Prelude to Glory, Vol. 5

by Ron Carter

  “You know that General Howe has landed his army at Head of Elk. Latest reports say he is preparing to march, probably east, then north up the Delaware. There is now no doubt he is after us, and Philadelphia, probably in that order.”

  Cadwalader interrupted. “When? Any reports on when to expect him?”

  “None.” He stopped, then added, “There are some matters we have to settle.”

  He spread a map on the table, weighted the corners, and tapped an index finger. “We’re here, two miles north of Philadelphia.” He shifted his finger down to the northern tip of the mighty Chesapeake Bay. “General Howe is here, fifty-nine miles south of us. The storm yesterday, and the one coming up the river right now, are going to slow both him and us.”

  He shifted his finger back to Philadelphia. “Both armies are on the west side of the Delaware. Our line of march is going to be down the river, generally southerly. I expect Howe to be coming north, up the river. With the new storm coming, there is no way to say how rapidly the British can move through the mud, which means we have no way of knowing where we’ll meet them. We will have to wait and see.”

  He tapped the map once more. “Tomorrow we are going to march through Philadelphia on parade. The citizens are expecting us to defend the city. We have to give them cause to hope. Do everything you can to present your commands in their best dress. They must march in rank and file, muskets cleaned, on their right shoulders, bedrolls tied and slung on their backs.”

  Knox raised his hand. “This mud is going to make it hard to have them presentable.”

  “Do the best you can.” Washington pursed his mouth for a moment. “My reports state that the British have lost virtually all their horses. I have no idea how they intend moving their cannon and all their supply wagons. Fortunately, we have enough horses.”

  He turned to General Henry Knox, the round little man who had been a librarian before he led the historic 1775 expedition to Fort Ticonderoga to bring back most of the cannon for the successful siege of Boston. His fierce love for cannon had compelled him to read everything he could find about them. In time he became a leading authority, although he had never fired a cannon, and Washington had promoted him to the rank of general and charged him with the responsibility of being commander of all cannon in the Continental Army.

  “Be certain the cannon are prominent as we pass through.”

  There was a hint of pride in Knox’s response. “Yes, sir.”

  Again Washington paused for a moment. “General Howe brought only one regiment of cavalry. The Sixteenth Dragoons. And my information is he likely does not have enough horses to mount them properly. I mention this because in the event we do engage in an all-out battle, knowing he lacks effective cavalry could be critical to us making the correct decisions in the field. Lack of effective cavalry means he has no highly mobile force to reinforce his infantry, should they be in need.”

  He moved on. “They have a slight numerical superiority—about fifteen thousand to our eleven thousand effectives. But, there are some things in our favor that we have not had before. First, we will not have a river at our back. Only open country. We can maneuver much more freely, even retreat quickly should that be required. Second, we have in our ranks several companies that are familiar with the Delaware River basin and the country surrounding.”

  Lafayette raised a hand. “Will we acquire more cannon from the militia in Philadelphia?”

  “Yes. How many, I cannot tell. But there will be some. That brings us to the question of military supplies.”

  Washington straightened and for a moment compressed his lips in a straight line. “I have sent written orders to the militia in Philadelphia. They are to clear the city of everything that could be used by the British to support their army—food, gunpowder, shot, cannon, muskets, blankets, medicines—anything. Get it out of the city, into the country where it can be scattered in all directions should the British get past us and succeed in taking Philadelphia.”

  He paused to take a new direction. “I have also notified Congress that we are expecting a battle and that the delegates should be prepared to vacate Philadelphia on one hour’s notice, should the need arise. They are prepared.”

  He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “I want to impress on you the foundation on which this army will proceed until further notice. We will meet the British, and we will defend Philadelphia because Congress and the citizenry expect it of us. But we will not defend it to the death.”

  For a moment all movement, all comment, ceased. He paused to allow the statement to settle in, then continued. “General Howe has spent his entire summer campaign trying to maneuver us into a position where he can destroy this entire army, including this war council. He knows that only then can he stop our fight for freedom.”

