The Glorious Cause (9 page)

Vaughan seemed to run out of breath. Howe glanced at Clinton, said, “I gave no specific order to extend our position. However, Colonel von Donop enjoys the full confidence of General de Heister, and I am certain he saw a particular opportunity. It is probably a wise strategy to establish a strong front near the city, to prevent the rebels from assaulting us from that quarter.” He looked at Clinton.

“Don’t you agree, General?”

“If the commanding general deems it proper to allow the Hessians to proceed with their own plan, then I have no objection.” There was no emotion in Clinton’s voice, and Howe seemed to ignore him. Vaughan found his energy again, said, “Sir, we have made every attempt to engage the rebels, without success. I deeply regret, sir, we have been unable to catch up to them.”

All eyes were on Vaughan now, and there were small laughs, Vaughan himself still not getting the joke.

Clinton was not smiling, said, “General Vaughan, it is probably best you call your men back into a stable position. It is clear the rebels have offered you the field. I suggest you accept it.”

Vaughan still seemed frustrated. Howe thought for a moment, said, “General Vaughan, you said we are in possession of the Murray mansion. Are the inhabitants present?”

Vaughan seemed deflated now. “Well, um, yes, sir. I spoke to Mrs. Murray myself. There was concern within the household about their safety, but I gave assurances no harm would come to them.”

Howe smiled, put his hands together.

“Yes, excellent. We should go there. I am well acquainted with the Murrays. Fine hosts, staunch loyalists. We should offer them some comfort. No doubt, they have been subjected to considerable abuse by the rebels.”

Howe moved to his horse, climbed up, said to Clinton, “You are invited, certainly, and General Cornwallis as well. Do make haste. For a wonderful day such as this, some refreshment is in order, and seeing that it is near the noon hour, perhaps in their gratefulness they will provide a hearty meal.”

Howe was moving away, and Cornwallis looked at Vaughan, saw a look of distress spreading on the man’s face.

“General Vaughan, I’m certain you are invited as well. General Howe did not mean to exclude you.”

“Thank you, sir.” Vaughan looked at Clinton now, said, “Sir, I believe we have considerable work yet in front of us. We observed a large number of rebels retreating to the north, and I would suspect that General Washington is gathering the greater part of his army in that quarter, along our right flank.”

Clinton was still watching Howe’s departure, the last of his staff now disappearing into the woods. Other officers had begun to gather, and Cornwallis could see men still emerging from the timberline, pulling into formation. Cornwallis said aloud, “Do we have any reports from the direction of the city? I have heard little from that direction since we made our first landing. Do we know if their main battery is still manned?”

Clinton said, “I’ve heard nothing, and I don’t imagine the navy could drive a large force of rebels from those works. It’s a strong position, and they have a great many guns there. It is unlikely they will give up that position without a sharp fight.”

Cornwallis felt a stirring in his stomach, said, “Then, sir, should we not advance to the west, and do what we can to create some kind of barrier, especially on the main roads leading north? I have no doubt that General Vaughan is correct, and Washington will withdraw his forces to the only safe place they can gather, which is northward. Any rebel forces in the city can be easily cut off.”

Clinton stared grimly to the west, past the meadow where more of their troops continued to gather, more strength coming into their formations. In the river behind them, the flatboats were beginning to land again, returning with the first units of the main body of the army. Clinton still said nothing, and Cornwallis could see the familiar glare on his face. No one spoke, would wait for the senior commander, and finally Clinton said, “We have been instructed to await the arrival of the remainder of the army. We will not move from this vicinity until General Howe issues that order. The commanding general will not give that order until he feels we have the force to adequately crush the rebels, no matter in what direction they may be.” He looked at Cornwallis.

“General, do you understand?”

Cornwallis was surprised at the question.

“Certainly, sir.” He could see that Clinton wasn’t satisfied with his answer, and Clinton said, “Do you understand that we have been ordered to maintain our present position for the rest of this day? We are not to advance
across
Manhattan, we are not to make any move to cut off the rebels in the city, no matter how disadvantaged they may be. The commanding general will not make any further advances until he has what he feels is a force adequate to the task, until the . . .
risk
has been eliminated.”

