The Glorious Cause Read online

  “From the reports we have received from Lord Admiral Howe, and from the civilian sources, the rebel position is here.” He pointed to the map. “They have placed themselves with their backs against the East River, and have moved advance forces into positions that extend their front line . . . here. There are four approaches to that position. Four roads we can use. The rebels are in a defensive position in force on three of them. From all reports, they have not fortified at all . . . up here. It is the most northerly route.”

  Clinton leaned close to him, looked at the map, said, “Yes, I can confirm these positions.” Clinton looked at Howe.

  “Sir, I would suggest a general assault along the rebel front, combined with a turning movement along the northern road.” Howe did not look at Clinton, and Cornwallis absorbed that, knew their relationship had been more than strained, certainly before Cornwallis had arrived, possibly even before Boston. It was simply a case of two men who held tight to their own ideas of strategy, not helped at all by Clinton’s sensitivity about the failure at Charleston. Howe was looking at Cornwallis now.

  “General, do you agree with the position we now hold? Are you satisfied with the placement of our strength?”

  It was an odd question, even inappropriate. I am outranked by three men here. This should not be my plan at all.

  “Sir, General de Heister has great strength in the enemy’s center.” He didn’t know what else to say, looked at the old Hessian, who leaned forward, said in a quiet voice, “We are prepared.”

  Howe, who had always seemed uncomfortable around de Heister, smiled politely at the old man, and said, “Yes, well, by all means. It is perhaps time to end this matter. Do you all concur then, that the rebels seem ready to receive a fight?”

  Clinton stared at Cornwallis’ map, said, “They have already demonstrated their willingness to fight. The only reason they are not fighting us right now is they know our strength. Mr. Washington cannot engage us in a general assault. I would imagine he is wondering why we have not yet engaged him.”

  It was an indiscreet remark, and Cornwallis was surprised to see a smile break through the ruggedness of de Heister’s face. He looked at Howe, expected to see anger at Clinton’s impudence, but Howe had turned away, was speaking to an aide, reading something written on a piece of pink linen. The aide moved away, and Howe turned toward them, said, “General Cornwallis, if you believe it is a good plan, then perhaps you should pursue it. I might even . . . join you on the march. It should be good sport.”

  They were led by three scouts, local men, chosen for their familiarity with the roads. Two of them had moved out ahead, leading a patrol of troops, a probing party, who would be the first to find any rebel position. The army had moved northeast, behind the dense ridge of woods and thickets known as the Heights of Guian, which hid the rebel lines. It was late, and very dark, and Cornwallis rode slowly on a road where all the landmarks, the familiar trails, were erased by the night. Behind him, nearly ten thousand men marched in sweaty silence. Clinton was beside him, and they both knew that Howe was nearby, that no decision could be made without his approval. Their guide stopped, waiting for them to ride up close, said in a whisper, “Jamaica, sir. We turn left here. Old Jamaica Road.”

  The man seemed nervous, glancing into the darkness, and Clinton said, “Are you certain?”

  “Oh, yes, quite, sir. I’m wondering where they might be waiting.”

  Cornwallis understood, the man was referring to the rebels.

  “I wouldn’t concern yourself, young man. There are plenty of muskets between us and them. We’ll find them soon enough.” He looked toward Clinton, would wait for the next move, and Clinton turned to the staff behind them, motioned to an aide, and said, “Have one man locate General Howe, inform him we have reached the intersection. One man will remain here, guide the column to the left. Continue silence at all cost.”

  There was a sudden roll of thunder, from beyond the ridge. Both men turned, the sounds coming more behind them than down the Jamaica Road. Cornwallis pointed into the dark, said quietly, “Southeast. The rebel position. That would be . . . General de Heister.”

