The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [159]
When the congress again fled Philadelphia, they carried fresh dispatches from up north, the first reports of the struggle Horatio Gates was waging against Burgoyne. It was one report in particular that gave Washington’s critics fresh ammunition. Word came of a victory against the British, a place called Freeman’s Farm, that had halted Burgoyne’s campaign and possibly placed Burgoyne’s army in some jeopardy. There could be no quick confirmation, but those who were speaking out against Washington took advantage, some already making a champion of Gates, the man some felt was the most likely to achieve some success in this war. With Charles Lee still in the hands of the British, many had begun to anoint Gates as the new savior, the one man certainly capable of finding the victory that had so eluded the helpless Washington.
AS HE HAD DONE AT CHESTER, WASHINGTON WAITED FOR THE DARKNESS and walked among the campfires. His gloom was absolute, a dark chasm of private despair that he would not inflict upon the men at his headquarters. After the fight at Germantown, the army had extended their march to nearly forty-five miles in two days, a stunning display of energy from men who were still without shoes and much of anything to eat. For two days they had collapsed around Shippack Creek in heaps of exhaustion, recovering not just from that one extraordinary march, but from the weeks of marching and fighting, the constant pursuit and escape from Howe’s army.
He moved along a thin line of trees, stepped into the open where the campfires flickered in a ragged pattern across the fields. He heard the crack of a twig behind him, did not turn, knew it was the guards, keeping their discreet distance. He knew that Tilghman would not let him just wander off, would send at least a few of the handpicked Virginians to follow him. Thank you, Mr. Tilghman. With you in my camp, I have no need of a Guardian Angel. He could not blame the young aide, knew that where the lookouts were posted, a nervous sentry might see this large man slipping quietly through darkness and make a tragic mistake. No, Mr. Tilghman, I will not endanger myself.
He moved closer to the nearest fire, the light catching a row of dark bundles, realized it was men sleeping in the open. He moved away, would not disturb them, saw movement around another fire, a man standing up, another coming out of a small tent. He stayed back, heard their voices now, more men gathering close, and he could see something on the ground between them, playing cards, a game of some sort. He did not approve of gambling in the camps, had seen too many fights, had issued too many orders for punishment for such a destructive activity. But exercises in discipline seemed meaningless now. He could not deprive these men of anything they needed, not after his latest mistake, another battle whose failure cut a deep swath through any optimism he could muster. He thought of Greene, Sullivan, Knox, the men he must rely on, must hold to the