Prelude to Glory, Vol. 2

by Ron Carter

Muffled laughter sounded and faded.

  “How many cannon? Where?”

  “About eighty-five at the moment, placed in batteries on both sides of Manhattan Island, with a heavy concentration in New York City. Several on Long Island in breastworks south of Brooklyn.”

  Howe sobered. “How are the troops dressed?”

  “Very few uniforms, even among those calling themselves officers. Homespun, mostly in very poor condition.”

  “Describe their encampments.”

  Graham shook his head. “That’s difficult, sir. They are generally in shambles. There is nothing suggesting military discipline of any kind.”

  “Their food?”

  “Wormy hardtack, meat once a week, wild turnips, dried fish. They requisition or steal what they can from the local farms, but it is far too little. Dysentery is bad. Their infirmaries are full.”

  “How are they armed?”

  “Badly. A few newer muskets taken from forces of the Crown, but mostly old colonial-made muskets used by farmers to shoot food for the table, some old French flint-locks, several fowling pieces from forty years ago, a few rifles.”

  “Can the troops shoot effectively?”

  “A fair number shoot well, but few or none have ever fired a musket in a battle with an organized army such as yours. Several have not fired a musket more than ten times in their lives.”

  “Do they have powder and shot?”

  “More arrives daily, but at this moment, far too little to engage in a major battle.”

  “Are they drilling daily?”

  “No. Twice a week at the most. They’re working dawn to dark building fortifications.”

  “Do they have the will to fight?”

  “Judging from Concord and Bunker Hill, they probably do. But those battles were not typical. It’s hard to judge what they’ll do if they’re facing an all-out assault.”

  “We learned many things at Concord and Bunker Hill, and we’ll not repeat the mistakes. Are their fortifications good?”

  “Yes, sir. One thing the colonial farmers understand is digging, sir. They can put up good breastworks faster than any army I ever saw.”

  “Are they mobile? How fast can they cross the Hudson, or the East River?”

  “They have virtually no navy, sir. They would have to requisition civilian boats to cross either river. I have no way to know how they would cross, or how rapidly they could do it.”

  “Do I understand deepwater channels circle all three islands?”

  “Yes, sir. Your gunboats can completely circumnavigate any of the islands.”

  “I need to know about New Jersey. Is Governor Franklin cooperating with you?”

  Governor Tryon interrupted. “He is, sir. But I must warn, the New Jersey Provincial Congress has ordered his arrest. If that happens, we will have to take whatever steps necessary to continue without his support.”

  “Isn’t he the son of Benjamin Franklin?”

  “He is. The two are no longer on speaking terms.”

  Howe shook his head. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He gestured towards the large, flat documents folder in Tryon’s possession. “Do you have maps?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tryon removed half a dozen maps and unfolded them onto Howe’s desktop. His men crowded the front edge of the desk.

  “Sergeant Graham made these from personal observations.” Tryon stepped back, and Graham faced Howe across the desk.

  For a time Howe studied the maps, one at a time, silently tracing lines and calculating distances. He pointed to ten positions on the shoreline of Manhattan Island. “Cannon batteries?”

  “Yes, sir. And nearly every street leading to the water has a blockade, some with cannon.”

  Howe moved his finger to Long Island. “Brooklyn?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is General Greene building large fortifications?”

  “Yes, sir. They consider that one place you may attack. There, or New York. They’re fortifying both.”

  “Is this a ridge?”

  “A long hill, sir. South of Brooklyn, running east-west. Their breastworks are on that hill.”

  “And here, farther south, another hill?”

  “Yes, sir. Guana Heights. East-west, just like the one in front of Brooklyn, except not quite so high.”

  Howe tapped the map east of Brooklyn. “This is a road that runs north and south over or through both those hills?”

  “Yes, sir. Bedford Road. There’s a little valley that runs through both those hills.”

  “Is the road big enough to move troops?”

  “Wide enough? Yes, sir.”

  Howe tapped the map again, farther east. “That’s another north-south road through those two long hills?”

  “Yes, sir. Jamaica Pass.”

  “How far from Brooklyn?”

