The Glorious Cause (6 page)

“Gentlemen, I would prefer that each of us focus on the future, and not what has already occurred. Our losses have been heavy. And, I fear this weather has put us in a grave situation.”

Putnam sniffed, said, “With all respects, General, my view is that the British have the disadvantage. We control the fortified ground, while they must come at us from the open. We control the hill, they must climb. If our powder is wet, so is theirs.” Putnam stopped, and Washington watched the old man’s face, saw the man’s pride tempering a bit by a new thought, something unspoken.

“General Putnam, your comparisons to the glorious fight you commanded on Breed’s Hill are noted. I have no doubt that you are correct in one regard. The British are taking their time, and will likely wait for a break in the weather. If they dry their powder, we will dry ours, and I am certain that in a duel of musket fire, their loss would be desperate. But as you know, General Putnam, the enemy has something we do not. They are proficient in the use of the bayonet. That is a superiority we cannot underestimate. As you know, this army does not possess . . . the bayonet.”

He saw several faces go down, and Putnam nodded silently. It had become a fact that no one could overlook. Throughout the great fight they had just endured, the most effective tool of both the British and the Hessians was the bayonet. To the farmers and militia of Washington’s army, many of whom fought with their own weapons, it was a piece of equipment that was completely foreign. As each of the commanders had learned, asking a man to fire his musket and then reload while enduring a bayonet charge made only for a brief battle. The men simply turned and ran away. Washington would not say it now, didn’t have to. He could see that each man had already run the image through his mind, as Putnam had done. If the British come up that hill, we will cut them down, perhaps more than once. But this is not Breed’s Hill. The enemy has brought nearly fifteen thousand men to our front. When they attack, they will continue to come, and no force will stay on that wall for long. Putnam said, “Is it assumed that General Howe intends to attack us?”

Washington glanced at the others, said, “He has his enemy right in front of him. I do not believe his king would find favor with General Howe sailing his army back to Staten Island.”

Putnam seemed amused, a slight smile.

“I believe that General Howe is perhaps a friend to us. Or, he is no general after all.”

There were small laughs, but Washington did not take up the lightness in their mood.

“I called this council because I consider it important to hear your views on possible strategy. There is no debate that we are in a dangerous situation here. We are faced with an enemy more than double our strength, and we have already demonstrated that we are not capable of pushing him away. General Howe must certainly grasp his advantage. Does anyone else have suggestion of strategy to offer?”

He searched the faces now, and no one spoke, the smiles gone. He said to Putnam, “Colonel Glover is not here?”

Putnam shook his head.

“He would be on the river, sir. Managing the boats. We’re keeping a sharp eye down the river, in case the enemy attempts a run upstream.”

Washington looked for Tilghman, saw him standing back just under the edge of the dripping canvas.

“Major, send for Colonel Glover. I would like him here.”

They waited patiently, long minutes of quiet talk, and Washington saw Glover now, bringing his temper with him as he splashed through the mud. Washington could not help a smile, the short round man wiping a shower of water from his red hair. He was another man of Washington’s age, and his temper had already become legendary, not for empty noise and bluster, but precision, the man’s wrath aimed toward improving the efficiency of his men. John Glover, another Massachusetts man, commanded a regiment recruited from the tough fishermen around Marblehead, up the coast from Boston. It was Glover who had brought Washington across the river, the man making special mention of the direction of the wind, something Washington had not thought to value. Washington looked up now, the sharp breeze buffeting the canvas, and the others followed his look, most not realizing what he was seeing. It was still gusty from the north and west, and Washington understood the significance if the others did not.

When the works on Brooklyn Heights were designed, Putnam and Stirling had suggested that the mouth of the river be blocked by the sinking of old hulks and unusable ships, and the navigable channel below Brooklyn Heights was now crossed by a man-made brush line of masts and rigging, the topmost skeletons of the wrecked vessels. The senior commanders had thought the army secure in its Brooklyn position, that the barricade would prevent the British gunboats from sailing upriver and cutting half of Washington’s army off from New York.

The water still dripped from Glover’s face, and he looked at Washington now, said, “You sent for me, sir? Fine day for a war.”

Washington motioned upward. “The wind is still holding. You expect that to change?”

