The Glorious Cause

by Jeff Shaara

  The guard looked toward the fire, and another man stepped up over the mound of snow, his hands black with ash, smeared with the paste of the flour.

  “That would be myself, sir. Captain Roe. What is your pleasure, sir? A bit of dinner perhaps? We have firecake and water, and, if that’s not to your liking, we have water and firecake.”

  There were small chuckles from the men, and the officer said nothing, allowed the men their moment of fun.

  “Captain, I am Colonel Meade. These men are courtesy of General Smallwood’s brigade, from his camp at Wilmington. On the authority of General Washington, you will allow us to pass.”

  Roe seemed unimpressed with the man’s bluster, said, “I will, eh? Possible. You don’t appear to be a spy. Are you?”

  Meade was growing impatient.

  “See here, Captain. We have important business.”

  “Everybody does, Colonel.”

  More of his men were emerging from the snowbank, curiosity giving way to annoyance, their meal delayed. Roe moved closer to the carriage, said, “Best take a look at what you got there. Any spies inside here?”

  Roe leaned into the window of the carriage, then seemed to jump back, made a small surprised grunt, and now his men could see the face of a woman, peering out at them.

  “Captain Roe, thank you for your courtesy. Colonel Meade, do be polite. These men are only performing their duty. Perhaps you should make an introduction.”

  Meade made a short bow toward the woman, said, “Captain, will you please allow us to pass? I assure you, there are no spies here. This is . . . the wife of General Washington.”

  She moved to the house on Meade’s arm, her coat brushing the snowbanks that lined the deep path. The sentries had been alerted, stood in line on both sides of the door, and as she reached the steps, Meade stepped aside, the guard opening the door with a crisp turn. She stepped inside the house, the unmistakable aroma of the kitchen, could see the hall now lined with men, all standing straight, their backs against the wall. She felt her hands shaking, was already nervous, would never insist on such a formal display. She recognized some of the faces, could not just allow them to stare blankly ahead, said, “Mr. Tilghman, how wonderful to see you again! And, Mr. Harrison. Mr. Hamilton. How nice.” She stopped in front of another, very young, handsome.

  “I’m afraid I do not know you, young man.”

  The officer responded with a whisper, “No, ma’am. Major John Laurens, ma’am.”

  “Mr. Laurens, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  She moved past the last of the staff, small greetings, quiet introductions, could see now they had served as a reception line, leading her toward a parlor, to the right of the hall. She turned, could not help a small gasp, saw the tall man standing alone in the center of the room, waiting for her. She could hear the movement of soft footsteps in the hall behind her, the staff slipping away, and she said a silent thank-you for their discretion. He smiled now, and she tried to smile as well, fought the tears. For a long moment, they stood in silence, neither one moving, as though neither one knew what to do. She studied his face, saw the deep lines, the blue eyes soft with weariness, his cheeks thin, pale. His broad shoulders were rounded, seemed to sag, his whole form showing a sadness she could not bear to see. She could not hold back any longer, moved close to him, wrapped her small arms around him, felt his now enveloping her. They stood quietly, the only sound the crackle from the fire in the hearth behind him, and she felt the warmth on his back, her fingers moving slowly on the rough wool of his coat. He said in a soft voice, “Thank God you are here.”

  She would not let him go, not yet, hid her tears in his shirt, and he patted her lightly on the back.

  “Let us go upstairs. My room . . . our room is there. We should have a moment of privacy.”

  She would not look at his face, was embarrassed at her emotions, held tightly to his arm as he led her to the stairway. The hall was empty now, the kitchen silent, no one in the house making a sound. He was in full uniform, and she could hear the sword on his belt tapping the wall as they climbed the narrow steps, the boards squeaking from the weight. He led her through another hall, another room much like the parlor, warmed by a crackling fire. He closed the door behind her, and she felt his hands on her shoulders, felt him turning her toward him, touching her hair, pulling her close. She wrapped him again, but this time he was not the general. The rough uniform could not disguise the man. He seemed to melt against her, and she felt a strange frailness in his arms, could hear the sadness in his breathing, soft cries now, every part of him finally able to let go of the exhaustion, his own emotion. She was no longer embarrassed at her own tears, held him tightly, would hold him, would feel his soft cries as long as he needed.

  30. WASHINGTON

  FEBRUARY 1778

  Her day had begun early, a gentle knock at their bedroom door, the soft apology as the man moved quickly in the darkness to light the fire in the small bedroom hearth. Washington was awake and up quickly, and she watched him in the glow of firelight as he fastened the buttons of his uniform and pulled on his boots. She sat up in the bed, and he responded by lighting a candle, said in a quiet voice, “I thought you would remain here. There is no need for you to rise so early.”

  “Nonsense, Old Man. A general’s wife should set a good example.”

  It was the first time she had called him by her pet name in a long time, and he leaned closer to her, covered her hand with his, said, “Not around the staff, please. In their eyes, I am old enough as it is.”

