The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [347]
NEW YORK, DECEMBER 4, 1783
The gathering had been planned at a tavern close to the waterfront, attended by those few officers still near the city who could join him for some sort of celebration of his final day in New York. It would be a lavishly prepared banquet, white tablecloths and silver, the extraordinary effort of their host, Samuel Fraunces.
They were not many, less than a dozen men, but he would show no disappointment. So many had gone home, so many others were still involved in the business of the army, spread out all through the nation. As he sat at the head of the table, he realized the small number of men was something of a blessing, that he could speak to each of them, try to offer some kind of personal appreciation. As the food was set before him, and the wine goblets filled, he knew it was not to be. There was no appetite, and no conversation. Every man in the room looked down to his plate with emotion too deep for anyone to speak. After a long moment of silence, he said, “I am sorry . . . I had hoped this would be a time of elation. I am fortunate to be allowed to return to my home.”
He saw nods, most of the faces still turned away. He reached for the wine goblet, his hand shaking, and he steadied it on the table, said, “We should have a toast.” He raised the goblet. “With a heart full of love and gratitude, I now take leave of you. I most devoutly wish that your latter days may be as prosperous and happy as your former ones have been glorious and honorable.”
He let out a breath, raised the goblet, took a sip of the wine. The men around the table followed, the goblets now back in place. He had hoped someone would speak, ease the hard emotion he could not escape. He looked around the table, Knox, von Steuben, no response. He looked to the far end, Tench Tilghman sitting beside Benjamin Tallmadge, the man who had organized Washington’s spy network in New York. No one spoke still, and he nodded to Tilghman, the wonderfully reliable young man, thought, Perhaps you can assist me . . . one more time. But Tilghman returned the look with red eyes and a quiver in his lips, and Washington felt the man’s loyalty now in some deep place he tried to hide. It was affection now unembarrassed and pure, and he realized that he loved them all, the men in this one room, and those so far away. Lafayette was already sailing for France, Greene was still in the Carolinas. It is good they are not here. As it is . . . I have no words to give these men. He reached for the goblet, stopped, took a long breath, felt the tightness in his throat.
“I cannot come to each of you, but shall feel obliged if each of you will come and take me by the hand.”
Knox was first, stood, steadied his wide frame against the table, stepped close to him, stood as straight as he could, held out his hand. The gesture was simple and honest and removed the last hard barrier to Washington’s emotions. Knox was already crying. Washington put his hands on the man’s shoulders, and they came together for a brief, silent embrace. Washington was blinded by his own tears as the men moved close to him in a single line, each one repeating the gesture. The last was Tilghman, and the young man stood frozen for a long moment, tried to speak, and Washington shook his head, no, it is all right. He embraced him as well, could not hold his emotions, felt Tilghman’s sobs matching his own. There were still no words, nothing he could say to any of them. He moved to the door, turned to face them, and von Steuben suddenly snapped hard to attention, the Prussian holding a firm salute for a long moment. Without a word, Washington turned, moved out into the street.
HE WAS COMPELLED TO STOP IN PHILADELPHIA, THAT IF HE INTENDED to resign his command, there would be a formal ceremony in congress, and most certainly a litany of speeches. He had not expected the congress to respond to him with as much emotion as he had received