The Glorious Cause

by Jeff Shaara

  Washington thought a moment, said, “We are suffering some difficulties at Mount Vernon. I can barely afford the cost of seed, of cloth. All manner of goods have become expensive beyond reason. Yet, all around Philadelphia I see abundance of supply, merchants with full shelves. Is there no sense of patriotism here? Would a man rather have a full storeroom than give help to his country? What kind of man has so little good conscience? You are the expert in such thing, Robert. What is to be done?”

  “Bayonets.”

  Morris continued to draw on the pipe, the smoke drifting into a cloud above him. Washington absorbed the word, saw a slight smile, said, “It is a poor joke, Robert.”

  “Possibly. But, when the British army was around this city, the talk was survival, not profit. The war has disappeared from Philadelphia, and so, the threat has disappeared as well. One way to change that. Bring in a few more bayonets. Patriotism must sometimes be encouraged. Your Mr. Greene has been a master at stirring that pot. Perhaps he should be given an even freer hand, remind these people that there is more at stake than the value of the paper dollar.”

  “That would not sit well with the congress, Robert. They protest enough that we have such a presence of troops here now. General Arnold’s command . . .” He stopped, saw Morris shake his head.

  “General Arnold.”

  “Is there a problem with Mr. Arnold of which I am not aware?”

  Morris pulled at the pipe again, said, “Have you enjoyed all these feasts given in your honor?”

  Washington was puzzled, said, “I have thought them to be somewhat excessive for my taste.”

  “Under General Arnold’s command, this city has experienced a revival of excess and decadence that even General Howe would have found distasteful. It seems that Benedict Arnold has been captivated by his newly acquired wife, the former Miss Shippen. Peggy is a very young thing, who has a surprising maturity when it comes to her appreciation of . . . pampering. Forgive my lack of graciousness, George, but she has become somewhat legendary for her, um, gratefulness for those who provide her with life’s finer adornments. It seems not to matter to her that for a time, those baubles were provided by the British. Now, of course, she is provided for by General Arnold. In my humble estimation, her requirements have provided him with a full occupation.”

  Washington said, “I have heard very little of this. There are always complaints about any commander who holds a senior post, especially one with the prestige of Philadelphia.”

  “Just a word of advice, George. This is a place where corruption breeds.”

  “I will be aware, certainly. If there is a new campaign soon, I will require my best field commanders close by. General Arnold is certainly that.”

  “You anticipate a campaign soon?”

  “I have learned that the British will defy my expectations at every turn. They have shown no sign of movement. It is possible that General Clinton is waiting for the French to show their intentions.”

  Morris extinguished the pipe, tapped it on the table.

  “I am concerned that King Louis considers us a low priority compared to his interests in the Caribbean. If the Newport affair is their best effort . . . God help us.”

  Washington was surprised at Morris’ lack of faith, said, “It was the fault of one man. Admiral d’Estaing was not prepared to subordinate himself to an American commander. I must believe there will be a greater effort to work for a common goal. I have already taken steps to assist that process. Mr. Lafayette is on his way to France now. I have instructed him to use his influence to clarify our needs. He has proven himself to be a most worthy ally to my command, and to this nation.”

  “Are you not concerned about time, George? I have no reason to doubt the young marquis’ abilities, but the British could strike out at any moment.”

  Washington looked down at the table, put his hand flat on the smooth wood.

  “The British have accommodated us before. Is it naÏve of me to have faith that they will do so again?”

  Morris leaned forward, looked at Washington with the seriousness of a man in business.

  “You know better than I. But Clinton’s inaction may be the best hope we have. Without the French, I do not see how the congress can provide for another campaign. There is no pay for your men, new recruits will be difficult to find.”

  It was the same story, every new year bringing the same fears. Washington knew that the commissions of nearly four thousand of his regular troops would expire by late spring.

  “Then I will continue to hope, Robert. Perhaps General Clinton is content to remain in New York. Perhaps he awaits reinforcements of his own, feels he is too weakened to begin a new campaign. We know from several reliable scouts that he has shipped out a great many men to the southern islands.”

  “Then you are not naÏve after all. You have learned your enemy well, George. It is the mark of a good commander.”

  As the spring gave way to summer, the British emerged from the city only to continue their small raids on supply depots and farms. Clinton made one serious push up the Hudson, capturing the valuable outpost at Stony Point. It was good strategy, a possible foothold they could use for a much larger campaign upriver toward Washington’s main fortification at West Point. But Clinton was careless, and left the newly captured prize undermanned. Washington responded with a quick strike by troops led by Anthony Wayne, and within days, Stony Point was back in Washington’s hands. But Stony Point was too weak a position for either army to defend, and Wayne was forced to withdraw, the British occupying the place yet again.

  The tit-for-tat confrontations continued in several quarters, from the coast of New England to Virginia, and Washington became more and more confident that Clinton had no intention of mounting a major campaign. He could only assume that the British had as much need of a respite as the Americans. Regardless of what strategy Clinton might be planning for the future, for the present, the British were giving the Americans an enormous gift of time.

