by Ron Carter
“Aye, sir.”
A little after three o’clock, in the black of night, the clanging of bells awakened Stoneman. He dressed and walked onto the deck to see the running lights of a sloop slow two hundred yards east of the Horne, and he heard the rattle of the anchor chain and the splash as she dropped anchor. He returned to his quarters, but ninety minutes later he was on deck again, to see the running lights of a second sloop as she dropped anchor in the calm waters of New York harbor. At six o’clock, with the sun half-risen, he was on deck, washed, shaved, and in a fresh uniform when a third sloop dropped anchor, and her crew furled all sails.
Stoneman took his breakfast in his quarters and was wiping his mouth with the linen napkin when an urgent rap at his door brought him up short.
“Enter.”
Keyes entered. “Sir, there’s a messenger from Admiral Howe.”
“Bring him in.”
A young ensign, blond, blue-eyed, straining to be absolutely official and proper, entered. He snapped to attention, staring at the far wall, saluted smartly, and recited his message with mechanical precision.
“Sir, compliments of Admiral Howe. He desires your presence in his quarters at exactly nine o’clock this morning.”
“Am I to bring anything? Anyone?”
“Sir. He did not say.”
“My compliments to the Admiral. I shall be there.”
At three minutes before nine o’clock, Stoneman was ushered into the quarters of Admiral Howe. Nine uniformed officers of the British navy were seated on one side of the table on plain, hard chairs, with Howe and a second admiral facing them. Stoneman saluted and took his place, silently glancing at the men to identify them. Nearly all were captains he did not know. It took him a little time to recognize the admiral seated beside Howe. It was Admiral Hugh Gambier. For a moment Stoneman struggled to recall what he could of Gambier’s reputation, but it would not come clear in his mind. He could only recall a vague impression that Gambier was generally seen as marginal in his capabilities.
Howe did not waste a minute with protocol or prologue.
“I would like to go through this just once.”
He paused in the tense silence that permeated the room.
“The French are on their way north from Delaware Bay. D’Estaing is their commander, aboard his flagship, the Languedoc. As of this minute, most of you have given confirmed reports that he has six frigates and about ten deepwater warships. We have three serviceable frigates available, and only five deepwater gunboats. He has 850 cannon, we have 534. The Languedoc alone has 90 guns.”
Howe paused and watched the alarm creep into the faces of the officers as they reckoned the imbalance of power between their fleet and that of the French.
“If we engage them and lose, General Clinton and most of his army will be trapped here in New York. He may have enough troops to defend against an American attack, but a successful defense is not the question. General Clinton’s problem is provisions. Food. Arms. Blankets. Medicine. Without our ships to deliver supplies, he could be forced to surrender by fall. The six victuallers from Cork that might have helped are not to be found, and even if they were, they carry only a small portion of what’s needed to sustain General Clinton’s army of about twenty-four thousand.”
He took a great breath. “So . . . there is little choice. We engage the French, and we win.”
He unrolled a map, oriented it with the compass, and tapped it with his finger.
“Now pay heed. We are here, in New York harbor. The French have superior numbers and firepower, but we have the favored position. Here is Sandy Hook, south of Staten Island. You all know about the sandbar that lies close enough to the surface to ground a deepwater ship. D’Estaing must know about it, but I doubt he knows enough. His pilots will have to take depth soundings all the way, and he has no choice but to send his ships in one at a time. They’ll move very slowly, on a fixed course, and once in the channel they will be unable to maneuver or turn back.”
He shifted his finger. “So we place our guns in positions to hit them all the way. We start here, at Sandy Hook. We place a battery of cannon here and a brigade of infantry to fire on them as they approach the sandbar.”
He shifted his finger north, following the course the French ships must take to penetrate New York harbor. “We anchor two or three ships here, just north of Sandy Hook, positioned to fire on them as they begin taking depth soundings and moving toward the channel into the harbor.”
