The Glorious Cause (8 page)

Though Franklin shared congress’ general feeling that this meeting would serve little constructive purpose, and Adams was downright negative in his sentiment, he felt that at least they should hear the latest version of what the supposed friends of America might have to say.

As they moved into the house, Franklin caught a new smell, nearly overwhelming, the odor of the army, musty rooms where soldiers had stayed. He thought of the Hessians: Well, certainly this may be their post. It made him feel uneasy, too intimate with such a strange enemy. He had expected something a bit more formal, a bit more grandeur befitting Lord Howe’s position. But convenience had taken precedence over show. The Billopp House was close to the water, and would make their journey that much shorter.

They were escorted into the dining room, and Franklin was not surprised to see a lunch already laid out, platters of meat and bread, several bottles of wine. Howe was, after all, the good host. They were seated, and Franklin realized that through all of the man’s continuous chatter, Howe might actually be nervous. He took comfort in the thought, glanced at both Adams and Rutledge, both men silent. The room was quickly cleared of staff and servants, and with a sudden rush, the main door was closed, and the four men were alone except for Howe’s secretary, who sat discreetly in the corner, prepared to record what was said. But there were no minutes to be taken yet. Howe had continued to talk, reminiscing to Franklin of London, of times that used to be, of days that Franklin knew would never be again.

The lunch was concluded, and Howe spoke at length, and nothing he said was a surprise. They listened patiently, even Adams holding in his responses until the appropriate time. Franklin appreciated that Howe had not seemed to lose his general affection toward the American people, believing that the war was a truly awful consequence of stubbornness on both sides. Howe stopped short of mentioning the king, of course, but beyond the platitudes, Franklin could see that Howe was framing his words in the vague language of the diplomat.

The lunch was stirring in his stomach, and Franklin avoided the wine, focused instead on Howe’s words.

“You understand, of course, that this was never intended to be a meeting of British authority for the purpose of entertaining the American colonies as independent states.” Howe paused, and Franklin suddenly realized it was the most substantive thing Howe had said. “I cannot acknowledge your congress as having any authority to address the king. I had hoped that, as gentlemen all, we could ultimately devise some outline to put an end to the calamities of war. I fear you have come here expecting more than I can readily offer.”

No one spoke, and Howe seemed distressed, said, “His Majesty’s most earnest desire is to make his American subjects happy, to offer whatever reform will address their grievances. Surely, every American colonist understands that the king was only concerned with obtaining aid from his colonies, a means of assisting the royal treasury in providing protection to the colonies’ very interests.”

Franklin leaned forward, said, “My lord, we cannot muse about those issues which we know to have long passed beneath the bridge.”

Howe seemed subdued, said, “I concede to you that money is not the significant issue here. The colonies can produce more solid advantage to Great Britain by her commerce, her strength, and her men.”

Franklin laughed, and Howe seemed surprised. Franklin said, “Quite, my lord. We have a pretty considerable number of men. In time, your government may come to realize that in a way none of us here is likely to discuss.”

Howe nodded slowly, said, “It is desirable to put a stop to the destruction that will ruin England as sure as it will ruin America. Is there no way of withdrawing this claim of independence? Can we not find the means of opening a door to a full discussion of the matter?”

It was a question for all of them, and Franklin glanced at the others, said, “Your lordship is aware of the authority by which we attend this meeting. That authority speaks for itself. It is not likely, or desirable that we speak of reversing that. You have sent out troops, you have destroyed our towns. You plan even now the further destruction of our nation. That is the true voice of your king. Forgive me, your lordship, but his actions speak far louder than your lordship’s words.”

Adams had said almost nothing, stood now, and Franklin leaned back in his chair, was relieved someone else would speak. Adams moved slowly around the table, said, “Sir, congress has declared the independence of the American colonies. That declaration is not swept away because the king does not recognize it, or because his representative here finds it inconvenient to speak of it. It hardly matters to the congress if you dismiss us from legitimacy. The voice of the congress, the very energy that created the congress, comes not from a few like ourselves, but has risen from the voices and the energy of the American people. There is
nothing
you can do, no army, no amount of destruction can silence that voice.”

Adams sat down, and Franklin could hear his breathing, the anger still in him. He shared Adams’ spirit, had hoped that the man would state his case with that kind of fire. Rutledge rose uneasily, and Franklin knew that Rutledge would be conciliatory, the voice of moderation.

“Your lordship, I too share Mr. Adams’ resolve, and can assure you that my home, South Carolina, will not waver from the cause of independence.” Franklin was surprised, looked at Rutledge, who searched for words. “Your lordship, I had hoped to convince you that there is great benefit to England if she maintains a positive relationship with America. We can surely form an alliance that benefits us all. The farmers and merchants of my state would welcome trade with England . . .”

