Free The Glorious Cause by Jeff Shaara

It was Glover who had brought Washington across the river, the man making special mention of the direction of the wind, something Washington had not thought to value. Washington looked up now, the sharp breeze buffeting the canvas, and the others followed his look, most not realizing what he was seeing. It was still gusty from the north and west, and Washington understood the significance if the others did not.
    When the works on Brooklyn Heights were designed, Putnam and Stirling had suggested that the mouth of the river be blocked by the sinking of old hulks and unusable ships, and the navigable channel below Brooklyn Heights was now crossed by a man-made brush line of masts and rigging, the topmost skeletons of the wrecked vessels. The senior commanders had thought the army secure in its Brooklyn position, that the barricade would prevent the British gunboats from sailing upriver and cutting half of Washington’s army off from New York.
    The water still dripped from Glover’s face, and he looked at Washington now, said, “You sent for me, sir? Fine day for a war.”
    Washington motioned upward. “The wind is still holding. You expect that to change?”
    Glover glanced at the others, who kept silent, knowing that Washington had a purpose in bringing this man to the council.
    “Pardon me, sir. Would you be asking me to predict the weather now?” Glover’s frankness had a way of disarming Washington, and he fought through the smile, brought himself to the seriousness of the matter.
    “In a fashion, yes, Colonel. Do you anticipate the enemy ships will be held at bay for a while longer?”
    Glover took the question seriously as well, said, “This storm is passing, lightening up already.” He motioned to the west, across the river. “Sunset soon. You should see it through the clouds. By midnight, it’ll be clear. Very clear. Full moon tonight.” He paused, glanced at Putnam. “Can’t say much for the wind one way or t’other.”
    Putnam had boasted loudly that no British ship of any consequence could sail through the barricade without ripping out its own hull. Washington knew he would have something to say, and Putnam obliged him.
    “General Washington, if you mean to be concerned about the British navy, you know my feelings on that. We have made the necessary precautions to keep them out of the river. There is no danger here.”
    Glover tilted his head at Putnam, seemed to squint, and Washington knew Glover would make his point, would explain what Washington already believed to be true.
    “You may speak freely here, Colonel Glover.”
    “Well, sir, I understand that your generals and such have a poor opinion of the British sailor. With all respects, sir, can’t say I agree.” He paused, looked hard at Washington, said, “All those sunken wrecks are a fine thing. But I’ve spent my life slippin’ and cuttin’ my way through rocks and whatnot, and if I know something about those lobster-backs out there, they been doin’ a fair amount of the same. A good helmsman can get his boat past just about anything, especially in protected water like this here river. And, beggin’ your pardon, sir, but if I was Mister Admiral Lord Howe, and I saw those little masts pokin’ up at me out there, I’d simply take a flock of my smallest ketches, put one good heavy gun on each stern, raising the bow up high, and when the slack tide come, I’d pick my way right past that barricade. Then I’d commence to bustin’ up the place. This place.”
    Putnam laughed now, said, “Colonel, I admire your, um, charming descriptions. But if Lord Howe agreed with your observations, then why hasn’t he done exactly that? With all respect to your . . . seafaring skills, I have yet to see one ship sail within range of this position.”
    Washington pointed his finger to the rustle of the canvas above them.
    “It’s the wind, General. Colonel Glover, am I correct that since this action began, the wind has come from the