, his thinking, and he could find no resolution for them.
The King is afraid. Afraid of what France will do. The new commission—sweep aside everything—half the cabinet—abandon Clinton and the army in the north—invade the south—take America with the navy—are we witnessing panic? Panic at the highest levels of the Empire? Are we?
Notes
Following the catastrophic loss of General Burgoyne’s army at the battle of Saratoga, the British were keenly aware of the vulnerable position in which they found themselves. They were in dire financial need. France was threatening to join the Americans. Spain could possibly come in on the side of the Americans. The British realm was overextended, stretching from India to America. There was the possible threat of an invasion of the British Isles by the French across the channel. There was also the threat of the loss of British holdings in the West Indies (Caribbean area).
The British military and political leaders were in a quandary as to the course they should take, and meetings and councils proliferated. The consensus slowly formed that the American theatre of war had been handled badly in the sense that the British should have begun in the southern colonies and worked north, rather than the other way around.
Thus, upon the resignation of General William Howe as the commander of British forces in America, King and Parliament decided that General Sir Henry Clinton was to take command of their forces and begin a new offensive in the southern colonies.
While there is no record of the meeting as described in this chapter, such a meeting was no doubt held. The names of all participants, their positions, their attitudes and conclusions, and the orders given to the British military, are all accurate (Mackesy, The War for America, 1775–1783, pp. 151–204. See the diagram of the British cabinet on two unnumbered pages, immediately before the Introduction to the book).
Valley Forge
June 13, 1778
CHAPTER VI
* * *
Spring had eased the bitter, killing cold of winter and the horrors of starvation. June came in hot and humid, with each day sweltering worse than the day before. The setting sun was casting long shadows eastward through the Continental Army camp at Valley Forge, strung out for ten miles along the Schuylkill River. The clang and clatter of soldiers throwing pots and pans into huge kettles of boiling wash water rolled out across the camp of the Massachusetts Regiment as they cleaned up after evening mess.
“Weems!”
The high, shrill voice of Sergeant Alvin Turlock cut piercing through the clamor as the short, wiry little man strode through the camp, searching. A sweating, sour-faced young private, trying to grow his first beard, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, clothes wet to his knees, raised his head from stirring one of the kettles with a peeled pine stick and pointed with his chin.
“Over there.”
Fifty feet west of the regimental supper cook fires, Billy Weems stood at the edge of the thick forest amid white pine chips scattered in all directions. Before him was a huge oak chopping block that served all needs for regimental firewood. He set the next pine rung on the block and swung the heavy ax to drive the broad, straight blade five inches into the dry wood. He grasped the ax behind the head, hoisted the forty-pound rung over his head, and brought it down hard. The ax head drove on through, and the severed halves fell tumbling. He was reaching for one of the chunks when Turlock strode up beside him, head thrust forward, face intense.
“Where’s Stroud?”
Billy wiped sweat and pointed. “At the river. Getting wash water. Why?”
“Go git him. Gen’l Washington wants to see both of you.”
Billy’s eyes widened. “For what?”
“Don’t know. Hamilton didn’t say. Drop that ax and git Eli and head on up to the Gen’l’s quarters!”
Billy drove the ax blade into the block and wiped a worn shirtsleeve at the sweat on his face. “Ought to clean up first.”
Turlock shook his head. “No. Hamilton said now.”
Billy shrugged and started toward the river at a trot when Turlock called after him, “You report back when you finish. You hear?”
He met Eli walking from the river, carrying a large, dripping wooden bucket of water in each hand. Eli was stripped to the waist, the white of his chest and back and shoulders in sharp contrast with the brown of his face and neck, where the sun and weather had burned him. Eli slowed, then stopped, and set the buckets on the ground as he saw the expression on Billy’s face and heard the edge in his voice.
“Turlock says General Washington wants to see us. Now.”
Eli’s forehead creased in question. “What about?”
“Hamilton didn’t say. Just said to get there.”
“Without my shirt?”
“Where is it?”
“At the hut.”
“Let’s go.”
Billy seized the rope handle of one bucket, Eli the other, and they walked quickly back to dump the water into the iron wash kettles, then drop the buckets nearby. They hurried to the small hut they and ten other men had built under orders from General Washington, issued December twentieth, the day after the ragged, starving army had marched into Valley Forge in a snowstorm. Eli wiped his sweaty face in the shirt, then pulled it on, and reached for his weapons belt.
“Don’t think you’ll need that,” Billy said.
“The rifle?”
“I’m not taking my musket.”
Wordlessly the two walked out into the golden glow of sunset, turned north, and broke into a trot up the Old Gulph Road. They passed the grounds where regiments from Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Connecticut had cleared out the thick forest and undergrowth to build their huts, fourteen by sixteen feet as ordered, and establish their woodlots and firepits. Eight minutes later they slowed as they came to the place where Valley Creek emptied into the Schuylkill River, and stopped at the square, austere stone building that quartered General Washington and his staff. Billy knocked, and the door swung open.
Colonel Alexander Hamilton—average height, slender, boyish in appearance—stood before them, uniform gleaming. Aide-de-camp to General Washington, he had arranged previous meetings between the Gene
ral and these two, and they saw recognition in his eyes. It was Hamilton who had questioned the General as to whether he ever hoped to teach Eli Stroud to salute officers. Contrary to his usual rigid insistence on military protocol, the General made a vague response and let the matter go.
Eli nodded to Hamilton. Billy saluted and spoke.
“Corporal Billy Weems and Scout Eli Stroud reporting as ordered, sir.”
Hamilton eyed Eli, then returned Billy’s salute. “Enter. The General will see you momentarily.”
They followed Hamilton into a small, plain foyer and waited, listening to his boot heels thump on the plank flooring of the narrow hallway. There was a knock, a door opened, then closed, then opened again, and Hamilton returned.
“Follow me.”
He led them down the hall to a plain wooden door and rapped twice. The familiar voice from within called “Enter,” and the two men followed Alexander Hamilton into a room no larger than twenty feet by twenty-five feet. The walls were bare, save for an American flag mounted on the wall behind an unremarkable maplewood desk. A long table stood against the wall to Washington’s left, half-covered with stacks of documents and rolled-up scrolls. Four plain pinewood chairs stood against the opposite wall, with two more before the desk. Behind the desk sat General George Washington in his uniform—tall, lean, piercing blue-gray eyes, long graying hair tied behind his head. The lines in his face spoke of the tremendous weight that bore down on the man every minute of his life.
Billy came to attention and saluted. “Corporal Billy Weems and Scout Eli Stroud reporting as ordered, sir. Our apologies for our appearance.”
Washington stood, returned the salute, and ignored the apology. He gave a nod to Hamilton, who quietly left the room and closed the door.
