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1. THE
FISHERMAN
Gravesend Bay, New York, August 22, 1776
He
had sat out the raw misery of the storm through most of the night,
keeping his boat tight against the shore. She was pulled up on soft
ground between two large rocks, his private mooring, a hiding place
he had known since he was a boy. The boat would be safe there, from
weather or the occasional vandal, but this time the storm was
different, the rain driven by a howling wind that might push the
waves hard beneath the boat, damaging her against the rocks. His
wife would not worry, would keep the fireplace lit, would not
protest even though he would stay out all night. She had heard him
speak of it too often, his love of the water, the pursuit of the
fish that seemed to call to him in a way few wives understand. This
time she did not expect him to return home for at least two days,
and so as he huddled under a ledge of rock, soaked by the amazing
violence of the storm, he did not worry for her, thought only of
tomorrow, the new dawn, hoping that the storm would be
gone.
He would rarely fish in the darkness, but the late
summer had been hot, breathless days that kept the fish silent, sent
them away to some invisible place every fisherman seeks. He had
thought of drift- ing with the tide along the edge of Gravesend Bay,
without even his small sail, just easing along the first deep water
offshore, hoping to tempt something from below into an ill-timed
assault on his handmade hooks. But as the sun went down, the breeze
had not calmed, and he had stared wide-eyed at a terrifying burst of
lightning, warning him from the distance, a great show from the
lower tip of New York, moving toward him from the distant shores of
New Jersey. The storm had blown hard across the harbor, and he
barely made it to his private wharf before the hard rain slapped his
face and soaked his clothes. He had used his long push pole to slide
the boat between the rocks, jumping out and then moving quickly
under the ledges that faced away from the water. There was nowhere
else to go, no thought of a fire, no blessed coffee, nothing but the
hard crack of thunder. He had tried to lift himself up, keep his
breeches off the ground, the dirt beneath him turning to mud as the
flow of rainwater found him, small rivers in the soil. But the rock
ledge was low and tight, and he could not escape, had settled into
the misery, simply to wait it out until the dawn.
Before
first light, the rain had stopped, and the quiet had awakened him.
He groaned his way into the open air, his joints crying in
stiffness, the air chilling him through the wetness of his shirt.
But then he could see the first glow in the east, and he listened
for the sound, the winds gone, only a soft breeze flowing through
the trees behind him. He had always believed that after a strong
rain, the fish would move, emerging from their own shelter, hungry,
looking for whatever he might offer them. It was a lesson taught him
by his father, who had fished this same water, who knew Gravesend
Bay better than anyone in the villages, the way a farmer knows his
land, every rock, every hole. He had begun to go out with his father
when he was barely old enough to hold the stout fishing pole, had
cheered with pure joy when the old man had wrestled with the fury of
some unknown creature, and shared the pride of his father's success,
the fish flopping and writhing in the bottom of the boat, the old
man's quiet joy. His father was gone now, but the lessons remained.
He looked at the boat, his father's boat, cared for by the hand of
the son, thought, It's time to go fishing.
There was a great
deal of water in the boat, and he scooped out as much as he could,
then turned it on its side, a great splash on muddy ground, the last
bit of water spilling away. He was in a hurry now, did not look at
the glow on the horizon, knew that the dawn would give way to
another hot day, and he slid the boat quickly off the shore, one
last push as he waded out beside it, then jumped, lifting himself
into the stern. He pushed with the long pole, the boat cutting
through the low ripples on the water, and he measured the
shallowness, knew that in another hundred yards it would drop off.
He examined his fishing pole, felt the familiar excitement, knew
that in the early morning, he might find a big one, a striped bass
perhaps, or hook into a big blue, a fight that could pull his boat
for a half mile into the great bay. If the breeze was right, he
could drift along the slope of the drop-off, where the flounder
might strike, the amazingly ugly fish that his wife would not touch
until he cut away the ugliness.
The push pole suddenly went
deep, the bottom falling away, and he set it down along the rail of
the boat, tested the wind, thought of raising the small sail. He
reached for the hard wad of bait in his pocket, ignored the smell,
picked up the fishing pole . . . then froze, stared hard to the
south, across the narrows, saw a reflection, caught by the first
sunlight. It was a ship, fat and heavy, in full sail, coming
straight toward him. Beyond, he could see two more, smaller
frigates, more sails, and he stared at the bows of each ship,
cutting through the water, thought, They will turn soon. They must
be going out to sea.
