The Glorious Cause

by Jeff Shaara

  The letters were sent out by courier, wrapped in a leather pouch, the messenger riding hard and quick, darting through darkness on the road that led to the King’s Bridge, the northernmost access point to Manhattan Island. Even in darkness there was danger, British patrols always moving, guarding against any sudden assault that Washington might send at them from above.

  The courier moved slowly, as quietly as the horse would allow, could see lanternlights at the bridge itself, the British guards not yet aware he was there. As he turned the horse in the road, the pouch of letters was dropped, the leather strap loosened enough so that papers would peek out, catching the eye of the first British patrol who passed that way.

  Within a day, the letters had found their way to Henry Clinton. The headquarters congratulated themselves on the vigilance of their cavalry, the horsemen finding what had been so carelessly misplaced by the rebels. The letters were in Washington’s own hand, and the hand of his secretary, orders to his subordinates, the details of a plan to push a hard assault into New York. It was a logical and intelligent strategy, the British defense there weakened by the loss of the troops who would sail to Newport. But the rebel plan had been discovered in time, and all around New York, Washington’s scouts were surprised to see the flatboats returning from the transports fully loaded, the British and Hessian troops marched again to their barracks. From the camps near the city, a column of several regiments had marched quickly up to Harlem Heights.

  As Washington sat high on the palisades and glassed across the Hudson, the reports began to come in from his spies. Clinton had canceled the mission to Newport, had instead ordered his army to stand on alert, to prepare to receive Washington’s massed attack.

  Washington could only smile.

  HARTFORD, CONNECTICUT, SEPTEMBER 1780

  I have arrived here with all the submission, all the zeal, and all the veneration I have for your person and for the distinguished talents which you reveal in sustaining this war forever memorable.

  The tone of Rochambeau’s letter was certainly designed to erase any doubts Washington might have about French willingness to cooperate, but Lafayette brought another message as well, more direct, that Rochambeau now insisted on a meeting with Washington himself. With the British naval blockade still outside Newport, and Clinton’s massed army in New York, neither Rochambeau nor Washington was comfortable making a journey far from his own command. It was logical that the meeting would take place halfway between them, at Hartford.

  Lafayette had given Washington his own version of the meetings with Rochambeau, cordial certainly, Lafayette relaying Washington’s desire for a campaign as soon as the French were ready to march. Rochambeau had resisted, and Lafayette had returned to New Jersey in a strangely sullen mood. Washington had immediately agreed to the meeting, was still waiting for Lafayette to reveal more about the man, some personal information that might help Washington know how best to proceed. But the young man seemed unable to give any more details than the gist of the unproductive meetings.

  Washington was accompanied by an escort of forty guards, rode with Lafayette and Hamilton. As they crossed the Hudson, Washington was losing patience with Lafayette’s unusual sulking silence. He had resisted pressing the young man, but Hartford was close now, and sulk or not, Washington needed more than Lafayette had given him.

  The road was well traveled, and the guards obeyed Washington’s orders, were polite to the carriages and horsemen they passed. He moved past an open hay wagon, a farmer slapping the team, moving them aside. The man looked at the guards, seemed annoyed at the inconvenience. He noticed Washington now, glanced at his uniform with no recognition.

  “You best be gettin’ this war done, now! People in these parts is runnin’ out of patience!”

  The words punched him, and he wanted to stop, talk to this man, felt a surge of annoyance that this farmer would presume to understand so much. Hamilton was close beside him now, said, “He’s just a farmer, sir. There’s four little ones riding in there behind him. Has to be difficult for these people to make do.”

  Washington was surprised that his reaction to the man had been so obvious.

  “Thank you for your counsel, Mr. Hamilton.”

  He was annoyed more at himself now, thought, You do not have the luxury of anger. He is one man, one farmer who worries for his children. He has the right to show concern, to question why these soldiers cannot prevail against an enemy that the man has probably never seen. I have yet to convince the congress. Why should I believe I can convince anyone else?

  He looked ahead, the road widening a bit, thought, The town is close, certainly. Time is short, I must know what to expect.

  “Mr. Lafayette.”

  Lafayette had stayed back behind him, rode forward now.

  “Sir?”

  “Remain beside me. Mr. Hamilton, you may fall back a bit, if you don’t mind.”

  Hamilton understood, slowed his horse. Washington kept his voice low, said, “Mr. Lafayette, you have provided me with the substance of your meeting with General Rochambeau. You will now provide me with something more. Your behavior has convinced me that there is more purpose to this meeting in Hartford than convenience.”

  There was a silent moment, and Lafayette said, “You are correct, sir. My conversations with General Rochambeau were somewhat difficult.”

  “Why? Do the French not wish to cooperate with us? Is this man no different than d’Estaing?” His voice was rising, and he closed his eyes, held tight to the frustration. “I am weary of riddles, Mr. Lafayette. What challenges do we face in Hartford?”

  “General Rochambeau is a superior commander, sir. The fault is mine. I was perhaps too outspoken in my meeting with the general. You should know, sir, that General Rochambeau is a veteran of many wars, of much good service to the king. I did not understand that he would receive my authority with such resistance. It gave me some offense. It was not the proper stage for our discussion.”

