by Jeff Shaara
From the rows of open ports, there was one sudden burst of smoke, a thunderous roar that ripped the air above him. The sky was alive with streaks of red and orange, and as quickly as the sound rocked him, the shoreline erupted in blasts of fire. The men in the flatboat were pushed low to the deck, the shock of the sudden cascade of sound. The volleys from each ship erupted without pause, the sharp blasts from huge guns punching the air in his lungs. He could hear smaller sounds now, dull pops from the swivel guns, the miniature cannon high in the rigging of each ship. All he could see of the river was a swirl of gray smoke, and the smell drifted over him, burning sulfur, the smoke blocking out the sunrise behind him. The roar of noise continued still, but the men in his boat began to recover from the shock, began pointing at the shore, the cheers resuming, and he saw it as well. The row of piled dirt was ragged and uneven, and the men who manned the earthwork were now out of sight, bathed in smoke and fire. The flatboat sat motionless in the water, and Cornwallis looked along the river, the other boats still waiting as his was, while above them, the great ships continued to pour their fire toward the rebel works. As the smoke masked what was happening onshore, the men seemed to settle down lower in the boat, the wonder of the bombardment already becoming routine. He knew it would be like this for a while, that the big guns would continue their work, that nothing else could happen until somewhere, someone gave the order to cease fire.
It lasted for an hour, and when the sounds finally stopped, the echoes in his ears gave way to the sounds of a new drumbeat, and quickly the flatboats resumed their motion toward the shore. He felt a thick layer of ash on his face, could see it on the men, the white in their uniforms tinged with the grime of the burnt powder. He tried to find the excitement again, focused on the shoreline, the smoking piles of dirt along the water’s edge, what remained of the rebel works. But he was nagged by the one glaring inefficiency, the bad timing, the big ships waiting too long to begin the barrage. Someone did not communicate, someone missed the order. You don’t wait until your own troops are in front of you to begin an artillery assault. He put the annoyance away, focused on the job in front of him. Along the shore, the first of Clinton’s boats had landed, the mass of color spreading out on open ground. They moved quickly, columns shifting into line, marching out toward the right. He waited for the sounds of musket fire, the resistance, watched as more of Clinton’s men and now von Donop’s Hessians continued to roll ashore, the only sounds the shouts of the officers, the final slap of the oars in shallow water.
With a final hard pull by the oarsmen, his boat slid into soft sand, the men quickly climbing up and out, splashing their way forward, responding to an officer already onshore. The man saluted Cornwallis, who stepped out as well, his boots sinking into the churned-up mud. His troops were already moving away, and he followed them, the footing solid for a short way, then muddy again. He crossed over a shallow ditch, could smell sulfur again, the ground ripped by the artillery barrage. He saw one body, and it was a shock, not for the blood, or the man’s shredded clothing. It was one body. The ditch had been the rebel entrenchment. And there were no signs of a fight, no wounded, none of the scattered chaos that litters the ground of every battle. He could hear a chatter of musket fire now, well out in front, on the far side of the meadow, and lines of his men moved that way, led by the captains, the sergeants holding them tightly in formation. The meadow was a swarm of activity, units moving into one long line, others, the flanks, marching out to both sides. He looked again at the shallow ditch, the mud, wisps of smoke still clinging to the wet ground. It was a good show indeed. And when they had their fill of it, the rebels simply . . . vanished.
Forty-five hundred men had come ashore at a wide cove known as Kip’s Bay. It was chosen from a number of possible landing sites, the shoreline protected from wind, a favorable tide, the ground flat and open, a meadow with no obstruction other than what the rebels would provide. Inland, the meadow ended at woods, and beyond the woods the primary roadway, the Post Road, ran north and south along the east side of the island. The city of New York was to the south, and the landing had avoided a confrontation with any force the rebels might have positioned there. No one knew the exact strength the rebels had placed at Kip’s Bay, but with some good fortune, Howe might have chosen a piece of ground that was lightly defended. When the army came ashore, the only opposition came from scattered clusters of musket fire, small groups of men who had backed into the woods, and many more who had simply run away. But the Hessian, von Donop, had sent his jagers quickly forward, the green-coated marksmen, men whose method of fighting was familiar to the rebels. The jagers moved from rock to tree, each man precise at finding his target with a rifled musket, the skill of a marksman. If any of the rebels made a strong stand, the jagers would fall back to the lines of the men behind them, the massed body of Hessian troops who relied more on the bayonet. And, as had happened on Long Island, the combination was impossible for even veteran rebels to combat. In less than an hour, the first wave of Howe’s invasion of Manhattan had swept away any resistance in front of them. As Cornwallis’ men moved in formation across the meadow, there was the eerie sense of a simple parade-ground drill. Not only was there no organized opposition, but nearly every rebel in the area of Kip’s Bay was in full flight.
Howe had come ashore at the rear of the first wave, had surveyed the scene of the landing with a puffed-up glow of accomplishment. Cornwallis and Clinton had met him, had made their reports, and Cornwallis had asked every officer he could find to confirm the most astounding report of all. No one could actually locate a single British or Hessian soldier who had been wounded. As Cornwallis gave Howe the report, even he didn’t believe it. But Howe had nodded with a confident smile. Of course there were no casualties. It had been a good plan.
