Prelude to Glory, Vol. 2

by Ron Carter

  “I was.”

  “Looking for what?”

  “It’s all there in my sketch pad, sir. I was sent to get information on your troop positions and your strength. I was to make sketches.”

  “Let me see the pad.”

  An aide laid it on his desk, and Howe spent minutes going over each of the drawings, eyes widening from time to time. He closed the pad and raised his face. “Excellent work. You did well.”

  Hale stood silent.

  “I could use your talents. Would you be interested?”

  The answer was calm but immediate. “No, sir.”

  “It would save your being hanged.”

  “I know.”

  “Are you educated?”

  “Yale College.”

  “Your profession?”

  “Teacher.”

  “You freely admit you were spying for the Continental army?”

  “I do.”

  Howe shook his head and a sad expression came across his face for a moment. “What a waste.” He swallowed. “I’ll give you overnight to change your mind. If you cooperate with me, I promise you safety and high reward. I’ll talk to you again in the morning.”

  The aide began working the rope back onto Hale’s wrists when Howe spoke. “Never mind that. Put him under lock and key for the night, but leave him alone.”

  The dawn came calm, with rose and gold light flooding from the eastern sky. At eight o’clock Nathan Hale once again stood facing Howe across the large maple desk.

  Howe raised hard eyes to Hale. “Have you had time to consider my offer?”

  “I have.”

  For a moment Howe hesitated before he asked the question. “Have you changed your mind?”

  Hale’s gaze was steady. “No, sir.”

  Howe’s head dropped forward and for a moment his shoulders lowered. He raised his face and the two men stared into each other’s eyes, and Hale saw the frustration, the anger in Howe.

  “The execution will take place in one hour.” Howe clamped his mouth shut and turned away.

  They loaded Hale into an army freight wagon with four armed soldiers, and drove him north on the Post Road. People in the street stopped to stare until they understood, and then they fell in behind, following in an ever-growing crowd. The wagon rumbled on in the bright, warm sunshine of a clear, calm September morning. The driver reined the team of horses into the road of the Rutger farm, and stopped at the near edge of an apple orchard, where the scaffolding had been hastily hammered together. The leaves were changing colors, and the birds and squirrels were busily flitting.

  Rough hands helped Hale to the ground, and the four soldiers held their muskets at the ready as they took him to the steps. They bound his wrists behind his back and walked him to the top of the stairs, to the trap, and tied his ankles. They slipped the rope over his head and pulled the slack out of the noose.

  General Howe marched up the steps and faced him. “Do you have anything you wish to say?”

  “I presume I will not have a trial?”

  “You have confessed. There will be no trial.”

  “May I speak with a clergyman?”

  “You may not.”

  Hale’s voice was steady, calm. “Then may I see a Bible?”

  “You may not.” Howe paused for a moment. “You can still save yourself with one word.”

  Hale reflected for one moment. “I cannot do that.” He paused and looked down into the faces of the mob that had collected in the beauty of the simple surroundings. For a moment he glanced into the orchard, and listened to the sounds of life in the trees. Then he turned his eyes back to Howe. His voice was as calm and gentle as the morning. “I regret that I have but one life to give for my country.”

  A hush fell. Howe nodded to the man behind Hale, and he reached for the lever to the trap.

  ______

  Notes

  The accidental fire of September 21, 1776, that burned more than one-fourth of New York City is competently described in the diary of the Reverend Ewald Gustav Schaukirk (Shewkirk) of the Moravian Church on Fair Street (see Johnston, The Campaign of 1776, part 2, pp. 118–19).

  While acting as a spy under orders of General Washington, Nathan Hale was captured and publicly hanged by the British pursuant to orders of General William Howe (see Johnston, The Campaign of 1776, part 1, p. 262; see also the brief biography of Nathan Hale in the same book, part 2, p. 188). General William Howe would not allow a trial of Nathan Hale (see Leckie, George Washington’s War, p. 282).

