by Jeff Shaara
The hell’s gate passage was aptly named, a treacherous, swirling confluence of channels, and as the flatboats bobbed and twisted their way through, one was ripped to timbers, sweeping terrified soldiers toward the rocky shoreline. Several had drowned, but most were rescued, only to board another boat to make the journey again. It was nearly miraculous that there had not been more loss, a testament to the skill of the sailors. By nine in the morning, nearly five thousand troops had reached the calmer waters off Throg’s Neck, the flatboats holding at anchor, awaiting the order for the men to land.
The landing was commanded by Clinton, a combination of British and Hessian troops who expected little opposition. But the advance skirmishers reported something the maps had not shown. Throg’s Neck was actually an island, and to reach the mainland, the troops would have to cross a wooden bridge, which passed over a watery marsh. When the skirmishers approached the bridge, they came under rebel musket fire, the mainland crawling with marksmen, a thick line of dirt and rocks thrown together as fortification. The bridge itself was of almost no use. The rebels had removed the planking. When Clinton received news of the setback, he ordered the entire column to halt. It was, after all, Howe’s plan. Howe would have to decide what to do next.
The maps showed another landing area, farther to the northeast, called Pell’s Point. But before the army could make their way to the flatboats, it began to rain, a hard, wind-driven storm that brought everything to a halt. The weather did not improve for the rest of the day, and Howe knew that he could not have so many troops unprotected against the elements. So he ordered them into shelter. Tents were landed, and Throg’s Neck became a British camp.
To the dismay of Clinton and Cornwallis, Howe would not move the army by water as long as Long Island Sound was churned by the storms and blustery winds. For six days the British remained in their tents, waiting for the order to move to Pell’s Point.
When the weather finally cleared to Howe’s satisfaction, the army began the short journey, reinforced now by most of the units on Manhattan. Howe landed twenty thousand men on Pell’s Point. As they advanced inland, they were not impeded by any marsh, but by the regiment of John Glover, the Marblehead fisherman. The land was farm country, cut by stone fences and hedgerows, and Glover backed away from the British advance with perfect precision, keeping Howe’s army from any kind of orderly march. The delay was all that Washington required. Howe had given Washington the gift of time, and the entire rebel force abandoned Harlem Heights and made their escape northward to the hills around White Plains. Howe still came forward, and confronted as much of Washington’s force as he could find, but Washington stayed away from a general engagement, withdrew from field to hill, and finally placed his army on another stretch of high ground that only Howe seemed to fear. Instead of pressing what might be a costly attack, Howe ordered his astonished officers to turn the army around and march back to the flatboats. Cornwallis held tight to his frustration, and obeyed Howe’s orders. He recognized that there might be one bright spot in Howe’s amazing and puzzling strategy. There was still one body of rebel troops on Manhattan Island, one strong outpost protected by the high cliffs west of Harlem Heights, overlooking the Hudson River. Above rugged, nearly impassable terrain, the rebels had constructed a fortress, called Fort Washington. It was the only place on the island that rebel forces still occupied, and it was a significant position that Howe could not ignore. If the British were to retreat from White Plains, there would be no shame. Howe could justify the move by planning the immediate capture of the rebel stronghold. But Cornwallis understood, no matter how much Howe tried to build enthusiasm for the new plan, Washington had escaped again.
10. GREENE
NOVEMBER 6, 1776
An enormous luxury had come to Washington’s army in the form of prisoners of war, captured in the various engagements from Brooklyn to White Plains. As the numbers of these prisoners increased, so too had their rank. As Howe returned his troops to their posts around New York, negotiations had begun, and customary to the rules of war, officers had been exchanged. The luxury resulted in the return to Washington’s army of the two senior commanders captured on Long Island, Generals Sullivan and Stirling. At nearly the same time, word had come to headquarters of another blessing, a piece of news whose effect was an immediate boost to the morale of the army. From his triumph in South Carolina, General Charles Lee had made the journey northward, and once again, was in place beside Washington as his second in command.
