by Jeff Shaara
Cornwallis glanced at the staff officers, knew Clinton’s voice was carrying. Clinton caught the look, lowered his voice, said, “General, I do not wish to make you uncomfortable. But I have confidence in your abilities, and I believe you agree with my assessment. It is not necessary for you to state that. Surely you feel as I do, that we have lost an astounding opportunity to crush this rebellion, or at the very least, to crush its army.”
Cornwallis sorted his words, was still not entirely comfortable.
“I believe, sir, that without an army, there is no rebellion.”
Clinton let the meaningless words drift by, said, “Did you hear the reports of mass drownings? Some say that during their escape, the rebels lost dozens of boats capsized, men overboard, wholesale loss of life. Right out there, hundreds perhaps. Rather sad, don’t you think?”
Cornwallis wasn’t sure what Clinton meant, and Clinton went on, “Of course, I assume that hundreds of drowned rebels would have made something of a mess of the shore, or at the very least, would have been a grisly observation for Lord Howe’s lookouts. That’s the sadness, General. It was all fabrication. This army is forced to create tales of enemy disaster, because we are impotent to effect that disaster ourselves. It was right in our grasp. Now, we must begin again, march to the boats and cross another waterway, and see what kind of enemy awaits us over there.”
Cornwallis was absorbed by Clinton’s deep gloom, a mood darker than even his own. He looked back toward the Heights behind them, crowded with red uniforms, men sorting through the debris the rebels had left behind. He saw one man with a bayonet, poking at a pile of muddy rags, more men doing the same, all along the waterfront, their white leggings soiled by the filth of the trash. He thought of Howe, the official report that would go to London. It was a victory, we have the ground, the enemy fled before us in panic, leaving behind . . . their garbage. If there is still a war, if the rebel army escaped to fight us yet again, at least General Howe can be proud. By God, it was a grand show.
SEPTEMBER 8, 1776
They had gathered on Admiral Howe’s flagship, the Eagle, a grand man-o-war that carried all the luxury appropriate to his command. The dinner had been enormous, an assortment of all the delicacies to be had around New York, many of the Tories still pouring out their good tidings and their generosity to the British command. The plates were gone now, the claret flowing freely, and Cornwallis had begun to feel a lift in his dark mood for the first time.
The rebels had abandoned Governor’s Island, and some had thought it was another unfortunate escape, that the navy should have made more of an effort to capture the position. But the effect was positive, no more of the annoying potshots at the ships if they drifted too close, and if Lord Howe had been too hesitant to seize the small island, no one spoke of it. The only rebel artillery positions were in Manhattan, most on the southern tip, and the navy had been free to spread out through much of New York Harbor. The calmer waters of the protected bays were full of activity as well, the navy bringing the fleet of flatboats into formation, preparation for the army to make its move to Manhattan. Despite Clinton’s not-so-subtle fury, General Howe continued to operate on a schedule of his own, perfectly satisfied to proceed on some deliberate timetable only he understood. But the sight of the flatboats brought back the excitement, and Cornwallis could not help but feel that no matter if General Howe’s movement was slower than he would have liked, at least, now, there was movement.
The admiral sat at the end of the table, framed by an extraordinary chair, tall spires bathed in gold. The talk had begun to quiet, and with a subtle tilt of his head, the order was given, the servants quickly gone from the dining room.
Lord Howe looked at his brother, who sat on his right, a formal, familiar ceremony between them, a mutual permission for the discussion to begin. The admiral said, “Some of you have shown the courtesy to converse with our prisoner, Mr. John Sullivan. I am pleased to report that the rebel general is actually something of a gentleman, with some understanding of his rebellion’s unfortunate predicament. Once it was explained to him that we desired only to end this war, he was enthusiastic about communicating that to his congress. Thus, he has been paroled, carrying with him to Philadelphia a document expressing our inclination to negotiate for the end of this war.”
