Prelude to Glory, Vol. 5

by Ron Carter

  Greene rounded his lips and blew air for a moment. “We’re going to have some rather confused troops. They think we’re marching north in the morning. We’ve changed directions so many times the past few days, they’re starting to think we’re trying to avoid the British, not find them.”

  “I know. There’s nothing to be done about it, except to let them know we’ve acted on the best information we’ve had. Make it abundantly clear that if this message is correct, and I’m certain it is, we finally know where the British are and where they are going. This army will engage them at or near Philadelphia in the next few days. Tell them. They’re good men. If they know we are finally going to have our battle, it will quiet them and settle them. Tell them.”

  Notes

  In the forepart of August 1777, a messenger informed General Washington that the British fleet had been sighted off Sinepuxent Inlet, off the Maryland coast. The news utterly confounded Washington. Then, about August twentieth, another messenger arrived informing Washington the fleet had been sighted at the northern tip of Chesapeake Bay, at a small place called Head of Elk. General Howe unloaded his army on August twenty-eighth, after having them on board the ships for forty-seven days. See Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 349–50.

  General Anthony Wayne earned the title “Mad Anthony” by his habit of riding headlong into battle. Ketchum, Saratoga, p. 43.

  General Lafayette was ever dedicated to learning about America. Leckie, George Washington’s War, p. 343.

  Head of Elk, Maryland

  August 27, 1777

  CHAPTER VII

  * * *

  The lightning bolt leaped thirty miles through the belly of the purple storm clouds that sealed the heavens and for three seconds turned the gloom of the rain-swept world whiter than midday. The officers seated around the council table inside General William Howe’s command tent gritted their teeth, ducked their heads, and rounded their shoulders against the thunderclap. Two seconds later the tent bucked, and the ground shook as if hit by the sound of a hundred thousand cannon. For half a minute their ears rang while the wind howled, tearing at the tent as they sat in silence, cowed by the awful powers of nature.

  General William Howe glanced at his brother, Admiral Lord Richard Howe, seated at his right. “That might have hit one of the ships.”

  Richard shrugged. “If it did, it did. The fleet’s weathered storms before.”

  William turned back to the war council of officers seated around the long table, wrapped in capes that were soaked from the ride they had made from their various quarters in the great British camp. They had slogged through the Chesapeake cloudburst to the command tent, with their horses splashing through mud that reached well past their fetlocks and splattered their mounts’ chests and bellies with each stride. The officers now sat in uniforms that were soaked, in boots covered with dark Maryland mud. The close, musty odor of wet wool and soggy felt hats was thick inside the canvas tent.

  Howe raised his voice to be heard above the incessant drumming of the wind-driven rain on the tent roof and walls. His manner was one of complete detachment as he looked at his pocket watch, then placed it on the table beside stacked documents.

  “It’s ten o’clock. We have a lot to do. The first order of business is to carry out the sentences on the prisoners convicted at their courts-martial.”

  He picked up several documents and droned on. “The charges were plundering, and molesting females of the local citizenry, all prohibited by specific orders, which stated the penalties for offenders.” He watched his officers lower their faces to stare at their hands or at the tabletop, hiding the thin veil of defiance that crept into their eyes and faces as he continued. “The sentences are specific. Two men are to be hanged, and five are to be flogged. If any among you have reason for delay, state it.”

  He waited. Every eye in the tent was now on him, and in them he saw the accusations leveled against him, which had spread through the ranks—whispered sparingly at first, then spoken openly, and finally running rampant. He knew them all too well.

  For forty-seven days, July ninth to August twenty-fifth, he had held his entire army onboard the fleet of ships, during the worst heat of the New England summer. Uniforms had moldered in the humidity. Sunstroke and heat exhaustion had felled men by the hundreds. Burials at sea were conducted nearly every day. Stale drinking water and decaying food had been rationed. There was no space for exercise. Sickness became epidemic. Horse fodder ran out the fourth week, and two thousand seven hundred dead and dying horses had been thrown overboard. Insignificant trifles between comrades had blossomed into deadly confrontations, sometimes with drawn bayonets. The world-renowned discipline of the vaunted British Army had degenerated to a state of near mutiny.

