The Glorious Cause

  11. CORNWALLIS

  Nearly three thousand prisoners were marched away from Fort Washington. Magaw and his officers were treated with customary respect, and marched toward the city, to be housed in makeshift prisons that had once been private homes or businesses. But most of the soldiers, including the wounded, were herded to the shore of the Harlem River, and loaded onto flatboats that would deposit them into the bowels of the British prison ships, anchored in the East River at Wallabout Bay. All along the fortified lines, and in the fort itself, the British and Hessian troops gleefully stacked and counted the rebel muskets, cleaned and repaired the rebel cannon, and hauled to their own camps the enormous stores of canvas, blankets, and food the rebels had surrendered.

  NOVEMBER 20, 1776

  He led the crossing of the Hudson River before dawn, flatboats ferrying nearly six thousand troops to a landing place called Lower Closter, chosen for them by a local Tory farmer. They had been rowed upriver, reaching the far shore about six miles north of Fort Lee, and as he stepped ashore in gray mist, all he could see was the stark sheer wall of a cliff, looming tall above the riverbank. But the guide knew the land, and led him through a patch of dense brush that suddenly opened to a trail, narrow and tight, and nearly straight up the cliff.

  Cornwallis was still not comfortable with the farmer’s claims, eyed the perilous climb with skepticism, and behind him, he could hear short groans from the men, who began to see for themselves the job in front of them.

  The farmer seemed not to appreciate Cornwallis’ doubts, hissed at him with a sharp whisper, “This would be the only way up, General. You can follow me, or you can go back to your boats and find your own way.”

  Cornwallis ignored the man’s impudence, thought, No, we are not returning to the boats. We are here, and we will climb. He fought the urge to give the man a warning, that any treachery would be rewarded with a Hessian bayonet. But he was in no mood for bluster or posturing. If this was the only way, then it was time to go. He glanced behind him, saw the Hessian officer who commanded the jagers, the troops that would lead the way, said, “Captain Ewald, you may follow Mr. Aldington.” He glanced up, the daylight now showing the way, the trail a few feet wide at best, the steep ground covered with sharp rocks, an uneven road, no place for horses. Ewald moved quickly, and the Hessians began to file past, the farmer leading them up the hill. Cornwallis moved back toward the river, the flatboats still pulling ashore, more men stepping out into formation, waiting their turn to make the climb. He saw a cannon rolling up and out of one boat, the wheels set carefully on long wooden planks. The sailors held tight to the ropes, the big gun now ashore, and Cornwallis saw the blue coat of the artillery officer, said, “Major Landry, have your men retrieve those ropes. The horses must remain here until the men have reached the summit. The climb is too severe for the horses to draw the cannon. They must be pulled up by hand.” Landry looked at the big gun, another one still in the boat, pulled by the sailors, and around the boat, the men were looking upward, eyeing the climb. Cornwallis knew what he was asking, said aloud, “No man will be compelled. I would ask the seamen first. You men are handy with the rope, but no order will be given. I ask instead for volunteers.” He paused. “This is an important business today.” It was an unusual request in an army where the men simply did what they were ordered to do. But Cornwallis would not abuse his men, knew that some were more suited for the work than others. If this day went as planned, they would need their strength.

  Men glanced at each other, some still looking at the tall cliff, and some began to step forward, falling into line, Captain Landry beside them, and Landry said, “General, these men are prepared for the work at hand.”

  Cornwallis smiled, said aloud, “Your king thanks you, gentlemen.” He turned, looked up at the cliff, moved back through the brush, could see the last of the jagers disappearing up the trail. Hessian regulars were falling into line beside him, and he held up his hand, their officer giving the command to halt, to make way for the general. Cornwallis stepped up on a tall rock, took a long, deep breath, and began to climb.

