Prelude to Glory, Vol. 5

by Ron Carter

  His finger traced the roads. “From that camp he can watch all roads west of here. He has regiments at every critical point, from Middlebrook down to Princeton. We can’t move without him knowing it.”

  He raised his eyes. “I tried to draw him out onto level ground for a decisive battle last month. It was June nineteenth, if you recall. He took the bait, but the moment we moved to cut him off on June twenty-sixth, he fell back into those mountains in time to avoid the trap. We engaged one of his divisions briefly but did no real damage.”

  Howe cleared his throat, then said, “I don’t think we’ll be able to draw General Washington into a decisive battle on open ground. And I am not going to try to engage him in those mountains. It gives him too much the advantage.”

  Cornwallis reached to wipe sweat, then dropped his hand as the thought struck his brain. Philadelphia.

  Howe reached to rub a thumb and forefinger into weary eyes before he changed directions. “You’re all aware that Lord Germain sent General Burgoyne up to Quebec to take command of eight thousand troops. He met with General Carleton up there and is on his way down now. His orders are to take Fort Ticonderoga and come on south to Albany, then east to New York. The plan is to divide the northern states from the southern and then subdue them at will. You may also know that we are to give him support.”

  Clinton’s eyes narrowed. Support? Idiocy! The orders were for us to meet him in Albany! He’s at risk if we fail!

  Howe continued. “As far back as April I suspected this might happen, and I so informed Lord Germain in a written message. I told him it was my opinion that the only way to end the rebellion is to eliminate General Washington and the Continental Army. To do that I would have to have reinforcements, and soon.”

  Again he paused to choose words and thoughts and again change direction. “We know that France is at this moment shipping arms and supplies to the Americans. Lord Germain is concerned that if those shipments continue, it could bring France into the war against us. If France goes with the Americans, Spain will likely follow, either directly or indirectly. There is unrest at Minorca and Gibraltar in the Mediterranean and in our colonies in India. Catherine in Russia has lately been less receptive to us—won’t consider letting us hire Russian mercenaries. In short, gentlemen, with half a dozen crises in our worldwide empire making demands on our men and resources, we are rapidly being stretched to our limits. The result is that while we have received a limited number of reinforcements, we will get no more. We must proceed with what we have.”

  Howe paused. Richard stopped working with his fingernails, wiped at sweat, and glanced at the officers surrounding the table. Clinton was visibly agitated. Grant’s face was a contortion of impatience and disgust—Just give me five thousand men, and I’ll settle this whole matter in time to be back in England by September. Cornwallis was lost in thoughtful reflection. Stuart was pensive, calculating. Richard reached for a decanter of wine and a goblet and poured. All the others followed. Howe waited for a moment, then reached for the nearest decanter and goblet, and there was an unexpected, silent pause while they all drank.

  A breath of breeze moved the French lace curtains at the windows, and each man turned for a moment to look.

  Howe wiped at his mouth, then continued. “Over the winter I sent four different proposals to Lord Germain as to how to destroy Washington and the Continental Army. Each one addressed the problems we faced at that time, both here and in Europe. The latest proposal is the one Lord Germain has approved for the circumstances we are facing today.”

  Cornwallis straightened and slowly leaned forward, head turned to Howe, watching intently. Richard glanced at Cornwallis, then leaned back in his chair and worked with his wine goblet in his hands. Stuart’s face was a puzzle of disbelief.

  Howe hesitated while he considered how to proceed. “I used the entire month of June trying to draw Washington into a decisive battle in New Jersey. He wouldn’t fight. I ordered all our forces back here to New York and Staten Island because holding New Jersey means nothing if he hangs off our flank, in those mountains where we can’t attack him, and refuses to come out. We are now in July. I can waste no more of the summer campaign.”

  Howe turned his eyes on each man in rapid succession as he spoke in slow, measured words. “So long as Washington and his army survive, this accursed revolution will continue. To do what the King has ordered, we must first destroy them both.”

  Stuart’s mouth was dry as he wiped his perspiring face.

