Victory at Yorktown: A Novel (13 page)

Paine stared straight at Peter.

“There is fear in Congress as well that Washington barely has control over his army, that it is on the verge of mutiny yet again, as it did at Morristown a year ago. That,” and now he hesitated, “some whisper that Washington is another Caesar or Cromwell, biding his time and waiting for the right moment to sweep down on this city and seize the government for himself, and then it will be ‘all hail Caesar Washington.’”

Peter sat back in his chair now absolutely confused. He had come into this tavern an hour ago to have a single mug of beer to fill his stomach and settle his nerves regarding Elizabeth before riding on. Now this additional burden?

“That fear, sir,” Peter snapped, “is obscene. I have been part of his headquarters guard and staff since Trenton. That man would die rather than do such an ignoble thing. He would die first.”

Peter had raised his voice in anger so that several turned to stare at him.

Paine extended his hand in calming gesture.

“But the state of the armies?”

“It is true some mutinied and many deserted, your sunshine Patriots, sir,” Peter replied sharply, “but there is still a hard core of us winter soldiers left who would stand by our general’s side if such a crisis ever came. Which it will not if only Congress would pay men who give all at least a few shillings to send home to their families rather than more paper that is fit for only one use.”

Paine laughed softly at that, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a wad of such money.

“A couple of thousand last time I counted, and like you, I see it fit for but one use. If you care for some to ease your comfort while you ride, do take it,” and laughing Paine tossed more than five hundred dollars of currency on the table.

Peter angrily brushed them off, sending them scattering, hardly anyone stirred except for an old drunk with rheumy eyes who cackled his thanks and taking the supposed money tried to negotiate with the barkeep for a drink.

“As to real money. All plead that the government is broke,” Paine sighed, “and frankly, after living in this city all these years, I half believe them, though I know of more than a few who have slipped out to country estates to bury what coin they have and then sit things out.”

The two fell silent for a moment.

“What would you have me tell my general?” Peter finally asked.

“Tell him this is the year he must end it. If he does not, Congress will end it for him, that or the coalition of confederation will fall apart into separate peaces for the South, Middle States, and North. If this scheme of Greene’s has even a remote chance, grab for it with the audacity he showed on the Delaware. This nation of basically good people has fought itself to exhaustion against the greatest power on earth, but no struggling republic can endure a war that appears to drag on forever. I leave for France today, I’ll carry over the truth about Guilford Court House, and maybe even prod along the idea that if the French want out of this, which I know they surely do after three years of little return and tens of millions of livre spent by them, that now is the year for them to coalesce around a unified plan and act with audacity.”

Paine smiled.

“Audacity. Yes that is the word. Audacity, to risk all in ’81 on a single throw of the dice might be the only chance we have, otherwise we shall lose this war.”

The door to the tavern opened, a brawny sailor half stepping in.

“Tide turns in the hour, those shipping out, get aboard.”

Paine sighed.

“Damn how I hate sea travel, damn near killed me last time.”

He pulled a shilling out of his pocket and tossed it to the barkeep as he headed to the door, pointing to the old drunk, and motioned for him to give the old man a drink. Peter followed by his side.

“Audacity,” Paine muttered, and stuffing his hands into his coat pockets he staggered off.

An hour later Peter was mounted on a halfway decent mount and thankful to be out of the city, though as conflicted now about Elizabeth as he was about everything else he had heard this day.

*   *   *

Washington watched as the door closed, thanking the young colonel yet again for his diligence and speed in bearing his reports. To ride the distance from North Carolina to here in just five days was a remarkable act of endurance, and of youth, one he might have attempted twenty years ago, but not now. It was still two hours before dawn, Hamilton having awakened him feeling that Wellsley’s news was worth interrupting the general’s sleep.

He had ordered that Hamilton draw up a quick announcement, to be immediately circulated to all the troops, along with the firing of a salute in honor of General Greene and his gallant men, and a dispatch to be drawn up and sent over to the commander of French forces in North America, Rochambeau, who was based near Newport, Rhode Island. It was essential to get his own version out first before the false rumors that Peter claimed were racing about reached this camp.