There were nods, low murmurs of approval, and Cornwallis kept his eye on the admiral, could see a glow of self-satisfaction. Lord Howe continued, “As you know, the ministry has given to General Howe and myself the power to grant amnesty to anyone who wishes to receive it, assuming of course that those persons agree to end hostility to the king. To be frank, no one in this command believed that their congress would take heed of this suggestion. However, we feel that the events of the past two weeks have had an impact. Not only have we utterly defeated Mr. Washington’s little army, but his evacuation of Long Island has indicated in the strongest light that he has no intention of putting himself at risk again.” He raised his wineglass. “I offer a salute to my brother, General Howe, for his extraordinary success in persuading the rebels to take to their boats.”
Pleasantries passed around the table, and Cornwallis tried to feel the spirit, thought, of course, It has to be the rationale. We are, in fact, happy that Washington’s army escaped. Lord Howe waited for the toast to conclude, made the appropriate nod to his brother, said, “It is highly likely that the rebel congress will see their situation differently now. Prospects for peace have never been greater. Mr. Sullivan has conveyed this message to his congress, along with means of discussing terms of a general peace. I have agreed to meet with anyone whom their congress wishes to send. They have wisely consented to this, and I am most pleased to inform you that a meeting on this subject will take place in a few days.”
Cornwallis knew of the ministry’s authorization, granting Lord Howe the power to deal directly with congress as a peace commissioner. What that actually meant, no one was sure, except Lord Howe himself. Cornwallis had no idea how the Continental Congress would respond to such an offer. But as the men around the table made their toasts of congratulation, Cornwallis tried to see past the words. Had Washington been bypassed, considered by Lord Howe to be irrelevant? Cornwallis knew now he had been wrong about Washington’s army simply dissolving away. They were digging in, creating fortifications along the East River, all the way up to the mouth of the Harlem River. And the artillery was still in place on the southern tip of the island, guarding the access to the Hudson River. Whatever army Washington has left, he is certainly prepared to make another fight. Their retreat from Brooklyn Heights might have been a defeat, but it was not enough to end a war. Obviously Washington knows that, and just as surely, their congress will agree.
He raised his glass automatically, did not hear the words, General Howe returning the favor to his brother, offering meaningless praise for the admiral’s diplomatic triumph. Cornwallis avoided the faces, thought, They might actually believe that this peace commission will find a way to end this war.
As he had sailed westward from England, he had nurtured a fantasy that his duty on this side of the Atlantic would be brief, that he might return home after one decisive battle, enjoying complete optimism that no band of rebels could stand up against the might of the king’s forces. The embarrassment at Charleston had sent the dream far back in his mind, and now, he felt the gloom returning, the dream erased altogether. He thought of the flatboats, waiting in the harbor. So now they will sit idly by, will not be loaded until Lord Howe has his diplomatic meeting. And in New York, the rebels will continue to build their works and fortify their position, while once again, we delay.
5. FRANKLIN
SEPTEMBER 11, 1776
They had spent the night in Brunswick, rising early to complete the final part of the journey from Philadelphia. The confirmation had come from Howe’s staff that a boat would be waiting for them when they reached Amboy.
Franklin had stayed in the carriage the entire way, could never have stood the journey on h
orseback, and even the relative softness of the chaise had jarred him into a general discomfort for most of the trip. For the entire journey he had ridden beside Edward Rutledge, the aristocratic young man from South Carolina. Rutledge was a small, thin man, with a high, tinny voice who had built his reputation in the congress as a leader of those men who would prefer to err on the side of caution. Rutledge had been an advocate of delaying the signing of a Declaration of Independence, but was pragmatic enough to understand that once the sentiment toward independence became unstoppable, the conservatives could delay no longer. Rutledge had finally changed his stance, had led South Carolina to sign the document after all. Though the man’s self-interest for South Carolina placed him naturally at odds with many of the New Englanders, he had built a particular dislike for John Adams. The feeling was mutual. Now, Adams was the third member of their committee, and throughout the journey, Adams rode a horse beside the carriage. Franklin had wondered if there would be some kind of open conflict between the two men, Adams particularly prone to falling into a heated debate about those subjects on which he disagreed. But Adams was pragmatic as well, kept his distance from Rutledge throughout the trip. If they were to meet with Lord Howe, they must present a united front.