Cornwallis watched as Howe strutted along the shoreline, thought, I suppose this is customary. Give him his moment. No one can argue that this result was not worth many days of delay. Howe stared at the river for a long moment, and Cornwallis imagined him conversing with his brother, thought, They do seem to work well together.
Howe pointed out toward the river now, said aloud, “The remainder of the army is en route. We should have them all ashore here by this evening.” He focused on the commanders now, said, “I take some pleasure in this, gentlemen. There is nothing as satisfying as a victory. By nightfall, we shall be in full strength, and shall march upon the enemy once again. This was, dare I say, a splendid operation. Splendid. London will only be pleased.”
Couriers were gathering, more reports emerging from what little fighting there had been, mostly all in the woods. Cornwallis saw a senior officer approaching, a staff close behind, and the man seemed agitated, bursting with words. Cornwallis knew the man, John Vaughan, moving with a pronounced limp from a leg wound he had received on Long Island.
“Sir! Excuse me, General Howe!” Vaughan acknowledged Clinton and Cornwallis with a crisp nod, and said to Howe, “General, Colonel von Donop has taken his troops southward toward the city. I was not aware you had given this order, sir. My command has secured the heights around the Murray mansion, as ordered, and was awaiting further instruction, when we learned that the left flank was exposed by Colonel von Donop’s march.”
Vaughan seemed to run out of breath. Howe glanced at Clinton, said, “I gave no specific order to extend our position. However, Colonel von Donop enjoys the full confidence of General de Heister, and I am certain he saw a particular opportunity. It is probably a wise strategy to establish a strong front near the city, to prevent the rebels from assaulting us from that quarter.” He looked at Clinton.
“Don’t you agree, General?”
“If the commanding general deems it proper to allow the Hessians to proceed with their own plan, then I have no objection.” There was no emotion in Clinton’s voice, and Howe seemed to ignore him. Vaughan found his energy again, said, “Sir, we have made every attempt to engage the rebels, without success. I deeply regret, sir, we have been u
nable to catch up to them.”
All eyes were on Vaughan now, and there were small laughs, Vaughan himself still not getting the joke.
Clinton was not smiling, said, “General Vaughan, it is probably best you call your men back into a stable position. It is clear the rebels have offered you the field. I suggest you accept it.”
Vaughan still seemed frustrated. Howe thought for a moment, said, “General Vaughan, you said we are in possession of the Murray mansion. Are the inhabitants present?”
Vaughan seemed deflated now. “Well, um, yes, sir. I spoke to Mrs. Murray myself. There was concern within the household about their safety, but I gave assurances no harm would come to them.”
Howe smiled, put his hands together.
“Yes, excellent. We should go there. I am well acquainted with the Murrays. Fine hosts, staunch loyalists. We should offer them some comfort. No doubt, they have been subjected to considerable abuse by the rebels.”
Howe moved to his horse, climbed up, said to Clinton, “You are invited, certainly, and General Cornwallis as well. Do make haste. For a wonderful day such as this, some refreshment is in order, and seeing that it is near the noon hour, perhaps in their gratefulness they will provide a hearty meal.”
Howe was moving away, and Cornwallis looked at Vaughan, saw a look of distress spreading on the man’s face.
“General Vaughan, I’m certain you are invited as well. General Howe did not mean to exclude you.”
“Thank you, sir.” Vaughan looked at Clinton now, said, “Sir, I believe we have considerable work yet in front of us. We observed a large number of rebels retreating to the north, and I would suspect that General Washington is gathering the greater part of his army in that quarter, along our right flank.”
Clinton was still watching Howe’s departure, the last of his staff now disappearing into the woods. Other officers had begun to gather, and Cornwallis could see men still emerging from the timberline, pulling into formation. Cornwallis said aloud, “Do we have any reports from the direction of the city? I have heard little from that direction since we made our first landing. Do we know if their main battery is still manned?”
Clinton said, “I’ve heard nothing, and I don’t imagine the navy could drive a large force of rebels from those works. It’s a strong position, and they have a great many guns there. It is unlikely they will give up that position without a sharp fight.”
Cornwallis felt a stirring in his stomach, said, “Then, sir, should we not advance to the west, and do what we can to create some kind of barrier, especially on the main roads leading north? I have no doubt that General Vaughan is correct, and Washington will withdraw his forces to the only safe place they can gather, which is northward. Any rebel forces in the city can be easily cut off.”
Clinton stared grimly to the west, past the meadow where more of their troops continued to gather, more strength coming into their formations. In the river behind them, the flatboats were beginning to land again, returning with the first units of the main body of the army. Clinton still said nothing, and Cornwallis could see the familiar glare on his face. No one spoke, would wait for the senior commander, and finally Clinton said, “We have been instructed to await the arrival of the remainder of the army. We will not move from this vicinity until General Howe issues that order. The commanding general will not give that order until he feels we have the force to adequately crush the rebels, no matter in what direction they may be.” He looked at Cornwallis.