  Howe cleared his throat. “So Lord Germain agrees that we should not return to New Jersey. That we should abandon it.”

  Audible gasps erupted, then open murmuring. Clinton turned to Howe. “Do I understand we are simply going to give New Jersey back to the rebels? After all the cost, all His Majesty’s loyal subjects over there did for us? In the name of heaven, two thousand men sacrificed—millions of pounds in money—simply forgotten? Abandoned?”

  Howe shook his head. “No. Not forgotten, nor abandoned. Useless. We had to learn, and we did. This war is like none other we have ever fought—the forests, the rivers, the distances. But mostly the people.” He shook his head. “They’re a whole new breed.” Howe leaned forward on stiff arms, palms flat on the table, black eyes points of light. “Make no mistake. They do not think like us. They have no concept of soldiering, but on their own ground, fighting for what they believe to be their rights, their freedom, they rise above themselves. Mark my words! The only chance we have of putting down this ridiculous revolution is to destroy their leader, and their army.”

  For three long seconds no one moved or spoke. Never had the officers surrounding the table seen their commander so intense, or heard him speak with such feeling. In those moments the bright July sunshine that had filled the room dimmed, and again the curtains stirred, then fluttered in a fresh, cooling breeze. They felt more than heard a deep rumble coming from a great distance, and their breathing slowed for a moment while they listened and then turned back to Howe.

  Cornwallis raised his hand. “Sir, if we abandon New Jersey, precisely where are we to go?”

  For a moment Howe pursed his mouth. “As you know, Philadelphia is the capital of the thirteen American states.”

  Cornwallis set his goblet down hard, and at the same moment Stuart dropped his right hand flat, slapping the table. For a split second all eyes flitted to Cornwallis, then to Stuart, then back to Howe. Howe looked at each of them, waiting for either to speak, but both remained silent. He continued.

  “And as you also know, the so-called American Congress is there.”

  Stuart shook his head. “I didn’t know the rebels had a capital. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone declare Philadelphia to be such.”

  Howe nodded. “No one has said as much, but it is an acknowledged fact. They met there to form their first congress, and their second. It was there they drew up that document—their Declaration of Independence—to sever themselves from the mother country. I am convinced—nay, certain—that General Washington will fight to keep us from taking Philadelphia. I do not believe the American people, nor their congress, will allow him to do otherwise.”

  Grant cracked a smile. Stuart snorted. Cornwallis appeared smug. Clinton cast his eyes toward heaven. Richard reached for the nearest wine decanter. Howe dropped his finger onto the map and slowly traced a road as he started to speak.

  Without warning the room darkened. The sound of heavy wind arose outside, blowing the curtains inward, snapping. The gloom was suddenly pierced by fierce light, and a moment later thunder boomed less than one mile to the southwest. De Heister and Richard quickly strode to the windows to drive them slamming down. The curtains settled, and the two men returned to their chairs. Howe continued, finger still on the map.

  “It is about ninety miles from here to Philadelphia, overland. If we make the march, it will take at least ten days, and we will be exposed to attack the entire distance. There are at least four places where we would be vulnerable to ambush, a
nd you can be certain that General Washington knows each of them.” He paused to shake his head. “I will not expose my men to that. There’s a better way.”

  Every man leaned forward, eyes turned to Howe, waiting in hushed silence.

  “I have proposed, and Lord Germain agrees, that the best way to take Philadelphia is by sea.”

  Outside, the wind came howling around the house and murmuring in the chimney. Every man at the table paused for a moment, humbled in the face of the terrible power of nature. Then talk erupted. Stuart spoke directly to Howe. “And what of Burgoyne? If we go after Philadelphia by sea, we will essentially abandon Burgoyne. He’ll be coming down through the most troublesome and populous state of all and in country he doesn’t understand. I thought Germain’s orders were for us to join him and St. Leger up on the Hudson River. And what if Washington doesn’t choose to fight for Philadelphia? What if he marches north to engage Burgoyne instead? What then?”