  The sweat in his shirt gave him a sudden chill, and he gripped the reins of the horse, thought, Finally. He listened in silence, the thunder now distinct, artillery, scattered bursts of musket fire. There was no rhythm to it, thick lines of men seeking each other in the dark. He knew de Heister was pushing forward, measuring the resistance the rebels would offer. He tried to hear some difference in the sounds, picking out the rebel cannon from their own, but the distance was too great, the percussion muffled by the lay of the land. Clinton said in a low voice, “I had wondered if the Hessians would fight in the dark. Superstitious lot, you know.”

  There was a pause in the sounds, then another burst, uneven. Cornwallis nodded to himself, thought, A good sign. If they were merely firing at shadows, the sounds would be steady, officers losing control of their men, volleys fired at nothing. If a man is affected by fear, he will shoot at anything and nothing, and he will not search for a real target. There was another pause, scattered pops, more silence. He fought to see in the dark, strained to hear. But there was a lull, no sounds at all.

  Cornwallis said, “It is not a general engagement yet. General de Heister would have them advancing. Use the darkness. It is the rebels who will fire at shadows.”

  He thought of the Hessians now, had wondered about what kind of soldiers they were from the first time he had seen them. They seemed almost inhuman, but not in the way that inspired fear in the civilians. They fought as one man, a singular purpose, the ideal soldier, rigid obedience to the commands of the officers. Even the British command had been amazed at their appearance, many of the officers never having seen a Hessian before. And, they had learned quickly that not all of them were in fact Hessian. The troops came from several small kingdoms and duchies: Hesse-Cassel and Hesse-Hanau, who were accurately referred to as Hessians. But there were regiments from Brunswick and Waldeck, Anspach and Anhalt-Zerbst, all those lands controlled by men who would appreciate the generosity of King George, who would be paid a fee for every soldier they could muster or impress into service for the British cause. All during the landing at Gravesend Bay, he had seen the Hessians standing at attention in their boats, in a rigid, if somewhat unsteady formation. They had maintained that stance the entire way across the harbor, and he had smiled at that, some sort of show for their British counterparts, the absolute discipline, the first gesture from their commanders that this hired army would earn the king’s gold.

  In the colonies, the British had already planted rumors of their barbarism, confident that the ignorance of the rebels could expand those rumors into raw terror if the men in strange uniforms and polished helmets actually faced them on the battlefield. Cornwallis knew the foreigners were as well trained as any British unit, but there was a difference, the discipline coming from something beyond loyalty to a king or pride in their flag. They were recruited by force, often kidnapped by aggressive sergeants, held in line by the threats of the pure brutality that awaited them if they strayed. The training was inhumane at best, and orders were obeyed out of fear. He would never question a man like de Heister, but from their very demeanor, Cornwallis could sense that the Hessian soldiers had no pride in themselves, seemed to march in the mindless cadence of soldiers who had lost their humanity. And if those men have a disregard for life, have been taught to have no respect for themselves as men, how will they regard their enemy? There could be a brutality in those men that we might not be comfortable with. Yes, certainly, it makes them a frightening army. But what kind of ally?

  He smiled, could not help thinking that, yes, rumors work in many ways. It had been his idea, to make discreet mention to de Heister, to plant an image solidly in the old commander that the rebels either scalped or ate the dead of their wounded enemies. It was a bizarre tale, and de Heister had listened to it with a somber nod, would betray nothing of his own skepticism at such a ridiculous ploy
from his British ally. But Cornwallis knew, de Heister didn’t have to believe it. He had soldiers who would. He knew Clinton was right: The Hessians could be a superstitious lot. Brutal or not, inhumane or not, this war might be won by the most efficient killers.

  It was well after midnight, and the silence continued. Cornwallis moved into the intersection, Clinton followed, and both men stared into darkness toward the east, toward the narrow gap in the brush where the Jamaica Road would lead them. The advance patrol had instructions to report back to the main column by midnight, would certainly have found the rebel line by then, or at least some good idea of the rebel position. Cornwallis could feel Clinton’s impatience, and Clinton turned now, said to an aide, “Bring me a dozen men. I want them to move out on this road until they find what I expect them to find. It seems our first attempt . . . our advance patrol has become lost in the dark.”

