The general regretfully refused. Horses could not climb the Stony Point slope, as Harry had pointed out in his reconnaissance reports, so cavalry would be an encumbrance rather than a help. However, as a personal mark of esteem, Wayne agreed to let the horsemen act as a reserve on whom he could call in case of dire need.
Harry, McLane, and two Oneida acting as guides, led the twelve hundred men of the brigade around the edge of the swamp toward the Hudson, then up a tortuous path on the west slope of Stony Point. There, while Anthony Wayne waited with his vanguard for the rest of the brigade, Harry and McLane retraced their steps down the slope and went off to assemble the Partizans in the woods.
The attack was a brilliant success. Wayne launched simultaneous assaults from two directions, the element of surprise was complete and the British garrison was forced to surrender after a brief flurry of fighting in which General Wayne himself suffered one of the night’s few casualties, a minor scalp injury. The services of the Partizans were neither needed nor utilized.
The capture of Stony Point was of little strategic importance, as events transpired, and had virtually no direct influence on the outcome of the war. But its psychological significance was enormous. For the first time since the outbreak of hostilities in 1775, Americans had taken the offensive in a major operation and won a clear-cut victory. Newspapers hailed the feat as equal to the defeat of Burgoyne at Saratoga which was nonsense, and also pointed out that, at Saratoga, Gates and Arnold had been on the defensive, while at Stony Point Wayne had been the attacker. In this respect the contemporary accounts were accurate.
The country went wild with joy. “Mad Anthony” Wayne became America’s darling, and Harry Lee received his due share of glory, which was considerable. The Continental Congress ordered a gold medal struck in honor of the victory, and for some decades thereafter, September 15 was celebrated as a holiday in New York, Pennsylvania, Virginia, and Delaware. About one-third to one-half of Wayne’s brigade came from Connecticut, but the legislature in Hartford delayed in taking action to proclaim the day a holiday until the end of the war, by which time the victory was seen in its proper perspective.
Harry shared in the additional fame achieved at Stony Point, but received no direct rewards. The Congress, in its wisdom, treated him in the same indifferent, unjust manner that had so infuriated many other officers of merit, leading some to resign their commissions and, in the case of Benedict Arnold, contributing to the dissatisfaction that caused one of America’s finest officers to become a traitor and transfer his allegiance to the Crown.
Anthony Wayne, his colonels and their staffs, received official commendations from the Congress, which neglected to mention either Harry or his Partizan officers in the praise-filled document. Vast quantities of supplies and a huge sum of gold and silver was captured at Stony Point, and the Military Affairs committee of the Congress voted a share of $170,000 to the officers of the brigade, to be divided according to rank. The Congress subsequently ratified the committee’s bill, and again the Partizans were excluded.
As a final blow, all officers of the brigade lower than the grade of lieutenant colonel were promoted one rank. The names of Partizan officers, from Harry down, were not on the list.
General Washington delivered a stinging oral rebuke to members of the Military Affairs committee who visited his headquarters, and Wayne went a step further, writing a long letter protesting that the Partizans who had made his victory possible had been cruelly ignored. But Harry Lee, McLane, and Lindsay reacted with dignity, tact and, above all, remarkable restraint. All of these hot-blooded young men had the good sense to keep their mouths shut.
Washington, always vexed by his relations with the Congress, did his best to compensate for the oversight. His first move was to add still another Troop to the Partizan Force. Its captain was Henry Peyton and its second-in-command was Lieutenant George Handy. Both were Virginians, friends whom Harry had known most of his life, and he realized they and their veterans were trustworthy, dependable in any situation.
The Partizan Force was now the single largest body of cavalry in the Continental Army. In some state militia units it was as big as a regiment, and in all it was the equal of a battalion. By definition its commander deserved the rank of lieutenant colonel, even though the Congress had not yet seen fit to promote Harry.
