The Glorious Cause (12 page)

Hale was stunned, looked at the heavy man, stared at Howe’s disheveled dress. Howe scowled at him, said, “Rudeness is typical of rebels. I do not please you in my current state of attire? Well, I would add, Mr. Hale, that you do not please me by interrupting my morning repose. Have you no response to my question?”

Hale forced himself to stare straight ahead, said, “No, sir. You have all the information you require. My identity is known to you.”

Howe moved away toward the door, said, “Yes, indeed. That it is.” He pulled the door open, stopped, looked back toward Robertson now, said, “Hang him.”

S
EPTEMBER 22, 1776

He sat in the tent of John Montresor, a pleasant, somewhat formal man. Montresor was the chief engineering officer for the British army in America, but only carried the rank of captain, something that had made Hale curious. There was little conversation between the men, but Hale appreciated the man’s graciousness, the engineer’s tent situated by chance close to the ground where the executions were said to be held. Hale had been escorted on foot to the place, his feet still bare, a sweltering hot day. He was surprised when Montresor had given the order for the guards to bring Hale into the tent.

Hale had asked for some paper, and was surprised that Montresor accommodated him, providing a pen as well. The engineer had watched him as Hale wrote two letters, and Hale could not help noticing the sadness in the man’s face. Hale didn’t know how to react to that, there was no reason to beg anyone for mercy.

Montresor was watching him still as Hale completed the last letter, to his brother. Hale put the pen down, sat back in the chair, stared at the papers on the small table Montresor had allowed him to use. He had no way of knowing if the British would actually send the letters, if such a courtesy would be granted a spy. But he was encouraged by Montresor’s manner, the man showing none of the arrogant hostility of the other officers.

“You attended Yale College, I am told.”

“Yes.”

“Fine school. Unusual to meet someone in your, um, profession who understands books.”

Montresor seemed uncomfortable, and Hale said, “I don’t have a profession anymore, sir. I was a schoolmaster. Now, I am, I suppose, simply a prisoner.”

Montresor looked down a moment, said, “You are familiar, I assume, with Homer?”

“Certainly.”

“I wonder about your own odyssey, this mission of yours. I sense something of dignity in your bearing. Yet the job requires a man to practice deceit at every turn. Is this what your cause requires of you, that you sacrifice moral principles to achieve your ends?”

“Captain, this is a war. What is moral about any duty we perform, whose outcome is the destruction of another?”

“But, Mr. Hale, you must certainly agree that in war, a well-accomplished mission is regarded with honor and celebration, even by your enemy. Yet in this business of yours, capture means death. That very penalty suggests that a spy is regarded with disdain on either side. To a man of honor, especially a soldier . . . well, I am at a loss, Mr. Hale. As soldiers, our place is on the field.”

“I’m sorry, Captain. But my place is where my nation requires my service. I had a mission to fulfill.”

“Is that important now, Mr. Hale? Clearly you did not succeed. I wonder what would have happened if you had. Do you believe you would have won the war for General Washington? Was it so important that you accomplish this mission?”

“Those are two different questions, sir. I doubt my actions would win any war. And, yes, it was important that I do this. I joined General Washington’s army because I wanted to be . . . useful.”

“Then you are a tragic figure, Mr. Hale. You will die for no good purpose.” He paused, and Hale could see a sadness in the man’s eyes. “Schoolmaster. There is honor in that, Mr. Hale. If not for this war, you would have had a good life, no doubt. You are an educated man, in a profession where books do not matter. How terribly sad. I regret that you should come to this end. You should not be remembered as a failure.”

Hale thought a moment. “How I am remembered will likely be decided by your army, sir. If you have the conscience to bury me in a forgotten grave and give my passing no mention, then, Captain, I will have failed indeed. But only because General Washington will not know that I performed my duty.”

Hale heard a voice outside, and Montresor stood, moved to the opening in the tent, said something, looked back toward Hale. Hale did not need to be told. He stood, moved to the opening of the tent.