He shifted his finger once more, further north, toward the mouth of the harbor. “We anchor heavy gunboats here, with springs on their cables so they can turn to keep themselves broadside to any ship that might get past the sandbar.”
He drew a deep breath before he continued. “There is one more thing. For the next five weeks the tides will be low except for July twenty-second. On that day the tides should be thirty feet. I doubt that even that much lift will carry a deep-water ship like the Languedoc over the bar. The result is simple. Their superior firepower will mean nothing when the only ships they can get past the bar will be frigates, and they must come in one at a time and be under our guns all the way, without help from any of their heavy gunboats. Not one of them should survive to reach the harbor.”
Howe straightened. “Is the plan clear?”
No one spoke.
“I have written orders for each of you, giving your assignments. Admiral Gambier will distribute them.”
By noon the following day, beneath a sweltering sun, the British cannon and ships were in place. At four o’clock a British lookout schooner sped from the south toward Sandy Hook with signal flags flying. The message was clear. Many French ships were less than one hour behind. Shortly before five o’clock the first masts were seen looming on the horizon. By half past six, the entire French fleet had come into view in a battle line with a man in every crow’s nest, telescope extended, searching out the British defenses. The sun set, and dusk turned to night with the French fleet hovering just out of cannon range, still taking the measure of the British defenses.
At dawn the French sent their first light frigate toward Sandy Hook. On board, the gunners stood to their cannon, tense, watching the British cannoneers on shore, waiting for the first sign of white smoke belching from the gun muzzles, and the whoosh of a twenty-four-pound incoming cannonball.
On Sandy Hook, the British gunners hunched over their cannon, smoking linstocks in hand, waiting for the order to fire. The officers stood like statues, eyes fixed on the French frigate, waiting to see if it would try to cross the sandbar.
It did not try. Seamen on the bow threw the lead balls tied to ropes into the black waters for the depth soundings, pulled them back, counted the knots in the rope, and showed the pilots, who shook their heads. There would be risk if the lighter frigates tried to cross the bar. The heavy warships had no chance.
The frigate spilled her sails and stopped dead in the water, waiting. Depth soundings at three o’clock, and again at six o’clock changed nothing. With dusk settling, the frigate set her sails and backed away from the bar, past Sandy Hook, back to the waiting French fleet.
The following morning, and for the next eleven days, the French fleet held its place, taking depth soundings every four hours during daylight, concluding their big ships would run aground if they tried to clear the bar. To send the frigates in alone, facing the gauntlet of British guns on both sides of the only channel into New York harbor, would be suicide. The French had done nothing but sit dead in the water, staring across the bar at the British, who had done nothing but stare back at them. Disgusted, d’Estaing issued new orders.
“Weigh anchors and proceed south.”
Howe exulted and issued orders of his own. “Pursue them!”
For twenty-one days the British and French fleets sought advantage against each other, maneuvering from Boston to Rhode Island, through foul weather and fair. A howling storm scattered all the ships, and small squadrons collided and did battle with little to show f
or it except holes in a few hulls and broken rigging. British ships that had been scattered in the Atlantic from a rescue squadron commanded by Admiral Byron strayed into American waters to join Howe, and slowly the balance of firepower shifted from the French to the British.
D’Estaing shook his head in frustration and marched to his cabin to read his orders once again. They were clear.
“Should a superior British fleet appear, proceed to Boston, refit, and proceed south to the West Indies, there to await further orders.”
Before d’Estaing had sailed from Toulon, he had learned of the master strategy of the British plan for the downfall of the American rebels. The key was the southern states. Defeat all American forces in Georgia and South Carolina, then move north, taking the states in succession. If the French fleet failed to conquer Howe’s British ships in New York, the French could still be of great service if they would use the West Indies for a base and strike at the British forces as the British attacked the Carolina coast.
Scarcely in control of his anger at having failed to defeat Howe, d’Estaing conceded that the British now had superior numbers and firepower. He issued new orders to his fleet.
“Gather at Boston Harbor, refit all ships, and proceed immediately to the West Indies.”