  “Why should General Rochambeau find you objectionable?”

  “In France . . . General Rochambeau is aware that I made great effort to place myself in command of his forces now in Newport. He is aware that I am welcomed frequently at the royal court. It is a privilege that some find to be . . . superfluous. Some in the army, the men of experience, do not believe I should be here in such capacity as I enjoy.”

  A fog seemed to lift in Washington’s mind. Of course, Rochambeau is an old professional. Lafayette is a young, ambitious man who has gained a position of some influence here. Energy and zeal from the young is not always appreciated by aged men who feel they have labored long to earn their own position.

  “So General Rochambeau wishes to meet with me because he prefers not to grant you such a place of importance in this command.”

  “That is a fair statement, sir. The general believes I was too zealous in seeking the command more suited to his experience.”

  “He may be correct, Mr. Lafayette. Do not take offense. You have a place in this army, and my absolute confidence. In General Rochambeau’s army, you are still a captain. You must respect that. Did you leave your meeting on good terms?”

  “Yes, sir, I assure you. I offered the general my apology, and he responded by assuring me that he bears no ill will. He considers that we are much like father and son.”

  Washington hid a smile.

  “I rather understand that, Mr. Lafayette.”

  Rochambeau was a short, thick man, a dark mottled complexion on a round face. He met Washington with a wide grasping hug, and Washington had accepted the gesture with some discomfort, was not accustomed to such a physical display from either his officers or anyone else. But Rochambeau filled the awkward silence with a generous flow of compliments, much like the effusive deference in his letter. Lafayette interpreted, and Washington observed both men carefully for any sign of hostility that might cloud the meeting. But Rochambeau seemed unaware of any difficulty with the young man, and after more cordiality, led them to a long oval
table, wineglasses already filled. They sat, Rochambeau not taking his eye from Washington. He knew he was being appraised, accepted a toast in French from one of Rochambeau’s officers, followed Lafayette’s lead with the wineglass. Around the table, the talk grew quiet, and Rochambeau said, “I am pleased to tell you, General, that I am in your service. You should know that my orders are to subordinate myself and my soldiers to your superior rank.”

  It was the answer to the first looming question, and Washington smiled.

  “Cooperation between us can only ensure success, General. Thank you.”

  “You should also know, sir, that my king has been very specific that I not endanger my men by removing them from the support of the navy.”

  Washington waited for the words to filter through Lafayette, who finished the thought with a slight frown. Washington absorbed the meaning, said, “I had hoped to begin a campaign to remove the British from New York.”

  “Ah, yes, sir, and is it appropriate for me to ask if you have the strength in your command to accomplish this?”

  “No, General, I do not.”

  Rochambeau showed a mask of concern.

  “You desire my forces to support yours, yes? It is a reasonable request. However, we are in some difficulty here. By my orders, I cannot abandon the fleet to the dangers from the British blockade. And, if we were to break the blockade, the fleet is not of sufficient number to defeat the British navy at New York.”

  “I had hoped, General, that a larger fleet would soon arrive here.”

  Rochambeau put his hands in front of him, turned his palms up, a slight shrug.

  “I am very sorry, General. That is not so likely to happen. Our efforts in the West Indies, and along our own shores have exhausted our resources.”

  Washington felt the air leaving the room. So, there are six thousand French troops who will not leave Newport, and ten warships that are too few to make any attack on the British. Rochambeau drank from his wineglass, said, “Forgive me, General, but I must ask you a question that is commonly heard in my country. Why have you been unable to raise such strength as you require? A nation this large would suggest an army that could not be contained from one British base in New York. I apologize if this is offensive to you, General Washington, but we do not understand why America has not already won this war.”

  It was not offensive, but Washington felt the familiar frustrations, the same questions and pleas he had made to the congress. He waited for a long moment, and Lafayette was staring at him, seemed ready to burst. Washington put a hand out toward the young man, shook his head, a silent command, quiet.

  “General Rochambeau, you ask a fair question. I do not have the most satisfying answer. We are a nation who knows little of building armies. We do not have great feudal estates peopled by workers who lay down their shovels and axes and take up the swords of their lord because he requires it. It is not our way. The American people are concerned that one tyrant will replace another. If we defeat the British, what will follow? Will there be another oppression, from the hand of our own soldiers perhaps? We created this nation from a collection of ideas, words on a piece of paper. There is no ruling order, no class of warriors to call on. From the beginning, we relied on militia, to take to the field when there is need. We have learned that it is a system that does not serve well in the face of a strong enemy, or in the face of a wider war. A man in Connecticut can be expected to defend his home, but it is not so simple to convince that man to fight for Virginia. Under my urging, the congress has granted this command the power to raise a Continental Army, and we have been somewhat successful. But those troops serve for a period of time, and when that time expires, they are free to go home. My men have given so much to this cause, and many of them ask the same question as you. Why does not the great mass of citizens turn out in support? Perhaps, General, they must be given guidance. Perhaps there are many people who do not yet understand that this cause is worthy of sacrifice. Perhaps they have not been offered a leader who inspires them. I . . . simply do not know.”