In the reorganization of the Partizans, Harry offered the permanent post of second-in-command to McLane, but the Delaware horseman had few personal ambitions, and preferred to remain in command of his own troop. So, as Lindsay was outranked in length of service by Peyton, the latter was given the position, and hence would be the first to be granted the grade of major, if and when the Congress saw fit to recognize the enlarged status of the Force.
A sympathetic Washington made it still easier for his favorite cavalryman to achieve greater glory. No major operations requiring the services of horse troops were pending, so Major Lee was given orders as extraordinary as they were surprising. By command of the General himself, the Partizans were granted the privilege of originating and executing any project of their own that struck their fancy and would be “useful to the nation’s cause.” Washington stipulated only one condition: he required Harry to obtain his permission before planning and executing any operation.
After three years of serving others, Harry Lee was on his own at last, and was determined to make the most of his opportunity. “I lose no sleep over the Congress’s snub,” he wrote to his parents late in July, 1779. “My officers and I spend all our waking hours studying maps of the enemy’s positions, and tomorrow we ride to inspect a site that offers the promise of as great a victory as any achieved by our cohorts in the war. We have in mind a scheme so daring that if it but bears fruit, we shall rattle the teeth of Sir Henry Clinton so loudly that even the fine gentlemen dozing in the halls of the Congress shall hear the sound.
“Pray for me, I beg you, that all goes well with my Grand Enterprise.”
VI: THE GRAND ENTERPRISE
Major Harry Lee and Captains McLane, Peyton, and Lindsay set out from the Partizans’ headquarters on the Hudson, each accompanied by a personal servant whose saddlebags were filled with the silver, plate, and spare linen of the elegant young gentlemen. Also included in the party were two Oneida officers of the Third Troop, who may have marveled at the airs assumed by their colleagues. But Harry and his subordinates did not think it unusual to be traveling in such style, nor did the members of infantry units they encountered on their journey south.
The cavalry had been a special corps of the gentry from the start of the war, and now that the army was in more comfortable circumstances and still expanding, it was only fitting that the elite should behave according to their station. When the group halted for the night, the servants cooked supper over a wood fire, and the officers were served on chinaware, drinking their small beer and ale from cups of sterling and eating with knives that bore their monograms. Presumably the Oneida, who dined with them, used their fingers.
The following morning the party put aside its grand manners as it circled south of Manhattan Island, and concentrated on the business at hand. Ahead of them, on a small isthmus known as Paulus Hook, bounded on one side by the Hudson River and on the other by the little Hackensack, stood a sturdy log fort manned by a full regiment of British Regulars. The Redcoats had been firmly entrenched there ever since Billy Howe had captured New York Town, and no one had ever dreamed of dislodging them — for obvious reasons.
On one side was the Hudson, where great ships-of-the-line and sleek frigates of Admiral Lord Howe’s fleet rode at anchor, the fort within striking distance of their great guns. The ships could sail closer to Paulus Hook, easily and quickly, in case of attack, and would be able to pour a murderous fire at Americans stupid enough to brave their wrath. Also, the regiment at the garrison could call for help in case of need, and approximately ten thousand veteran Redcoats stationed on Manhattan Island were close at hand.
The rear of the fort enjoyed u
nusual advantages, too. The muddy Hackensack formed a natural moat, difficult to ford, and the nearest bridge connecting the isthmus with the mainland was more than twelve miles away. On one flank was the hook of land from which the place took its name, and the deep waters there were patrolled by Royal Navy sloops designed for operations in just such waters. Each of these ships carried fifty marines, members of a fighting force that had won its well-deserved reputation in scores of battles fought over the period of more than a century.
The remaining flank enjoyed even better protection. A muddy creek formed a natural barricade, and had been widened by the British, who had made passage across it doubly difficult by studding it with irregularly placed rows of sharpened stakes driven into the ground. Royal Engineers had built an old-fashioned drawbridge across the creek, and protected it with a large sentry detachment, two sets of gates as thick as those used to prevent access to great European castles and, it appeared, three batteries of six-inch cannon, each consisting of four guns.