Glover glanced at the others, who kept silent, knowing that Washington had a purpose in bringing this man to the council.

“Pardon me, sir. Would you be asking me to predict the weather now?” Glover’s frankness had a way of disarming Washington, and he fought through the smile, brought himself to the seriousness of the matter.

“In a fashion, yes, Colonel. Do you anticipate the enemy ships will be held at bay for a while longer?”

Glover took the question seriously as well, said, “This storm is passing, lightening up already.” He motioned to the west, across the river. “Sunset soon. You should see it through the clouds. By midnight, it’ll be clear. Very clear. Full moon tonight.” He paused, glanced at Putnam. “Can’t say much for the wind one way or t’other.”

Putnam had boasted loudly that no British ship of any consequence could sail through the barricade without ripping out its own hull. Washington knew he would have something to say, and Putnam obliged him.

“General Washington, if you mean to be concerned about the British navy, you know my feelings on that. We have made the necessary precautions to keep them out of the river. There is no danger here.”

Glover tilted his head at Putnam, seemed to squint, and Washington knew Glover would make his point, would explain what Washington already believed to be true.

“You may speak freely here, Colonel Glover.”

“Well, sir, I understand that your generals and such have a poor opinion of the British sailor. With all respects, sir, can’t say I agree.” He paused, looked hard at Washington, said, “All those sunken wrecks are a fine thing. But I’ve spent my life slippin’ and cuttin’ my way through rocks and whatnot, and if I know something about those lobster-backs out there, they been doin’ a fair amount of the same. A good helmsman can get his boat past just about anything, especially in protected water like this here river. And, beggin’ your pardon, sir, but if I was Mister Admiral
Lord
Howe, and I saw those little masts pokin’ up at me out there, I’d simply take a flock of my smallest ketches, put one good heavy gun on each stern, raising the bow up high, and when the slack tide come, I’d pick my way right past that barricade. Then I’d commence to bustin’ up the place.
This
place.”

Putnam laughed now, said, “Colonel, I admire your, um, charming descriptions. But if Lord Howe agreed with your observations, then why hasn’t he done exactly that? With all respect to your . . . seafaring skills, I have yet to see one ship sail within range of this position.”

Washington pointed his finger to the rustle of the canvas above them.

“It’s the wind, General. Colonel Glover, am I correct that since this action began, the wind has come from the north?”

Glover was all seriousness now, said, “General Washington, in my opinion, sir, we are able to stand safely here and have this little soirée for one reason only. The mouth of this river opens to the south. We have been blessed with a gale from the north that has prevented the British from entering the river. Forgive me, General Putnam, but I believe it is that wind, and that wind only, that has kept the British navy from sending a fleet right up our backsides. Sir.”

The rain was slackening, and Washington could see a glimpse of the sunset, breaking through the clouds in the west.

“Gentlemen, if any of those warships make their way upriver . . .” He paused, saw the faces all watching him. There were no arguments, and his mind had formed the plan, the only opportunity his army might have to fight another day.

“Colonel Glover, can your boats be made ready in short order?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Then make ready. We are withdrawing from this position.”

He left a small force along the ramparts, guarding against a sudden move by the British. All through the night, Glover’s Marblehead Regiment ferried the troops away and across the river, to the safety of Manhattan. Most of his army never knew his orders, had been told that they were being replaced by fresh troops, the only way Washington knew of preventing a panic, a mad noisy scramble to the boats. As the men marched to the water’s edge, they were warned against sound, no mistake that might give the British some hint of what was happening. It was not perfect, and Washington could not keep the operation immune to human error. One section of the works was left completely unguarded for over an hour while the men marched away in the wrong order. But the error was corrected, and through the long night, few sounds came from the British camps. By midnight, the clouds had cleared away, and the wind was nearly calm, no longer a barrier to Lord Howe’s navy. But the British ships would not move at night, would still have to negotiate the obstructions in the river, and so Glover’s troop-laden boats crossed and recrossed the river unmolested.

Washington stayed on his horse, kept close to the shoreline, silently watching his men file out of the works. Most of the men never saw him, and if they did, it was only in silhouette, the big man on the great horse caught in the sudden flood of moonlight. To the army, the reflection on the river was a blessing, an aide to Glover’s sailors, making easy navigation of the crossing to Manhattan, but to Washington, the full moon meant visibility to the British lookouts, and the constant danger that their move would be discovered.