Cornwallis understood now, Clinton was right. Howe was stopping again, would rest on the laurels of this one great victory, as though it was enough for one day. The report would be sent quickly to London, and the ministry would erupt with praise. For that reason alone, Howe would not take any kind of risk, not with the vast strength of the army still to be assembled on the shore. If it is a mistake, well, we do not know that yet. They are defeated certainly. But, again, we have allowed them to escape. The word dug into his mind,
escape
. How many times will we allow them to escape destruction? Surely General Howe understands that the war will continue as long as the rebels can make a fight,
somewhere
.

Clinton began to move away, his staff holding his horse for him. Cornwallis watched him climb up, and Clinton looked at him, said, “Best hurry, General. The war can wait. General Howe requires a hearty meal.”

7. WASHINGTON

S
EPTEMBER 15, 1776

The sounds of cannon fire had brought him southward, his staff fighting to keep up with the pace of his horse. As he reached the Post Road, he could see smoke rising from the river, but not enough to cloud the tall masts of the British warships. When their bombardment had stopped, he could see them clearly, and the dull thunder was replaced by scattered bursts of musket fire. As he moved past other units of militia, the men who guarded the landings from the Harlem River southward, the order had been given for the men to move toward the sounds of the fight. Along the northern stretches of the East River shoreline, what earthworks had been dug were quickly abandoned. They all knew now: The fight had been at Kip’s Bay. From the west as well, near the Bloomingdale Road, men were advancing in support, some already reaching the crossroad where he stopped the horse.

The sounds of the battle had grown strangely quiet, and there was a new sound, voices, shouts, men now flowing up the Post Road toward him, others appearing out of patches of woods, across open fields. There were no British soldiers, just his own men, and they ran toward him with blind panic, stumbling into the road just below him, closer still. Though some were calling out, short gasps of warnings, curses, he could see many others were deathly silent, the faces staring straight ahead, purposeful, their fear driving them toward some imagined sanctuary, some place of safety they might never find. He could hear orders, hard commands from officers, trying to turn their men around, but then the officers were running as well, few stopping to form any kind of line. Washington was stunned by the sight, for a long moment just stared, felt a rising sickness. But then they began to move past him, some stumbling into the road right beside him, and now he called out to the staff gathered behind him, “Stop them! Hold them back!” He turned the horse sideways, and the aides did the same, blocking the road. He drew his sword, raised it high, began to shout as they forced their way past, “Stop! Hold here! Do not run! There is no danger!”

The wave of men parted around him, oblivious to any order, the shouts from the staff ignored as well. One man came straight toward him, launched himself into the horse’s flank, Washington holding hard to the reins, the man staring through him, unseeing, blinded by his own terror. Washington raised his sword, the man still scrambling to push his way past, and Washington brought the flat of the sword down on the man’s back, but the man slipped by and was quickly gone. There were more now, some still keeping to the road, but others had simply spread out into the fields around them, slowed only by their own exhaustion.

He heard new shouts, could see down the crossroad to the west, a column of his troops, saw General Mifflin, the Pennsylvanian. Mifflin was already ordering his men into the road in front of Washington, screening the commander from the tide of panic. Washington pointed with the sword toward a long low stone fence, said, “General, move your men into line. Take the wall!” Farther to the west, the stone framed a field of tall corn, and he rode that way, guiding more of Mifflin’s men, said, “Take the cornfield! It will provide cover! Make ready!”

Mifflin was pulling his horse along with the flow of his men, putting them in place, and Washington felt a burst of relief, Finally, a fighting man, troops who can face the enemy. Thank God. More of his men were arriving now, the militia who had been up to the north, along the river, guarding the landing places that Howe had ignored. Washington guided them into place as well, the men lining up along fences that spread out to the east, some crouching low against rocks, muskets at the ready.

There were still refugees coming toward them, men staggering into the road, more of the panic. He could see there would be no fight in those men, and he shouted, “Let them pass!”

He pulled the horse beside the road, waved his sword, some of the men now walking, their energy gone. He saw faces looking at him, recognition, some of the men stopping to stare at him through the sweat and dirt on their faces.

