City of Dreams (98 page)

“Yes, I know.” The colonel tapped his finger impatiently. “Get to the point.”

“There be no rebels guarding the Jamaica pass.”

“Good God! Are you sure?”

“Dead certain sure. Not one. Some so-called general from up New Hampshire way, he be the one organizing things for the poxed rebels. Ain’t never been here afore and don’t know the ground.”

At sundown the word was passed along the line of ten thousand redcoats. “Not a sound. Not if you want your balls to continue to hang where the Almighty put ’em.” They were ordered to leave their campfires burning. “So’s any rebels as is watching won’t be scared of the dark.” Young Oliver De Lancey brought up the rear of the two-mile column, in command of a pair of companies of the long island’s Tory militia.

By morning the redcoats and their allies had traveled unopposed through the Jamaica pass. Once they’d cleared it, half the British fighting force was behind the American lines. They fired two signal shots to say the rebels were surrounded.

The Hessians attacked first. Five thousand of them fell on eight hundred Yankees. The rebels broke cover and tried to run. The Hessians stuck most of them to the trees with their own bayonets. The general from New Hampshire attempted to lead his men in a retreat to safety. The maneuver failed and his troops were massacred when they tried to surrender, hacked apart by Scottish broadswords as well as Hessian sabers. By midday Brooklyn reeked of blood and dung and terror. The screams of the slowly dying made an echoing dirge in the hills.

At the Gowanus pass, four hundred men from Maryland tried to hold the high ground long enough to let their comrades escape. They held out for two hours against a hail of British grape and chain. Washington was on the long island by then, close enough to watch the Marylanders die, but he had no troops to commit to save them.

The British general in command of the expedition was William Howe. He watched as well, along with Generals Cornwallis and Clinton. “A few hours more,” Clinton said snapping his glass closed. “By then every rebel’s back will be to the East River.”

Howe didn’t answer.

“He’s right.” Cornwallis fished the most recent dispatch from his pocket. “Latest estimates are they’ve lost a thousand men, possibly twelve hundred. At least that many are wounded. And we’ve taken plenty of prisoners.”

“Not that many prisoners,” Howe said through clenched teeth. The bloody Hessians were animals, and the Scots Highlanders no better.

“It won’t take much longer. We’ll drive the last of ’em into the river,” Clinton said again.

Howe ignored him and turned to Cornwallis. “What about our losses?”

“Sixty dead. Three hundred wounded or missing.”

Sweet Christ. Head-on slaughter, and the damned colonials fighting for every inch of ground. It would be carnage, like Bunker Hill up in Boston the year before. Most nights Howe relived that battle, waded ankle-deep yet again in spilled guts, the way he had that June morning. He took the hill, but only after his entire personal staff had been killed, along with forty percent of his men. The rebel officers were prepared to fight to the last drop of blood. Their raw troops were less likely to wait patiently for death. “We’ll sit tight,” he said. “See how much time they need to stare down our guns before they turn their britches brown and run for the hills.”

“General Howe, I promise you, sir, there’s no—“Clinton couldn’t speak for sputtering.

“Now’s the time,” Cornwallis said. “There’s no reason to stop the attack!”

Howe turned and waved a subaltern forward. “Lieutenant, pass the word. We’ll stand as we are for the time being.”

Washington smelled that decision. It came to him over the hills on the blood-soaked wind. He knew what Howe was doing before the reports of the lookouts arrived. “They’re digging in, sir. Seems they’ve decided to put us under siege.”

“No,” Washington whispered, more to himself than anyone else. “I think that is an invitation we shall not accept.”

Two days went by. Pouring rain soaked the ill-equipped rebels to the skin and ruined what remained of rebel powder. There were a few skirmishes, but nothing serious.

When the third night came and darkness fell, Washington waited for Morgan Turner. It was a little after eleven when he showed up. “Everything’s ready, sir.”

Washington looked grave. “You’re sure there are enough of them?”

Morgan nodded. “It will be tight, sir. But we’ll make it.”

Washington nodded grimly. “Very well. Pass the word.”

Morgan stepped outside the tent. “Tell the men to form up and move out. General Washington’s orders.”

