Free The Glorious Cause by Jeff Shaara Page B

of their fight on whoever might lie in their path, soldier or civilian, rebel or Tory.
    He reached the edge of a stand of trees, Brooklyn Heights now in front of him. He rode out across the open ground where the bodies still lay, the putrid smell rising with the dampness of the soggy ground, drifting past him as he guided the horse. Some of the corpses were British, and he could not avoid the horror of that, the good men who had fallen too close to the American position to be buried. He glanced back at his aide, the young Captain Hurst, but no words were necessary, the man already knowing the order.
    “I’ll see to it, sir. We’ll have burial parties out here immediately.”
    Cornwallis made a quick nod, appreciated the young man’s concern, something few of the senior officers ever cared to show.
    He took the horse up through a narrow trail in the rocks, rode up straight into the place where Washington’s ragged army had made its stand. The ground was a chewed-up pit of mud and debris, ripped clothes, and scraps of bandages. The horse stepped over a broken musket protruding from a deep puddle of brown water, and he could not escape the symbolism of that, the shattered arms of a shattered army, an army that should not have escaped. He clenched his fists around the smooth leather of the reins, spurred the horse farther, closer to the high ground that overlooked the river.
    He could see it now, the shoreline of Manhattan, broken only by the silhouettes of the great ships, Lord Howe’s men-o-war moving into position, some sailing upriver toward Hell Gate. Of course, now we are in place. The thought stuck in his mind like a sour piece of fruit. Now we can start our wonderful blockade, a perfect trap around Brooklyn Heights for an enemy who is no longer here.
    No one was exactly certain what would happen next, and General Howe had not revealed any details of a new strategy. Cornwallis moved the horse along the shoreline, thought, There could very well be no strategy at all. After all, we have gone to so very much trouble to make a truly fine camp here. The army is rested, the casualty figures somewhat complete, and clearly in our favor. By anyone’s measure, this was an absolute triumph. The rebels lost a quarter of their strength, possibly more. We have so many prisoners we don’t know where to house them. And the dead . . . we don’t know yet. So many of them are still out there. We may never know how many we killed. Those swamps, the creeks and thickets will hide bodies for years.
    He saw a group of officers farther upriver, moved the horse that way, the aides behind him in single file. He could see Clinton now, surrounded by his staff, Clinton’s expression a reflection of his own sullen mood. Cornwallis saluted, and both staffs moved away, protocol, the two senior commanders left alone. There was a long moment, and finally Clinton said, “We made a grand show, General. To those farmers and shopkeepers it must have been an awe-inspiring sight, a perfect display of the king’s might. It is unfortunate that our commanding general didn’t know what to do with it.”
    It was another of Clinton’s indiscretions, something he would never say publicly. Clinton looked at him now, and Cornwallis could see no concern on the man’s face, thought, I suppose . . . he trusts me.
    “I had thought there might have been a better plan.” It was as far as Cornwallis would go with a superior. Clinton ignored his caution, stared out toward the river, said, “There was no better plan. There was a legacy to be adhered to, to be feared: the legacy of Breed’s Hill. I wish you had been there, General. Boston: another grand show, all the pageantry and bluster, marching up that hill to victory. Never mind that it was a disaster. The field was ours. Never mind that we left nearly half our troops on the ground. We were victorious. But it was a mistake that General Howe will not make again.” He looked at Cornwallis now, black despair in