  Washington’s Headquarters, Morris House, Harlem Heights

  October 18, 1776

  Chapter XXIII

  * * *

  In the warm, late afternoon October sun, General Washington leaned forward in his chair to move the lace curtain and stare west out the window of his private quarters at the Morris house. Frost had touched Harlem Heights, and the trees were alive with color as the leaves turned in their eternal cycle of birth, life, death, and rebirth. He stared at them, morose, unseeing, filled with dark foreboding.

  I’ve misjudged too many times—Brooklyn—Long Island—New York—and now here—can’t defend Harlem Heights—gunboats in the rivers on both sides—our obstructions in the Hudson failed to stop them—British to the south—and now they’re moving on the mainland—will they come in from the north? surrounded us? trap us again? Congress paralyzed—no power to raise an army or pay for one—nothing but committees who know nothing, do nothing—won’t or can’t send troops—my own officers murmuring—General Lee—resign, he said—threaten Congress with your resignation if they don’t meet your demands—resign—with him next in line to take my command.

  He suddenly stood, as though the physical movement would somehow dispel the somber spirit, and he paced aimlessly, hands clasped behind his back.

  He started at the sudden rap at his door.

  “Enter.”

  Colonel Joseph Reed opened the door. “The generals are in the conference room, sir.”

  Washington considered. “Hold them. Notify me when the two scouts are here to report.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Washington returned to the windows to peer out at the great cornfield, harvested a month earlier, with the full, golden ears stored in the stone granary twenty yards from the huge white barn. The cornstalks, cured and dried, stood tall and white, and rustled when the errant breezes of fall ruffled the brittle leaves. For a moment Washington’s thoughts reached for his beloved Mount Vernon, and he turned away from the windows at the sudden overwhelming need to be home with his wife, in his own fields, looking with deep satisfaction at his own granaries and herds and flocks and orchards. He did not know how long he stood, remembering, seeing in his mind what had once been, and then the second rap came at the door.

  “The scouts are here, sir.”

  “Wait until I am in the conference room, and then bring them.”

  He straightened, set his face, paced down the hall to the large double doors, and strode into the conference room. Generals Lee, Putnam, Sullivan, Scott, Greene, and Colonel Henry Knox rose to their feet at the table and stood while he walked to his place at the head before they turned their faces to him, waiting his pleasure.

  “Thank you. Be seated. We are here to receive the report of two scouts just returned from Westchester on the mainland. It is my belief they will have critically important news.”

  At that moment Reed appeared in the doorway and Washington nodded, and Reed stepped aside.

  Dirty, with a week’s growth of beard, Billy entered the room, followed by Eli, and they stopped in the presence of the clean uniforms and the gold braid. Billy saluted General Washington while Eli glanced at the officers. He recognized all but one. He had never seen hawk-faced, dour General Charles Lee.

  Washington stood and spoke, his words echoing slightly. “Were you able to complete your mission?”

  “Yes, sir,” Billy replied. “We came straight here.”

  Not one of the officers moved, and
Eli sensed a tension, a prickly, disjointed feeling among them as he waited.

  “Make your report.”

  Billy glanced downward at his clothes, his appearance. “Sir,” he said, embarrassed, “we didn’t stop to clean up. I’m sorry for how we look.”

  “Don’t be concerned. Go ahead with your report.”

  “It was Private Stroud’s scout. I went along only so one of us would get back if the other was caught. I believe he can make the best report.”

  Billy stepped back and Washington faced Eli. Recognition flickered and a faint smile formed as he spoke. “Report.”

  Eli stepped to the end of the table and spoke to Washington as though no one else were in the room. “Do you have a map from over there?”

  Washington unfolded a map and anchored it with leather pouches filled with buckshot. Eli studied it for a time before he pointed at an irregular line running north and south on the mainland, ending at Long Island Sound, the sizeable body of water separating Long Island from Westchester County on the mainland. “What river is that?”

  “The Bronx River.”