“Take your position with these men! There is no enemy! You are not being pursued!”

His staff took up the same call, and some of the men seemed to understand, others collapsed to the ground, having run as far as their terror could take them. A few still had muskets, but only a few, and he saw more of them awakening to the moment, aware now of the growing strength of their own army. Slowly, they began to move to the fence lines, joining the fresh troops, the courage returning.

Mifflin’s men were fully in place, and behind him, still other units were advancing, more strength. Washington directed them back behind the first troops, a second line of muskets. The officers had control now, and he moved his horse out into the Post Road, stared to the south, expecting to see the familiar columns of red and white, Howe’s massed forces pushing their way north. The horse moved under him, and Washington held hard to the reins, Yes, I know. Right here! We will meet them right here. And we are prepared.

He could see a small hill, about a quarter mile away, the Post Road running up and over, then disappearing beyond. He knew that past the small hill, the road dropped off toward another much larger hill, crowned by the Murray estate, and then just below, Kip’s Bay. He had not expected Howe to come ashore there, had thought they might land farther north, closer to the mouth of the Harlem River, farther from Washington’s strength in the city. He knew the area around Kip’s Bay was commanded by William Douglas, with a brigade of fresh Connecticut troops, green recruits who had not been with the army more than a few days. But south of the bay were more Connecticut troops, under James Wadsworth, experienced men, and Wadsworth would know to reinforce Douglas. He had no idea if the men who had retreated with such panic were Douglas’ men, or Wadsworth’s, or both. But for now, it made no difference.

From behind him, men continued to come forward, reinforcing his stand, and he sat high in the saddle, could hear some men calling out to him, would not acknowledge that, thought, This is not a moment for hat waving and celebration. Show me how you can fight. That is all I ask.

He continued to stare down the Post Road, could hear nothing but the men around him, but then something faint, a muffled rhythm. The men began to hear it as well, and the voices grew quiet. On the hill, he saw a flicker of red, saw a man, a single soldier suddenly crest the hill. The man stopped, seemed to wave, and now more men appeared, filling the road, some spreading out to each side. The muffled sound was now sharp, distinct, the careful rhythm of a lone drummer. The British came forward slowly, and Washington felt his heartbeat rising, expected to see a great mass of troops, but the British moved toward them down off the hill, and behind them, the hilltop was bare, the road empty. The British still moved forward, but the drum had stopped, the soldiers halting now, extending into a single line. Washington could see now, no officers, no one on a horse, thought, It’s merely a scouting party, perhaps, sixty, seventy men. They will not come much closer, unless they have strength behind them. I must hold these men back, they might be tempted to charge them, an easy capture. We must see what they do first.

His thoughts were jarred by a sudden cascade of voices, men on either side of him. He expected to see them bursting forward, shouted, “No! Hold here . . .”

But they were not advancing. Instead, men were pulling away from their cover, the stone wall emptying, as they suddenly rushed out of the cornfield. It had begun with a few, but the infection spread, and all around him, men dropped their muskets, a sudden eruption of panic as his men, Mifflin’s men, the others, abandoned their position. He stared in horror, felt a burn in his chest, his voice choked away, the infection now complete, hundreds of men filled the Post Road, scampering away across the fields. He tried to shout, made just a noise, no words, saw Mifflin riding back through his men, trying to turn them, and the anger rose inside of him, Damn them! Why do they run? His staff was close by, watching him, waiting for some instruction, and Washington felt the anger growing into a hot mindless rage. He spurred the horse, rode through the panicked men, slapping at them with his sword, his voice now harsh, raw. “Stop! You are cowards! Damn you!”

He saw a young officer, the man pushing past his own men, knocking one man to the ground, the officer scrambling over a fence, stumbling, tearing at his own canteen, throwing it aside. Others were doing the same, dropping whatever was in their hands, cartridge boxes, powder horns, littering the ground with the tools of his army. Washington tore the hat from his head, gripped it hard in his fist, still watched the young officer, the man now running away from him in full stride. Washington’s hand was shaking, his hat bunched into a shapeless mass, and he threw it hard to the ground, shouted again, “
Damn
you!”

