Prelude to Glory, Vol. 6

by Ron Carter

  He came to her and took her hand, then went to his knees beside the bed. Kathleen knelt beside him, her hand clasped tightly in his. He bowed his head, and she bowed hers, and Matthew spoke.

  “Almighty God, Creator and Father of us all. Humbly we come to Thee as we begin our lives together. We acknowledge Thy benevolent hand in all good things. We seek Thy Holy Spirit to guide us in our union, always. We seek Thy Spirit and Thy strength that we may never offend the holy and sacred vows we have taken this day. May we be fruitful and our children faithful to Thee. May the love we feel grow to fill our lives forever. We ask in the name of Thy Holy Son. Amen.”

  Neither of them moved. A quiet peace had entered the room, and they remained on their knees for a time while it entered their hearts and grew to fill them. They waited until it began to fade, and then it was gone.

  Matthew stood, and Kathleen came to her feet facing him. He reached for her, and she came inside his arms and her arms closed about him as she raised her face to his.

  Notes

  Matthew Dunson, Kathleen Thorpe, Billy Weems, and their friends and families are all fictional characters. The streets and port of Boston are correctly named and located (Bunting, Portrait of a Port: Boston, 1852–1914, map on inside of cover).

  Morristown, New Jersey

  January 26, 1780

  CHAPTER XV

  * * *

  For two days the temperature hung at eighteen degrees below zero at Continental Army winter quarters in Morristown, New Jersey. On the third day it warmed to two degrees above zero, and a blinding blizzard swept in on howling winds that held for three days, sifting fine snow beneath doors and around closed windows and piling drifts that closed the narrow streets in town and buried the winding country roads. Barefooted soldiers, still dressed in summer clothing and wrapped in tattered blankets, huddled around fires wherever they could find wood and a place to make it burn. Pickets were found frozen solid, still standing on their feet. Tents collapsed under the weight of the snow or were instantly shredded and swept away, out of sight and buried. Roofs on barns and sheds where soldiers were quartered sagged, then collapsed when the ridge poles could no longer bear the weight of the snow. Men attempting to pass from one building to another became disoriented and wandered off through twelve-foot drifts, unable to see six feet in the roaring wall of white.

  Inside the modest home that served as General Washington’s headquarters, Alexander Hamilton cocked his head and closed his eyes to listen above the shriek of the wind, then slapped both hands on top of papers stacked on his desk as the door swung open. A sheet of snow billowed into the room, and every lamp fluttered in the wind and every paper in the room moved as an officer, half-frozen and plastered white, threw his weight against the door and pushed it shut. He turned to Hamilton and removed his hat to throw snow onto the hardwood floor.

  Hamilton settled back onto his chair. “Major Forster! A bad day to be out and about. Must be important.”

  Forster, a head taller and sixty pounds heavier than the slender Hamilton, nodded. “The verdict has been rendered in the Benedict Arnold case.”

  Hamilton came off his chair. “What? When?”

  “An hour ago. I thought the General would want to know.”

  “You have a copy of the verdict?”

  Forster reached inside his cape to draw out a folded sheet of parchment, sealed with wax. “Right here.”

  “How did the judges find?”

  “Not guilty on the charge of mistreating the militia. Not guilty on the charge of buying merchandise for next to nothing when the shops were closed. Guilty on the charge of using his military authority to give the Charming Nancy a pass to carry his private merchandise to buyers on the coast. Guilty of serious misconduct for using army wagons to haul his merchandise to market. Guilty on two out of four.”

  “What sentence?”

  Forster snorted. “A reprimand from General Washington. More than a month in trial, and he gets a reprimand.”

  Hamilton reflected for a moment. “For General Arnold, that’s a catastrophe.” He extended his hand. “I’ll take the copy of the verdict to the General. He wants me in his office in a few minutes on other matters.”