  She was surprised by his good humor, watched as he stood up, pulled his heavy coat down from the hook on the wall.

  “I will come for you a bit later. Perhaps we can ride out in the country. It is quite beautiful here.”

  “What must you do today, George?”

  He absorbed the question, said slowly, “Many things. We are waging war with the quartermaster department. Mr. Mifflin resigned his post there because I would not sacrifice this army merely to save his home in Philadelphia. The congress has not found it necessary to replace him, thus, for some time now, there has been no one in charge. It is a vexing problem, and possibly the most important difficulty we face. So many of my urgent requests have been ignored that I am certain my dispatches are regarded as fuel for their fires. The troops have not received any meat in two weeks, and when I warned the commissary of the consequences, the possibility of mutiny in the ranks, their response was, ‘Give them bread.’ I am astounded at the lack of empathy for our suffering.”

  “Perhaps you should appoint your own officers to command that department.”

  “It is not so simple as that. I can suggest, but it is congress who must make the appointment. There are so few of them in attendance at York that nothing is accomplished, nothing but the posturing and complaining from the Board of War. If Mr. Mifflin had performed his duty as quartermaster general with the same zeal he places on his performance at the Board . . .” He paused, and she could hear his breathing. “I regret you must hear this.”

  “You may speak to me of anything, George. Is it not better to unburden yourself here, to me, than to risk offending someone else? I know your temper. You will endure in silence until the most unfortunate moment.”

  “That is troublesome, Martha. I was not aware . . .”

  “Old Man, as long as I am your wife, I will help you any way I can. You are suffering so from the vanity and foolishness of those men. When you went to the first congress, it seemed very different. Your letters said nothing of meanness and backbiting.”

  He moved to a small table, poured water from a stout pitcher into a small cup. He drank, set the cup down, said, “So many of the good men have simply gone home. The congress is very different now. The men who made the first journey to Philadelphia, they were statesmen, they brought a spirit that no one expected, that no one had ever seen. The debates between John Adams and Mr. Dickinson . . . Martha, it was as if God himself was speaking to us, enlightening us
to what man could accomplish. In the end, nearly every man in that hall believed we could change the course of history, that we could create a revolution that could affect all of mankind. It was extraordinary, and it was somewhat frightening. You know when they selected me for this command, I did not go to Boston with much faith in my abilities. I feared that those men had made a grievous error. Now, so many of them have returned to their homes, their own lives, as though the job of building this nation is complete. Many in the congress now are men of ambition and petty concerns, their minds consumed with simplistic notions of war and command. They plot and scheme behind my back. The idealism has been replaced by the mundane.”

  She slid out of the bed, moved across the small room toward the growing fire, stared into the flames.

  “You can always come home. Mount Vernon could use your strong hands.”

  “How can I abandon my post? I am surprised you would even suggest . . . I should retire, in the midst of this crisis? What of this army, what of the men loyal to my command? I have a duty here . . .” His voice was rising, and she turned, was smiling at him.

  “You see? It is still important to you, no matter what happens in congress.”

  His hand was hanging in midair, the unfinished gesture, and he dropped it to his side, shook his head. She moved toward him.

  “You will do what is right, Old Man. You will not allow congress or Thomas Mifflin or even Horatio Gates to keep you from your duty.” She turned toward the window, could see a gray light, pointed.

  “You will do what they require of you. I know very little of congress, except that few of them have ever been soldiers. Despite all their intrigue and pettiness, they must respect that. This is, after all, a war. This country is not depending on the congress, they are depending on the army, they are looking to you. Those men in York are simply envious of that.”

  “But I have not given this country, or the congress the one thing they know of war, the one thing they expect of their army. Victories.”

  “Do you have faith in these men?”

  He looked toward the gray light of the window.

  “If this army is fed and clothed, if they are led by good officers, they will defeat anyone on this earth.”

  “Then you know what you must do. You must see to their food and clothing. The officers . . . I don’t believe they will disappoint. They are led by you.”

  Greene rode beside him, and they moved out away from the house, followed the roadway blackened by the wheels of the army. His breath was a white fog, the morning air biting his face, an icy dampness. He led Greene out through the open ground beyond the cabins of his guards, along the base of the low hill, past the stumps of cut trees, long gone for lumber and firewood. They moved past the blacksmith shed, could hear the sharp strike of steel on steel, the men whose work never stopped, the constant repairs to wagons and equipment. They continued up the rise, out on the crest, the artillery park on the left, Knox’s guns arranged in neat rows, the brass barrels glistening under a thin layer of ice. He could see across much of the camp, the morning mist gray with the smoke from the cabins. He had not spoken since he climbed the horse, and Greene knew to wait, that Washington would begin the conversation in his own way. They moved down again, a shallow ravine, and to one side there was a gathering of men and wagons, and the carcasses of horses. Slowly they were hoisted up and piled on each wagon, to be hauled away by a pair of scrawny animals that were barely alive themselves. He had seen it before, but was still shocked, felt himself flinch, a spasm of sickness. He turned away, spurred the horse up the hill again, and Greene was beside him quickly, said, “I have made certain they haul the carcasses beyond the outposts. The ground is too frozen to bury anything. We have located a deep cut out to the west . . .”

