The Glorious Cause (28 page)

The ships in the harbor had continued their strange game, and Greene continued to observe them, the obvious trickery, sails going north, then south, as though Howe expected Washington to uproot his army to follow every feint. Then a letter had come to headquarters, captured in the hand of a spy. The man claimed to be traveling to Burgoyne, overland, when everyone in camp knew that the British dispatches were moving far quicker by water. The spy had stumbled down a road clearly controlled by Washington’s guards, claimed to have been lost, and the letter he carried in his pocket was written in a code so simple, the sergeant who carried him to headquarters had already broken it. Washington read the letter with disguised amusement, made a loud pronouncement to the spy that the captured dispatch was an invaluable piece of intelligence. The supposed spy had been released, and the guard posts were discreetly ordered to allow the man to make his way to whatever boat would carry him back to General Howe. He would certainly report his mission a success, that Washington had captured the details of Howe’s explicit plan. The document was a detailed letter to Burgoyne, stating that Howe’s army would board their ships and sail north, supporting Burgoyne’s march by first invading Boston, the very harbor that Howe himself had once abandoned. With the spy long gone, Washington had called his commanders together, and there had been no debate. When Greene returned to his men, the British ships were raising sails, were already heading out to sea. Howe’s absurd charade only convinced Washington what they had already suspected. The British were on their way to Philadelphia.

21. WASHINGTON

J
ULY 31, 1777

The army had halted at the river crossings above Trenton, waiting for his order to advance into Pennsylvania. As confident as Washington was that Philadelphia was Howe’s target, he could not escape his nagging discomfort of marching so much of his strength away from the Hudson River.

The British were masters of the sail, and the spies in New York estimated that Howe’s fleet numbered well over two hundred ships, from the large men-o-war, down to the small gunboats. Movement on that scale was difficult at best, and any inclement weather could cause chaos for so many ships moving in unison along the same route. The fleet would surely take the shortest path, minimizing their vulnerability, and the one direct artery that led to Philadelphia was the Delaware River.

Washington had constructed small outposts along the river on the southern New Jersey shore, fortified positions that were unlikely to keep the British away, but could at least give Washington the information he was so anxious to receive. Once Howe’s fleet was spotted, Washington could feel much more secure about marching his army into Pennsylvania.

For over a week nothing had been heard, and he rode through the streets of Trenton exercising his nervousness, waiting for any word of the location of Howe’s massive force. Much of the damage in town had been repaired, few signs remaining of the battles, or from the occupation by the British and Hessian troops. Most of the citizens were back to their daily routine, and when the homes were empty, or the storefronts shuttered, it was presumed that the owners were Tories, many of whom had escaped the wrath of their neighbors by fleeing to New York.

His troops were kept outside of town, no need to risk any kind of confrontation with the citizens. But the activity in the streets showed no sign that these people were at war with anybody. He rode past merchants who mostly ignored him, took the horse down along the Assunpink, crossed the bridge his men had fought so hard to control. He prodded the horse up the ridge, could still see patches of blackened ash, where his men had built their great campfires, disguising his march toward Princeton. He did not stop, had already moved beyond the memory, could not focus on a victory now long past. The details in his mind were on what lay ahead, the anguish at Howe’s disappearance, the message the next courier might bring. He knew there was only one certainty for his army. Along the Delaware River, they were completely removed from Howe’s strategy, caught in between the possibilities. There might be clumsiness in the movements of the naval armada, but there was also strength. There were British troops still in New York, but Washington knew that Howe had been reinforced by London, could have nearly twenty thousand troops on those ships, a great fist of power that could suddenly appear anywhere, could be landed ashore and marched inland long before Washington could maneuver to meet them. If he was wrong about Howe’s intent, Washington could not chance a march closer to Philadelphia. If Howe’s massive force suddenly appeared again in New York Harbor, not only the Hudson River Valley, but most of New Jersey could be captured, wrapped up under British control without much of a fight.

He eased the horse down toward the wide river, could see the boats were already in place, manned by the Marbleheaders, the fishermen who had not gone home. It was his one advantage, a smaller army crossing a river with its own craft. If Washington had to move his men quickly, the river would not delay his march, and if Howe surprised him, made a sudden push toward a confrontation, the river was a perfect defensive line.