Franklin sat back, listened while Rutledge went on, words of friendship, the hopes of diplomacy. He could not fault the young man, realized that the committee was actually a fortunate mix, conciliatory and yet determined in a way the British had always failed to understand. Rutledge was through now, sat down, and Howe seemed weary, said, “I admit that I do not possess the authority, nor do I expect ever to have the authority to consider you representatives of a state independent of the crown of Great Britain. I am sorry that you gentlemen have come this far to so little purpose. If the colonies do not relinquish their claim to independence, I cannot speak further.” Howe stood then, moved to a window, said, “If America will fall, I would feel the loss as for a brother.”

Franklin glanced at Adams, said, “My lord, we will use our utmost endeavors to save your lordship that mortification.”

Howe turned, a weak smile, and Franklin was surprised, thought, Well, he is not without humor. Howe lowered his head for a moment, said, “I suppose you will endeavor as well to give the king some employment in Europe.”

Franklin did not respond, knew that any mention of foreign alliance was inappropriate, certainly the carefully guarded discussions with France. But of course, the consequences of such an alliance are well known to a man like Lord Howe. It could mean another war.

The meeting seemed to have reached a conclusion. Howe looked toward his secretary, said, “That will do, Mr. Strachey.”

The man stood, bowed, left the room, and Howe kept the door open. Franklin led the men out, the staff jumping to attention, but there were no more pleasantries, and they did not hesitate, moved out through the front door of the house. The Hessians were still outside, and Franklin was surprised by that, thought, They were made to stand here the entire time. He glanced at the sun, settling low in the west. It’s been . . . three hours at least. That requires discipline. He could not help seeing the image in his mind of the grotesque Captain Foresdale. Yes, well, what we lack in discipline, perhaps we make up for in sheer brutishness.

They were escorted to the boat, and quickly they were under way. Adams sat beside him, his face frozen in a sullen frown, and he said, “This certainly confirms that General Sullivan is prone to exaggeration. I do not believe Admiral Howe had any power to do anything at all, other than sending Sullivan to attempt to seduce us into renouncing our independence.”

Franklin glanced back at the sailors, saw no one who seemed to care what they were saying, and he said in a low voice, “I am not surprised, Mr. Adams. The king is not about to let the reins slip from his hand. Anything proposed today would have had to go to London for approval. This was, to be sure, a waste of our time.”

Adams made the grunt, said, “I do not wish to offend you, Doctor. I know that Lord Howe is your friend. I must admit that I was not terribly impressed with the man. Perhaps it is what we are taught to believe, that British gentlemen are somehow superior. I admit to being embarrassed at having those expectations. He is simply a public official in a position where his competence stands trial with every act he performs. If he operates his navy with the same efficiency he operates his peace conferences, I do not fear so much for our chances.”

Franklin stared toward the New Jersey shoreline, felt a wave of depression, his exhaustion now complete. No, there was no peace to be had at this conference, no reason to hope that anything had changed. Lord Howe claims not to want a war, and yet, there is nothing in all his talk about how to avert one. Mr. Adams is correct: This was a waste of time.

He looked at the British officer now, the would-be hostage, the man acknowledging him with a polite smile. Our enemy. Well, we made at least one mistake today. We should have left him with Mr. Foresdale, made him a prisoner of war. At least this day would have accomplished
something
.

6. CORNWALLIS

S
EPTEMBER 15, 1776

He had been awake nearly all night, organizing his men, making preparations for boarding the flatboats. By two o’clock in the morning, the boats were being loaded, the soldiers lining up tightly with little of the usual grumbling. Every soldier knew that when the boats embarked, the enemy was right across the East River, waiting for them, and though only the senior commanders knew exactly where they would land, to the troops it hardly mattered. They had already swept their enemy away from one field. Now, they would do it again.

The hours passed, the boats were full, and Cornwallis watched as the rest of the plan moved into precise action. Out in the river, five of Lord Howe’s warships had moved into a single line, were now positioned close to the Manhattan shoreline. As the ships made their way upstream, there had been only a scattering of artillery fire from the rebel positions, and the message was clear. Washington’s cannon were simply not there in force, and the naval observers were certain that the only concentration of artillery around the city was still nestled into the rebel battery at the southern tip of the island. But even that threat was not enough to prevent Lord Howe from moving additional men-o-war up the Hudson River, on the west side of Manhattan Island. While Cornwallis waited to begin the short trip across the East River, he knew that the navy’s big guns were already in position to cut off any rebel retreat into New Jersey. The immense size of the island might provide a number of defensive options for Washington, but it also put him at a disadvantage. There was simply no way the rebels could protect every place the British could anchor their warships, and no way to guard every possible location the British army could put ashore.

