The Glorious Cause (15 page)

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and Greene knew that the Morris House was far behind the British advance, that Baxter’s Pennsylvanians had either withdrawn toward the fort, or were gone.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.

11. CORNWALLIS

Nearly three thousand prisoners were marched away from Fort Washington. Magaw and his officers were treated with customary respect, and marched toward the city, to be housed in makeshift prisons that had once been private homes or businesses. But most of the soldiers, including the wounded, were herded to the shore of the Harlem River, and loaded onto flatboats that would deposit them into the bowels of the British prison ships, anchored in the East River at Wallabout Bay. All along the fortified lines, and in the fort itself, the British and Hessian troops gleefully stacked and counted the rebel muskets, cleaned and repaired the rebel cannon, and hauled to their own camps the enormous stores of canvas, blankets, and food the rebels had surrendered.

N
OVEMBER 20, 1776

He led the crossing of the Hudson River before dawn, flatboats ferrying nearly six thousand troops to a landing place called Lower Closter, chosen for them by a local Tory farmer. They had been rowed upriver, reaching the far shore about six miles north of Fort Lee, and as he stepped ashore in gray mist, all he could see was the stark sheer wall of a cliff, looming tall above the riverbank. But the guide knew the land, and led him through a patch of dense brush that suddenly opened to a trail, narrow and tight, and nearly straight up the cliff.

Cornwallis was still not comfortable with the farmer’s claims, eyed the perilous climb with skepticism, and behind him, he could hear short groans from the men, who began to see for themselves the job in front of them.

The farmer seemed not to appreciate Cornwallis’ doubts, hissed at him with a sharp whisper, “This would be the only way up, General. You can follow me, or you can go back to your boats and find your own way.”

Cornwallis ignored the man’s impudence, thought, No, we are not returning to the boats. We are here, and we will climb. He fought the urge to give the man a warning, that any treachery would be rewarded with a Hessian bayonet. But he was in no mood for bluster or posturing. If this was the only way, then it was time to go. He glanced behind him, saw the Hessian officer who commanded the
jagers
, the troops that would lead the way, said, “Captain Ewald, you may follow Mr. Aldington.” He glanced up, the daylight now showing the way, the trail a few feet wide at best, the steep ground covered with sharp rocks, an uneven road, no place for horses. Ewald moved quickly, and the Hessians began to file past, the farmer leading them up the hill. Cornwallis moved back toward the river, the flatboats still pulling ashore, more men stepping out into formation, waiting their turn to make the climb. He saw a cannon rolling up and out of one boat, the wheels set carefully on long wooden planks. The sailors held tight to the ropes, the big gun now ashore, and Cornwallis saw the blue coat of the artillery officer, said, “Major Landry, have your men retrieve those ropes. The horses must remain here until the men have reached the summit. The climb is too severe for the horses to draw the cannon. They must be pulled up by hand.” Landry looked at the big gun, another one still in the boat, pulled by the sailors, and around the boat, the men were looking upward, eyeing the climb. Cornwallis knew what he was asking, said aloud, “No man will be compelled. I would ask the seamen first. You men are handy with the rope, but no order will be given. I ask instead for volunteers.” He paused. “This is an important business today.” It was an unusual request in an army where the men simply did what they were ordered to do. But Cornwallis would not abuse his men, knew that some were more suited for the work than others. If this day went as planned, they would need their strength.

Men glanced at each other, some still looking at the tall cliff, and some began to step forward, falling into line, Captain Landry beside them, and Landry said, “General, these men are prepared for the work at hand.”

Cornwallis smiled, said aloud, “Your king thanks you, gentlemen.” He turned, looked up at the cliff, moved back through the brush, could see the last of the
jagers
disappearing up the trail. Hessian regulars were falling into line beside him, and he held up his hand, their officer giving the command to halt, to make way for the general. Cornwallis stepped up on a tall rock, took a long, deep breath, and began to climb.

It was his first taste of independent command since he had come across the Atlantic, and for the first time, he knew that if there was delay or confusion, it would be no one’s fault but his own. He had not pressed for the assignment, would not politic against anyone to secure a command. Howe had given him the mission with little fanfare, no eager congratulations on the good work Cornwallis had already accomplished. He had given up on trying to predict Howe’s motives, his experience in the short months of this campaign teaching him that the general’s mind worked in ways Cornwallis had never been trained to understand. But the mission was an honor nonetheless, and Cornwallis had even written Jemima, sharing his pride, knew that the daughter of a good honest soldier would understand that same pride in her husband. She knew how much his service meant to him, that his need for recognition had very little to do with the empty prestige that might come from praise from the ministry. His ambition was to win the war and return to his family. If General Howe believed that placing Cornwallis in command of a major assault would accomplish just that, it was all Cornwallis could ask for, and it had nothing to do with vanity.

This type of mission would normally have been Clinton’s job, but Clinton was with the navy, on his way to Newport, Rhode Island, to capture the deepwater port, and if possible, the city of Providence. The strategy had much more to do with the simmering personality clash between Howe and Clinton than any sudden need to take control of Narragansett Bay. Clinton had been less and less discreet about his displeasure at Howe’s delays, and the withdrawal from White Plains had caused an outburst that even Cornwallis could not ignore. He had endured Clinton’s mutinous tirades long enough, and finally, exhausted by Clinton’s disruptive complaints, he went to Howe himself, revealed Clinton’s latest insubordination. Feeling betrayed by Cornwallis, Clinton spouted more anger around headquarters as to how he had been conspired against. He felt his authority had been usurped by Cornwallis’ ambition to replace him, as though Cornwallis was driven by the same selfish pride as he himself. Clinton could never understand that Cornwallis had no wish to be suddenly closer to Howe’s command, to have Howe looking so carefully over his shoulder. But with Clinton’s departure, at least the army could operate without one of its senior commanders angrily disputing every order he received.

