The Glorious Cause

by Jeff Shaara

  It was unusual that a colonel be at a council of war, but Smallwood had been called to this council because he was a veteran, and his immediate superior, Stirling, was absent. And it was apparent to the entire army that Smallwood’s command was not only reliable, but might be some of the best troops Washington had.

  “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

  BROOKLYN HEIGHTS, AUGUST 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 i
nto 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.”