He had often thought of sailors, the
crews who manned the great ships, what kind of life could be had
living only on the water. The harbor had filled with them only weeks
before, more ships than he thought there were in the world, a vast
navy, all the might of legend come to life. They were still there, a
forest of bare masts and rigging, wrapping along the shoreline and
wharves of Staten Island, extending out into the harbor. They had
stayed at anchor for the most part, the navy-knowing as did the
villagers-that on Governor's Island there were cannon, a curious
battery placed by the rebels to keep Lord Howe's ships from sailing
close to New York. The villagers had mostly laughed at the idea,
that these men who had come down from Boston would dare to threaten
His Majesty's navy, would have the arrogance to believe they could
keep the mighty ships in their anchorage. But there had been no
conflict, no real activity on either side. The hot talk in the
taverns had grown quiet, the inaction breeding boredom in those who
never really knew what would happen anyway. He was among them,
excited when the navy arrived, the amazing sight of so many troops
making camp on Staten Island, a vast sea of tents. But then nothing
had happened, and many had gone back to their routine. And so, he
had once again returned to Gravesend Bay to pursue the
fish.
His father had told him about the British navy, the
mightiest armada in the world, the vast power of the king that kept
all his enemies at bay. But his father had no fire for politics, and
the son knew only the talk, words like Whig and Tory, and issues
that excited some, but, to many more like him, seemed very far away.
He had heard the arguments, the complaints and protests, the threats
and hot talk that meant very little to him. He had thought it
strange that so many people could make such protest against their
king, especially in the face of all those ships, the vast army, the
enormous guns. And yet the voices had grown louder, the protests
erupting into great public gatherings. He had been in New York when
this man Washington had come. He had seen what those people called
an army, heard some of the speeches, more new words, talk of a
congress and independence. He thought it odd that the people wanted
to be rid of their king, the one man responsible for their security,
for protecting them from what he supposed to be all manner of
enemies: Indians, the French, even pirates, who could sail close to
these very shores, attacking the helpless, stealing anything they
pleased. He had never actually seen a pirate, of course, or a
Frenchman. There were Indians occasionally, in New York, or so he
had heard. He admired these ships, this great mass of power, had
felt as so many had felt out there on Long Island, that there could
be no danger, no enemy who could harm the colonials as long as the
great ships were there to protect them. But the rebels had cannon
too. All it meant to him was that he should probably not fish around
Governor's Island.
He had not fished around Staten Island
either. It was unfamiliar water, too long a trip for his small boat
to risk. If the wind turned against him, or a storm blew up, he
would be helpless, have to make for land in a place where rumors
sprouted. There had been talk from men who had been to Staten
Island, who had seen the foreigners. He didn't know why they would
be with the king's army, but the men at the tavern swore they had
seen them. They were called Hessians, and some said they were
savages, frightening men, strange uniforms and stranger faces. He
had laughed at the descriptions, knew some of the men could spin a
good yarn, but still . . . why would the king bring these men to New
York?
He watched the three ships, his hands moving
automatically to rig up his fishing pole. He had often seen smaller
ships moving past Gravesend Bay, some near the shallows where he
fished. There were sails only when they were heading for the open
water, or, as he had seen lately, when they came in, the end of some
long journey he could only imagine. The sailors had often called out
to him, men up in the rigging, on the rails. He had always waved
politely, wondered if they envied him, captain and crew of his own
boat. But then someone had shot at him, a puff of smoke from a
lookout, the strange zip of the musket ball passing overhead, a
small punch in the water behind his boat. He had not understood
that, thought it a ridiculous, frightening mistake, but the lesson
was learned. Now, when the navy ships moved past he made ready,
turned his boat toward the shore, an instinct inside him to move to
safety, to keep his fat rocks in sight.
He thought now of
doing the same, the three ships still bearing toward him. It was
odd, something wrong. He did not move, still watched them, thought,
They should be turning about before now, the deeper water is behind
them. If they keep on this course, they will run aground. He had
never seen such a mass of power so close. The larger ship was now
barely two hundred yards away, then he heard shouts, the ship
beginning to veer slowly to one side. The sails began to drop, the
rigging alive with men, sounds of canvas flapping, the rattle of
chain. He could see the anchor suddenly dropping, a hard splash as
it thrust downward. He set the fishing pole down, his heart racing
cold in his chest, his hands feeling for the paddle, no time to put
up the sail. In short moments, the rigging of the great ship was
bare, the tall masts naked against the glow from the east. He began
to move the paddle in the water, pulling his boat backward, unable
to take his eyes away from the flank of the ship, the rows of cannon
staring straight toward him, toward the land behind him. The other
ships moved in behind, slow maneuvering, more sails disappearing,
and he kept paddling, his boat barely pushing into the tide, the
breeze against his back. He glanced behind him, saw his rocks, the
sanctuary, the agonizing distance, moved the paddle faster, chopping
at the water. He expected to hear the musket ball again, but they
seemed not to notice him, or better, they were ignoring him. The
sandy bottom was visible beneath his boat now, and he grabbed
quickly for the push pole, stood, balanced precariously, the boat
rocking under his feet.