Outside, the man who had led him across the open ground was waiting impatiently. Hale had come to know the man as Cunningham, the provost marshal, the man whose duties included the disposition of condemned prisoners. He was a big, grotesque man, spoke in a rough voice, a crude accent Hale could not place. The man’s uniform was merely a huge black ill-fitting coat, his arms extending below the sleeves. He grabbed Hale by the shirt, pulled him forward, spun him around, and Montresor said, “That is hardly necessary, Marshal. He will not resist you.”

Cunningham ignored him, and Hale’s hands were clamped together behind his back. He felt Cunningham’s hard grip, wrapping something around his wrists, the man’s rum-soaked breath engulfing him. He spun Hale around, faced him, and Hale saw the man’s hideous smile. Cunningham said, “There you go, now, rebel. All snug.”

Hale glanced at Montresor, who was looking away, the sadness obvious on the man’s face. Hale said, “I would request a clergyman, sir.”

Montresor looked at Cunningham, a short questioning nod, but Hale could see that Montresor had no authority. Cunningham made a small grunt, said, “Pray to the devil, rebel.”

The guards were there now, and Cunningham grabbed Hale’s collar, pulled him roughly away from the tent, Hale stumbling as the big man dragged him. He tried to work his legs, noticed a wagon parked beside an old stout apple tree. Beside the wagon was a shallow hole, fresh earth, and a wooden coffin.

He had no air in his lungs, felt his legs give way again, but Cunningham held him up, the guards close behind him. Suddenly he was pulled up into the wagon, the hard wood rocking beneath him. He found his balance, straightened his legs, could see out now, an artillery park, rows of cannon, more wagons. There were a few soldiers gathering, and a small group of civilians. Now he saw children, running out across the open ground, some sort of game, the children oblivious to him, to what this all meant. He said again, “A clergyman . . .” but the rope was over his head now, Cunningham tightening it roughly on his throat, the words choked away. He tried to say a prayer, could not be angry at Cunningham, the man doing his job. There is no evil in that. Hale looked at the faces watching him, most of them expressionless, some turning away, and he saw Montresor, the only emotion he could see, the sadness etched hard in the engineer’s face. He wanted to talk to the man again, wished there had been more time, something intriguing, an educated, civilized man, serving in the uncivilized hell of war. But it is what we must do, it is the time we live in. He remembered the meeting with Washington, and Colonel Knowlton, the importance, the seriousness, the commander in chief speaking to him with such quiet respect. He had kept that moment with him, Washington’s concern, the weight of all of this on the man’s shoulders, all of the war, all that this could mean. I
have
been a small part of it. I hope that somehow he will know that. I hope he will understand. I may have failed my mission, but I was some small part. I was . . .
useful
.

He tried to turn his head, but the rope rubbed him hard. He could only see Montresor, wondered why the man still watched him, realized, perhaps he has to. There is something in the man that will keep him here, some need for penance perhaps, that will make him see this. Thank you, sir.

Behind him, Cunningham said something, and Hale felt the wagon lurch slightly, the floorboards tilting beneath him. The rope was suddenly looser, and he took a long breath, looked again at Montresor, summoned the energy, the voice, said, “I only regret . . . that I have but one life . . . to lose for my country.”

On Harlem Heights, there was little activity, the soldiers at their posts, lookouts scanning the horizon across the plain below them. They had seen the flag of truce, the small parade of British horsemen, and Washington had sent Putnam to receive it. The officer who led the party was an engineer, John Montresor, a name vaguely familiar to Washington. Montresor had brought a letter from General Howe, a protest about some brutality from the rebel soldiers. But there was more meaning to the note, and the last paragraph, written as nearly an afterthought, had made it clear that Howe was telling him something more significant, a boasting of sorts. It was just a brief mention that a spy had been hanged, a man with a diploma in his pocket from Yale College.

Washington revealed nothing to his staff, folded the note away, moved out on the point of rocks, could see far to the south, where clouds of black smoke still rose over New York, where fires still burned in the wreckage of a quarter of the city. He glanced behind him, wasn’t sure if Putnam was still there, looked again toward the south, said quietly, “It seems that Providence, or some good honest fellow, has done more for us than we could do for ourselves.”