  Forster handed him the document. The snow that covered him was beginning to melt and puddle on the floor. “I better get back to my regiment. Thought you’d be interested.”

  Hamilton held down the paperwork on his desk as Forster jammed his hat back onto his head, hunched forward, opened the door, and stepped back into the storm. With the wind rattling the windowpanes, Hamilton gathered his notes and a few documents and briskly walked down a sparse hallway and rapped on a door. The familiar voice from within bade him enter.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Good morning. Please be seated.”

  Hamilton took his seat before a plain desk, opposite Washington, and made an instant appraisal of the General’s mood. He saw the deepening lines in the forehead and the weariness in the eyes, and he caught the sense of both fatigue and stubborn resilience. The thought passed through his mind, How much can a man bear? What holds him together?

  Washington laid his quill down on the document he had been composing and for a moment rubbed his eyes. “Yes?”

  “Sir, the trial of General Arnold concluded about an hour ago. Major Forster delivered a copy of the decision. I have it here.” He leaned forward to set it on the small desk.

  Washington broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. For more than one full minute the only sounds in the room were the wind at the window and the draft sucking air up the chimney and the pop and hiss of the fire dancing in the fireplace. Washington laid the paper down.

  “When did the trial begin?”

  “December twenty-third. One month and three days ago.”

  “Over a month. General Arnold had to defend himself for over a month, and it all comes down to a reprimand, which it appears I must draft. How does one reprimand an officer who twice saved the Revolution? Lake Champlain, and Saratoga?” He shook his head slowly. “When I’ve drafted it I would appreciate your review and comments.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  Washington moved on. “There were other matters?”

  “Yes, sir. You inquired about General Lafayette. He’s still in France. We only know he persuaded King Louis to send Admiral d’Estaing and his fleet.”

  Washington drew and released a great, weary breath and shook his head. “D’Estaing. Failed at New York harbor and sailed south to retake Savannah. Any report?”

  “Yes, sir. He joined forces with Count Pulaski’s cavalry and General Lincoln’s forces and put Savannah under siege, but wouldn’t wait. He tried an attack and failed, and sailed out of the harbor.”

  “To where?”

  “West Indies, sir. The French are more interested in protecting their rum and sugar holdings down there than in fighting a war up here. They’ve got a little war of their own going down there right now, with the British. Each wants the island held by the other. St. Lucia, Puerto Rico, Jamaica—all in question.”

  “What are the reports on our men here? How many are we losing? Cold? Starvation?”

  Hamilton lowered his gaze to the floor for a moment, then raised his eyes. “This is worse than Valley Forge, sir. I didn’t think that could be possible, but it is. We’ve got men out there barefooted, still in their summer clothes. No blankets. Blizzards. Snow twelve feet deep in the drifts. They’re out there with axes trying to cut trees to make a hut, a lean-to, anything against the storms. The commissary is nearly empty. No meat. No bread. No potatoes. And no prospects of getting any.”

  Hamilton saw the pain leap in Washington’s face. His army. The men he had led for four long years, through hardships and tortures beyond all human endurance. And he was powerless to feed them, clothe them, or comfort them. Washington reached for a document, and there was anger in his eyes.

  “I’ve made some written observations. I’ll likely use them to address Congress. I wrote: �
��We have never experienced a like extremity at any period of the war. We have not at this day one ounce of meat, fresh or salt, in the magazine.’ I presume that it is accurate.”

  “Accurate, sir.”

  Washington’s voice became firm, hot. “The underlying problem is money. The British blockade of our ports has made a shortage of food and goods, and unscrupulous merchants are buying up everything they can and then tripling the prices to our army and our people. I have an opinion of those men, and I’ve written it down. In the name of heaven, I mean for Congress to hear it.” He plucked up another document and read. “‘I would to God that one of the most atrocious of each state was hung in Gibbets upon a gallows five times as high as the one prepared by Haman. No punishment in my opinion is too great for the man who can build his greatness upon his Country’s ruin.’”