He strained against the push pole,
the boat lurching under him, but then he stopped. Beyond the smaller
ships there was something new, motion again, but different, no
sails, no great masts. He stepped up on his seat, tried to see more
detail, could tell the boats were flat, the motion coming from rows
of oars. He saw more of them, and slowly they reached the warships,
but did not stop, kept moving, still coming toward him. He was
frozen for a long moment, his mind absorbing through his confusion.
The flatboats kept coming, a vast swarm, the motion of the oars
bringing them closer. He began to see reflections, a mass of color,
red and white and silver. And now he understood. The boats were
filled with soldiers.
He had reached the rocks, pulled the
boat between them, slid it hard onto the shore with sweating hands.
The soldiers had ignored him, and he thought of leaving, running the
long trail back to his house, telling his wife. He climbed up on the
taller rock, could see a great fleet of small flat barges. They had
begun to reach the shore, sliding to a stop a hundred yards away
from his perch, one after another, shouts, the men suddenly
emerging, each boat emptying. He felt a strange thrill, saw the
uniforms clearly now, the red and white of the British soldiers, the
colors that inspired an empire. He was truly excited, the fear gone,
made a small laugh, thought, No, there is no danger. I should go
out, salute them, welcome them to Long Island. He saw different
uniforms, brighter red, gold trim, officers. If I can find the
commander, bring him to my house . . .
He tried to imagine
his wife's face. He laughed again, saw now that the empty boats were
moving offshore, sliding between those that still held their
passengers. He tried to count, three dozen, No . . . my God. The
flotilla stretched all the way past the warships still, an endless
sea of flat motion. He could hear sounds now, over the quick shouts
of men, the rhythm of drums, and a strange screeching noise. The
sounds began to come together, the music of bagpipes, and the boat
released its cargo, a different red, men in tartan, and he stared,
thought, By God . . . they're wearin' . . . skirts. He pictured his
wife, knew she wouldn't believe him, thought of running again,
bringing her back here, to see this amazing sight. He wanted to
stand up high on the rock, pulled his knees up, but something held
him down, frozen. There was a ripple of sound behind him, from the
sandy hills, a line of thin woods. The soldiers seemed not to hear,
no change in their voices, their activity. But he turned, looked
back, saw bits of smoke in the trees. Musket fire. He couldn't see
who was shooting, thought, My God, what foolishness. Who dares to
fire at the king's troops? He huddled down against the rock, peered
out toward the soldiers again, saw men in line, moving off the
narrow beach, an officer leading them up the rise toward the trees.
The musket fire slowed, just the single pop, then another. Then the
woods were quiet, the British troops moving up closer. He felt an
odd twist in his stomach, thought, Was that a battle? Was it over?
He was amazed, thought, You do not shoot at soldiers. He tried to
think who it might have been, had heard something about rebels who
had come across the East River, to build some kind of fort near
Brooklyn. Is that who was in the woods? He was anxious to move away
now, to go home, to tell his wife this strange story. He looked out
toward the boats again, could suddenly hear music, different, brass
and drums. One of the boats reached the shore closer to him, and the
colors were not red. The sunlight reflected off a mass of metal, men
with gold helmets. The uniforms were blue, and the men began to move
onto the shore with crisp steps, forming a neat rectangle. He
stared, saw they nearly all wore their hair tied in a long queue, a
braid protruding from the helmets, each man with a moustache. There
were officers here too, and when their men moved off the shore, the
officers turned, looked toward him, one man motioning with his arm,
pointing. He felt the cold in his chest again, began to back down
the rock. But he could not leave just yet, had to see, peeked up
over the edge, saw six of the blue uniforms moving down the beach in
his direction. Now the welcome was erased from his mind. He could
hear their voices now, words that he didn't understand. This must be
. . . could they be . . . Hessians?
He dropped down from the
rocks, fought the urge to run, glanced at his boat. No, I cannot
just leave her here. They might take her. He felt his hands shaking,
the strange voices moving closer, just beyond the far side of the
big rocks. He took a deep breath, fixed a smile on his face, moved
around the boat, saw them now, saw for the first time the long
muskets, the hard sharp steel, the bayonets moving down, pointing at
him. There was one in a different uniform, the man holding a sword,
who motioned toward him, unsmiling, said, "A spy, yes?"
He
shook his head, tried to laugh.
"Oh, no, sir. Just fishing."
He pointed toward the boat, his hand shaking. "See? Just fishing,
sir."
The officer glanced at the boat, said something to the
soldiers beside him, and the men moved quickly, the bayonets
suddenly coming forward, the sharp flash of steel, the work of men
who know their business. The officer gave a short command, and the
soldiers backed away, stood again in a tight line. The officer
glanced down at the man who lay fallen into his boat, nodded, made a
brief smile.
"A spy. Yes."
Excerpted from The Glorious Cause by Jeff
ShaaraCopyright 2002 by Jeff Shaara. Excerpted by permission of
Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights
reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted
without permission in writing from the publisher.
