The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [13]
There had been a brisk skirmish near Cornwallis’ camp, a unit of Hessian grenadiers actually surprised by a sudden burst of fire from a column of rebels. The fight had little consequence, and the Hessians, under their commander Karl von Donop, had pushed the rebels back into the woods with little effort. But the outburst had prodded Cornwallis to prod Howe. It was time to move.
It had been a long meal, a generous offering by the DeNuys family, as well as masses of food brought in from local farms, more Tories welcoming the army into their territory. Howe had been nearly giddy, thanking them in the name of the king, inspired by the eruption of support that flowed through the camps. Cornwallis had enjoyed the meal as they all had, but it was past now, and his impatience had begun to grow. Finally, after too many toasts of good wine, even Howe could not avoid the purpose of this meeting, to talk of what they must do next.
The scouts had made their reports, local men who could draw the maps, lay out the routes for the army to follow. Cornwallis had waited as long as he could, observed the protocol, could not begin any discussion of the business of the war without some cue from Howe. But the time had come, and he retrieved a map from beneath the table, spread it out. He studied the lines, made an effort to pay polite attention to the conversation around the long table, servants darting quickly behind them, tea and wine still flowing. Across from him, de Heister watched through tired eyes, and Cornwallis caught the look, thought, He will wait. He wants me to begin.
At the head of the table Howe was writing a note, handed it to an aide, said something in a low giggling voice, and Cornwallis looked down, pretended not to notice. It was an annoying practice, and Cornwallis could say nothing about it. It was not his place to judge. It was common knowledge that the commanding general would carry on with his mistress, love letters and silly notes, passed through the headquarters as though by schoolchildren. Cornwallis didn’t believe himself prudish, but the presence of the women, bright flowery ornaments for the arms of the officers, made him uncomfortable. It was a parade of foppish finery, the gathering of trophies that some of the men seemed to require. He knew that his view was distinctly in the minority, that his devotion to his wife, though she was three thousand miles away, made him the exception. But it was the commanding general who set the standard, who seemed to be the most affected. Howe had made a conquest of one of his own officers’ wives, rewarding the unfortunate subordinate with a promotion and soft duty in return for erasing the man’s honor at having his wife become General Howe’s bauble. Cornwallis would never comment, of course, and tried to avoid even a furtive glance, something that would be interpreted as disapproval. It was not his place. And, despite the distraction, sooner or later the commanding general would have to focus on the matter at hand.
He glanced again at Howe, who now seemed receptive to the men at the table. Howe noticed the map, and Cornwallis said, “General, with your permission, I have examined the terrain. This map confirms what I have seen.” He waited, could not launch into a full-scale talk on strategy unless Howe gave him the opening. Clinton was beside him, began to nod, his own show of relief that the talk was turning away from the merely social. Howe took the cue, said, “Please continue, General. I enjoy a good plan.”
“From the reports we have received from Lord Admiral Howe, and from the civilian sources, the rebel position is here.” He pointed to the map. “They have placed themselves with their backs against the East River, and have moved advance forces into positions that extend their front line . . . here. There are four approaches to that position. Four roads we can use. The rebels are in a defensive