by Ron Carter
After filling in the grave, they turned their backs on the unmarked mound and strode back toward the camp. With the eastern sky glowing rose-red, it seemed the work of the night was but a strange dream. They did not look back. They returned the pick and shovel and the lantern to the supply wagon and continued on to the hospital tent.
“I’ll burn his things,” O’Malley volunteered. “Tell the doctor and Captain Venables.”
“I will. Thank you both.”
The high wisp of clouds was shot through with the golden rays of a sun not yet risen when Caleb paused for the first time to look into Mary’s face—the dark eyes, dark hair, striking features. She met his gaze, and he quickly lowered his eyes to stare at the ground, then at O’Malley. He felt the color rise in his face, and he moved his feet, awkward, unsure, wishing he were somewhere else.
“Ma’am,” O’Malley said, “I don’t know your name. Private Dunson here sometimes keeps the regimental register. We might need your name.”
“Mary Flint. I’m a nurse with Dr. Folsom. From Morristown.”
“Thank you, ma’am. We should get back to our company.”
The men nodded their respects to her and were turning to leave when the banging rattle of the reveille drum came echoing through the trees. At the same instant the vibrations and sounds of a galloping horse coming hard from the south reached them, and both men stopped. A horse pounding through camp at stampede gait at this time of morning meant but one thing. Something catastrophic—good or bad—had happened. They stood still, straining to see movement through the trees.
The tall bay gelding was lathered, sweated, as it flashed past them in the heavy, dead morning air with forelegs reaching, hind legs driving. The rider was low over the neck, giving the horse loose rein, kicking the mount with every stride. Caleb and O’Malley watched him disappear into the trees and listened until the sound was lost in the clamor of an army camp waking up.
O’Malley reached to run his sleeve across his mouth, eyes narrowed, mind racing. “Something’s happened. We better get Third Company ready.”
The rider reined the horse past the morning fires and around startled men until he came to the command tent of General Washington, with its flagpole and pickets at the flap. He reared back in his saddle and hauled the reins to his chest. The horse threw its head high against the pressure, stiff front legs skidding in the soft earth, hind quarters nearly on the ground as it came to a stop, blowing, dancing sideways, as the rider swung down, hanging onto the reins, fighting the winded gelding. Panting, the man called to the pickets, words coming too fast.
“Gen’l Washington here? I got a message. Important.”
“I’ll take that rifle.”
The messenger puzzled for a moment, then reluctantly surrendered his long, beautifully tooled Pennsylvania rifle.
The picket continued. “A message from who?”
“Colonel Pollard. Pennsylvania militia.”
“About what?”
The man’s arm shot up to point south. “We seen the British!”
The picket started, then spun to disappear into the tent. Five seconds later he emerged and blurted, “General Washington will see you now.”
The messenger, average height, wiry, quick, dressed in fringed buckskins and moccasins, dodged through the entrance and came to an abrupt halt facing the imposing figure of General Washington seated behind the council table. The flustered man started to speak before he remembered he should salute, and then he could not remember if he should remove his wide-brimmed, low-crowned felt hat first. He swept his hat from his head with his left hand, saluted with his right, and plowed on, excited, breathless. His four-day beard moved as he spoke.
“Gen’l, sir, we seen the British. Thousands of ’em. And their cannon.” He pointed south, through the tent wall. “Right down south, not far from—”
Washington raised a hand, and the man stopped, confused.
“What is your name?”
“Uh . . . Abram Dearborn.”
“What regiment are you from?”
A look of pained frustration crossed the man’s face. “Don’t rightly remember, sir. Don’t recall anyone ever tellin’ me. All I done, I joined the militia lately and didn’t ask no questions.”
“Who is your commanding officer?”
The man brightened. “Colonel Marvin Pollard. Pennsylvania Militia.”
“What’s the message?”
“The British are down the river, comin’ this way.” Again he caught himself and quickly added, “Sir.”
“Did you see them?”
“It was me seen ’em first. Spent well nigh onto a whole day movin’ quiet in the trees, countin’.”
