The Glorious Cause

by Jeff Shaara

  Washington was feeling his own exhaustion, did not want to debate.

  “Mr. Greene, if congress was to learn that we had destroyed New York of our own choice, the outcry would end this war, and not in the way we intend. If the people believe that the result of this war is the destruction of our most valued cities, then the sentiment for that war will disappear. I am aware that General Howe will make himself perfectly comfortable there, and I would do anything in my power to see that isn’t so. But I must still answer to congress, and the congress will have none of it. We cannot burn New York.” He paused, lowered his voice. “No matter how tempting the prospect.”

  He could see Greene turning in the saddle, heard a small grunt.

  “Are you all right, General?”

  Greene rubbed his stomach, said, “It comes and goes. I could use some sleep.”

  Behind them, the men still worked in the darkness, and Washington could hear low cursing and a quick profane response from the man’s sergeant. Greene said, “They’re going to be worn-out in the morning.”

  Washington turned the horse, could see nothing but the faint reflection from the shovels.

  “Not all of them. And we must make ready. We cannot depend on General Howe to delay any further. This army requires some advantage, something to give these men confidence. We had none of that today. This is an excellent place to make a stand. General Howe has shown very little inclination toward speed. He takes his victories one at a time, savors them, possibly even celebrates them. But his generals are in their camp right now, making their plan for tomorrow. They know we are here. They know they must bring the fight to us, and thus far we have given them no reason to hesitate. I believe he has made mistakes, that we have been blessed by his delays. But if General Howe dares to push his army up these rocks, it could be a far greater mistake than just sitting still.”

  8. NATHAN HALE

  He carried his diploma under his coat, the only official identification he could come up with. He had only been asked to show it once, to a hostile British colonel, suspicious of this plainly dressed man who traveled the country roads of Long Island at night, claiming to be a schoolmaster. The colonel had scanned the document with mild disgust, a low disrespectful comment about Yale College, as though any colonial school was far inferior to the most lowly grammar school in England. Hale had kept his hat in his hand, painfully polite, and the colonel could find no reason to hold this odd man in this dismal place. The colonel had more important work to do after all, patrolling the country roads for rebel raiding parties who were making off with cattle and grain. The colonel had not even taken the time to inspect the cloth bag Hale carried, heavy with books, texts in Latin, the classics. The British had simply resumed their march, patrolling the darkness for their enemy, while the schoolmaster was allowed to continue his journey. Hale had caught the officer’s final insult, some curse about teaching anyone to read in this godless land, and Hale had said nothing, had resumed his long walk, the sweat in his clothes betraying more than the humid warmth of the evening.

  His route had brought him across the waterway from the north, a careful, discreet crossing, avoiding the British naval patrols. He had planned to stay on Long Island, to visit the homes of the loyal citizens there, those who stayed close to the British camps. Teachers were rare now, so many having escaped the growing terror of the war, their schools shut down, some serving as hospitals for the wounded, classrooms now crowded with flat hard beds, bloody sheets, doctors overwhelmed by the new horror of their job. But when he had reached the homes along the north side of the island, presenting his credentials to curious and often nervous farmers, he began to hear unexpected news. The British were gone, had crossed the East River, a swift and efficient invasion of New York. The farmers were delighted to tell the story, all their confidence confirmed, the might of King George’s army sweeping away the rebels, bringing an end to this ridiculous war.

  His roundabout journey from Harlem Heights had taken days, and he had not been able to contact anyone in Washington’s army, had received no official messages from anyone. Though the British actively patrolled the roads, it did not take him long to realize that the bulk of their army was simply gone. With soft footsteps through silent patches of woods, he had found the camp, amazed to have been standing alone in what were now empty fields of debris. The effect on him had been unexpected and strange, a sense of panic that he might have missed it all, that he had wasted too much time reaching his destination. If the camps were empty, then he had come to the wrong place. His job, after all, was to find out where the British were going next, but now, there was nothing for him to learn, and ultimately, this dangerous mission had become a waste of time. He had become more panicked by that than by the confrontation with the British colonel.

