The Glorious Cause (25 page)

He set up his office with a new energy, had invited Deane to do the same, enough space provided so that both men could have their privacy but still share the convenience of close communication.

Packages were coming to him from America, the routes safe enough for American ships to reach French ports without difficulty. He knew the English were still protesting, but the packages he was receiving were harmless, came mostly from Philadelphia, wrapped by the hand of his daughter Sally.

He sifted through the careful wrappings, mostly clothing for his grandsons, his daughter certain that Franklin would never understand what a small boy required. He would never protest, could not tell her that the ladies of the village had taken both boys into their care with the same charmed enthusiasm as the women in the city. Anything Benny required, whether pencils for school or stockings to match the fashion of the village were amply provided.

He searched the bottom of the crate, ran his hands through the packing cloth, felt a lump, retrieved a small wooden box. It was not from Sally, the writing formal, his name printed in simple black letters. He slid open the top, saw two small bottles of liquid, one dark, the other nearly clear, saw a note curled around them. He held up one of the bottles, thought, Ink, certainly. Not likely that American ink is so much superior to what I can find here. He unfolded the note now, read slowly, the letter from John Jay, the congressman from New York.

My Dear Doctor,

I am most trusting that you will find good use for the enclosed. It is the invention of my brother, James. A like shipment has been sent to Mr. Deane as well. If you find its use to be of benefit, a larger supply can be secured for you. I regret that the formula is contained in the mind of my brother alone.

There was another small piece of paper with instructions, and Franklin thought, So, one bottle is for writing, another for reading. How very strange.

He pulled a pen and paper out of the drawer of his desk, wiped the tip of the pen clean with his handkerchief. Now he opened the darker bottle, dipped, wrote his name on the paper. He sat back, waited for the ink to dry, and suddenly, his name began to fade, then vanish altogether, the paper now blank. He laughed, said aloud, “Well, a fine trick. However, writing with water will accomplish the same feat.”

He opened the second bottle, glanced at the instruction, wet his handkerchief from the bottle, wiped it over the blank paper. Instantly, his name reappeared. He let out a laugh, looked at the paper closely, thought, Well, now, this can very well ensure that our dispatches can be moved about without Mr. Stormont or anyone else knowing our intent. All credit to James Jay. He has invented invisible ink.

As the spring warmed the air, Franklin stayed close to his office, responding to the letters from congress, passing along the continuing flow of requests to Vergennes and the French court. Despite the willingness of Vergennes to meet with him, despite the success of the carefully planned arrangements with Deane’s contacts, there was still no formal alliance with the French. Franklin understood that French support would remain limited, that neither France nor England was eager to begin a new war. All Franklin could do was press on, still confident that Vergennes would continue to speak to his king about assistance to America. But both men knew that Louis would remain cautious, and Franklin had to concede that with the new spring would come a new British strategy, and a new campaign. So much would depend on the news that came from America.

19. CORNWALLIS

M
AY 1777

While Howe and most of the senior commanders had spent their winter quarters nestled into the social comforts of New York, Cornwallis had been with his troops still stationed between Brunswick and Amboy. The weather had been unusually mild, the late winter mostly chilly and damp, and the tedious boredom so common to winter quarters was made worse by intermittent warm spells, which thawed the frozen ground to a muddy swamp. A warm winter breeds disease, and entire squads were brought down by sickness. As the supply sergeants attempted to feed the troops from the farms in the area, they came under constant attack from small bands of militia, who would strike hard, then melt away into the brush. What should have been minor foraging missions became large-scale troop movements, entire companies of redcoats required to protect every small wagon of confiscated supplies. By the end of January, Cornwallis had learned that foraging the countryside of New Jersey had become a waste of time. The Tory farmers were long gone, fearing reprisals from local militia, and any barn that might hold precious grain or horses was just as likely to contain a company of rebel marksmen.

The only alternative supply line came from New York, from the occupied farmlands of Long Island and Staten Island. But the naval crews suffered as much as the infantry, boats unloading in Amboy peppered by deadly musket fire from grassy fields along the water. Any boat attempting to move up the Raritan was subject to cannon fire from guns hidden by Washington in strategic positions along the northern banks of the river.

As bad as conditions were for the men, it was worse for the horses. Without fresh forage, many simply died, and those who survived were so weakened they were useless as mounts for the dragoons.

As the sun finally warmed the ground, the sickness began to ease, and every man in Cornwallis’ army welcomed the blessed spring. Cornwallis knew the mood of his men. As the stifling wooden huts were replaced by white canvas tents, every soldier turned his thoughts toward the north, where Washington still held his army. The British probed and scouted the ground toward Morristown as far as Washington’s skirmishers would allow, brief sharp fights that bruised both sides. But Cornwallis already knew that Washington had found an ideal place to defend, and the army could only launch their assaults on small rebel outposts, or attempt quick strikes at supply stations, where Washington might be storing munitions. The only way to bring Washington out of the hills and into a general engagement was by giving him a target too tempting to resist. Time and again, Cornwallis would advance his men out in column from Brunswick, a feint to the west, as though his eight thousand men were suddenly on the march to Trenton. But Washington had stayed put, no ruse of vulnerability by Cornwallis had worked. As long as Cornwallis was not reinforced from New York, it was simply a standoff. Washington would not attack, and Cornwallis could not dislodge him from Morristown. Until Howe made a decision about where and when the campaign would resume, the British soldiers in New Jersey would continue to endure Washington’s sniping at their flanks, and the rebels’ annoying disruptions in their supply lines.