  An unusual intensity crept into his voice. “I will not let that happen. Should the battle go against us, we must save the core of this army to fight on. As long as we have the heart of the army intact, we can acquire replacement troops and supplies. General Howe cannot, and he knows that. He has to crush us totally and quickly. So, I repeat. I will not let that happen. I trust you will all abide that simple fundamental.”

  For long seconds silence held in the tent before Washington moved and spoke.

  “Any questions?”

  General Thomas Conway, the French-Irish officer who had notably trained his command to the highest state of readiness in the army, spoke up.

  “Will the men be issued shot and gunpowder for the parade?”

  “No. There is no chance we’ll meet the British in Philadelphia. I see no need to run the risk of mistakes or accidents. Further questions?”

  “Is it possible Burgoyne will get past Gates and come down on our flank?”

  Washington rounded his mouth and slowly blew air for a moment. “You know General St. Clair gave him Fort Ticonderoga without a fight. You probably know our forces have been in a steady retreat since. General Arnold is up there now, with Daniel Morgan and some of his riflemen, to support General Gates. I learned this morning that on August sixteenth there was a decisive battle at Bennington, a few miles east of the Hudson. General John Stark of the New Hampshire Militia and Colonel Seth Warner with his Green Mountain Boys took down nearly the entire commands of Generals Baum and Breymann and their Hessians. Roughly one thousand of them. General Burgoyne is hurt, and in my opinion is finding out that the wilderness is his greatest enemy. I repeat to you what I have recently put in a letter. ‘Now, let all New England turn out and crush Burgoyne.’ I have no fear that without General Howe’s forces to support him, General Burgoyne will fail.”

  Washington paused, then concluded. “We’ll march out at eight o’clock in the morning. We’ll pass through Philadelphia sometime around noon. It is possible some Tories and British sympathizers will attempt to interrupt us. I doubt it, but it’s possible. Order your men that should that happen, they remain in rank and file and keep moving.” A rare smile came and was gone. “I expect it will be a memorable thing, marching past Independence Hall, where Congress is convened, and past the print shop where Benjamin Franklin had his beginnings. Tell your men to step smartly. I’ll have written orders delivered to you in the morning. You are dismissed.”

  The officers filed out, and although their boots were already mud-caked, they stepped judiciously over and around the worst of the mire as they walked to their horses.

  General Henry Knox grunted as he lifted his left foot high to the stirrup and hauled his short, heavy frame into the saddle. He paused to peer south at the menacing storm clouds moving steadily toward them. Concern was evident in his voice as he spoke of his beloved cannon.

  “Seems like all we’ve had the last while is storms. Rain and mud, mud and rain. Hard on cannon.”

  Cadwalader studied the rising purple billows. “That storm’s not good for a marching army, but that’s not the concern. The concern is the storm that’s coming behind it.”

  He turned to Knox, and Knox nodded but
said nothing as the two of them reined their horses around, splashing in the mud.

  Notes

  New England experienced frequent and violent summer storms in August 1777. General Howe had held his men on the ships for forty-seven days through the worst of the summer heat of July and August. Twenty-seven hundred horses died on board and were thrown into the bay; the three hundred that survived were unloaded and went into a nearby cornfield to gorge on green corn and became sick with colic. Men became sick and died. Heat prostration was rampant. Fresh water became stale, the food rancid. The rains turned the Maryland countryside into a quagmire, the rivers and streams overflowing. The men became surly, nearly mutinous, and in anger plundered the countryside. Howe issued orders to cease; the men refused, and Howe held court. Two men were sentenced to hang, five to be flogged, and their sentences were carried out.

  General Howe divided his army into two divisions, one under General Cornwallis, the other under German General Knyphausen, and began his march for Philadelphia. See Mackesy, The War for America, p. 126; Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 349–50.

  For a visual presentation of the route and the towns, see the map found in Freeman, Washington, p. 321.