  While the Hudson was the focus of much of the skirmishing, there was one brief and sharp action farther south, a swampy spit of land called Paulus Hook, which lay along the New Jersey coast opposite southern Manhattan. The British had grown careless again, the outpost manned by five hundred troops who guarded their sandy entrenchments, disregarding any threat from Washington’s troops. In the darkness, a handpicked force of three hundred light horsemen burst into the British lines and captured a third of their men, escaping as rapidly as they had come, with a loss of only five American casualties. It was a blow to British pride more than any great strategic victory, but it brought a new officer to Washington’s attention. The light cavalry had been commanded by a Virginian, a man whose family Washington knew well. While the young major had shown a talent for horsemanship, the cavalry had yet to prove itself as effective as their British counterparts. But after Paulus Hook, Washington realized that cavalry could be useful indeed, especially if they were led by effective officers, good men like this Virginian, the young major they now called “Light-Horse Harry” Lee.

  42. FRANKLIN

  PARIS, SUMMER 1779

  He had begun the day as every day before, consulting his calendar. The pages were typically a mass of scribbles, and it made no difference if the writing was his or Temple’s. The appointments would flow out into the margins of each page, row upon row of names and titles. Each name was accompanied by a time of day, a mild joke now. It was generous of the French to try to appease the American need for punctuality, but Franklin had come to understand that no one would ever arrive at his designated time.

  This morning he had followed his usual routine, settled heavily into his soft chair with his cup of coffee, thumbing his way through the calendar to the current day. The result was a glorious discovery. Two pages had been adhered together by some long misplaced morsel of food. The hidden page, now blessedly blank, was for today’s appointments. Whether the sloppiness was his or Temple’s, he was grateful nonetheless. With pure glee, he h
ad scraped the crusty bit of food from the paper, placed it in a small velvet box on his desk, a memento of an unplanned day of rest.

  The house was empty, the maid away at the market. He shuffled through the papers on his desk, glanced at the empty coffee cup. He had made the attempt several times to brew his own coffee, the result never to his liking. There was always someone there to take over, Temple, certainly, or Silas Deane. He sat back in the chair, adjusted the discomfort in his legs. I am indeed forsaken. Alone and . . . coffeeless.

  Deane had been gone for over a year, recalled by a congress that had been flooded with the tirades of Arthur Lee. Lee had accused every American in France of corruption and thievery, and though Franklin was included in the list, Lee had the good grace to blunt the language of those particular accusations. But Deane had few important friends in Philadelphia, and Franklin had watched him depart under a heavy yoke of defeat. Deane already knew that Lee’s accusations would carry great weight in the congress, and Franklin felt sincere pity for this man, who had labored through such arcane difficulties of trade and finance. Now, he would have little help in defending his honor. For a long while, Franklin had believed Arthur Lee was settling into some sort of annoying, harmless insanity. But Deane’s recall was serious, the man never likely to receive his due, an otherwise decent man who might now be made the scapegoat for any impropriety Lee wished to raise. Deane’s departure was an affront as well to the French, who trusted the man and had relied on him to help engineer the delicate negotiations of trade.

  The congress had put its best foot forward and replaced Deane with John Adams. Adams had arrived in Paris a man clearly out of his element, and everyone in the French court was quickly aware of it. He spoke no French, and seemed unable, or perhaps unwilling to learn, and Franklin had found himself in the strange role of interpreter. Franklin knew he had Adams’ respect, but he also knew that Adams was a man accustomed to carving his own path. With Franklin so firmly entrenched as the primary negotiator with the French, Adams had bristled at accepting a role he had not been expecting, that of Franklin’s subordinate. Franklin had seen immediately that the Massachusetts lawyer truly had no idea what his job was supposed to be. In a short while, Adams had learned to grumble less and support Franklin by adding his flair for neatness to the somewhat sloppy office management of Franklin and his grandson. But Adams had never warmed to Paris, and after several months he was gone as well, returning to Massachusetts to tend to the affairs of his home state.

  Franklin thought of rising from the chair, working the misery from his legs, but the soft leather had captured him completely. He reached over to the inkstand, picked up his pen, looked at the tip, a blob of ink hanging precariously. He studied it for a moment, then realized he was wearing white pants. He eased the pen back to the well, thought, That would never do. Placing an indiscreet smear of ink on myself would probably result in a sudden visit from the king. Or worse: Madame Brillon.

  He grunted, pulled himself up from the chair, one hand on the desk, supporting himself. The gout gave him both good days and bad, and today seemed to be neither. He picked up the coffee cup, shuffled slowly toward the kitchen, thought, I should not allow Temple such freedom. This is when I require him most, not just when the visitors parade through here. I can endure the people. It’s the coffee that gives me such difficulty.

  His grandson had been whisked away to Paris, the guest of some society belle in the village. He was gone often now, and Franklin had come to realize that if he did not give the young man specific instructions, Temple would interpret that to mean his presence was not required. Franklin moved into the kitchen, thought, He should decide if he intends to be a boy or a man. A man has responsibilities, after all. He is my secretary. A man does not allow himself to be pursued by women to such an extent that he loses his senses. Only a boy would seek such comforts. Well, no, a boy will not have the same interests. It is the man . . .

