by Jeff Shaara
He did not wait for a response, spun the horse around, saw a new column of troops approaching, more of Lee’s retreat, but the men were not staggering, held their muskets on their shoulders, their officers riding stiffly alongside. They moved down through the ravine, then up toward him, and Washington saw their commander, Anthony Wayne, riding alongside the young Frenchman. Wayne raised his hand, and the order went out, and the column came to a crisp halt. Lafayette rode forward still, the young man’s face clenched in grim anger.
“General Washington, we received an order to withdraw. General Wayne was compelled to disengage his men from the enemy, and he did so in good order. I wish to report that General Wayne’s brigade has performed with the most conspicuous honor.”
Wayne moved forward. Seeing red fury on the man’s face, Washington said, “Mr. Wayne, we have been informed the enemy is in pursuit of this column. Your troops are in place. Can you maintain a strong defensive position on this ground while we bring the remainder of this army into line?”
“We will not be moved, sir.”
“Then proceed.”
Wayne’s troops began to file out to the side of the road, lining the higher ground, the ravine now to their front, a deadly position for an enemy to cross. He looked at Lafayette, said, “General, we have work to do. I require someone familiar with this ground. It appears to be a good place for a fight.”
The first line of British troops came on horseback, a magnificent show, cavalry under tall plumed hats guiding their horses in perfect order. Wayne’s men were anchored in place, some spread out into the brush along the edge of the ravine, the only movement in their line coming from their commander. He slipped along behind his men, spoke in a hushed voice, caution, patience, unmistakable orders for the men who would only obey them. He knew the British horsemen would make a grand display of their advance, their officers holding them in line to face their enemy as a sign of pride in their power. It was so much tired tradition to Wayne, to so many of the American officers, but it was a tradition that the veteran British regulars carried proudly into every fight, centuries of pomp and magnificence that so often put fear into the hearts of their enemies. But Wayne’s men would not run, had seen too much already on this one day, had already pushed hard against the cream of the British infantry. The men on horses were simply more of the same, no matter the finery on their uniforms, or the high-stepping grace of their horses.
The cavalry rode steadily across the swampy ravine, the gait of their horses tied to the sharp rhythm of their drummers. Behind them, along the far side of the ravine, British infantry was moving into position, waiting for the first great thrust from their horsemen to soften up this line of rebels.
Wayne kept up his movement, calming his men, urging them to wait. One of the horsemen pulled aside, and Wayne saw the gold disc on the man’s chest, his symbol of rank, the officer who gave the commands. Wayne focused on the man, could see him scanning the lines of troops that blocked his path, and Wayne smiled, knew the order to charge would come from him. He leaned close to the soldiers nearest him. “Take aim at the king bird.”
The horsemen continued to close and Wayne ignored the nervous glances from the men around him, repeated the words, “Steady. Do not fire.”
The horsemen were now within forty yards, the thunder of their drums filling the air, and Wayne watched the British officer raise his arm, point out to one side, the drums changing their beat. The cavalry began shifting their formation, making ready for their final grand assault. Wayne still focused on the officer, was close enough to see the man’s expression, the utter contemptuous sneer for these half-dressed men who dared impede the march of the king’s own cavalry. Wayne stood up tall, caught the man’s eye, raised his hand in a hard fist, then slowly extended one finger, pointed straight into the man’s chest, shouted, “Fire!”
The rows of muskets exploded in one sharp blast, and for a long moment, there was nothing to see. He shouted again, “Reload! Fire at will!”
As the smoke began to clear, there was a strange hesitation along his line, men staring for a moment at the horrific sight. Horses and their riders were spread along the edge of the ravine, some moving in short fits, blood spreading on both man and beast. The horsemen who could still ride did not remain, were already escaping back across the causeway, and there was no order, no kind of formation. Wayne’s men began to fire again, many aiming at horseless soldiers as they tried to pull themselves into some kind of line. But there was no command, no officer to lead them, and before Wayne’s men could mount a third volley, what remained of the King’s cavalry had limped themselves away.
The cannon had moved into new positions all throughout the afternoon, Knox himself appearing around each battery. The British had responded with waves of their own artillery fire, more than a dozen guns on each side throwing shot and shell at each other, and at the men who fought between them.
Among them was Molly Hays, and she came out to stand with her husband as he worked one of Knox’s guns. It was one of the awful fortunes of war that these two armies would wind their way through the New Jersey countryside, to finally collide on this ground, so close to the Hays farm. Molly had come to the deadly fields, as so many of the wives would do. They came to help, of course, but the men would fear more for the women than for themselves, would scold them, command them in fierce language to stay away, to go home, out of the way of the danger. But Hays knew his wife would not endure such a lecture, would certainly never obey one. If she could not stand beside him, then she would offer to perform whatever work was needed. On this awful day, in the killing heat, she found her role, had brought a large clay pitcher, ran from the battery down to a nearby creek, bringing water to the blackened men who worked their guns and themselves with relentless effort.
