Prelude to Glory, Vol. 5

by Ron Carter

  Again Greene shook his head. “Only what we already knew. Howe sailed out of New York into the Atlantic and hasn’t been seen since. They thought he was on his way to Philadelphia, just as we did, and did what they could to get ready. But so far, not a word of his coming.”

  The air went out of Washington, and his shoulders sagged for a moment. “Is it possible he put his troops ashore at the mouth of the river and is marching them to Philadelphia?”

  “No. I asked about that. It would be impossible to put fifteen thousand troops with three thousand horses and cannon ashore and march them up the banks of the Delaware without half the populace knowing it. No one has seen such a thing. Howe is simply not on the Delaware, nor anywhere near it, or Philadelphia.”

  “Then where?” Washington demanded.

  Greene tossed a hand in the air. “Who knows? Maybe on the way down to Charleston. Maybe his sailing into the Atlantic was only a feint. Maybe he intended to draw us back here so he could turn around and sail back to New York and up the Hudson to meet Burgoyne.”

  Washington dropped a large hand on the tabletop. “I was afraid of that.” He straightened, squared his shoulders, and continued. “Return to your commands and get some food and rest. Make a written report. I’ll wait for General Cadwalader. He should be—”

  He stopped at the sound of incoming horses and waited as they halted just outside his tent. The pickets spoke and drew back the tent flaps to let General John Cadwalader enter, followed by his three officers. They nodded to General Greene, straightened, saluted General Washington, and waited.

  “Report.”

  “We moved north nearly to Coryell’s Ferry. There was no sign of Howe or his ships or his army. We talked to militia officers up there. They knew Howe had sailed out of New York into the Atlantic and had thought he was coming to Philadelphia. But no one has seen or heard a thing.”

  Bewilderment showed plainly in Washington’s face. “General Greene proposes that going into the Atlantic might have been a feint to draw us down here while he goes north to meet Burgoyne. Was there any indication that might be true?”

  Cadwalader lowered his face for a moment in thought. “Maybe. But I doubt it. If he did that he’d have to get past General Sullivan up in the highland passes above New York, and I think Sullivan would have sent a message before now. I don’t think Howe intends going up the Hudson.”

  Washington shook his head. “Then what does he have in mind? Those men and animals have been aboard the ships in this heat since July ninth. Twenty days today. It’s been six days since they disappeared into the Atlantic. Common sense says he should have done something by now that would show his objective. Burgoyne, or Philadelphia, or some other place. Do any of you have an answer to this?”

  Agonizing bewilderment showed in the face of every man. For several seconds they talked among themselves, then shrugged and turned back to Washington, unable to offer any plausible answer.

  Washington lowered his eyes for a moment before he spoke. “All right. Return to your commands. I will send for you tomorrow morning for a war council. That’s all for now. You are dismissed.”

  Washington remained standing to watch the officers file out and listened to the creak of saddles as they mounted. The sound of the horses’ hooves in the night had faded before he sat down at the small worktable in the center of the tent. In the stillness with the light of the single lamp before him, he placed his palms flat on the table and stared unseeing at the backs of his hands. By force of iron will he drove the fatigue from his mind and once again sought to explain the puzzling, erratic movements of General Howe and his colossal armada.

  He must have a plan. He would never prepare as he has, unless he has a major objective. More than fifteen thousand regulars—food—munitions—horses—enough to mount a major assault—onboard ships for three weeks. He could have been up the Hudson to Burgoyne, or the Delaware to Philadelphia, ten days ago if that was what he intended. But the lot of them disappeared into the Atlantic six days ago and haven’t been seen since. He’s wasting men and food and horses every day. Where’s the sense to it? How do I meet him if he can’t be found? What do I tell the war council in the morning?

  It was nearing two o’clock in the black of night before the general drew and released a great breath of frustration. The lamplight etched deep furrows in his forehead as he cupped his hand around the chimney to blow out the light. He hung his tunic over the back of his chair, unbuckled his spurs, worked to pull his boots off, and lay down on the cot in the corner of his tent in his stocking feet. It was half an hour before his mind would let go of the enigmatic question that had to be answered before he could take decisive action.

