by Jeff Shaara
He tried to turn his head, but the rope rubbed him hard. He could only see Montresor, wondered why the man still watched him, realized, perhaps he has to. There is something in the man that will keep him here, some need for penance perhaps, that will make him see this. Thank you, sir.
Behind him, Cunningham said something, and Hale felt the wagon lurch slightly, the floorboards tilting beneath him. The rope was suddenly looser, and he took a long breath, looked again at Montresor, summoned the energy, the voice, said, “I only regret . . . that I have but one life . . . to lose for my country.”
On Harlem Heights, there was little activity, the soldiers at their posts, lookouts scanning the horizon across the plain below them. They had seen the flag of truce, the small parade of British horsemen, and Washington had sent Putnam to receive it. The officer who led the party was an engineer, John Montresor, a name vaguely familiar to Washington. Montresor had brought a letter from General Howe, a protest about some brutality from the rebel soldiers. But there was more meaning to the note, and the last paragraph, written as nearly an afterthought, had made it clear that Howe was telling him something more significant, a boasting of sorts. It was just a brief mention that a spy had been hanged, a man with a diploma in his pocket from Yale College.
Washington revealed nothing to his staff, folded the note away, moved out on the point of rocks, could see far to the south, where clouds of black smoke still rose over New York, where fires still burned in the wreckage of a quarter of the city. He glanced behind him, wasn’t sure if Putnam was still there, looked again toward the south, said quietly, “It seems that Providence, or some good honest fellow, has done more for us than we could do for ourselves.”
9. CORNWALLIS
Howe had finally ordered a line of troops to push across Manhattan Island, a tight seal to keep the rebels pinned on Harlem Heights. There had been one minor engagement near the rebel position, a place near the Hudson River called the Hollow Way. It was not part of Howe’s instructions, but the response to a rebel patrol sent down into the plain beneath the Heights to determine where the British main lines might be positioned. The patrol was successful, and found themselves confronting the British Forty-second Highlanders, one of the most historic units in King George’s army. The Highlanders were also known as the Black Watch, and brought into battle a reputation for brutal efficiency. Dressed in the kilts and tartan of their ancestors, and driven forward by a rolling cascade of bagpipe music, the Highlanders responded to the sudden encounter with the rebels by making an advance of their own, and the rebels, who were outnumbered, wisely withdrew. But Washington made use of the aggressiveness of the British. In quick response, he sent out another, larger force, Knowlton’s Rangers and a company of Virginia riflemen. The intent was to flank and possibly surround the British, who had remained out in front, separated from Howe’s main force. Despite a brief and brisk action, there was little positive result for either side, and when the Highlanders were reinforced by a company of Hessian reserves, the rebels retreated to their fortifications at Harlem Heights. The official report that reached Howe’s headquarters indicated that among the casualties, two rebel officers had been killed, one of them the man who had founded the elite squad of Rangers, Colonel Thomas Knowlton.
OCTOBER 11, 1776
To the British, the skirmish with the Highlanders had seemed to remove any inclination the rebels had to leave the safety of their defenses, and beyond the occasional raid of some farmhouse, Cornwallis had heard nothing of any rebel movement at all.
He rode now through McGown’s Pass, the tall rocks and narrow trails now the geographical center of the British line. The staff followed in single file, and Cornwallis tried to ignore their nervousness, men not accustomed to riding close to the front lines, some of them searching the rough ground to the north for the chance encounter with a rebel marksman.
He had been to a farmhouse, a low flat building bordered by an apple orchard, that served now as one of the many reconnaissance posts. The house had been owned by a man known to be sympathetic to the rebel cause, and the heavy front door had been branded with a crude letter “R.” It was the custom now for the loyalist civilians to brand their traitorous neighbors. Once the British had completed their occupation of New York, the loyalists had been positively gleeful about identifying those citizens whose sympathies might lie with the rebels. Scattered through those sections of the city unaffected by the fire, many houses and storefronts were marked by the insignia. To the army, especially the Hessians, the carved letter was an open invitation to plunder. Most rebel sympathizers were long gone from the island, and the army occupied nearly every home that still supported a roof. But to the north of the city, in the open farm country, Cornwallis knew it was simply good fortune that some of these abandoned houses now provided the British lookouts with a view toward Harlem Heights.