The fort looked impregnable, and Captain Peyton, after making a close study of the position, expressed the opinion that it could not be taken. “Major Lee disagreed,” Allan McLane wrote. “In his opinion the obstacles created by Nature offer an irresistible challenge to the resourceful, and those conspired by man can be overcome by man. His confidence inspired in us the determination to wrest the fort from the foe.”
Paulus Hook had a strategic importance out of proportion to its size. By maintaining a strong garrison in New Jersey, Clinton was in a position to threaten any American units that tried to operate in the area. And, at the same time, he enjoyed the comfort of preventing a surprise assault on his main body in New York Town itself.
The very odds against the possibility of carrying out a successful operation at Paulus Hook made the venture attractive to Harry. He had been robbed of his fair share of the rewards granted by the Congress with such a lavish hand after the capture of Stony Point, and he sought a victory that even the most obtuse civilian could neither ignore nor denigrate.
He and his officers rode north again, up the Hudson, and spent several days discussing the project. Every conceivable angle was considered and weighed, every prospect of success analyzed, every chance of failure examined. Then Harry called in his junior officers for a council of war, and broke precedent by inviting an enlisted man, Sergeant Major John Champe, to sit in on the meeting. Champe, in Harry’s opinion, was worth “any three Ensigns or two Lieutenants” in the Partizan Force.
All who attended the council were sworn to secrecy. The project was laid before them, and the risks frankly discussed. Then Harry called for a vote, and his subordinates unanimously declared themselves in favor of going ahead.
Next they needed Washington’s approval, and Harry sent a formal note to Lieutenant Colonel Richard K. Meade, the general’s appointments aide, asking for the privilege of an interview. Washington was busy, as always, but one day in early August, Harry was summoned to headquarters at West Point. The complacency of the usually serene commander-in-chief was shaken when he heard the idea, but he had gained enough respect for Harry’s military talents to listen attentively.
Finally he agreed to give the project every consideration, provided that the chances of attaining success were fairly good and the risks relatively light. However, he said, he wanted a detailed plan spelled out for him before making a final decision.
Harry returned to his own headquarters farther down the Hudson and sent McLane back to Paulus Hook to gather as much intelligence as he could. The scout from Delaware did his usual, thorough job, and several days later the senior officers of the Partizan Corps gathered again to make and refine a plan of attack.
In order to obtain as many points of view as possible, Harry asked each officer to draw up his own individual plan. He did the same, and then the group assembled again to argue, accept, reject, and coordinate the various thoughts. Accustomed to working at high speed, under pressure, the Partizan chiefs completed their entire task within a very few days, and Harry sent a long, minutely detailed plan to General Washington.
Of primary importance was Harry’s conviction that victory could not be obtained by the Partizans alone. The nature of warfare, he wrote, had become so complicated that cavalry required strong infantry support in any major operation. Therefore he requested that at least three hundred and fifty light infantry troops be placed under his command for the operation.
His basic plan of assault was relatively simple. He proposed that a bridge, pre-built in sections, be thrown across the Hackensack at one of its narrowest points. Then, he wrote, the cavalry, closely followed by infantry, should take the drawbridge by surprise and follow this move immediately by fanning out inside the post and making the soldiers of the garrison captive before they could fire their cannon and alert either the British fleet or the troops in New York Town across the Hudson.
An effective withdrawal would be as essential as a rapid attack, so cavalry would keep open the line of retreat. Everything would depend on secrecy, speed, and timing.
General Washington thought the plan ingenious, but found much at fault with it. “Upon the whole, in the present position of the enemy’s army,” he wrote to Harry, “I should deem the attempt too hazardous, and not warranted by the magnitude of the object. We should lose more in case of failure than we could gain in case of success; and a single deserter, or disaffected inhabitant, may disclose the design and involve the party in ruin.”