  It was his first taste of independent command since he had come across the Atlantic, and for the first time, he knew that if there was delay or confusion, it would be no one’s fault but his own. He had not pressed for the assignment, would not politic against anyone to secure a command. Howe had given him the mission with little fanfare, no eager congratulations on the good work Cornwallis had already accomplished. He had given up on trying to predict Howe’s motives, his experience in the short months of this campaign teaching him that the general’s mind worked in ways Cornwallis had never been trained to understand. But the mission was an honor nonetheless, and Cornwallis had even written Jemima, sharing his pride, knew that the daughter of a good honest soldier would understand that same pride in her husband. She knew how much his service meant to him, that his need for recognition had very little to do with the empty prestige that might come from praise from the ministry. His ambition was to win the war and return to his family. If General Howe believed that placing Cornwallis in command of a major assault would accomplish just that, it was all Cornwallis could ask for, and it had nothing to do with vanity.

  This type of mission would normally have been Clinton’s job, but Clinton was with the navy, on his way to Newport, Rhode Island, to capture the deepwater port, and if possible, the city of Providence. The strategy had much more to do with the simmering personality clash between Howe and Clinton than any sudden need to take control of Narragansett Bay. Clinton had been less and less discreet about his displeasure at Howe’s delays, and the withdrawal from White Plains had caused an outburst that even Cornwallis could not ignore. He had endured Clinton’s mutinous tirades long enough, and finally, exhausted by Clinton’s disruptive complaints, he went to Howe himself, revealed Clinton’s latest insubordination. Feeling betrayed by Cornwallis, Clinton spouted more anger around headquarters as to how he had been conspired against. He felt his authority had been usurped by Cornwallis’ ambition to replace him, as though Cornwallis was driven by the same selfish pride as he himself. Clinton could never understand that Cornwallis had no wish to be suddenly closer to Howe’s command, to have Howe looking so carefully over his shoulder. But with Clinton’s departure, at least the army could operate without one of its senior commanders angrily disputing every order he received.

  The farmer’s word was good after all, and the climb had not been as difficult as he imagined. Soon the entire force was marching up the trail in good order. Once on top of the cliff, they formed again by column, marching without pause through the farm country that would lead them to Fort Lee.

  His horse had been brought up, and he rode beside the Hessians, knew that out in front, Captain Ewald had the jagers spread all through the woods, an effective wave of skirmishers. Ewald knew to take captive anyone they found, an effort to keep word of their march from reaching Fort Lee. There were scattered farmhouses, and Cornwallis looked carefully at each one they passed for some sign that the jagers had gone beyond the job, the Hessian tendency toward mindless destruction, the brutalizing of any civilian. But the houses were undamaged, and there were no cries for help, no blood in the doorways. This was not a day for reprisal or plunder. The enemy was not here, but up ahead, and if the plan worked, the rebels in Fort Lee would be completely surprised by an overwhelming assault from the one place they would not expect: the one road that led inland, the only road the rebels could use for an escape route.

  He saw three jagers moving back toward him, escorting a scowling civilian, and Cornwallis did not stop the horse, moved past the man, who cursed at him as he went by. Cornwallis smiled, ignored the man, thought, There will be much cursing by the end of this day. Just be grateful, sir, that you are not a soldier. Those Hessians might not be so gentle.

  It was a reminder of something he hoped never to see again, and the smile faded. As Fort Washington fell, the Hessians were the closest to the main rebel position, had made their advan
ce from the ground on the northernmost part of Manhattan, the most difficult terrain imaginable. They had pushed through swamps, climbed up over rocky cliffs, all the while enduring waves of musket fire and well-placed artillery from the rebel defense. The cost had been enormous, and most of Howe’s casualties that day had in fact been among the Hessians. When they reached the walls of Fort Washington, and Magaw had surrendered, the exhaustion and brutality of the day gave way to revenge, and the Hessians would not recognize the white flag. The rebel prisoners were unarmed and helpless, and the Hessians had attacked them with the bayonet. It was a slaughter that had alarmed their own officers and horrified the British. Angry demands from red-coated officers had finally pushed the Hessian commanders into action, and the chaos had been brought to an end. The British had been outraged, the Hessians’ officers mildly apologetic for the loss of control. Cornwallis had seen the aftermath, the rebel bodies stacked in bloody heaps, Hessian soldiers still shouting their curses at terrified prisoners.