  Cornwallis rode forward, knew several of the men who had disappeared down the road. Some were from his own regiment, the thirty-third, and those men would not be lost. He listened hard, heard a brief rumble from the southeast, more scattered firing. The new patrol began to gather behind Clinton, the quiet shuffle of boots, and now the darkness was shattered by a voice, a sharp call, horses’ hoofbeats. The shock made him jump in the saddle, and he could see a lantern coming toward them from the west, the road alive with light, the faces of men. Clinton moved quickly past him, shouted, “Extinguish that light! What is the meaning of this! Whose troops are you?”

  The light went low, but not out, and one man rode forward, said, “Sir! We have them, sir!”

  Clinton seemed to sputter. “Who? You have who?”

  Cornwallis eased his horse forward, could see smiles, recognized the young faces, said, “Please report, Captain.”

  The man seemed to calm. “We captured the rebels, sir. The road is clear.”

  Cornwallis moved past the young captain, Clinton close behind him. He could see the rest of the patrol now, the British uniforms, and then others, no uniform at all, sullen faces, staring at him. Clinton seemed confused. The sharp voice now gone, he said, “Where are they? How many rebels?”

  “They’re right here, sir. Five of them. That’s all there were.”

  Clinton and Cornwallis moved their column westward down the Jamaica Road, and the young captain was correct. The rebels had not fortified the northernmost avenue into their position. Only five militia officers had been sent that way to keep an eye on what their commander had assumed to be nothing at all. For the rest of the night, the British marched half their army through the gap in the dense woods, moving silently on a route that brought them behind the main lines of the rebels. By nine o’clock in the morning, the rebel position was trapped between the two great arms of Howe’s army.

  3. WASHINGTON

  BROOKLYN HEIGHTS, AUGUST 27, 1776

  The sounds of the fight rolled toward him in one great chattering roar. He had expected it on the right, where his flank lay close to the East River, close to the British camps, and Howe had not disappointed him. Washington had put his best troops there, the veterans in an army that had very few veterans. The British had begun moving against his right flank the night before, slow and probing, and it was not unexpected. He knew both sides would do some feeling out, the land somewhat precarious, swampy, patches of thick woods, framed by the salt marshes and swift current of Gowanus Creek. That part of the field was commanded by William Alexander of New Jersey, a man known to the army as Lord Stirling. It was a semilegitimate title his family had brought from Scotland, which was recognized in few places outside his own circle. But the affectation caused Washington no difficulties, the title in no way a barrier to Stirling’s dedication to American independence. Washington believed Stirling to be a solidly competent, if somewhat fiery field commander, and he knew that Stirling had nearly as much field experience as he did, was in fact a few years older. In an army where any experience at all had value, Washington felt that Stirling’s somewhat violent temperament suited command of the most likely place in the field for a good hot fight.

  In the center had been John Sullivan, a veteran from the siege of Boston, one of Washington’s first trusted subordinates. He had placed Sullivan in command of those troops positioned in the field outside of the fortified position at Brooklyn Heights.

  By rank, Charles Lee was his second in command, but Lee was still in Charleston. Though there was no doubt the American forces there had accomplished a stunning victory, Washington was beginning to hear reports that Lee had been a very small part of the whole affair, that he remained in South Carolina only to bask in the glow of the victory. It was the kind of talk Washington could not tolerate now. He had more pressing problems right in front of him.

  With Lee in the Carolinas, Israel Putnam was the second in command in New York, and Washington had placed him in the works at Brooklyn Heights, the command center of the entire position on Long Island. Putnam was one of the heroes of the extraordinary fight on the Charlestown peninsula above Boston, what they all knew now as Breed’s Hill. It had been the worst day of the war for the British, a victory that cost General Thomas Gage his command. Though there were quiet disagreements over what role Putnam had actually played, he had been in overall command of the field, and most reports said that Putnam had been responsible for keeping the militia withdrawal organized and preventing the British from inflicting the same casualties they had absorbed.

