The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [71]
Cornwallis smiled, said aloud, “Your king thanks you, gentlemen.” He turned, looked up at the cliff, moved back through the brush, could see the last of the jagers disappearing up the trail. Hessian regulars were falling into line beside him, and he held up his hand, their officer giving the command to halt, to make way for the general. Cornwallis stepped up on a tall rock, took a long, deep breath, and began to climb.
IT WAS HIS FIRST TASTE OF INDEPENDENT COMMAND SINCE HE HAD COME across the Atlantic, and for the first time, he knew that if there was delay or confusion, it would be no one’s fault but his own. He had not pressed for the assignment, would not politic against anyone to secure a command. Howe had given him the mission with little fanfare, no eager congratulations on the good work Cornwallis had already accomplished. He had given up on trying to predict Howe’s motives, his experience in the short months of this campaign teaching him that the general’s mind worked in ways Cornwallis had never been trained to understand. But the mission was an honor nonetheless, and Cornwallis had even written Jemima, sharing his pride, knew that the daughter of a good honest soldier would understand that same pride in her husband. She knew how much his service meant to him, that his need for recognition had very little to do with the empty prestige that might come from praise from the ministry. His ambition was to win the war and return to his family. If General Howe believed that placing Cornwallis in command of a major assault would accomplish just that, it was all Cornwallis could ask for, and it had nothing to do with vanity.
This type of mission would normally have been Clinton’s job, but Clinton was with the navy, on his way to Newport, Rhode Island, to capture the deepwater port, and if possible, the city of Providence. The strategy had much more to do with the simmering personality clash between Howe and Clinton than any sudden need to take control of Narragansett Bay. Clinton had been less and less discreet about his displeasure at Howe’s delays, and the withdrawal from White Plains had caused an outburst that even Cornwallis could not ignore. He had endured Clinton’s mutinous tirades long enough, and finally, exhausted by Clinton’s disruptive complaints, he went to Howe himself, revealed Clinton’s latest insubordination. Feeling betrayed by Cornwallis, Clinton spouted more anger around headquarters as to how he had been conspired against. He felt his authority had been usurped by Cornwallis’ ambition to replace him, as though Cornwallis was driven by the same selfish pride as he himself. Clinton could never understand that Cornwallis had no wish to be suddenly closer to Howe’s command, to have Howe looking so carefully over his shoulder. But with Clinton’s departure, at least the army could operate without one of its senior commanders angrily disputing every order he received.
THE FARMER’S WORD WAS GOOD AFTER ALL, AND THE CLIMB HAD NOT been as difficult as he imagined. Soon the entire force was marching up the trail in good order. Once on top of the cliff, they formed again by column, marching without pause through the farm country that would lead them to Fort Lee.
His horse had been brought up, and he rode beside the Hessians, knew that out in front, Captain Ewald had the jagers spread all through the woods, an effective wave of skirmishers. Ewald knew to take captive anyone they found, an effort to keep word of their march from reaching Fort Lee. There were scattered farmhouses, and Cornwallis looked carefully at each one they passed for some sign that the jagers had gone beyond the job, the Hessian tendency toward mindless destruction, the brutalizing of any civilian. But the houses were undamaged, and there were no cries for help, no blood in the doorways. This was not a day for reprisal or plunder. The