The Glorious Cause

by Jeff Shaara

  There was a new roar of sound now, from straight in front of him, a fresh burst of white smoke, another chattering volley. The ground out in front of the Heights was an open plain, woods beyond, and the woods were alive with motion. The sounds kept reaching him, and he was more anxious now, the discipline slipping a bit, and he thought, I should ride out . . . see who is in command there. He had not seen Sullivan or Stirling since the battle began, thought, If they are out there, they will know to withdraw. He focused more to the northeast, heard very little sound, the British surprise already advancing well into Sullivan’s flank. Surely he will withdraw. It may be the only way to save his army. This army.

  The smoke began to clear again, and he could see across the plain, could see the Guian Heights. Troops were visible to the east, and it was not chaos, but signs of order and discipline, men in formation, straight lines, advancing in good order. But it was not the uneven colors, the irregular uniforms of his men. The lines were red and white, and then to the south, formations of sharp blue, reflections off rows of bayonets. He stared with a growing coldness in his mind. The lines were moving toward him, all across the field, driving before them scattered pieces of his army.

  He looked back into the works, could see Putnam now, working to pull the shaken troops together, the men who had escaped wounds, whose panic had been brought under control. Gradually a line formed, men from various regiments gathering into a line of battle. Putnam was shouting something, officers repeating the calls, but few of the men paid attention to them, some staring up toward the ramparts, where men with quivering hands stared out at the same stunning sight that faced Washington. Some were looking toward him, and he saw it in their faces. This is the moment, the one instant that will decide their fate. If they run, abandon these works . . .

  He would not look to the rear, give them any hint of what he was thinking. But he knew what was there. It was no accident the works were built with the rear against the East River. The design had been Stirling’s, the man with a talent for engineering, for making the best use of the lay of the land. The river was a barrier to protect them. And he understood now, it was a barrier as well to their escape. Should they try to run, should the rout be complete, these men would have nowhere to go. He tried to wipe the thought from his mind, shouted again, “Hold firm! We are secure here!”

  It was feeble, but he didn’t know what else to say. The men on the rampart seemed to move with a pulse, each man fighting in his own heart the urge to run away. He knew that all it might take would be that one awful sight, one man with a horrible wound, one man who suddenly leaped from the ramparts, scrambled back toward the river, infecting them all. He looked for Putnam again, saw him still forming men into line, and Putnam looked at him, the older man’s face a silent question.

  “General Putnam, have these men remain ready! But there will be no advance. No one will move forward!”

  Putnam nodded, understood what Washington was doing, that it was not only sound tactics in the face of an overwhelming force of the enemy, but those orders would calm the men. They would not be asked to do it again. Not this day.

  He turned to his aide now, saw Tench Tilghman watching him, waiting for orders. The small thin man was holding the spyglass, and Washington motioned. Tilghman climbed a short ladder and handed him the glass. Washington took a breath, focused out on the closest line of troops he could see, a short line of blue coats. But it was not the sharp blue of the Hessians. These troops were facing the other way. There was a sudden burst of smoke, a volley, and out past them, a British line seemed to collapse, scattering into pieces. Washington said aloud, “Who is that? What . . . unit is that?”

  He didn’t expect an answer, but Tilghman said, “Marylanders, sir! Colonel Smallwood!”

  Washington could hear the excitement in Tilghman’s voice, still stared through the glass, could see more of his scattered men rallying to the Maryland line, bits of uniforms distinct now. His hands gripped the glass, yes! He is correct! The Maryland regiment. And . . . Delaware. Hazlet’s men.

  The British came together again, another advance against the Maryland line, and to one side of them, Washington could see men emerging from a thicket of trees, most of them running, more of the retreat, moving past their own solid line, the men who held their ground. He thought of the horse, I must go there. They are making a stand. It could rally the men! The field was bathed in smoke again, a fresh wave of volleys from the left, pushing more of Sullivan’s men across the open ground, making their escape to the safety of the works. He watched the Maryland line still, could tell they were retreating in order, giving ground slowly, allowing the scattered troops to escape past them. But in front of them, he could see a growing force of British, and on one side, emerging from the same woods, a sharp reflection from more bayonets, a wave of blue, different, more Hessians. Men were climbing into the works all around him, and one man was suddenly at his feet, down below, shouted up to him, “Sir!”