  Despite Putnam’s self-confidence, and his reputation in Massachusetts, Washington would have preferred to place Nathanael Greene in overall command on Long Island, while Washington himself would stay in New York and maintain command of the half of the army that still fortified the city. But Greene had fallen ill, a serious fever, was tended to by nervous doctors across the East River. With the British pushing forward into what could be the most serious confrontation of the war, Washington was without the one man who inspired his confidence. Dividing the Long Island command between Sullivan and Putnam was the only alternative.

  The British had the troop strength to attack both Manhattan and Long Island, and even after Howe’s armada had landed at Gravesend Bay, Washington could not be sure if it was meant as a feint, to mislead him on the true direction of the British attack. But Washington could not abandon the city just to meet the British on Long Island, and so he divided his army, an anguished decision to weaken an already outnumbered force in the face of such a powerful enemy. Washington believed he had no choice. The British simply had too many options.

  When the first sounds of battle had finally broken out, Washington had come across the river himself, his doubts erased. The British had made no move toward Manhattan, and the outpost on Governor’s Island had sent no word of any warships coming their way. Very soon after daylight, the attack had spread across the entire front, a British force pushing into Stirling and then a strong wave of Hessians moving against Sullivan. To the inexperienced troops who faced this well-disciplined army, the shock had been devastating. All along Sullivan’s line, entire units simply melted away, some without firing a shot. The men who stood their ground discovered they could not reload quickly enough to hold away the terrifying sight of so many bayonets coming toward them, and when the fight became face-to-face, it was the steel, not the musketball that did the horrible work. Stirling’s men tried to hold their ground, but were soon pushed into the swamps, many trapped there, overtaken by the rapid advance of the well-disciplined attack. As both fronts pushed hard against Washington’s lines, the men began to turn toward their one sanctuary, the safety of the fortified works on Brooklyn Heights. But there would be no organized retreat. Before Sullivan could even begin his own withdrawal, there had come a rush of messages from the far left, from the one place none of the commanders had expected. The British had appeared in a vast wave on the Jamaica Road, already behind Sullivan’s left flank, were now closing in around him. The entire position outside of Brooklyn Heights was now close to being surrounded.

  Washington stood hi
gh on a rampart of the works, could see gaps in the drifting smoke, the sharp breeze blowing from the north. He could see men moving toward him, toward the safety of the works, but it was not any kind of orderly retreat. It was chaos. As they reached the fortifications they began to climb up and through the obstacles, the cut trees and earthen walls, the rocks and crevices. He stared numbly at their wounds, the ripped shirts, men with no shoes, blank and dazed expressions, or worse, wide-eyed panic. Some moved slowly, in a haze of shock, others ran, scrambling to safety, and then running again, within the works, men who had lost themselves to their fear. The sounds came as well, screams, some of the wounded calling out, the ones who had used the last bit of their strength to reach the Heights, only to collapse, no strength to climb the sharp rocks. He began to shout to the men who lined the ramparts, pointing to the fallen, “Go! Bring them up!”

  A few men had already climbed over, were helping the others, but many more just stared, absorbed by the horror. He wanted to shout again, but the officers took up the call, began to prod their men forward, and he fought the urge to climb down himself, saw one man trying to stand, using a broken musket as a crutch, blood on the man’s chest. Washington looked away, brought his mind into focus, No, we must maintain our . . . what? There was no word. Courage? He looked at the men along the wall, knew they were mostly fresh recruits. None of them had ever seen anything of war, and even the officers commanding them were facing a horror no one could prepare them for. He pulled himself tightly together, the discipline directed inward. No, stay up here. They must see you. They will look to you. He shouted again, “Bring them in. But keep firm on the wall! Muskets at the ready. This is not over!”