But there was no one to hear him now, just his staff, gathering slowly behind him, no one able to hold the troops from their manic retreat. He turned, looked again toward the British troops, saw them advancing again, the same small line, the drummer keeping the rhythm of their march. He slumped in the saddle, watched them come, the uniforms distinct, the sharp colors, the bayonets a bright silver reflection in the afternoon sun. They were nearly within musket range now, and still they kept their discipline, came forward at a steady march. He felt a strange sense of wonder, it was after all just one small unit, no real strength at all. Indeed, just a scouting party. He could see the sergeant leading them, close enough to see the features of the man’s face, confident, watching him as a hawk watches his prey, moving closer. There is no need for them to fire a volley. No, they will just capture us. We are unprotected. He felt the horse suddenly jerk to one side, saw Tilghman close beside him, pulling on the bridle, the young man looking at him with a terror of his own.

“Sir! We must go!”

The horse was moving now, and Washington felt the reins that were still in his hand, could see the staff in motion, the sounds of the horses. Tilghman said again,
“Sir!”

His mind snapped alive, and he spurred the flanks of the horse, and it responded, the familiar gallop. The staff was all around him, riding as he rode, moving up the Post Road, following the trail of debris left by his army.

He had caught up to many of the retreating soldiers, had accepted their uselessness to make a stand. The staff had gathered as many officers as could be found and began to guide the troops toward the one place they could find safety. The northern part of Manhattan Island was rocky, with a wide stretch of high ground known as Harlem Heights. There, while Howe had spent two weeks planning his invasion of Manhattan, Washington had placed his headquarters, and the greatest strength of his army, a naturally fortified position, tall cliffs and massive boulders that spread from the Hudson River on the west to the Harlem River on the east.

Washington rode westward now, reached another crossroad that intersected the Bloomingdale Road, the main north–south road on the western part of the island. He crested a hill, could see the Hudson River in front of him, a line of British warships sitting at anchor, part of Howe’s grip on the island. He stopped the horse, the staff, other officers now gathering, more of his army finding their way to the safer roadway. Their movement was northward, and he made no attempt to stop them, knew that they would first have to gather on the rocky Heights if they were to have spirit for another fight.

The road was churned into dust, men moving past without seeing him, and he did not look at them, did not want to know whose men they were, whether or not they were Mifflin’s men or had been a part of the collapse at Kip’s Bay. There was the sound of a horse, then another, and Washington heard his name, the staff motioning. A horse emerged through the choking clouds, and Washington could see it was Israel Putnam. The short round man was holding tight to the reins of a horse whose hide was soaked with hot foam.

“General Washington! Thank God, sir! Thank God! I feared the worst!”

Washington waited for Putnam to collect himself, the exhausted horse lowering its head, Putnam wiping caked dirt from his face.

Putnam commanded the battery far to the south, and Washington knew how far he had come.

“General Putnam, I am pleased to see you are safe.”

Putnam huffed, seemed not to notice the black mood in Washington’s voice.

“Sir, I am not safe at all!” The words poured out of Putnam in a torrent. “We are in a deadly strait! My division is still occupying the battery. I must urge you, sir, to consider our immediate withdrawal! As best as we can determine, the entire British army is east of this position. If they advance across to the Bloomingdale Road, my men are cut off. The navy ships have been dueling with our guns down there, and I have no doubt they will attempt some sort of landing after dark. Colonel Knox is putting up a gallant fight, sir, but we are no match for an assault from land
and
sea! Sir, we must withdraw!”

Washington turned to the east, thought, No sound, no drums, no advance. Nothing. He looked at Putnam, said, “Since you rode this far, I am assuming the Bloomingdale Road is still open all the way southward.”

“Yes, sir! For now, that is! We cannot delay!”

“No, you cannot. Can you make the ride yourself, General?”

Putnam seemed insulted at the question, said, “I am here to protect my men, sir! I will make any ride necessary!”

Washington looked at the other horseman, a much younger man, the face familiar, Aaron Burr, a contentious man who had served briefly with Washington’s staff.