  The man could barely speak, his words bursting out in short breaths. Washington looked at him, and the man saluted shakily, said, “Sir! Colonel Smallwood requests reinforcements, sir! He asks . . . in the most urgent terms!”

  Washington stared at the man, saw clear hard eyes, the man waiting for his answer. Washington looked again through the glass, and the man’s impatience gave way.

  “Sir! Colonel Smallwood . . .” Washington held up one hand, stopped the man, could see the Maryland line moving back toward him, a faster retreat now, but still good order. He felt relief, thought, No, Smallwood is saving his men. There can be no rallying now. This fight is done.

  Smallwood was pulling his troops toward the safety of the Heights, a swarm of color pursuing them from three sides, a wave of gray smoke rolling over them, some of the Marylanders going down. Washington looked at Smallwood’s man now, said, “It will not be necessary for you to return to Colonel Smallwood. There can be no reinforcements. The colonel understands that. He is in retreat.”

  The man tried to say something, a protest forming on his face. Washington forced himself to ignore him, stared again through the spyglass, the smoke blurring the view, the fight closing in all across the open ground. The sounds rolled in his direction, vast patches of smoke swirling around him. His men still came, the wounded still struggling, men helping each other, screams and shouts and panic. He stepped away from the rampart, looked for Putnam, thought, We must make ready. This is a good place for a fight. He shouted again, “Man the ramparts! Keep to your arms!”

  Men still scrambled past him, some stumbling, and he could see the high rocky ground within the fortifications filled with what was left of Sullivan’s command, every open space, some men sprawled out, some sitting, more of the wide-eyed shock. And, now for the first time, he saw that many of them were empty-handed, had left their muskets behind. Much of what remained of this army was nearly unarmed.

  The firing had stopped, and all out in front of Brooklyn Heights, the British had brought their army into neat formation, stood in line now, officers straightening the formations, as though organizing a parade. They stood just beyond musket range, and whether through discipline or pure terror, Washington’s men did not respond to this astounding target, no wild potshots at the great mass of power spread across the plain in front of them. He could hear music, a discordant rattling of drumbeats, a mix of rhythms, small groups of musicians and drummers, rallying their well-trained regiments. Behind the formation men on horseback were gathering, and Washington stared through the glass, tried to see them clearly, studied the grand uniforms. He could see one larger group, senior commanders, men with girth, heavy in the saddle, aides flittering about them. He didn’t know the faces, thought, Howe, perhaps. Certainly he would be here, to see for himself what his army has accomplished. Their great . . . triumph. He was engulfed by the same shock that still spread through his army, that they had faced the might of King George, and had been swept from the field. And worse, it was not merely the confrontation, the power, but th
e tactics as well, the flanking move that had caught them all by surprise. His mind was too numb to think of blame, whether Sullivan or Putnam should have known better, whether someone should have protected against all the possible routes the enemy could have used. The blame would be Washington’s, after all, and there were far greater concerns than which officer might not have performed. He knew enough of the fight to know that many of Stirling’s men had made a valiant stand, Smallwood certainly, the Delaware line, Atlee of Pennsylvania, Clark of Connecticut. But in the end, the numbers against them were too strong, and so many of the heroes would remain nameless, cut down by the bayonets or lost in the swamps, a great many of them captured, including Stirling himself.

  He thought of Greene, but his mind was drifting, and he thought, Would it have mattered? If Greene had been here, would this army have stood up better, the deployment more suited to the attack they faced? There was no reason to think so. After all, it was not just the failure of the commanders that caused the collapse. The men themselves could not face an enemy this strong and stand firm.

