The Glorious Cause (10 page)

“Major Burr, you are familiar with this road. If the enemy attempts to block it, can you guide General Putnam’s troops on alternate routes?”

The young man seemed calm, unaffected by Putnam’s excitement.

“Sir, I know every back road, all the trails. I can guarantee you we’ll make good our escape.”

Washington was already familiar with the young man’s arrogance, tried to ignore the boast, said to Putnam, “Return to your command, General. Have Colonel Knox salvage what he can, but do not jeopardize your men by attempting to remove the cannon.”

He saw the look of despair on Putnam’s face, and Putnam said, “Sir, we have sixty-seven guns there. That’s nearly half our artillery.”

“You have four thousand men, General. Their safety is my first concern. If you do not succeed, this army has lost far more than cannon. Do not delay, General.”

Putnam saluted, turned his horse, and the young Burr led the way. Washington looked to the west, the sun moving lower in the sky. He pulled the horse around, moved out into the road, the staff behind. He stopped suddenly, strained to hear, the only sound the movement of scattered men, all heading north. He thought of the scouting party, the small detachment of British troops who had so frightened his men. Scouting parties will be out in all directions. All it will take is one who moves west, who dares to go as far as the Bloomingdale Road. If they locate Putnam’s column, Howe can throw a great force into their flank in short order. Putnam has four thousand men. Howe could bring twice that many. He thought of Henry Knox, the young rotund man, the bookseller who had become the best artilleryman in his army. We need your guns, young man. But more, we need
you
. He glanced back down the road to the south, the road open and silent. He thought of Howe, the man’s tactics: Why does he delay? Why does he not finish the job he had begun this morning? He knows I will not abandon Putnam’s men, he knows they will retreat. That could be his plan, after all. Strike us when we are on the march. He pushed the image from his mind, had seen enough of retreat and panic for one day. He moved the horse again, stared ahead to the high ground to the north, where the mass of his army was digging in.

As he moved northward, he continued to pass the gathering troops, more of his army, seeking the safety of Harlem Heights. He met officers as well, new orders going out, men sent back to the southeast. As the Post Road cut more diagonally across the island, it ran through a natural defile of rocks known as McGown’s Pass, where he was certain a small body of men could hold back a much larger British advance. It was the last piece of good ground his men could use to keep the British away before they came to the flat plain in front of Harlem Heights. He didn’t know if it would work, but he gave the job to the Marylander, Smallwood, one of the few men whose troops he knew would make a stand.

As the darkness spread, it began to rain. The shovels still worked through the deepening mud, but the wounded and the panic-stricken found whatever shelter they could, the sounds of the rain muting the cries of their misery. Washington tried to ignore the rain, sat on his horse on a protruding point of rocks, stared to the south. He had seen nothing of the British, and so, he knew that Smallwood was doing his job, that the British had been slowed down enough to halt for the night below McGown’s Pass.

Putnam’s division had made their escape, exhausted men who had survived the incredible journey up the long route of the Bloomingdale Road, a forced march led by the furious tenacity of their commander. Though Knox had left behind many of his guns, and the men had given up far more of their supplies than the army could afford to lose, four thousand troops had slipped past an enemy three times their number and were now safely in Harlem Heights.

With Howe’s occupation of New York, Washington had one other concern, could not keep it from his mind. Nathanael Greene was in a sickbed in the city, would surely have been captured, had von Donop’s Hessians not been so interested in plunder. As the bleak night wore on, General Greene had made his escape as well, had ridden safely to the Heights, his arrival an astonishing, joyful surprise.

Washington was still out on the point of rocks, the horse quiet beneath him, could still hear the sound of shovels, the army doing its work to make the high ground safer still. The word of Greene’s return had come from his staff, and he had sent them away, did not respond to their curiosity, why he did not join the welcome. He was enormously relieved that Greene had returned, perhaps too much so, felt a strange release of emotion at the news, but he kept it to himself, would not allow the staff to see him that way. There had been enough emotion today, this shameful, awful day. He was embarrassed still by his show of anger at his troops, and though no one else seemed to fault him, though no indiscreet comments came to him, he knew it had been a serious mistake to lose control of his demeanor. He felt the opposite about Greene, not rage, but pure joyful relief. The staff and the other senior officers already knew how much he valued Greene. When Greene had fallen ill, there was talk among the doctors that he might not survive, and Washington had been surprised at his emotions, a fear and sadness he was ashamed to admit. We are all soldiers, and General Greene is as likely as any of us to be killed. But I do need him. Beyond the politics, all the jealousies that infest this army, there is an honesty in the man, something I truly need.