  Eli shifted his finger slightly to the east. “That river?”

  “The Hutchinson River.”

  “What’s this, down here?” His finger was on a tiny, irregular-shaped peninsula jutting from the mainland into Long Island Sound.

  “Throg’s Neck. An island with a bridge to the mainland.”

  “Here?” His finger had shifted farther north, to the irregular coastline of the mainland, on Long Island Sound.

  “Pell’s Point, at Pelham Bay.”

  Again he shifted his finger farther north. “Here?”

  “White Plains. A town.”

  “Here?”

  “New Rochelle. A town.”

  Eli’s finger shifted to the west side of the Bronx River. “Here, and here?”

  “Valentine’s Hill and Mile Square.”

  Eli nodded, peered at the map for several moments, then began, shifting his hand, pointing as he identified the locations. “We have troops and fortifications here and here, at Valentine’s Hill and Mile Square, west of the Bronx River.”

  Washington nodded. He had ordered troops to those locations days earlier, to assure keeping the all-important communications open between his headquarters and the mainland. Above all, he had to know of every troop movement by Howe in Westchester County. The overriding fear of the entire Continental command was that Howe would suddenly move troops on the mainland and appear undetected at King’s Bridge to close the Americans’ only way off Manhattan Island.

  Eli shifted his hand and continued. “Six days ago the British moved ships up the East River, here, past Hell Gate, then turned east into Long Island Sound. They landed here, at Throg’s Neck, but a company of riflemen stopped them on the bridge, and then tore the planks up.”

  He straightened. “I don’t know why, but the British waited six days after they landed before they moved from Throg’s Neck up north about three miles to Pell’s Point.” He tapped the map. “They came ashore here early this morning.”

  Every general at the table leaned forward and Washington’s response was instant. “How many?”

  “About eight thousand. Nearly half Hessians.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath around the table.

  “Cannon?”

  “Not less than one hundred, horse drawn.”

  “Supplies?”

  “A long line of wagons with everything they’ll need for a while.”

  “Did you recognize any officers?”

  “Howe’s in command.”

  Washington paused for a moment before he asked the single most critical question. “Which way did they move from Pell’s Point?”

  Eli sensed the deep urgency. “I thought Howe would move north and west, across the Bronx River to King’s Bridge, and cut us off.” He shook his head, deeply puzzled. “But he didn’t. He headed up towards New Rochelle. Above that is White Plains. I can’t see much to be gained by that unless he plans to burn all the food and kill all the livestock to keep it from us.” Eli shook his head. “But he wasn’t doing that.”

  He stopped. For long seconds the room was locked in dead silence while every man struggled to explain Howe’s laconic attitude. Billy could hear the flies buzzing at the windows.

  Washington leaned slightly forward. “How fast were they moving?”

  Eli shrugged, mystified. “Slow. Not paying much attention to anything I could see. I don’t understand Howe. He could have his whole army up at King’s Bridge by tomorrow afternoon if that’s what he means to do, but at the pace he held this morning, he’ll be days getting there. I can’t figure him.”

  Washington pressed on. “What condition are the barns and granaries in over there?”

  “Full. Good harvest. An army can live off the land a long time over there.”

  “Is any of the militia or the population harassing Howe? resisting?”

  “No. Some are opening their homes and their barns and granaries to him.”

  Washington stopped and dropped his face forward while he gathered his thoughts. Satisfied he had what he needed, he asked, “Is there anything else this council should know?”

  “Yes. Brant’s Mohawks have scouted all around us, here, on this island. Howe probably knows everything about us he needs.”

  The face of every officer turned to Eli, eyebrows arched.

  “How do you know?”

  “Moccasin tracks. At least five sets. Some two, three days old, some fresh this morning. I saw them coming in.”

  “Anything else?”

  Eli reached to scratch under his chin. “No, not exactly.”

  Washington cocked his head. “I don’t understand your answer, Private.”