  “I am certain the duty is handled, Mr. Greene. It is most unpleasant.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He rode slowly, began to think of Mount Vernon, the pride he felt when he walked through the stables, his affection for the tall stout horses.

  “At home, the loss of a good horse filled me with great sadness. They always perform, no matter the duty, the weather, no matter their age. They are a blessed beast. God has given the horse a special place on this earth. I have often thought that God judges man on how we treat the horse. What better measure of character is there than how we respect the beast that takes on our burdens.”

  “That we have made the horse a beast of burden might bring punishment enough.” Greene made a low laugh, and Washington said, “You are not a man of the land, Mr. Greene. With all respects, you cannot understand.”

  Greene did not respond, and Washington said, “My apologies. I did not wish to offend you.”

  “None taken, sir. But you are not quite correct. An iron mill requires the labor of horses. My father relied greatly on his teams. I rode often when I was a boy. Even with the . . . problem in my leg.”

  They moved into a wide trail, the dirty snow banked high to one side. They were among the cabins now, and Washington saw a small open campfire, unusual, pulled the horse that way. There were four men, and they stood now, surprised, and Washington could see a metal pot hung above the fire, a rising column of steam.

  “Gentlemen, do not let us disturb you. Are you cooking?”

  They glanced at each other, and one man raised a spoon from the pot, poured the dark brown liquid into a small cup.

  “Aye, sir. Soup, it is. One of the fellows here got a might lucky chasin’ a rabbit. This here pot’s done made us several days of good eatin’.”

  Greene moved the horse forward, closer to the fire, said, “Several days? How big was the rabbit?”

  “Oh, the rabbit’s been gone a while now, sir.”

  The man stirred the bubbling brew, and Washington could see something round and dark, the spoon knocking it with a metallic click.

  “What is in the soup, soldier?”

  The man moved the object around, said, “That’d be a rock, sir. We always hear tell that there’s strength in rocks. We figured if we boil it a while, it might lend something to the soup.”

  Greene leaned out, looked down into the pot.

  “That appears to be . . . leaves. Seems your soup is a bit . . . soiled.”

  The man spooned up the bits of brown.

  “Oh, no, sir. Not only leaves, but pine needles as well. The best soup has to have . . . vegetables.”

  Washington pulled his horse back.

  “General Greene, we should be on our way.”

  They left the men to their fire, and Washington moved back into the roadway, then crossed to the far side, climbing the horse over the bank of snow. They were moving toward the edge of the plateau, the ground falling away in a wide sweep. Below, the outer line of earthworks cut across the hillside, and Greene moved up beside him.

  “Forgive me, sir. Where are we going?”

  Washington had left the staff behind, ordering them to keep to their work at the headquarters. They were followed only by a handful of his guards, and he stopped the horse, turned.

  “Captain Gibbs, have your men remain somewhat farther back. I wish to speak to General Greene in privacy.”

  The man obeyed, held the guards in place while Washington moved away. Greene followed, was close beside him again.

  “Privacy? I am honored, sir.”

  “Don’t be, Mr. Greene. I find that my temper is short these days. I do not wish to make an unfortunate demonstration for the men.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “Mr. Greene, we have men eating dirty water and calling it soup. How long will they tolerate these conditions? How long must I? Are we so helpless? Our raids on the British supply wagons have been ineffective. General Howe has purchased the loyalty of most of the farms around Philadelphia because he can offer payment in hard currency. We offer nothing but continental paper.” He stopped, turned toward the guards, saw they were at a suitable distance.

  “I have exhausted the congress with my pleas, so much so that t
hey have now suggested that this army simply take what it wants from anyone who can assist us. We are to secure food by the point of the bayonet. Those farmers who have not yet found sympathy with the British will certainly do so now. What manner of solution is that? I am dismayed that your foraging expeditions have been so ineffective. We manage to gather a lengthy train of wagons, and they return to this camp nearly empty. What is the explanation?”

  “Sir, the farms simply do not have the means to feed this army, whether we pay them with specie or threaten them with the bayonet.”

  “Then what would you suggest, Mr. Greene?”

  “We require a quartermaster who will not be so hesitant to insult those who control so much of the goods we require.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sir, it has been suggested in many quarters that a great deal of supply is sitting idly in warehouses along the coast. There is simply no means to compel anyone to transport it. Several states are claiming possession of the French goods that happen to arrive in their ports, taking the opportunity to better clothe their own militia, with no regard for the needs of the whole. The supplies that do find the means to reach us are mistreated, or stolen by the men whose job it is to transport them. I have seen barrels of flour spilled in great heaps beside the roadway, no doubt too much of a bother for some wagoneer who preferred his own hearth rather than the completion of his mission. We had wagons of meal and flour arrive here last week in broken barrels, soaked with rain, already molded beyond use.”