The Glorious Cause

by Jeff Shaara

  He watched the three ships, his hands moving automatically to rig up his fishing pole. He had often seen smaller ships moving past Gravesend Bay, some near the shallows where he fished. There were sails only when they were heading for the open water, or, as he had seen lately, when they came in, the end of some long journey he could only imagine. The sailors had often called out to him, men up in the rigging, on the rails. He had always waved politely, wondered if they envied him, captain and crew of his own boat. But then someone had shot at him, a puff of smoke from a lookout, the strange zip of the musket ball passing overhead, a small punch in the water behind his boat. He had not understood that, thought it a ridiculous, frightening mistake, but the lesson was learned. Now, when the navy ships moved past he made ready, turned his boat toward the shore, an instinct inside him to move to safety, to keep his fat rocks in sight.

  He thought now of doing the same, the three ships still bearing toward him. It was odd, something wrong. He did not move, still watched them, thought, They should be turning about before now, the deeper water is behind them. If they keep on this course, they will run aground. He had never seen such a mass of power so close. The larger ship was now barely two hundred yards away, then he heard shouts, the ship beginning to veer slowly to one side. The sails began to drop, the rigging alive with men, sounds of canvas flapping, the rattle of chain. He could see the anchor suddenly dropping, a hard splash as it thrust downward. He set the fishing pole down, his heart racing cold in his chest, his hands feeling for the paddle, no time to put up the sail. In short moments, the rigging of the great ship was bare, the tall masts naked against the glow from the east. He began to move the paddle in the water, pulling his boat backward, unable to take his eyes away from the flank of the ship, the rows of cannon staring straight toward him, toward the land behind him. The other ships moved in behind, slow maneuvering, more sails disappearing, and he kept paddling, his boat barely pushing into the tide, the breeze against his back. He glanced behind him, saw his rocks, the sanctuary, the agonizing distance, moved the paddle faster, chopping at the water. He expected to hear the musket ball again, but they seemed not to notice him, or better, they were ignoring him. The sandy bottom was visible beneath his boat now, and he grabbed quickly for the push pole, stood, balanced precariously, the boat rocking under his feet.

  He strained against the push pole, the boat lurching under him, but then he stopped. Beyond the smaller ships there was something new, motion again, but different, no sails, no great masts. He stepped up on his seat, tried to see more detail, could tell the boats were flat, the motion coming from rows of oars. He saw more of them, and slowly they reached the warships, but did not stop, kept moving, still coming toward him. He was frozen for a long moment, his mind absorbing through his confusion. The flatboats kept coming, a vast swarm, the motion of the oars bringing them closer. He began to see reflections, a mass of color, red and white and silver. And now he understood. The boats were filled with soldiers.

  He had reached the rocks, pulled the boat between them, slid it hard onto the shore with sweating hands. The soldiers had ignored him, and he thought of leaving, running the long trail back to his house, telling his wife. He climbed up on the taller rock, could see a great fleet of small flat barges. They had begun to reach the shore, sliding to a stop a hundred yards away from his perch, one after another, shouts, the men suddenly emerging, each boat emptying. He felt a strange thrill, saw the uniforms clearly now, the red and white of the British soldiers, the colors that inspired an empire. He was truly excited, the fear gone, made a small laugh, thought, No, there is no danger. I should go out, salute them, welcome them to Long Island. He saw different uniforms, brighter red, gold trim, officers. If I can find the commander, bring him to my house . . .