  He was back on his feet before the drummer banged out reveille and the jumbled camp of the Continental Army began to stir. He bent over the porcelain basin on the washstand in the corner of his tent to wash himself and shave, changed his shirt, and sat down to his breakfast of hot chocolate, fried ham and eggs, and brown bread. Finished, he rose and called for his aide.

  “Colonel Laurens, notify Generals Greene and Cadwalader and their officers to be here for a council at eight o’clock. They’re expecting it. And arrange chairs for eight at the table.”

  Twenty minutes later he raised his head to the sound of incoming horses, and the morning picket pulled aside the tent flap. “Sir, Generals Greene and Cadwalader and their staffs are here.”

  Washington stood. “Show them in.”

  They entered without a word, eyes not leaving Washington as they searched for any indication of his thoughts.

  “Be seated.” He gestured, and they took their places in the crowded tent, waiting.

  His face was set, his eyes noncommittal. “No news has arrived since our discussion last night. I do not know where General Howe has gone with his army, nor do I know his eventual objective, be it the Hudson, Philadelphia, or some other place.”

  The officers shook their heads, and for a moment there was talk between them. It stilled when Washington continued.

  “This is July thirtieth. We are deep into the summer campaign. I am unable to understand why General Howe has wasted so much time when it is obvious he must engage us and try to destroy our army. The only thing I have concluded is that it would be a mistake to take up our march again without some reasonable expectation of intercepting him. At present we lack not only a reasonable expectation, but any expectation at all. Consequently, I believe it would be best to remain where we are, encamped here on the New Jersey side of the Delaware. Should Howe appear on the Hudson going north, we will be able to march immediately without crossing the Delaware. Should he come up the Delaware toward Philadelphia, we will have enough warning to cross the river and move down to meet him. Is there any discussion?”

  Open talk went on for two minutes before Washington raised a hand, and it stopped. “Do you have any proposals to make?”

  There were none.

  Washington nodded. “Then we remain here until further notice. Keep your patrols out. Report anything that might suggest where the British are. Dismissed.”

  With the sound of their horses fading, he sat down at the table, eyes narrowed, forehead creased in deepening bewilderment. He unrolled a map of the New England coast, anchored the corners with leather bags of sand, and traced the Atlantic shoreline with a long finger.

  Here in New York Harbor three weeks ago—then seven days ago into the Atlantic—and disappeared.

  He shook his head. At sea with fifteen thousand men and three thousand horses, in this heat? Is he insane? He could have made Albany ten days ago, or Philadelphia. Where is he? What’s his plan? With a force that size he has no reason to hide from us. To the contrary, it is I who must play the game of hide and wait for the right time and place. Then why is he hesitating? Why?

  He dug a thumb and forefinger into weary eyes, then looked once again at the map before he raised his head and looked to the southeast, as though he could see through the canvas wall of his tent, down the Dela
ware to Philadelphia, and beyond, to the place where the river broadens to empty into the great Delaware Bay, and on to the mighty Atlantic Ocean.

  Is he down there? Or New York and the Hudson? Or moving down the Virginia Capes toward Charleston? Or some other place? Where? Where?

  * * * * *

  Far to the southeast, riding the Atlantic sea swells rolling toward Delaware Bay, Captain Sir Andrew Snape Hamond, commander of a small British squadron of patrol ships stationed nearby, and captain of the Roebuck, stood grasping the starboard railing in tense silence while he identified all the water traffic on the broad expanse of the bay. Seagoing ships, pilot boats, barges, freighters, ferries—all that moved—fell under his eye. Again and again he brought his gaze back to the place where the bay meets the great Atlantic Ocean, searching for a forest of masts cutting the line where the blue sky and the green-black ocean meet. His square-rigged, blunt-nosed ship had all canvas unfurled, bulging in the wind, and it left a long, foaming wake as it plowed on southeast, dividing the bay in halves.