  Howe’s orders were to destroy the Continental Army and General Washington. To do so he had brought but one regiment of cavalry. See Mackesy, The War for America, 1775–1783, p. 128.

  On his way to meet General Howe, General Washington paraded his troops through Philadelphia. See Flexner, Washington, The Indispensable Man, p. 103.

  Corpulent, short General Henry Knox was a librarian and bookseller before joining the Continental Army. Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, p. 105.

  Washington gave orders to remove everything from Philadelphia that might help the British, and it was done. See Mackesy, The War for America, 1775–1783, p. 129.

  The battle of Bennington is described, with the fact that Daniel Morgan and Benedict Arnold were both in the north to assist in the fight against General Burgoyne. See Ketchum, Saratoga, pp. 306–38.

  General Washington repeats his fundamental principle herein, of not engaging in any battle that could result in loss of the core of the Continental Army. Ketchum, Saratoga, p. 48.

  East of Brandywine Creek, Pennsylvania

  September 7, 1777

  CHAPTER VIII

  * * *

  In the lantern light of his cramped hospital tent, Dr. Leonard Folsom sighed and drew the sheet up to cover the sightless eyes of an old soldier. He turned to the table in the corner, glanced at the clock, dipped his quill in the inkwell, and scratched the time, date, and cause of death in his medical ledger: ten minutes past two o’clock a.m., Sunday, September 7, 1777, fever. He dropped the quill on the ledger and turned to Mary with a weary sadness.

  “Name’s Welles. Casper Welles. Said he was from Company Three, Ninth New York Regiment. Find an officer from that regiment and have him tell the sergeant to burn everything the man had—everything. Wrap the body in something for burial—don’t take time to build a coffin. Don’t mention fever—don’t want to start a panic—and don’t let anyone get near. Can’t let it infect others. Dr. Waldron and I will examine the people who’ve been near this man lately. This army doesn’t need an epidemic. Stay until he’s buried; then report back to me.”

  Captain Charles Venables of the Ninth New York Regiment held a lantern high to lead Mary through the darkness of the silent, slumbering Continental Army camp, four miles east of the Brandywine Creek in southern Pennsylvania. He stopped at the place where Third Company was bedded. In the humid air the grasses were drenched with dew, and Mary’s shoes and the bottom of her skirt were both soaked. Mary waited as Venables shook the shoulder of a stocky, red-bearded sergeant who grunted awake. Venables hunkered low to speak softly in the lantern glow.

  “O’Malley, remember Casper Welles felt poorly at evening mess? Went to that new doctor who came in from Morristown a couple days ago?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Welles died a few minutes ago. Doctor says he has to be buried right now. Burn everything he had. No time for a coffin—wrap him in something, maybe a blanket. Get someone to help. Do it now, before the camp wakes up. Doctor’s orders. Understand?”

  “Buried now? In the middle of the night?”

  “Doctor said.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe it’s something bad. Like smallpox or plague.”

  Mary heard a sharp intake of air, then a perfunctory, “Yes, sir.”

  Venables jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Doctor sent this nurse to see it done. She has to report back to him. Pick a man and follow me.”

  “Have the girl turn her back.”

  O’Malley pulled on his breeches, then his socks and shoes and signed to Venables and Mary to wait. He faded into the darkness to return in less than a minute with a sleepy-eyed young soldier following, struggling to clear his sleep-fogged brain. O’Malley’s Irish brogue sounded as he spoke low to Venables. “Private Dunson. The one who writes.”

  The two followed Venables and Mary back through the night, stopping but once at a regimental supply wagon to silently collect a pick, a shovel, and a lantern, then continue on to the small hospital tent, glowing dully from the lamp inside.

  Venables raised a hand. “Don’t forget to burn his things.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Venables left silently while O’Malley dropped the pick and shovel, held the tent flap for Mary and Caleb, then followed them inside.