  “About four and one-half miles east.”

  “Large enough for heavy troop movements?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I take it underbrush and foliage and the terrain would make it difficult to move, other than on the roads you’ve marked.”

  “Extremely difficult, sir. Nearly impossible with cannon and equipment.”

  Howe pointed again. “What’s this?”

  “Gowanus Marsh.”

  “What makes it a marsh? How big? How bad?”

  “Gowanus Creek begins to the east, sir, from a natural spring on the island, and runs west. As it passes Brooklyn and empties into the East River at Gowanus Bay, it broadens into those flat plains and becomes a bog. A bad marsh, sir, fairly deep. Stagnant. Heavy mud. Impossible to move in it, or through it.”

  “This is marked Gravesend. A town?”

  “Gravesend Bay and the town of Gravesend just east of it. And north of Gravesend is Flatbush, here.” He pointed.

  For half a minute Howe continued to pore over the map, fixing things in his mind, seeing Manhattan and Long Island through the eyes of one who had learned the brutal lessons of war from countless scars inside, taken in the hot cauldron of battles he had won and battles he had lost. He understood in his bones that the fortunes of war could hang on the simplest miscalculation of how well the enemy was armed, or their will to fight, or where a hill was, or a forgotten road, or a marsh, or how thick the trees and undergrowth were at a crucial place.

  He moved his finger one more time. “What’s that?” He tapped the map between Long Island and the mainland, in the middle of the East River where it widened into Long Island Sound.

  “Hell Gate, sir. That’s where the East River meets the Atlantic tides and they form a whirlpool that will wreck any ship that gets sucked in. Even your big men-of-war.”

  Howe’s eyebrows rose. “That bad?”

  “Yes, sir. I marked it so you wouldn’t lose a ship finding out about it.”

  “Very good. Tell me what you can about Fort Washington.”

  “They’re building it on the north end of Manhattan Island, sir, facing the Hudson. It’s on the high ground and will have cannon covering all directions. Thick walls. They say it will be impregnable.”

  Howe’s mouth narrowed for a moment. “What about Fort Lee?”

  “They’re going to build it facing Fort Washington from the New Jersey Palisades. It will also have cannon covering all approaches and a large number facing the Hudson. The colonials contend that the guns of Forts Lee and Washington will stop anything on the river.”

  Howe’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll see.” He looked at Tryon. “May I keep these drawings?”

  “Of course.”

  Howe ended the meeting as abruptly as he had begun. “Thank you, gentlemen, that will be all.”

  “One moment, sir,” Tryon said, and the room fell silent. “The colonials uncovered our plan regarding Washington and Greene and the others. They’ve begun an investigation. Yesterday they hanged Thomas Hickey, our agent in Washington’s headquarters. They’ve also detained Mayor Matthews, and they’ve been to my office. I doubt they have enough evidence
to bring myself or the mayor to trial, but you should know we are presently altogether stopped in our plan.”

  Howe leaned back in his chair. “Are you in danger?”

  “Not for the time being.”

  “Can you hold on for a few weeks? This entire affair should be concluded in the next several weeks in our favor.”

  “I believe I can, sir.”

  “Good. If not, get a message to me. I’ll help.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Anything else?” Howe stood.

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Thank you. My men will see you to your boat.”

  They shook hands, and General Howe remained standing until the door closed behind them, then settled back onto his chair. For a time he studied the maps they had left, committing to memory the cannon and battery locations at New York and on Long Island. Carefully he ran his finger over each of the roads, making calculations of distances and direction and of how long it would take to move troops who could average six miles in one hour in a forced march, five miles in one hour if they brought cannon.

  He sighed and rose, dug a thumb and forefinger into weary eyes, then walked out the door into the bright sun, resenting the roll of the deck on the tide swells. He walked to the bow and leaned on the rail, arms stiff, palms flat, and let his thoughts run as he gazed north past the confines of Sandy Hook Bay to the east side of Staten Island and the Narrows leading to Manhattan Island.