  He glanced to the side now, the rows of helmeted troops staring ahead, a mindless force, marching toward their duty. He thought of de Heister, the old Hessian general merely shrugging his shoulders when told what his men had done, his only comment, “War turns man into beast.”

  Well, perhaps. But it was a horror that would last, far beyond the emotion of that battle, of watching your own men die beside you. The British soldiers would look at their allies differently now. The Hessian soldier was simply not the same, was not taught respect for life. He looked again at the faces beside him, thought, If they fight out of fear of punishment, and not loyalty, then they still have a camaraderie that is no less powerful than our own. Even if you care nothing for generals or kings, you will come to care about the man beside you, the soldier who has shared every horror you have. And when he is killed, you will seek revenge. He looked ahead, another small house, more jagers emerging with another civilian in tow. This one was not cursing, seemed gripped by a raw terror, whimpering softly. Cornwallis looked at the man’s tears, realized now, yes, the absolute fear. These people may hate us, might spit and curse at the British soldier. But they are terrified of the Hessians. The image of the slaughter at Fort Washington was still in his mind, and he felt the disgust, but something else as well. The rebels have forsaken the dignity of the civilized soldier, to fight a war befitting the savage. What the Hessians did to their prisoners is no different. If the rebels insist on waging an uncivilized war, we clearly have troops who will oblige them. Is that, after all, a bad thing?

  He heard a sudden burst of musket fire, a brief chatter, could see troops in the trees ahead, Ewald’s men coming together, rushing forward. There were more muskets now, but only a few, far to the front, and he turned, motioned to an aide, said, “Find Captain Ewald. I must know what they are confronting.”

  The man rode past him quickly, disappeared into the trees, and Cornwallis saw the face of a Hessian officer, looking at him, waiting some instruction.

  “No, keep your men in column. We must not delay.”

  The officer nodded, and Cornwallis spurred the horse gently, moved up along the column, could hear more muskets far ahead, scattered, the trees clearing in front of him. He could see jagers still in motion, more of Ewald’s men focusing on the direction of the firing, and now he saw a low thin cloud, just past the trees, thought, Smoke. But no, too wide, too much. It’s not smoke. It’s dust. It’s an army on the march.

  He saw his aide now, riding hard toward him, and the man reined up, said, “General, Captain Ewald has located the rebel position! They are spread out to the west, on a road ahead. They are marching in quick order, sir. They know we are in pursuit! It has to be the garrison from Fort Lee, sir. Captain Ewald requests the army advance in strength. The enemy is not putting up a fight. The captain says he believes he can cut off their retreat!”

  The man was out of breath, and Cornwallis said nothing. He reached into the pocket of his coat, retrieved the map, unfolded it. The road out of Fort Lee led southwestward, to a bridge on the Hackensack River. It was the only direction the rebels could retreat, and there was only one bridge that would allow them to escape across the river. If Ewald could move quickly enough, get to the bridge . . .

  He folded the map, returned it to his coat, felt another piece of paper in his pocket, his fingers holding it for a moment. It was his orders from General Howe. He left it in his pocket, knew already what it said.

  “You will advance on Fort Lee, and secure its capture.”

  There was no room for discretion, the orders distinct and definite, and what was not written on the paper had been made clear at his last meeting with Howe. The capture of Fort Lee was the highest priority.

  The aide was staring at him, had said all he could, and Cornwallis looked up the road, more scattered musket fire, thought, No, we are not in pursuit of the enemy. We are in pursuit of a place.

  “You will return to Captain Ewald and order him to break contact with the rebels. I do not wish him to suffer casualties. The life of one jager is worth more than ten of the enemy. He will follow his original instructions and advance his men only to Fort Lee.”

