The Glorious Cause

by Jeff Shaara

  With the army safely protected by the hill country around them, many of the commanders could enjoy the refreshing company of their wives. Martha Washington had arrived in March, and the monotony of headquarters had changed into a whirlwind of gaiety. He had seen the immediate change in Washington himself, and it made his own loneliness that much more difficult. Greene had spent many long nights deeply worried about his wife, Kitty. Her pregnancy had been difficult, made more so by the sudden chaotic presence of the British troops who had swarmed into Rhode Island under Clinton. But the baby had come in March, and though Kitty was as ill afterward as she had been during the pregnancy, her letters began to come more often, softening his worry. He had been surprised that anyone around the headquarters would share his concern, would distract themselves with his troubles during the pleasant mood of the winter camp. He was more surprised that the wife of his commander would do so much to comfort his fears, that she would help him write the soothing letters to his ailing wife, would share and celebrate his grateful relief when the baby girl was born safely. It was only fitting that the infant would be named Martha Washington Greene.

  When Howe began his chaotic march through New Jersey, Washington ordered the social fineries to end. By mid-June, the wives, Martha included, were on their way home.

  There was a noticeable quiet, the mood around the table considerably subdued. Greene sat to Washington’s right, studied the formal document, ignoring the dense brick of corn bread on his plate. He finished reading, his appetite crushed by a hard twist of anger. Sullivan sat across from him, said, “Do you agree?”

  Greene tossed the paper toward the center of the table.

  “Of course I agree. What manner of fools do we obey? Are they so consumed by their vanity. . . ?” He stopped, glanced at Washington, who was eating, seeming to ignore the anger. Knox sat at the far end of the table, leaned forward on his heavy arms, his round face a portrait of gloomy resignation.

  “Has anyone actually heard of this fellow? Du Coudray?”

  Greene pushed his plate away.

  “Of course not. He’s another in the parade, another feathered peacock, bringing his French superiority to the congress in yet another grand display! And they bow and coo and adorn him with all manner of compliments. And, the finest compliment of all, Mr. du Coudray, since you have come all the way from France, please accept this gift of our army. It is yours.”

  Sullivan sat back, his anger more subdued.

  “Not the army, actually. Just the artillery.”

  The word seemed to punch at Knox, the heavy man sinking lower in his chair. Greene grabbed for the document again, fought the urge to crush it in his hands, said, “You are too generous, John. By their gracious and trembling hands, the congress has dated his rank of major general so far back as to predate our own commissions. He outranks us. He has never even seen a continental soldier, and yet, because of his sublime French manner, and his skill at flattering the congress, he now will supersede our commands.”

  He tossed the paper down again, looked at Washington, saw the man mashing the dry corn bread into a plate of dark gravy. Washington filled a fork, raised it toward his mouth, the contents now spilling off onto the plate. Washington huffed, began the process again.

  “The food has grown worse since the wives have left.”

  Greene knew Washington was ignoring their hot protests, felt his anger draining away slowly.

  “Sir, do you not share our outrage at the congress? This fellow . . .” He looked at the paper again. “This fellow Philippe-Charles . . . du Coudray brings here some letter of recommendation from Silas Deane, and suddenly, the congress decides he is in command of everything in this army!”

  Washington prodded the corn bread again.

  “Mr. Greene, if I reacted with anger to each foolishness that emerges from the congress, I would be in a constant state of agitation. That would be of very little benefit to this army. Do I share your outrage? Certainly. But we are all under the authority of the congress. This very country can maintain its existence only by the will of the congress.”

  Greene stared at him, felt an explosion brewing, fought it, could not raise his voice to Washington.

  “Sir!”

  It was both a question and a complaint. Washington put his fork down, looked around the table.

  “I do not know if Mr. du Coudray will become an asset to this army, but there is one inescapable fact. He is French. He brings with him not only a letter from Mr. Deane but the high regard of the French court. We are not in a position to insult or disregard French officers who have come to our shores to be of service. The congress has not met the needs of this army, despite my every plea. If they find pleasure in anointing foreign officers according to the splendor of their uniforms, we must accept that. Insulting congressmen will not secure shoes for our men. Allowing them to feel a constructive part of our efforts might.”

  Knox stared at Washington with drooping sadness.

  “Sir, does this mean I am no longer in command of the artillery?”

  Washington took another bite, seemed to force a swallow.

  “General Knox, you will command the artillery in this army until I order otherwise.”

  Greene was feeling confused now.

  “But, sir, you said we must obey the congress. This order says that this du Coudray fellow now outranks every one of us but you.”

  Washington seemed to stifle a smile.

  “Mr. Greene, I never said we must obey every whim of the congress. Since they delight in issuing paper, perhaps you gentlemen should issue some paper of your own. If three of my most experienced commanders threatened to resign, congress would respond with some outrage of their own. How dare you, and so forth. They might even request that I deal with your insolence by removing you myself.”

  Greene felt a headache brewing.

  “Sir, this is madness. With all this army has accomplished, must we be subject to this absurd meddling?”

  Washington was all seriousness now.