  Lafayette completed the translation, then said, “It is not true, General.”

  Washington motioned him to silence again, then looked at Rochambeau, saw puzzlement, thought, He does not understand. How can I expect that, when I do not understand myself? He put his hands flat on the table, leaned forward, said, “General Rochambeau, what must we do to gain your cooperation?”

  “I am here only to obey, General. But we have been inconvenienced by our enemy. It is the nature of war. We must allow ourselves patience.”

  Patience. The word bit him. He thought of Greene, imagined him at this table, that word so likely to inspire an explosion. Rochambeau seemed to read him, said, “General, the British are not going to leave their base in New York very soon. We must seek opportunity. You spoke of faith. Perhaps this is the example. I have already made a study of this war, of your adversaries. General Clinton is a man of lofty planning and poor execution. Allow him the time to open the door. My troops will remain a formidable presence in Newport. We will not abandon you, General.”

  The meeting was concluded, and Washington was saluted again with the inflated tokens of affection.

  He began the journey back to his headquarters in a somber silence. He scolded himself for having such high expectations, for believing that Rochambeau could be a savior. He felt drained of hope, absorbed the rhythm of the horse, staring blankly ahead. His thoughts settled into dull blackness, and he fought and grappled with his own despair. The struggle was too familiar, and he knew that tomorrow would cleanse much of it away. Once he was back at his headquarters, the business of the army would occupy him, consume him, push the despair into some dark hole in his mind.

  He rode now through a cascade of falling leaves, a warm breeze that pulled them from the tall trees. He looked up, the roadway darkened above him by soft blankets of red and gold. It would not be so long before the trees were stripped bare yet again, another winter for his army to suffer. He focused ahead, thought of West Point. He had sent word of his arrival, had thought a pleasant night there might ease his mood. It had been a long while since he had enjoyed a comfortable meal with a couple as pleasantly sociable as Benedict Arnold and his charming young wife.

  45. ARNOLD

  NEAR WEST POINT, NEW YORK,

  SEPTEMBER 1780

  He waited in the back room of the house, stared out to thick woods. He focused on the shadows, longer now, nearly gone, the sunlight high on the trees. He had eaten nothing, his stomach a hard cold knot, the smell of the food reaching him through the closed door, sickening him. He heard the sharp clink of the utensils, the spoon stirring something in a pot, each bit of noise burrowing into his brain. Their voices were unavoidable, loud and crude, and he was filled with the disgust, could imagine food slopped on plates, the men eating with their hands. They were laughing now, some obscene joke no doubt, and he shivered, strange, uncontrollable, tried to focus his mind only on the fading light beyond the window.

  The three men did not share Arnold’s nervousness. Two of them were merely laborers, ordered by his authority to row a boat out into the Hudson, to make their way to a British warship, the Vulture, anchored downstream. If they were nervous at all, it was for the darkness, a river watched by guns of both sides. But Arnold had assured them by providing documents, allowing passage through any official blockade, permission to carry the third man, Joshua Smith, to an important meeting on board the British ship.

  The house belonged to Smith’s brother, William, a Tory who was now a refugee in New York. But Joshua Smith was a patriot, offering the use of his brother’s house as a wayfaring stop on the road from New Jersey to Arnold’s headquarters opposite West Point. Smith had accepted Arnold’s invitation with nervous glee, the opportunity to perform some important task for the Continental Army, a rare opportunity to throw a slap in the direction of his brother. Smith’s mission was to carry a letter from Arnold to the Vulture, a letter to confirm Smith’s identity as Arnold
’s trustworthy agent. If all went according to Arnold’s plan, a passenger would accompany Smith back across the river. Smith knew that the man was very important to General Arnold, had been told only that the man’s name was John Anderson. Smith would have his men row his passenger back to a quiet place near Smith’s house, where Arnold would join Anderson for a private meeting.

  Arnold had given Smith the broadest hints, had planted the notion of great secrecy, a meeting of certain value to the army. Arnold had told him that the man called Anderson could be of great help to Arnold, could in fact open a passageway into New York for all manner of valuable intelligence. Smith had learned his part of the mission with complete enthusiasm, accepted his responsibility as a patriot. All they needed was darkness.

  As far back as 1775, arnold’s service in the field had been extraordinary, the capture of Fort Ticonderoga, then the first mission to Canada. During the futile assault on Quebec, he had been wounded, but maintained control of an impossible nightmare, men trapped by a hard winter in a hostile land, their mission a complete disaster. The fault had been in the plan itself, not in those who carried it out, and Arnold had brought back the survivors to an army that was suffering far greater disasters from its defeats in New York. Neither the congress nor the commanding general had time to give Benedict Arnold his due.

  As the war seemed to expand beyond his reach, Arnold had sought opportunities to serve, flashes of duty in quick fights, but never the key role, never the position that would bring the attention he deserved. Washington had finally recognized him, the commanding general including Arnold in the promotion lists. But many in congress believed that Connecticut had given the army too many generals, and he was passed over. It was a hard slap at his ambition, and to Arnold, the congress seemed far too impressed by men who were prominent in defeat.