  He stopped, and Hamilton watched his iron will take control once again. “I would hang such men if I could, but I cannot. Do you have anything from Congress about the flood of money that’s ruining commerce?”

  Slowly Hamilton shook his head, wishing with all his heart he could say other than what he must.

  “No, sir. The states continue to print their own money, and Congress continues to print Continental currency. Congress asked each state to stop, but none listened because Congress has no power over them. People have much more confidence in the money of their own state, so the federal money has steadily declined in value. Four years ago a Continental paper dollar was worth one dollar in gold. Today it takes one hundred Continental paper dollars to buy one dollar in gold. One hundred, sir. A Continental dollar is worth one cent. We pay a man twelve dollars a month, he has twelve cents.”

  “What’s this doing to our men?”

  “Destroying them, sir. We have to pay them in Continental dollars. Some soldiers have saved their pay for four years, and today they find it’s worthless. Four years for nothing. Nothing to send home to wives and children. Nothing to buy shoes with. Food. Clothing. Nothing, sir. I hear murmuring from all sides. The men can’t live if they don’t get their pay. If this holds, I believe the Continental Army will disintegrate, either through wholesale desertions or a mass mutiny. And frankly, sir, it would be hard to blame them.”

  There was anguish in Washington’s face. “The sufferings of this army is unexampled in history. I can hardly understand what holds them here.”

  Hamilton spoke softly “It isn’t money, sir. Or the food, or the comforts. It’s something else.”

  For one quiet moment the two men looked into each other’s eyes while a powerful, silent communication passed between them. Washington broke it off.

  “If Congress and the states don’t soon solve the money problem, I’ll do something about it.”

  Hamilton straightened in his chair. “You, sir?”

  “Yes. Would you locate Robert Morris for me? Say nothing to him. Just find out where he is, so I can call on him if I need to.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Washington paused for a moment, and when he spoke there was a tenseness in his voice. “Do you have any further intelligence on General Clinton and his British forces?”

  Hamilton hesitated for a moment, all too aware Washington had just opened the most critical question of the day.

  “Yes, sir. You know that the last week in December—the twenty-sixth I believe—he set sail from New York. Our reports say he was headed south. We now know that he turned command of the forces he left in New York to General Knyphausen. Clinton’s on his way to Charleston.”

  Hamilton referred to his notes, then continued. “He has ninety transport ships carrying eight British regiments. With them are five Hessian regiments and five Tory corps. Eight thousand five hundred infantry and soldiers in all. Their escort is five ships of the line and nine frigates with a total of six hundred fifty cannon. They’re under command of Admiral Mariot Arbuthnot. With the soldiers are naval crews and marines numbering another five thousand men.”

  Washington leaned back, clearly surprised.

  Hamilton continued. “He intends taking Charleston, sir. But one good thing. This storm also hit the Carolina coast, and at last report the entire British armada was being scattered all over the coast, even back into the Atlantic. It’s possible some were sunk. It’s certain many were damaged. We won’t know until the weather settles. I’ll keep you advised, sir.”

  Washington’s face was a mask of inscrutability. “Is there anything else?”

  “No, sir. I think we’ve covered the things you requested.”

  “Thank you. You’re dismissed.”

  Hamilton picked up his notes and closed the door as he left the room.

  For a long time Washington sat at his desk, staring at his hands. He could not recall a time in his life when all was as black as it was at that moment. His great hopes that the French would rescue them from the brink of disaster were gone with d’Estaing’s retreat to the West Indies. His men were starving, freezing, penniless. Lafayette had been silent for months. Arnold was sinking ever deeper into intrigue. Savannah had fallen, to give the British a base in the heart of the southern states. Rampant inflation was breaking the back of all commerce in the country, and without money the failure of the Revolution and the fall of all thirteen states was only a matter of time. General Clinton was approaching Charleston with a force that could overrun all defenses in days. Charleston would fall, and Clinton would move north. Who would stop him? There was no way to send troops from the north down to help the southern militia defend their home states. What would Congress do? What could it do? The only hope they had was the American soldiers at Savannah, and they were beaten, scattered, gone.

