The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [37]
The men at the oars pulled his boat steadily past the big ship, and he turned to see the great open maws of the gun ports. The troops were watching as well, and the flatboat was now past the frigate, between the big ship and the shoreline. Cornwallis gave his own silent command to the ships, All right, you may begin firing. But the big guns did not respond. Around him, the cheers and salutes grew quiet, and he could feel the changing mood of his men. One man shouted, “You may commence to firing!”
There was nervous laughter at the man’s mock command, and Cornwallis stared still at the guns, thought, We cannot go much farther. He turned toward the shoreline, saw the mass of flatboats in front of him, Clinton’s oarsmen now holding their boats in place, jamming up the smooth flow of the crossing. There was a drummer now, a signal to the sailors in each flatboat, and abruptly his own oarsmen began to pull the opposite way, their officer giving the command to hold the boat in a stationary position, fighting the slow current in the river. Cornwallis knew the naval officer had the boat under control, and there was nothing for him to do except wait with the rest of the landing force for the ships to begin their artillery barrage. He looked again at the frigate, felt like cursing, held to his own discipline. Can you not see us? We cannot go closer until . . .
From the rows of open ports, there was one sudden burst of smoke, a thunderous roar that ripped the air above him. The sky was alive with streaks of red and orange, and as quickly as the sound rocked him, the shoreline erupted in blasts of fire. The men in the flatboat were pushed low to the deck, the shock of the sudden cascade of sound. The volleys from each ship erupted without pause, the sharp blasts from huge guns punching the air in his lungs. He could hear smaller sounds now, dull pops from the swivel guns, the miniature cannon high in the rigging of each ship. All he could see of the river was a swirl of gray smoke, and the smell drifted over him, burning sulfur, the smoke blocking out the sunrise behind him. The roar of noise continued still, but the men in his boat began to recover from the shock, began pointing at the shore, the cheers resuming, and he saw it as well. The row of piled dirt was ragged and uneven, and the men who manned the earthwork were now out of sight, bathed in smoke and fire. The flatboat sat motionless in the water, and Cornwallis looked along the river, the other boats still waiting as his was, while above them, the great ships continued to pour their fire toward the rebel works. As the smoke masked what was happening onshore, the men seemed to settle down lower in the boat, the wonder of the bombardment already becoming routine. He knew it would be like this for a while, that the big guns would continue their work, that nothing else could happen until somewhere, someone gave the order to cease fire.
IT LASTED FOR AN HOUR, AND WHEN THE SOUNDS FINALLY STOPPED, THE echoes in his ears gave way to the sounds of a new drumbeat, and quickly the flatboats resumed their motion toward the shore. He felt a thick layer of ash on his face, could see it on the men, the white in their uniforms tinged with the grime of the burnt powder. He tried to find the excitement again, focused on the shoreline, the smoking piles of dirt along the water’s edge, what remained of the rebel works. But he was nagged by the one glaring inefficiency, the bad timing, the big ships waiting too long to begin the barrage. Someone did not communicate, someone missed the order. You don’t wait until your own troops are in front of you to begin an artillery assault. He put the annoyance away, focused on the job in front of him. Along the shore, the first of Clinton’s boats had landed, the mass of color