He laid back down on his cot and stared at the dark ceiling. Wellsley was to write up a full report and return with it tomorrow after taking a bed upstairs and rest the entire day. He had, though, shown a sharp sense for detail and memory under rapid-fire questioning as to the state of Greene’s men, their morale, and why he had decided to abandon the field rather fight it out to a bloody finish. Then the additional disturbing news about the conversation with Thomas Paine.

Of course some in Congress, still part of Gate’s supporters, would denigrate Greene and call it a defeat. Combine that with word that some in Congress were, indeed, now sniffing the air for a negotiated peace was what struck the hardest.

Peter had even quoted Paine directly, saying he urged “audacity.”

But audacity where? Any attempt to take Manhattan while a British fleet lay at anchor in the harbor was utter folly. He had learned that in the near-fatal mistake of trying to hold the city back in ’76, forced to try to defend everywhere, and thus holding nowhere as the British so easily moved men and artillery back and forth, nearly cutting him to pieces. Yet if he moved from here to try to force the issue in the South, then Clinton, backed by the fleet along the tidal waters of the Hudson, could launch a summer campaign to take the fortress at West Point, sail clear to Albany, cut off New England, and take New York out of the war.

He had hoped Clinton would try another campaign against Philadelphia for on the open fields of New Jersey he would come storming down on their lines of supply and seek then a battle of decision.

Audacity? But audacity where? Greene offered a scheme but it was based on so many ifs. If Cornwallis marches north rather than east or back south, if he can at least be contained, if the French fleets stir and come north as he has begged for two years for them to do.

Audacity. He sighed. The hardest thing in war, and his personal nature was to wait. He would have to wait. But for how long? While waiting, would Congress fold first?

Five

PHILLIPSBURG, NEW YORK

AUGUST 14, 1781

6:00
A.M.

“If we do not win this war before the year is out, we will most certainly lose it.”

That thought, which he never dared to voice to those around him, had come to haunt nearly every waking moment.

As was his custom, General George Washington, before taking breakfast at headquarters, would walk alone through the encampment area of his army, the Continental army of the United States. It was a way for him to collect his thoughts before the start of another laborious eighteen-hour day, to observe his troops and in that indefinable way, “sense” their mood, their morale, their willingness to keep on fighting. It was, as well, a time to try to purge away the nightmare thoughts of impending defeat. He had to keep his outward appearance calm, in control, for a commanding general was, indeed, an actor upon the stage. One misspoken word, one display of depression and fear of defeat could shatter an entire army within hours as surely as any battle.

This morning, however, it felt impossible to shake the terrible realization of the reality confronting him. After six years of bitter struggle, the will of the army of the nation was at low ebb, perhaps worse even than in the weeks before the victory at Trenton. Then, it had been the result of the shocking blows endured by the loss of New York City to the British and their Hessian hirelings, but it was a morale Washington had been able to rebuild with one risky shake of the dice that resulted in victory. What he faced now was more lethal, like a slow-growing cancer. It was pure exhaustion and war weariness. After six years, the end was nowhere in sight. The will of his army and of Congress to continue the fight was collapsing.

The report carried to him by Colonel Wellsley of his conversation with Thomas Paine, that peace feelers were out, via Catherine of Russia, was, indeed, true, and more than a few in Congress were openly sniffing at the bait.

A negotiated peace in which there would finally be a craven collapsing, a return to the empire in exchange for an offer of pardon for the temerity to seek independence. All the years of sacrifice of life and treasure for a quick selling out.

While after that selling out, a gradual tightening of the screws of repression. Leaders would flee in spite of the offer of pardons, generations might pass before the same war would have to be fought again by our grandchildren at a far more bloody cost.