  How many of the problems that were sucking his army to destruction were without a solution? How many could one man contain? How many?

  With it all, his thoughts finally came to the men who had tried to retake Savannah from the British. The ones who were captured. Now British prisoners of war. How many? Who were they? Where were they? Still in the deep South? Would they survive?

  For a moment he saw faces. Not their faces, but the blank faces of all soldiers who are beaten, captured, held prisoner like animals.

  He saw them, and he felt the ache, and he picked up his quill. The relentless, crushing mountain of responsibilities that he bore every minute of every day left no time to feel the pain of his men. With the wind howling outside, piling snow against the windows, he pushed aside all other thoughts and began scratching with the split point of the feather. Congress was waiting for a reprimand he had to write, against one of the bravest, most spectacular field generals in the annals of military history.

  He could not keep Congress waiting.

  Notes

  Alexander Hamilton served as personal aide to General Washington for an extended period of time. The court-martial of Benedict Arnold, stemming from charges brought by John Reed and others, commenced December 23, 1779, and concluded January 26, 1780. He was convicted on two of four counts, as herein described, with the penalty imposed of a reprimand from General Washington. At that time, the winter in Morristown where the Continental Army was in winter quarters, was more severe than the one in Valley Forge. Food was nearly nonexistent. The quotations attributed herein to General Washington are verbatim. Soldiers had not been paid for months. When they were paid it was in Continental dollars, which were nearly worthless, as described. Hamilton stated to Washington there was a strong possibility of a mutiny or wholesale desertions. Charleston had fallen, General Lincoln had lost his entire army, and Count Pulaski lost his life in the battle. Spain had entered the war against England June 16, 1779, but their participation was indirect. A war had developed in the West Indies with England, Spain, and France contesting ownership of the various islands, for the rich rum and sugar trade (Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 495; 502–06; Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, pp. 399–400; Freeman, Washington, pp. 428–29. For an account of the battle in the West Indies, see Mackesy, The War for America, 1775–17
83, pp. 225–34).

  Savannah, Georgia

  Early February 1780

  CHAPTER XVI

  * * *

  The Savannah River was a faint ribbon to the north, with the lights of Savannah town on its banks winking on in the late dusk. From the bogs and marshes and swamps bordering the great river, the fetid stink of stagnant water and decaying things reached the seventy-four American prisoners laboring half a mile south of the river, marching in step in single file, bound together at four-foot intervals by a one-inch hawser attached to their left ankles.

  These were only a few of those who had joined the October attack to retake Savannah from the British. The fighting had been face-to-face, hot, brutal, with victory hanging in the balance when French Admiral d’Estaing suddenly withdrew his three thousand five hundred infantry and his ships with their ninety cannon and sailed for the West Indies. Abandoned, the outnumbered Americans scattered, disorganized, hiding in swamps and bogs and in fields and the thick forests surrounding the city. British patrols brought them in singly, and in twos and threes, some Americans, some French, some Polish, and some Africans, who had taken up arms to fight for freedom.

  The British brigadier general assigned to prisoners set up his headquarters in a great mansion located a half mile south of the river and the city, set on a rolling hill, overlooking a two-thousand-acre plantation. He called in his staff.

  “Every building on the estate will be used to hold American prisoners. Examine each of them and report the number of men each will accommodate.”

  At ten o’clock the following morning the staff reconvened and reviewed the list of eleven buildings. The barn built to stable horses was number three.

  “How many men will the horse barn accommodate?”

  “Eighty, sir, if they sleep crowded on the floor, and we remove the stalls.”

  “Have the Americans tear them out.”

  “Should we trust them with the tools, sir? Axes and sledges?”