The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [28]
Cornwallis sorted his words, was still not entirely comfortable.
“I believe, sir, that without an army, there is no rebellion.”
Clinton let the meaningless words drift by, said, “Did you hear the reports of mass drownings? Some say that during their escape, the rebels lost dozens of boats capsized, men overboard, wholesale loss of life. Right out there, hundreds perhaps. Rather sad, don’t you think?”
Cornwallis wasn’t sure what Clinton meant, and Clinton went on, “Of course, I assume that hundreds of drowned rebels would have made something of a mess of the shore, or at the very least, would have been a grisly observation for Lord Howe’s lookouts. That’s the sadness, General. It was all fabrication. This army is forced to create tales of enemy disaster, because we are impotent to effect that disaster ourselves. It was right in our grasp. Now, we must begin again, march to the boats and cross another waterway, and see what kind of enemy awaits us over there.”
Cornwallis was absorbed by Clinton’s deep gloom, a mood darker than even his own. He looked back toward the Heights behind them, crowded with red uniforms, men sorting through the debris the rebels had left behind. He saw one man with a bayonet, poking at a pile of muddy rags, more men doing the same, all along the waterfront, their white leggings soiled by the filth of the trash. He thought of Howe, the official report that would go to London. It was a victory, we have the ground, the enemy fled before us in panic, leaving behind . . . their garbage. If there is still a war, if the rebel army escaped to fight us yet again, at least General Howe can be proud. By God, it was a grand show.
SEPTEMBER 8, 1776
They had gathered on Admiral Howe’s flagship, the Eagle, a grand man-o-war that carried all the luxury appropriate to his command. The dinner had been enormous, an assortment of all the delicacies to be had around New York, many of the Tories still pouring out their good tidings and their generosity to the British command. The plates were gone now, the claret flowing freely, and Cornwallis had begun to feel a lift in his dark mood for the first time.
The rebels had abandoned Governor’s Island, and some had thought it was another unfortunate escape, that the navy should have made more of an effort to capture the position. But the effect was positive, no more of the annoying potshots at the ships if they drifted too close, and if Lord Howe had been too hesitant to seize the small island, no one spoke of it. The only rebel artillery positions were in Manhattan, most on the southern tip, and the navy had been free to spread out through much of New York Harbor. The calmer waters of the protected bays were full of activity as well, the navy bringing the fleet of flatboats into formation, preparation for the army to make its move to Manhattan. Despite Clinton’s not-so-subtle fury, General Howe continued to operate on a schedule of his own, perfectly satisfied to proceed on some deliberate timetable only he understood. But the sight of the flatboats brought back the excitement, and Cornwallis could not help but feel that no matter if General Howe’s movement was slower than he would have liked, at least, now, there was movement.
The admiral sat at the end of the table, framed by an extraordinary chair, tall spires bathed in gold. The talk had begun to quiet, and with a subtle tilt of his head, the order was given, the servants quickly gone from the dining room.
Lord Howe looked at his brother, who sat on his right, a formal, familiar ceremony between them, a mutual permission for the discussion to begin. The admiral said, “Some of you have shown the courtesy to converse with our prisoner, Mr. John Sullivan. I am pleased to report that the rebel general is actually something of a gentleman, with some understanding of his rebellion’s unfortunate