“How many troops?”
“Well, sir, I have a little trouble countin’ above a thousand, so I counted ’em in thousands.”
“How many?”
“Fifteen. Fifteen thousand of ’em, or close thereabouts.”
“What color were their uniforms?”
“Three colors. Red, blue, and green.”
Washington pursed his mouth for a moment, making calculations. “Cannon?”
“Hundreds.”
“How were they moving them?”
“Mostly by men with ropes. A few horses in poor flesh. Some oxen they stolt from farmers.”
“How was the column arranged? In sections?”
“No, sir, they was just one long column. Redcoats up front, wagons, cannon, blue coats, green coats, and a few redcoats in the rear.”
“Did you see the officers?”
“Some. Most.”
“Do you know who they are?”
“Only one. Howe. He’s tall enough you can’t miss him. Like you.” The man caught himself and dropped his eyes for a second. “Beg pardon, sir.”
“Did Colonel Pollard tell you to deliver this message verbally?”
The man licked lips that were suddenly dry. “Verbally? I don’t know what—”
“Did he tell you what to say, or did he write it out? Did you bring a written message?”
The man’s eyes rolled upward in pain. “Ohhh, sir, I don’t remember ever bein’ so dumb. He wrote it.” The man jerked a wrinkled, sealed paper from his leather shirt and thrust it to Washington. It was damp from perspiration. Washington carefully unfolded it and for a full minute read it, read it again, then raised his eyes to the man.
“This says the British are somewhere near Newcastle. That’s in Delaware, on the Delaware River. Do you know exactly where they are?”
“Yes, sir, I do. They was moving north.”
“When did you last see them?”
“When I mounted my horse to make the run here.”
“How many hours?”
“Maybe four, a little more.”
“In the night?”
“Yes, sir. The colonel says you had to know quick. Picked me because of my horse. He’s a good one.”
The sound of an incoming rider stopped both men, and Dearborn turned his head to look. Three seconds later the tent flap was thrown aside and the slight form of Alexander Hamilton burst in. He came to an abrupt halt and saluted.
“Sir, forgive the intrusion. I heard this messenger had arrived. I took the chance you might need me.”
Washington nodded. “He has just informed me that we have located what appears to be the entire force under command of General Howe.”
Hamilton formed his mouth into a silent, startled “Ooo.” “How far, sir?”
“Not far from Newcastle.” He turned back to Dearborn. “Could you show me on a map where they are?”
“Easy, if you got one.”
Washington anchored the corners of a map and waited. Dearborn laid a finger on it, traced the Delaware, then stopped, finger tapping.
“Right here. Just north of Newcastle. A swampy place. On their way up the river. They was movin’ slow because they didn’t have horses. I figger they’ll likely be at Wilmington in the next two days, right about here, where the Brandywine meet
s the Delaware.”
Washington leaned over the table for a time, intently studying the meandering of the Brandywine Creek. He straightened and turned to Hamilton.
“Help this man with food and drink for him and his horse. Then get Colonel Laurens and assemble the war council here in one hour.” He looked at Dearborn. “Well done. Dismissed.”
For a moment Dearborn stared into the pale blue eyes, where he saw the iron-willed discipline and the resolve. He shrugged. “Weren’t much. Horse done all the work.” He was turning to leave before he remembered. “Sir.”
Hamilton was grinning when he led him out of the tent.
Washington took a great breath and exhaled slowly, then leaned over the map, palms flat on the table, arms stiff, as he stared intently at the crooked course of the Delaware River, then at Philadelphia, then Newcastle.
He’s coming. If we know where he is, I must assume he knows where we are. And if that’s true, the question is, does he want Philadelphia more than he wants to crush this army? I do not think so. I think he knows by now the only way he can conclude this war is to eliminate the Continental Army. So the question is, where best to meet him? We will need open country behind us and something in front of us.
Thoughtfully, slowly, he traced the river, pausing at every village, every tributary. His finger stopped where the Brandywine Creek flows into the Delaware.
