The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [203]
The meetings with his commanders had become farcical, just like the one he had just concluded. No one would speak openly about anything that was not a safe subject, the old career men like Charles Grey and James Grant already secure enough in their retirement not to cause any ripples now. They all seemed to grow meeker with the absence of Cornwallis.
He could not deny the man’s request to sail to England, the same request that a year ago was preempted by Washington’s astounding success at Trenton. With Philadelphia secure, and the army firmly in winter quarters, Cornwallis had finally embarked in mid-December. Howe had heard nothing from his friends in London about any kind of intrigue or campaign by Cornwallis against him, thought, No, it is not his way. He has responsibilities of his own, and he is the one man in this command who truly misses his wife. He will enjoy his time there, as he well deserves to do. They will inquire of him though, Germain, North, perhaps even the king. They will seek his version of events, of my fitness for command. Surely he wants command of his own, would accept the promotion with enthusiasm. But it is not his way to conspire, certainly not with Burgoyne.
He finished the wine, set the glass aside, raised himself slowly out of the soft chair. He looked at another chair, the second one on his left. It was the position at the table where Cornwallis always sat, a strange tradition that Howe had never really noticed until recently. I rather miss the man, he thought. The others do as well. They sit around this room like so many stuffed pheasants, no one with an original idea. He will speak up, always has. He is not afraid of giving offense. It is not always the best sort of reputation to have. It has certainly damaged the regard this army has for Henry Clinton. Ah, but they are two different men. Clinton is a man driven by anger, a man who only wants to rule his roost, who will accept no counsel, no argument. It will likely serve him well. He is certainly next in line to this command. He moved to the tall windows, stared out at the empty street. He pictured Clinton in his mind, marching into headquarters like some rabid demon, his first task to sweep away any sign of William Howe. If that day is to come, I will not relish it. If there has been one advantage to our theater of war, it has been that Henry Clinton is far away from me. We have accomplished so much here, so many good fights, so much conquest. We sit here proudly in the enemy’s capital, their government vanquished, their army a rotting shambles. And yet, men like Clinton and Lord Germain, even my own generals, Knyphausen certainly, they believe we are losing this war. There is power in that kind of pessimism, the power to drain the fighting spirit from this army. How dare they, after all? I have earned my place at this table. And instead of recognition, I am criticized. This army stands poised, complete, strong, moving into a new spring, what will likely be the final spring of this war. I have never failed to drive the enemy before me, and yet my government despairs that we should fight them from ships.
He heard a small noise out beyond the wide doors, a low voice. The staff waits for me, hovering, as though I should not have a moment’s idle time. Well, of course, we must prepare for this evening’s gala event, whatever it might be. Wednesday? That would be a ball, dancing to the same dismal musicians, Mrs. Loring positively giddy while I suffer through another minuet.
APRIL 14, 1778
The bundle was small, with few of the usual attachments,