Just before dawn, his fears were realized, a British patrol slipping forward, reaching the edge of the river without causing the usual alarm, their sergeant staring in wide-eyed amazement at the surge of activity in the river. The alarm went out, and Howe scrambled to bring his men to the scene, but then, as if on command, a thick bank of fog drifted over the river, covering the withdrawal. The British still came forward, made their way into the works of Brooklyn Heights without firing a shot, and some advanced all the way to the river’s edge, caught a last glimpse of the big man stepping off, the rebel commander the last man to board the last boat. Washington’s army had escaped.

4. CORNWALLIS

B
ROOKLYN
H
EIGHTS
, A
UGUST 30, 1776

He was weary of the reports, manic bursts of words from the men who had first reached the river. He had finally ridden up himself, moving first through the farms, surprised by the destruction of the houses, shattered glass, broken doors, contents spread across the muddy roads. He understood now, the rumors floating through headquarters were accurate, reports of savage brutality by the Hessians. He didn’t want to hear of it, but what he saw around him made it obvious. If there was no enemy in range, de Heister’s men turned the frightening efficiency of their fight on whoever might lie in their path, soldier or civilian, rebel or Tory.

He reached the edge of a stand of trees, Brooklyn Heights now in front of him. He rode out across the open ground where the bodies still lay, the putrid smell rising with the dampness of the soggy ground, drifting past him as he guided the horse. Some of the corpses were British, and he could not avoid the horror of that, the good men who had fallen too close to the American position to be buried. He glanced back at his aide, the young Captain Hurst, but no words were necessary, the man already knowing the order.

“I’ll see to it, sir. We’ll have burial parties out here immediately.”

Cornwallis made a quick nod, appreciated the young man’s concern, something few of the senior officers ever cared to show.

He took the horse up through a narrow trail in the rocks, rode up straight into the place where Washington’s ragged army had made its stand. The ground was a chewed-up pit of mud and debris, ripped clothes, and scraps of bandages. The horse stepped over a broken musket protruding from a deep puddle of brown water, and he could not escape the symbolism of that, the shattered arms of a shattered army, an army that should not have escaped. He clenched his fists around the smooth leather of the reins, spurred the horse farther, closer to the high ground that overlooked the river.

He could see it now, the shoreline of Manhattan, broken only by the silhouettes of the great ships, Lord Howe’s men-o-war moving into position, some sailing upriver toward Hell Gate. Of course,
now
we are in place. The thought stuck in his mind like a sour piece of fruit.
Now
we can start our wonderful blockade, a perfect trap around Brooklyn Heights for an enemy who is no longer here.

No one was exactly certain what would happen next, and General Howe had not revealed any details of a new strategy. Cornwallis moved the horse along the shoreline, thought, There could very well be no strategy at all. After all, we have gone to so very much trouble to make a truly fine camp here. The army is rested, the casualty figures somewhat complete, and clearly in our favor. By anyone’s measure, this was an absolute triumph. The rebels lost a quarter of their strength, possibly more. We have so many prisoners we don’t know where to house them. And the dead . . . we don’t know yet. So many of them are still out there. We may never know how many we killed. Those swamps, the creeks and thickets will hide bodies for years.

He saw a group of officers farther upriver, moved the horse that way, the aides behind him in single file. He could see Clinton now, surrounded by his staff, Clinton’s expression a reflection of his own sullen mood. Cornwallis saluted, and both staffs moved away, protocol, the two senior commanders left alone. There was a long moment, and finally Clinton said, “We made a grand show, General. To those farmers and shopkeepers it must have been an awe-inspiring sight, a perfect display of the king’s might. It is unfortunate that our commanding general didn’t know what to do with it.”

It was another of Clinton’s indiscretions, something he would never say publicly. Clinton looked at him now, and Cornwallis could see no concern on the man’s face, thought, I suppose . . . he trusts me.

