Reed, too, had fought well in his first taste of combat. He had thrown himself into the fray, hoping—he later said—that his example would inspire the troops. He was lucky to escape unharmed. His horse took a hit in its shoulder, the bullet missing his leg by only an inch or two. But his closest call came in a confrontation with an American soldier. In the course of the battle Reed ran upon a Connecticut private who was heading for the rear. When Reed drew in front of him to block his retreat, the soldier turned his musket on his interceptor and from a distance of only about five yards attempted to shoot. His piece misfired. Reed, in turn, tried to shoot him, but his weapon also failed; Reed then unsheathed his sword, slashing his assailant about the head, even cutting off his thumb, before arresting him. Later that unhappy soldier was court martialed and sentenced to die, a judgment that aroused a fury of indignation among the troops; they were convinced that the soldier had been ordered from the front in quest of additional ammunition. Headquarters learned of “secret and open threats” to mutiny if the death sentence was carried out, and, at the last moment, with the soldier before the firing squad, Washington ordered a reprieve, claiming he had done so because Reed had intervened to spare the man.27
The elevation of Washington’s morale that resulted from the Battle of Harlem Heights nearly proved fatal. The events that followed Britain’s Kip’s Bay landing made for a compelling argument to abandon Manhattan, lest Howe plug all the avenues of escape. Washington, however, refused to consider such a step. Instead, he chose to remain in his bastion at Harlem Heights with half his army, while he stationed the remainder at King’s Bridge. He seemed mesmerized by his craggy fortress, ever mindful of Bunker Hill, seemingly heedless of the lessons of Brooklyn and of the potential scope of British naval predominance. Nor did he seem to recall his recent dictum of avoiding a general action. Convinced that his men would fight, the commander sat back and waited Howe’s assault.
But Howe had no intention of attacking these lines. Dorchester Heights and Brooklyn Heights had demonstrated that he had no stomach for such a bloodletting; besides, in this instance there was no need to send his men on such a mission. His plan, instead, was twofold: he would land a force on the mainland above Long Island Sound, cutting off Washington’s lane of retreat to the northeast; meanwhile, his men-of-war would secure the Hudson north of Manhattan, blockading the flow of supplies to the Continentals. Washington would be snared, besieged in a giant trap fashioned by his own improvidence. Howe did nothing quickly, however. A month disappeared while he awaited reinforcements and secured New York City, his quarters for the coming winter.28
On October 8 Washington received a hint of the flaws in his strategy. The British ran another batch of men-of-war up the Hudson, shutting that river to the Continental army on Manhattan. Four days later Howe landed his army at Throg’s Neck on the northern shore of Long Island Sound, about five miles southeast of King’s Bridge. His operation to envelop Washington had commenced. Washington now was in greater peril than he had faced six weeks before in Brooklyn, if for no other reason than that he seemed unconvinced of the scope of his predicament. His entire army stood on the precipice of entrapment, yet he was certain that it could not happen. He did not think the redcoats could fight their way to King’s Bridge. The ground between Throg’s Neck and King’s Bridge, he blithely told Congress, was defensible—it was “full of Stonefences . . . which will render it difficult for . . . a large Body of foot soldiers to advance”—and, besides, his men were in “good spirits.”29
British ineptitude rescued Washington from the scrape. The landing at Throg’s Neck was a monument to poor planning. In reality, the Neck was a small island from which the mainland could be reached only by traversing both a long stretch of marsh and a wide creek. It was a nasty undertaking under any conditions; it was murderous to ask a soldier to slowly wade through this exposed swamp in the face of enemy fire. So deadly was such an undertaking, in fact, that twenty-five Pennsylvania riflemen, the entire American force posted in the sector, stopped the redcoats cold, leaving Howe puzzled and inert for the next six days. Then he reloaded his army and conveyed it to Pell’s Point—or Pelham—three miles away on the mainland, the landing site he should have chosen in the first place.
