The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [24]
Washington glanced at the others, said, “He has his enemy right in front of him. I do not believe his king would find favor with General Howe sailing his army back to Staten Island.”
Putnam seemed amused, a slight smile.
“I believe that General Howe is perhaps a friend to us. Or, he is no general after all.”
There were small laughs, but Washington did not take up the lightness in their mood.
“I called this council because I consider it important to hear your views on possible strategy. There is no debate that we are in a dangerous situation here. We are faced with an enemy more than double our strength, and we have already demonstrated that we are not capable of pushing him away. General Howe must certainly grasp his advantage. Does anyone else have suggestion of strategy to offer?”
He searched the faces now, and no one spoke, the smiles gone. He said to Putnam, “Colonel Glover is not here?”
Putnam shook his head.
“He would be on the river, sir. Managing the boats. We’re keeping a sharp eye down the river, in case the enemy attempts a run upstream.”
Washington looked for Tilghman, saw him standing back just under the edge of the dripping canvas.
“Major, send for Colonel Glover. I would like him here.”
They waited patiently, long minutes of quiet talk, and Washington saw Glover now, bringing his temper with him as he splashed through the mud. Washington could not help a smile, the short round man wiping a shower of water from his red hair. He was another man of Washington’s age, and his temper had already become legendary, not for empty noise and bluster, but precision, the man’s wrath aimed toward improving the efficiency of his men. John Glover, another Massachusetts man, commanded a regiment recruited from the tough fishermen around Marblehead, up the coast from Boston. It was Glover who had brought Washington across the river, the man making special mention of the direction of the wind, something Washington had not thought to value. Washington looked up now, the sharp breeze buffeting the canvas, and the others followed his look, most not realizing what he was seeing. It was still gusty from the north and west, and Washington understood the significance if the others did not.
When the works on Brooklyn Heights were designed, Putnam and Stirling had suggested that the mouth of the river be blocked by the sinking of old hulks and unusable ships, and the navigable channel below Brooklyn Heights was now crossed by a man-made brush line of masts and rigging, the topmost skeletons of the wrecked vessels. The senior commanders had thought the army secure in its Brooklyn position, that the barricade would prevent the British gunboats from sailing upriver and cutting half of Washington’s army off from New York.
The water still dripped from Glover’s face, and he looked at Washington now, said, “You sent for me, sir? Fine day for a war.”
Washington motioned upward. “The wind is still holding. You expect that to change?”
Glover glanced at the others, who kept silent, knowing that Washington had a purpose in bringing this man to the council.
“Pardon me, sir. Would you be asking me to predict the weather now?” Glover’s frankness had a way of disarming Washington, and he fought through the smile, brought himself to the seriousness of the matter.
“In a fashion, yes, Colonel. Do you anticipate the enemy ships will be held at bay for a while longer?”
Glover took the question seriously as well, said, “This storm is passing, lightening up already.” He motioned to the west, across the river. “Sunset soon. You should see it through the clouds. By midnight, it’ll be clear. Very clear. Full moon tonight.” He paused, glanced at Putnam. “Can’t say much for the wind one way or t’other.”
Putnam had boasted loudly that