  When Howe finally gave the order to go ashore, the three hundred emaciated horses that remained alive plunged into the nearest cornfield to gorge; within hours all were standing spraddle legged, heads down, shaking with colic. Many died. Two days of whistling wind and pounding rain, with lightning that streaked from horizon to horizon and thunder that jolted the trees had turned the Maryland countryside into a quagmire. Wagons and cannon sank to their axles. Lacking horses, men lashed ropes to the cannon trails and sank to their knees in the ooze as they strained to move them. Creeks became rivers and overflowed their banks to flood the rows of tents. The soldiers, filled with smoldering outrage at the suffering they had endured aboard those accursed ships and now in their muddy tent city, turned on the countryside to vent their fury. Homes, barns, livestock, granaries, orchards, fields were ransacked, plundered, burned. Men were attacked, women molested.

  Too late Howe had issued orders against the offenders, specifying harsh penalties on the written document that forbade depredations of the civilian population. Those who disobeyed would be made to answer before a court-martial. Today the leaders among the guilty were to pay the price. All too many soldiers, both enlisted and officers, laid the whole of it at the feet of General William Howe.

  He stared back at his officers, aware of the silent condemnation they held in check and of the single burning question they needed to have answered. With his high reputation for care of his men, why had he subjected his entire command to the sufferings that had very nearly destroyed them all?

  Howe cleared his throat and took a moment to order his thoughts. His legendary lack of political skill was never more evident as he spoke in a low, flat, emotionless voice, in terms that were short, blunt—approaching brutal.

  “I’m aware of what’s being said. Maybe even by some of you. I mean to be clear on two points: First, the orders I received from the king and the conditions I found here in the colonies both required that we remain on board the ships until we reached this place.” He paused to judge whether he had said enough. In his cryptic view, he had. “Second, by its very purpose and nature, the life of a soldier is often unpleasant. It rests on the foundation of obedience to orders. Those who take exception are in the wrong profession.” Again he stopped and pursed his mouth, this time pondering if he should expand on the sometimes cruel military axiom “orders are orders.” In the split second of considering it, he perceived a danger. Someone at the table might see it as an oblique attempt at an apology or a sign of weakness or regret. He shook his head, closed his mind on the subject, and moved on.

  “If no one has reasons to the contrary, the sentences will be carried out today at one o’clock before the entire army. Have your men assembled.”

  Lightning flashed as he looked down at his notes, and he waited for the thunder to boom and recede before he went on. He still held the documents on which the minutes of the courts-martial were recorded.

  “We march for Philadelphia tomorrow morning.”

  The chairs squeaked as the officers moved. For a moment there was brief talking muffled by the steady sound of wind and rain on the tent.

  Howe squared a map with the compass and weighted down the corners before he dropped a slender index finger at the top of C
hesapeake Bay. “We’re here, at Head of Elk. The line of march will be east to the Delaware”—his finger moved as he spoke—“to Newcastle, then north past Wilmington, up this side—the west side—of the river. We’ll pass Brandywine Creek, here, on past Chester, and to Philadelphia, here.” He raised his finger. “Fifty-seven miles.”

  Every man leaned forward to study the map, memorizing the winding course of the Delaware and the succession of towns and hamlets and landmarks—Newcastle, Wilmington, Chester, Red Bank Redoubt, the Schuylkill River, and Philadelphia, with White Marsh, Germantown, and Valley Forge away from the river, not far to the northwest. Howe gave them time to satisfy themselves before he continued.

  “To make the march, we will divide into two divisions. The first division will be under the command of General Lord Cornwallis.”

  Startled, the rotund, fleshy Charles Cornwallis jerked erect so abruptly his jowls jiggled. He started to speak, thought better of it, and eased back in his chair.