  “Mr. Greene, it is the nature of the world. What else can we do? There is fear enough in Philadelphia that this army will vanquish the British, and then vanquish the congress itself. They grant me the power to raise an army, and so fear that power that they do nothing to provide for the very army they seek. The meddling is constant because the fear is constant. They fear the dangers of military power, while they know that without this army, they would hang from British gallows. They meddle because they must. I accept that meddling because I must. I despair that this army will face destruction from the congress long before we face it from the British. Despite their rhetoric and their fears, every one of them knows this army is the only salvation. Despite their meddling, they must ultimately seek my approval.” He paused, and Greene saw the familiar sadness, the weight of so much settling on the man’s broad shoulders. “As for Mr. du Coudray, I have given thought to his position. Since he feels suited to an artillery command, I will recommend that congress grant him a title, something with grandeur that will satisfy the man’s ambition, such as inspector general of ordnance and military manufactories. You see, Mr. Greene? Often, it is no more than a game.”

  Greene looked across at Sullivan, who was beginning to smile, saw Knox now rising a bit, his dark mood lifting. Greene was still angry, knew that Washington was trying to put the best face on a dismal portrait. He backed his chair away from the table, stood.

  “With all respects, sir, if it is a game, it is a desperate game.”

  JULY 10, 1777

  Washington had repositioned the army, organizing the new recruits into their respective units and placing those units where they would be the most useful. The headquarters was still at Morristown, though Washington had stayed on the move, nervously inspecting the defenses up the Hudson toward Peekskill. Stirling’s division had been sent upriver, reinforcing Israel Putnam, who now commanded the defense of the Highlands. Greene remained near Brunswick, and all along the Jersey shore, lookouts kept a sharp
watch for movement by the British ships. For several days, that movement had been continuous and confusing. Clusters of frigates would suddenly file up the Hudson, raising the alarm up toward the Highlands. But quickly the ships would reverse course and return to the harbor. Another small fleet would then raise sails and disappear eastward past Gravesend Bay. Soon, those ships would return as well, only to sail southward past Staten Island. Washington’s spies began to reach him with conflicting reports of British intentions. Some claimed that Howe was forming an armada to invade somewhere to the south, the Delaware River perhaps, some insisting that the British were planning another direct assault on the Jersey shore. Since every armada had eventually returned to its anchorage in the harbor, Washington realized that Howe was either maddeningly indecisive about his own intentions or was simply playing a game with him. Washington cautioned Greene and the others to stay vigilant, that despite all the apparent nonsense of the navy’s movements, eventually Howe’s true intentions would be revealed.

  Greene carried his breakfast with him, a hard biscuit stuffed with a small piece of dried meat. He worked the stiff leg in a careful rhythm, climbing the tall hill as he had done for days, his aide following with the field glasses. It was already hot, the air smothering him in dampness, his shirt cold with sweat. He reached the one tall rock, leaned against it for a moment, his breathing slower, tried to ignore the pain in his stiff leg. He grabbed a tuft of brush above him, pulled himself up through a crag on the rock, his good leg now holding him. He lifted himself to the top of the lookout, could finally see the harbor clearly, and the mouth of the Hudson. There was a reflection, motion, one small frigate coming down out of the river, a patrol perhaps, Howe’s futile effort at keeping the river free of the nighttime traffic. The aide was beside him now, handed him the glasses, and Greene scanned across to the city, patches of black still evident.

  “They have not yet cleaned up the remnants of the fire, Mr. Hovey. They will not make the effort until they believe it is truly their city.”

  The man beside him stood at silent attention, something Greene was used to now, the young lieutenant always formal, few words. He knew Hovey was always watching him closely, there to help if Greene stumbled, if the leg suddenly gave way. He appreciated the young man’s attentiveness, appreciated more that Hovey would never speak of it.

  Greene lowered the glasses, thought of the Tories, so many loyalists from the countryside scampering into New York for sanctuary. It is so much like Boston, stuffed full like herring in a barrel with British sympathizers who have nowhere else to go. Is there not something to be learned from that? If this was still their country, why would the Tories have such a need to flee? If we are but a rabble, the dregs of your empire, why have you not subdued us?

  There was a voice behind him, from below the rock, “Sir! General Washington approaches.”

  He moved to the edge of the rock, saw Washington dismount his horse, the big man now climbing the slope of the hill, trailed by the ever-present Tilghman. There was another aide as well, and Greene was pleased to see the young Hamilton, the artillery captain so impressing Washington that the commander had named him to his staff. It was more than just a reward for good service. Despite Joseph Reed’s valuable assistance at Princeton, Reed could not avoid the stain of his betrayal, the indiscreet correspondences with Charles Lee. Washington had accepted Reed’s resignation, and the young lawyer was gone, had returned to his home in Philadelphia. His replacement had to be a man of letters, someone who could turn the proper phrase. That man was Alexander Hamilton.

  Washington moved up close to the tall rock now, said, “I am not a young man, Mr. Greene. May I have a word with you without scaling these heights?”

  Greene stepped down to the crag in the rock.

  “Certainly, sir. Allow me a moment.”