  He tried to imagine his wife’s face. He laughed again, saw now that the empty boats were moving offshore, sliding between those that still held their passengers. He tried to count, three dozen, No . . . my God. The flotilla stretched all the way past the warships still, an endless sea of flat motion. He could hear sounds now, over the quick shouts of men, the rhythm of drums, and a strange screeching noise. The sounds began to come together, the music of bagpipes, and the boat released its cargo, a different red, men in tartan, and he stared, thought, By God . . . they’re wearin’ . . . skirts. He pictured his wife, knew she wouldn’t believe him, thought of running again, bringing her back here, to see this amazing sight. He wanted to stand up high on the rock, pulled his knees up, but something held him down, frozen. There was a ripple of sound behind him, from the sandy hills, a line of thin woods. The soldiers seemed not to hear, no change in their voices, their activity. But he turned, looked back, saw bits of smoke in the trees. Musket fire. He couldn’t see who was shooting, thought, My God, what foolishness. Who dares to fire at the king’s troops? He huddled down against the rock, peered out toward the soldiers again, saw men in line, moving off the narrow beach, an officer leading them up the rise toward the trees. The musket fire slowed, just the single pop, then another. Then the woods were quiet, the British troops moving up closer. He felt an odd twist in his stomach, thought, Was that a battle? Was it over? He was amazed, thought, You do not shoot at soldiers. He tried to think who it might have been, had heard something about rebels who had come across the East River, to build some kind of fort near Brooklyn. Is that who was in the woods? He was anxious to move away now, to go home, to tell his wife this strange story. He looked out toward the boats again, could suddenly hear music, different, brass and drums. One of the boats reached the shore closer to him, and the colors were not red. The sunlight reflected off a mass of metal, men with gold helmets. The uniforms were blue, and the men began to move onto the shore with crisp steps, forming a neat rectangle. He stared, saw they nearly all wore their hair tied in a long queue, a braid protruding from the helmets, each man with a moustache. There were officers here too, and when their men moved off the shore, the officers turned, looked toward him, one man motioning with his arm, pointing. He felt the cold in his chest again, began to back down the rock. But he could not leave just yet, had to see, peeked up over the edge, saw six of the blue uniforms moving down the beach in his direction. Now the welcome was erased from his mind. He could hear their voices now, words that he didn’t understand. This must be . . . could they be . . . Hessians?

  He dropped down from the rocks, fought the urge to run, glanced at his boat. No, I cannot just leave her here. They might take her. He felt his hands shaking, the strange voices moving closer, just beyond the far side of the big rocks. He took a deep breath, fixed a smile on his face, moved around the boat, saw them now, saw for the first time the long muskets, the hard sharp steel, the bayonets moving down, pointing at him. There was one in a different uniform, the man holding a sword, who motioned toward him, unsmiling, said, “A spy, yes?”

  He shook his head, tried to laugh.

  “Oh, no, sir. Just fishing.” He pointed toward the boat, his hand shaking. “See? Just fishing, sir.”

  The officer glanced at the boat, said something to the soldiers beside him, and the men moved quickly, the bayonets suddenly coming forward, the sharp flash of steel, the work of men who know their business. The officer gave a short command, and the soldiers backed away, stood again in a tight line. The officer glanced down at the man who lay fallen into his boat, nodded, made a brief smile.

  “A spy. Yes.”

  2. CORNWALLIS

  LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK, AUGUST 22, 1776

  He had been with the first wave, bringing his own men ashore in a great show of martial elegance. The uniforms were spotless, the men well practiced in their drill, and as the regiments moved in line up the rise away from the water, not a man among them had any doubt that if the rebels dared to stand in front of them, the memories of Breed’s Hill and Concord would be wiped away in one bloody charge.

  They had made camp near the small village of Flatbush, and when the tents were in line, and the equipment organized, he had gone b
ack to the water’s edge to observe as the rest of the massive force came ashore. It was a marvelous armada, nearly ninety flatboats, a vast spread of force punctuated by the power of the big warships, standing guard, great birds of prey watching over their flocks, keeping their men safe for the landing. No force of rebels could have held them back. In fact, there had been no opposition at all, except for a brief scattering of musket fire.