As it grew late, the rain had begun to slacken, the first stars appearing, clouds drifting apart. It was only then that he had sent for Greene, knew the man might still be fragile from the illness. He would not ask him to endure the weather any more than he already had. He stared still toward the open plain in front of the Heights, as he had done at Brooklyn, wondered if the British would form the same way, a vast thick line. Behind him, he could hear the dull plod of a horse’s hooves.

“Not such a pleasant day, I understand.”

The voice was Greene’s, and Washington did not look at him.

“It was not a pleasant day.”

“Your Mr. Tilghman asked me if I would inform you that Colonel Smallwood has brought his men in.”

Washington nodded, said, “Very good. Fine officer.”

Greene moved his horse close up beside him, seemed to lower his voice.

“From what I’ve heard, yes. If anything is to come of this fight, we will need fine officers. We will need good soldiers as well. Could have used some today, so I’m told.”

Washington had tried to erase the image from his mind, fought it now, could still see the men running away, leaving their positions in the face of a mere handful of the enemy.

“I do not wish to experience another day like today. I shouted out to them, shamelessly, even cursed them.”

“Did they not deserve it?”

He stared into the darkness, more stars now appearing.

“I have wondered, Mr. Greene, is this the army with which I am to defend America? Can we do no better than to scamper away? We have done nothing but give up every patch of ground we have been required to defend. Now, we have lost New York. I had thought we could make a fight of it.”

Greene said, “If we are to rely on militia, men pulled away from the tenderness of their homes, given muskets, instructed to stand up to an experienced army . . . what kind of fight do we expect of them? These are men who will flee from their own shadows. Howe was determined to have New York. He intends to make winter quarters there, so I’m told. The Tories in the city were gleefully vocal on the subject. British flags are already appearing in every shopwindow.” He paused for a moment. “It is still possible we can burn the place. Without the city to make himself comfortable, Howe will have to keep moving, or build his camps, which could leave him at some disadvantage. It may be the best opportunity for us to strike at him.”

Washington shook his head, said, “No. Congress instructed me to hold the city at all hazards.” The words seemed to stick in his throat, and Washington knew what was coming.

“It seems you did not comply.”

Washington saw no humor, said, “No, but it was the very reason we attempted to make our stand there. I would never have allowed General Putnam to remain in the city, to place his division in such peril if the congress had not wished it. To have simply handed New York to General Howe without a fight would have had disastrous consequences for the country. As it is . . . the loss is incalculable.”

Greene sniffed.

“Congress. Is congress to fight this war? What do they know of battle? They expect one glorious fight, army facing army, like some childhood game. What strategy do they impart to you? Here’s your authority to make war. But, do it without harming anything of value, such as New York.”

Washington knew that Greene would speak his mind, would sometimes give in to the frustrations.

“Mr. Greene, the congress has expressed their confidence that we should not destroy New York because we will yet possess it again. Optimism is to be admired.”

“Yes, sir, I love a good optimist. New York is a fine city to be sure. But it’s just a city. It’s not an army, and it cannot do anything to win a war. Right now, it is a collection of houses and buildings that will serve to give shelter to the enemy. There is only one good course remaining. Burn it. If we come to possess it again, then we can rebuild it.”

Washington was feeling his own exhaustion, did not want to debate.

“Mr. Greene, if congress was to learn that we had destroyed New York of our own choice, the outcry would end this war, and not in the way we intend. If the people believe that the result of this war is the destruction of our most valued cities, then the sentiment for that war will disappear. I am aware that General Howe will make himself perfectly comfortable there, and I would do anything in my power to see that isn’t so. But I must still answer to congress, and the congress will have none of it. We cannot burn New York.” He paused, lowered his voice. “No matter how tempting the prospect.”

