Victory at Yorktown: A Novel (16 page)

From an officer of equal rank, not just the remark but also the taunting voice would have required a challenge of honor. Received from a superior, he had just fallen silent.

He turned away from that place of agony and let his gaze linger on the Palisade Heights. Thin coils of smoke rose every mile or so, marking the forward picket lines of the Rebels. He paused for a moment, dismounted, took out his telescope, and focused on one after another. Several had observation towers of rough hewn timbers, rising twenty to thirty feet to offer a better view of the city. Every few months a raiding force of light infantry and grenadiers would be sent across during the night, to scale the heights and scatter them, and try to bring back a few prisoners. It served little purpose other than to add a few more names to the casualty lists of this war.

As he let his gaze linger on one of the towers, he saw a man leaning over a tripod-mounted telescope that appeared to be aimed straight at him. On impulse he raised a hand to wave, and the gesture was repeated back by the Rebel a few seconds later.

He sighed, closing his telescope. Who was the man? Jersey militia, from the look of him. On random chance, one in a thousand he thought, they might even know each other from before the war. Now they waved back and forth in a friendly manner, but up close, neither would hesitate to kill the other.

Strange, how war is. Before this started or afterward, if he had met this man, perhaps down on his luck, he would have offered him a pint and even a shilling out of a sense of charity, yet now he would kill him if need be.

That, at least, was one thing he was somewhat sure he had never done. Though in action in the major battles of Brandywine, Germantown, and Monmouth, and a score of smaller skirmishes, the last being Springfield, he was never really sure if he had actually killed a man. In all the smoke and confusion he had fired many a shot, but kill a man? Some of his comrades boasted of the dozens of Rebels they had put in the grave, but any real veteran looked at them with disdain. Unless you actually drove a blade into a man, which was actually rather rare except for the cavalry—that when unleashed in pursuit could be heartlessly vicious—few knew for sure what they had done in all the smoke and confusion of a major action.

He thought of Peter Wellsley. At Monmouth, he was part of a unit overrun as it retreated in the suffocating 105 degree heat. Peter had captured him, stood with musket leveled, then turned it aside and told him to run.

Peter.… Could he kill him?

After what they did to John, he knew he could, if need be.

He mounted back up, pulling out the silver pocket watch, imported from London, which had cost him two months’ pay. In a few minutes he would be late for the morning briefing and he urged his mount to a loping gallop, glad for the cooling air, the pleasure of riding, of letting go of the war for a few minutes as he rode past the rich farmlands of Manhattan Island. At last the headquarters of General Clinton was in sight, down near the banks of the East River.

It was, indeed, a strange location the commanding general of all His Majesty’s troops in the Americas occupied this day, a mansion a good four miles north of the city. Clinton had five such homes at his beck and call, a couple within the city, the others out here in the countryside. Some said it was in a vain attempt to conceal his liaisons with one of several mistresses, the deference of a gentleman since his favorite was married to a wealthy merchant in the city. A few said it was actually a wise move, for with every summer the city became a breeding house of contagion. For every man killed on the battlefield in the last five years, half a dozen had died here of disease, especially in mid to late summer. Others whispered, though never in the general’s presence, that he actually harbored a morbid fear of Rebel plots to assassinate him, and thus moved his headquarters, suddenly and without notice, to throw off such plots. None would ever dare to say that out loud. Allen was one who tended toward this belief.

Nearby, the headquarters of a battalion of troops, Clinton’s personal guards, were enduring their morning inspection. Sergeants barking out orders, dressing down a man if there was the slightest smudge to the lily white strap of his cartridge box, or the slightest speck of rust on sparkling gun barrel or bayonet. He thanked God fate had not cast him as a soldier of “the line.” Discipline and humiliation were constant, relentless, and he wondered if the two soldiers he had roused from under the apple tree, at this moment were enduring similar treatment, or perhaps were already stripped to the waist and being caned or flogged for their drunken offense.

