The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [324]
O’Hara seemed even more uncomfortable now.
“The most recent one, June 28 . . . must be obeyed, sir.”
“Oh, quite! And obey it we shall! That is, only until we receive the next one.”
His good humor was a mask for the complete fury that had boiled up inside him. He looked at the papers spread on his desk, closed his eyes for a brief moment, then said, “I have ordered General Leslie to make ready for boarding the transports now at anchor at Portsmouth. The commanding general has ordered us to sail for Philadelphia, and sail for Philadelphia is what we shall do. I have considered it a Divine blessing to have been in command so far from the reach of that man. Never was that so clear than right now. For better than a year I have engaged the enemy at every bloody opportunity. I have given my king everything a soldier must give. My reward is to endure haranguing buffoonery from my superior who sits in idleness in his mansion in New York and wrestles with demons of his own creation. The rebels are planning to attack New York. Or perhaps not. The French navy is a threat to us, so we must build a secure port. Or perhaps not. When I arrived here, I received word that General Clinton was displeased that I had sailed away from the Carolinas. I am wondering if I should return there, transport this command back to Charleston. Not only would General Clinton find that pleasing, but it might be the only means I have of escaping him.”
“Sir, surely there is good work for us to do here.”
“Where? Virginia? New York? Philadelphia? I am to maneuver this army by whim. We are without strategy, without the guiding hand of a commander who sees beyond his own convenience.”
O’Hara shifted in his chair again.
“Sir, we must still obey our orders.”
“Without fail, General. Without fail.”
SIMCOE’S RANGERS HAD ALREADY BOARDED ONE TRANSPORT SHIP, WHILE onshore, Leslie was supervising the loading of the horses. Along the crude wharf, men were moving into line, troops who stared at the ships with utter despair. It had not been so long ago that they endured the journey southward, had marched and fought and marched again, and now, would embark on the misery of yet another sea voyage. Rumors had already infected them, talk of a massive French armada, somewhere out there, poised to swarm over this small fleet. They knew little of the French, just the stories told by their fathers, who described them as a savage enemy, uncivilized men who would throw a murderous broadside into a transport ship and dance in the rigging while the helpless soldiers screamed for mercy.
Leslie had already heard the ugly rumble of panic, had quietly armed the marines, spreading them around the perimeter of the wharf. Leslie had chosen Simcoe’s men to board first with good purpose. The horsemen would be certain to show their bravado, adventurers setting the fearless example for the foot soldiers who watched them. The first infantry regiments were lining up now close to the boarding plank, and Leslie heard his name, turned to see a rider coming hard, a dispatch in the man’s hand. He read it with openmouthed amazement, then motioned to his aide, said, “Stop them. Have the Rangers disembark, return to the wharf. Orders of General Cornwallis. It seems General Clinton has changed his mind.”
THE NEW ORDERS WERE SPECIFIC, AND CARRIED THE ENDORSEMENT OF the navy. Cornwallis’ troops would remain in Virginia after all, would focus on the construction of the seaport. The naval commander was, once again, Thomas Graves, replacing Marriot Arbuthnot, who had returned to England in some dispute over rank. Clinton’s orders to Cornwallis bore the signature of Admiral Graves, the man familiar with that part of the coast of Virginia. Though the particular location of the base was suggested as Old Point Comfort, centered