As spring rolled toward summer, Howe had given his army no plan, had instead conducted a tediously slow debate over strategy with his superior in London, Lord George Germain. While Howe waited for official approval of some new plan of action, much of the British command idled away the months in the comforts of their mistresses and the fine dining rooms of the city. To Cornwallis, it was another frustrating exercise in futility. He could only bide his time, nursing his army back to health, remaining close to his headquarters in Brunswick angrily waiting for Howe to make up his mind.

J
UNE 5, 1777

Cornwallis had avoided the dinners, the formal occasions so sought after by the officers in New York. He always had the good excuse for staying away from the city, some new assault by the rebels requiring his attention, his own mission to capture some particular goal, spies constantly bringing him word of Washington’s shifting movements. But the invitation this time was not social, and Cornwallis could not hide his own expectations that, finally, something more specific was being discussed at headquarters, something that might put his army into motion.

He arrived at the headquarters at midday, and as he rode through the streets of New York, he saw formations of men at drill, supply wagons gathered into great squares, artillery parks alive with gun crews, fresh maintenance on cannon that had sat idle since December. There was energy to the movements that could only mean Howe was making some preparation for a march.

The house itself was a bustle of activity, Howe’s staff welcoming him as they rushed past, each with some dispatch in urgent need of delivery. It had been months since Cornwallis felt his own enthusiasm rising, the anticipation returning, that wonderful surge of strength that spreads through the army when the new campaign grows close. He moved into the grand parlor, the familiar meeting room where Howe had summoned the senior officers. The men had gathered loosely around the wide table, and Cornwallis moved into the room to salutes and handshakes. He nodded to Leslie, knew his subordinate would already be there, the young man having crossed the Hudson that morning. The Hessian von Donop stood beside a tall window, made a slight bow toward him, and Cornwallis saw the old Hessian, Wilhelm Knyphausen seated beside him. Von Donop bent low, spoke to the old man, who looked up at Cornwallis with a solemn stare, and Cornwallis thought, It must be official. Knyphausen has replaced de Heister. One old soldier carries the shame of Trenton back to his country, replaced by another. Cornwallis said, “General Knyphausen, I hope you are well.”

Knyphausen glanced up at von Donop, who translated Cornwallis’ greeting, and the old man raised his hand slightly, said something in a low voice. Von Donop said, “Thank you, General.”

It was all that Knyphausen ever said, and Cornwallis had wondered if it was the language alone, many of the Hessians speaking enough English to participate if they chose to. But more often the Hessians seemed content to sit quietly in the meetings while their British counterparts worked out their strategy. It is courtesy, I suppose. It is, after all, our war. He moved closer to the table, could feel the enthusiasm he shared with the other officers, scanned the room, saw one man moving a chair close to the table, no uniform. Cornwallis felt a bolt of shock. It was Charles Lee.

Howe was not yet there, and as Lee pulled himself up to the table, the others grew mostly quiet, watching Lee, as though each man was reluctant to speak in the presence of the prisoner, who had once been a part of their army.

Lee gave him a polite smile, and Cornwallis said, “Mr. Lee. Are you now a
guest
of this command?”

It was a poor joke, but Lee seemed inflated by the words.

“Oh, quite so, General. I must ask, however, do you have some objection of referring to me by my title? I am a lieutenant general, you know.”

He could see Lee was serious, and Cornwallis glanced at the others, all silent now.

“Not in this army, sir. As I recall, your title here was . . . lieutenant colonel. Or perhaps,
deserter
?”

Lee seemed stabbed by the word, looked away, said, “If my king had only given me my due, I assure you, sir, I would be in this army today.”

Cornwallis regretted the insult, could feel the awkwardness of the moment, the others shifting nervously, and he was already weary of the confrontation.

“Mr. Lee, I am not concerned with any of your deeds or the injustices which may have befallen you. Clearly you are here because General Howe has invited you.”

“Quite right, General!” Howe burst into the room with a flurry, pointed to Lee, said, “The good general has been most helpful in seeking an end to this unfortunate rebellion. It would not be prudent of me to reveal to you, Mr. Lee, the exact strategy we are to employ; however, your king may yet find it in his heart to forgive your most recent transgressions.”

Lee puffed up again, looked at Cornwallis, said, “I respect your views, sir. But I assure you, my only purpose here is to bring this regrettable war to an end. I have no doubt that this army will prevail, but as you may agree, any victory must be accomplished by a considerable loss of life. Is that not to be avoided?”