There. Brandywine.
Twenty minutes later an aide brought his breakfast, and without a word Washington pointed to the small table in the corner. The breakfast was only half eaten and forgotten when the first of the war council arrived thirty-five minutes later, with the others following. Washington waited until all were seated, all eyes on him, intense, waiting.
“I received a written message one hour ago. General Howe and his entire force are just north of Newcastle, on this side of the Delaware.”
There was a sharp intake of breath, but no one spoke.
“I do not think he is interested in taking Philadelphia. Before he does that, I believe he means to destroy this army completely.”
Open talk erupted, then quieted.
“Does anyone disagree?”
The silence held for several seconds while Washington arranged his words.
“Then I propose we give him his chance.”
No one moved. It was over. The weeks and months of frustration, marching, endlessly marching nowhere, were finished. At last, at long last, they were going to meet the British head-on in pitched battle. A mixed sense of relief and apprehension came over them as the full realization of what was to come reached inside.
Washington referred to the map. “Remember, we are outnumbered. And we have fewer cannon than they. With that in mind I’ve examined the country between where we are and where he is, looking for a place that gives us some advantages. I believe we need open country behind us to maneuver or retreat, if necessary, and we need something in front of us to slow him down.”
Murmurs of approval arose and faded.
“I think I have found such a place.” He tapped the map. “Here. At Brandywine Creek. It is wide enough and deep enough and straight enough to be a major obstacle to an advancing army. There are some shallow fords, and they can be patrolled by our forces. Should he try to cross at the fords, we can concentrate both men and cannon on them.”
He straightened and cleared his throat.
“The only remaining question is, have I judged him correctly? Will he come up the Brandywine to meet us?”
West of Brandywine Creek, Pennsylvania
September 10, 1777
CHAPTER IX
* * *
There was nothing remarkable about the Brandywine. It was a small, beautiful stream like a hundred others traversing the lush, rolling hills of New England. The two forks, east and west, converge about four miles or so above Chad’s Ford to run south. Its length, measured from the headwaters of either fork to the Delaware River, is about thirty-four miles as the crow flies; perhaps thirty-seven miles if one follows the meander line. It runs year-round. Heavy and brown and roiling in the spring with the snowmelt, lighter in the summer and fall, frozen in the winter. Too shallow and narrow for heavy watercraft, the stream was used by farmers as a highway for travel in rowboats, and to water stock and grow crops, which they moved up and down the stream to market in small boats. Philadelphia, Germantown, Whitemarsh, Valley Forge, Chester, Red Bank Redoubt, Wilmington, Newcastle, and Lancaster all lay within thirty miles of the stream, one direction or another.
That this tranquil place would be forever remembered as a pivotal battleground in the war that changed the history of the world is an anomaly made understandable only because many of the events that change history occur in anomalous places. Jeanne d’Arc was born in the quiet country village of Domremy in the beautiful Meuse Valley in France. At age thirteen that simple farm girl heard the voices of angels. At age nineteen she was burned at the stake for obeying them. Mary birthed a son in the obscure little village of Bethlehem. At age twelve he confounded the priests in the temple. At age thirty-three he was crucified for it. An unknown shepherd boy walked out into an unremarkable mountain valley called Elah and struck down a giant with his sling. In a forgotten field of crops that he himself had planted and nurtured, Cain slew his brother.
Consistent with the ever unpredictable, often puzzling patterns of life that become fully discernible only in retrospect, two opposing armies found themselves facing each other on opposite banks of the Brandywine, east and west, preparing for battle. The disparity between the two powers was ludicrous, nearly profane.
The British army, with fifteen thousand of the finest soldiers in the history of the world were drawing up their battle plans and lines on the west side, each highly trained man sworn to defend England from all who would wound her.
The American force, with eleven thousand common citizen-soldiers, resembling little more than a mob, were entrenching on the east side, each man in the ragtag army driven by an idea that would not let him do otherwise. Freedom.
Thus the issue was framed: could the mightiest military power on earth destroy an idea?