  Howe was adamant. “My orders are to support Burgoyne. Not necessarily meet him. And I’ve thought about how we can support him and take Philadelphia at the same time.” He moved his finger on the map. “We’ll go up the Delaware River. We can disembark from the ships within sixteen miles of Philadelphia, and from that position we can march north to help Burgoyne on a moment’s notice. If Washington marches north to attack Burgoyne, we’ll have him out in the open, and with Burgoyne north of him and us south of him, we’ll have him trapped.”

  Stuart set his bulldog chin. “Have you considered the number of rebel militia that will rise all along Lake Champlain and the Hudson? With the right leadership, they could outnumber both Burgoyne’s forces and ours, and with their knowledge of those accursed forests, we could be the ones who are trapped.”

  “Burgoyne will have eight thousand of the finest British regulars and Hessians. My command will be at least fourteen thousand. I have no fear for the outcome should the rebels choose to fight.”

  Suddenly Clinton straightened. “Fourteen thousand? We have in excess of thirty-two thousand troops available. Where will the balance of them be?”

  Howe turned directly to him. “The plan is to leave a force here in New York under orders to protect the Highlands and to go to Burgoyne’s aid if necessary.”

  “And who will command those forces?”

  “You.”

  It had come too quickly. Clinton’s eyes widened as he slowly leaned back in his chair. He started to speak, stopped, and held his silence, humiliated that he was the one to be left behind—excluded from the campaign to take Philadelphia or destroy Washington or both. Ever since armies had been organized, most major officers dreamed of leading men into the vortex of the great battle that would bring victory and eternal glory. To be robbed of his dream by a single word stunned Clinton speechless.

  Howe stood in thought for a moment. “What questions do any of you have?”

  For five minutes questions flowed, and Howe impatiently answered in terse, clipped sentences.

  Then Stuart raised a hand, and talk ceased. “When do we begin loading the ships?”

  Howe turned to Richard, who answered. “The ships will be ready by next Wednesday, July ninth.”

  Howe picked it up. “Each of you prepare your commands. Baggage, laundry, munitions, cannon, food, horses—everything. We’ll be in the field until we succeed.”

  The room fell silent as the enormity of the undertaking sank into each man.

  Howe gave a small hand gesture. “I’ll have written orders delivered to each of you soon. In the meantime, begin making your preparations now, today. You are dismissed.”

  Blinding light flashed through the windows at the same instant as a deafening thunderclap shook the entire house. Costly chinaware rattled in the hutches against the west wall. Wisps of soot settled from the chimney into the fireplace. The wine in the decanters sloshed, then settled.

  For five seconds not one man moved nor spoke; then Grant muttered, “Did it hit the house?”

  Richard spoke up. “I don’t think so. But close.”

  Howe pointed. “It might be better to move out of this room, away from these windows. Go out the back way. There’s a covered walkway to the stables.”

  With their aides following, the men filed out of the room, down to the reception room to get their hats, then walked rapidly to the rear entrance of the great, two-storied house. In single file they trotted down the covered breezeway to the stables, where enlisted men were soothing the nervous horses.

  Richard remained behind with William. With the wind howling amid lightning and deafening thunderclaps, he reached for the wine decanter, poured, and sipped before he looked at William.

  “They’re divided. Most don’t like this business of going after Philadelphia in ships.”

  William’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “Which ones?”

  The first huge drops of rain came splattering against the windows, and in an instant the incessant din of a cloudburst filled the room.

  Richard could hardly be heard above the storm. He raised his voice. “I think Grant and Cornwallis are the only ones who take your side of it. The others?” He shrugged. “They disagree.”

  “Why?”

  “Clinton doesn’t want to miss taking Washington down. Stuart thinks you’re leaving Burgoyne to the wolves. The others? Who knows?”

  His face flushed in anger as William slammed his hand down on the table. “We’ll be close enough if Burgoyne needs help. Clinton was raised right here on Long Island. His father was governor of New York! Who better to take command here?”