  The three crowded into the small space, then stood staring at the eerie scene before them. The lamp on the corner table was turned low, and the faint yellow light cast great, grotesque shadows on the canvas walls and ceiling. Draped with a white sheet, the small, wiry body of Casper Welles lay full length on a rough pine surgical table in the center of the small space. Caleb gaped at the scene and held his breath against the stench of death. He shuddered, shrinking from the haunting impression that a departed spirit was among them, lingering in the night. For a time he and the others stood rooted, caught up in an uninvited, weird sensation that raised the hair on the backs of their necks.

  O’Malley was the first to move. He set the unlighted lantern down on the floor and spoke. “We’ll need something to wrap him in.”

  Mary pointed, and O’Malley turned to the corner nearest the tent flap, where discarded bedding was folded and stacked. On top of the pile was a ragged quilt, hand-stitched in a forgotten time and place by women seated around a quilting frame in a frontier cabin. He handed the quilt to Caleb, then tucked the white sheet under the body from both sides. As he lifted the remains of Casper Welles, Mary and Caleb slipped the quilt beneath the body, then waited while O’Malley lowered the thin corpse. They wrapped the remains and for a moment stood in the grip of the shadowy silence before Caleb spoke to O’Malley.

  “I’ll carry him. You lead with the lantern.”

  O’Malley picked the lantern from the floor, and while Caleb folded the small body over his shoulder, O’Malley raised the chimney on the lamp in the corner and used the flame to light the second lantern. He held the tent flap open and followed Caleb and Mary out into the night with the lantern held high. Mary stooped to lift the pick and shovel from the ground.

  O’Malley held out his hand. “Let me carry those.”

  The few soldiers who stirred from their slumbers to peer at them as they passed in the darkness made no movement or sound as they watched a lantern float past, casting a circle of yellow light on a man with a pick and shovel in his hands, followed by a second man carrying a wrapped corpse over his shoulder, and a third shadowy figure that appeared to be a woman. Those who witnessed the silent procession settled back into their blankets while their sleep-drugged memories reached back to early childhood. Once again they were wide-eyed children sitting cross-legged before glowing embers in the great stone fireplace of their homes, terrorized by hushed stories of grave robbers and ghouls. When they finally found the courage to make the
ir trembling way to their beds, they pulled the quilts over their heads and waited to be snatched up by warlocks and witches.

  With the camp more than one hundred yards behind them, O’Malley halted. Caleb stooped to lay the frail, wrapped body in the wet grass and then reached for the pick. For more than an hour Mary watched the two sweating men dig in the rocky soil, alternating in their use of the pick and shovel, working steadily to pitch the dirt and rocks out of the hole onto a growing mound. Mary raised her eyes to the quarter-moon, hanging low in the west, then to the numberless points of light in the black heavens, and her thoughts ran.

  All His. So huge. Vast. Endless. How small we are. Yet—He knows when the sparrow falls. He knows we are here now to give the remains of this man back to mother earth. One of His children.

  She lowered her eyes and peered at the black hole, dim in the moonlight.

  How many of His children have I seen crippled in this war? Dead? Five hundred? One thousand? Two thousand? How many times have I stood beside graves? Too many. An involuntary shudder surged. So much suffering. Pain. All needless. Love one another. So simple. So simple.

  The first gray of dawn was separating the earth from the black velvet dome when the men climbed out of the hole. It was but four feet deep and scarcely long enough and wide enough for the wrapped corpse, but the unrelenting pressures of time and war would allow no more. The two men knelt at either end of the grave, seized the quilt, and bent low to settle the remains of Casper Welles into its final resting place. They stood and wiped sweat with their sleeves as they stared down.

  O’Malley cleared his throat. “I . . . uh . . . someone ought to say a little something. I’m not good at it.”

  Mary stepped forward, and the two men bowed their heads. With the morning star fading in the east, she spoke softly. “We commit the remains of this child of the Almighty to its final resting place. May he find the peace of our Lord and Savior. From dust are we created, and to dust shall we return.”

  “That was fine,” O’Malley murmured. They stood quietly for a few seconds, each with his or her own thoughts before O’Malley reached for the shovel.