The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [94]
“Allow me . . . one last thought. In the campaign just passed, you and I have become an army. If that has no meaning to you, then I would ask you to imagine what is happening . . . out there. If you could see across this land, if you could see the enemy who faces us, who gathers his strength for the next fight, you would know that today he is looking at us with a different eye. Many of you had little faith you could stand up to the might of the British soldier. Now, those soldiers are confused and uncertain, have learned that your muskets, your cannon are as deadly as theirs. Many of you have feared the Hessians. Now, they fear you. You men have done everything that I have asked you to do. You have marched and fought and retreated and defended your ground. There are those outside this army who say that by retreating we have been disgraced. I do not agree. We are a small army, facing an enormous foe. We must seek opportunity, we must fight this war to our advantage. We have given way when there was no other option. But we are not vanquished. And today, we stand here as victors, on ground where the enemy gave way.” There were nods now, and he felt a stab of energy, the words flowing finally.
“No army rises to greatness by the starch and finery of its uniform, no victory relies on the decorations that drape the chest of its commander. The victory you won on this ground was won by every man in this line. You won this fight for your wives, your homes, for your country. Everything you hold dear has been made more secure by your patriotism and your heroism. I know of your fatigue, I know of the hardships you have endured. But without you, I do not believe this nation can survive. If you will consent to serve for even one month longer, you will preserve the cause of liberty. I believe it is this army alone that can decide our destiny.”
He ran out of words, overwhelmed again by the sadness, the frustration, moved the horse away again, stared down, his eyes clouded by despair. He waited for a long moment, resigned to the difficult job ahead, the new recruits, the men who might be coming from Philadelphia. The silence was broken by a voice, a low mumble, the man clearing his throat now. Washington looked up, saw one man making his way forward, slipping through the lines of men in front of him. Washington saw a ragged beard, the man’s shirt a filthy rag, saw the man’s bare feet now, the skin dark and red, hardened by the marching through the muddy snow. The man was out in front of the first line now, and Washington could see he was older, the beard flecked with gray. He looked up at Washington with a crooked frown, seemed to appraise him, said, “I don’t believe you ever lied to us, General. I’ll not go home while my country needs me.”
The man stood alone for a moment, and now the lines were wavering, small sounds, and another man stepped forward, stood beside the older man.
“I’ll not leave you, sir. Truth is, I got no place else to go.”
One by one the men came forward, and as their number grew, the cheers came, the men saluting their commander as they saluted their own resolve. He sat upright in the saddle now. There were no words, just a wide smile, the space in front of him filled now with a sea of rugged faces, hands in the air, their enthusiasm flowing out, inspired by the words of their commander.
The cheering began to slow, the men now falling out of formation, the drums beating again, the staff taking charge of the business of the army, the men lining up to sign the papers. He heard hoofbeats, turned to see some of his guards escorting a carriage, a single passenger, trailed by a small group of armed militia. The man was waving to him now, calling out, “General! Sir!”
The carriage halted on the narrow road, and Washington nudged the