  Eli drew a breath and released it. “Only this. We had frost over there the last three nights. Winter’s coming. If they hold the mainland, come spring what’s left of us here will be pretty cold and hungry.”

  Billy glanced at Eli, then at Washington, fearful Eli had gone too far. Privates do not instruct the commander in chief, particularly with five other generals and the colonel in charge of artillery listening.

  Washington did not flinch; nor did the expression on his face change. “Thank you. Both of you. You have done well. You are dismissed.”

  Billy saluted, Washington returned his salute, and Billy walked out of the room, Eli following. Reed closed the double doors and Washington settled onto his chair, mouth pursed as he gathered his racing thoughts. “It is obvious to me we must get the army off this island, starting now, tonight.”

  Every man at the table leaned back, stunned.

  “The single question is, do we abandon Fort Washington?”

  Greene spoke firmly. “We can hold it. As long as we do, they’ll have to leave a sizeable command here to contain it. It will reduce their available forces.”

  Lee shook his head violently. “Abandon it. It’s useless. Both Fort Washington and Fort Lee.”

  Scott interrupted. “Congress says we should hold the two forts.”

  Lee stood, palms flat on the table, arms stiff, and his words rang off the walls. “Congress! Politicians! Bumbling fools! There’s only one way to deal with them.” He stood erect and faced Washington, eyes blazing. “Make a list of your demands and tell them unless they meet them, you resign your command! That’s how you deal with fools.”

  For a moment no one moved, and Washington stared at Lee, eyes narrowed as he realized for the first time that he had never seen or understood what was in Lee’s heart and head. Lee’s military education, probably the best and most complete of anyone’s in the entire Continental army, including that of Washington himself, had been drilled into Lee in the British army, not the American. Everything Lee had learned rested on the foundation of complete power in the king, not the people. His solution to everything that lay in his path was to crush it under authority of the king. Lacking such authority, Lee was floundering, groping, lost, unable to understand how t
o deal with a Congress that had the power to dictate military policy but not the power to raise the money or the army to support it.

  Suddenly Washington’s breathing slowed as his thoughts went deeper. Resign! He’s said it twice! He wants me out so he can take my command! He wants power! His ambition knows no limits! For a split second Washington’s mouth narrowed as the conviction knifed into his heart. Then by force of a will that knew no peer, he spoke calmly.

  “We will hold both forts. Colonel Magaw will take command of Fort Washington with one thousand five hundred troops, and General Greene will take command of Fort Lee with three thousand five hundred troops. I will take the balance of our forces across King’s Bridge to White Plains. There are strong positions there. If we can fortify them before winter, we can stall Howe until spring. In the meantime, through the winter, we can petition Congress for more troops, more supplies, more money, and prepare for a decisive battle.”

  Lee’s face was a study in disgust as he dropped back onto his chair, fist clenched on the tabletop.

  Outside the Morris house, with the sun touching the western rim and the chill of evening coming on, Billy and Eli walked to the camp of Company Nine. They laid down their rifle and musket and settled onto their blankets for a time, to let the weariness and tension of seven days in the bowels of enemy territory, with British redcoats swarming, settle and begin to drain. Billy raised his head at the sound of a young captain calling.

  “Weems. Is Weems back yet?”

  “Here.”

  “Mail.” The captain handed him a letter and walked away while Billy seized the document and instantly read the return address. Dorothy Weems. He ripped the flap from the wax seal and brought his racing thoughts and fears under control as he read.

  Monday, Sept. 23, 1776

  My dear son:

  We are well. We have dried fruit and salted meat and fresh vegetables in the root cellar sufficient for winter. We are warm and happy and I beg of you, please do not spend useless time worrying about us.

  However, I am constrained to relate a sad story. Brigitte and Caleb were part of a group of fourteen Patriots who undertook to transport food, supplies, and munitions to your army at New York. Unknown was the fact one of their number was a traitor. He betrayed the entire train of four wagons into British hands.