The rebels crept silently down from the Heights to the Brooklyn ferry landing. A flotilla of small craft was waiting in the East River, protected from the eyes of the lookouts aboard the British fleet by the twin land bulges known as Yellow Hook and Red Hook.

What was waiting for them wasn’t exactly the navy Morgan Turner had promised to finance with his secret treasure. There were rowboats, barges, sloops, skiffs, canoes—anything that could float, and none of it carrying so much as a single cannon. A regiment of fishermen, all volunteers, mostly from Salem and Marblehead up in Massachusetts.

By dawn what remained of the American army sent to defend Brooklyn—ninety-five hundred men—was back on Manhattan. They had left thirteen hundred rebel corpses behind.

It was eight-thirty in the morning before Howe knew the Americans had gotten away.

But not all of them. Washington ordered General Woodhull, once commander in chief of the long island’s militia, to stay behind and drive all the cattle he could find deep into the center of the island, out of reach of English bellies. Two days later, purely by chance, Oliver De Lancey found Woodhull in an inn about two miles east of Jamaica.

De Lancey’s men surrounded the two-story building. Woodhull watched from the taproom window as the Tories took up their positions. He walked back to his table, lifted his tankard and drank the last of his ale, then nodded to the innkeeper. “It’s all right, man. Don’t look like that. I’m not going to let them burn you out.”

Woodhull walked to the door and opened it. He and De Lancey looked at each other across ten yards of open ground. “Quarter, sir?” Woodhull asked.

“Of course. My word on it. As one gentleman to another.”

Woodhull drew his sword from its scabbard, let it hang by his side, and walked toward De Lancey. Oliver slid down from his horse and went forward to meet him.

The Tory militia moved in to surround them. By the time Woodhull and De Lancey met in the middle of the open ground, they were encircled by armed men. Woodhull snapped a quick bow, then raised his head and with two hands offered his sword. De Lancey took it.

One of the militiamen had yet to be blooded. The thought was eating at him, a cancer in his belly. Three days. The miserable revolution was all but over and he hadn’t killed a single stinking rebel. “Bastard!” He swung his short sword and connected with Woodhull’s right arm. Two others felt the same. Besides, once they’d been under Woodhull’s command, and they had scores to settle. They lunged, swords flashing.

Woodhull didn’t make a sound, only kept looking at De Lancey. Twice Oliver opened his mouth to call the men off, but no words came. His pulse raced and his blood sang. It did something to him, watching men die like this. As slowly as possible. Made him hard as a rock. His glance flicked to the inn. Could be there was a woman in there….

Not all the Tories were part of the attack on Woodhull. Some stood back, watching their commander. They’d heard the rebel ask for quarter, and they’d heard De Lancey’s reply. He felt their eyes, knew what they were thinking. He was half Jew. That was why he couldn’t be trusted. All his life the son of Phila Franks De Lancey had heard the silent voices that reminded him he was half Tudesco Jew.

“Enough!” Oliver meant to shout the word, but it came out a croak. He tried again. “Enough! Stand off!” Better. More like a man, less like a frog. “This officer’s a prisoner. Take him to the church in New Utrecht. Leave him with the rest of the wounded.”

IV

It was five days since the battle for Brooklyn. The putrid stench of gangrenous flesh permeated the air of the church that sheltered wounded captives.

Andrew held a cloth over his nose as he walked along the rows of bodies. Once in a while he stopped and pointed to one or another of the men. “That one’s dead. Get him out of here.” Sometimes he wasn’t entirely sure until he knelt and pressed his ear to a heart. Four out of five times he was right. Dead. And dead. And dead again. “Bury ’em,” he ordered. “Quickly and deep.” God knew what poxes might be loosed on them by the bloated and rotting corpses.

The detail of rebel captives assigned to orderly duty looked at him with hatred in their eyes. His accent gave him away as a colonial. That he was here meant he was a Tory. They would have torn him apart with their bare hands if not for the half-dozen redcoats on guard.

An hour went by while he separated the dead from the living, and those who might recover from the majority who were simply marking time until they were finished. The patient with a general’s markings on his shoulders was the last man in the next-to-last line. “Who’s this?” Andrew demanded.