  Hovey was quickly in front, moved down the rock before him. Greene slid down, guiding the stiff leg through the gap in the rock, and he landed with both feet on the solid ground, hid the pain, pulled himself upright. He saluted Washington.

  “There has been little change, sir. The ships are spread out in several areas of the harbor. If General Howe has some plan, he is not revealing it today.”

  Washington was frowning, staring away, and Greene knew not to interrupt his thoughts. Washington glanced around him, seemed to appraise the staffs, the company of riflemen spread out down below, the skirmish line who kept their muskets toward the river.

  “General Greene, will you accompany me?”

  Washington moved back down the hill toward the horses, and Greene followed, could feel the man’s mood, thought, Something is wrong. He glanced back toward the harbor, No, the enemy has shown us nothing. Something of congress, perhaps? Another French peacock? The exercise was familiar, trying to cut through Washington’s deliberate routine. It was not a sport he enjoyed, a product of his impatience, but he knew that Washington was assembling his words, and Greene would just have to wait. They moved past the horses, stepped down into tall grass, away from the morning sun, the air cooler. Washington stopped, looked around them, and Greene thought, The men. He’s looking for those who might hear too much. Washington seemed satisfied they were alone, said in a low voice, “Mr. Greene, this is not a day I hoped I would ever see. I received a dispatch this morning from General St. Clair. He has abandoned Fort Ticonderoga. Burgoyne has taken possession of the fort.”

  The word punched through him like a spear.

  “Abandoned?”

  Washington nodded slowly.

  “I have not yet received a full report, but I have faith in Arthur St. Clair, and I have no reason to believe he would not perform his duty.” He paused, and Greene digested the word still in his mind. Washington said, “I had hoped the fort would be a major obstacle to the plans of General Burgoyne. Its loss is unaccountable, a most unfortunate event. Now we must make preparations. General Howe may already know of his victory. He will certainly take advantage, make every effort to combine a considerable force with Burgoyne’s army. I do not see how we can entirely prevent that.”

  “Can St. Clair still fight? Is there anything to slow Burgoyne’s advance? Perhaps Burgoyne will do for us what Howe has always done. He may decide to stop at Ticonderoga and celebrate his victory. It could give us time to move troops to that front.”

  Greene was running the names through his mind, the numbers, the strength they could muster toward Albany. Washington was staring down, said, “I do not know where Mr. St. Clair has gone, or his men. He only had a force of three thousand around the fort, and many of those were new recruits. Still, I believed that was adequate. The fort was a strong position. But now, whatever force St. Clair can still employ is barely a skirmish line should Burgoyne continue his march. We will send support immediately. General Gates is in active command there.”

  Greene sniffed, the sound more audible than he had intended.

  “Mr. Greene, we cannot afford to debate the merits of anyone’s command. The congress has deemed it proper that Horatio Gates lead that department. There is no time for argument.”

  Greene looked down.

  “Of course not, sir.”

  It was more of the meddling, but this time a product of Gates’ own efforts, the man taking every opportunity to campaign directly to the congress for what Gates insisted was his proper place, an independent command, out from the direct control of Washington. The congress had agreed, few in Philadelphia showing any grasp of the legacy of Charles Lee, those commanders who believed their own cause outshone that of the army. But Washington had moved beyond Greene’s indiscretion.

  “I wish you to send the Eleventh Virginia, Morgan’s riflemen, to accompany two regiments being detached from General Putnam’s command at Peekskill.”

  “Sir, my entire division can be prepared in short order. They are ready for a fight. I will march them with all speed, sir.”

  Washington held up a hand.

  “No, Mr. Greene. What I require is that you remain close at h
and. General Howe is still in New York. Until he makes his intentions known to us, we cannot commit any large force. I have summoned General Arnold from Philadelphia. He has already demonstrated considerable skill in that theater. I am hoping he will agree to organize what resistance can be assembled north of Albany.”

  The name brought more thoughts of the congress to Greene’s mind, a bungling of promotions that had nearly cost the army one of its most able field commanders.

  Benedict Arnold had distinguished himself from the earliest days of the war, stood side by side with Ethan Allen the day Ticonderoga was first taken from the British, an astounding accomplishment that provided the Continental Army nearly all of its artillery pieces. Arnold had continued his good work, defending Ticonderoga against a major British assault the year before. But when the congress granted promotions to a new group of major generals, they were hesitant to commission too many men from any one state. Some in the congress believed that Connecticut had already provided a disproportionate share of senior commanders, and thus Arnold, the Connecticut native, was passed over in favor of men from other states. Congress never seemed to consider ability to be as important as appeasing the tender feelings of various state assemblies. Washington had been given no say in the matter, but he recognized the ridiculous injustice and campaigned angrily on Arnold’s behalf. Finally, Arnold had received his promotion. Despite the insult from congress, Arnold continued to exert himself with considerable skill in the field. For the past several weeks, he had been in command of the militia that guarded Philadelphia.

  Greene knew that if Washington required a capable commander to take the field against Burgoyne’s advance, there were few in the army who could take charge of a dangerous situation with as much skill as Benedict Arnold.

  Washington began to walk slowly back up the hill, said, “Are you certain the ships are still at anchor?”