From the first organization of the army around Boston, Lee was seen as the one shining professional in an army of amateurs. Though Washington’s appointment as commander in chief had seemed entirely appropriate, given his experience and his prominence in the key colony of Virginia, many were quietly relieved that congress had shown its true wisdom by appointing Lee as Washington’s immediate subordinate. But to Greene, all the noise about Lee’s prowess seemed to come more from Lee’s opinion of himself than anything he had accomplished in the field. To many in the army, Lee’s prestige was greatly increased by the victory at Charleston. But from most of what Greene had heard from the troops who had been there, Lee’s great triumph belonged much more to the men who served under him.
Lee was by birth an Englishman, had served in the British army, reaching the rank of lieutenant colonel. When the French and Indian War concluded, so too did the need for a great many British officers, and Lee lost his command. Always one to seek adventure, Lee found it by traveling to Poland and so impressed the Polish king that he was promoted to major general in the Polish army. After his return to England, Lee’s outspoken criticism of King George made life somewhat dangerous for him, and he followed up his words with actions, sailing to America. Though sentiment still favored Washington as the commander, many in the army and in the congress believed that Charles Lee was the finest military mind in the American cause. Now, Lee was back where so many claimed he could be put to the best use.
With Howe bringing his army back into New York, Washington could only guess where the British would move next. As long as Washington kept his troops out of harm’s way and focused on a strong defense, Howe would not likely seek any direct assault. But the British could not be expected to sit quietly for long, and so Washington divided his army into four parts, each charged with the protection of a vital route out of New York. Lee would remain around White Plains with the largest force, nearly seven thousand men, guarding against any land assault toward New England. General William Heath would command three thousand men at the Hudson River Highlands, an easily defended position about thirty miles above Manhattan, in the event the British navy attempted a strong push upriver. Washington himself would bring two thousand men southward into New Jersey, guarding against the rumored invasion of that state, which would provide Howe an open road to Philadelphia. The last position was the one already manned by the troops still in Manhattan, the seemingly impregnable fortress of Fort Washington. Immediately across the Hudson, on the New Jersey side, the army had constructed another fort, which Washington ordered to be named Fort Lee, in honor of the return of the general. The two forts faced each other across the wide river, were manned by nearly four thousand troops, and were both under the command of Nathanael Greene.
Greene remained mostly on the west side of the river, would travel across to Fort Washington for meetings with the senior officers there. The only activity around the fort was the further construction of redoubts and earthworks along the high cliffs and rocky highlands of northern Manhattan Island, in a widening arc around the fort itself. The work was in the hands of Fort Washington’s senior officer, Colonel Robert Magaw, a crusty Pennsylvanian, who brought a homespun sense of discipline to his command. Magaw had come from the rugged wilderness near Carlisle, but his background was not military at all. His crudeness masked his formal education, and he was what many referred to as a country lawyer.
The work around Fort Washington was an attempt to make a strong position much stronger, the cliffs, deep ravi
nes, and swampy bottomlands providing a formidable barrier to any assault. Greene had observed some of the work himself, dirt piled on rock, stout branches sharpened and wedged into tight crevasses, the work performed by men whose energy was boosted by their confidence in the strength of their position.
It was midday, and he was returning to Fort Lee, full of the same confidence he had seen in Magaw and his men. As the small boat slid across the slow current, he could see British warships far to the south, anchored in line out from the city itself, an unnecessary wall of strength against the foolishness of any move Washington’s men might make down the Hudson.
The boat moved in slow lurches, the oarsmen practiced, efficient, and Greene stared at the distant row of tall masts, thought of Howe, the great assembly of British power. Would he dare to attack us here? He had imagined the awful scene, British soldiers trapped in the rocks, a staggering loss, certainly, entire lines of British troops wiped away by the withering musket fire from above, American marksmen enjoying a picnic of target practice against any force trying to reach them. He knew that many of the other commanders believed that Howe could not allow the Americans to maintain such a strong position on Manhattan, and Greene could not dismiss that, but more, he had begun to wish it so. An American victory could be a catastrophe for the British.