He turned the horse, the hooves sloshing through the soft muddy ground, the men on the riverbank standing aside, some raising hats, low cheers, salutes. He could see that many were still barefoot, and it was not because of the mud. The cargo from the French ships had included shoes as well as an abundance of cloth, and the seamstresses around Morristown had made an extraordinary effort at producing new shirts and pants for the men. But nothing could be done with the shoes. For most of the men in his army, the shoes did not fit. The jokes had come, the men turning their irritation into humor, a variety of explanations why French feet were apparently so much smaller than those of the Americans. But if his troops had put their best face on the situation, to Washington it was yet another frustration, knowing that another long march had to be made by men whose bare feet could cripple the army. Worse, the autumn months would give way quickly to a new winter. Without adequate shoes, the men could not march at all.

He continued to ride along the riverbank, studied the boats, looked across the river, saw a few more scattered on the far bank. He moved past a larger Durham boat, saw one man standing out in the bow, holding a long fishing pole. The man suddenly tugged at something, the pole curving down to the water. The man let out a shout, his solitary battle suddenly churning the water around him. Washington stopped the horse, the staff holding back behind him, and he watched the combat, the man struggling to hold the pole out of the water. There was a large splash, and the man tumbled back into the boat, the pole in two pieces. Washington realized now the fisherman had attracted an audience, and the men around him began to laugh, some applauding. The fisherman struggled to his feet, frowning as he rubbed a bruised elbow, was suddenly aware of Washington.

“Oh, sir! Cursed thing got away! Busted my pole!”

Washington could not help a smile, a welcome break in his mood.

“What kind of fish was it, soldier?”

The troops around Washington were quiet now, sharing the fisherman’s surprise at the question. The man still nursed the pain in his elbow, said, “It weren’t no Tory fish, I can tell you that, sir. They just float right on up and beg you to take ’em in. No fun a’tall. Had to be an American fish. Nothin’ else put up that kind of scrap.”

The men around him began to cheer, and Washington still smiled, knew it was all for his benefit, an overdone show.

“Thank you, soldier. Best leave the American fish alone. These rivers need plenty of scouts.”

He nudged the horse, began to move again, the troops returning to their work. He tried to recall the last time he had gone fishing, stepping through the mud and rocks of the Potomac, the details long forgotten. He was not a good fisherman, was more in love with his land than the water it touched, had envied those who were so skilled.

His smile began to fade, and he turned away from the river, glanced back at the staff, Tilghman suddenly up beside him.

“Sir? May I be of service?”

The young man was always serious, and Washington said, “You a fisherman, Mr. Tilghman?”

The young man absorbed the surprising question.

“Uh, somewhat, sir. Much younger. Been a long time, sir.”

“I should like to know how to do that. I am told that the Potomac is quite full of fish, all varieties. Can you teach me?”

He saw a puzzled look on Tilghman’s face, and the young man said, “I would be honored to accompany you, sir.”

Washington looked ahead, thought of Howe, and his brother, a man who must certainly be at home on any water.

“All that time at sea. Do you suppose Admiral Howe takes the time to fish?”

There was a silent pause, Tilghman weighing his words.

“I don’t know, sir. May I get you something, sir? Are you feeling all right?”

The horse carried him up to the crest above the riverbank, and the image was firmly in his mind now, the Potomac, the sweeping view from the porch of Mount Vernon, orange sunsets painting the forests below the river.

“Sir?”

The soft daydream was pushed away by Tilghman’s voice, and the view of Trenton, the town spread out before him. He could see formations of troops, the officers following his orders to keep the men busy.

“No, thank you, Mr. Tilghman. We will speak of this at a later time. Be sure that the regimental commanders are instructed again. They will post provost guards on the roads. There will be no mischief in the town, the men must do nothing to anger the citizens. I do not know how long we must remain here.”

There was a horseman now, unarmed, no uniform, the man led by a squad of troops. Washington felt his heart jump, the troops now depositing the man close to him.

“Your Excellency, greetings, sir!”

It was a title Washington despised, and he frowned, but said nothing. He had tried to keep his staff from referring to him with such a regal salute, but there was one place where the word graced every document he received:
Congress
. The man was oblivious, said, “General Washington, I am here at the request of Congressman Morris. A courier has come to Philadelphia from your fortress on the Delaware cape. The congress is in quite a state, Your Excellency! Your presence is urgently required! The British fleet has been sighted!”