He circled along the now graveled lane that led to the mansion. The guards, familiar with who he was, came to attention at his approach. A black orderly ran up to take the bridle of his horse as he dismounted. He took his watch out, realizing he was barely in time, and as he mounted the front steps, from the distant city he could hear church bells ringing out the hour.

Clinton was holding court in his usual location in this house, the dining hall of which had a massive mahogany dining table, imported, most likely at great expense, all the way from the East Indies before the war. A servant who was leaving the room as he entered slowed, and whispered “tea, sir?” Allen nodded his thanks. The ever-present William Smith, Clinton’s secretary, sat to one side, gazing out the window while absently munching on a slice of toast. Clinton looked up from his own repast of coffee and fresh baked ham, his morning glass of sherry half drained. Peter snapped to attention and with absent wave of his free hand, the general motioned for him to be seated by his side, the servant returning only seconds later with a steaming cup of tea—no toast, ham, or breakfast. He was here to report, not to join in the social circle of a general and his staff and friends.

On the table there was a scattering of maps. After years of the type of work Allen did, he could not help but scan them with a quick glance. It was, after all, his job to gather intelligence. Only one map was of their tactical situation here in New York, and there were no changes or notes upon it, indicating shifting positions. The others, though, were of the Atlantic coast clear down to the Sugar Islands of the Caribbean.

Clinton caught his glances and cleared his throat.

“Your morning report, sir,” the general said.

He was, as always, a polite man. Rare was the dressing-down of a fellow officer, a display of the kind of rage or tantrum for which General Grey was somewhat infamous. He was always calm, almost too calm, even deferential for a general in command. Whenever a question of the moment arose, he tended to counsels of war, with his various brigade commanders and the admiral of the fleet anchored in the harbor. That was hard to keep track of at times. There were Hood, Rodney, and others, who had kept the sea lines open, moving back and forth between Halifax, this harbor at New York, and clear down to Jamaica.

Of the ships in the harbor there had been some movement back and forth in the last few weeks, and he had picked up rumors in the taverns from drunken young midshipmen and lieutenants that something was afoot at sea. Reports of a battle lost in the Caribbean and that the main French fleet could not now be found. One was so open with his blathering that a major fight was in the offering, right here outside of New York harbor, that he had learned the young man’s name and sent over a report to his captain the following morning. If a Rebel agent had been in the tavern and if the boasting was true, busting his rank to common sailor and time “before the mast” would be light discipline, indeed, for such open and foolish talk that the Rebels could expect their French allies to appear off the coast any day now.

He doubted if his advice was taken. The ever-existing tension between the navy and army was as old as history, both looking down on the other, both claiming always that if there was victory they were responsible for it and if there was defeat it was the fault of the other. He had learned after five years that, hidebound though this army was with its tradition and rituals, the navy was far worse. Every captain was terrified of offending his admiral, and the admirals, often frozen like a rabbit, would be pointing to the printed manuals of instructions from the admiralty office in London, which tied their hands no matter where they were at sea. All were ever-mindful of the fate of Admiral Byng, a generation before, who had actually been executed because he had won a battle but failed to prosecute the victory effectively. There had been little daring in this navy ever since. All strictly followed rules and procedures, from common seaman to admirals, never with a creative thought or taking chances. It was the safe bet to be sure, but it was not the kind of thinking that won wars.

“Your report, sir,” Clinton asked with that ever-so-correct tone of a gentleman addressing an officer, but also the implication of boredom with this daily ritual.

Allen opened his uniform, reaching into his breast pocket and drew out the several pages of notes, carefully sealed. After writing them, he was always extremely cautious with these reports. If he were ever waylaid, or—far worse—accidentally dropped them, it would put at risk the lives of four agents. Young Edward was readily identifiable and if “smoked out” would without doubt be dancing at rope’s end in spite of his tender age of sixteen.