What the British command did not anticipate was that the visible outposts would attract rebel deserters, and they came down from the Heights nearly every night. That morning Cornwallis had interviewed yet another group, dirty men with filthy clothing. Though he had occasionally seen some semblance of uniforms on distant rebel units, most of these men wore nothing to show they ever had been soldiers. The interviews were usually performed by a company commander, a job appropriate for an officer of lower rank. But Cornwallis enjoyed it, had come to appreciate the differences between the mind of the British soldier, and the rebels who opposed them. Besides the entertainment it gave him, he understood that his presence might actually result in an even greater willingness for the deserter to talk, most of them now desperately eager to please. He knew better than to believe all their expressions of newfound loyalty to the king, especially those who professed an immediate need to join the British army. Washington certainly would try to infiltrate the British lines, and Cornwallis considered it a challenging game to identify those deserters who were more likely just spies. It was not difficult for him to distinguish those rebels who brought a genuine desperation, hunger, sickness, and Cornwallis knew they would have no inhibitions about talking to their new benefactors. He knew it was the best chance for some piece of good intelligence, something significant that the deserters might not even recognize in their own rambling tales. The soldiers had been instructed to welcome the deserters as friends, to see to their needs, which usually meant only a simple meal, or a warm blanket. This morning’s lot had been typical: talk of despair, how vast numbers of Washington’s forces were simply giving up and going home, some militia units in open defiance, officers marching their men right out of camp, across the King’s Bridge northward, insisting the war was over, that any opposition to the British army had been proven futile.
The group this morning had been typical in another way as well, something he had seen with growing frequency. There was no guilt in the men, no sense that they were betraying anything. The stories had become less sensational and more matter-of-fact. These men were through being soldiers, had endured just enough of the horror and the deprivations of war to believe that whatever the cause, the politics, the dispute with the king, the cause was not as important as their own discomfort. Cornwallis had not been surprised. He did not know what Washington’s camp was like, of course, and the deserters would bring their own very biased version, but surely the message was clear. We are still the empire. We are Britain, we are centuries of history, and we are the mightiest army in the world. And you are part of a band of rebels who would presume to drive the empire away. With what? They cannot even feed you properly, arm you properly, put you into proper clothing. No, before too much longer, Mr. Washington may find he has no one left in his camp at all.
He moved the horse down a narrow gorge, saw scraps of clothing, a shattered musket, signs of the brief fight in McGown’s Pass that had once held Howe’s men back. On that day, they escaped us a second time. And, now, once again, Mr. Washington sits in his defenses and wonders why we do not complete the job.
He moved past the fresh earthworks, m
en suddenly appearing from behind barricades of wood and rock, snapping to attention when he passed. He did not look at them, knew their hopeful expressions by heart, good troops waiting impatiently for another opportunity, and no one sure just when General Howe would give it to them.
The sharp skirmish at the Hollow Way had resulted in ninety casualties to the British, and Cornwallis had considered that a prelude of what was surely to come. He had examined the ground in front of the Heights, already preparing his own men for the sequel, finding some way to draw a greater number of Washington’s men into another fight. A direct assault on the Heights would have been foolish, perhaps, certainly costly. But the rebels had shown little ability to stand up to any general engagement, whether or not they were behind fortifications. But Cornwallis’ preparations were suddenly stopped. Back at headquarters, Howe had responded to the results of the Hollow Way skirmish very differently, and his orders had stunned Cornwallis, as they stunned nearly every officer in the army. Instead of preparing for any kind of general assault, the British would build a heavy line of fortifications all across Manhattan Island. They would prepare a defensive line against a much smaller force that had shown no intention of leaving their hill.