“General, do you understand?”
Cornwallis was surprised at the question.
“Certainly, sir.” He could see that Clinton wasn’t satisfied with his answer, and Clinton said, “Do you understand that we have been ordered to maintain our present position for the rest of this day? We are not to advance across Manhattan, we are not to make any move to cut off the rebels in the city, no matter how disadvantaged they may be. The commanding general will not make any further advances until he has what he feels is a force adequate to the task, until the . . . risk has been eliminated.”
Cornwallis understood now, Clinton was right. Howe was stopping again, would rest on the laurels of this one great victory, as though it was enough for one day. The report would be sent quickly to London, and the ministry would erupt with praise. For that reason alone, Howe would not take any kind of risk, not with the vast strength of the army still to be assembled on the shore. If it is a mistake, well, we do not know that yet. They are defeated certainly. But, again, we have allowed them to escape. The word dug into his mind, escape. How many times will we allow them to escape destruction? Surely General Howe understands that the war will continue as long as the rebels can make a fight, somewhere.
Clinton began to move away, his staff holding his horse for him. Cornwallis watched him climb up, and Clinton looked at him, said, “Best hurry, General. The war can wait. General Howe requires a hearty meal.”
7. WASHINGTON
SEPTEMBER 15, 1776
The sounds of cannon fire had brought him southward, his staff fighting to keep up with the pace of his horse. As he reached the Post Road, he could see smoke rising from the river, but not enough to cloud the tall masts of the British warships. When their bombardment had stopped, he could see them clearly, and the dull thunder was replaced by scattered bursts of musket fire. As he moved past other units of militia, the men who guarded the landings from the Harlem River southward, the order had been given for the men to move toward the sounds of the fight. Along the northern stretches of the East River shoreline, what earthworks had been dug were quickly abandoned. They all knew now: The fight had been at Kip’s Bay. From the west as well, near the Bloomingdale Road, men were advancing in support, some already reaching the crossroad where he stopped the horse.
The sounds of the battle had grown strangely quiet, and there was a new sound, voices, shouts, men now flowing up the Post Road toward him, others appearing out of patches of woods, across open fields. There were no British soldiers, just his own men, and they ran toward him with blind panic, stumbling into the road just below him, closer still. Though some were calling out, short gasps of warnings, curses, he could see many others were deathly silent, the faces staring straight ahead, purposeful, their fear driving them toward some imagined sanctuary, some place of safety they might never find. He could hear orders, hard commands from officers, trying to turn their men around, but then the officers were running as well, few stopping to form any kind of line. Washington was stunned by the sight, for a long moment just stared, felt a rising sickness. But then they began to move past him, some stumbling into the road right beside him, and now he called out to the staff gathered behind him, “Stop them! Hold them back!” He turned the horse sideways, and the aides did the same, blocking the road. He drew his sword, raised it high, began to shout as they forced their way past, “Stop! Hold here! Do not run! There is no danger!”
The wave of men parted around him, oblivious to any order, the shouts from the staff ignored as well. One man came straight toward him, launched himself into the horse’s flank, Washington holding hard to the reins, the man staring through him, unseeing, blinded by his own terror. Washington raised his sword, the man still scrambling to push his way past, and Washington brought the flat of the sword down on the man’s back, but the man slipped by and was quickly gone. There were more now, some still keeping to the road, but others had simply spread out into the fields around them, slowed only by their own exhaustion.
He heard new shouts, could see down the crossroad to the west, a column of his troops, saw General Mifflin, the Pennsylvanian. Mifflin was already ordering his men into the road in front of Washington, screening the commander from the tide of panic. Washington pointed with the sword toward a long low stone fence, said, “General, move your men into line. Take the wall!” Farther to the west, the stone framed a field of tall corn, and he rode that way, guiding more of Mifflin’s men, said, “Take the cornfield! It will provide cover! Make ready!”
Miff
lin was pulling his horse along with the flow of his men, putting them in place, and Washington felt a burst of relief, Finally, a fighting man, troops who can face the enemy. Thank God. More of his men were arriving now, the militia who had been up to the north, along the river, guarding the landing places that Howe had ignored. Washington guided them into place as well, the men lining up along fences that spread out to the east, some crouching low against rocks, muskets at the ready.
There were still refugees coming toward them, men staggering into the road, more of the panic. He could see there would be no fight in those men, and he shouted, “Let them pass!”
He pulled the horse beside the road, waved his sword, some of the men now walking, their energy gone. He saw faces looking at him, recognition, some of the men stopping to stare at him through the sweat and dirt on their faces.
“Take your position with these men! There is no enemy! You are not being pursued!”
His staff took up the same call, and some of the men seemed to understand, others collapsed to the ground, having run as far as their terror could take them. A few still had muskets, but only a few, and he saw more of them awakening to the moment, aware now of the growing strength of their own army. Slowly, they began to move to the fence lines, joining the fresh troops, the courage returning.