by Jeff Shaara
NOVEMBER 12, 1776
If we cannot prevent vessels passing up, and the enemy are possessed of the surrounding country, what valuable purpose can it answer to attempt to hold a post from which the expected benefit cannot be had? I am therefore inclined to think that it will not be prudent to hazard the men and stores at Mount Washington, but as you are on the spot, leave it up to you to give such orders as to evacuating Mount Washington as you judge best.
Greene was grateful for the tone of Washington’s orders, appreciated that Washington would not make firm decisions without knowing the situation. He had put the paper away in his small desk with a sense of pride because he knew the order meant one other thing as well. The commanding general trusted him.
The comfortable feelings had drained away quickly, and Greene knew that staying in Fort Lee put him too far away from what could become an immediate problem. He had returned to Fort Washington, met with Magaw, who continued to be confident, insisting that no British force could carry those heights, that only a protracted and costly siege could loosen their hold on that wonderful ground. Greene could not tell Magaw to withdraw, not in the face of the man’s absolute certainty. But that order was Greene’s to give, and he sat alone in the small house that was his office, wrestling with both sides of the question. If he stayed put, and took Magaw at his word, a British attack could cost Howe a decisive battle. If Magaw was wrong, and Fort Washington was captured, the loss to the army in men and equipment would be devastating. He could not escape Washington’s order, the words deep in his mind: as you judge best.
It was late in the day, and he could smell food, the fires already lit. His headquarters was just inland from the works of Fort Lee, and on the roads to the west, guard posts had been set up, the perimeter manned by a skirmish line to protect against a surprise assault from behind. There had not yet been any disturbance out that way, but he heard shouts now, a surprising jolt to his thoughts. He pulled himself upright, retrieved his sword, moved slowly to the door. He heard horses, hoofbeats slowing, and the voices were close now, his aides. He opened the door, was suddenly face-to-face with a tall, dust-covered man in a blue coat. Greene could not help a smile, saw it returned, said, “My word. A surprise. General Washington, welcome to Fort Lee.”
Riding quickly, Washington had come with only a small guard, his part of the army making camp around his new headquarters at Hackensack, nearly six miles away. The man’s face was drawn, the dust of a long day’s march covering every part of him, and Greene’s aides had quickly brought a comfortable chair, one man stoking the fire in the small stone fireplace of Greene’s cabin. Washington sat heavily, had barely spoken, and Greene could feel the man’s exhaustion, heard the deep steady breathing. There was coffee now, and Washington accepted it gratefully, held the steaming cup in his hands, continued to stare at the fire. Greene waved the staff away, the door closing, the two men now alone, the dark room lit only by the fire. Washington set the cup down beside him, and Greene could see more than the man’s weariness, the sharp blue eyes dulled by sadness. Washington said, “I expected a better reception, General.”
Greene sat upright, glanced around the room, a moment of slight panic.
“I’m sorry, sir, what is wrong?”
Washington saw the look, shook his head. “No, not here. Forgive me, Mr. Greene. I had thought . . . when I began the march toward Hackensack, I was given cause for optimism. The New Jersey officials I met along the way were most insistent that their state would rise to this occasion. I was given reason to expect a gathering of fresh militia, some five thousand strong. That’s the reception I refer to.”
“Five thousand New Jersey militia? Did they appear, sir?”
Washington looked at the fire again, said slowly, “Two hundred fourteen.”
Greene didn’t know how to respond, had seen no great outpouring of fresh troop strength himself since he had been at Fort Lee.
“I have heard of no such report, sir. I would certainly have advised you.”
Washington held up his hand, said, “No, not your concern, Mr. Greene. I was overly optimistic. I expected this state to respond differently than the other twelve. But there is no good reason why. The congress has made many a call for enlistments in the army, for new regiments. The response continues to be . . . minimal. I should not be surprised that expecting five thousand local militia, only two hundred appear. And, of course, three-quarters of them have no muskets.” He paused, looked at Greene again, the sadness reflected in the firelight. “All we are asking them to do . . . is defend their homes. Is there such sacrifice in that?”
Greene felt strangely helpless, an eager son, trying to cheer the father.
“Sir, we have close to four thousand in the outposts here. General, you know my lack of confidence in militia. With the ground we command, militia are not necessary.”
Washington sat back in the chair, closed his eyes for a brief moment, then blinked hard, said, “So, you have decided not to withdraw?”
The arguments in Greene’s mind flooded over him, and he sorted his words, said, “Sir, if we withdraw, the morale of the army will be damaged severely. We would ask them to abandon weeks of work, a defensive position that might well be . . . perfect. The high points to the north of the fort command the King’s Bridge, the artillery easily controlling the crossing. The British cannot make use of that part of the island without great inconvenience. We overlook the main road southward for two miles, our guns control all the land from the Hudson to the Harlem River, and despite the ineffectiveness of the barricade, any ship passing upriver must come under severe fire.” He thought a moment, found the word. “The place is indeed, sir, a fortress.”
He expected the word to impress Washington, saw instead no change in expression, and Washington said, “If you were General Howe, and I described to you such a place as you have just done, what would be your response?”