He could see Greene turning in the saddle, heard a small grunt.

“Are you all right, General?”

Greene rubbed his stomach, said, “It comes and goes. I could use some sleep.”

Behind them, the men still worked in the darkness, and Washington could hear low cursing and a quick profane response from the man’s sergeant. Greene said, “They’re going to be worn-out in the morning.”

Washington turned the horse, could see nothing but the faint reflection from the shovels.

“Not all of them. And we must make ready. We cannot depend on General Howe to delay any further. This army requires some advantage, something to give these men confidence. We had none of that today. This is an excellent place to make a stand. General Howe has shown very little inclination toward speed. He takes his victories one at a time, savors them, possibly even celebrates them. But his generals are in their camp right now, making their plan for tomorrow. They know we are here. They know they must bring the fight to us, and thus far we have given them no reason to hesitate. I believe he has made mistakes, that we have been blessed by his delays. But if General Howe dares to push his army up these rocks, it could be a far greater mistake than just sitting still.”

8. NATHAN HALE

He carried his diploma under his coat, the only official identification he could come up with. He had only been asked to show it once, to a hostile British colonel, suspicious of this plainly dressed man who traveled the country roads of Long Island at night, claiming to be a schoolmaster. The colonel had scanned the document with mild disgust, a low disrespectful comment about Yale College, as though any colonial school was far inferior to the most lowly grammar school in England. Hale had kept his hat in his hand, painfully polite, and the colonel could find no reason to hold this odd man in this dismal place. The colonel had more important work to do after all, patrolling the country roads for rebel raiding parties who were making off with cattle and grain. The colonel had not even taken the time to inspect the cloth bag Hale carried, heavy with books, texts in Latin, the classics. The British had simply resumed their march, patrolling the darkness for their enemy, while the schoolmaster was allowed to continue his journey. Hale had caught the officer’s final insult, some curse about teaching anyone to read in this godless land, and Hale had said nothing, had resumed his long walk, the sweat in his clothes betraying more than the humid warmth of the evening.

His route had brought him across the waterway from the north, a careful, discreet crossing, avoiding the British naval patrols. He had planned to stay on Long Island, to visit the homes of the loyal citizens there, those who stayed close to the British camps. Teachers were rare now, so many having escaped the growing terror of the war, their schools shut down, some serving as hospitals for the wounded, classrooms now crowded with flat hard beds, bloody sheets, doctors overwhelmed by the new horror of their job. But when he had reached the homes along the north side of the island, presenting his credentials to curious and often nervous farmers, he began to hear unexpected news. The British were gone, had crossed the East River, a swift and efficient invasion of New York. The farmers were delighted to tell the story, all their confidence confirmed, the might of King George’s army sweeping away the rebels, bringing an end to this ridiculous war.

His roundabout journey from Harlem Heights had taken days, and he had not been able to contact anyone in Washington’s army, had received no official messages from anyone. Though the British actively patrolled the roads, it did not take him long to realize that the bulk of their army was simply gone. With soft footsteps through silent patches of woods, he had found the camp, amazed to have been standing alone in what were now empty fields of debris. The effect on him had been unexpected and strange, a sense of panic that he might have missed it all, that he had wasted too much time reaching his destination. If the camps were empty, then he had come to the wrong place. His job, after all, was to find out where the British were going next, but now, there was nothing for him to learn, and ultimately, this dangerous mission had become a waste of time. He had become more panicked by that than by the confrontation with the British colonel.

He had no choice but to continue the journey, and he found passage to the city with a sympathetic, though somewhat surprised, merchant, who made regular crossings from Brooklyn to Governor’s Island, then to the city itself. Once the rebel cannon had fallen silent, the man had resumed his regular trade run, had found himself ferrying more passengers out of the city, part of a vast exodus of refugees who would escape the British occupation. But Hale had convinced the man, there were still children in New York, and certainly their parents would want them occupied with more than the chaotic horror of an army occupation. They would still need teachers.