Franklin had watched Adams on the horse, the New Englander clearly as uncomfortable as Franklin was. Adams was a fair horseman, but his girth made riding awkward, the uneven stretches of roadway causing Adams the same agony that Franklin endured. Rutledge had occasionally offered polite conversation, and Franklin obliged him. Though he didn’t care for Rutledge’s politics, he didn’t quite share Adams’ strong dislike of the man, so they passed much of the time in idle pleasantries.
Franklin could hear the unmistakable sound of seagulls, thought, The water, we’re getting closer. He looked out to see them, felt a sharp breath of salt air, chilling him. The morning had been surprisingly cool, and he pulled his coat a bit tighter, thought, At least there is no rain. If the weather turned for the worse, the meeting would have to be delayed. Though the crossing to Staten Island was a short one, Lord Howe had warned them that his small flatboat would not do well in inclement weather.
He sat back in the seat again, felt himself rolling over another steep drop in the road, the creaking of the carriage now etched in his mind. Rutledge made some sound of discomfort beside him, and Franklin glanced at the man, thought, You are young enough to be my grandson. I will hear no sound of ailments out of you. He caught himself, knew his own mood was suffering, looked back toward Adams, who rode close behind the carriage. Adams nodded toward him, pointed, said simply, “The shore.”
Franklin looked that way, could see a wide salt marsh, saw grass moving in a slow wave with the chilly breeze. They were close to the small town of Amboy, houses appearing up along the road, the masts of small fishing boats in a cluster. Rutledge had seen them as well, said, “Well, finally. I won’t mind leaving this uncomfortable box, I assure you.”
Franklin didn’t respond, thought, It couldn’t have been any more uncomfortable than Adams’ horse. He had wanted to suggest that Rutledge ride, giving Adams some respite, but the subject had not come up, and Franklin had realized that Rutledge was watching Adams as well, a silent glare of satisfaction on the man’s birdlike face. Well, of course. Like children, vying to sit beside the father. Franklin scolded himself, Well, no it might not have anything to do with the pleasure of my company. There was one more place in the carriage, and Rutledge claimed it. Though John Adams may best him in every debate, though he may be the great orator and the man of influence, out here, Edward Rutledge gets the more comfortable seat. Franklin let out a breath, and the thought stayed with him. Children. Despite all the importance, the gravity of the issues we face, so many of those men in congress behave the same way. It could be the ruin of us all.
The carriage reached a small wharf, and Adams was already off the horse, working the pains out of his back. Rutledge was quickly down, reached back to assist Franklin, and the old man did not object. His foot reached the hard ground, the usual pain in his legs spreading up, and Franklin steadied himself against the carriage, waved Rutledge away, said, “Thank you, young man. I am sufficiently balanced.”
Along the wharf, a group of militia had gathered, and Franklin waved to them, managed a smile, could tell by the points and stares he had been recognized, something he was accustomed to. The men drew up in an uneven line, and those with muskets tried to make a good show, some kind of military posture. Franklin tried to keep the smile in place, but the stiffness in his knees was slow to let go. He moved with uneven steps toward the ragged formation, and one man stepped toward them, a huge swarthy man with a thick beard. Franklin stopped, could feel Rutledge and Adams beside him, the man communicating pure menace, blocking their path to the wharf. The man saluted them, a great fat hand planted on the grime of his forehead.
“We are honored, gentlemen. Welcome to Amboy. I am Captain Dirth Foresdale, New Jersey Militia, in command of your guard. You are safe here.”
The voice was deep and growling, and left no room for argument. Franklin smiled again, felt relief, thought, Well it’s preferable you are with us rather than against us. Adams stepped forward, said, “Thank you, Captain. Have you received any word of our escort?”
Foresdale sniffed, his hands on his hips, emphasizing the profound expanse of his waist.