By then Washington had sent reinforcements to aid those Pennsylvania sharpshooters at Throg’s Neck, but until four days after the initial landing he took no additional action. Then he called a council of war. One new face was in attendance—General Lee, back from his southern command. The officers conjectured that Howe planned to drive to White Plains, about seventeen miles north of Pell’s Point, thence west to the Hudson. If he succeeded he would have possession of the high ground, from which he could block Washington’s northward advance while the navy inhibited his escape in every other direction. At last the officers voted to abandon Manhattan, with the exception of Fort Washington, which still would be garrisoned.30
Had Howe moved quickly and resolutely he still might have scored a decisive victory—perhaps the pivotal triumph. But that would not have been Howe. Sir William was slow, so slow. By October 22 Washington was at White Plains. Howe arrived six days later. True, his force had encountered tenacious resistance en route, enough at times to thwart the redcoats’ huge numerical superiority. At one point, in fact, 4000 of the enemy were paralyzed for days by just 750 Yankees. Chiefly, though, Howe himself was the problem. He continued to fight by the maxims of European warfare, unmindful that his adversary was not a European force, and seemingly oblivious to the fact that this was not a conventional war. Thus, when he reached New Rochelle he paused for three days. When he got to Mamaroneck, only two miles up the road, he stopped for four more days. As a disgusted British historian later observed, in the sixty days since he first had deployed his army on Long Island, Howe had progressed exactly thirty-five miles.31
The long-awaited collision of the two armies finally occurred at the end of October, but it was a relatively small-scale clash involving only about 15 percent of each force. Washington placed the bulk of his army in the hilly region behind White Plains, detaching about fifteen hundred men behind stone walls at the foot of these heights and another force of about equal size atop Chatterton’s Hill, which overlooked his right wing. The British assault began in early morning, just as the sun peeked over the ridges. To their surprise, these Americans did not panic. They fought ferociously, stopping several Hessian charges before falling back. Howe then turned his gaze on Chatterton’s Hill, an eminence that could imperil Washington’s position. With tilled green fields and pastoral stone walls ranging about the summit of the knoll, this bucolic rise seemed too idyllic for the grim business at hand. The British opened with an artillery barrage that soon shrouded the ridge with a layer of dust and smoke, the latter curling from firesignited in the dry forests by the cannonade. The assault came in mid-afternoon. Again the American forces fought well. Only when the British unleashed their dragoons, or cavalry, did some panic set in, and the hill was lost.
Washington moved out his wounded—about 175 Continentals had been killed or disabled in the long day of fighting—and laid plans for a further retreat, if necessary. For the time being, though, he was prepared to fight again in this spot. Few options existed. The British stood in front of him, and they quickly sealed off his exists on the right and left. He still could fall back to the north, unless Howe turned his flank and swept behind him, of course, though the terrain rendered such a British maneuver highly unlikely.
A day passed. Then two more. From time to time intelligence of an imminent attack reached American headquarters, harrying Washington, exacerbating the crushing strain under which he already labored. By November I Howe had received reinforcements. He had twenty thousand men, more than a four-to-three superiority. But he did not move. Four more anxious days passed. Nothing from the redcoats. After dark on November 4 a messenger arrived at headquarters. The British were moving; the Americans had heard the unmistakeable sounds of mobile wagons and the clattering rattlebang o
f marching soldiers. The commander ordered an alert. An attack was likely at any moment. At headquarters men strained to hear, awaiting the thunderous boom of artillery, the muffled clap of distant musket fire. Nothing. Minutes dragged past. No gunfire was heard. More minutes slowly ticked away. Then an unexpected sound, that of another courier. He brought puzzling news. The British had broken camp. They were returning to Manhattan.
The British have “made a Sudden and unexpected movement,” Washington reported immediately to Congress. “The design of this Manoeuvre is a matter of much conjecture and speculation,” he added laconically. The joy of their deliverance, thus, was muted only by their uncertainty at Howe’s intentions. Some officers believed the British were retiring to their winter quarters; some anticipated a strike up the Hudson, northward toward the Highland passes. A few of Washington’s advisors believed Britain was about to shift the war to the southern states. Still others guessed that the British soon would attack Fort Washington on Manhattan Island, then follow with an invasion of New Jersey. Washington thought the latter option was the most likely, but no one could be certain. All he could do was divide his army, a portion to protect the North, the remainder to defend a more southerly sector. The commander posted Heath at Peekskill with 4000 men, and he left Lee at White Plains with another 7000. He took 2000 men—less than 20 percent of the Continental army—to New Jersey, but he expected to be reinforced by 3500 men from the Flying Camp, and he had been assured that he could expect considerable assistance from the New Jersey militia.32
Before departing Washington reconnoitered the Highlands, then he rode south to Fort Lee, on the Jersey side of the Hudson and almost directly across from Fort Washington. He arrived on November 13, and immediately met with Nathanael Greene, the commander of the two posts. The bastion on Mount Washington was a pentagonal fortress, constructed entirely of earth. Defended by more than twenty-five hundred men, thirty-four cannon, and two howitzers, it sat atop very high, rocky ground; an attacker would have to surmount a steep incline, all the while exposed to the fire of the defenders. But the citadel was flawed, too. The British repeatedly had demonstrated their ability to navigate the Hudson, from whence their vessels could pound the installation. In addition, a protracted siege seemed certain to succeed. Fort Washington had no well. In fact, its commander, Colonel Robert Magaw, already had reported that the unavailability of water meant that he could not survive a siege of more than six or seven weeks. Washington knew all this, and, additionally, he knew that Reed, whom he trusted, advised against its retention.
On the other hand, General Greene, whom he also had grown to trust, counseled that Fort Washington could be held, that the British could be kept even from implementing a siege. Congress, furthermore, had unequivocally expressed its desire that the Hudson should be obstructed; Fort Washington offered about the last hope of answering Congress’s wishes.
Defend the bastion or abandon it? Washington vacillated indecisively. To fight for the fort was to risk the loss of an army half as large as the one he would employ in New Jersey, while to jettison the place was to enhance the size of his army during the coming struggle in New Jersey. But to defend the fort and enmesh Howe in a protracted fight would mean that Howe might have to forgo any other offensives until the next summer.