  The great mass of color in front of him began to blur, and he backed away from the wall, fought to get control. Behind him there was a swarm of sounds, faint screams and cries, the wounded being tended to as best as they could be. Many were quiet, those whose wounds were inside their own minds, staring quietly at nothing, knowing that on this day they had shown very little of what makes a soldier. But there were signs of an army as well, officers still working their men into line, sorting through the mingling crowd, separating companies and regiments. All along the wall, the men who still had their muskets were climbing up, adding to the numbers, standing shoulder to shoulder, many with the strength still to face what lay across the open ground. In the rocks, Washington could see men climbing into safe places, aiming, practicing the good shot, others slipping between, lining the gorges and small hills. He scanned along the edge of the fortifications, thought, Of course, this is how it will be after all. This is where the strength is in this army. We don’t have the numbers to face the enemy on open ground. But here, in these rocks, on this hill, we are very strong indeed. He looked out toward the British lines, saw no motion, the vast army just standing, facing Brooklyn Heights like some strange enraptured audience. He felt suddenly impatient, there was no reason to wait any longer. He raised the glass again, focused on the largest group of officers, thought of Howe. All right, you have waited long enough. Perhaps too long. You have allowed us to make ready, the panic has passed, the chaos is now settling into a hard strong defense. Is that what you wanted? Is it more seemly for a British general to make war on a prepared enemy? Well, sir, we are prepared now. There were voices now, bits of sounds all along the British lines, orders calling out, a new burst of drumbeats. The rows of color began to ripple, like a great long ribbon flickering in the soft breeze. His heart pounded, and along the rampart his men began to shout, making ready, muskets coming to rest on the wall, facing the enemy. He could hear his officers, sharp orders, no firing, wait, and he nodded, thought, Yes, they would know. Some of these men were at Breed’s Hill. They would know what will happen if they are patient. Let them come close, a truly wonderful target, fire as one great force. With this ground, Howe cannot make a rapid charge, there can be no great bayonet assault, and so, we will have time to reload, fire again. There was motion still, the drums moving the colored line in a rhythm, but there was something odd, the lines were narrowing, the formations growing deeper. He raised the glass again, stared at the first row of troops, expected to see the bayonets, saw instead the bright uniforms . . . from behind. Beside him, one man let out a cheer, and there was a silent pause, and then more men began to pick it up, the sounds echoing all down the ramparts, the men reacting to the sight, seeming to understand the mystery. Washington was still puzzled, still expected to see the great mass changing into line again, moving to a flank assault perhaps, slipping off to one side. But the columns grew longer, deeper, and he could see it plainly now. The mystery was solved. The movements were precise, the formations exact. But the British were not advancing. They were marching away.

  AUGUST 29, 1776

  He had brought more of his men across the East River, strengthening the forces in Brooklyn Heights, preparing the army for the assault that must still come. Through a long night he had watched the darkness, anticipating some move, a surprise attack. It was not the British style, of course, and he understood tradition, but the Hessians were still out there, and he knew that they might not have the same respect for a gentlemen’s assault, especially the green-clad jagers, who were as comfortable in the dark as any of Washington’s sharp-shooting woodsmen.

  For two nights they had heard the sounds of the British camp, a vast sea of flickering fires, extending back into the woods. He had sent small scouting parties out, probing carefully toward the British flanks. There had been nothing significant to report, the vast bulk of the enemy staying put in their camps, only scattered eruptions of musket fire, British pickets shooting blindly at the indiscreet noises. But when each dawn had come, he could see that the British had been busy indeed, had made good use of the shovel, long snaking lines of entrenchments all along in front of his fortifications. If Howe had not been in a hurry to move against his fortifications, it did not mean the British were content to just sit and watch Brooklyn Heights. As the entrenchments grew longer and more complex, he had seen horses adding to the activity, drawing cannon, their crews setting the big guns behind great mounds of dirt, safe from his own artillery. It was clear now that Howe was not merely planning an assault. He was planning a siege.

  By midmorning, a grim darkness had rolled over them from the west, and the rains came. It was not the quick violence of the thunderstorm, but a slow steady drizzle that grew harder as the day passed. By afternoon, the rains had soaked the ground and the men, and settled around them like a thick dark shroud.