She had made several trips, the men shouting after her, giving her a playful nickname. She carried it with pride, especially when she saw General Knox himself, the round man sitting high on the horse cheering her as well. The guns had continued to shift position, and she had stayed close, still dragged the water. It was a torturous routine, but she never slowed her efforts. She did not expect to return to the battery to be faced by a silent gathering of men. As they slowly moved aside, she saw him slumped over the axle of the cannon. They pulled him back away from the guns, laid him in the shade of a small tree. But the fight was continuing in front of them, and the men could not wait to give her comfort. As the fire ripped the air, she knelt beside her husband, dipped water from the bucket, washed the blood from his face. She had stayed beside his lifeless body as the fight rolled very close, and Knox had appeared again, shouting warnings, foot soldiers now gathering in line, another officer, musket fire. The cannon stopped firing, the infantry too close in front of them, and the British were responding with muskets, the same muskets that had brought down her husband. But the crisis seemed to pass, and she could see the British troops drifting back through the thickets of brush, the ground in front of the battery a horror of dead and wounded. The foot soldiers were gone, pursuing the enemy, and the cannon began to fire again. She would not stay away now, ran to the gun where he had fallen, stood with the men who had cheered her. She had seen him work the cannon, knew the routine, began by lifting the powder, the heavy shot, swarming around the gun as she had seen him do so many times.
As the day grew late, the battle had shifted away from the battery, the guns growing silent. Knox had come again, had given the order to move once more. She had not escaped his eye, and she watched as the lieutenant spoke to him, saw both men looking her way. She hoped that he was telling General Knox of her husband, her loss. She began to feel afraid that he would scold her, would send her away. Instead, he rode toward her, held out his hand, and as she reached up to take it, he said, “This army shall not forget your service . . . Molly Pitcher.”
The army had advanced with good precision, and Washington had placed them along the most advantageous ground. Many of the officers who had retreated under Lee had
quickly reorganized their men, bringing them back to the line. Washington had made good use of the men who already knew the contours of the land that lay before them.
He sent Greene to the right flank, Stirling out to the left, both men finding the ground perfect for a strong defense. Wayne had stayed near the center, Lafayette as well, and when the British came forward, their units were separated into uneven lines broken by the rugged terrain. Wave after wave approached the small brushy hills and patches of woods where Washington’s men waited. The fights that erupted were brief and decisive. In less than two hours, the British advance was collapsing along every front, brutalized as much by the heat as the men who faced them.
As the British assaults wavered, Washington responded by advancing his men, and gradually the ground around the ravines fell into American hands. The troops maneuvered with a precision that impressed every officer on the field, British and American. One man in particular observed with quiet pride, von Steuben seeing firsthand that his drills and lessons had transformed these men into an army that could stand up to any soldiers King George would send against them.
As the sun settled toward the treetops in the west, the British continued to withdraw from around the swampy ravines, pulling back across the wide fields toward Monmouth Court House. The flower of Clinton’s army had had enough.
Washington looked at his watch, after five o’clock, thought, Daylight for two hours, enough time, certainly. He rode along the pathway through the middle ravine, saw cannon moving up across the way, Knox and his officers still maneuvering, still finding the best position to support the steady advance of the foot soldiers.
Across the ravine, the men were spread in thick uneven lines, officers screaming hoarsely, trying to gather the formations. But Washington could see only a few men standing, most simply collapsing in the grassy fields, shirtless, red-faced troops who had exhausted every bit of fire. Even the officers were dropping down, and as Washington rode closer, he saw their faces, men falling to their knees. Few had horses now, so many of the animals falling to the same fate as his own. The grand white steed had died, had simply collapsed beneath him, another victim of the extraordinary heat. He rode a white mare now, a quick replacement found by his staff, its former rider most likely a British dragoon.
He could see up the long rise, scattered bodies of red, gathering together. They are beaten, he thought. If we drive them now, they will not survive this day. But the men around him were immobile, some lying flat on the ground. He climbed down from the horse, fought through agonizing stiffness in his legs. He had been in the saddle for nearly fifteen hours, had crossed every piece of this field, every place the fight had gone. He knew so many of his officers had done extraordinary work, Greene and Stirling making the best of the wonderful ground on the flanks. Wayne had continued to perform with perfect discipline, Lafayette holding the center of the line as they fought off assault after assault from men Washington knew to be Clinton’s finest infantry.
He stood among them, stared up across the wide field. It will be tomorrow, he thought. We have no alternative. They are in worse condition than we are, certainly. General Clinton is not a butcher, he will not send his men down to try this ground again. So, we must wait. He looked along the gathering of his troops, could see men climbing up from the ravines, joining the men in the field. All along the lines, the army was coming together. He wanted to walk among them, as he had done so many times before, to hear their words, and if they doubted what they had accomplished on this day, they would learn it from him. He thought of Lee, but he had no energy to curse the man, tried to avoid the exercise in his mind. But he could not help thinking of what these men might have done before the British were able to respond. Was it my mistake after all? Should I have known what the man would do? How could I have kept him from his rightful place on this field? Would Mr. Lafayette have performed so much better? The questions rolled up at him, drifted through his exhaustion. He moved back to the horse, took a long breath, pulled himself up to the saddle. There will be no answer, not today. We have accomplished all we can for now. Tomorrow . . . it must be tomorrow.