The small boat reached the shore, and he stepped out, looked up toward the rocks of Fort Lee, began the slow awkward climb. The crippling stiffness in his leg was an embarrassment, though almost no one noticed it anymore. He had already experienced the prejudice, that a soldier must be sound in body, and he had expected teasing about his limp from the first day he drilled with his Rhode Island regiment. The ridicule had come less from the men around him than from his own mind, that voice that even now pushed him up the hill. No one on his staff would ever ask to assist him, whether he was stepping up through sharp rocks or climbing into the saddle of his horse. He did not have to tell them to stay back, the grim determination on his face all the instruction they would need.
He reached the top of the hill, held himself still for a long moment, recovering from the climb, his chest rolling with hard breaths. He looked away, disguising the exertion, would not have his aides or worse, his troops see him in any discomfort. He scanned the face of the cliff, could see all along the edge of the sharp drop-off, where cannon had been placed in low places in the rocks, their crews milling around them, the boring routine. The lookouts slouched in their towers above him, and the only sounds were low voices, quiet conversations, and, back in the wooden huts, the work of the cooks, the rattle of tin plates already piling up for the evening meal.
He moved out to the edge of the largest rock face, his particular perch, stared across to Fort Washington. There was routine over there as well, but not the same boredom. The men would still be working in shifts, shovels and axes trading hands, hard veterans growing harder by their good work.
The troops under his command were a mix, mostly from the mid-Atlantic states, Maryland and Delaware men, along with Magaw’s Pennsylvanians, and Virginia riflemen. The New England men had mostly gone north with Lee, protecting the roads into their own states. Washington had been logical about how the army had been divided, and Greene could find no fault with the overall strategy. The one fault he did find was the burst of good cheer that had welcomed the return of Charles Lee.
He had never taken to the man, knew he was the exception, and so, he had kept quiet at the meetings. So many of Washington’s commanders were quick to point to the man’s vast experience, showed Lee a respect bordering on worship that had always annoyed Greene like the sting of a bee trapped inside his shirt. He pictured the man now, slovenly in dress, Lee’s thin skeletal face punctuated by a long hooklike nose. Greene himself was no fanatic about personal cleanliness, and no one in the camps expected a soldier, even a senior officer, to bathe more than once a week. But Greene had endured Lee’s personal aroma in more than one meeting, a cloud of odor that only a dog could ignore. Lee was surrounded always by his dogs, bragged of their prowess on the hunt, though Greene never knew anyone who had seen Lee hunting anything. To Greene, the dogs were yapping mongrels whose loyalty to their master was nearly equaled by the loyalty of the troops under him. Greene had often quizzed himself about his own dislike of the man, thought, I really have nothing against dogs. And it is not the man’s personal habits, the hygiene. No one wins a war based on his habits of toiletry. It is much more about his demeanor, his indiscretion, the man’s willingness to harp about his superiors, always behind their backs. He finds fault with every command, every commander. He boasts still of his criticisms of King George, and Thomas Gage, and even General Howe. So, what does he say now about General Washington? Or the congress? He certainly has little use for civilian authority, or for anyone beneath his rank, whether it be I, or Sullivan, or anyone else. The man enjoys his own glow, a firefly flittering in front of a mirror. Greene sat now, rested his stiff leg on a short ledge of rock. But it is not for me to say, after all. General Washington needs experienced commanders, and there is no one who inspires this army more than Charles Lee. He glanced upriver. I am just happy that he is up there.
Above him, a lookout called out, and he saw the man pointing to the south, down the river. Greene stood, leaned out, could see a ship, now three, sails full of wind, moving north. The lookout waved his hat, a short cheer, “Yeee! They’re comin’ again!”
Greene watched the artillerymen scrambling into position, the big guns prepared, bags of powder carried forward from the storage cellars deep in the rocks.
The ships were moving in single file, and now his spyglass was there, the good work of an aide, and Greene held it up, studied for a moment, said aloud, “One frigate. The other two are not warships. Transports, perhaps.”