He felt his heart pounding, a flood of relief. Finally! It was no deception, no trickery after all. Howe has revealed his plan. He spun the horse, studied the faces of his aides.

“You will carry immediate word to the commanders. We will commence to cross the river with all speed, and march southward toward Philadelphia.” He looked at Tilghman now.

“Send a message to General Sullivan. Instruct him to prepare his division to march at the first word. He is to remain near the Hudson until I am absolutely certain of General Howe’s intentions. But he should be prepared to join us with all haste.”

He spurred the horse, moved toward his own camp, heard Tilghman issuing the specific instructions to each of his couriers. The word was already spreading to the men, and he rode past fresh shouts, salutes, but his mind was out in front of his army, detailing the plan for the next day, and beyond. The British would certainly sail as far upriver as their ships could navigate. The courier’s word struck him now:
fortress
. No, gentlemen, we have no such thing. But if we can march this army with dispatch, we can at least meet the enemy on ground of our own choosing. The congress will certainly make plans to leave the city, and that courier was correct. I must go there immediately, and advise them, do what I can to reassure them that this army is prepared. It appears the wait is over.

A
UGUST 1, 1777

As Washington made his way quickly to Philadelphia, the journey was being made from a different direction as well by a young man finding his way northward from the coast of the Carolinas. The man had come from France, his ship slipping through the porous blockade the British had thrown up around the American ports. His long ride would carry him first past dismal swamps and patches of flat farm country, worked by families who spoke less of war than of survival. As he pushed northward into Virginia, the land became more forgiving, and the people seemed to change as well, many more offering their encouragement to this young visitor. He received greetings and salutes of hope and encouragement that his mission was worthy, that somewhere to the north, a very good man was leading the American army in a desperate fight, a necessary fight. The young Frenchman was welcomed even more by the small towns along the rugged coast and waterways of Maryland, from people who had given so many of their own men to the fight, who believed still in the value of their cause, and who spoke as well of this man Washington, who bore the weight of their cause. When the young man reached Philadelphia, he found a city of loud voices, meeting rooms and taverns boiling with opinions, men freely offering their great pronouncements, solutions both wise and ridiculous, hot debates not of the value of the war itself, but of the quality of the men who commanded the fight. It was here that he heard the first angry attacks on Washington from those who championed other names unfamiliar to the young man, Gates and Lee and Arnold. It was unlike anything the young man had ever heard. The French army from which he had come would never be so outspoken against the authority of their king. America was a different land after all, and a land in the midst of a revolution with a spirit and substance that had appealed to him from his first readings of the words of Sam Adams and Tom Paine. He was not a soldier of fortune, had come from a family of some means in his own country. He was not a mere adventurer, though he would not avoid adventure. He did not come with the pretense of experience, though experience was his goal. Above all, he did not come to America to lord his supposed wisdom over Washington, the one man whose wisdom would determine so much.

During his time in Philadelphia, the young Frenchman had attended meetings and hearings in the congress, was flattered to be received as an honored guest, granted the opportunity to speak, to offer his services. He had hoped to ride northward, to find the camps of Washington’s army, but then came word from his hosts that Washington would soon be in the city, a pleasant surprise. He was flattered to receive an invitation to a dinner, and the promise of an introduction to Washington. Though he held a title in the French court, though he had dined in the very presence of his king, the opportunity actually to address the commanding general threw him into knots of nervousness. His lack of experience, his very youth was betraying him. He was, after all, not yet twenty years old.

The young man could not keep the nervousness away, dressed for the dinner with clumsy fingers fumbling with the fineries of French silk and lace. Throughout the long journey, he had worked on his English, and he continued to practice, stood in front of a narrow mirror rehearsing his introduction, a formal sweeping bow, then again, with no bow at all. The nervousness grew worse, and he tried to calm himself by speaking to the mirror, imagining the introduction to the great Washington, very soon now, and he made the bow again, one last time, said, “With your pleasure, General, I am Marie-Joseph-Paul-Yves-Roch-Gilbert du Motier, the Marquis de Lafayette.”