Howe countered.
“Follow the French to Boston, then south until it is certain the French threat to New York has been thwarted.”
D’Estaing’s fleet held a course south, toward the vast spread of islands off the southern tip of the United States held by Britain, Spain, and France, with Howe’s fleet tracking him mile after mile, day after day. For more than five weeks the two fleets sailed parallel courses south. Then, with the cold winds of November coming in from the Atlantic, satisfied that d’Estaing had conceded the French failure at New York, Howe gloated over his victory and issued new orders.
“Return to New York and refit for further duty.”
The day Howe dropped anchor in New York harbor, a messenger rowed out to his ship with a document bearing the Royal seal. With mixed expectations, Howe opened it and read, then read it once again.
King and Parliament had promoted him to the coveted position of Vice-Admiral of the Red.
For the rest of the day and through the night, Admiral Howe reflected on the honor, weighing the prestigious promotion against his need to return to London and defend his beleaguered brother, General William Howe. General Howe’s spontaneous resignation, on May twenty-eighth, after three years of failure to defeat the rebels had provoked Parliament to demand an explanation. He was under Parliamentary order to appear in those hallowed halls to defend his baffling failure.
Admiral Lord Richard Howe’s decision took shape. The threat of d’Estaing’s French fleet to New York was finished. The French warships were far to the south. There was no immediate threat. His brother was in critical need.
He sat at the table in his cabin on his flagship and took up his quill. For more than an hour he wrote, corrected, and wrote again. When he finished, he folded two documents, melted royal blue wax onto them, and impressed his seal on both.
One was to King and Parliament. He regretted the necessity, but under the circumstances he had no choice. He resigned his command, and the promotion to Vice-Admiral of the Red, effective immediately.
The other was to Admiral Hugh Gambier. Until ordered otherwise by King and Parliament, Admiral Gambier would assume command of British naval forces in and around American waters, effective immediately.
Within five days, Admiral Lord Richard Howe was aboard a British frigate on the Atlantic, with sails filled, on a north by northeast heading. He was going home to England.
Behind the ship, thirty miles north of New York City, in the Massachusetts regimental camp near White Plains, New York, Sergeant Alvin Turlock hunkered down with a wooden bowl half-filled with smoking venison stew. He dipped with his wooden spoon, squinted one eye closed as he gingerly sipped, then quickly drew his head back, licking at his singed lips. He blew on the bowl for a time, then turned to Billy, squatted next to him, also holding a bowl of stew, in the chill midday November sun.
“Remember me tellin’ you them French and British ships would fight it out?”
Billy nodded.
“Well, they done it. Took all summer and all fall doin’ it, but it’s over. Them Frenchmen had the edge goin’ in, but they just wouldn’t take holt, and they lost it. Frittered away half the year and then up and went down south. Hear how Gen’l Washington took it?”
Billy looked at him. “No.”
“Bad. He’s startin’ to doubt the French mean to keep their word. Send all them ships clear across the Atlantic for nothin’. Washington couldn’t do much but what he did, which was sit around all summer and fall waitin’ on the French to beat the British navy so we could go get Clinton at New York. They didn’t do it. Worries him that maybe he can’t count on ’em.”
“Who said?”
“Reynolds. Got it from Hamilton.”
Billy carefully sipped at his venison broth. “Did the French go back to France?”
“No. Down to the Indies. Some island down there. Antigua, or Martinique, some name like that.”
Billy stopped working at his stew and said, “If they’re still nearby, maybe they mean to pick another time and place to fight the British.”
“I hope so. As long as the British got our harbors bottled up, we’re goin’ to have trouble getting’ rid of ’em. Now I hear Washington’s goin’ to spread us out in a circle above New York and go into winter quarters. Clinton’ll likely sit right there in New York all comfortable.”
Billy eased his position on the cold ground and sipped again at his broth. He was in a thoughtful mood. “I’m concerned about Eli. He left in July, more than four months ago. I expected him back by now.”
