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By Root 1428 0

could not think of Arnold without considering the fate of John André. André had always seemed a pitiable excuse for a British officer, but by circumstances Cornwallis did not yet understand, André had become trapped in a ridiculous and worthless web of intrigue, his execution strange and grotesque. If André’s execution was justified, there should be some kind of justice for the man who had put him in that position. If it was not to be Henry Clinton, it must surely be Benedict Arnold. As much as Cornwallis had disagreed with the strategies of Henry Clinton before, he could not stomach the thought of treating Arnold as some sort of trusted subordinate. Now he would not have to. Though the flow of letters from Clinton had been blessedly scarce, one letter had given Cornwallis enormous relief. Clinton had sent William Phillips to Virginia to take the command away from Arnold. Even better, Clinton had provided Phillips with better than two thousand reinforcements. Phillips was a capable, if not brilliant officer, a fat, affable man that Cornwallis had known well for twenty years. Phillips would serve well as Cornwallis’ junior, and if Arnold was to remain in Virginia at all, he could be Phillips’ problem and not his own.

The heat began to settle on Wilmington, lengthening days, steamy nights. He had heard almost nothing from Rawdon, and little from the scouts he sent into the countryside. The British intelligence system was nonexistent, and he could only assume Greene was still moving southward. The feeling was familiar to him, warmer weather fueling growing impatience, frustration that once again, a very good army was sitting idle, while its commander consumed his time pacing through someone’s luxurious home.

The plan began to form in his mind, the idea tempered by concerns for events that could still occur in South Carolina. He would ponder it in the dark hours, would wake in the middle of the night to sweating bedclothes, a warm breeze that filled the curtains like great winds billowing the sails of the stout ships. With the sleep erased he would stare up in darkness, his mind working over the maps, counting the regiments, imaginary discussions with the officers who were far away. In the daylight, he would go to his office, put pen to paper, the maps again, and then, letters, to Phillips first, seeking his agreement. The letters went as well to Clinton and Germain, but he expected no answer. By the time they could respond, it would make no difference anyway. Their letters would not find him quickly enough. There would be ample time for him to exercise the discretion Clinton had given him, to put into motion the one plan that he believed might still work. Clinton sat idly in New York with a great mass of power, while in the Carolinas and Georgia, the British held tightly to the important towns and crossroads. It was a plan Clinton would have to approve, even if Cornwallis did not need him to. The most important colony in America had become Virginia, the great yawning abyss that lay between north and south. The Chesapeake was always crucial, but never more so than now.

The more he tinkered with the plan, the more his old enthusiasm returned. He had erased all thoughts of South Carolina from his mind, had to trust that his commanders there could hold away any assault Greene would offer. Phillips would await him with the fire they had shared as young officers, two men who could depend on each other to stand tall against their enemy. It was nearly too simple a concept, and as he organized another long march, he tried to imagine the reception he would yet receive from the king, from Germain, even from Clinton. The campaign would be brilliant by its very simplicity, a weakly defended colony that held the key to the entire war. If Virginia fell, America must follow.

On April 25, Cornwallis led what remained of his army, fewer than fifteen hundred men, on a march through the lowlands of coastal North Carolina. As they forded the rivers, the Tar and the Neuse, his men marched again through relentlessly hostile country. But then