Washington grappled irresolutely with these matters for three days, then he made a decision of sorts. He would cross to the fortress for a first-hand inspection. But it was too late. As his party was being transported across the river Howe launched his attack. The decision had been made for Washington.33
For once Howe had shaken loose from the unsettling remembrance of Bunker Hill, and with spectacular results. Within an hour or so of the opening shots Washington realized his error, but nothing now could be done. Howe was not even obliged to institute a siege. The supposedly impregnable bastion was taken on the very day the assault was launched. The Continental army lost 2818 men, almost all as prisoners of war.34
The episode was not Washington’s brightest hour. Nor did his explanation for the catastrophe do him honor. He refused to bear the blame for the decision to defend the post, although the final responsibility was his alone. He had arrived at Fort Lee more than forty-eight hours before the attack, ample time to have ordered Magaw’s withdrawal. Moreover, as the commander under whose guidance the fortress had been completed, he should have been familiar with its very real liabilities. Instead, Washington reproached General Greene for the disaster.35
For two months Washington had survived largely by fortuity. But his providential luck deserted him in the debacle at Fort Washington, an utterly unnecessary disaster that left many Americans with an uneasy sense of imminent doom. No one knew that better than Washington. “The situation of our Affairs is truly critical and such as requires uncommon exertions on our part,” he accurately reported. Then he braced for Britain’s pending invasion of New Jersey, falling back into the province, bent on putting a river between his meager force and his advancing adversary.36
Weeks of setbacks inevitably had sowed doubts, though the doubters were careful to keep their dissatisfactions hidden. Sounding like the “Virginia Centinel” of an earlier crisis, John Adams privately railed at the highest officers’ negligence, indolence, and ineptitude. While he never suggested that Washington should be removed, he wished out loud that fall that Charles Lee were at headquarters; would his presence “not give a flow of Spirits to our Army,” he wondered.37
Nor was Adams the only observer who questioned the army’s leadership that autumn. The debacle at Fort Washington plunged Joseph Reed into hopeless despair, shaking his trust in some leaders, reawakening both his fear that the contest was lost and his inveterate opportunism. He too looked to General Lee. That loquacious entity had breezily surfaced in the northern theater only within the last few weeks; his star had never shown more brightly. As soon as Congress learned that he had thwarted Clinton’s invasion of Charleston, he was summoned northward. By the time he reached New York—he had paused en route in Philadelphia to beguile Congress out of enough money to pay off the mortgage on his Virginia farm—the American armies had suffered the two mortifying defeats at Brooklyn and Kip’s Bay. Lee had taken the lead in encouraging the relinquishment of Manhattan, and subsequently he performed capably in encounters with Howe above Pell’s Point and at White Plains. He inspired confidence. Congressmen and local politicians were taken with him, a view shared by some of the younger officers. Lee did nothing to discourage such thoughts (who would have?), but he also was in no way disloyal or maleficent toward Washington.38
Reed found Lee to be a man with an opinion on everything, and no hesitancy about airing his beliefs. Such a man seemed to radiate decisiveness. Moreover, when Reed learned that Lee had counseled the abandonment of Fort Washington, that only confirmed his view of the wisdom of this ex-professional soldier. Five days after the disaster on Mount Washington, on the day the army crossed to the west side of the Passaic River, Reed, no babe in the woods when it came to playing both sides of the fence, wrote to this meteor: “I do not mean to flatter or praise you at the expense of any other,” he said in a manner that could only be seen as approbatory, “but I confess I do think it is entirely owing to you that this army . . . is not totally cut off. You have decision, a quality often wanted in minds otherwise valuable.” Had you been here to advise Washington, Reed continued, there could be no doubt that the calamity would have been averted. Instead, Washington had listened to Greene. “Oh! General,” Reed concluded his obsequious communiqué, “an indecisive mind is one of the greatest misfortunes that can befall an army; how often have I lamented it this campaign.”39
Washington’s retreating army reached Newark the day after Reed penned that letter. Desperate for assistance, the commander dispatched Thomas Mifflin to Philadelphia and Reed to Burlington, New Jersey, each to plead with a state governor for reinforcements. Colonel Reed still was absent when Lee’s reply arrived late in November. Although the letter was addressed to Reed, Washingt
on tore it open. Lee had been ordered to fetch his army to the south so he could rendezvous with Washington; the commander was anxious to learn of his subordinate’s whereabouts. What Washington read stopped him in his tracks: “I received your most obliging flattering letter,” Lee began his missive, troublingly written at the same headquarters near White Plains that he had occupied for nearly a month. That he had not moved at all was cause for concern. What followed, however, was mortifying. General Lee acknowledged his agreement with Reed that a “fatal indecision of mind . . . in war is a much greater disqualification that stupidity or even want of personal courage—accident may put a decisive Blunderer in the right—but eternal defeat and miscarriage must attend the man of the best parts if curs’d with indecision.” He would be coming south shortly, Lee closed, adding with his usual modesty, “for to confess a truth I really think my Chief will do better with me than without me.”40
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