  Poor food, poor clothing, poor discipline, poor arms. Untried officers, untried troops. He shook his head. I wonder what Washington is thinking right now. His eyes narrowed as he pondered. What will he think when the rest of our fleet sails into New York Harbor? Will he be willing to talk? work out an accommodation? If not, do we destroy him? And if we do, where do we strike? New York? Long Island? He pursed his mouth and considered. I’ll wait for Sir Henry Clinton. He was raised on Long Island. He’ll have something to say.

  Movement to his right caught his eye and he turned his head to look. White sails tight in the easterly Atlantic wind, the first ships in a column that reached out of sight were riding the Atlantic tides on a course that would pass between Sandy Hook and Gravesend Bay, towards the Narrows into New York Harbor. Howe turned to Captain Plessy standing admidships, his telescope extended, studying the incoming fleet intently.

  “Whose are they?” Howe called.

  “Ours.”

  “Do you have a count?”

  “Forty-five.”

  “That should be the first of our troops and supplies.”

  “Shall I signal them to drop anchor here?”

  Howe bowed his head in concentration. “No. I’ll write a message. Send it out in a longboat.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Howe walked rapidly back to his cabin and took quill in hand. He pondered for a moment, then wrote.

  June 29, 1776

  You will move through the Narrows into New York Harbor, remain there in sight of New York and Brooklyn for enough time to record the defenses that are visible to you, then return and join my squadron here at anchor in Sandy Hook Bay before nightfall. Do not open your cannon ports, and under no circumstance should you be provoked into firing your cannon. Should you be fired upon, reverse your course at once and come to Sandy Hook Bay.

  Signed,

  General Sir William Howe

  To the north, on the island of Manhattan, where the Boston regiment was camped at the end of Reade Street, Billy scooped wet sand where the Hudson River met the bank and scrubbed his plate and utensils, while the sun, directly overhead, eight days past the summer solstice, bore down relentlessly. Billy dropped to his haunches to cup water in his hands and rinse the sweat from his face, then rinsed the plate and knife and fork, and stood, shaking water. He looked at the breastworks of the battery as he wiped his face on his sleeve, and a sense of satisfaction, pride, rose inside.

  They had finished the breastworks and the inclined ramp behind them shortly before eleven o’clock, and half an hour later Brigadier General Thomas Mifflin of Pennsylvania, commanding officer of the brigade of which the Boston regiment was a part, had ridden in on a tall, nervous sorrel horse, with two other brigadier generals, to conduct the required inspection. Twenty minutes later they had shaken Colonel Thompson’s hand and extended their congratulations.

  The battery, breastworks, and recoil ramp were finished, and well done. A thirty-two-pound cannon would arrive within two days and be installed. General Mifflin would send written orders by evening directing Thompson where the regiment was needed next, but in the meantime the Boston regiment could stand down for the balance of the day. They had earned a rest.

  Thompson had ordered the cooks to serve mutton and potatoes for the noon meal, and spirits soared. Banter and soldier talk flowed. Company Four caught Company One knee-deep in the river washing off sweat and dirt, and for twenty minutes the two companies were in the Hudson up to their waists, trying to drown each other while water and epithets and raucous laugher flew. Thompson took one look and retreated to the command tent.

  Billy grinned at the remembrance of the wild, comic horseplay and was picking his way back to his blanket when he heard the shrill, urgent shout, “Look!” far to the south. All around him men stopped, turned, and fell silent as they stared, rooted to the ground.

  A column of ships moved steadily forward into New York Harbor, against the New Jersey shore. The leaders were men-of-war, thick-hulled, three-masted, triple-decked, with sails furled except on the mainmast. They moved in a line, blunt bows plowing a white wake in the dark waters. Behind the men-of-war came the transports, fat, ponderous, broad in the beam. The entire fleet rode low in the water, heavily loaded.

  The regiment moved toward the river for an unobstructed view, and Billy trotted to where Eli stood. Billy shaded his eyes with his hand, struggling to make out the flag flying from every mainmast. Thompson and the officers came trotting from the command tent to stand gaping with the troops.

