The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [52]
THE CITY WAS ENGULFED IN FIRE, AND HE WATCHED THE EXTRAORDINARY scene from a low hill, tried to catch his breath, his whole body shaking with the exhaustion and the pure thrill of the long night’s work. By now, the fires had spread to nearly a fourth of the city, and he could see entire houses collapsing into themselves, larger buildings, warehouses, even some of the grand homes now engulfed by the man-made hell.
It had not been long before the soldiers had swarmed the streets, and he had escaped by the strength of his legs, had run right through the grip of the troops sent to stop the chaos. There had been virtually no water, and when the soldiers could not extinguish the dozens of fires, they turned their energy instead to revenge. Troops began to round up anyone they could find in the street, and Hale had seen one screaming man simply thrown into a burning house, the rage of the soldiers building into their own inferno no officer could control.
He had been able to set a dozen or more of his own fires, and from the time that had passed, he knew the troops had not been mobilized with any kind of efficiency. As the fires had spread, there had been no general alarm, the soldiers only called out by word of mouth. In every church steeple, the bells were long gone, melted down by Washington’s army for the critical supply of musket balls.
It was nearly dawn, and still he watched, could tell that many of the fires had begun to die away. The wind had shifted, and he cursed that one piece of bad fortune. He had thought the entire city would burn, but now he could see that many of the steeples and taller buildings were still intact, the flames all centered in only one part of the city. But it was a massive area of destruction, and no matter what happened, the British had lost a large part of their comfortable winter quarters. And more, even General Howe would know that right there in the city, in dark alleys and crumbling shacks, there were rebels who could still bring their war straight into the heart of his own headquarters.
Hale turned to the east, the sunlight just beginning to break over Long Island, dim gray light in the empty road. He began to move down from the hill, stared northward toward Harlem Heights, still several miles in front of him, and every route blocked by the British. Before the fires, he had made some notes, maps, descriptions of those British fortifications he could see up close. The location of Howe’s headquarters was no secret in the city, and the position of the British cannon was simple to diagram, as was the largest gathering of troop barracks and tents. But with the spread of the fire, all of that seemed insignificant. But he still had his orders, thought, It is not up to me to decide what is important. General Washington will expect a report.
He felt his pocket, still had the diploma, his one piece of documentation, but he had no confidence now, his masquerade as a schoolmaster would mean nothing, not after the great fire. The British would round up every man who they could not label as a known Tory.
He thought of just hiding out, but he didn’t know the land, and any farmer who saw him would likely report him. There would be no friends out here, not this close to the British camps. And, on the river, the British patrol ships would stop and inspect every boat, probably stop the waterway traffic altogether.
He still walked northward, felt the chill of the early morning, could smell smoke on his clothes. Well, they’ll know where I’ve been. But still, I’m only a schoolmaster. He could see men now beside the road, moved closer to them, the road blocked, guards milling around a small stone building. He saw a crude wood sign, The Cedar’s Tavern, could see that the men were standing, watching him. Now they stepped into the road, and one man said, “Hold there, sir. What is your business here?”
Hale scanned the uniforms, tried to appear dazed, unsteady, said, “I’m a schoolmaster. My home