“I had thought there might have been a better plan.” It was as far as Cornwallis would go with a superior. Clinton ignored his caution, stared out toward the river, said, “There was no better plan. There was a legacy to be adhered to, to be feared: the legacy of Breed’s Hill. I wish you had been there, General. Boston: another grand show, all the pageantry and bluster, marching up that hill to victory. Never mind that it was a disaster. The field was ours. Never mind that we left nearly half our troops on the ground. We were victorious. But it was a mistake that General Howe will not make again.” He looked at Cornwallis now, black despair in his eyes. “I advised against that assault, you know. There was the perfect opportunity to go around, cut the rebel retreat from behind. It was almost too simple a plan. But of course, there would not have been such . . .
pageantry
.”

Cornwallis knew little of the strategy of that awful day over a year ago, had read only what the ministry had put in the official dispatches. But of course, Clinton was always a strategist, had all the experience in Europe. He would always have his own plan, would dissent freely from his commander, even unwisely. It was easy now to say he might have been right about Breed’s Hill. But this was a different fight. The rebels who poured into the fortifications here were
already
defeated, infected with panic. What kind of stand could they have made? For Howe to be ignorant of that was to be ignorant of the power of his own army. But worse, to know the enemy’s weakness and not act upon it . . . well, there will be as much hindsight here as there was at Breed’s Hill. He stayed silent, and Clinton pointed out across the river, said, “They cannot hold New York. The island is simply too big, and there are not enough of them. It is ours for the taking. Just like this place, right behind us.”

Cornwallis had considered that, said, “What they have left of an army could well be dispersed already. They may have no more fight left. This war may be over. But if we must continue to fight, the army is rested, prepared. Has General Howe given you some indication of when we might proceed?” He kept the sarcasm out of his voice, and Clinton surprised him now, laughed.

“Proceed? You mean, make another grand assault against a weak and pitiful enemy? No, General, I have received no orders to prepare for a landing on Manhattan. Will there be one? Most certainly. Whether or not the army is rested and prepared is hardly the issue. When the enemy was in chaos, falling back into these fortifications in a complete rout, we were
prepared
then. If we had followed them with the same dispatch with which we had begun the attack, this war would certainly be over now. General Washington would be sharing tea with General Howe, his surrendered sword a souvenir, the object of pride to this command.”

Cornwallis glanced at the staff officers, knew Clinton’s voice was carrying. Clinton caught the look, lowered his voice, said, “General, I do not wish to make you uncomfortable. But I have confidence in your abilities, and I believe you agree with my assessment. It is not necessary for you to state that. Surely you feel as I do, that we have lost an astounding opportunity to crush this rebellion, or at the very least, to crush its army.”

Cornwallis sorted his words, was still not entirely comfortable.

“I believe, sir, that without an army, there is no rebellion.”

Clinton let the meaningless words drift by, said, “Did you hear the reports of mass drownings? Some say that during their escape, the rebels lost dozens of boats capsized, men overboard, wholesale loss of life. Right out there, hundreds perhaps. Rather sad, don’t you think?”

Cornwallis wasn’t sure what Clinton meant, and Clinton went on, “Of course, I assume that hundreds of drowned rebels would have made something of a mess of the shore, or at the very least, would have been a grisly observation for Lord Howe’s lookouts. That’s the sadness, General. It was all fabrication. This army is forced to
create
tales of enemy disaster, because we are impotent to effect that disaster ourselves. It was right in our grasp. Now, we must begin again, march to the boats and cross another waterway, and see what kind of enemy awaits us over there.”

Cornwallis was absorbed by Clinton’s deep gloom, a mood darker than even his own. He looked back toward the Heights behind them, crowded with red uniforms, men sorting through the debris the rebels had left behind. He saw one man with a bayonet, poking at a pile of muddy rags, more men doing the same, all along the waterfront, their white leggings soiled by the filth of the trash. He thought of Howe, the official report that would go to London. It was a victory, we have the ground, the enemy fled before us in panic, leaving behind . . . their garbage. If there is still a war, if the rebel army escaped to fight us yet again, at least General Howe can be proud. By God, it was a grand show.