Greene thought a moment, felt a cold hole opening in his mind. He knew the answer already, but he didn’t want to say the words. Washington tilted his head now, still questioning, waiting for him to respond.
“If I was General Howe, I would say . . .” He paused. “We cannot allow the enemy to possess such a place. We must have that ground.”
Washington said nothing, looked again at the fire. Greene studied him, thought, He wants to withdraw.
“Sir, if it is your decision that we abandon Fort Washington . . .”
Washington looked at him again, shook his head, said, “What I may wish is not as important as the wishes of congress. Mr. Greene, I believe we are in a perilous situation here. But the congress believes the peril lies more in the morale of the people, the willingness of this nation to support this war. If we continue to withdraw and retreat, giving ground at every confrontation, there is no doubt in congress that this war shall end itself. We might never have the resources to make another fight, might never face the enemy in battle. The nation might simply dissolve beneath us. The message from congress is that this ground not be abandoned except in the case of the most dire emergency. There was considerable unhappiness that New York fell to the British with such ease. Many in Philadelphia wonder if their city is to be next. What do I tell them, Mr. Greene?”
He could feel a sudden weight, a piece of the responsibility that Washington carried shifting to him.
“Sir, I would ask you to visit Fort Washington. I believe you will share my confidence. We should not withdraw.”
Washington did not look at him, and Greene couldn’t tell what the man was thinking. Washington began to shake his head, said, “Not tonight. I will return to Hackensack, see to the camps of my men. They must be prepared to move at a moment’s notice should General Howe show a sudden urge to march to Philadelphia. Once the troops are in good order, I will return. General Howe has been extremely gracious about biding his time. Perhaps he will do so again.”
NOVEMBER 16, 1776
The British had done as Greene feared, had sent flatboats up past the
barricades by night, landing troops north of the King’s Bridge. Those troops were now protected by British frigates, anchored both north and south of the two forts. All along the high cliffs of the Hudson, and across the northern tip of Manhattan, Greene’s scouts reported considerable movement from every direction, more flatboats in the Harlem River, massed columns on the march from the south, moving up from below Harlem Heights.
Washington had returned, along with Putnam, and Greene had his boat transport them across the Hudson at first light, avoiding the danger from the British frigates. They gathered now at the Morris House, a grand home abandoned by its British owner. The house stood beside the Post Road, on a bluff that overlooked the Harlem River, the house itself considered safely inside the colonial lines. Magaw had come down from Fort Washington, brought a mood that was nearly festive, but Greene knew that Washington was no longer buoyed by the confident talk. If the British were indeed moving against the colonial fortifications, Washington would see their strength for himself.
The house had been preserved with some care, surprising, considering that its owner was a British officer. The commanders actually had chairs, the furniture mostly intact, but the staffs quickly discovered the house would provide no breakfast. The pantry was quite empty.
Greene acknowledged Magaw with a solid handshake, more respectful than the typical formality. Washington waited patiently for the cordiality to pass, said, “I have been informed, Colonel Magaw, that the British have demanded the surrender of your post.”
The mood was immediately somber, and Magaw’s smile was gone now. He said, “Yes, sir. Yesterday, a British officer under a flag of truce delivered a letter from General Howe. It stated plainly that if we did not lay down our arms, my men would be put to the sword.” He paused, and Washington seemed to wait. Greene asked, “Your response, Colonel?”
“Why, sir, as you know, I informed General Howe that I would defend this post to the last extremity.” Greene could see the expression on Magaw’s face, disbelief that he could have offered any other response.
Washington nodded slowly, said, “Your strength then, Colonel?”
Magaw glanced at Greene, said, “With the reinforcements sent over by General Greene, sir, we have near three thousand.”
Greene caught a quick look from Washington, knew the word would stick in the commander’s mind, reinforcements. If they were not to withdraw, Greene knew he had to strengthen Magaw’s force, increase even more the commitment to hold the ground. Otherwise, there was simply too much ground to defend. Washington said slowly, “I have been hearing assurances, Colonel, that you control the strongest fortifications we have yet defended. You have stated to General Greene that you believe you can hold Fort Washington and these hills until the end of the year. Am I correct?”
“I believe so, sir.” Greene was surprised to see uncertainty on Magaw’s face, the confidence suddenly fading. Magaw looked down for a moment, then at Greene, and said, “However, I must report with considerable regret, sir. My adjutant, Mr. Demont . . . seems to have . . . deserted.”
There was a hard silence, and Washington leaned forward and said, “Your adjutant?”
“Yes, sir.” Magaw was nervous now, seemed to avoid looking at Greene, who felt a growing chill.
Greene could not hold it back, the words flowing toward Magaw with black anger. “Are you telling us, Colonel, that the man who assisted you in preparations for this defense, the man who knows well the entire arrangement of these fortifications, that this man is now in the service of the British?”
Magaw seemed resigned to the obvious, said, “Well, sir, we don’t know that for certain. But he did cross through the lines. We would have to assume that General Howe would appreciate his knowledge.”
