The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [16]
It was well after midnight, and the silence continued. Cornwallis moved into the intersection, Clinton followed, and both men stared into darkness toward the east, toward the narrow gap in the brush where the Jamaica Road would lead them. The advance patrol had instructions to report back to the main column by midnight, would certainly have found the rebel line by then, or at least some good idea of the rebel position. Cornwallis could feel Clinton’s impatience, and Clinton turned now, said to an aide, “Bring me a dozen men. I want them to move out on this road until they find what I expect them to find. It seems our first attempt . . . our advance patrol has become lost in the dark.”
Cornwallis rode forward, knew several of the men who had disappeared down the road. Some were from his own regiment, the thirty-third, and those men would not be lost. He listened hard, heard a brief rumble from the southeast, more scattered firing. The new patrol began to gather behind Clinton, the quiet shuffle of boots, and now the darkness was shattered by a voice, a sharp call, horses’ hoofbeats. The shock made him jump in the saddle, and he could see a lantern coming toward them from the west, the road alive with light, the faces of men. Clinton moved quickly past him, shouted, “Extinguish that light! What is the meaning of this! Whose troops are you?”
The light went low, but not out, and one man rode forward, said, “Sir! We have them, sir!”
Clinton seemed to sputter. “Who? You have who?”
Cornwallis eased his horse forward, could see smiles, recognized the young faces, said, “Please report, Captain.”
The man seemed to calm. “We captured the rebels, sir. The road is clear.”
Cornwallis moved past the young captain, Clinton close behind him. He could see the rest of the patrol now, the British uniforms, and then others, no uniform at all, sullen faces, staring at him. Clinton seemed confused. The sharp voice now gone, he said, “Where are they? How many rebels?”
“They’re right here, sir. Five of them. That’s all there were.”
CLINTON AND CORNWALLIS MOVED THEIR COLUMN WESTWARD DOWN the Jamaica Road, and the young captain was correct. The rebels had not fortified the northernmost avenue into their position. Only five militia officers had been sent that way to keep an eye on what their commander had assumed to be nothing at all. For the rest of the night, the British marched half their army through the gap in the dense woods, moving silently on a route that brought them behind the main lines of the rebels. By nine o’clock in the morning, the rebel position was trapped between the two great arms of Howe’s army.
3. WASHINGTON
BROOKLYN HEIGHTS, AUGUST 27, 1776
THE SOUNDS OF THE FIGHT ROLLED TOWARD HIM IN ONE GREAT CHATTERING roar. He had expected it on the right, where his flank lay close to the East River, close to the British camps, and Howe had not disappointed him. Washington had put his best troops there, the veterans in an army that had very few veterans. The British had begun moving against his right flank the night before, slow and probing, and it was not unexpected. He knew both sides would do some feeling out, the land somewhat precarious, swampy, patches of thick woods, framed by the salt marshes and swift current of Gowanus Creek. That part of the field was commanded by William Alexander of New Jersey, a man known to the army as Lord Stirling. It was a semilegitimate title his family had brought from Scotland, which was recognized in few places outside his own circle. But the affectation caused Washington no difficulties, the title in no way a barrier to Stirling’s dedication to American independence. Washington believed Stirling to be a solidly competent, if somewhat fiery field commander, and he knew that Stirling had nearly as much field experience as he did, was in fact a few years older. In an army where any