The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [87]
Washington saw formations of men lit by lamplight, the troops massing just beyond the riverbank. He looked at Glover again, the man focused on his men at the boats. He saw Henry Knox, the artilleryman supervising the cannon, rolling more of them close to the water’s edge. Knox saw him as well, made a brief wave, then turned again to his gun crews. He shouted something, and his men moved quickly, the cannon suddenly lurching forward, the men hoisting and heaving on the ropes. There would be eighteen cannon carried across, and every one was precious. It was all the artillery Colonel Knox had left.
One by one the big guns rolled into the Durham boats, their crews alongside, and Glover was shouting, pointing, his own men boarding each boat, securing the big guns. Glover looked at him, and Washington could see impatience, the man with no interest in a conversation, not now. Washington said, “Return to your boats, Colonel.”
Glover smiled for the first time, said, “God bless us, sir. I’ll see you on the other side.”
As he moved away, the storm Glover predicted began to swirl around him, the wind buffeting Washington with a howling fury. It was more ice than snow, and he felt the sting in his face and eyes. He held up his hand, a shield, letting him see the specks of light from the lanterns bouncing with the movement of the men who carried them, barely visible now, faint reflections through the blinding sleet.
He stepped away from the river, climbed the narrow bank, and farther up he saw Greene, stepping down to the water’s edge. All through the darkness, the commanders moved out in front of their men, and along the river, Glover’s fishermen were standing beside each boat, their work complete, each of them aware that the moment was close. He could feel their energy, could see Greene looking at him, knew they were waiting for his order. Close beside him, Tilghman had brought a drummer, a very young, very thin man, a ragged coat over bare legs. The man was shivering, stared at Washington with wide eyes, Washington turned toward the river, could not look at the drummer, knew so many of them had so little. He pushed the thought away, pointed to the drum, the young man responding, the sounds of the storm suddenly cut by a steady roll of the drum, then several sharp beats, and another roll. Out in the darkness, more drummers knew to pick up the rhythm. As the sounds echoed over the army, the men began to come forward, stepping in line to the long fat boats. He could see Greene, close to the water, guiding his men, seating them tightly into each boat, Glover’s men standing high on each rail, the men holding tight to the push poles. Some of the soldiers had sticks of their own, to ward off the ice in the river, the stark white shapes that floated past them, some already thumping and ramming the boats. He tried to see in both directions, but farther away, the darkness and the storm blanketed his men, the flickers of light the only sign that his army was moving at all.
After a few minutes there was a shout from Glover, and Washington saw the fishermen gathering at the stern of each boat. Glover held his arm in the air for a brief moment, his own signal, and Washington saw it come down, and just as quickly, the boats began to move, sliding away from the shore. Washington did not feel the wind now, ignored the flecks of ice biting his face. He held his hands at his side, clenched his fists, felt a sharp tightness in his throat. If God has any mercy for our cause . . . let these men have their one good day.
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