The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [248]
Sullivan was furious, and his reports to Washington were hot and undiplomatic, and he unwisely revealed his sentiments to the public. Washington might understand d’Estaing’s concerns, but the New England citizenry did not, and a public outcry followed the French fleet to Boston. The civilian newspapers were quick to echo Sullivan’s insulting tone, but in the army, there was much more at stake than careless criticism. The alliance was too fresh and too untried to be destroyed by such a swift turn of events, and Sullivan was quickly reined in, his words tempered. Lafayette’s temper was boiling as well, as much for his embarrassment at d’Estaing’s timidity as for the insults to his country that spilled out in the local communities.
With nothing to be gained by further confrontation at Newport, Washington summoned Greene and Lafayette back to headquarters in New Jersey. There was still hope in the American camp that d’Estaing would yet emerge as the great equalizing force on the sea, that another attempt might be made to assault Clinton’s stronghold in New York. But then came word from Boston. The repairs to the French fleet were nearing completion. But instead of sailing back down the coast, d’Estaing would respond to a new urgency, the likely conflict with the British over the islands in the Caribbean. As the final repairs were made, the French fleet raised its sails and disappeared, twenty-three warships and four thousand marines, now on their way to the West Indies.
As Greene rode south, the long hours in the saddle were passed by quiet thought, the sadness and frustration of the mission. There had been failures before, and no one in the army believed that these troops would sweep through every confrontation they would yet have against the British. But Greene knew this failure might have consequences far beyond their inability to recapture a city. All the hopes that had come with the French alliance were suddenly set aside, and Sullivan’s anger had spread throughout much of the army as it had spread through New England. No treaty, no alliance was a guarantee that this war would soon be over.
40. CORNWALLIS
WALLABOUT BAY, NEW YORK,
NOVEMBER 27, 1778
THE SHIP SAT HEAVY IN THE WATER, A SOGGY HULK THAT WOULD never see its sails rise again. She was called the Jersey, was one of several craft that lay at anchor in the shallows of the bay. Her hull was rotting, her crooked masts bare, and behind the closed covers of the gun ports, her cannon had long been hauled away. The men who served as her crew were not even sailors, were often stationed in this duty as punishment, soldiers or loyalist militia who had shown no talent for facing the fire of the enemy. Some were Hessians, men who had been branded as thieves or worse. Now, they roamed the upper decks of the Jersey bearing clubs and whips, while beneath their feet, hundreds of men lay cramped together in a darkened hell. The Jersey was now a prison.
One man stared out through an open porthole, the only source of light and air, stared across the East River to the city. He had been captured at the fight for Fort Washington, marched down to the water’s edge by angry men in uniforms he had never seen. He had been crowded onto a flatboat with so many others, men from his own company, others strange to him, but all sharing the horror of their defeat. When he first saw the Jersey, it had seemed like some glorious blessing. It was a prison ship to be sure, but a place where the men would be safe from the rabble of New York, from the spreading filth of a city too