Free Victory at Yorktown: A Novel by William R. Forstchen, Newt Gingrich Page A

there is some sort of personal connection between you, and the British representative and friend of Major Andre. If only Andre had been wearing some semblance of uniform, we could have found reason to hold him prisoner and then when all this madness is over exchange him. It grieved the entire court to condemn a man obviously of such courage. The fact that you were friends with someone close to Andre speaks of your character as well.”
    “Sir?” and he wondered if there was a note of reproach in what Greene had just said.
    Greene extended a hand in a gesture of reconciliation.
    “No insult,” and he hesitated, “may I call you Peter?”
    Peter, a bit surprised, nodded.
    “I recalled you well from the Battle of Springfield and your rallying of our flank. I spoke of you this morning with General Washington after reporting back to him after the execution.”
    They rode on together to the crest of a rise that overlooked the plains of West Point, far below them the serpentine turning of the Hudson River, the hills and mountaintops ablaze with autumn’s glory, and the mist like rain enhancing the glow of the autumn leaves.
    “Lord this is a beautiful country. I wonder what it must of looked like before we came here, what it might look like a hundred years hence. So peaceful now, hard to believe there is a war going on.”
    Greene took off his hat and wiped his brow even though a cool breeze greeted them atop the heights.
    “I’ve been given my own command again,” Greene said, not looking at Peter, gaze fixed on the valley.
    “Congratulations, sir,” Peter replied, not sure if Greene was musing to himself or actually speaking to him.
    “With all that has transpired these last few weeks this has neither been the time nor place to make it public, but it will be announced shortly.”
    Greene dismounted, letting his horse’s bridle fall so that it could crop on the high autumn grass, Peter doing the same, feeling that Greene wanted him to follow.
    “Gates has made a botched affair of things yet again,” he announced coldly, still gazing at the river. “Even as we hold and block up here, that old man has allowed Georgia and the Carolinas to fall under British control. Good God in heaven, at Saratoga if it had not been for…”
    His voice trailed off. Peter did not need to fill in the rest of that sentence. The name that could no longer be mentioned in any way and given credit for that incredible victory. It was Benedict Arnold who had saved the day at Saratoga, it was Gates who aggrandized unto himself the glory, galloping south to parade before Congress, while Arnold, immobilized by the wound to his leg suffered in his gallant charge, was pushed aside. Though no one would say it now, this was the start of his slide into the madness of what he had just done.
    “Then Congress gives him the Southern command and in short order we lose Charleston, Savannah, the fight at Camden, Georgia all but subdued, the Carolinas torn apart by bitter civil war as Loyalists and Patriots fight with utter savagery against each other, while Cornwallis runs riot over our few remaining forces. That is my new command, Peter. I leave for the Carolinas within the week to take command of the wreckage that is left and try to forge a new army.”
    His words were now the one faint bright moment of this otherwise heartbreaking day.
    He whispered congratulations but could say no more, and then wondered why Greene had sought him out to share this news. There was a long pause and then Greene looked back at him.
    “I had a long talk with General Washington this morning, laying out plans and as mentioned, your name came up.”
    “Why so, sir?”
    “I want you to come with me.”
    “Sir?”
    Now he was, indeed, confused. His focus of effort and dedication these last several years had been the ever-constant war in New Jersey, of raid and counter-raid, planting of information and misinformation, the ferreting out of spies in a dark and ugly manner at