His home was in Connecticut, and he joined the army after an anguished debate with himself, wondering if a soldier could contribute more to the country’s cause than a man who gave education to the children. As the talk of war burst into the reality of Lexington and Concord, it was the British occupation of Boston that settled his argument. He had volunteered alongside many of his friends, made the march to Cambridge to join Washington’s army, had sat in earthworks for long weeks staring at the red-coated soldiers who stared back at him. When the British evacuated Boston, Hale had moved with the army to New York, had camped with the Nineteenth Connecticut Regiment near the city. He was quickly made an officer, promoted almost immediately to captain, an acknowledgment of his education and intellect, the young man who had gone to Yale College when he was only fourteen. He didn’t know much about being an officer, but the men who marched with him showed respect, a new experience for a man who had previously commanded only restless children.

There was respect from above as well, and he was offered the opportunity to join Colonel Thomas Knowlton’s Rangers, formed from the Connecticut regiments, a handpicked squad that would serve directly under Washington. They would be an official scouting unit, gathering information and intelligence beyond the normal chain of command. The opportunity excited him, since his duties thus far had been mostly mundane. He had never yet faced the enemy in combat. His unit had remained encamped in New York, while the great battle took place on Long Island. Though many in the nineteenth were relieved to be safely on Manhattan Island, Hale had wondered if he would ever know that experience, what those men had gone through, the men who stood and faced the enemy, the men who were now
soldiers
.

Once the Rangers had been organized, Colonel Knowlton himself had gathered the entire group together, had walked among them speaking of a specific mission. It was a mission for just one man, and there would be no uniform, no musket. Knowlton did not use the word, but the message was plain: General Washington needed a
spy
, someone to move through the British camps, someone who could provide information on when and where the British would move next. No one had volunteered, and Knowlton acknowledged that the job was unseemly, unfit for a real soldier. There was no respect to be found by being a spy. And, of course, a soldier caught out of uniform, behind the lines of the enemy, would simply be hanged.

Throughout the night that followed, he had thought again of all he had missed so far, knew that Knowlton himself had fought at Breed’s Hill, many of the men around him already taking their muskets into the line of fire, the campfires alive with tales of fights Hale could only imagine. No one spoke again of the new unpopular mission, but Hale could not escape the feeling that it was an opportunity, some way he could be useful. He had finally gone to Knowlton, had told him he would volunteer for the mission. Knowlton had accepted Hale’s offer with few words, and Hale understood that the colonel himself was unsure of the honor in this sort of job. But the two men had gone straight to Washington’s headquarters, and Hale had stood silently as Washington explained all he needed the young man to do. But that mission was on Long Island, and Washington could not have known that in a few days, everything would change. So now, Nathan Hale the schoolmaster was in New York.

S
EPTEMBER 20, 1776

He had come to the city for the first time in late spring, when the army had arrived from Boston, the nineteenth pitching their camp near the East River. The duty had been mundane and tedious, but then had come the curious order, and the entire army had marched and assembled on the great open Green. It had been over two months ago, on July 9, and it was one of the few times he had actually seen the commander in chief. Washington had ordered the troops to form a hollow square, the first time the men had seen their own strength assembled in one piece of open ground. Even the citizens had come, gathering around the Green in awe of the sight, so many men with muskets, the odd mix of uniforms, the sounds of the drums. But then, the drums had stopped, and Washington himself had called them to attention. He would always remember the voice of that officer who read them the document, the words of the Declaration of Independence. In the formation around him, no one had spoken, each man absorbing the words, the entire army understanding that something momentous had occurred. The congress in Philadelphia, that body of men that most knew little about, had somehow united all of the colonies into one voice, and now, that voice had officially broken their allegiance to King George.

As he walked through the Green now, that extraordinary day was nowhere in evidence. British troops spread out around campfires, much of the greenery was ripped up, pits dug for latrines, trees cut, piles of logs stacked. He caught the rank smell, moved quickly past, made his way westward. He moved into a side street, narrow, thick damp air, more smells, could hear voices in the houses, a woman crying, shouts of men. The woman was in obvious distress, and he thought of stopping, knocking on the door, but the accents were unmistakably English, the crude manner of the common soldier. He was in no position to be gallant.