  He had no choice but to continue the journey, and he found passage to the city with a sympathetic, though somewhat surprised, merchant, who made regular crossings from Brooklyn to Governor’s Island, then to the city itself. Once the rebel cannon had fallen silent, the man had resumed his regular trade run, had found himself ferrying more passengers out of the city, part of a vast exodus of refugees who would escape the British occupation. But Hale had convinced the man, there were still children in New York, and certainly their parents would want them occupied with more than the chaotic horror of an army occupation. They would still need teachers.

  His home was in Connecticut, and he joined the army after an anguished debate with himself, wondering if a soldier could contribute more to the country’s cause than a man who gave education to the children. As the talk of war burst into the reality of Lexington and Concord, it was the British occupation of Boston that settled his argument. He had volunteered alongside many of his friends, made the march to Cambridge to join Washington’s army, had sat in earthworks for long weeks staring at the red-coated soldiers who stared back at him. When the British evacuated Boston, Hale had moved with the army to New York, had camped with the Nineteenth Connecticut Regiment near the city. He was quickly made an officer, promoted almost immediately to captain, an acknowledgment of his education and intellect, the young man who had gone to Yale College when he was only fourteen. He didn’t know much about being an officer, but the men who marched with him showed respect, a new experience for a man who had previously commanded only restless children.

  There was respect from above as well, and he was offered the opportunity to join Colonel Thomas Knowlton’s Rangers, formed from the Connecticut regiments, a handpicked squad that would serve directly under Washington. They would be an official scouting unit, gathering information and intelligence beyond the normal chain of command. The opportunity excited him, since his duties thus far had been mostly mundane. He had never yet faced the enemy in combat. His unit had remained encamped in New York, while the great battle took place on Long Island. Though many in the nineteenth were relieved to be safely on Manhattan Island, Hale had wondered if he would ever know that experience, what those men had gone through, the men who stood and faced the enemy, the men who were now soldiers.

  Once the Rangers had been organized, Colonel Knowlton himself had gathered the entire group together, had walked among them speaking of a specific mission. It was a mission for just one man, and there would be no uniform, no musket. Knowlton did not use the word, but the message was plain: General Washington needed a spy, someone to move through the British camps, someone who could provide information on when and where the British would move next. No one had volunteered, and Knowlton acknowledged that the job was unseemly, unfit for a real soldier. There was no respect to be found by being a spy. And, of course, a soldier caught out of uniform, behind the lines of the enemy, would simply be hanged.

  Throughout the night that followed, he had thought again of all he had missed so far, knew that Knowlton himself had fought at Breed’s Hill, many of the men around him already taking their muskets into the line of fire, the campfires alive with tales of fights Hale could only imagine. No one spoke again of the ne
w unpopular mission, but Hale could not escape the feeling that it was an opportunity, some way he could be useful. He had finally gone to Knowlton, had told him he would volunteer for the mission. Knowlton had accepted Hale’s offer with few words, and Hale understood that the colonel himself was unsure of the honor in this sort of job. But the two men had gone straight to Washington’s headquarters, and Hale had stood silently as Washington explained all he needed the young man to do. But that mission was on Long Island, and Washington could not have known that in a few days, everything would change. So now, Nathan Hale the schoolmaster was in New York.

  SEPTEMBER 20, 1776

  He had come to the city for the first time in late spring, when the army had arrived from Boston, the nineteenth pitching their camp near the East River. The duty had been mundane and tedious, but then had come the curious order, and the entire army had marched and assembled on the great open Green. It had been over two months ago, on July 9, and it was one of the few times he had actually seen the commander in chief. Washington had ordered the troops to form a hollow square, the first time the men had seen their own strength assembled in one piece of open ground. Even the citizens had come, gathering around the Green in awe of the sight, so many men with muskets, the odd mix of uniforms, the sounds of the drums. But then, the drums had stopped, and Washington himself had called them to attention. He would always remember the voice of that officer who read them the document, the words of the Declaration of Independence. In the formation around him, no one had spoken, each man absorbing the words, the entire army understanding that something momentous had occurred. The congress in Philadelphia, that body of men that most knew little about, had somehow united all of the colonies into one voice, and now, that voice had officially broken their allegiance to King George.