  Richard’s answer was calm, unruffled. “No one. He’s the obvious choice.” He raised his goblet of wine to inspect the cherry-red spot of light in the center, while the wind screamed and the storm thundered. “Ambition does have its price.”

  William settled. “How many ships will this take?”

  “About two hundred sixty.”

  “Will you have them ready?”

  “By midnight on Tuesday, July eighth, Commander. But there’s one thing you have to know.”

  William asked the silent question, and Richard answered it.

  “The prevailing winds are from the south and west, which is exactly the direction the ships will have to take to get out of this bay. That means we’ll have to wait until the winds shift to the north. We can begin to load on the ninth, and probably be finished by the twelfth. But until we get favorable winds, we can’t sail.”

  William pursed his mouth in thought. “Are you suggesting we put off loading until the winds change?”

  “Not at all. If we wait for better wind before we load, it could change before we finish. We load on the ninth, and we wait.”

  They heard the pounding of running boots in the hallway and then a hammering on the door. William jerked at the handle, and a white-faced aide blurted, “Sir, the two pickets at the door—both injured—the lightning!”

  Whatever their weaknesses, whatever their faults, both William and Richard Howe had shaped their military lives around one polar star. Care for your men! In the years since command had been given to them, their men came to know that either one, Richard or William, would walk where their men walked, fight when they fought, starve when they starved, and share their losses and victories. No British commanders were more respected by those they led.

  Immediately both men sprinted down the hallway and through the ante room, threw open the front doors, and burst onto the great porch. The two pickets lay sprawled on the stones with the wind driving sheets of rain past the twelve marble columns that supported the high portico. One lay still, white, unmoving, while the other was pawing with one hand to reach past the knee of his right leg. In moments both William and Richard were drenched. Without hesitation, each seized one of the fallen sentries and half carried, half dragged him back into the ante room, where they lay them on the carpet while the aide slammed the doors.

  Richard knelt beside the still one, ripped open his tunic, and pressed his ear to the man’s chest. He cl
osed his eyes, concentrating, listening for a heartbeat. William cradled the other man on his arm, staring into the glazed eyes as the man clumsily tried to reach his right leg.

  “What’s wrong?” William demanded. “What happened?”

  The man tried to focus his eyes but could not. He tried to speak, but no words would come. He tried again and slowly stammered, “Don’t know. Something . . . pain . . . leg . . .”

  William quickly reached below the right knee and felt for broken bones. There were none, but instantly he felt the calf muscle drawn up in a knot the size of his fist. He laid the man back onto the carpet, seized the leg with both hands, and began to work it with all his strength, kneading the calf muscle, pounding, trying to make the cramp relax and subside. Slowly the knot softened, and then it was gone. The man’s reaching hand dropped, and his eyes closed in relief.

  William looked at Richard, and Richard raised his head from the man’s chest. He slowly shook his head and said quietly, “This one’s gone.”

  William turned back to the man before him, and once again raised his head on his arm. “Can you hear me?”

  The eyes opened, still glazed, still disoriented. “Yes.”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  The man tried to focus his eyes. “Not sure—an officer—maybe the general.”

  “Can you tell me what happened out there?” Howe asked.

  Again the man shook his head, then mumbled, “Wind—rain—a big light—sound—my feet—legs—something bad—never felt anything like it.”

  “Lightning? Were you hit by lightning?”

  “Don’t know—something.”

  William turned to his aide. “Get this man to my quarters and wrap him in blankets. Then get the surgeon general.” He turned back to Richard. “Help me with the other one, down to the sewing room.”

  With the dead man covered in the sewing room and the surgeon general upstairs in Howe’s quarters giving the injured man sips of brandy, William and Richard went to the front door, both soaked to the skin. Their wigs were a sopping, bedraggled tangle of artificial hair as they opened the door and walked out and across the porch into the teeth of the storm. Shoulders hunched, they ventured seventy feet out onto the spongy grass and turned to look at the house, searching for a blackened hole or for telltale smoke from a still-smoldering fire on, or inside, the roof. There was nothing.