JUNE 29, 1778
He had made his bed under a tree in the open air. Lafayette was nearby, the young man keeping him awake late into the night, the energy to talk coming from Lafayette’s own fury at the collapse of Charles Lee. But Washington had finally ordered him to sleep, knew that before much time had passed, there would be repercussions from what Washington had done, that Lee would certainly not go quietly, might even expect to resume some kind of command.
Even in the silence, Washington had begged for sleep, staring up at stars through the leafy branches of a wide tree, and finally the stars were gone, and he had ridden through a great field of cannon and horsemen, all chaos and smoke, realized it was Mount Vernon, the grounds of his beloved home, the shock . . . the house . . . Martha.
“Sir!”
The image was gone in the darkness, and the voice came again, a hard whisper, “Sir!”
He raised himself, felt a sharp stab from the stiffness in his back. He heard a match strike, squinted at the glow, saw it was Tilghman.
“Yes, Colonel. I am awake. What is the hour?”
“Four o’clock, sir.”
He rolled himself over to his knees, stood up slowly, and Tilghman said, “Should I wake General Lafayette, sir?”
“By all means. I am certain no one will wish to miss a moment of this day.”
Now fully awake, he walked out from under the tree, could see the stars again, sharp points of lights covering the entire field. There was movement already, all around him, and he heard the voices, the sound of a tin pot. He felt a thick dryness in his mouth, was desperately thirsty, searched the dark for an aide, someone with a canteen. He moved back toward the tree, more voices in front of him, and Lafayette was there, said, “General. Good morning, sir.”
“Mr. Lafayette. I would like you to supervise the formation this morning. You may begin immediately. There can be no delay. At first light, this army will be prepared to advance on my order.”
“Sir, right away!”
The young man moved away in the darkness, and Washington could see the faint glow of a fire, the flame hidden deep in the ravine, no target for a British cannon. He thought of coffee, a marvelous luxury. One cup, just one. He looked for Tilghman, heard the young man’s voice, the rest of the staff gathering. He stepped that way, thought, One simple luxury cannot do damage. After this day, we may feel like celebrating, indeed!
Even before the first real light, the picket lines had led the advance up the long rise, out past the ravines. The men moved with deliberate care, each man waiting for the first flash of light, the British pickets who would be waiting for them. As they spread through the wide field, they discovered a gruesome reality. Bodies of British soldiers were scattered through the grass, the horror deepened by the soft cries from men who were still alive. But there would be no hesitation, and the men of the skirmish line could see the low gray outline of the village. They had expected to find the enemy before now, and the men were flinching at every sound, every crack of a stick. But they kept moving, and behind them, curious officers moved up close, men on horses looking beyond the skirmishers, surprised that Clinton would pull his defensive line back so close to the village. The word began to travel back to the main line, and Washington rode forward, feeling the icy chill in his heart, the low light of the new day revealing what many still could not believe.
The troops continued to advance until they reached the main road itself, the avenue that cut through Monmouth Court House. There were more wounded now, some men on blankets, a few who could pull themselves up, who watched with a new horror as the Americans filled what had been the British camp. But the only other sign of the British army was the enormous amount of equipment they had left behind.
As Washington rode into the small town, his men were pushing beyond the village, the scouts riding hard to the east. He would wait for their reports,
but knew already what they would find. It must have begun late in the night, the British gathering those wounded who could walk and putting their men to the march. He sat on his horse in the center of the village and stared east, could see a faint glow, the sun breaking the horizon. The excitement, the anticipation of the morning was gone. Clinton had pulled his army away, had abandoned the field. It was a victory to be sure, a glorious triumph for Washington, for the army who gathered around him. But he could not celebrate, could not feel anything but a numbing emptiness, another grand opportunity to crush the enemy let slip away.
The British reached Sandy Hook on June 30, and were quickly ferried to Staten Island. Despite Washington’s distress that he had missed another astounding opportunity, Clinton’s command now encompassed nothing more than bases at two American cities, Newport, Rhode Island, and New York. For three years, the British had marched and maneuvered over hundreds of miles of American soil, had assaulted or occupied nearly every major American city. Through a baffling combination of glorious victory and desperate defeat, the king’s army now found itself in no better position, with no advantage in either land, morale, or ability, against an army that had demonstrated a maturity and an increasing will to stand tall. Washington had no choice but to assemble his army once more along the Hudson River and wait for the French to make their much-heralded appearance. Clinton established himself once again in the crowded, charred misery of New York, could only begin the effort to convince London that he should at least be given the opportunity to sweep away the legacy of William Howe, some chance to win this war on his own terms.
PART THREE
NATHANAEL GREENE
39. GREENE
JULY 11, 1778