The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [253]
He turned to her again.
“What has happened is that we have created a war only to avoid fighting it! We have made prisoners of our own army! We serve men in London who make war by issuing decrees, who move us about like pieces on a chessboard. We are not even allowed to fight. We back away from our enemy and allow him to grow strong. While we delay and debate, we grant him precious time to make powerful alliances. Is there no one in England who desires to win this war? Now that I am here, I begin to understand how very far away it is. It is simply not real. To the ministry, even to His Majesty, it seems that America is only some place on a map, some piece of the empire that must be preserved because history demands it. But those men know nothing of this war. They could never imagine ten thousand rebel soldiers, they have never seen the king’s finest cavalry swept from their mounts by the muskets of farmers. No war can exist without the will of those who must wage it. The rebels have that will. I am not certain that we do.” He paused, saw her still watching him. “I am so very sorry. I have no right to burden you with this.”
“Charles, I am burdened only by your absence. If you are serious about remaining here, I understand what that means. Are you saying you would resign? You would turn away from your command?”
“My command. I serve a man who believes my every moment is spent in conspiracy to replace him. I have come to pity Henry Clinton. He is but another sacrificial lamb. One by one the ministry offers temptation to good men, a place in history, the opportunity to return home to thunderous applause. It has become nothing more than a competition. Who has the greatest ambition? Who can be tempted to believe that going to America might open the way for lasting rewards, the praise of a nation, the favor of our king? Thomas Gage? Johnny Burgoyne? William Howe? The garbage heap of history is a cluttered place.” He stopped, realized he was nearly shouting, took a deep breath, lowered his voice. “And yet, they are all good men, they are all good soldiers. Any one of them could have already won this war. Now Henry Clinton has been provided the opportunity to fail. And if the war is still not decided, then who will follow?” He moved to the bed, sat, the anger draining out of him. “Please forgive me, my love. One does not say these things around headquarters. I fear I have held tightly to these thoughts for some time.”
She put a hand on his arm, moved closer to him, rested her head against his shoulder. The anger was gone now, and he stared out toward the window. He felt her frailty leaning against him, and she said, “There is much to be done here. The house certainly. The gardens need tending. We could do that together. I should enjoy seeing you get your hands dirty.”
HIS FURY HAD PASSED, BUT HIS DETERMINATION TO BE FREE OF THE frustrations of the war had not. His resignation was accepted by the king without debate. He was grateful for George’s kindness, the king seeming to understand that the war had become a tedious nightmare for anyone who had the integrity of a good soldier.
He returned to Culford feeling very much the master of the modest estate. The plans for the repairs to the house were more detailed now, and he learned quickly that he had the skills of neither a carpenter nor a mason. He sent word to the village that come spring, services would be required. The winter was bleak and miserable, and there was little for anyone to do beyond the confines of the house. He passed the time with the journals of the estate, a challenge of numbers and accounts. His routine continued, and he actually enjoyed the quiet moments before dawn, had finally relieved Ruthie of the chore of rising so early just to prepare his breakfast.
He stayed close to the house for several days, the excuse always the bleakness of the weather. But Jemima’s routine had changed as little as his own, long hours in the darkened room. His resignation from the army had brought her out