The flatboats moved out at six, Clinton leading the first wave, while Cornwallis followed close behind. The army was divided into three parts, and de Heister had requested that General Howe place Colonel Karl von Donop in command of the third segment of the invasion. Howe had not objected, would likely have allowed de Heister any latitude the old Hessian wanted. After Long Island, there was no doubt that the Hessians were a fierce and reliable ally.

The first light of the dawn provided the grand show: The flatboats again were in motion, oars breaking through the glassy calm of the river. As at Gravesend Bay three weeks before, the armada contained nearly ninety boats, fifty men in each, all making their way toward the landing point. As the light grew, so did the magnificence of the show. In the vast spreading formation, the uniforms of the British and Hessian troops covered the black water in great patches of color. Cornwallis could feel the pure energy, his impatience and anguish at the delays wiped away by the spectacular sight.

Down to the south, a rumble of cannon rolled toward them, and the men in the boats turned in one motion, questioning, wondering whose guns they were. Cornwallis paid no attention, knew that the navy had begun shelling the rebel battery in the city. No one expected Washington to be fooled by Lord Howe’s cannon, that the rebels would believe the landing was coming right at their greatest strength. There was no hiding this great sea of flatboats. Cornwallis knew it was simply good tactics, a diversion to keep the rebel artillery occupied, holding them in one place.

His own boat pulled farther from the shore of Long Island, closer to the line of great ships that would give them protection. Around him, the voices grew, the sense of awe infecting the men, and the flatboat was soon passing close behind one of the navy frigates, the
Rose
, anchored broadside to the shore. The men in his boat were waving, some calling out, a breach of discipline, but Cornwallis said nothing, could see the sailors above them responding, could hear their cheers. Yes, they know. We are already a victorious army, and no power on this continent can stand up to us.

On the far shore, Cornwallis could see a long row of turned-up earth, motion behind, men gathering along the shore, rebels emerging from the safety of their earthworks to stare at the great force moving toward them. He smiled at that. Of course, those men have never seen anything to compare to this. As they will soon learn, it is the hand, no, the
fist
of God and King George, coming right down upon them.

The men at the oars pulled his boat steadily past the big ship, and he turned to see the great open maws of the gun ports. The troops were watching as well, and the flatboat was now past the frigate, between the big ship and the shoreline. Cornwallis gave his own silent command to the ships, All right, you may begin firing. But the big guns did not respond. Around him, the cheers and salutes grew quiet, and he could feel the changing mood of his men. One man shouted, “You may commence to firing!”

There was nervous laughter at the man’s mock command, and Cornwallis stared still at the guns, thought, We cannot go much farther. He turned toward the shoreline, saw the mass of flatboats in front of him, Clinton’s oarsmen now holding their boats in place, jamming up the smooth flow of the crossing. There was a drummer now, a signal to the sailors in each flatboat, and abruptly his own oarsmen began to pull the opposite way, their officer giving the command to hold the boat in a stationary position, fighting the slow current in the river. Cornwallis knew the naval officer had the boat under control, and there was nothing for him to do except wait with the rest of the landing force for the ships to begin their artillery barrage. He looked again at the frigate, felt like cursing, held to his own discipline. Can you not see us? We cannot go closer until . . .

From the rows of open ports, there was one sudden burst of smoke, a thunderous roar that ripped the air above him. The sky was alive with streaks of red and orange, and as quickly as the sound rocked him, the shoreline erupted in blasts of fire. The men in the flatboat were pushed low to the deck, the shock of the sudden cascade of sound. The volleys from each ship erupted without pause, the sharp blasts from huge guns punching the air in his lungs. He could hear smaller sounds now, dull pops from the swivel guns, the miniature cannon high in the rigging of each ship. All he could see of the river was a swirl of gray smoke, and the smell drifted over him, burning sulfur, the smoke blocking out the sunrise behind him. The roar of noise continued still, but the men in his boat began to recover from the shock, began pointing at the shore, the cheers resuming, and he saw it as well. The row of piled dirt was ragged and uneven, and the men who manned the earthwork were now out of sight, bathed in smoke and fire. The flatboat sat motionless in the water, and Cornwallis looked along the river, the other boats still waiting as his was, while above them, the great ships continued to pour their fire toward the rebel works. As the smoke masked what was happening onshore, the men seemed to settle down lower in the boat, the wonder of the bombardment already becoming routine. He knew it would be like this for a while, that the big guns would continue their work, that nothing else could happen until somewhere, someone gave the order to cease fire.