Lee’s sudden smile gave Cornwallis an uncomfortable chill, and he thought, Is this to be the purpose of the meeting? After all this time, we will now operate by the strategy of a traitor? Howe seemed to sense his discomfort, said, “Mr. Lee, perhaps it is best if you are returned to the
Centurion
. I wish to discuss, um, current events with my commanders. You understand, of course.”

Lee was sulking now, and Cornwallis watched him, felt rising disgust, thought, a poor actor. He changes his mood with each passing word. Everything in the man is for his own benefit, changing with the moment. Howe motioned past him, and Cornwallis turned, saw two guards at the door. Lee stood slowly, and Cornwallis was surprised that the man was much smaller than he remembered, his thin frame bent in a crooked slouch. Lee moved past, avoided looking at him now, stopped at the door, said to Howe, “My respects, sir. I wish you good fortune in the campaign ahead.”

Howe bowed slightly, said cheerily, “Thank you, Mr. Lee!”

The guards escorted Lee away, and Howe’s mood abruptly changed. He waited a moment, stared out through the doorway, said in a low voice, “I am out of patience with the man’s ingratiating pleasantness.”

Cornwallis was relieved by Howe’s words, said, “Sir, am I to understand that Mr. Lee has offered this command a strategy for ending the war?”

Howe sat now.

“Quite so, General. The wind blows in our favor again, and Mr. Lee is the weather vane. He believes we should invade Maryland and Delaware, and thus divide the colonies. He feels the war will end itself on that account. He considers Mr. Washington to be quite the imbecile, is rather insistent that his congress should be put in chains, since they did not place him in command. Mr. Lee claims that the war would have already been over, and that he would have been our savior, delivering the peace by delivering the colonies back to their king. Quite a bit of bombast in the man.”

There were small laughs from around the room, but Cornwallis did not see the humor.

“The man is a traitor to both sides. Since we have him, perhaps it is our duty to hang him first.”

Howe held up his hand, said, “I appreciate your passion, General, but the matter has gone beyond our control. Lord Germain had requested we ship Mr. Lee to London for trial, and he is presently being quartered in my brother’s care aboard the
Centurion
. However, we have received a letter from the rebels which has given us reason to delay any action regarding Mr. Lee. I must give credit to Mr. Washington for understanding the rules of war. It seems that he has close at hand five Hessian officers of high rank. He states that our treatment of Mr. Lee shall influence his treatment of the Hessians. It is an appropriate demand. Mr. Lee shall remain in shipboard in New York until such time as he might be exchanged.”

Cornwallis smiled now.

“I should imagine that prospect concerns Mr. Lee. If we don’t hang him, Mr. Washington might. However, five Hessian officers is too great a price for the rebels to part with on his account.”

Howe shrugged. “Perhaps. It is not our concern at the moment.” The matter had passed, and Howe looked around the room, motioned to an aide, and a map was unrolled on the table. Cornwallis leaned close, saw the line of the Hudson River northward, Albany, and farther up, Lake Champlain. Howe said, “Lord Germain has given his approval to General Burgoyne’s plan.”

Cornwallis was confused, had heard brief rumors about Burgoyne and some new strategy, but had no idea Burgoyne was anywhere close to the colonies.

“Sir, excuse me, but . . . General Burgoyne?”

Howe’s face showed a curl of annoyance, said, “Yes, General. Gentleman Johnny has been busy. You may have thought he has been in London, more concerned with his writing than his military career. But it seems he is instead scripting a role for himself in this war. With all respects to Lord Germain, General Burgoyne has charmed his way into the hearts of the ministry. He is presently preparing to move a force of seven thousand British and Hessian troops southward from Canada, through Lake Champlain, overland to the Hudson River and down to Albany. With this accomplished, New York will be under the crown’s control, and New England will be severed from the remaining colonies. Gentlemen Johnny will thus have crushed the rebellion.”

There was no enthusiasm in Howe’s words, and Cornwallis could see frowns now, some of the men around him uncomfortable with Howe’s sarcasm. Cornwallis scanned the map, absorbed the plan.

To one side a voice, Charles Grey’s, said, “Sir, with all respects, this plan has, as you say, been sanctioned by Lord Germain. But it has also received the approval of His Majesty. I do not believe I am alone in this room when I say I have utmost respects for the abilities of General Burgoyne. This plan is sound, and could very well bring the rebels to capitulation.” There were nods, murmurs of approval, and Cornwallis stared at the map as he sorted out the words, more comments supporting Burgoyne. He was surprised at the dissension, more surprised that Howe was letting them have their say.

John Burgoyne had served with Howe and Clinton in Boston, as subordinates to Thomas Gage. But while Howe and Clinton had pressed forward their plans for defeating the budding rebellion, Burgoyne had spent much of his time engaged in his passion for writing plays, while at the same time, he sent a continuous stream of complaints to London, decrying the efficiency and abilities of his fellow generals. He was the oldest of the group, and to many, including William Howe, he had an inflated notion of his abilities. After the debacle at Breed’s Hill, Burgoyne went to Canada, helping Governor Guy Carleton defend against rebel invasions of the valuable colony. But the Canadian winters held no appeal, and Burgoyne had returned to England.