The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [14]
Clinton leaned close to him, looked at the map, said, “Yes, I can confirm these positions.” Clinton looked at Howe.
“Sir, I would suggest a general assault along the rebel front, combined with a turning movement along the northern road.” Howe did not look at Clinton, and Cornwallis absorbed that, knew their relationship had been more than strained, certainly before Cornwallis had arrived, possibly even before Boston. It was simply a case of two men who held tight to their own ideas of strategy, not helped at all by Clinton’s sensitivity about the failure at Charleston. Howe was looking at Cornwallis now.
“General, do you agree with the position we now hold? Are you satisfied with the placement of our strength?”
It was an odd question, even inappropriate. I am outranked by three men here. This should not be my plan at all.
“Sir, General de Heister has great strength in the enemy’s center.” He didn’t know what else to say, looked at the old Hessian, who leaned forward, said in a quiet voice, “We are prepared.”
Howe, who had always seemed uncomfortable around de Heister, smiled politely at the old man, and said, “Yes, well, by all means. It is perhaps time to end this matter. Do you all concur then, that the rebels seem ready to receive a fight?”
Clinton stared at Cornwallis’ map, said, “They have already demonstrated their willingness to fight. The only reason they are not fighting us right now is they know our strength. Mr. Washington cannot engage us in a general assault. I would imagine he is wondering why we have not yet engaged him.”
It was an indiscreet remark, and Cornwallis was surprised to see a smile break through the ruggedness of de Heister’s face. He looked at Howe, expected to see anger at Clinton’s impudence, but Howe had turned away, was speaking to an aide, reading something written on a piece of pink linen. The aide moved away, and Howe turned toward them, said, “General Cornwallis, if you believe it is a good plan, then perhaps you should pursue it. I might even . . . join you on the march. It should be good sport.”
THEY WERE LED BY THREE SCOUTS, LOCAL MEN, CHOSEN FOR THEIR familiarity with the roads. Two of them had moved out ahead, leading a patrol of troops, a probing party, who would be the first to find any rebel position. The army had moved northeast, behind the dense ridge of woods and thickets known as the Heights of Guian, which hid the rebel lines. It was late, and very dark, and Cornwallis rode slowly on a road where all the landmarks, the familiar trails, were erased by the night. Behind him, nearly ten thousand men marched in sweaty silence. Clinton was beside him, and they both knew that Howe was nearby, that no decision could be made without his approval. Their guide stopped, waiting for them to ride up close, said in a whisper, “Jamaica, sir. We turn left here. Old Jamaica Road.”
The man seemed nervous, glancing into the darkness, and Clinton said, “Are you certain?”
“Oh, yes, quite, sir. I’m wondering where they might be waiting.”
Cornwallis understood, the man was referring to the rebels.
“I wouldn’t concern yourself, young man. There are plenty of muskets between us and them. We’ll find them soon enough.” He looked toward Clinton, would wait for the next move, and Clinton turned to the staff behind them, motioned to an aide, and said, “Have one man locate General Howe, inform him we have reached the intersection. One man will remain here, guide the column to the left. Continue silence at all cost.”
There was a sudden roll of thunder, from beyond the ridge. Both men turned, the sounds coming more behind them than down the Jamaica Road. Cornwallis pointed into the dark, said quietly, “Southeast. The rebel position. That would be . . . General de Heister.”
The sweat in his shirt gave him a sudden chill, and he gripped the reins of the horse, thought, Finally. He listened in silence, the thunder now distinct, artillery, scattered bursts of musket