9. CORNWALLIS

Howe had finally ordered a line of troops to push across Manhattan Island, a tight seal to keep the rebels pinned on Harlem Heights. There had been one minor engagement near the rebel position, a place near the Hudson River called the Hollow Way. It was not part of Howe’s instructions, but the response to a rebel patrol sent down into the plain beneath the Heights to determine where the British main lines might be positioned. The patrol was successful, and found themselves confronting the British Forty-second Highlanders, one of the most historic units in King George’s army. The Highlanders were also known as the Black Watch, and brought into battle a reputation for brutal efficiency. Dressed in the kilts and tartan of their ancestors, and driven forward by a rolling cascade of bagpipe music, the Highlanders responded to the sudden encounter with the rebels by making an advance of their own, and the rebels, who were outnumbered, wisely withdrew. But Washington made use of the aggressiveness of the British. In quick response, he sent out another, larger force, Knowlton’s Rangers and a company of Virginia riflemen. The intent was to flank and possibly surround the British, who had remained out in front, separated from Howe’s main force. Despite a brief and brisk action, there was little positive result for either side, and when the Highlanders were reinforced by a company of Hessian reserves, the rebels retreated to their fortifications at Harlem Heights. The official report that reached Howe’s headquarters indicated that among the casualties, two rebel officers had been killed, one of them the man who had founded the elite squad of Rangers, Colonel Thomas Knowlton.

O
CTOBER 11, 1776

To the British, the skirmish with the Highlanders had seemed to remove any inclination the rebels had to leave the safety of their defenses, and beyond the occasional raid of some farmhouse, Cornwallis had heard nothing of any rebel movement at all.

He rode now through McGown’s Pass, the tall rocks and narrow trails now the geographical center of the British line. The staff followed in single file, and Cornwallis tried to ignore their nervousness, men not accustomed to riding close to the front lines, some of them searching the rough ground to the north for the chance encounter with a rebel marksman.

He had been to a farmhouse, a low flat building bordered by an apple orchard, that served now as one of the many reconnaissance posts. The house had been owned by a man known to be sympathetic to the rebel cause, and the heavy front door had been branded with a crude letter
“R.”
It was the custom now for the loyalist civilians to brand their traitorous neighbors. Once the British had completed their occupation of New York, the loyalists had been positively gleeful about identifying those citizens whose sympathies might lie with the rebels. Scattered through those sections of the city unaffected by the fire, many houses and storefronts were marked by the insignia. To the army, especially the Hessians, the carved letter was an open invitation to plunder. Most rebel sympathizers were long gone from the island, and the army occupied nearly every home that still supported a roof. But to the north of the city, in the open farm country, Cornwallis knew it was simply good fortune that some of these abandoned houses now provided the British lookouts with a view toward Harlem Heights.

What the British command did not anticipate was that the visible outposts would attract rebel deserters, and they came down from the Heights nearly every night. That morning Cornwallis had interviewed yet another group, dirty men with filthy clothing. Though he had occasionally seen some semblance of uniforms on distant rebel units, most of these men wore nothing to show they ever had been soldiers. The interviews were usually performed by a company commander, a job appropriate for an officer of lower rank. But Cornwallis enjoyed it, had come to appreciate the differences between the mind of the British soldier, and the rebels who opposed them. Besides the entertainment it gave him, he understood that his presence might actually result in an even greater willingness for the deserter to talk, most of them now desperately eager to please. He knew better than to believe all their expressions of newfound loyalty to the king, especially those who professed an immediate need to join the British army. Washington certainly would try to infiltrate the British lines, and Cornwallis considered it a challenging game to identify those deserters who were more likely just spies. It was not difficult for him to distinguish those rebels who brought a genuine desperation, hunger, sickness, and Cornwallis knew they would have no inhibitions about talking to their new benefactors. He knew it was the best chance for some piece of good intelligence, something significant that the deserters might not even recognize in their own rambling tales. The soldiers had been instructed to welcome the deserters as friends, to see to their needs, which usually meant only a simple meal, or a warm blanket. This morning’s lot had been typical: talk of despair, how vast numbers of Washington’s forces were simply giving up and going home, some militia units in open defiance, officers marching their men right out of camp, across the King’s Bridge northward, insisting the war was over, that any opposition to the British army had been proven futile.