It lasted for an hour, and when the sounds finally stopped, the echoes in his ears gave way to the sounds of a new drumbeat, and quickly the flatboats resumed their motion toward the shore. He felt a thick layer of ash on his face, could see it on the men, the white in their uniforms tinged with the grime of the burnt powder. He tried to find the excitement again, focused on the shoreline, the smoking piles of dirt along the water’s edge, what remained of the rebel works. But he was nagged by the one glaring inefficiency, the bad timing, the big ships waiting too long to begin the barrage. Someone did not communicate, someone missed the order. You don’t wait until your own troops are in front of you to begin an artillery assault. He put the annoyance away, focused on the job in front of him. Along the shore, the first of Clinton’s boats had landed, the mass of color spreading out on open ground. They moved quickly, columns shifting into line, marching out toward the right. He waited for the sounds of musket fire, the resistance, watched as more of Clinton’s men and now von Donop’s Hessians continued to roll ashore, the only sounds the shouts of the officers, the final slap of the oars in shallow water.

With a final hard pull by the oarsmen, his boat slid into soft sand, the men quickly climbing up and out, splashing their way forward, responding to an officer already onshore. The man saluted Cornwallis, who stepped out as well, his boots sinking into the churned-up mud. His troops were already moving away, and he followed them, the footing solid for a short way, then muddy again. He crossed over a shallow ditch, could smell sulfur again, the ground ripped by the artillery barrage. He saw one body, and it was a shock, not for the blood, or the man’s shredded clothing. It was
one
body. The ditch had been the rebel entrenchment. And there were no signs of a fight, no wounded, none of the scattered chaos that litters the ground of every battle. He could hear a chatter of musket fire now, well out in front, on the far side of the meadow, and lines of his men moved that way, led by the captains, the sergeants holding them tightly in formation. The meadow was a swarm of activity, units moving into one long line, others, the flanks, marching out to both sides. He looked again at the shallow ditch, the mud, wisps of smoke still clinging to the wet ground. It was a good show indeed. And when they had their fill of it, the rebels simply . . . vanished.

Forty-five hundred men had come ashore at a wide cove known as Kip’s Bay. It was chosen from a number of possible landing sites, the shoreline protected from wind, a favorable tide, the ground flat and open, a meadow with no obstruction other than what the rebels would provide. Inland, the meadow ended at woods, and beyond the woods the primary roadway, the Post Road, ran north and south along the east side of the island. The city of New York was to the south, and the landing had avoided a confrontation with any force the rebels might have positioned there. No one knew the exact strength the rebels had placed at Kip’s Bay, but with some good fortune, Howe might have chosen a piece of ground that was lightly defended. When the army came ashore, the only opposition came from scattered clusters of musket fire, small groups of men who had backed into the woods, and many more who had simply run away. But the Hessian, von Donop, had sent his
jagers
quickly forward, the green-coated marksmen, men whose method of fighting was familiar to the rebels. The
jagers
moved from rock to tree, each man precise at finding his target with a rifled musket, the skill of a marksman. If any of the rebels made a strong stand, the
jagers
would fall back to the lines of the men behind them, the massed body of Hessian troops who relied more on the bayonet. And, as had happened on Long Island, the combination was impossible for even veteran rebels to combat. In less than an hour, the first wave of Howe’s invasion of Manhattan had swept away any resistance in front of them. As Cornwallis’ men moved in formation across the meadow, there was the eerie sense of a simple parade-ground drill. Not only was there no organized opposition, but nearly every rebel in the area of Kip’s Bay was in full flight.

Howe had come ashore at the rear of the first wave, had surveyed the scene of the landing with a puffed-up glow of accomplishment. Cornwallis and Clinton had met him, had made their reports, and Cornwallis had asked every officer he could find to confirm the most astounding report of all. No one could actually locate a single British or Hessian soldier who had been wounded. As Cornwallis gave Howe the report, even he didn’t believe it. But Howe had nodded with a confident smile. Of course there were no casualties. It had been a good plan.

Cornwallis watched as Howe strutted along the shoreline, thought, I suppose this is customary. Give him his moment. No one can argue that this result was not worth many days of delay. Howe stared at the river for a long moment, and Cornwallis imagined him conversing with his brother, thought, They do seem to work well together.

Howe pointed out toward the river now, said aloud, “The remainder of the army is en route. We should have them all ashore here by this evening.” He focused on the commanders now, said, “I take some pleasure in this, gentlemen. There is nothing as satisfying as a victory. By nightfall, we shall be in full strength, and shall march upon the enemy once again. This was, dare I say, a splendid operation. Splendid. London will only be pleased.”

Couriers were gathering, more reports emerging from what little fighting there had been, mostly all in the woods. Cornwallis saw a senior officer approaching, a staff close behind, and the man seemed agitated, bursting with words. Cornwallis knew the man, John Vaughan, moving with a pronounced limp from a leg wound he had received on Long Island.

“Sir! Excuse me, General Howe!” Vaughan acknowledged Clinton and Cornwallis with a crisp nod, and said to Howe, “General, Colonel von Donop has taken his troops southward toward the city. I was not aware you had given this order, sir. My command has secured the heights around the Murray mansion, as ordered, and was awaiting further instruction, when we learned that the left flank was exposed by Colonel von Donop’s march.”