Cornwallis had naturally gone to Clinton, had heard the man’s rage yet again. Both men knew that Howe might never erase the image of Breed’s Hill as he formed his strategies. Every assault against a rebel hilltop would provoke the memories of a victory dearly bought and a lengthy casualty list that would stick hard in the throats of London.
The soldiers along the line accepted their new orders with the same resignation they had shown at Brooklyn. If they could not attack their enemy, they would instead make good use of the shovel and the axe. The work had gone quickly, the men driven by the incentive that the order might still come at any time, to form and be ready, to march and advance beyond their own new defenses. But days became weeks, and no order had come. Cornwallis had gone to headquarters more than once, had become practiced at holding in his impatience. More often now he found Howe to be simply unavailable, his staff whispering indiscreet comments about the effects of the general’s mistress. For more than three weeks, Howe had seemed content to keep his army in place, while Washington’s vastly outnumbered army dressed its wounds.
Cornwallis rode clear of the fortifications, and the road leveled out, the rocks giving way to a flat hillside. Up ahead he could see a group of officers gathered at a narrow crossroad. They saw him and began to move their horses into line, official respect. He scanned the faces, several younger men, and the senior man, Alexander Leslie, the brigadier who had commanded the skirmish below Harlem Heights.
Leslie was slightly younger than Cornwallis, had served the army in nearly every major action of the war, was by anyone’s estimate a capable and disciplined officer. Like Cornwallis, he was a sober man, not taken with the vices often available around the headquarters of most senior commanders. Cornwallis had tried to be less formal with Leslie, saw something in the man that could lead to friendship, but Leslie often seemed unapproachable, inflexible, adhering to protocol with the stiffness of a man whose uniform is too tight.
Cornwallis rode close, the line of men holding their horses in a rigid salute. He looked at Leslie, said, “Is there a problem here, General?”
Leslie seemed perplexed by the question, and responded, “By no means, sir. We were discussing the disposition of the artillery. As you know, sir, General Lord Percy will remain in command of this position, and once we are on the flatboats . . .”
“Flatboats?” The word jabbed at Cornwallis like a sword. “What flatboats?” His voice had cracked with the surprise, and Leslie seemed suddenly embarrassed for him, looked away for a moment, the other officers taking the cue, looking away as well. Cornwallis took a long breath, thought, Decorum, man. They need not know your every thought.
“General Leslie, allow me to repeat my question. Have you been ordered to make a crossing . . . somewhere?”
Leslie seemed uncertain how to respond, cleared his throat, said, “The order came this morning, sir. General Howe . . . oh, dear me. Were you not informed? This is highly . . . it is not seemly for a junior officer to convey orders to his senior. I’m not at all certain what I should do . . .”
“Good God, General, just tell me where you’re going. I’ve been out on the line all morning, questioning deserters. What orders?”
Cornwallis’ explanation seemed to soothe the man, and Leslie said, “Oh, quite, sir. Yes, that would explain . . . Orders, sir, to board the flatboats in the East River. Lord Percy is to remain in command here, while the army makes the journey to the Throg’s Neck. The orders are from General Howe, of course, sir.” Leslie’s discomfort seemed to return, and Cornwallis held up a hand, said, “All right, General. Don’t trouble yourself further. I will go to headquarters immediately. Thank you for the information. You did nothing untoward. I am quite certain that as we speak, one of General Howe’s couriers has been sent to find me out in this wilderness. As long as I remain near the advance lines, he will likely confine his search to whatever tavern he may find, until he can deliver his dispatch in safety.”
He moved the horse, the staff coming alive behind him, then turned to Leslie again, ignored the grateful relief on the man’s face.
“If you don’t mind my asking, General, what the devil is a throg’s neck?”
It is time, gentlemen! we have the rebels exactly where we wish them to be, and our only job now is to round them up! Rather like draining the water from a container of live fish. There lies Mr. Washington, ingloriously flopping about!”
