The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [188]
“That is troublesome, Martha. I was not aware . . .”
“Old Man, as long as I am your wife, I will help you any way I can. You are suffering so from the vanity and foolishness of those men. When you went to the first congress, it seemed very different. Your letters said nothing of meanness and backbiting.”
He moved to a small table, poured water from a stout pitcher into a small cup. He drank, set the cup down, said, “So many of the good men have simply gone home. The congress is very different now. The men who made the first journey to Philadelphia, they were statesmen, they brought a spirit that no one expected, that no one had ever seen. The debates between John Adams and Mr. Dickinson . . . Martha, it was as if God himself was speaking to us, enlightening us to what man could accomplish. In the end, nearly every man in that hall believed we could change the course of history, that we could create a revolution that could affect all of mankind. It was extraordinary, and it was somewhat frightening. You know when they selected me for this command, I did not go to Boston with much faith in my abilities. I feared that those men had made a grievous error. Now, so many of them have returned to their homes, their own lives, as though the job of building this nation is complete. Many in the congress now are men of ambition and petty concerns, their minds consumed with simplistic notions of war and command. They plot and scheme behind my back. The idealism has been replaced by the mundane.”
She slid out of the bed, moved across the small room toward the growing fire, stared into the flames.
“You can always come home. Mount Vernon could use your strong hands.”
“How can I abandon my post? I am surprised you would even suggest . . . I should retire, in the midst of this crisis? What of this army, what of the men loyal to my command? I have a duty here . . .” His voice was rising, and she turned, was smiling at him.
“You see? It is still important to you, no matter what happens in congress.”
His hand was hanging in midair, the unfinished gesture, and he dropped it to his side, shook his head. She moved toward him.
“You will do what is right, Old Man. You will not allow congress or Thomas Mifflin or even Horatio Gates to keep you from your duty.” She turned toward the window, could see a gray light, pointed.
“You will do what they require of you. I know very little of congress, except that few of them have ever been soldiers. Despite all their intrigue and pettiness, they must respect that. This is, after all, a war. This country is not depending on the congress, they are depending on the army, they are looking to you. Those men in York are simply envious of that.”
“But I have not given this country, or the congress the one thing they know of war, the one thing they expect of their army. Victories.”
“Do you have faith in these men?”
He looked toward the gray light of the window.
“If this army is fed and clothed, if they are led by good officers, they will defeat anyone on this earth.”
“Then you know what you must do. You must see to their food and clothing. The officers . . . I don’t believe they will disappoint. They are led by you.”
GREENE RODE BESIDE HIM, AND THEY MOVED OUT AWAY FROM THE house, followed the roadway blackened by the wheels of the army. His breath was a white fog, the morning air biting his face, an icy dampness. He led Greene out through the open ground beyond the cabins of his guards, along the base of the low hill, past the stumps of cut trees, long gone for lumber and firewood. They moved past the blacksmith shed, could hear the sharp strike of steel on steel, the men whose work never stopped, the constant repairs to wagons and equipment. They continued up the rise, out on the crest, the artillery park on the left, Knox’s guns arranged in neat rows, the brass barrels glistening under a thin layer of ice. He could see across much of the camp, the morning mist gray with the smoke from the cabins. He had