… it must be known, that we are at all times ready for war.
—GEORGE WASHINGTON
HARLEM HEIGHTS
If it weren’t wartime, this would make a charming picture. From the river’s edge, just south of Spiting Devil, George peered across the Hudson at the grandeur of the steep precipice—the Palisades. A slight breeze carried with it a breath of lavender; it reminded him of her. Still, after all these years, it reminded him of her.
Mount Morris, as some called it, had fields blanketed in wildflowers stretching all the way from the Hudson River to the east end of the island. Upon the highest ground, beyond the cornfields, sat the mansion that belonged to her … and the insubordinate one—the man who had taken off for England when George was named general.
George appeared as a commander should, wearing a blue coat equipped with a rise-and-fall collar, breeches, and underdress in matching buff: That shade, buff, was the same as the uniform for his soldiers. George decided on hunting shirts for the men; no dress would be cheaper, or more convenient. He also remembered the look on the French commandant’s face when he, Gist, and his crew of a motley sort arrived in enemy territory in no more than hunter’s garb. Even George’s expert marksmen would be dressed in such garb. As he looked at them gathered in front of him, he knew it was the right decision. Surprise the enemy. Besides, there was no money for anything more.
General Washington spoke before his men. “The hour is fast approaching, on which the honor and success of this army, and the safety of our bleeding country, depend.” He spoke loudly, firmly, clearly. “Let it never be said, that in a day of action, you turned your backs on the foe—let the enemy no longer triumph—They brand you with ignominious epithets—Will you patiently endure that reproach? Will you suffer the wounds given to your Country to go unrevenged? Every motive that can touch the human breast calls us to the most vigorous exertions—Our dearest rights—our dearest friends—our own lives—honor—glory, and even shame, urge us to the fight—And, my fellow soldiers! when an opportunity presents, be firm, be brave, show yourselves men, and victory is yours!” His soldiers applauded him.
TODAY GEORGE WOULD begin to fortify this property. He believed these grounds about King’s Bridge well calculated for a defense. Obstructions placed from one side of the river to the other would prevent a British incursion. These would stop the enemy’s movement north from Manhattan Island. He would have his troops prepared to defend with a minute’s warning. Lookouts would be established at the highest points of Harlem Heights. Every regiment posted in this place, from Morris’s house to camp, needed to be furnished with guards to prevent any surprises. George’s entire army had pushed northward after the British landed their ships on the southern tip and after they tried to kill him.
His forces would be ready. He would be ready.
A man George considered a fast friend to the colonies approached and spoke to him. “This, General Washington, I guarantee, will stop the enemy from entering Hudson’s River. I call this a marine cheval-de-frise.” Inventor and master ironworker Robert Erskine had developed defenses never before seen. One of them was an enormous medieval-style defensive weapon with a steel center frame and long iron spikes projecting outward. It was moving closer to them, carried on a flat cart with wheels, sluggishly led by eight horses. “The consequence of a ship’s running against it must either be that she will stake upon it or overset it, in which case the other horns will rise and take her in the bottom, and either overset her or go through her; or else she must break it with her weight, thereby rendering her unfit for further service.”
George assigned nearly a hundred men to assist in its launch. He had only eighteen hundred soldiers at his disposal in this place. “Let it be sunk in the darkness,” he told Erskine.
George presumed the British would make several attempts at an attack. Their troops lay encamped about two miles south. Their weaponry was being transported from Long Island, he had learned. The signs were clear: They would make an attack soon. By land. By water. He had to put the forces in the best defensive position that time and circumstance would allow.
“As for the chain?” asked George.
“The chain is being completed—twelve hundred links of iron to allow it to reach seventeen hundred feet in length. It will be installed here at Jeffrey’s Hook.”
“It is of the utmost importance that the greatest diligence should be used to complete and render the defense effectual,” added George.
“Aye. Our Benedict Arnold has offered assurance he will oversee the installation of the second chain north in the Highlands, at the shoreline of the Beverley Robinson estate.”
George heard Beverley built a fine estate on Susannah’s property in the Highlands along the Hudson River. Robinson not only allowed for the installation but also offered residency to Arnold or any other commander, including George.
“And the turtle is complete, General. We needed seven hundred pounds of lead.”
“The submersible? And it is operational?”
“Aye, General. The device is completed with a brass oar for rowing forward and backward. It will be sunk by letting in water via a spring near the bottom. It’s watertight, General. It will make its attempt below the water upon the British warship Eagle. Explosives will be affixed to the sides of the ship and provide enough time to allow for the officers’ escape.”
PUTTING HIS SPYGLASS to his eye, George looked south. What to do with the southern tip of Manhattan Island still remained a question. Till of late, he had no doubt about defending it, but the British had infiltrated with thousands more troops than he could take down. He had to move his soldiers from that place. Now he wondered whether the enemy should have rights to its comforts and conveniences. Could he go so far as to make their encampment useless? Possibly level it, if necessary? Burn it down? Destroy the southern tip? Yes, he believed that was the only way. He would leave the matter to Congress to decide.
The enemy, he feared, planned to enclose his army. If the British filled southern Manhattan Island and obtained control of King’s Bridge to the north of his present location, his armed forces would be trapped in the middle, then cut to pieces.
Brigadier General Hugh Mercer rode up to him. He’d become a close confidant of George’s over the twenty years they had known each other. George needed to discuss another location with him.
“Mercer, as I look to the west,” George viewed the Palisades across the Hudson, “it appears to me of the utmost importance to have a strong encampment at the post on the Jersey side of the North River, opposite our post. I think it advisable that you detach such a force from Amboy.”
“Certainly, General,” Mercer responded. “I will see to it. And General, there is news on the subject of government.” His Scottish accent was detectable. “The honorable Philip Livingston—”
“Yes?”
“He is dead, General. Fainted from a dizzy spell in chambers. He died right there on his desk. There is word that the medical doctor, James Jay, will replace him as a representative of the Southern District in the New York Senate.”
A crushing sound interrupted their discussion, for the massively long cart rolling the cheval flattened a large wooden post on the property. The engraved marker with the words Mount Morris was flattened below its wheels. As the cart moved past it, splintered pieces lay on the ground, any trace of the words obliterated.