  Already the local civilians had come to the camp, all with details of what lay ahead, of the rebel position, the strength. Most of the citizens in this area were staunchly loyal to the king, and it was obvious they were relieved finally to be under direct protection of the army. Nearly every farmer who came into camp fashioned himself to be some kind of spy, eager to lend some assistance to the army’s intelligence. Cornwallis had heard that the musket fire had come from some militia from Pennsylvania, and whether or not the information was reliable, he had to wonder, were there no New Yorkers to defend their own soil? There would be meaning to that, something not to be ignored. General Howe had given little regard to the intelligence from the citizens, relying instead on the reports from his brother, Admiral Richard Howe. The admiral would stay with his ships, keeping a sharp watch for rebel movement from any quarter that might pose some threat to the landing. Cornwallis understood that of course General Howe would give much more credence to the reports from his brother. But Cornwallis listened to every civilian, sorted through hyperbole and careless boasting, focused on the small bits of real information, any hint of the weakness that could be of good use to this marvelous army.

  They had landed nearly twenty thousand men, and combined with the great mass of naval power, it was the largest expedition the British military had ever assembled. They were not all English, of course, several thousand Hessian soldiers landing beside their new, or as some said, temporary allies. But Cornwallis had observed them coming ashore, could tell immediately that the Hessian discipline was absolute. Like the British, their uniforms were perfect, the weapons held in perfect symmetry. Even the faces of the men seemed identical, strange, as though a massive force of brothers. The uniforms were mostly blue, but then had come the jagers, in their green coats, the handpicked riflemen, recruited from the forests for their hunting skills. That would be something new here, men who fought as the rebels fought, relying on the keen eye and the well-placed shot, rather than the mass of power in the bayonet charge. It had excited him, the thought of the rebels discovering that not all their enemies observed the rules of war. Cornwallis still felt some uneasiness with that, not the disgust that rolled through headquarters, the outrage of Howe infecting the other officers. There was complaining already, how dare those rebels confront us by not confronting us? Cornwallis had read enough of Breed’s Hill to know that it was a hollow protest, that if the rebels stayed put, it did not necessarily mean an easy fight. Howe would not talk of Breed’s Hill, and there was no mention of it in headquarters, no criticizing in quiet conversation. Not one senior officer there would have assaulted the rebels any differently than Howe had done, except perhaps Clinton.

  Cornwallis had never spoken to Henry Clinton about such things, it was simply not good form. Clinton would never speak openly, of course, but his silence betrayed a simmering disrespect for Howe. That sort of dissension was not tolerated, certainly not by a commander like William Howe, who carried a fragile pride. But Cornwallis had come to know Clinton well, suffering through the ridiculous disaster in South Carolina. Clinton had been stubborn, relying on bad intelligence and bad tactics, and it was Cornwallis’ first taste of a war against the rebels. He had experienced the same outrage about their methods, the rebels who stayed put behind great fat logs, not understanding that when the British came to fight, the most proper response was to oblige. But the rebels had been perfectly satisfied to wreak havoc on the naval vessels, while the torturous heat and damnable insects wreaked havoc on the British troops. At least in New York, the countryside seemed well suited for a fight, rolling hills, hard ground, a place where cavalry could fight beside the bayonets. The coast of South Carolina was more swamp than land, the air thick with blight. Clinton had finally admitted defeat, that Charleston could not be taken without great loss, and both men had known Howe would understand that. Howe would never expect his subordinates to endure another Breed’s Hill.

  It was said with optimism that the Howe brothers made an effective partnership, the officers speaking quietly of how one man’s weakness was bolstered by the other’s strength. Admiral Howe was more matter-of-fact about strategy, had actually spoken out in support of some means of avoiding war, something the king and his ministers would never endorse publicly. But Richard Howe held a stronger political position in England, had quiet support from many who stood in opposition to the king’s policies. Even before Cornwallis had arrived in America, he understood that the admiral had more powerful friends than did his brother, that some in England, and perhaps right here at headquarters, still cast some blame on the general for the loss of Boston and the carnage they had endured at Breed’s Hill. Cornwallis had no affection for William Howe, had known him only from their days serving together in Parliament. It was not Cornwallis’ job to place blame or find fault with anyone. William Howe had full command of the army. It would be Cornwallis’ duty to follow his orders.

