The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [175]
“Your country is proud of you. Your sacrifice will be rewarded, so help me God.”
He moved the horse, was past them, heard no cheers, no grateful salutes to his concern. Is it a lie, after all? If our country is proud of what we do, why have they not provided? How can they allow their soldiers to suffer the nakedness, to go without the basic comforts, or worse, the basic necessities of survival. He could see the headquarters now, the house nestled down near the junction of the river and the Valley Creek. For a long while he had kept to his tent, would not move into the house until the cabins had been built, would not allow his men to suffer in their tents while their commander lived in comfort. The gesture had been appreciated by the troops, but down in York, the congress could only criticize, letters condemning him for putting his men into camp at all. He had read the protests with a hard grip on his temper, fat men in wool suits, tobacco and brandy, soft leather chairs, insisting that his army should attack, and attack again. It was the consequence of the success of Horatio Gates, the simpleminded assumptions that one man’s victory can so easily be achieved on every front. If Washington’s army failed to win, it was only because they failed to attack, the mindless strategy of men whose only knowledge of war is the inconvenience of hearing about it.
He eased the horse down the slippery roadway, saw a man emerging from the house, then another, Hamilton, pointing up toward him now. The first man was quickly up on his horse, and Washington thought, I will be there in a moment. What could be so urgent that you cannot wait?
The man rode unsteadily up toward him, the horse struggling in the deeper snow, and Washington did not stop, was feeling the chill himself that had so plagued Tilghman. He recognized the man now, Major Deere, the quartermaster department, one of Mifflin’s people, rarely seen in the field. The man turned the horse, moved beside him, and Washington simply looked at him, said nothing.
“Sir! I have some unfortunate news!”
Washington said nothing, thought, Certainly. Why else be in such haste?
“The wagons have arrived with the latest victuals. There is a problem, however. It seems that in an effort to, um, lighten their load, the drivers drained the brine from the barrels of pork. I am sorry to report, sir, that the meat has . . . spoiled, sir.”
Washington sagged in the saddle, said, “How much meat?”
“I regret . . . all of it, sir.”
He closed his eyes, his head down, could not feel anger. His mind was a sea of fog, no words at all, just one vision, the bare feet of the shivering soldier. For all the shortages, food had not yet been a problem, the one item that the quartermaster had seemed to secure. At least the men had been fed, and if it was not always what they hoped for, no one had yet gone hungry. Washington rode the horse into the yard of the headquarters, an aide emerging to take the reins. He climbed down, his boots sinking into soft snow. He moved slowly toward the door of the house, climbed the short steps. He passed the flag, the dark blue square dotted by white stars, held up in a soft flutter by the light breeze. The door was open now, Hamilton standing to one side, waiting for him. The smoky warmth rolled toward him, and he moved into the hall, turned into his office, was surprised, pleased to see Lafayette, the young man rising out of his chair. He expected the usual smile from the Frenchman, but Lafayette looked at him with a somber frown.
“Yes,