The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [140]
HOWE HAD ALLOWED THREE DAYS OF REST FOR THE GRATEFUL SOLDIERS, who regained their stamina in relative quiet along the banks of the Chesapeake. The supply officers had been busy, organizing the Head of Elk into a massive depot for provisions, unloading the extraordinary amount of equipment from the huge armada of transports. As the camps were erected, there had been sightings of rebel troops, but no combat. Cornwallis had seen the reports from the scouting parties. They were hardly troops at all, small companies of local militia, led by no one who seemed willing to risk an encounter. It was far different from the camps in New Jersey, where his men were harassed and tormented by riflemen with deadly aim.
Despite the peacefulness of the camps at Head of Elk, Cornwallis was as eager to move as his men. His division would lead the advance, seven thousand men who finally seemed fit for a new campaign. They marched away from Head of Elk on August 28, led by Tory guides, the only men among them who had any idea what might lie ahead.
From the first day out of New York Harbor, the weather had been insufferably hot, and the ships had become steaming ovens, their decks too small to accommodate the sheer numbers of men who suffered beneath them. Once dry land was beneath their feet, the morale of the troops had soared, but there was little relief from the heat, and the enthusiasm for the march had quickly drained away. They moved northeast, past wide swamps and patches of scrub forest, the air dense and wet, swarming with insects. After several days, Howe had granted them the privilege of marching at night, but the darkness did not cool the air, and there was no breeze to carry away the invisible pests. As the men grew accustomed to starlight, the march seemed to pick up momentum. There had even been music again, drummers setting the cadence, fifes and bugles and bagpipes carrying the men forward. But then, the rains came.
SEPTEMBER 8, 1777
Cornwallis pulled his coat tighter around him. It was not a chill, but the soaking wetness of his uniform. The wind was flailing the trees above him, the darkness complete. Despite the effort of his staff, no lantern was surviving the gale. He had given up trying to see anything, no need to look ahead, nothing in front of him but soldiers, each man keeping to the road by following the tracks of the man in front of him. Still he would make the attempt, the rain pelting his face, driving hard into his eyes. He leaned forward in the saddle, lowered his head, tried to blink the water away, but he knew immediately that it was a mistake, a gust of wind driving a stream of warm water under his collar, down his back. He sat upright again, twisted slightly in the saddle. The slow rocking of the horse was scraping him from below, the soaking wetness turning his undergarments into harsh rags. He tried to find a comfortable position, settle into the rhythm of the horse’s gait, but the animal seemed as miserable as he was, picked its way through the mud with uneasy steps.
The horse was new to him, one of the few that had survived the journey. It had dismayed him to see the horses coming ashore, emaciated animals disembarking from their own small fleet of flatboats. He had seen the staggering animals led by their handlers, sad men whose duty gave way to pity, leading the horses to patches of green, any kind of grass the animals would try to eat. After a short time, Cornwallis could not watch them, had turned away from the pitiful sight of exposed ribs, hollow stomachs. The length of time the ships spent at