  “The second division will be under the command of General Wilhelm von Knyphausen.”

  True to the rigid discipline drilled into the very bones of every German-born and trained army officer, the general neither moved nor changed expression. Orders were orders. It was a matter of total indifference to him what they were.

  Howe dropped the court-martial documents onto the table and leaned his long frame forward, once again orienting himself to the map.

  “Latest reports place Washington and his army somewhere near here.” He tapped a finger on the area above Philadelphia. “Apparently he’s spent weeks marching around the countryside, first one direction and then the other.” A wry smile formed for a moment. “He likely had reports of sightings of our fleet and tried to guess our objective. Apparently he thought it might be north to join General Burgoyne, but he wasn’t sure.” He sobered. “Whatever he thought, he has lately crossed the Delaware and is marching south. Obviously he now knows we’re here and has correctly guessed we intend taking Philadelphia.”

  For a few seconds the only sound was the storm passing outside.

  “Our best agents tell us he has about fourteen thousand soldiers. About three thousand of them are sick or otherwise disabled from battle. That leaves eleven thousand effectives. Of those, many are militia, which means they will be the first to run at the sight of a bayonet charge.”

  Howe paused to run a thumb down his jawline. “He has sent Benedict Arnold and Daniel Morgan with a few of his riflemen up north to help Horatio Gates. I judge General Burgoyne will have little trouble with the lot of them. If we succeed in taking Philadelphia soon, I will send a force to Albany to meet General Burgoyne. In the meantime I’m sure he can fend for himself.”

  Half the officers moved in their chairs, unwilling to look Howe in the eye. Too many of them knew the temper and the fighting capability of the New Englanders in the forests. They had heard the stories of British officers who led their commands into the New England woods, never to be heard of again. Leave Burgoyne to fight the New Englanders and their forests alone? They feared for him.

  Howe shifted his weight from one foot to the other and wiped at his mouth. “At this moment we have fifteen thousand regulars, battle ready. That gives us a slight numerical superiority, but more than that, our forces are both trained and experienced. In short, should we engage the rebel army, the odds favor us.”

  Lightning flashed in the distance, and he waited for the grumble of thunder to reach them. There was an urgency in his voice as he continued.

  “I want each of you to understand what I am going to say.” An edge came into his voice. “We are not here just to engage the rebels. We are not here just to take Philadelphia. That city is little more than the bait to draw Washington out in the open.” He leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “We are here to destroy the Continental Army. Utterly destroy it. There is no other way to end this rebellion. So long as Washington and any part of his army survives, he can gather more men, and we will have accomplished nothing. Nothing! If he loses a thousand men, he can get a thousand more. If we lose a thousand men, we cannot replace them. It’s that simple. Either we crush the entire army, and Washington with it, or we have lost.”

  Howe did not realize that in his ardor he had raised his clenched fist. Nor could he remember ever making such a lengthy speech to his officers. He lowered his hand and took a moment to recover his composure and his thoughts.

  “Are there any questions?”

  Cornwallis raised a hand. “Do we have intelligence on the number of cannon Washington is bringing?”

  “Not current. Twelve days ago, there were not many. He may have picked up some on the way.”

  “Has it been decided where we will meet him?”

  “No. Until we know his plan and marching speed, we won’t know. He may stop in Philadelphia, or he may come on through. We’ll have to wait.”

  Knyphausen spoke up. “Would it be prudent to wait until the mud has firmed? Wagons and cannon will be hard to move.”

  “If the storms the past two days reached Washington, he’ll have the same trouble. We move on. More questions?”

  “We have only one regiment of cavalry. The Sixteenth Dragoons. Is that enough for the battle?”

  Howe shook his head. “Questionable. We didn’t have enough space on the ships for all the cavalry, so I left one regiment behind in reserve. There isn’t time to get them here. We’ll move without them.”

  “Do we have enough horses left to mount the Sixteenth?”

