The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [69]
They reached the Hudson, and the commanders stepped quickly into the boat. Greene waited until the others were in place, looked toward the north, to the highest ground where Magaw would be. The battle was now engulfing the entire position of Magaw’s men, nearly two miles of lines engaged. Greene thought of the reinforcements, Yes, thank God. But is it enough?
The boat began to move, the oarsmen calling out to him, and he stepped through soft mud, climbed in. Down the river, the British frigate was shrouded in smoke, her guns firing in a continuous wave, sharp streaks in the air, the thunder rippling the surface of water. He sat now, Washington beside him, and the boat slid away from the shore, the oarsmen working frantically. They moved out into the open water, and the scene unfolded as they moved farther away, great columns of smoke to the north, beyond the fort, a sudden burst of firing, troops meeting their enemy on a new front, the battle rolling across some new piece of ground. Washington said, “We can do no more for Colonel Magaw just now.”
Greene looked up toward the fort now, the British shells bursting above, streaks of fire showering beyond the hills.
“Yes, sir. God help him.”
THEY WATCHED THE FIGHT FROM THE WALLS OF FORT LEE, COULD hear the waves of sound growing tighter, the battle a compacting circle. They could see very little detail, and Greene stood beside Washington as both men used the spyglass, long moments of quiet, while around them, Greene’s men sat close to their guns, staring across the river in desperate silence.
It was afternoon, and to the south the smoke had cleared away. The fight had moved north, and Greene knew that the Morris House was far behind the British advance, that Baxter’s Pennsylvanians had either withdrawn toward the fort, or were gone. As the fight drew closer to the fort itself, Greene could imagine the scene, the fort filling up with retreating men, scrambling up through the rocks, jamming their way into the tight space. The reinforcements would cause their own tragedy, a horrible piece of the puzzle he had not considered. There would be too many men to fit inside.
He still looked through the spyglass, bits of motion, colors, uniforms, men climbing rocks, bursts of smoke. His eyes were swollen with fatigue, and he lowered the glass, and Washington did the same, moved away from him, sat down on the rocks. Washington held the spyglass low in one hand, said, “Dark soon. If Colonel Magaw can hold out, we can send boats over, remove the men as best we can.”
There was no confidence in Washington’s words, and Greene motioned to an aide, said, “Prepare an order. Instruct Colonel Magaw to keep to his guns until dark.”
The man was writing furiously, and now from the lookout above them, a sharp call, “Sir!”
Washington had stood, and Greene saw the lookout pointing out to the river, saw the small boat now, oars pulling it quickly across. The progress was agonizingly slow, and Greene could do nothing but wait, saw the boat slide into shore below them, the dispatch passed to an aide, the man climbing the hill with long hard strides. Washington had watched the scene without speaking, and Greene took the paper, began to read, then stopped, said to Washington, “The boats will not be necessary, sir.”
There was another shout, then many more, and both men turned to the commotion, men pointing across the river. Over Fort Washington, the small flicker of Magaw’s flag was dropping down, and quickly it disappeared. The men around him were stunned into silence, and Greene raised his spyglass, tried to focus, fought through the shaking in his hands, gripped the glass hard, found the flagpole. He stared for a long moment, heard soft sounds from beside him, Washington’s grief digging into him, fought the tightness in his throat. He gripped the spyglass, could not look at Washington’s tears, tried to hold the image still, the bare flagpole, and he saw another flicker, rising, a new flag, a blank white cloth. Now came