None of the rebels would answer. One of the redcoats stepped forward. “I believe his name’s Woodhull, Dr. Turner. General Woodhull. Captured in Jamaica Town. Wounded while resisting.”

“Yes,” Andrew muttered. “That’s what rebels do, isn’t it? They resist.” He dropped to his knees. The man was looking at him. “I’m a doctor,” Andrew said. “I’m going to take a look at your wounds.”

Woodhull nodded.

He didn’t require much time to make a diagnosis. “The arm’s turned poisonous,” Andrew said. No point in being delicate. This wasn’t some damask-curtained bedside in the court part of town. “It has to come off at the shoulder.”

Woodhull shook his head. “No.”

“Don’t tell me no, sir. You’ve no choice if you want to live. Sweet Christ Almighty, I’ve never seen such a hacking. Like a side of mutton …” He stopped speaking, looked at the patient. Woodhull looked back and said nothing. “Orderly!” Andrew barked. “Ale.”

A boy with a bloody bandage tied around his head passed Andrew a canteen. He sniffed at it. The ale had been cut with brackish well water. Never mind. It was liquid. He held the canteen to Woodhull’s mouth, lifted the man’s shoulders slightly so he could drink without choking.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll make a good job of it, I promise you,” Andrew said.

“I’m sure. And I thank you, sir. But no.”

“You’ll die.”

“Sooner or later,” the general said with a weak smile. “That’s certain. But with both arms.”

Andrew shrugged. “As you wish.” He glanced over his shoulder. The rebel orderlies were still watching, but none of the redcoats seemed to be paying close attention. “Is there anything you want to tell me?” he asked quietly. “I can pass a message on. To your wife, or anyone else who’s… important to you.”

Woodhull studied him closely. “Turner,” he murmured. “An old New York name.”

“Yes. One of the first families in the province. I can be trusted, sir. I guarantee it.” He was intensely conscious of the gaze of the young rebel who’d given him the canteen of ale.

“Oliver De Lancey,” Woodhull murmured. “Any as want to know… say he bears watching.”

“I can believe that. I’ll pass it on. Anything else?”

“My wife. Tell her I send my respectful greetings.”

Seven hours later, when after half a dozen amputations Andrew was so tired he could barely stand, it was the rebel orderly with the bandaged head who brought him hot tea laced with rum, and a fresh biscuit. “It’s from the women of the town, Dr. Turner. They’ve been seeing to us.”

“Smarter than we are, the women.” Andrew took a long, grateful sip of the tea. “They don’t choose up sides.”

“Some don’t,” the rebel boy agreed. “My mother and my sister, they support the cause of independency same as me.”

The two men were pretty much alone in the field where Andrew had set up his surgical theater. The soldiers were standing some distance apart. Most had no objection to blowing a man’s head off with a musket, but the controlled savagery of surgery had proved too much for them. They’d withdrawn before the first operation was finished. “I see,” Andrew said. “Independency. But the women don’t have to kill for it, do they? Or be killed. What’s wrong with your head?”

“Caught the edge of a bayonet on the Gowanus road.”

“Shall I take a look at it?” Andrew reached forward to remove the bandage. The boy yanked his head away. “It’s all right,” Andrew said. “I’m a real doctor, whether I’m Tory or rebel.”

“That’s as might be, sir. But me head’s fine now the bleeding’s stopped.”

“Very well.”

“Can I ask you somethin’?”

“Ask away.”

“What are you doin’ here?”

Andrew smiled. “I’ve been asking myself the same thing,” he said. “I suppose the answer is that the patients in my hospital, the almshouse hospital over in the city, were all sent to Poughkeepsie for the duration. Everyone in the almshouse, in fact. Washington’s orders. So I came here.”

“General Washington’s orders,” the boy corrected, emphasizing the rank. His face burned with defiance.

“Very well, General Washington. A field officer of Virginia commissioned to serve His Majesty’s interests. Some years back, I believe. Which makes him doubly rebellious.” Andrew had finished the tea. He broke the biscuit in two and offered half to the orderly. “Hungry?”

The boy shook his head. “I don’t eat with Tories.”

“Well then,” Andrew said, taking a large bite of the biscuit and jerking his thumb toward the contingent of redcoats at the far end of the field, “you’ll be going without for some little time.”