  AUGUST 26, 1776

  They gathered at the home of a grateful Tory named DeNuys, a nervous little man who bowed and scraped before General Howe, gushing with unbridled relief that the great British army had been delivered by God, a force of angels to hold the great hordes of rabble away from his modest home.

  The last of the foreign soldiers had been landed the day before, brought ashore by their commander, General de Heister. The old Hessian was barely mobile, and Cornwallis guessed him to be nearly seventy, a military man who had charged through wars on European soil before many of the British command were born. There was an arrogance to the old man, but it was not an obstacle, and de Heister knew his place at the table, the professional soldier’s instinct of when to speak, when to offer an opinion. Like Cornwallis, de Heister understood that this was Howe’s command. And like Cornwallis, de Heister felt that once the army had completed its landing on Long Island, it was time to go to work.

  There had been a brisk skirmish near Cornwallis’ camp, a unit of Hessian grenadiers actually surprised by a sudden burst of fire from a column of rebels. The fight had little consequence, and the Hessians, under their commander Karl von Donop, had pushed the rebels back into the woods with little effort. But the outburst had prodded Cornwallis to prod Howe. It was time to move.

  It had been a long meal, a generous offering by the DeNuys family, as well as masses of food brought in from local farms, more Tories welcoming the army into their territory. Howe had been nearly giddy, thanking them in the name of the king, inspired by the eruption of support that flowed through the camps. Cornwallis had enjoyed the meal as they all had, but it was past now, and his impatience had begun to grow. Finally, after too many toasts of good wine, even Howe could not avoid the purpose of this meeting, to talk of what they must do next.

  The scouts had made their reports, local men who could draw the maps, lay out the routes for the army to follow. Cornwallis had waited as long as he could, observed the protocol, could not begin any discussion of the business of the war without some cue from Howe. But the time had come, and he retrieved a map from beneath the table, spread it out. He studied the lines, made an effort to pay polite attention to the conversation around the long table, servants darting quickly behind them, tea and wine still flowing. Across from him, de Heister watched through tired eyes, and Cornwallis caught the look, thought, He will wait. He wants me to begin.

  At the head of the table Howe was writing a note, handed it to an aide, said something in a low giggling voice, and Cornwallis looked down, pretended not to notice. It was an annoying practice, and Cornwallis could say nothing about it. It was not his place to judge. It was common knowledge that the commanding
general would carry on with his mistress, love letters and silly notes, passed through the headquarters as though by schoolchildren. Cornwallis didn’t believe himself prudish, but the presence of the women, bright flowery ornaments for the arms of the officers, made him uncomfortable. It was a parade of foppish finery, the gathering of trophies that some of the men seemed to require. He knew that his view was distinctly in the minority, that his devotion to his wife, though she was three thousand miles away, made him the exception. But it was the commanding general who set the standard, who seemed to be the most affected. Howe had made a conquest of one of his own officers’ wives, rewarding the unfortunate subordinate with a promotion and soft duty in return for erasing the man’s honor at having his wife become General Howe’s bauble. Cornwallis would never comment, of course, and tried to avoid even a furtive glance, something that would be interpreted as disapproval. It was not his place. And, despite the distraction, sooner or later the commanding general would have to focus on the matter at hand.

  He glanced again at Howe, who now seemed receptive to the men at the table. Howe noticed the map, and Cornwallis said, “General, with your permission, I have examined the terrain. This map confirms what I have seen.” He waited, could not launch into a full-scale talk on strategy unless Howe gave him the opening. Clinton was beside him, began to nod, his own show of relief that the talk was turning away from the merely social. Howe took the cue, said, “Please continue, General. I enjoy a good plan.”