The commander-in-chief believed that a water-borne operation might enjoy a better chance of success, but was afraid the attention of the British fleet would be drawn to a string of transport ships. Lastly, he declared, the Continentals, although stronger than in previous years, had too few troops to spare three hundred and fifty infantrymen for a hit-and-run mission.
In spite of his objections, however, he indicated that he had no desire to call off the project, and urged Harry to give the matter more thought.
Harry Lee needed no urging. Already convinced that the plan he and his officers had prepared was sound, he sought ways to improve it. The risk of discovery would be minimized, he believed, if the assault began at midnight or later. Post-midnight raids were unusual in eighteenth-century warfare, but the Americans had become expert in the use of unorthodox techniques to compensate for the inferiority of their numbers and armaments. He also suggested that a fleet of small boats be made available to stand by, in case of need, thus giving the attackers an alternate mode of retreat.
He wrote a long, persuasive letter to the commander-in-chief, and followed it with another personal visit. His salesmanship was persistent, and Washington finally capitulated, approving the scheme. He wrote Harry a brief note, which contained a final warning: “No time should be lost in attempting to bring off cannon, stores, or any other articles, as a few minutes’ delay might expose the party to imminent risk.”
The infantrymen Harry wanted were sent to him on detached service from the division of the American nobleman, Lord Stirling of New Jersey, all of them combat veterans. Many were alumni of the winter at Valley Forge, and were enthusiastic at the prospect of serving directly under Harry Lee. But their ardor cooled somewhat when, on the afternoon of August 18, 1779, they gathered at his camp on the Hudson and learned they were going to participate in an operation as dangerous as any conceived in the four years the country had been at war.
A council of war was summoned, and Harry read his battle orders to the officers. The corps would be divided into three sections, two of which would perform security and holding missions. The third, a combined cavalry and infantry force, would operate under the personal command of Major Lee, and would dash into the fort, take prisoners and supplies, and then leave hurriedly while protected by the other two columns. These units would form a rear guard and, if necessary, fight a delaying action while retreating to the boats that Henry Peyton would have in readiness.
Stirling’s officers, to whom the whole scheme was new, made it clear they were less tha
n wildly optimistic. They were as willing to fight as any other group in the Army, but had no desire to commit suicide. Harry tried to win them over with a patriotic speech, which he repeated in somewhat broadened form shortly thereafter to the troops. His words were greeted with mild applause, but no one cheered. Experienced troops were far too aware of the risks to think in terms of loot and glory.
One officer, however, thought of little else. A major named Clarke was in charge of the infantry, and realized that if the project succeeded, its commander would emerge as a man of considerable stature. Clarke had served under Lord Stirling since the catastrophic Battle of Long Island in ’75, and although faithful, loyal, and hard-working, had never won a single citation.
Aside from Harry, he was the only field-grade officer taking part in the expedition, and the thought occurred to him that if he should prove to be the senior, the command of the party rightfully belonged to him. He felt certain he had already been a major while Lee had been a captain, and just before the march began he asked the date of Harry’s promotion.
Harry Lee was in no mood for trifles. He had been granted command of the expedition by General Washington himself, and after all his planning, hard work, and sales efforts had no intention of taking second place, at the last minute, to a nonentity. He muttered a reply intended to silence the infantry officer.
The march began shortly before sundown on the evening of August 18, each of the three columns traveling separately. The night was sultry and dark, with thick clouds overhead and a threat of rain in the air. Harry and his cavalry-infantry assault troops were supposed to arrive at a point directly opposite Paulus Hook at midnight, but lost their way in the gloom, and even the junior officers became panicky. The commander, aware that his reputation and future were at stake, pushed on doggedly, and finally led the column to its appointed place at three o’clock in the morning.
Light-Horse Harry: A Biography of Washington’s Great Cavalryman, General Henry Lee (Heroes and Villains from American History) Page 9