  He set the cup down on the marble counter, smiled. Your logic is deteriorating as quickly as the rest of you, old man. I should find fault with him because he obeys the same instincts that have so pleased his grandfather? He listens more than I give him credit. Franklin recalled the lecture he had endured from some local busybody, who had scolded Franklin for the numerous visits from the ever-energetic Madame Brillon. He recalled the man’s finger, poking menacingly into Franklin’s face, the shrill tone of his voice. He laughed now, thought, That fellow could only regard women as objects to be feared, was positively certain that men are of so much more value. No doubt, his own home is void of anything feminine. Franklin had responded with his own view of man, a violent and mischievous creature responsible for a lengthy list of ills. He tried to recall the man’s name, Guy . . . something, the man clearly unreachable, and thus, not worth remembering at all. He is simply jealous that a woman with the charms of Madame Brillon should ride past his home on her way to mine.

  He moved out of the kitchen now, having given up on the idea of coffee. Ah, Temple. Go forth, young man. Surrender yourself to the captivity of the softer gender. For one day you may be as old as your grandfather, and given to such daydreams.

  He returned to the parlor, stood at the window, stared out to the empty road. This is not at all how my day should be progressing. Being alone in the house is an astounding accomplishment. And I am bored. Surely, at least one French visitor will mistake this day for tomorrow, and seek his appointment. It is so much their way. He moved toward the desk, reached for the calendar. He thought of Benny now, the empty silence of the house reminding him of the cascade of noise from his younger grandson. Benny was away at school in Geneva, a choice Franklin had made out of concern that Benny was becoming too . . . French. I find them a most amiable people to live with, he thought. They are not as cruel as the Spanish, or as avaricious as the Dutch. They are certainly not as stupidly proud as the English. They seem to possess no real vices at all, other than some harmless frivolities. But I would prefer my grandson to be a Presbyterian and a republican. It will make his path much less challenging in America. At the very least, he would be more punctual.

  He heard a carriage, stared out with a surge of hopefulness. It passed by the house, disappeared beyond, and he grunted, said, “You should at least stop and pay your respects.”

  He returned to his calendar, peered through his glasses, and now a carriage was suddenly close, moving in the drive. He closed the book with a small flourish, said, “Well, there you have it.”

  He thought of sitting in the chair, not appearing too anxious for company, thought, No, then you have to pull yourself up again. Far too much work. He moved to the door, his pride gone, pulled it open, watched as a French army officer emerged from the carriage. The man was unfamiliar, very young, removed his hat to reveal a high forehead, topped by thinning red hair. The young man tucked his hat under his arm, turned toward the house, noticed Franklin. He swept the hat low to the ground in a deep bow, said in nearly perfect English, “Please forgive the intrusion, Dr. Franklin. I am the Marquis de Lafayette.”

  He carried a letter of recommendation from Washington, and Franklin felt amused that the marquis seemed to think he required some formal introduction. Franklin returned to his chair, and Lafayette continued to stand, seemed to pulse with movement, a broad grin on the young man’s face.

  “Truly, Doctor, I had thought we had established our meeting for this date. I can return tomorrow. It is a grievous error on my part.”

  Franklin ignored the calendar, pointed to a chair, said, “Please, sit down. If you continue to stand, you will exhaust me.”

  Lafayette moved quickly, seemed suddenly concerned, sat in the chair, rigid, his back stiffly upright.

  “And, by all means, relax. Is this the result of your service to George Washington? Does he whip you into submission, or are you just naturally afraid of comfort?”

  Lafayette seemed to ponder the words, and Franklin could tell he was trying to decide if the old man was serious.

  “Sir, it is
my honor to place myself in your company. I shall sit in whatever manner is pleasing to you. I do not wish to be a bother. Is your health good, sir?”

  “That would depend on whom you ask. I am told frequently that I am maintaining good form for a man of my years. I believe that is meant as a compliment. I am not sure what form is appropriate for a man of sixty-seven.” He waited a moment, saw a puzzled look on the young man’s face. “Ah, see? You have heard otherwise. Some continue to insist I am seventy-three. However, I made a decision some time ago, that once I attained the age of seventy, I would begin to compute my years in the opposite direction. Three years hence, I am now sixty-seven. No one has yet shown me that there are rules that forbid this practice. Once a man reaches seventy, he should be entitled after all to establish his own rules.”

  Lafayette stared at him, his mouth slightly open.

  “My new rule is maddening of course to those who believe I have grown too old to exist in their world. In the case of Mr. Arthur Lee, I am constantly in violation of staying around too long. However, as long as the women do not object to my company . . .” He stopped, saw the smile returning to Lafayette’s face. “You’re too young to have such notoriety. You should be parading about the parks of Paris with my grandson.”

  “I am indeed married, sir.”

  “Yes, of course. My apologies. I heard that your reception at the royal court was an embarrassment to the king.”

  Lafayette frowned now, said, “I certainly hope not, sir.”