The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [150]
He knew there would be noisy outrage about this day, if not in his own camp then certainly from the congress, hasty calls for blame, some falling on John Sullivan. He would not listen to any of that, would do everything to deflect the responsibility from anyone in his command. There can be only one man responsible for this kind of failure. If the congress must pass judgment, they will do so on me, not on these soldiers. He turned away from the fire, could not escape the irony, the one talent in the boy that his brother had felt such pride. Washington knew maps, could survey the land as well as anyone in Virginia. And on this day, the defeat, the collapse had come for want of one good map.
Cheney had been right about that as well, that the maps Washington had were both inaccurate and incomplete. He knew the name now, not just from the strange dark man, but from Sullivan’s officers. Jeffries Ford was barely two miles above Sullivan’s position, not twelve, and if Washington knew nothing of it, Howe certainly did. By the time Sullivan realized he was outflanked, the British artillery was already firing into his lines.
The staff was putting his headquarters together, and Washington knew they were preparing some sort of supper, whatever could be gathered together. He turned away from the fire, his eyes blinded by the darkness, thickened by exhaustion. He blinked hard, wiped his face with dirty hands, heard a voice behind him.
“May I intrude, sir?”
Washington looked for the face, his eyes still adjusting, but the voice was familiar.
“You are not intruding, Mr. Lafayette. Is the supper prepared?”
“Very soon, sir. I thought I should see to your service. May I get you something?”
The young man’s face was lit by the glow of fire, and Washington began to walk, saw Lafayette following him, the Frenchman moving with a pronounced limp. He stopped, said, “Are you injured, General?”
Lafayette put a hand on his leg, said, “A minor wound, sir. It is wrapped securely. It is proof that the British are poor marksmen. No one would purposely shoot a man performing such minor duties as myself.”
It was pure modesty. Washington knew that Lafayette had ridden out through Sullivan’s retreat, had rallied the men into defensive lines, had done as much as anyone on the field to keep the army in good order.
“I should like to examine that wound myself, Mr. Lafayette. We should not chance carelessness. This army cannot afford to lose the services of its most able officers.”
He strained to see the bandage, could tell only that it was tied in a bundle above the young man’s boot top. He realized Lafayette was staring at him, and the young man said, “You embarrass me with the compliment, sir.”
Washington straightened, said, “The embarrassment is mine. No, that is too generous. The shame is mine. This army deserved more from its commander.”
Lafayette did not respond, and he was grateful for the silence. He did not want this exchange of platitudes, meaningless conversation to soothe the wounds to his pride. He began to walk again, slowly, allowing for the young man’s limp. Lafayette said, “May I inquire, sir, what you were doing? Were you speaking to the men?”
“No, I was . . . listening, actually. I thought perhaps it would be a good thing, that I should walk among the men and hear their words.”
“If I may be allowed to ask, sir, what did you expect to hear?”
Washington looked down, thought a moment.
“Anger. Despair. After today, I wonder how many of them will be driven to desert. I hoped to dissuade them, convince them that this was not their defeat.”
Lafayette stopped, and Washington saw him massaging his leg, and the young man said, “I have heard nothing like that.”
“No, I can’t say I did either. Surprising.”
“I cannot agree, sir. This army knows defeat, and it knows victory. I have heard the stories of your militia leaving the field in great