Turlock grunted. “Things happen, but I don’t worry none about Eli. There’s good reasons he’s not back yet.”
“And I wonder about Caleb. Caleb Dunson. You remember the fight he had with Conlin Murphy. There’s talk that Murphy won’t let it go. Made him look bad, being whipped like that by a kid in front of the men.”
Turlock sipped at his soup. “Don’t borrow trouble. Way I heard it, that Dunson boy can take care of hisself. You start carryin’ the weight of the world on your shoulders, you’re goin’ to have trouble yerself. We got trouble enough of our own. We could be marchin’ out of here any day to a new camp, if Gen’l Washington puts his plan for winter quarters to work. Could be anywhere from Middleton to Danbury. Fishkill, West Point—anywhere.”
“Hear about the trouble at Cherry Valley?”
“I heard about Wyoming Valley, in Pennsylvania. Bad. That British Colonel, Butler, went in there with some Indians and British troops. Some half-breed Indian woman who calls herself Queen Esther danced while they held men down on fires with pitchforks, and then she had their heads cut off. Bloody. Can’t hardly think about it.”
Billy shook his head. “Lately that same Butler hit Cherry Valley over in western New York. Joseph Brant was with him. Put the whole town to the torch. Terrible massacre over there.” He paused, then added quietly, “I feel sorry for General Washington. He has to stay here to keep Clinton locked in New York and can’t do much about it.”
Turlock shook his head. “I know. I don’t think I’d much like being Gen’l Washington.” For a time they ate in silence, before Turlock spoke again.
“Reynolds says Clinton’s sent troops—maybe three thousand—south to march on Savannah. If they take Savannah and get a hold down there, they can work north. That’s their plan.”
“You been down south? I heard it’s a different world.”
Turlock nodded. “Ye’r right about that. I was once, when I was on a ship that put in at Charleston, in South Carolina. It was January, and it was as warm as summer here. People said it’s terrible hot in the summers. Place was full of swamps and snakes and such. So yer right, it’s a different world.”
Turlock finished h
is stew and stood. “Well, all this talk isn’t gettin’ the noon mess cleaned up. You on cleanup detail?”
“No. I got wood detail today.”
“I got to go check on cleanup.” Turlock looked down at him. “You remember what I said. You let Eli and Caleb take care of theirselves. They’ll be all right. Only one man I know took the whole weight of the world on his shoulders, and for all his trouble, they hung him on a cross and kilt him. You hear?”
Notes
French Admiral Comte Jean-Baptiste d’Estaing arrived in American waters with twelve ships of the line, a squadron of frigates, and four thousand French infantry, led by his huge, ninety-gun flapship Languedoc. Admiral Lord Richard Howe, warned of his coming, ordered a line of British ships be positioned near Delaware Bay to find the French if they could. They did and returned to New York with the news. Howe recognized the danger lay in the possibility of the superior French armada, 850 guns to his 534, capturing New York harbor and isolating British General Clinton and his forces. Howe ordered his ships into a defensive line to defend the harbor.
Admiral d’Estaing arrived in New York harbor, and for eleven days took depth soundings before concluding he could not cross the sandy bar at the harbor’s entrance and withdrew to move his fleet south. Lord Howe’s ships followed for five weeks, and both fleets were badly scattered by a heavy storm. D’Estaing established himself in the West Indies, Lord Howe realized he intended remaining there to protect and expand French interests, and returned to New York. When Admiral d’Estaing failed to engage the British navy in New York harbor, General Washington began to doubt the sincerity of the French commitment to fully support the Americans in their revolution.
British Colonel Sir John Butler, together with Iroquois Chief Joseph, struck a bloody blow against the Americans in Wyoming Valley in Western Pennsylvania, and a week later his son Walter Butler attacked and burned and ravaged a settlement in Cherry Valley in Western New York, in an attempt to draw part of the American soldiers away from New York. None were sent (Mackesy, The War for America, 1775–1783, pp. 216–19; Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 468; 490–93; Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, pp. 248–49).