* * * * *
The only sound inside the huge, elaborate British command tent was the buzzing of the late summer flies.
Outside, the still, sultry air weighed heavy in the hot mid-morning sun. Sweating red-coated soldiers cursed their heavy woolen uniforms as they worked through the endless daily rituals of a disciplined military camp. Reveille. Wash. Shave. Straighten bunks, tents, grounds. Gather firewood. Morning mess. Inspection. Inventory food, munitions. Compile sick and disabled reports—always reports, unending reports. Clean horse droppings. Feed the stock. Stand for inspection. Drill. Repairs—wagons, cannon, caissons, muskets, bayonets, picks, shovels, uniforms.
An unsettled feeling crept into the soldiers as they remembered the two messengers who had ridden in on sweated horses during morning mess. The two men had spent close to half an hour with General Howe before they emerged from the great tent. They walked their jaded mounts to a water trough to let them drink, then on to the horse pens for a ration of oats before the men went to the enlisted men’s mess, where they shared burned sowbelly and fried mush. Finished, they tightened the saddle cinches on their mounts, swung up, and loped out of camp. Through it all, they had refused to answer any questions.
Thirty minutes later the generals began arriving at the command tent, sober, faces set, paying little heed to the bustle of the camp around them. The nearby soldiers studied the twelve saddled horses at the tent entrance and looked again at the aides holding their reins. All officers. Then they turned their eyes to peer east, and their foreheads furrowed as the pieces of the puzzle came together.
The signs were all there. The Americans were just across the Brandywine. Messengers had arrived. Every general in the entire command was inside the command tent.
The enlisted men wiped at sweat as the questions came in a rush. Were the rebels coming? Going? Who would cross the river
to attack? The British? The Americans? When would the cannon start? The not knowing and the waiting escalated the uneasiness to a nervous tension. Talk spread.
“If we’re headed into a battle, let’s cross the bloody creek and get on with it.”
“You haven’t heard? The rebels won’t fight! Those two messengers carried terms of surrender! That’s why all the generals are with Howe right now—to hear the terms.”
“Surrender? In a pig’s eye! The whole lot of ’em don’t have the brains to know when they’re whipped. Heard about Bennington? Up near the Hudson? Not three weeks ago. One thousand of Burgoyne’s Germans gone in one afternoon. No, sir, those lumberin’ fools don’t know when they’re whipped.”
Inside the tent, Major General Sir William Howe gave a head nod and an aide dropped the tent flap into place. He turned back to the council table, surrounded by red coats, crossed white belts, golden epaulets, and powdered wigs. Not one man moved. All eyes were wide, all faces masks of concentration.
True to his nature, Howe did not waste a minute or a word.
“Washington has set up his defenses. Two messengers delivered drawings less than an hour ago. He’s inviting us to come across the Brandywine and get him.”
There was the brief sound of released breath, and the rustle of uniforms as the men moved, then settled. Howe’s eyes were glowing. His body and his movements had a feral grace, like a panther gathered, crouched, waiting for the right grain of time to strike an unsuspecting doe at a spring hidden in the forest. In the hallowed halls of Parliament he was awkward, unsure. Here, facing a battle that could decide the war, he was without peer. He was doing what he had been born for. Every officer at the table felt the animal instinct reaching out to touch him, subjecting him to Howe’s will, and none resisted.
Howe’s long frame leaned slightly forward as he spoke. His words came deliberate, measured.
“We have spent the entire summer campaign waiting for this. We can end this war tomorrow, if we strike hard enough and quick enough. Get every word of this.”
On the table before him was a large, detailed map of the Delaware River, from the Atlantic Ocean to McConkie’s Ferry, nine miles north of Trenton. Close to the center was the village of Wilmington, near the confluence of Brandywine Creek and the Delaware. The Brandywine angled north from Wilmington, to the place it divided into the east and west branches, above Chad’s Ford. He dropped an index finger on the stiff parchment, at a spot a little distance from the west bank of the Brandywine.