Around him, men were gathering along the edge of the drop-off, filling in the spaces between the cannon. He looked out across the river, could see the line of brush in the channel, the tangle of masts and broken timbers that barricaded the river. Well, he thought, we’ll see if this time we have done it correctly.
As he had done off the shore of Brooklyn Heights, Israel Putnam had worked out a plan to block the passage of the British ships by clogging the navigable part of the Hudson River with sunken wrecks. Various excuses had been made for the failure in the East River, and Putnam had done the work with a renewed sense of purpose. But already the British had passed through the barrier twice, and each time, Putnam had raged at his men to reinforce and improve the barrier, added more wrecks, then cut trees, floated out and lashed to the tops of the masts. Putnam was gone now, sent by Washington to command the outposts around Philadelphia. His former duties on the Hudson now fell to Greene, and Greene appreciated Putnam’s intentions, the crucial necessity of stopping the British ships from sailing upriver. If the British could move freely in the Hudson, they could sail as far as the Highlands with impunity, threatening any colonial interests along the way, from farms and supply lines to the valuable crossings that Washington would need to maintain contact with the scattered parts of his army.
The three ships were in full sail, coming closer, and he glanced back at the artillerymen, saw the officers watching him, waiting for his command to fire. The cannon could easily reach all the way to the far shore, and in Fort Washington, he knew that Magaw’s gunners would be waiting as well. If the ships were slowed down by Putnam’s barrier, they could be seriously damaged by the colonial guns. If the barrier took hold of the ships and tangled them in place, the cannon would blow them apart.
No longer needing the spyglass, he leaned out on a tall spire of rock, easily able to see the open gun ports of the frigate, thought, Probably a thirty-two-gunner. The other two ships were slightly smaller, and the strategy opened up in his mind. Of course, the two transports . . . this is a test. They would not risk three warships, the loss would be too great. The transports are probably lightly manned, the crews prepared to abandon ship if necessary. Well, then, we’ll see if General Putnam know
s his engineering.
The frigate was within a hundred yards of the first barriers, and he could see the sails sagging slightly, the ship slowing. It was the first sign he would need. He turned, pointed to the cannon closest to him, a massive thirty-two-pounder, and the gun roared to life, a sharp blast of smoke and flame that blew out past the rocks. All down through the cliff side, the rest of the guns answered, and he flattened his hands over his ears, stared out through the smoke. Across the river, he could see sharp flashes, more smoke, the guns in Fort Washington responding, and now in the river, the water around the ships erupted in tall plumes. The soldiers along the rocks began cheering, the fight distinctly one way, and he felt their spirit, raised his fist in the air. But the mood passed, and he thought, This is too simple, too foolish. Why do they attempt this? The cannon nearest him fired again, and he caught the officer’s attention, made a sign with his hands, stop, cease fire. Let’s see what we’ve done. The guns gradually fell silent, and quickly the smoke began to clear, the same breeze that filled the British sails. The frigate had turned slightly toward him, the transports close behind. The frigate had not fired at all, and he thought, All right, there is no need for a broadside, so you will make yourself a smaller target. The ship abruptly began to tack the other way, swinging back to broadside, then turning the other direction, its bow angled toward the far shore. Now the transports began following the same course, a careful, winding route. Across the river, Magaw’s guns were still firing, holes appearing in the sails, one shot cracking a mast on the frigate. But still the ships moved upriver, sliding through the barrier. The frigate was past the last of the entanglements, had cleared the obstructions, the sails filling again. It swung about defiantly broadside, resuming its course upriver. Greene turned again to the artillery officer, who was waiting for his signal. The guns came to life again, the smoke once more blocking his view of the river. He could see Putnam in his mind, the fat old man who was so very sure of himself. There was one piece of the plan that Putnam had thought so very clever: a secret route through the barricade, mapped out only for the commanders, to allow any colonial ship to negotiate safely through the barrier. Well, General Putnam, your secret is out. Somehow, by the treachery of some deserter, some spy, somehow they know. And if they can make their way safely by day, it won’t take them long to do it by night. And then, we are in serious trouble.