  “It will be close.”

  The officers shared glances and remained silent while Howe concluded.

  “We march out at eight o’clock in the morning. I’ll lead with General Cornwallis. Following will be the wagons and cannon. General Knyphausen will bring up the rear. I’ll have written orders for all of you when we assemble at one o’clock. You are dismissed.”

  The heart of the storm had moved north. The lightning was now but dull flashes in the black, bulging clouds, with the thunder a low, distant rumble, more felt than heard. The wind had slowed, and the rain fell steadily. The officers draped and latched their wet capes over their shoulders and settled their soggy hats onto their heads. As they filed out of the command tent, with its pennants hanging rain-soaked and limp, each was irresistibly drawn to pause in the mud and the rain to stare northward.

  There, near the center of the camp, rising stark and sharp against the leaden sky, a gallows had been constructed. Ten steps led to the raised platform over which two ropes dangled, each with the thirteen wraps and the knot that locked the hangman’s noose. None of the officers pondered the reason that no man was able pass a gallows without stopping to stare, white-faced, wide-eyed. Was it because the conscience of most men condemns them to their own gallows in their hearts?

  Every officer in General Howe’s command had seen hangings before. Some had ordered them. Each knew the procedure. The reading of the charges. The sentence. The question, “Is there anything you wish to say?” The nod to the hangman. The pulling of the long handle. The loud clicking as the trap sprung. The downward swinging of the door. The sudden dropping of the bodies. The muffled snapping of the bones. The creaking of the overhead beam as the body swung, twisting.

  They had seen hangings, but they could not force themselves to mount their horses and move on to their commands before they had stopped with the rain tapping on their hats and shoulders while they stared at the gallows.

  Then, shoulders hunched against the pelting rain, they scattered, each spurring his horse through the muck back to his command. As their mounts picked their way through the brown puddles, each of them turned in the saddle to look once more to the north, beyond the gallows. In their minds they were seeing George Washington, tall on that dappled gray horse, while their thoughts ran.

  He’s up there. With that gathering of rabble he calls an army. How far? Coming which direction? Will he stop at Philadelphia? Come on past? Where will we meet him? Where will the battle take place? How many cannon
are we facing? He’s hard to bring to a stand. Survives. Win or lose, somehow he always survives to gather up more rabble and fight again. Will we be able to crush him this time? End this ridiculous rebellion? Will we?

  * * * * *

  Fifty-nine miles to the north, two miles beyond Philadelphia, General George Washington sat at his table in the command tent of the Continental Army, head bowed, eyes closed to concentrate. The deep rumble came again, faintly, and he rose to walk to the tent flap and push it aside to peer south. Thick, purple storm clouds lay low on the horizon, creeping steadily up the Delaware River in the afternoon sun. As he watched, the first gentle ground-breeze passed, to stir the flag and move the canvas tent walls.

  Another one coming.

  A look of concern crossed his face as he glanced about the camp. Steam rose from the mud and the puddles left by the storm that had passed through the day before and that had dwindled and died in the night. Wet firewood for the morning and noon meals had left a hazy canopy of gray smoke hovering above the camp. The soldiers slogged through the sticky morass that sucked at their shoes and moccasins, leaving them mud-caked to their knees as they went for water to finish the cleanup and to fill the kettles for the supper meal. Humidity hung like a dead weight, stifling, sweating the men.

  Another storm—it will be hard to move the cannon and wagons. But harder for General Howe, if my reports are right.

  He was turning to go back to his chair when the sound of horses stopped him. Laurens and Hamilton came cantering in, mud-splattered mounts throwing dirty water high as their hooves sank out of sight. They slowed to a walk as they approached Washington and dismounted. He held the flap for them to enter his tent.

  “Report.”

  “The officers are on their way.”

  They came two or three at a time, wearing mud-speckled uniforms and dirty boots, riding dirty horses. Washington waited until all had hung their hats and were seated at the council table.