The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [60]
Cornwallis was surprised, nodded to Howe, acknowledged the reference, a brief show of appreciation. Until that moment, he had no idea if his reports had actually been read at headquarters. Interviews with deserters could hardly compete with the festive social scene. Howe seemed to grow serious now, said, “Good citizens, as my fellow officers will attest, in the army, we have an instinct about these things. Frankly, this command was reluctant to inflict unnecessary losses on its own gallant soldiers. There had to be a strategy that would cause the rebels to submit, without the tragedy of so much loss of life. On either side, I might add.”
Cornwallis let the words flow by him, knew he was caught in Howe’s web, that Howe would use the festivity as a stage. Of course, he will make a good show of kind sympathy to the rebels, their wives and children. We will fight and win a war and no one must suffer. He glanced around the room, saw several of the grand society ladies hanging attentively on Howe’s every word. He looked for Clinton, was surprised to see that the man was gone, had slipped out of the room. Not wise, General. He looked toward Howe again, a glass of wine raised, yet another toast, the wine disappearing. Well, no matter. Tonight is not about strategy anyway, it is about good wine and accommodating women. Regrettably, General Howe, neither of those is sufficient cause for me to lose sleep.
He began to slip past some of the other officers, no one noticing, thought of Clinton again. He will have some particular view of this plan, certainly. And, before too much longer, we will all know if, this time, General Howe can outwit Mr. Washington.
OCTOBER 12, 1776
He had studied the maps, now knew exactly where Throg’s Neck was, and why it was valuable to the army. The flatboats would carry most of the men northward, up the East River, then navigate through the treacherous swirling waters of Hell’s Gate, moving east into Long Island Sound. Throg’s Neck was a spit of land that jutted southward into the Sound, and the maps showed it to be a convenient landing place for the troops. Once ashore, the march would begin northward, with the intention of cutting Washington’s army off from their supply lines to New England. Once Washington realized that Howe’s army was not only facing him on Harlem Heights, but was encircling him from behind, there would simply be no escape. Howe’s plan might indeed work.
THE HELL’S GATE PASSAGE WAS APTLY NAMED, A TREACHEROUS, SWIRLING confluence of channels, and as the flatboats bobbed and twisted their way through, one was ripped to timbers, sweeping terrified soldiers toward the rocky shoreline. Several had drowned, but most were rescued, only to board another boat to make the journey again. It was nearly miraculous that there had not been more loss, a testament to the skill of the sailors. By nine in the morning, nearly five thousand troops had reached the calmer waters off Throg’s Neck, the flatboats holding at anchor, awaiting the order for the men to land.
The landing was commanded by Clinton, a combination of British and Hessian troops who expected little opposition. But the advance skirmishers reported something the maps had not shown. Throg’s Neck was actually an island, and to reach the mainland, the troops would have to cross a wooden bridge, which passed over a watery marsh. When the skirmishers approached the bridge, they came under rebel musket fire, the mainland crawling with marksmen, a thick line of dirt and rocks thrown together as fortification. The bridge itself was of almost no use. The rebels had removed the planking. When Clinton received news of the setback, he ordered the entire column to halt. It was, after all, Howe’s plan. Howe would have to decide what to do next.
The maps showed another