Greene felt his mind clouding, all the good design, all the work, possibly swept away by one man’s betrayal. Washington sat back in his chair, said nothing, the room now under a pall of silence. Greene was watching him, wanted to say something, to bring back the confidence. It was still a strong position. Demont’s betrayal would not change that.
The silence was broken by a roar of sound, and the door was thrust open, staff officers appearing. “Sir! The British!”
The men were all up and outside in a quick step, and Greene could see up a long rise, a line of troops, the sudden echo of bagpipe music. In the distance there were more sounds, the rolling thunder of artillery. To the south, where Magaw’s men held strong earthworks, a battle began to rise toward them, smoke and musket fire. Greene looked for Magaw, who was already moving away, and Magaw shouted toward Washington, “Sir! I shall return to the fort!”
Musket balls began to punch the ground around them, popping the side of the house, and Greene could see the Highlanders moving down the hill, not toward them but farther down, toward a line of men emerging from below. Greene could see them now, Baxter’s men, Pennsylvanians, a tight line, volleys going in both directions, the ground blanketed by smoke. The Morris House was empty now, and men were pulling Washington away. Greene pointed the way, guard troops waving them on, leading the officers to a trail, which cut through the hills toward the Hudson. Greene knew his boat was waiting for them, moved up close to Washington, the sounds of the fight behind them. No one spoke, Putnam huffing his way, the other men flanking Washington, protecting him. Out in front of him, Greene could hear more big guns, the sounds blending with the fight erupting on all sides. It was the British frigates, massed broadsides fired toward Magaw’s fortifications.
They reached the Hudson, and the commanders stepped quickly into the boat. Greene waited until the others were in place, looked toward the north, to the highest ground where Magaw would be. The battle was now engulfing the entire position of Magaw’s men, nearly two miles of lines engaged. Greene thought of the reinforcements, Yes, thank God. But is it enough?
The boat began to move, the oarsmen calling out to him, and he stepped through soft mud, climbed in. Down the river, the British frigate was shrouded in smoke, her guns firing in a continuous wave, sharp streaks in the air, the thunder rippling the surface of water. He sat now, Washington beside him, and the boat slid away from the shore, the oarsmen working frantically. They moved out into the open water, and the scene unfolded as they moved farther away, great columns of smoke to the north, beyond the fort, a sudden burst of firing, troops meeting their enemy on a new front, the battle rolling across some new piece of ground. Washington said, “We can do no more for Colonel Magaw just now.”
Greene looked up toward the fort now, the British shells bursting above, streaks of fire showering beyond the hills.
“Yes, sir. God help him.”
They watched the fight from the walls of Fort Lee, could hear the waves of sound growing tighter, the battle a compacting circle. They could see very little detail, and Greene stood beside Washington as both men used the spyglass, long moments of quiet, while around them, Greene’s men sat close to their guns, staring across the river in desperate silence.
It was afternoon, and to the south the smoke had cleared away. The fight had moved north, and Greene knew that the Morris House was far behind the British advance, that Baxter’s Pennsylvanians had either withdrawn toward the fort, or were gone. As the fight drew closer to the fort itself, Greene could imagine the scene, the fort filling up with retreating men, scrambling up through the rocks, jamming their way into the tight space. The reinforcements would cause their own tragedy, a horrible piece of the puzzle he had not considered. There would be too many men to fit inside.
He still looked through the spyglass, bits of motion, colors, uniforms, men climbing rocks, bursts of smoke. His eyes were swollen with fatigue, and he lowered the glass, and Washington did the same, moved away from him, sat down on the rocks. Washington held the spyglass low in one hand, said, “Dark soon. If Colonel Magaw can hold out, we can send boats over, remove the men as best we can.”
There was no confidence in Washington’s words, and Greene motioned to an aide, said, “Prepare an order.
Instruct Colonel Magaw to keep to his guns until dark.”
The man was writing furiously, and now from the lookout above them, a sharp call, “Sir!”
Washington had stood, and Greene saw the lookout pointing out to the river, saw the small boat now, oars pulling it quickly across. The progress was agonizingly slow, and Greene could do nothing but wait, saw the boat slide into shore below them, the dispatch passed to an aide, the man climbing the hill with long hard strides. Washington had watched the scene without speaking, and Greene took the paper, began to read, then stopped, said to Washington, “The boats will not be necessary, sir.”
There was another shout, then many more, and both men turned to the commotion, men pointing across the river. Over Fort Washington, the small flicker of Magaw’s flag was dropping down, and quickly it disappeared. The men around him were stunned into silence, and Greene raised his spyglass, tried to focus, fought through the shaking in his hands, gripped the glass hard, found the flagpole. He stared for a long moment, heard soft sounds from beside him, Washington’s grief digging into him, fought the tightness in his throat. He gripped the spyglass, could not look at Washington’s tears, tried to hold the image still, the bare flagpole, and he saw another flicker, rising, a new flag, a blank white cloth. Now came the sounds, drifting across the wide river, and Greene knew it was cheering, the pure exhausted joy of a victorious army, British and Hessian troops singing and crying together, their voices echoing over the sharp hills and deep ravines, surrounding the fort that he had thought impregnable. Magaw had surrendered.