  They were close to the river, and the Hessians had spread into a line of battle, the response to more musket fire. But there was no force in their way, the fire coming only from scattered groups of rebels, who were quickly captured. They were stragglers from the main force, the sick and lame, or others, who for some reason of their own had stayed behind, had not marched with the rest of their army. Cornwallis ignored them, knew they were acting without orders. He focused instead on the fort itself, saw the Hessians moving past a group of small houses and huts, saw tents now, the smoke from a fire. The Hessians were quickly inside the fort, and he waited for the sounds of a fight, but there was only silence, and he knew what they had found. Nothing.

  He reached the fort, his staff moving past him, but he knew there was no danger, ignored protocol, rode in with them. The Hessian officers had their men under control, the soldiers searching through rows of tents, opening wooden doors to tin huts, storerooms. There was a burst of wild laughter, and he looked out toward the river, saw a man sitting astride the barrel of a cannon, waving his hat, then falling forward, sliding to the ground. A soldier rushed toward the man, then stopped, his bayonet fixed on the man’s back, but the man was still laughing, rolled over now, looked at the Hessian with wide eyes, then laughed again. The soldiers began to gather around the man, their sergeant reaching down, hauling the man to his feet. The man made a ragged salute, said, “Would you gentlemen care for a wee dram?”

  The sergeant looked up at Cornwallis, who said, “Yes, quite drunk. He is harmless.”

  He climbed down from the horse, the fort now filling up with more soldiers, British as well. Cornwallis began to walk past a row of campfires, saw pots of boiling liquid, caught the smell of soup, roasted meat. The common area of the fort was crowded with piles of canvas, many of the tents struck but not packed. The soldiers were moving in and out of the shelters, opening all the doors to the storerooms and cellars, but the men were not looting, no one ripping through any abandoned debris. He could see that it was not debris at all. It was supplies, whole and useful, everything an army would have in their own fort, even their dinner.

  The men were beginning to celebrate, the shock of what they had discovered turning into a party. He saw more rebels pulled by their shirts into the open, drunk as well, and he understood now. Of course, more stragglers, whose loyalty to their rum keg exceeded their loyalty to Mr. Washington.

  He kept moving forward, closer to the sharp cliff that fell away to the river. In the rocks were the cannon, the big guns that had tormented the British ships. His men were examining them, and he could see that none had been spiked, none damaged. He thought of Howe, the order that would not let him pursue the rebels. Well, sir, you will be pleased. We have captured not only the fort, but every piece of equipment, every tent, every dinner plate, every gun. The rebels have simply left it all
behind.

  Cornwallis stayed true to Howe’s orders, and only when the fort and all its supplies had been secured did his troops begin the march in pursuit of the rebel garrison. They had crossed the Hackensack River in a blinding storm of sleet and rain, made worse by the destruction of the single bridge, repairs to which took several days. Cornwallis knew that Greene’s men had joined up with Washington’s, had stayed in one place for the several days that Cornwallis had been delayed. The rain-soaked roads could not disguise the misery of Washington’s army, supplies and stragglers dropped all along the way, an army that could not keep itself together. Along every mile, Cornwallis’ men scooped up prisoners, and he heard more tales of despair than he had ever heard from the deserters at Harlem Heights. Every farmhouse was filled with exhausted, barely clothed men, and when Cornwallis reached Brunswick, he knew that just across the Raritan River, Washington’s army was melting away.

  He paced the horse along the river, could see that the weather was turning foul again, a thick black sky moving toward him from the west. The chill cut through his uniform, and he reached for the heavy coat, an aide quickly beside him, pulling it over his shoulders. Upriver, he could see a group of rebels, a dozen perhaps, and he rode that way, ignored the faint objections from the staff, thought, It hardly matters, gentlemen. They have no muskets. He halted the horse, and the rebels began to wave, and he didn’t know if they were taunting or surrendering. He looked at the sky over their heads. Another night like the last few, and the rebels will likely beg for mercy. Mr. Washington cannot want a fight, not under these conditions. Surely he is outnumbered by two or three to one. And everything we have seen tells us that those men have very little fight in them. He looked down the river again, where the engineers were repairing the bridge. Gentlemen, I implore you. Do make haste.