Washington had received General Greene’s private thoughts via Peter Wellsley, who he had reassigned back to his role of keeping watch on New Jersey. It had all sounded so clear and optimistic at that moment, but in that same report of Greene’s victory were his words, according to Paine, and then reinforced across this summer by other still trusted advisers in Congress that there was, indeed, a leaning toward a negotiated peace.

Many in that body, encouraged by Gates, were denouncing Greene for what they called a lost opportunity at Guilford Court House. It had devolved into a massive defeat, a rout, allowing Cornwallis to now venture freely into southern Virginia while Greene just marched off in the opposite direction back into the Carolinas.

Greene’s dreamlike plan had captivated his imagination, but faced with the current reality, it seemed to be nothing more than a dream. Cornwallis, as Greene had predicted, did, indeed, finally move into Virginia to establish a base on the Chesapeake, and with the claim that having all but subdued the Carolinas, his intent, by linking up with the forces led by Benedict Arnold, was to take Virginia out of the war. By last reports Cornwallis had soundly checked Lafayette, who he had dispatched with some of his own best troops to counter this new force led by the traitor Arnold,

The thought of what was now transpiring was sickening, intolerable, reminiscent of the interminable struggles that wracked both Greece and Rome throughout their long-storied histories. If he could not bring this war to a close, or at least a clear decision this year, Congress would seek peace. One war would but settle the issue for the moment, and then within a few years, a generation at most, yet another war would erupt to consume another generation, until finally Greece had collapsed from the global stage and Rome had devolved into an empire. This war seemed destined not to end as a clear definitive win that settled it once and for all, but at best, a half victory. Now he felt that hope of victory slipping further and further away with this damnable stalemate of the last two years.

Clinton was ensconced in comfort and heavily fortified in New York City, as dug into that as deep as a tick on a dog. Supplies flowed in from England to them on a daily basis. A reconnaissance force he had sent out just a few days before was easily repulsed. The report was that even if he had three times the number now directly under his command it would be a doomed bloodbath to try to take the city by storm.

The English controlled the seas, and with Cornwallis united with Arnold on the Chesapeake, with a deepwater port at his back at Yorktown he could hold out there forever, if need be, reinforced with supplies and whatever additional troops England might finally send.

Clinton in New York City and Cornwallis on the Chesapeake were their two main forces and strongholds. Though Greene soldiered on gallantly in the Carolinas, the enemy still held Charleston and Savannah, with Loyalists throughout the South and as far north as New Jersey engaged in brutal murder and countermurder by avenging Patriots, both sides tearing each other apart. Washington wondered, even if they won, could the wounds ever be healed now? It had all plunged a nation, filled with such high and glorious hope but six years ago, into sullen depression, like a patient fighting a long illness who could not muster the strength to recover, but who after such a long painful struggle, just simply wished to let life slip away.

He walked through the encampments of the New York and New Jersey “lines.” The troops were respectful enough. Men hunched around campfires cooking their morning ration of salt pork and hardtack, coming to attention, saluting, but saying little. Few smiles, just the formality of salutes returned, but after he passed more than one voice whispered, just loud enough to be heard, “When in hell are we gonna get paid?”

Pay, shoes, and uniforms: His bane ever since the start of this war. The winter before, encamped in Morristown, New Jersey, three brigades had mutinied at one point. A regiment still somewhat loyal had deployed to face them with loaded muskets, bayonets fixed, and for a terrifying moment he had feared the entire army would disintegrate into a full pitched battle against one another. The rebellion had been suppressed and its two ring leaders hanged, but in the days afterward men by the hundreds had simply deserted and gone home. When pay was offered with the usual Continental scrip, the paymaster was met with derisive howls and most of the alleged “money” burned or used for more practical purposes. After years of his appeals, and endless wrangling through various committees, the creation of an office of a single treasurer and paymaster for what was now called “the Confederation” had actually passed. Robert Morris, a man who was rumored to have been made rich through war profiteering, now held that coveted post. Whether it was for his own personal gain or for the good of this army had yet to be seen.