The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [11]
He shook his head, tried to laugh.
“Oh, no, sir. Just fishing.” He pointed toward the boat, his hand shaking. “See? Just fishing, sir.”
The officer glanced at the boat, said something to the soldiers beside him, and the men moved quickly, the bayonets suddenly coming forward, the sharp flash of steel, the work of men who know their business. The officer gave a short command, and the soldiers backed away, stood again in a tight line. The officer glanced down at the man who lay fallen into his boat, nodded, made a brief smile.
“A spy. Yes.”
2. CORNWALLIS
LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK, AUGUST 22, 1776
HE HAD BEEN WITH THE FIRST WAVE, BRINGING HIS OWN MEN ashore in a great show of martial elegance. The uniforms were spotless, the men well practiced in their drill, and as the regiments moved in line up the rise away from the water, not a man among them had any doubt that if the rebels dared to stand in front of them, the memories of Breed’s Hill and Concord would be wiped away in one bloody charge.
They had made camp near the small village of Flatbush, and when the tents were in line, and the equipment organized, he had gone back to the water’s edge to observe as the rest of the massive force came ashore. It was a marvelous armada, nearly ninety flatboats, a vast spread of force punctuated by the power of the big warships, standing guard, great birds of prey watching over their flocks, keeping their men safe for the landing. No force of rebels could have held them back. In fact, there had been no opposition at all, except for a brief scattering of musket fire.
Already the local civilians had come to the camp, all with details of what lay ahead, of the rebel position, the strength. Most of the citizens in this area were staunchly loyal to the king, and it was obvious they were relieved finally to be under direct protection of the army. Nearly every farmer who came into camp fashioned himself to be some kind of spy, eager to lend some assistance to the army’s intelligence. Cornwallis had heard that the musket fire had come from some militia from Pennsylvania, and whether or not the information was reliable, he had to wonder, were there no New Yorkers to defend their own soil? There would be meaning to that, something not to be ignored. General Howe had given little regard to the intelligence from the citizens, relying instead on the reports from his brother, Admiral Richard Howe. The admiral would stay with his ships, keeping a sharp watch for rebel movement from any quarter that might pose some threat to the landing. Cornwallis understood that of course General Howe would give much more credence to the reports from his brother. But Cornwallis listened to every civilian, sorted through hyperbole and careless boasting, focused on the small bits of real information, any hint of the weakness that could be of good use to this marvelous army.
They had landed nearly twenty thousand men, and combined with the great mass of naval power, it was the largest expedition the British military had ever assembled. They were not all English, of course, several thousand Hessian soldiers landing beside their new, or as some said, temporary allies. But Cornwallis had observed them coming ashore, could tell immediately that the Hessian discipline was absolute. Like the British, their uniforms were perfect, the weapons held in perfect symmetry. Even the faces of the men seemed identical, strange, as though a massive force of brothers. The uniforms were mostly blue, but then had come the jagers, in their green coats, the handpicked riflemen, recruited from the forests for their hunting skills. That would be something new here, men who fought as the rebels fought, relying on the keen eye and