  Hamond involuntarily started at the excited call from the crow’s nest, seventy feet up the mainmast. “Ships to starboard! At anchor just inside the south bay shore!”

  Hamond fumbled for his telescope as he shouted back, “How many?”

  “More than two hundred, sir.”

  “What flag?”

  “Ours, sir.”

  Hamond extended his telescope and leaned forward, silently glassing the distant shore of the bay, searching for the great gathering of ships lying at anchor, loaded heavy and riding deep, all sails furled, masts and arms undulating in the swells. Suddenly he pointed and exclaimed, “There they are! That’s what we’ve been waiting for—Admiral Howe’s armada. They came in the night, or somehow got into the bay unnoticed.” He jammed the telescope closed and drew his watch from his tunic pocket. Twenty minutes past nine o’clock. He raised his arm to point and barked orders to his first mate.

  “Set a course for those ships. Admiral Howe’s flagship is the Eagle. As soon as you identify it, bring us alongside. I’m going aboard.”

  The first mate cupped his hands to shout the orders to the helmsman, and the Roebuck slowly turned south, plowing a furrow in the waters of Delaware Bay as it came quartering south across the southwest wind. Twenty minutes passed before the first mate jerked his arm up, pointing excitedly. “There! The Eagle.” He turned to the helmsman, still pointing. “Put us on the starboard side of that ship. Captain wants to go aboard her. And be careful. Admiral Lord Richard Howe is aboard and is commander of the entire armada. And likely his brother General William Howe is also quartered there.”

  The helmsman swallowed hard, spun the great spoked wheel, and the Roebuck corrected course to come in on the leeward side of the Eagle, away from the wind. Every sailor on the Roebuck was on deck, staring in fascination at the greatest gathering of warships they had ever seen.

  The first mate turned to the bosun. “Get men into the rigging to spill the wind on command. We’re going to drop anchor on the leeward side of the Eagle, close enough for the captain to go aboard.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The bosun barked orders, and sailors scrambled up the ropes and onto the arms, where they grasped the lines that would have to be released the moment the order was given, spilling the wind from the sails. They waited and watched as the helmsman skillfully made the last of the small needed corrections. The ship straightened and approached parallel to and twenty feet from the hull of the larger ship. From habit, every sailor counted the closed cannon ports on the two decks of the gunship. Eighteen on the top deck, fifteen on the second deck. Thirty-three heavy cannon on the starboard side; sixty-six guns on the Eagle. Members of the Roebuck crew glanced at each other for a moment, awed by the firepower. The Roebuck had only thirteen guns on each side, twenty-six lighter cannon in all.

  Captain Hamond cupped his hands to shout, “Hallo, the Eagle! Captain Andrew Hamond requesting permission to come aboard.”

  The call came back, “What is your authority and for what purpose do you request permission to come aboard?”

  “I am commander of the Delaware Bay Squadron and captain of the Roebuck. The purpose of my request is to inform General William Howe of critical information regarding Delaware Bay and the river.”

  There was a long pause. “Permission granted. Come alongside. You and one officer of your choice will board the Eagle.”

  The bosun shouted orders up to his crew in the rigging. Instantly they jerked knots loose, and the sails were released to spill their wind and flap free while the sailors on the arms worked frantically to pull in and fold the canvas, then lash it to the arms. The ship slowed and stopped, dead in the water, parallel to the Eagle, top deck eight feet lower than that of the larger ship. The helmsman rounded his mouth to blow air, and his shoulders settled in relief.

  Half a mile northwest a small pilot boat flying American colors was cutting a wake southeast when suddenly she dumped her mainsail and slowed in the water. On deck her captain walked to the starboard rail, raised his telescope, and for a long time studied the stern of the Roebuck as it moved away from him, then raised the telescope to glass the south shore of the bay. His eyes widened and his breathing quickened as he was able to distinguish the masts of the British fleet from the trees and shoreline beyond, and then the flags fluttering in the morning wind. Slowly he lowered the telescope to stare, then once again raised it to count. He counted fifty, estimated the balance, turned, and gave orders. The helmsman swung the wheel to bring the bow of the small craft on a bearing of nearly due south.