S
EPTEMBER 8, 1776

They had gathered on Admiral Howe’s flagship, the
Eagle
, a grand man-o-war that carried all the luxury appropriate to his command. The dinner had been enormous, an assortment of all the delicacies to be had around New York, many of the Tories still pouring out their good tidings and their generosity to the British command. The plates were gone now, the claret flowing freely, and Cornwallis had begun to feel a lift in his dark mood for the first time.

The rebels had abandoned Governor’s Island, and some had thought it was another unfortunate escape, that the navy should have made more of an effort to capture the position. But the effect was positive, no more of the annoying potshots at the ships if they drifted too close, and if Lord Howe had been too hesitant to seize the small island, no one spoke of it. The only rebel artillery positions were in Manhattan, most on the southern tip, and the navy had been free to spread out through much of New York Harbor. The calmer waters of the protected bays were full of activity as well, the navy bringing the fleet of flatboats into formation, preparation for the army to make its move to Manhattan. Despite Clinton’s not-so-subtle fury, General Howe continued to operate on a schedule of his own, perfectly satisfied to proceed on some deliberate timetable only he understood. But the sight of the flatboats brought back the excitement, and Cornwallis could not help but feel that no matter if General Howe’s movement was slower than he would have liked, at least, now, there was movement.

The admiral sat at the end of the table, framed by an extraordinary chair, tall spires bathed in gold. The talk had begun to quiet, and with a subtle tilt of his head, the order was given, the servants quickly gone from the dining room.

Lord Howe looked at his brother, who sat on his right, a formal, familiar ceremony between them, a mutual permission for the discussion to begin. The admiral said, “Some of you have shown the courtesy to converse with our prisoner, Mr. John Sullivan. I am pleased to report that the rebel general is actually something of a gentleman, with some understanding of his rebellion’s unfortunate predicament. Once it was explained to him that we desired only to end this war, he was enthusiastic about communicating that to his congress. Thus, he has been paroled, carrying with him to Philadelphia a document expressing our inclination to negotiate for the end of this war.”

There were nods, low murmurs of approval, and Cornwallis kept his eye on the admiral, could see a glow of self-satisfaction. Lord Howe continued, “As you know, the ministry has given to General Howe and myself the power to grant amnesty to anyone who wishes to receive it, assuming of course that those persons agree to end hostility to the king. To be frank, no one in this command believed that their congress would take heed of this suggestion. However, we feel that the events of the past two weeks have had an impact. Not only have we utterly defeated Mr. Washington’s little army, but his evacuation of Long Island has indicated in the strongest light that he has no intention of putting himself at risk again.” He raised his wineglass. “I offer a salute to my brother, General Howe, for his extraordinary success in persuading the rebels to take to their boats.”

Pleasantries passed around the table, and Cornwallis tried to feel the spirit, thought, of course, It has to be the rationale. We are, in fact,
happy
that Washington’s army escaped. Lord Howe waited for the toast to conclude, made the appropriate nod to his brother, said, “It is highly likely that the rebel congress will see their situation differently now. Prospects for peace have never been greater. Mr. Sullivan has conveyed this message to his congress, along with means of discussing terms of a general peace. I have agreed to meet with anyone whom their congress wishes to send. They have wisely consented to this, and I am most pleased to inform you that a meeting on this subject will take place in a few days.”

Cornwallis knew of the ministry’s authorization, granting Lord Howe the power to deal directly with congress as a peace commissioner. What that actually meant, no one was sure, except Lord Howe himself. Cornwallis had no idea how the Continental Congress would respond to such an offer. But as the men around the table made their toasts of congratulation, Cornwallis tried to see past the words. Had Washington been bypassed, considered by Lord Howe to be irrelevant? Cornwallis knew now he had been wrong about Washington’s army simply dissolving away. They were digging in, creating fortifications along the East River, all the way up to the mouth of the Harlem River. And the artillery was still in place on the southern tip of the island, guarding the access to the Hudson River. Whatever army Washington has left, he is certainly prepared to make another fight. Their retreat from Brooklyn Heights might have been a defeat, but it was not enough to end a war. Obviously Washington knows that, and just as surely, their congress will agree.

He raised his glass automatically, did not hear the words, General Howe returning the favor to his brother, offering meaningless praise for the admiral’s diplomatic triumph. Cornwallis avoided the faces, thought, They might actually believe that this peace commission will find a way to end this war.