  As he walked through the Green now, that extraordinary day was nowhere in evidence. British troops spread out around campfires, much of the greenery was ripped up, pits dug for latrines, trees cut, piles of logs stacked. He caught the rank smell, moved quickly past, made his way westward. He moved into a side street, narrow, thick damp air, more smells, could hear voices in the houses, a woman crying, shouts of men. The woman was in obvious distress, and he thought of stopping, knocking on the door, but the accents were unmistakably English, the crude manner of the common soldier. He was in no position to be gallant.

  He kept moving, wasn’t sure where he was going, saw more side streets, narrow again, twisting. There was no sunlight here, the street thick with mud, and he heard a strange animal sound, quick motion in front of him. He could see a group of pigs bursting out of a deep wallow, scampering away from him. He shuddered at his own fright, a low nervous laugh, heard shouts in front of him. The darkness opened into sunlight ahead, and he could hear the pigs squealing, a harsh, sickening sound. He moved closer to the light, saw a group of British soldiers running, chasing the pigs, a sword, the awful game. He backed into the darkness again, moved through the thick mud, another side street. He stayed close to the sides of the houses, listened, more voices, women. He tried to hear the words, talk of food, a baby crying. He was surprised anyone with children was still there, that despite his own charade, he had believed that anyone with a family would be long gone from the city. He kept moving, the dark street ending, more sunlight. He looked down at the filth clinging to his shoes, knew he would take the smell with him. He stepped into open air again, looked across a wide street, felt a light breeze cleaning his lungs. Now there was a hand on his back, a hard push, and he stumbled into the street, his knees hitting hard on the cobblestones. He turned, saw a group of soldiers, laughing, one man pointing at him.

  “Out of the way, clerk.”

  The men moved past, more laughter, and he held the anger, lowered his head, said quietly, “Yes, sir. As you wish, sir.”

  The soldiers were gone, and he sat on the rough stones, rubbed his knees. He did not take well to the role of the helpless weakling, had always been athletic, more fit for sports than any of his friends. But he could make no show, no protest of any kind. The last thing he needed was attention, especially from soldiers.

  If there were citizens still in New York, they had to be either loyal to the king or so destitute they had no means of leaving. Both were dangerous to him, and he knew he could speak to no one, ask no specific questions. The Tories would take him straight to the provost’s office, and the street people would see a reward, would find a way to draw him into some betrayal for which they would pocket a few shillings. If he was to observe the strength of the British positions around the city, the location of specific units, he would have to do it alone. Eavesdropping at windows had given him nothing. No, it would be the officers, the men with real information, and they were safely housed in the large estates, their debauchery brought to them, unlike the common soldiers.

  He had walked for most of the day, his legs aching now, the strain of slogging quietly through muddy alleys. The frustration was growing, and he had already thought of giving it up, making his way carefully out of the city, finding some way to reach Harlem Heights. But then he remembered the meeting with Washington, the commander in chief asking him to do what so many would not. Even if the men of Knowlton’s Rangers were uncertain of the honor in being a spy, Washington had made it clear. The mission was not only important, it was crucial. Now, with the British in the city, it might be all the more so. No matter the frustration, he had to accomplish something.

