The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [215]
As the Trident made her way across the Atlantic, he had spent many hours gazing at the open water, occupying his mind by searching for some break in the smooth line of the horizon. If there was a French alliance, there was a French fleet, and if the ministry had not responded quickly enough, the waters off the coast of Delaware and New Jersey might already be swarming with warships that would make any peace plan useless. Though none of the others seemed to notice, he had glimpsed the New Jersey coast with relief. As the ship sailed into the mouth of the Delaware River, it was a welcoming hug from strong arms, British warships at anchor all along the wide river. But it was a state of affairs the peace commissioners had not expected, finding this avenue to the British headquarters such a fortified bastion. The commissioners believed the most optimistic predictions of the ministry, expected to find a land where the rebels had been suppressed, their army nearly crushed out of existence, a land where a rebel congress would eagerly welcome a convenient means to ending a hopeless war. Instead, the British warships made it clear that the land beyond the river was untamed and uncontrolled. At any time, at any point, the deck of their ship might suddenly be ripped by musket fire, rebel patrols who regarded the Trident as simply one more target.
The wounded optimism of the peace delegation was shattered completely when they reached Philadelphia. While Parliament had consumed long weeks debating the mission of the peace commissioners, word of the French alliance had already reached the congress. The alliance had been ratified, and even celebrated. The terms of the peace treaty offered by King George had been published and circulated to a people who saw it for exactly what it was: desperation, a means of preempting the French alliance, of preventing the colonies from finding the means to a military victory. The proposals were already the object of scorn, in congress and in the streets of American towns. The commissioners were dismayed to learn the very thing that Cornwallis had quietly predicted, that the colonies were too far removed now from British rule ever to go back. If the war was to end, it would have to end on the battlefield.
JUNE 9, 1778
He was not surprised to learn that Howe was already gone. Cornwallis had been told by Germain that Henry Clinton would officially take command in mid-May. He had no doubt that once Clinton arrived in Philadelphia, Howe would make haste to leave. There was embarrassment enough in his resignation and recall, and Cornwallis knew well that neither Howe nor Clinton would feel comfortable in the presence of the other, certainly not in any public setting.
Cornwallis still had to report to his new commander, was making his first ride through the streets of the city, a hot and steamy morning. He moved past the headquarters of so many of the officers, stables of horses, quartermaster depots, small groups of soldiers guarding every warehouse, every official outpost. It had all the signs of a fortified citadel, and none of what had once been a grand and prosperous city. There were few civilians in the streets, and those who still went about their daily routines were sullen, no one saluting him, or even acknowledging him. He rode close to a man carrying a large bundle on his back, the man struggling under the weight. The man glanced up at him, and Cornwallis made a slight bow, said, “Good morning, sir. Do you require assistance?”
The man looked back toward the small cluster of staff officers, said, “If I had my horse, I’d not need anyone’s assistance. It was requisitioned.”
It was a distinctly military word, the army’s ever-present justification, the needs of the soldier taking precedence over the needs of the civilian. Cornwallis had nothing else to say to the man, moved on past, thought, He was paid, certainly, and with the king’s currency, not the ridiculous paper the rebels offer. He realized now that there were