  The flagship continued north and then turned west, closing with the New Jersey cliffs, when the wind shifted and for a few seconds the flag was broadside to Billy. It was the red, white, and blue of the Union Jack.

  “British,” Billy muttered.

  “Did you get a count?” Eli asked.

  “Twenty-two so far. They’re still coming.”

  The entire regiment remained motionless, silent, awestruck by the steadily growing number of British ships. For twenty minutes they counted, and then there were no more ships coming through the Narrows.

  “Forty-five,” Billy said, and his voice sounded too loud in the quiet. “Ten men-of-war, thirty-five transports.” He turned towards Thompson, waiting for orders.

  Thompson spoke. “Are their cannon ports open? I can’t tell.”

  “No, sir. They’re closed.”

  “I think they’re putting on a show of strength.” He paused for a moment, then spoke loudly. “Strike camp immediately. If they do begin an assault we aren’t going to be caught here on the beach. Get ready to move, and we’ll wait for orders or an attack, whichever comes first. I’ll arrange some freight wagons. Get to it!”

  Until that moment the soldiers of the Boston regiment had met the British enemy only in their imaginations, where the regulars wore their sparkling red coats and white breeches and black boots and marched to battle in immaculate straight lines. The British columns were invariably deep into a perfect colonial ambush before the signal was given and the regiment poured endless musket fire into them and they fell like ripe wheat before the scythe, and in the end the regulars struck their colors and laid down their arms.

  Such vain imagery vanished without a trace in the harsh, chill reality of ten huge men-of-war with more than four hundred thirty-six-pound cannon, leading thirty-five fat transport ships loaded to the bulkheads with British regulars, powder, shot, horses, cannon, muskets, food, medicine. They sat ugly in the water on the New Jersey side of the harbor, insolent, contemptuous, so close men could be seen moving
on their decks, telescopes extended, charting every cannon emplacement facing the Hudson, the breastworks, the barricades in the streets, and the contours of the land.

  The regiment worked in silence, shaking and rolling and tying blankets, gathering damp clothing from bushes, stuffing them into knapsacks. Their eyes left the cannon ports on the British men-of-war only when necessary as they shoveled dirt to cover fire pits. Their minds were obsessed with but one thought: How long would it take four hundred heavy cannon at point-blank range to blast New York City to rubble? One hour? Two?

  Time was forgotten as they worked on, eyes seldom leaving the harbor. The frames inside the command tent were pulled down, and the large, heavy canvas body collapsed and settled to the ground. Quick hands jerked the twenty-six tent pegs out of the ground, squared the limp canvas, tossed the twenty-six tension ropes onto it, folded it, tied it. The tall black iron cooking tripods and kettles were gathered in one place. The commissary tent was collapsed and folded and tied, while other men crated the surgeon’s equipment, then collapsed and folded his tent. They left the infirmary tent in place to protect the sick from the sun until they were ready to leave.

  Every man in the regiment started at the sound of calked iron horseshoes and iron-rimmed wheels on the cobblestones of Reade Street, and they looked to watch six freight wagons rumble off the end of the street into the dirt and stop. The first four wagons were military, hitched to teams of mules, while the last two wagons were larger, heavier, drawn by matched pairs of Percheron draft horses that stood mouthing their bits, throwing their heads, wanting to pull. Billy and Eli both recognized the flat-crowned straw hat that set level on the head of the driver of the fifth wagon, and they watched as Mary Flint worked with the reins and talked low to quiet the horses.

  A lieutenant on the first wagon dropped to the ground and trotted to Colonel Thompson, saluted, and thrust a paper forward. The colonel unfolded it, read it quickly, drew the keys to the locks on the munitions magazine from his pocket, handed them to the lieutenant, and nodded. The lieutenant trotted back to his wagon and climbed back onto the seat and waited.

  “Attention to orders,” Thompson called, and the regiment crowded around. “General Washington has ordered this regiment to be ferried to Long Island under the command of General Nathanael Greene at Brooklyn. We are to assist there with constructing breastworks, and we are to undergo intensive drill and training with musket and cannon. Load what you cannot carry into the wagons. Make litters for the disabled. The sick who can, walk.”