  As the dreariness of the afternoon had passed, he had ridden among the troops, the horse slipping its way through the wet ravines and earthworks, the staff grumbling behind him. There were no cheers for the commanding general, the men huddled glumly in groups, some perched under ledges of rock, makeshift tents of blankets draped over muskets. The British had stayed put, again, and Washington knew instinctively that as the miserable day wore on, there would be no assault, Howe’s men in no better position to fight the weather than they were Washington’s fortified Heights. As he turned the horse back toward his headquarters, he sent aides out in search of the senior officers. He had not yet had a general council of the commanders, but he needed one now. It was not because of the men, or any move by the British. All along the fortified lines, he had told the men to check the pans on their muskets, and to those who had them, to check the condition of their cartridge boxes. Some of the men knew before he even told them. Their powder was soaking wet. And worse, no one had taken charge of the supplies. Boxes and cloth sacks of gunpowder were simply sitting in the rain. Throughout most of the Heights, there was almost no usable ammunition.

  They gathered in a makeshift headquarters, an open-sided tent staked up behind a steep bank of rock. It was now one of the few dry places anyone could find. Most of the officers were as soaked as he was, and the moods were mixed. He still hoped to see more of the familiar faces, knew that all through the past two nights, men had continued to straggle in, finding their way in the darkness past the British. But as he looked at the faces, his last hopes were brought down. He looked at Putnam now, said, “We have heard nothing further? No word?”

  Putnam shook his head, said nothing. Washington took a breath, said, “We do not have definite reports, and thus there is no way to make certain of the facts. But by all accounts, General Sullivan has not been seen. Those who saw him in the field are confident that he survived the action. It is a forlorn hope that he is alive and well, and, as the best alternative, is in the hands of the British as a prisoner.”

  He looked at the others, knew that Putnam was the only available sen
ior commander, most of the others men of lesser rank, and certainly, lesser experience. One man seemed to surge forward, said, “Sir, if you will allow . . .”

  “Everyone may speak, General Heath. This is a council of war. What have you to say?”

  William Heath was a Massachusetts man, had served under Putnam in Boston, and if Heath had not distinguished himself for any particular action, the two men were at least accustomed to working together. He seemed full of protest, unsure how to begin, finally said, “Sir, I am at a loss to explain the actions of some of our most . . . able commanders.”

  There was sarcasm in the word, and Washington did not want to hear this, but Heath continued. “I have been made aware, sir, that certain regiments behaved with scandalous disregard for the safety of this army. I am told that the Marylanders carelessly burned a bridge that could have afforded a path of safe withdrawal . . .”

  “General Heath, I did not call this council to pass censure on anyone. There is time enough for that later. I would point out to you that I myself observed Colonel Smallwood’s regiment in heroic action, and I have since learned that those men performed with as much heroism on this ground as any unit in this army.” There was a hand raised now, and Washington was surprised to see William Smallwood himself, the man’s face emerging from a dripping dark coat.

  “My apologies, Colonel. I intended no embarrassment. I did not realize you were here.”

  “General, I thank you for your approval. I cannot respond to General Heath’s claim, but I can assure the commanding general that when I arrived on the field, Major Gist and the men of my command had already acquitted themselves under extreme hardship.”

  Washington could hear something in the man’s voice, a sober calmness, the man about Washington’s age, another veteran of the French and Indian War. Smallwood had been in New York on court-martial duty when the British attack began, his unit commanded first by Mordecai Gist. But Smallwood had come across the river quickly, would not allow his men to make the good fight without their commander. Washington had sought out the details as much as he could, knew that the Marylanders had been among those men who had held away an attack that could have destroyed Stirling’s entire force. He knew nothing of the event Heath had referred to, some bridge being burned, knew the reports would be detailed later. He dreaded the aftermath of any battle, had been through this before, small men striking out with rumor and their pens at those who had done the work with musket and sword. It was the nature of war, and the nature of men who brought more ambition into battle than ability. And right now, Washington didn’t want to hear any of it.