The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [26]
Just before dawn, his fears were realized, a British patrol slipping forward, reaching the edge of the river without causing the usual alarm, their sergeant staring in wide-eyed amazement at the surge of activity in the river. The alarm went out, and Howe scrambled to bring his men to the scene, but then, as if on command, a thick bank of fog drifted over the river, covering the withdrawal. The British still came forward, made their way into the works of Brooklyn Heights without firing a shot, and some advanced all the way to the river’s edge, caught a last glimpse of the big man stepping off, the rebel commander the last man to board the last boat. Washington’s army had escaped.
4. CORNWALLIS
BROOKLYN HEIGHTS, AUGUST 30, 1776
HE WAS WEARY OF THE REPORTS, MANIC BURSTS OF WORDS FROM THE men who had first reached the river. He had finally ridden up himself, moving first through the farms, surprised by the destruction of the houses, shattered glass, broken doors, contents spread across the muddy roads. He understood now, the rumors floating through headquarters were accurate, reports of savage brutality by the Hessians. He didn’t want to hear of it, but what he saw around him made it obvious. If there was no enemy in range, de Heister’s men turned the frightening efficiency of their fight on whoever might lie in their path, soldier or civilian, rebel or Tory.
He reached the edge of a stand of trees, Brooklyn Heights now in front of him. He rode out across the open ground where the bodies still lay, the putrid smell rising with the dampness of the soggy ground, drifting past him as he guided the horse. Some of the corpses were British, and he could not avoid the horror of that, the good men who had fallen too close to the American position to be buried. He glanced back at his aide, the young Captain Hurst, but no words were necessary, the man already knowing the order.
“I’ll see to it, sir. We’ll have burial parties out here immediately.”
Cornwallis made a quick nod, appreciated the young man’s concern, something few of the senior officers ever cared to show.
He took the horse up through a narrow trail in the rocks, rode up straight into the place where Washington’s ragged army had made its stand. The ground was a chewed-up pit of mud and debris, ripped clothes, and scraps of bandages. The horse stepped over a broken musket protruding from a deep puddle of brown water, and he could not escape the symbolism of that, the shattered arms of a shattered army, an army that should not have escaped. He clenched his fists around the smooth leather of the reins, spurred the horse farther, closer to the high ground that overlooked the river.
He could see it now, the shoreline of Manhattan, broken only by the silhouettes of the great ships, Lord Howe’s men-o-war moving into position, some sailing upriver toward Hell Gate. Of course, now we are in place. The thought stuck in his mind like a sour piece of fruit. Now we can start our wonderful blockade, a perfect trap around Brooklyn Heights for an enemy who is no longer here.
No one was exactly certain what would happen next, and General Howe had not revealed any details of a new strategy. Cornwallis moved the horse along the shoreline, thought, There could very well be no strategy at all. After all, we have gone to so very much trouble to make a truly fine camp here. The army is rested, the casualty figures somewhat complete, and clearly in our favor. By anyone’s measure, this was an absolute triumph. The rebels lost a quarter of their strength, possibly more. We have so many prisoners we don