The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [289]
Greene was grimacing at the sound of his own name, thought, Does he believe he is my friend? Why is he even trying? Gates took another drink from the glass, and Greene saw the familiar smirk, the arrogance of a man with full confidence in everything he does. There was nothing Greene could say, no argument about strategy or mistakes that Gates would hear. There was nothing left for Gates to do but leave.
“Sir, if I may inquire, what is the troop strength here now?”
Gates laughed, poured his glass full again.
“Troops? Oh, you have some men scattered hereabouts. By my count, perhaps two thousand. Of those, not more than half fit for duty.”
Greene absorbed the numbers, far fewer than he had expected.
“Are there still units to be assembled here?”
Gates laughed again.
“You mean, men from my . . . former command? Not likely, General. If you intend to build an army, you will do it from fresh recruits. I am certain that this colony will offer you little support at all. They seem rather to prefer the British.”
Gates’ word stuck in his mind: colony. Greene felt more uncomfortable now, could not avoid thinking of Charles Lee. Gates and Lee were both Englishmen by birth, with deep connections to the British army. Neither man had been particularly missed by their former commands, and now Greene realized that Gates was perhaps more inspired by revenge against those British officers who had forgotten him than by a devout allegiance to America.
Gates finished his second glass, said, “I am told you brought some fresh militia. Virginians?”
“North Carolina. I am pleased by their willingness to sign full enlistment papers.” He stopped, thought, Tell him nothing. He claims, after all, to be a civilian now. He need know nothing of my plans.
Gates seemed oblivious to Greene’s sudden caution.
“Did the militia cheer you, Nathanael? Did they welcome you with glad tidings, vast expressions of loyalty? Do not be fooled. If you trust them, they will carry you to your doom.”
Gates seemed unsteady, the effects of the odd brew. He poured himself another glass, and Greene slid the chair away from the table, said, “Excuse me, sir. I should see to my men. There is much to be done.”
He stood, and Gates seemed not to notice, the man absorbed in his own gloom. Greene turned away, stepped to the front door, moved out into a bracing chill, the air washing away the staleness of the house and its occupant. The officers had gathered, seemed to be waiting for him. He saw a few familiar faces, acknowledged them with a nod.
“Gentlemen, the transfer of command is complete. Mr. Gates is, by his own admission, no longer a part of this army. I am aware that we have considerable labor before us if we are to engage the British on favorable terms. I would advise you that you do not discuss our strategy, nor seek the counsel of General Gates. While I will extend every courtesy to him, as I would to any prominent visitor to this camp, let there be no confusion. This department is commanded under the full authority of the congress and General Washington. From this moment forward, we shall have but one purpose. We shall make every effort to organize, train, and equip the men of this command to confront and defeat our enemy. There is no other reason for anyone to be here.”
HE WAS DISTRESSED TO FIND THAT GATES HAD BEEN ACCURATE WITH his numbers. As Greene inspected the camps, he discovered better than half the men present unfit for duty, either from sickness, wounds, or injuries from their retreat at Camden. The morale was worse than their physical condition.
Washington had ordered him to prepare his own report on the conduct of Gates, something that would stretch beyond the certain bias of Gates’ own version. To gain as much information as he could, Greene listened to anyone who would offer their own story, details of what had happened at Camden. It was clear that Gates had relied far too much on the raw militia, and by striving