The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [58]
He moved past the fresh earthworks, men suddenly appearing from behind barricades of wood and rock, snapping to attention when he passed. He did not look at them, knew their hopeful expressions by heart, good troops waiting impatiently for another opportunity, and no one sure just when General Howe would give it to them.
The sharp skirmish at the Hollow Way had resulted in ninety casualties to the British, and Cornwallis had considered that a prelude of what was surely to come. He had examined the ground in front of the Heights, already preparing his own men for the sequel, finding some way to draw a greater number of Washington’s men into another fight. A direct assault on the Heights would have been foolish, perhaps, certainly costly. But the rebels had shown little ability to stand up to any general engagement, whether or not they were behind fortifications. But Cornwallis’ preparations were suddenly stopped. Back at headquarters, Howe had responded to the results of the Hollow Way skirmish very differently, and his orders had stunned Cornwallis, as they stunned nearly every officer in the army. Instead of preparing for any kind of general assault, the British would build a heavy line of fortifications all across Manhattan Island. They would prepare a defensive line against a much smaller force that had shown no intention of leaving their hill.
Cornwallis had naturally gone to Clinton, had heard the man’s rage yet again. Both men knew that Howe might never erase the image of Breed’s Hill as he formed his strategies. Every assault against a rebel hilltop would provoke the memories of a victory dearly bought and a lengthy casualty list that would stick hard in the throats of London.
The soldiers along the line accepted their new orders with the same resignation they had shown at Brooklyn. If they could not attack their enemy, they would instead make good use of the shovel and the axe. The work had gone quickly, the men driven by the incentive that the order might still come at any time, to form and be ready, to march and advance beyond their own new defenses. But days became weeks, and no order had come. Cornwallis had gone to headquarters more than once, had become practiced at holding in his impatience. More often now he found Howe to be simply unavailable, his staff whispering indiscreet comments about the effects of the general’s mistress. For more than three weeks, Howe had seemed content to keep his army in place, while Washington’s vastly outnumbered army dressed its wounds.
Cornwallis rode clear of the fortifications, and the road leveled out, the rocks giving way to a flat hillside. Up ahead he could see a group of officers gathered at a narrow crossroad. They saw him and began to move their horses into line, official respect. He scanned the faces, several younger men, and the senior man, Alexander Leslie, the brigadier who had commanded the skirmish below Harlem Heights.
Leslie was slightly younger than Cornwallis, had served the army in nearly every major action of the war, was by anyone’s estimate a capable and disciplined officer. Like Cornwallis, he was a sober man, not taken with the vices often available around the headquarters of most senior commanders. Cornwallis had tried to be less formal with Leslie, saw something in the man that could lead to friendship, but Leslie often seemed unapproachable, inflexible, adhering to protocol with the stiffness of a man whose uniform is too tight.
Cornwallis rode close, the line of men holding their horses in a rigid salute. He looked at Leslie, said, “Is there a problem here, General?”
Leslie seemed perplexed by the question, and responded, “By no means, sir. We were discussing the disposition of the artillery. As you know, sir, General Lord Percy will remain in command of this position, and once we are on the flatboats . . .”
“Flatboats?” The word jabbed at Cornwallis like a sword. “What flatboats?” His voice had cracked with