The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [317]
Cornwallis backed away.
“I will look in on General Webster. You will be put on a wagon in the morning.”
“Thank you, sir. I trust you will order the engineers to smooth out the rough ride.”
Cornwallis managed a smile, turned, moved out into the main room. The women were gone, and he heard low voices, the rear of the house. He lowered his head, took a long hard breath, fought again through the smell.
HE HAD BEEN SURPRISED THAT GREENE DID NOT FOLLOW HIM PAST Cross Creek. Every report suggested that the rebels were moving southward, returning to South Carolina. The information caused a new debate, a decision whether to make some effort to reinforce Rawdon. But Greene had the head start, and if the rebels intended to strike hard in South Carolina, Cornwallis was simply too far away to prevent it.
Though Greene’s army was gone, the march out of Cross Creek was an ordeal nonetheless. He had expected that the Cape Fear River would provide a comfortable avenue for moving his men, but the waterway was not as navigable as he had hoped. Nearly all the men were barefoot, and the rigors of the march shredded the remnants of their uniforms. As the country flattened into the sandy plains of the coast, they were met by astonishing swarms of insects, every night a torturous misery of mosquitoes and other unseen tormentors. During the day, rebel partisans seemed to spring out of every patch of woods, peppering the army’s misery with musket fire. He would make no effort to confront them, knowing that these people were at home in their swamps, that any troops who pursued them would gain no advantage, would only slow their progress. For seven agonizing days, the soldiers pressed forward, their numbers shrinking as the sick and weak fell away. He had endured the march as well as the strongest of his men, but then came one hard jolt, the news sent back from the wagons to the front. James Webster had died. Cornwallis had tried to shield himself from what he could not deny, that Webster’s wounds had indeed been mortal. It was yet another cruel reminder of the price of their glorious victories.
WILMINGTON, NORTH CAROLINA, APRIL 1781
In just a few days the army had become healthier. O’Hara was up off his bed, was slowly making his way back to duty. Cornwallis sent a steady stream of messages to Charleston, orders for Balfour to relay any news from Rawdon’s post at Camden, any sign of a confrontation with the rebels that might endanger the other outposts as well. But each transport that arrived in the harbor brought little news that would cause Cornwallis to sail his troops for Charleston. It was a blessed relief.
He had moved the headquarters staff into an extraordinary mansion that had been abandoned by its loyalist owner early in the war. The headquarters there had been established by Major James Craig, who had come to the Carolinas with Alexander Leslie. While Cornwallis felt enormously rested by the languid atmosphere of Wilmington, it was an uncomfortable reminder of Philadelphia, the grandeur of stately homes, memories of dress uniforms and ballrooms. But there was one stark difference. In Wilmington there was no Howe or Clinton. It was his command, and his headquarters. There was one other difference as well. With the approach of summer, the Carolina coast became a nest of suffering, the men assaulted by a far more dangerous enemy than the rebels. It was fever season. He had seen the consequences of it in Charleston, heard the stories from Savannah, had even suffered the effects himself the year before. Whatever the source of this particular plague, he knew it could devastate his army. They could not remain in Wilmington.
He had been stunned to learn of Benedict Arnold’s sudden rise to command, especially in a place as crucial as Virginia. Technically, Virginia was under Cornwallis’ command, but Arnold had been sent there by Clinton without ever seeking Cornwallis’ approval. Cornwallis had never corresponded with Arnold, and had no wish to do so now. A traitor is a traitor no matter his uniform, and Cornwallis