The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [270]
He had not yet spoken to Clinton face-to-face, and the ride to Charleston had begun as a formal departure ceremony, that certainly both men could offer a civil, perhaps even friendly farewell.
CORNWALLIS READ CLINTON’S DECREE WITH A COLD HARD KNOT IN his stomach.
“What’s that you have there, General? My letter of authority? Should be quite pleasing to you. I believe we have addressed every issue.”
Clinton had been generous with his authority, allowing Cornwallis broad discretion, a crucial necessity, given the distance and the time it would require to receive orders and instructions from New York. But the paper in his hand was different, and Cornwallis read a moment, then showed it to Clinton, said, “No, sir. This is your latest decree.”
“Ah, yes. What do you think? Consider this my parting gift to your command. This should solidify the entire colony to your service. You may, of course, use this as a model for North Carolina, when the time arrives. There is another document . . . ah yes, the troop dispositions. I feel justified in returning to New York with a significant portion of the troops here. Whether or not the French arrive, I am certain Mr. Washington is expecting us to mount a considerable campaign against his army. We shall not disappoint him.”
Cornwallis felt his mouth hanging open, measured his words.
“Sir. You are reducing our troop strength here?” He looked at the paper, counted the regiments, examined the different commands. “You will leave me with approximately . . .”
“Five thousand men. Sizable force. Should be quite sufficient for your needs. I expect you to make considerable use of the loyalist militia. Once this new decree is spread across the colony, you will receive a considerable number of new recruits, mark my words.”
Cornwallis backed away from Clinton’s desk, turned to one side, could not look at the man. Rawdon was behind him, said, “General, may I get you something?”
He shook his head, tried to pull himself upright, felt no strength, his legs softening rubber. He said, “Excuse me, sir. I require some air. The long ride, no doubt.”
Clinton seemed unconcerned, said, “Out you go, then. Perk up a bit, then I will discuss with you my plan for the conquest of Virginia. Magnificent, I must say. Two-pronged attack. We may force George Washington to sign his surrender papers on the front porch of his estate!”
Cornwallis did not respond, moved out into the hall, Rawdon close beside him.
“Sir, are you certain you are all right?”
“Outside, Colonel.”
He moved toward the door, a guard pulling it open, and the sunlight blinded him. He eased his way toward the short steps, saw chairs along the porch, guards down in the yard, Negroes tending the horses. He stopped, moved along the wide porch, close to one chair. He put his hand on the woven cane of the arm, sat slowly. The sun was still in his face, the heat filling him, and he waited for Rawdon to sit, then said, “What is it about command? When a man is promoted, is afforded such responsibility, such authority . . . is it so necessary that his mind stop functioning?”
“Forgive me, sir. I don’t know what you mean.”
“I have endured much in this army, Colonel. But no matter the training, no matter the experience, nothing has ever prepared me for an assault of such astounding stupidity.”
Rawdon smiled, and Cornwallis glared at him, the smile vanishing.
“He will leave us with five thousand men. He believes the loyalists will flock to our banner. He will return to New York to commence a new campaign aimed at the strength of Washington’s army, the precise strategy he once believed would utterly fail. And,