The group this morning had been typical in another way as well, something he had seen with growing frequency. There was no guilt in the men, no sense that they were betraying anything. The stories had become less sensational and more matter-of-fact. These men were through being soldiers, had endured just enough of the horror and the deprivations of war to believe that whatever the cause, the politics, the dispute with the king, the cause was not as important as their own discomfort. Cornwallis had not been surprised. He did not know what Washington’s camp was like, of course, and the deserters would bring their own very biased version, but surely the message was clear. We are still the empire. We are Britain, we are centuries of history, and we are the mightiest army in the world. And you are part of a band of rebels who would presume to drive the empire away. With what? They cannot even feed you properly, arm you properly, put you into proper clothing. No, before too much longer, Mr. Washington may find he has no one left in his camp at all.

He moved the horse down a narrow gorge, saw scraps of clothing, a shattered musket, signs of the brief fight in McGown’s Pass that had once held Howe’s men back. On that day, they escaped us a second time. And, now, once again, Mr. Washington sits in his defenses and wonders why we do not complete the job.

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 the surprise, and Leslie seemed suddenly embarrassed for him, looked away for a moment, the other officers taking the cue, looking away as well. Cornwallis took a long breath, thought, Decorum, man. They need not know your every thought.

“General Leslie, allow me to repeat my question. Have you been ordered to make a crossing . . . somewhere?”

Leslie seemed uncertain how to respond, cleared his throat, said, “The order came this morning, sir. General Howe . . . oh, dear me. Were you not informed? This is highly . . . it is not seemly for a junior officer to convey orders to his senior. I’m not at all certain what I should do . . .”

“Good God, General, just tell me where you’re going. I’ve been out on the line all morning, questioning deserters. What orders?”

Cornwallis’ explanation seemed to soothe the man, and Leslie said, “Oh, quite, sir. Yes, that would explain . . . Orders, sir, to board the flatboats in the East River. Lord Percy is to remain in command here, while the army makes the journey to the Throg’s Neck. The orders are from General Howe, of course, sir.” Leslie’s discomfort seemed to return, and Cornwallis held up a hand, said, “All right, General. Don’t trouble yourself further. I will go to headquarters immediately. Thank you for the information. You did nothing untoward. I am quite certain that as we speak, one of General Howe’s couriers has been sent to find me out in this wilderness. As long as I remain near the advance lines, he will likely confine his search to whatever tavern he may find, until he can deliver his dispatch in safety.”

He moved the horse, the staff coming alive behind him, then turned to Leslie again, ignored the grateful relief on the man’s face.

“If you don’t mind my asking, General, what the devil is a
throg’s neck
?”

It is time, gentlemen! we have the rebels exactly where we wish them to be, and our only job now is to round them up! Rather like draining the water from a container of live fish. There lies Mr. Washington, ingloriously flopping about!”

There was laughter now, and Howe basked in the attention, a quick glance to the servants and staff. They began to laugh as well, as ordered. It was a grand party, the headquarters crowded with the brightest light of loyalist New York. The banquet table was spread with every manner of treat that could be procured, the servants slipping in and out discreetly removing the rapidly emptying platters, bottles of wine flowing into a sea of glasses.

Howe moved around the table, and Cornwallis backed up a step, allowed him to pass, caught the smell of perfume, not all of it belonging to Howe. In one corner stood the plump blond woman who had been Howe’s greatest priority in New York, and Cornwallis was used to her now, even the jokes about Mrs. Loring becoming stale. It was obvious to Cornwallis, if not to the entire senior command, that Howe was going to enjoy his dalliance no matter what anyone said, and no matter what military matters might arise. The war would not end without General Howe, and the commanders now understood, it would be General Howe who would decide
when
.

Howe took Mrs. Loring’s hand, made a great show of kissing her white glove, and Cornwallis could not help thinking of her husband. What kind of man . . . he wiped the question away. He already knew the answer. Loring must certainly have sought some position requiring some level of prestige and no real work. Howe had promoted the man to be his commissioner of prisoners, a rather uncomplicated job that produced a reasonable salary. In his gratitude, all Loring had to do was ignore the behavior and the whereabouts of his wife. Howe returned to the table, poked among the sliced meats, and Cornwallis thought, A happy man. Well, of course. He has an accommodating woman, a jolly audience. And finally he has a plan.