He kept moving, wasn’t sure where he was going, saw more side streets, narrow again, twisting. There was no sunlight here, the street thick with mud, and he heard a strange animal sound, quick motion in front of him. He could see a group of pigs bursting out of a deep wallow, scampering away from him. He shuddered at his own fright, a low nervous laugh, heard shouts in front of him. The darkness opened into sunlight ahead, and he could hear the pigs squealing, a harsh, sickening sound. He moved closer to the light, saw a group of British soldiers running, chasing the pigs, a sword, the awful game. He backed into the darkness again, moved through the thick mud, another side street. He stayed close to the sides of the houses, listened, more voices, women. He tried to hear the words, talk of food, a baby crying. He was surprised anyone with children was still there, that despite his own charade, he had believed that anyone with a family would be long gone from the city. He kept moving, the dark street ending, more sunlight. He looked down at the filth clinging to his shoes, knew he would take the smell with him. He stepped into open air again, looked across a wide street, felt a light breeze cleaning his lungs. Now there was a hand on his back, a hard push, and he stumbled into the street, his knees hitting hard on the cobblestones. He turned, saw a group of soldiers, laughing, one man pointing at him.

“Out of the way, clerk.”

The men moved past, more laughter, and he held the anger, lowered his head, said quietly, “Yes, sir. As you wish, sir.”

The soldiers were gone, and he sat on the rough stones, rubbed his knees. He did not take well to the role of the helpless weakling, had always been athletic, more fit for sports than any of his friends. But he could make no show, no protest of any kind. The last thing he needed was attention, especially from soldiers.

If there were citizens still in New York, they had to be either loyal to the king or so destitute they had no means of leaving. Both were dangerous to him, and he knew he could speak to no one, ask no specific questions. The Tories would take him straight to the provost’s office, and the street people would see a reward, would find a way to draw him into some betrayal for which they would pocket a few shillings. If he was to observe the strength of the British positions around the city, the location of specific units, he would have to do it alone. Eavesdropping at windows had given him nothing. No, it would be the officers, the men with real information, and they were safely housed in the large estates, their debauchery brought to
them
, unlike the common soldiers.

He had walked for most of the day, his legs aching now, the strain of slogging quietly through muddy alleys. The frustration was growing, and he had already thought of giving it up, making his way carefully out of the city, finding some way to reach Harlem Heights. But then he remembered the meeting with Washington, the commander in chief asking him to do what so many would not. Even if the men of Knowlton’s Rangers were uncertain of the honor in being a spy, Washington had made it clear. The mission was not only important, it was crucial. Now, with the British in the city, it might be all the more so. No matter the frustration, he had to accomplish
something
.

He moved to an open square, saw more soldiers, strange blue uniforms, polished brass helmets. It was a squad of Hessians marching in formation, muskets on shoulders, and on both sides of the street, civilians were staring silently, tight grim faces. The Hessians moved past, and the onlookers began to move again, slowly resuming their own business, and he thought, Even the Tories are frightened. It is one thing to receive General Howe with graciousness, to give lavish parties in his honor. It is quite another to try to live with these strange and foreign soldiers marching in your streets, who have shown no concern for your politics or your loyalties. If you are not in uniform, you could very well be their enemy, and they do not hesitate to act on that. He heard a burst of shouting from a house behind him, a woman’s short scream. He turned, saw glass shattering, a book flying out the window, landing in the street in a heap of scattered paper. He stared at it, instinctive anger at the assault on the one thing he loved, wondered what the book was, thought of picking it up. There were more shouts, male now, and the woman screamed again. In the wide square, another group of soldiers appeared, British this time, but they made no move toward the house. Hale caught their glances that way, saw smiles, reacting to the screams of the woman only as some shared experience. He felt an icy chill, moved quickly away from the house, felt the violation of the woman in some place deep in his mind, the awful shame that there was nothing he could do. He rounded a corner, saw more soldiers, fought hard to keep his anger quiet. But these were different, powdered wigs, much gold on their uniform. The anger eased, and he focused on the opportunity, saw four men, dressed with the sharp scarlet coats of officers,
senior
officers. He fought the urge to duck away into the alley, was too far in the open, could only move past them, make no obvious motion. He kept his face down, nodded silently as they passed him, slowed his walk, listened to their conversation.