The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [38]
With a final hard pull by the oarsmen, his boat slid into soft sand, the men quickly climbing up and out, splashing their way forward, responding to an officer already onshore. The man saluted Cornwallis, who stepped out as well, his boots sinking into the churned-up mud. His troops were already moving away, and he followed them, the footing solid for a short way, then muddy again. He crossed over a shallow ditch, could smell sulfur again, the ground ripped by the artillery barrage. He saw one body, and it was a shock, not for the blood, or the man’s shredded clothing. It was one body. The ditch had been the rebel entrenchment. And there were no signs of a fight, no wounded, none of the scattered chaos that litters the ground of every battle. He could hear a chatter of musket fire now, well out in front, on the far side of the meadow, and lines of his men moved that way, led by the captains, the sergeants holding them tightly in formation. The meadow was a swarm of activity, units moving into one long line, others, the flanks, marching out to both sides. He looked again at the shallow ditch, the mud, wisps of smoke still clinging to the wet ground. It was a good show indeed. And when they had their fill of it, the rebels simply . . . vanished.
FORTY-FIVE HUNDRED MEN HAD COME ASHORE AT A WIDE COVE KNOWN as Kip’s Bay. It was chosen from a number of possible landing sites, the shoreline protected from wind, a favorable tide, the ground flat and open, a meadow with no obstruction other than what the rebels would provide. Inland, the meadow ended at woods, and beyond the woods the primary roadway, the Post Road, ran north and south along the east side of the island. The city of New York was to the south, and the landing had avoided a confrontation with any force the rebels might have positioned there. No one knew the exact strength the rebels had placed at Kip’s Bay, but with some good fortune, Howe might have chosen a piece of ground that was lightly defended. When the army came ashore, the only opposition came from scattered clusters of musket fire, small groups of men who had backed into the woods, and many more who had simply run away. But the Hessian, von Donop, had sent his jagers quickly forward, the green-coated marksmen, men whose method of fighting was familiar to the rebels. The jagers moved from rock to tree, each man precise at finding his target with a rifled musket, the skill of a marksman. If any of the rebels made a strong stand, the jagers would fall back to the lines of the men behind them, the massed body of Hessian troops who relied more on the bayonet. And, as had happened on Long Island, the combination was impossible for even veteran rebels to combat. In less than an hour, the first wave of Howe’s invasion of Manhattan had swept away any resistance in front of them. As Cornwallis’ men moved in formation across the meadow, there was the eerie sense of a simple parade-ground drill. Not only was there no organized opposition, but nearly every rebel in the area of Kip’s Bay was in full flight.
HOWE HAD COME ASHORE AT THE REAR OF THE FIRST WAVE, HAD surveyed the scene of the landing with a puffed-up glow of accomplishment. Cornwallis and Clinton had met him, had made their reports, and Cornwallis had asked every officer he could find to confirm the most astounding report of all. No one could actually locate a single British or Hessian soldier who had been wounded. As Cornwallis gave Howe the report, even he didn’t believe it. But Howe had nodded with a confident smile. Of course there were no casualties. It had been a good plan.
Cornwallis watched as Howe strutted along the shoreline, thought, I suppose this is customary. Give him his moment. No one can argue that