There was laughter now, and Howe basked in the attention, a quick glance to the servants and staff. They began to laugh as well, as ordered. It was a grand party, the headquarters crowded with the brightest light of loyalist New York. The banquet table was spread with every manner of treat that could be procured, the servants slipping in and out discreetly removing the rapidly emptying platters, bottles of wine flowing into a sea of glasses.
Howe moved around the table, and Cornwallis backed up a step, allowed him to pass, caught the smell of perfume, not all of it belonging to Howe. In one corner stood the plump blond woman who had been Howe’s greatest priority in New York, and Cornwallis was used to her now, even the jokes about Mrs. Loring becoming stale. It was obvious to Cornwallis, if not to the entire senior command, that Howe was going to enjoy his dalliance no matter what anyone said, and no matter what military matters might arise. The war would not end without General Howe, and the commanders now understood, it would be General Howe who would decide when.
Howe took Mrs. Loring’s hand, made a great show of kissing her white glove, and Cornwallis could not help thinking of her husband. What kind of man . . . he wiped the question away. He already knew the answer. Loring must certainly have sought some position requiring some level of prestige and no real work. Howe had promoted the man to be his commissioner of prisoners, a rather uncomplicated job that produced a reasonable salary. In his gratitude, all Loring had to do was ignore the behavior and the whereabouts of his wife. Howe returned to the table, poked among the sliced meats, and Cornwallis thought, A happy man. Well, of course. He has an accommodating woman, a jolly audience. And finally he has a plan.
Howe allowed the noisy commotion in the room to grow quiet, and the audience seemed to understand he was ready to speak again. He waited a last silent moment, dramatic effect, said, “Once we have burst upon the rear of the rebel position, it will be as wrapping them up in a bright red ribbon. It is quite likely that we shall not have to fire a shot!” Howe looked at Cornwallis, a knowing glance, said, “According to everything we are hearing from the deserters, there aren’t but a handful of muskets left on that infernal hill anyway!”
Cornwallis was surprised, nodded to Howe, acknowledged the reference, a brief show of appreciation. Until that moment, he had no idea if his reports had actually been read at headquarters. Interviews with deserters could hardly compete with the f
estive social scene. Howe seemed to grow serious now, said, “Good citizens, as my fellow officers will attest, in the army, we have an instinct about these things. Frankly, this command was reluctant to inflict unnecessary losses on its own gallant soldiers. There had to be a strategy that would cause the rebels to submit, without the tragedy of so much loss of life. On either side, I might add.”
Cornwallis let the words flow by him, knew he was caught in Howe’s web, that Howe would use the festivity as a stage. Of course, he will make a good show of kind sympathy to the rebels, their wives and children. We will fight and win a war and no one must suffer. He glanced around the room, saw several of the grand society ladies hanging attentively on Howe’s every word. He looked for Clinton, was surprised to see that the man was gone, had slipped out of the room. Not wise, General. He looked toward Howe again, a glass of wine raised, yet another toast, the wine disappearing. Well, no matter. Tonight is not about strategy anyway, it is about good wine and accommodating women. Regrettably, General Howe, neither of those is sufficient cause for me to lose sleep.
He began to slip past some of the other officers, no one noticing, thought of Clinton again. He will have some particular view of this plan, certainly. And, before too much longer, we will all know if, this time, General Howe can outwit Mr. Washington.
OCTOBER 12, 1776
He had studied the maps, now knew exactly where Throg’s Neck was, and why it was valuable to the army. The flatboats would carry most of the men northward, up the East River, then navigate through the treacherous swirling waters of Hell’s Gate, moving east into Long Island Sound. Throg’s Neck was a spit of land that jutted southward into the Sound, and the maps showed it to be a convenient landing place for the troops. Once ashore, the march would begin northward, with the intention of cutting Washington’s army off from their supply lines to New England. Once Washington realized that Howe’s army was not only facing him on Harlem Heights, but was encircling him from behind, there would simply be no escape. Howe’s plan might indeed work.