  Once again the captain studied the ships on the shoreline and watched the Roebuck align with the Eagle, spill her sails, and stop dead in the water twenty feet from the larger man-o-war, starboard to starboard. He pondered a moment, then once again gave orders. The helmsman spun the wheel to bring the craft full around, moving slowly back to the northwest on the zig-zag course as she tacked into the wind, moving in the direction from which she had just come.

  On the Eagle, twenty sailors lined the rail, armed with muskets at the ready, remaining silent as they watched every move on the Roebuck. The bosun gave orders, and his crew hurled ropes across the twenty feet of water. The crew of the Eagle caught them and secured them on either side of the section of rail that was cut and hinged for boarding the ship. Captain Hamond took his place in the wooden bosun’s chair, the first mate closed the buckles on the tie-down straps, and two men on the Eagle began the rhythmic, steady pulling of the rope that drew the chair across the gap on the lines and pulleys, while two men on the Roebuck held a slight tension on their rope to maintain control as the chair moved to the opening in the rail. The empty chair was returned, and the first mate followed Captain Hamond to the deck of the Eagle.

  An officer came to attention and saluted. “I am First Mate Samuel Whitcomb of the Eagle.”

  Hamond returned the salute. “I am Captain Andrew Hamond of the Roebuck. This is my first mate, Derwin Kiley.”

  Whitcomb bowed. “I am ordered to request you wait. General Howe will see you shortly.”

  Hamond started. “Is he indisposed? I can return at a more convenient time.”

  Whitcomb dropped his eyes for a moment while he fumbled for a reply. “The general is well, sir. He was . . . uh . . . not expecting such a visit.”

  The facade was transparent, the message clear. Captain Hamond had caught General William Howe in bed at ten o’clock in the morning, while the entire armada and fifteen thousand soldiers waited in the sweltering heat of July thirtieth! In red-faced mortification, Hamond opened his mouth to speak, searched for words that would not come, and finally blurted, “I shall return to my ship until a more opportune moment.”

  Whitcomb shook his head. “That will not be necessary. I have orders to invite you to my quarters while we wait.”

  Hamond stammered, “I would rather remain on deck.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  Hamond clasped his hands behind his
back, glanced at the blank faces of the embarrassed sailors and officers of the Eagle, and turned to peer back at the crew of his own ship, riding the swells twenty feet away. His men stood stock-still, foreheads wrinkled in puzzlement as to why their captain had not been escorted to the quarters of General Howe. With no way to tell them the unbelievable truth, Hamond could only stare back at them while the color rose ever deeper in his face.

  Within minutes that seemed hours Whitcomb cleared his throat. “The general will see you now, sir.”

  Hamond drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at nervous sweat as he followed Whitcomb toward the stern of the ship. Whitcomb opened the ornamented door and held it while Hamond, followed by his first mate, entered the richly appointed cabin. The only source of light was a bank of paned windows at the far end of the small room, and Hamond blinked for a moment while his eyes began to adjust from the glare of the bright July sun. General William Howe rose from behind a worktable while Hamond and Kiley both came to attention and saluted. Whitcomb stood to one side, out of the way, silently watching and listening.

  “Captain Andrew Hamond of the Roebuck, sir. May I present my first mate, Derwin Kiley.”

  With an expression that was casual, nearly bored, Howe returned a spiritless salute and gestured. “Be seated.”

  Hamond and Kiley sat opposite Howe, and Hamond sought to quell the shock he experienced as his eyes adjusted to the detail inside the cramped quarters. General William Howe, commander of all British forces in the thirteen United States, had not washed, nor shaved. His shirt was open at the throat, and his tunic was tossed carelessly on the foot of his bed. One could not miss the sour stench of liquor, nor fail to see the evidence of last night’s drinking in the face and the bloodshot, bleary eyes of Howe.

  Hamond straightened, thrust out his chin, brushed aside his shock at the breach of military deportment that hung in the room like a pall, and launched into his message.

  “Sir, may I presume your intention is to proceed up the Delaware River?”