“Well, yes, sir, their boat is just below. They been here for a while now.” He leaned closer, and Franklin caught the sudden smell of rum and fish. Foresdale lowered his voice, said, “Them lobster-backs stayed right there, kept to their boat. Smart. We’d have put up with none of their nonsense here, sir. My men are primed for a fight.”
Adams seemed to vibrate beside him, and Franklin knew that Adams was holding tight to his words, that any incident with the British here would jeopardize the entire purpose of this conference. Franklin put a hand on Adams’ arm, a silent message, Be calm, it’s all right. Franklin kept his voice low, said, “Good work, sir. But we’ll handle them from here. They won’t dare attempt any intrigues in our presence.”
Foresdale seemed skeptical, looked back toward the water, and Franklin could see the British for the first time, a small crew, and one officer, peering up toward them, the man’s face wearing a cautious smile.
Franklin moved past the huge man, tried to avoid the billowing waves of unfortunate odor. Behind him, Adams followed, said, “Thank you again, Captain. We are in your debt.”
Rutledge followed silently, and the three men moved toward the British officer, the man stepping up off the flatboat, his caution giving way to formal cordiality. He snapped his heels together, made a short bow, said, “Gentlemen, Admiral Lord Howe offers his respects. This craft is to carry you across to Staten Island. Lord Howe awaits you at the Billopp House, a short distance from the water’s edge. You will be escorted there once you land. I am to remain here.”
Franklin was studying the perfection of the man’s uniform, the rich red, the gold trim, had not fully absorbed the man’s words, and Adams said, “Why would you remain here?”
The officer glanced up past them, slight dread betrayed on the man’s face, and Franklin knew he was considering the ragged men who answered to Captain Foresdale. The officer brought himself into composure, said, “Permit me, sir, but you are Mr. Adams, yes?”
“Yes, that is correct.”
Rutledge said, “I am Edward Rutledge, sir. South Carolina. Representing the Continental Congress.”
Franklin smiled, said simply, “Franklin.”
The officer was still more interested in the line of militia, said, “For lack of any better description, gentlemen, I am to be your hostage. It is my duty to remain on this shore until your mission is complete, and you return safely here.”
Franklin understood now, said, “An extraordinary courtesy, sir, but an unnecessary one. I don’t believe any of us considers himself to be at risk of being kidnapped by Lord Howe.”
Rutledge laughed, said, “A preposte
rous offer, sir. The honor of Lord Howe is well known. We do not come here with any fear of betrayal. Nonsense.”
Franklin could see relief on the officer’s face, thought, Well certainly, this wasn’t his choice. Being held by Foresdale’s men would likely be a more horrible duty than the man has ever endured. Franklin said, “You should certainly accompany us, sir. At the very least, it will demonstrate to Lord Howe that we have faith in his word, and his flag of truce.”
Adams moved toward the flatboat, the handful of sailors coming to life. He looked back toward Franklin, shrugged his shoulders.
“I suppose I agree. After all, one British officer would hardly be an adequate trade for three congressmen. The least he could have done is sent his brother.”
The congress had debated the wisdom of sending any committee to meet with Lord Howe, strong arguments made on both sides. When General Sullivan had arrived in Philadelphia to make his plea, he seemed not to understand that most of congress considered him utterly taken in by Howe’s assurances of his power to make any kind of real peace offering. Franklin had come away from the meetings and discussions with a new respect for Sullivan’s gullibility. It was especially demoralizing, since, of course, Sullivan was one of Washington’s most senior commanders. But the general had returned to captivity on Staten Island, fulfilling the terms of his temporary parole, full of the satisfaction that his service had possibly shortened the war.
In congress, there was a simple dilemma. If congress ignored Lord Howe’s offer of a meeting, they could be accused of casual disregard for the plight of their own army. The Tory element in the colonies could have made great cry, labeling the congress a mass of bloodthirsty rebels who passed up a clear opportunity for peace. That extreme view was no less ridiculous than the other, which was to send a committee that could be seen as weak and submissive, a defeated congress begging for mercy for their defeated army.