The farmer’s word was good after all, and the climb had not been as difficult as he imagined. Soon the entire force was marching up the trail in good order. Once on top of the cliff, they formed again by column, marching without pause through the farm country that would lead them to Fort Lee.

His horse had been brought up, and he rode beside the Hessians, knew that out in front, Captain Ewald had the
jagers
spread all through the woods, an effective wave of skirmishers. Ewald knew to take captive anyone they found, an effort to keep word of their march from reaching Fort Lee. There were scattered farmhouses, and Cornwallis looked carefully at each one they passed for some sign that the
jagers
had gone beyond the job, the Hessian tendency toward mindless destruction, the brutalizing of any civilian. But the houses were undamaged, and there were no cries for help, no blood in the doorways. This was not a day for reprisal or plunder. The enemy was not here, but up ahead, and if the plan worked, the rebels in Fort Lee would be completely surprised by an overwhelming assault from the one place they would not expect: the one road that led inland, the only road the rebels could use for an escape route.

He saw three
jagers
moving back toward him, escorting a scowling civilian, and Cornwallis did not stop the horse, moved past the man, who cursed at him as he went by. Cornwallis smiled, ignored the man, thought, There will be much cursing by the end of this day. Just be grateful, sir, that you are not a soldier. Those Hessians might not be so gentle.

It was a reminder of something he hoped never to see again, and the smile faded. As Fort Washington fell, the Hessians were the closest to the main rebel position, had made their advance from the ground on the northernmost part of Manhattan, the most difficult terrain imaginable. They had pushed through swamps, climbed up over rocky cliffs, all the while enduring waves of musket fire and well-placed artillery from the rebel defense. The cost had been enormous, and most of Howe’s casualties that day had in fact been among the Hessians. When they reached the walls of Fort Washington, and Magaw had surrendered, the exhaustion and brutality of the day gave way to revenge, and the Hessians would not recognize the white flag. The rebel prisoners were unarmed and helpless, and the Hessians had attacked them with the bayonet. It was a slaughter that had alarmed their own officers and horrified the British. Angry demands from red-coated officers had finally pushed the Hessian commanders into action, and the chaos had been brought to an end. The British had been outraged, the Hessians’ officers mildly apologetic for the loss of control. Cornwallis had seen the aftermath, the rebel bodies stacked in bloody heaps, Hessian soldiers still shouting their curses at terrified prisoners.

He glanced to the side now, the rows of helmeted troops staring ahead, a mindless force, marching toward their duty. He thought of de Heister, the old Hessian general merely shrugging his shoulders when told what his men had done, his only comment,
“War turns man into beast.”

Well, perhaps. But it was a horror that would last, far beyond the emotion of that battle, of watching your own men die beside you. The British soldiers would look at their allies differently now. The Hessian soldier was simply not the same, was not taught respect for life. He looked again at the faces beside him, thought, If they fight out of fear of punishment, and not loyalty, then they still have a camaraderie that is no less powerful than our own. Even if you care nothing for generals or kings, you will come to care about the man beside you, the soldier who has shared every horror you have. And when
he
is killed, you will seek revenge. He looked ahead, another small house, more
jagers
emerging with another civilian in tow. This one was not cursing, seemed gripped by a raw terror, whimpering softly. Cornwallis looked at the man’s tears, realized now, yes, the absolute fear. These people may hate us, might spit and curse at the British soldier. But they are terrified of the Hessians. The image of the slaughter at Fort Washington was still in his mind, and he felt the disgust, but something else as well. The rebels have forsaken the dignity of the civilized soldier, to fight a war befitting the savage. What the Hessians did to their prisoners is no different. If the rebels insist on waging an uncivilized war, we clearly have troops who will oblige them. Is that, after all, a bad thing?

He heard a sudden burst of musket fire, a brief chatter, could see troops in the trees ahead, Ewald’s men coming together, rushing forward. There were more muskets now, but only a few, far to the front, and he turned, motioned to an aide, said, “Find Captain Ewald. I must know what they are confronting.”

The man rode past him quickly, disappeared into the trees, and Cornwallis saw the face of a Hessian officer, looking at him, waiting some instruction.

“No, keep your men in column. We must not delay.”

The officer nodded, and Cornwallis spurred the horse gently, moved up along the column, could hear more muskets far ahead, scattered, the trees clearing in front of him. He could see
jagers
still in motion, more of Ewald’s men focusing on the direction of the firing, and now he saw a low thin cloud, just past the trees, thought, Smoke. But no, too wide, too much. It’s not smoke. It’s dust. It’s an army on the march.

He saw his aide now, riding hard toward him, and the man reined up, said, “General, Captain Ewald has located the rebel position! They are spread out to the west, on a road ahead. They are marching in quick order, sir. They know we are in pursuit! It has to be the garrison from Fort Lee, sir. Captain Ewald requests the army advance in strength. The enemy is not putting up a fight. The captain says he believes he can cut off their retreat!”

The man was out of breath, and Cornwallis said nothing. He reached into the pocket of his coat, retrieved the map, unfolded it. The road out of Fort Lee led southwestward, to a bridge on the Hackensack River. It was the only direction the rebels could retreat, and there was only one bridge that would allow them to escape across the river. If Ewald could move quickly enough, get to the bridge . . .