The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [263]
The Bonhomme Richard did not survive another day, the damage too great, the leaking hull finally giving way. But her captain would fight again, and no matter his future, his place in history had been secured. It was the first American naval victory against a foreign man-o-war. Those who survived the fight would remember the two ships locked together, both captains fighting with sword and pistol. For a long while, the victory had seemed to favor the Serapis, her captain facing his foe with a haughty demand that the Bonhomme Richard accept certain defeat and lower her flag. It was the reply of her captain that would be remembered, the voice echoing out through the smoke and fire, heard by the men on both sides:
“I have not yet begun to fight.”
43. CORNWALLIS
SEPTEMBER 1779
HE HAD RETURNED TO NEW YORK IN JULY TO A COMMAND THAT HAD absorbed the despair of the city around it. Clinton had put on a good show of welcoming him back, and if nothing else, his arrival was a distraction from the mundane duties of a paralyzed army. But the glad tidings had been swept away in a matter of days. Every officer in New York knew that Clinton saw Cornwallis as the primary threat to his authority, and the acrimony only worsened the mood in the headquarters. Cornwallis was not surprised by Clinton’s hostility, but he would not engage in the gossip and disparaging that seemed to provide an entertaining distraction to bored officers. He had returned to America because there were, after all, some personal connections for him in the army. He had rarely allowed himself to dwell on friendships with fellow officers, the nature of the army so mobile and transient. As he began the search for familiar faces, he learned that James Grant was gone, had been chosen by Clinton to lead the force that sailed to the West Indies. But others, Leslie, even Knyphausen, had welcomed him as the friend he had become. He was surprised they knew of Jemima’s death, the personal so often separate from the official. Their warmth had surprised him, as well as their kindness for the obvious pain he carried.
He felt no trace of homesickness for England, could not even picture his children in his mind, a tormenting guilt that forced him awake in the late hours of sleepless nights. Their anguish was no less than his, but he was still consumed by grief, her death draining him of compassion so that he felt he had nothing to offer even his own family. He tried to forgive himself, reminded himself that his sister and brother had children of their own. They had always accepted his son and daughter in a spirit of family, and accepted them now. But the guilt would drive him to quiet tears, and he could not escape that they were so much a part of her, so much a part of what had been torn away from him. If it meant he was a failure as a father, that was a chain he would wear another day.
He spent most of his time in the house on Long Island, and it was no less a garrison now than it had been before. On every road, past every peaceful farm and field, cavalry was stationed, and the simple joy of a ride in the countryside was made ugly by the necessary presence of guards. But his love for the outdoors had not returned, and long days were made longer as he stayed close to his office. As much dread as he felt for any meeting with Clinton, the couriers who brought the orders had at least provided him some distraction. Though the summer heat had magnified the stench of the city, the discomfort of his own boredom took him to headquarters hoping that perhaps this time, some new plan had been approved. Despite Cornwallis’ personal despair, he had to have faith that Lord Germain and Henry Clinton would stumble far enough through their ongoing war of words to agree on a strategy, some plan to take this army again into the field.
CLINTON SAT HUNCHED OVER BEHIND HIS DESK, THE ROOM SILENT, poised for another round of explosions. His face was red, a permanent