  He moved to an open square, saw more soldiers, strange blue uniforms, polished brass helmets. It was a squad of Hessians marching in formation, muskets on shoulders, and on both sides of the street, civilians were staring silently, tight grim faces. The Hessians moved past, and the onlookers began to move again, slowly resuming their own business, and he thought, Even the Tories are frightened. It is one thing to receive General Howe with graciousness, to give lavish parties in his honor. It is quite another to try to live with these strange and foreign soldiers marching in your streets, who have shown no concern for your politics or your loyalties. If you are not in uniform, you could very well be their enemy, and they do not hesitate to act on that. He heard a burst of shouting from a house behind him, a woman’s short scream. He turned, saw glass shattering, a book flying out the window, landing in the street in a heap of scattered paper. He stared at it, instinctive anger at the assault on the one thing he loved, wondered what the book was, thought of picking it up. There were more shouts, male now, and the woman screamed again. In the wide square, another group of soldiers appeared, British this time, but they made no move toward the house. Hale caught their glances that way, saw smiles, reacting to the screams of the woman only as some shared experience. He felt an icy chill, moved quickly away from the house, felt the violation of the woman in some place deep in his mind, the awful shame that there was nothing he could do. He rounded a corner, saw more soldiers, fought hard to keep his anger quiet. But these were different, powdered wigs, much gold on their uniform. The anger eased, and he focused on the opportunity, saw four men, dressed with the sharp scarlet coats of officers, senior officers. He fought the urge to duck away into the alley, was too far in the open, could only move past them, make no obvious motion. He kept his face down, nodded silently as they passed him, slowed his walk, listened to their conversation.

  “The old place is quite handsome, I’m told. We shall move there tomorrow.”

  Hale turned, leaned against a wood wall, seemed to scrape the mud from his shoes, tried to hear more. They were walking slowly away from him, and he began to follow, kept his distance.

  “Well, the general shall certainly approve. With the batteries now in place, there will be no call for movement. The firewood is accumulating nicely. And, to a warm hearth are drawn those who provide their own warmth. Certainly, we can make use of the local . . . ah . . . flowers.”

  The man laughed, joined by the others. Hale stayed back, could not risk them noticing him. He backed into an alley, ignored the crushing smells, thought, Winter quarters
. Of course, this is no secret, it was always said that the British wanted to be in New York for the winter, plenty of housing, even for the soldiers. And, plenty of entertainment. Flowers indeed. He could not escape the sound of the woman’s screams, closed his eyes for a moment. Damn them!

  The daylight was fading, and he backed farther into the alley, thought, You’ve been on the street for too long, seen too many people. Someone will notice you. Best stay hidden for a while.

  He felt his way around a corner, the smells of garbage and filth unavoidable. He felt the wetness in his shoes, stood in a place that never saw sunlight, thought, You should remember this alley. A good sanctuary. He looked up, saw a window, caught the flicker of a candle, and a head suddenly appeared, a sharp gaze down the alley toward the street. Hale stood motionless, and the man never looked down at him, withdrew back inside. Hale heard voices now, low talk, strained to hear.

  “Aye, he’s bringing it all tonight. Have ye got the lamp oil? There’s already one barrel under the floor here . . .”

  The accents were thick, Irish perhaps. The talk moved away from the window, just low murmurs now, and he felt a new excitement. These weren’t soldiers, this was something else, talk of conspiracy. He felt a sudden stab of hopefulness. There may yet be people here who don’t favor the British at all. He tried to recall the man’s words . . . lamp oil . . . a barrel. Why would they want so much lamp oil? To sell? But the British wouldn’t pay, they’d simply take it. He focused through the darkness, the daylight completely gone, moved farther back into the hidden corner, put his hand out, felt his way. The wall was rough, rotten planks, and his hand touched something that moved. There was a sudden clatter of falling wood, and he pulled back, his heart jumping. He reached down, wrapped his fingers around a long stick, could see a bulge at the top, felt it was crowned with straw. He picked it up, could tell that it was nearly as tall as he was, the straw gathered as on a broom. Odd, no place to be sweeping anything back here. His eyes were adjusting more to the darkness, the candle from the window a faint glow. There were more brooms farther back in the corner, the same shape, the straw pointing up, out of the mud. He moved his hand through the broomsticks, counted, eight, nine, a dozen. He still held the one in his hand, turned, looked out around the corner toward the street, quiet now. Why would someone store brooms . . . he looked up, the voices still there, the windowpane over his head brighter with the light of an oil lamp. Lamp oil. He held the broom away from him, stared at the straw. It’s not a broom. It’s a torch.