They had shown no pity for John Andre; they would show no pity to a youth who was actually a rather skillful spy.

He drew the notes out, placed them on the table, and Clinton broke the seal while sipping his tea, Allen letting his go tepid. He began to read, and chuckled slightly.

“Why do you put trust in that woman?” Clinton asked after scanning the first page.

“Sir, it is amazing at times what a man will boast of in bed, even with a woman of such low virtue.”

He damn near bit his own tongue as Clinton shot him a sidelong glance. He did not make eye contact, realizing that the general might take personal insult. It did set him at the same instant to wondering. Was one of the mistresses of this man a spy? He had not dared to consider the question before, but it was in front of him now by that glance, for perhaps the general had spoken when he should have been silent and the look was one of defensive guilt.

He dared the thought of perhaps putting a watch on the general’s mistresses but instantly ruled it out. If found out, either rightly or wrongly in his inquiry, it was a definite sentence to some fever-ridden island thousands of miles away. No one ever dared to inquire too closely into the affairs of generals in command. Even if a dangerous truth was discovered, how to approach and explain it? The end result would be the same, a fever-ridden island on the other side of the world.

He looked away from the man, picking up his cup of tea and sipping it, putting on his best display of innocence, and after a few seconds Clinton went back to reading the reports.

“Interesting, so they are building a bakery in Chatham for making hard bread. Oh, that is, indeed, interesting.” There was a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

“It comes from a minister, a reliable source.”

“And it means what? How do you see its importance?”

“Perhaps an army preparing in advance for a march, laying out supplies and rations ahead of the route they take.”

Clinton said nothing.

“This young Edward, in whom I do put trust, overheard two militia officiers discussing an order from Washington’s headquarters to find as many boats capable of carrying heavy loads such as horses or artillery, and to prepare to maneuver them down to the channel that divides New Jersey from Staten Island. If need be, to go as far south as the Sandy Hook in search of them, then ferry the boats along the coastal shallows at night to avoid detection, and hide them by day.”

“So?” asked Clinton.

“It could mean planning for a maneuver for Washington to bring his army down from their current position. To then seize Staten Island that, sir, we both know is held only by a light garrison. If done swiftly enough, they could take the battery positions from the landward side at the Narrows, and close off the harbor.”

Clinton sighed and shook his head.

“Colonel van Dorn, you do have an active imagination but then again that is your job.”

“Sir?”

“Surely we would detect their march, and, if they did take Staten Island back, the ships in our harbor mount more than five hundred guns. Even if they did set up a battery on land, it would be flattened within the hour and the navy’s vaunted marines would storm it and bag the lot of them.”

He could sense the disdain as Clinton spoke of the navy’s marines. If there was little love lost between the navy and army there was even less between the navy’s marine infantry and the army. So many brawls had broken out between the two that certain taverns and houses of “amusement” had been set aside for marine use only down by the Battery at the tip of Manhattan to avoid fights, some of which had proven fatal to one side or the other.

Allen did not respond.

Clinton read the rest of the report, and with a languid gesture handed the papers over to his secretary, with a comment about properly filing them. The secretary, equal in rank to Allen, took a moment to read the report, shot a quick glance as if this report, like nearly all the others, was not worth notice, and pushed the sheets of paper over to a pile of other paperwork, the daily returns of regiments, requisitions for supplies, reports to and from England, the myriad of paperwork that haunted any general in command.

“And your analysis today, Colonel?” Clinton asked almost as if just being polite but having already reached his conclusions as to the worth of Allen’s nightlong efforts and interviews in smoky dives and taverns.

“I think, sir, something is afoot at last.”

“Pray tell why?”

“That report from Chatham, New Jersey, caught my attention. I’ve known the minister for years, a good man with keen insight. He said a courier came riding in with great haste, handed the orders off to the local militia commander, demanded a fresh horse, then said he was pressing on to Princeton and that ‘things were afoot,’ as the minister said, having overhead the conversation.”