The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [251]
Jemima’s letters continued to bring despair, hints that she was growing weaker, some frightening affliction that neither of them could name. He knew so little of medicine or disease, had convinced himself that it was his absence that had caused her such misery. All throughout the year, he had thought of her in every quiet moment, and his sanctuary in the Long Island countryside could not erase an aching homesickness. With the army already making plans for winter quarters around the city, Cornwallis knew that, for long months to come, his duty would be painfully dull. He had prepared a lengthy argument, would present Clinton with all the reasons why the army did not require its second in command to endure the New York winter. He had expected protest, had been surprised, thankful when Clinton agreed. The only condition was that Cornwallis make a special effort to visit Clinton’s family, to return with some bits of personal greeting from those who inspired a homesickness in Clinton himself.
The ship tacked slightly to the east, and Cornwallis could see the sun finally rising above the horizon, warming him against the sharp wind sweeping the deck. He could smell the salt spray rising from white foam, could feel the ship rolling in slow rhythm to the growing waves. They were clear of Staten Island now, the land falling away. He looked up toward the men above him, sailors doing the good work, tightening and securing the rigging, preparing for a month on the open sea.
SUFFOLK, ENGLAND, DECEMBER 29, 1778
The voyage had been unusually rapid, and a strong westerly breeze swept the ship across the Atlantic in less than four weeks. He had made his official greeting to Lord Germain, but London could not hold him for more time than duty required. Germain had graciously furnished him with a carriage, seeming to sense that Cornwallis had only one priority. Despite the signs of winter, the rolling hills and brown meadows had seemed especially beautiful. He passed by the familiar, hidden places he had explored as a boy, patches of woods, narrow swift streams that flooded him with memories. As he rode up to the house, he was surprised to see no one outside, no gardeners working the beds, only cold silence from the small stable. It was clearly an estate in need of a master.
The home was called Culford, and it was no one’s portrait of a grand estate. His father had not been as wealthy as so many who cherished their precious titles, the entire family working their way to maintain the oh-so-important bearing of the aristocrats.
HE HAD BEEN UP EARLY, NEVER ABLE TO ESCAPE THE ROUTINE OF THE army. He slipped out of their room with silent steps, leaving her to a fitful sleep that had kept him awake most of the night. The surprise of his arrival had already begun to wear off, and he was dismayed by her strange gloom. For months, the letters from his family had insisted that his presence alone would be the cure she needed, but even the coming of Christmas had done little for her spirit. He had not expected to be home in time for the holiday, the surprise adding to the pure joy in the children. But they were away now, returning to the routine of their schooling. With the house suddenly quiet, he had established a routine of his own, a quiet breakfast alone, while Jemima sought strength from long hours in bed.
Her maid had been in the kitchen before him, would accommodate him by preparing a simple fare, biscuits, a pot of tea on the stove. The maid’s name was Ruthie, a short round elderly woman who scurried through the house like some desperate mouse. Ruthie had been with her mistress since Jemima was a baby, and Cornwallis knew to stand aside, that when matters