The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [183]
THE RECEPTION HAD BEEN BOISTEROUS, A DINNER IN THE MESS CABIN that was as lavish as any they could assemble. The senior officers had all come, and Washington could see that the towering Virginian had lost none of his flair for dramatics. He enjoyed the tales of Morgan’s long march, knew some were more tall than others. Throughout the long evening, the huge man’s antics gave the entire command a blessed distraction from the difficulties in the camp, and Washington knew tomorrow he would hear of the antics of Morgan’s men, a certain distraction for the rest of the army as well. Nearly three years earlier, Morgan had been the first Virginian to march soldiers to Boston, his sharpshooting riflemen the first company of southern troops to join New England’s effort against the British. They had been a rowdy and undisciplined lot, had tormented Washington with their drunken brawls. But their reputation for astounding marksmanship, and the hard line with which they faced the enemy excused their behavior. When Burgoyne’s march toward Ticonderoga seemed a desperate crisis, congress had found comfort in sending Horatio Gates. Washington had felt more comfort in sending Daniel Morgan.
IT WAS VERY LATE, AND HE HAD SENT MOST OF HIS STAFF TO THEIR QUARTERS. One by one, the senior officers had offered their compliments, some finding difficulty in the climb to their saddles, struggling through an alcoholic haze. With the party nearly over, he had invited Morgan to the main house. He waited for a final good-bye, Morgan shouting something crude out the door, horses moving away, and Washington moved out of the hall, into his office. Greene followed, and Morgan was quickly there, his laughter subdued now by the change in location. The light was soft, the fire low in the hearth, and Morgan seemed to understand that the house was quiet, that the time for festivities had passed.
Washington pointed to a stout wooden chair, and Morgan dropped down, leaned the chair back, a precarious perch, and Greene laughed, said, “I must say, Daniel, you do take a toll on the furniture.”
Greene sat as well, and Morgan produced a bottle from his belt, held it up to the firelight, frowned at the emptiness, said, “Furniture is meant to be used, Nat. Like this brew. We’ve used a good bit of this tonight.” He set the bottle on the small table beside him, said to Washington, “You have some men of great capacity in your command, George. Haven’t known too many generals to survive for long with such an appetite for spirits. That quality is best reserved for the foot soldier.”
Washington smiled at the informality, Morgan’s trademark, the man’s words slurred more by his lack of teeth than any injury from the alcohol.
“We do not often imbibe to this degree, Daniel. It is not . . . encouraged. However, this was a special occasion. With all you have heard this evening, I would add my own salute. Welcome back.”
“Wouldn’t be anywhere else, George. That fat little sparrow not to my taste as a commander.”
Greene seemed to light up at the description, smiled broadly, said, “We do exercise some caution here, Daniel. We’re too close to his friends in congress to offer such frank commentary on General Gates. He is, after all, the hero of Saratoga.”
Morgan sniffed, frowned again, and Washington could see that Morgan did not find the comment amusing. Washington said, “I should like to hear your account of those days, Daniel. Most of congress, and from what I hear, much of the nation feels Mr. Gates is our best hope for victory.”
Morgan stood up suddenly, the chair rattling behind him, tumbling to one side.
“Your damned congress knows as much about fighting . . . by God! The hero of Saratoga? Well, of course, it was simple to predict how his reputation would come bursting out of that place. He’s down there in York right now, no doubt filling them with all his grand exploits. Sparrow was too kind, George. The man is a . . . vulture. Lives off the efforts of everyone else. Keeps himself out of danger, while his men do the work. That