Prelude to Glory, Vol. 5

by Ron Carter

  Washington fixed him with cold blue-gray eyes, probing to the very core of Cheyney, searching for assurance the man was genuine. Cheyney stood solid, barely hanging onto his anger, eyes locked with Washington’s while he waited.

  From the east came another rider, horse covered with lather, eyes rolling from exhaustion. Hamilton shook his head. How many messengers in half a day?—five, six? He could not recall a battle with so many messengers, each with information they swore was the truth, yet in direct conflict with information already received.

  The man dismounted, threw down the reins, and came directly to Washington. “From General Sullivan, sir. Urgent.”

  Once again Washington broke the seal and read. “Colonel Bland has this moment sent me word that the enemy is in the rear of my right about two miles coming down. There are, he says, about two brigades of them. At two o’clock p.m. he also saw a dust rise back in the country for above an hour.”

  For three seconds Washington was torn by self-condemnation. We didn’t scout the terrain—didn’t know all the fords—didn’t have enough patrols out—Sullivan didn’t investigate the conflicted messages—I thought Howe would cross at Chad’s Ford—wrong—wrong—wrong. No time for recriminations—must act.

  He spoke to Cheyney. “Your information is correct.”

  He turned to Hamilton and pointed to the messenger just arrived. “Get this man a fresh horse.” He turned back to the messenger. “There’s no time for written orders. Ride back to General Sullivan. Tell him to take the entire right wing—all three divisions—and march instantly to meet Howe. He and Generals Stirling and Stephen are to seize the high ground around Birmingham Meeting House and hold it. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hamilton handed him the reins to a tall, strong black gelding. The man swung up, spun the horse, and was gone.

  Washington spoke to Laurens. “Find General Wayne. Tell him to remain at Chad’s Ford with two brigades and his artillery to hold General Knyphausen across the Brandywine.”

  “Yes, sir.” Laurens vaulted into the saddle and kicked his horse to a gallop to the south.

  Washington turned back to Hamilton. “Locate General Greene. Tell him he’s to be ready on an instant’s notice to move either north or south—down to support Wayne or up to support Sullivan. We won’t know which until the battle takes shape. Move!”

  Washington glanced at the sun arcing toward the western horizon. He drew his pocket watch and studied the hands thoughtfully. Four o’clock. Maybe it will be too late in the day when Howe reaches the Birmingham Meeting House. Maybe night will prevent a battle. Maybe we can build breastworks in the night. Maybe. Maybe. We can’t live on maybe.

  The terrible tension was building with each minute. Washington paced as he held his impatience under control, waiting, waiting, turning his head to listen for the battle that would erupt three miles to the north when Howe collided with Sullivan.

  At the stroke of four-thirty, the blasting roar of cannon came rolling down the Brandywine.

  Across the creek, shielded by the oak and maple trees, General Knyphausen sat his horse and listened for two full minutes. There was no break in the rolling thunder, and then the staccato rattle of muskets and the sharp crack of rifles joined in. Knyphausen drew his sword and spurred his horse the length of his lines, shouting orders to his men. “That is our signal. Commence firing! Commence firing! In ten minutes the infantry will cross the ford.” Five seconds later the ground shook as the German cannoneers touched off their first barrage and began to quickly reload.

  It took Washington ten seconds to grasp the British strategy. Howe was going to crush Sullivan while Knyphausen engaged and held Greene and Armstrong out of the fight. Instantly Washington turned and spoke to Generals Anthony Wayne and Nathanael Greene, standing within five feet of him, waiting.

  “General Wayne, you must hold this position with your two brigades. I will take General Greene and his command north to support General Sullivan and hold the road open to Philadelphia. We have to do all possible to keep the British from closing that road.”

  “Yes, sir!” Wayne mounted his horse and galloped south toward his command while General Greene trotted to his horse, then turned, waiting for Washington. Only then did Washington realize he knew the direction he had to go but not the route. He had no reports, no information on what roads to follow, what open fields to cross to get to Sullivan quickly. He cast his eyes about, looking for someone who might know. Scattered behind him were half a dozen of the local citizens, drawn to the battle like moths to a flame. Washington strode to an elderly man dressed in the garb of a local farmer.

  “What is your name?”

  “Joseph Brown.”

  “Do you know this terrain?”

  “Lived here forty years.”

  “Will you guide us to Birmingham Meeting House?”

  The old head shook emphatically. “No, sir, I will not. Too old for such. I come to watch.”

  Alexander Hamilton set his teeth, drew his sword, and strode to face the old man, sword tip a scant six inches from the grizzled old throat. “You will lead us, sir, or I will run you through where you stand.”

  The watery old eyes opened wide for a moment, and Hamilton gave a hand signal to two soldiers. Without a word they seized the old fellow and hoisted him into the saddle of the nearest horse. The gnarled old hands grasped the reins, and in a moment the horse was galloping north with General Washington right behind, shouting, “Push on, old man!” while Hamilton, Laurens, and half a dozen others of his staff followed, leaping fences and streams, cutting cross-country for the three-mile run to Birmingham Meeting House.

  General Nathanael Greene spun on his heel and vaulted into his saddle. “Follow me, men,” he shouted and turned his horse north, holding it to a trot as his entire command broke into a run, streaming out behind him as he followed the fast-disappearing back of General Washington.

  Three miles ahead, the three divisions under command of General Sullivan pounded north and east, toward the slopes of Battle Hill and the crossroads near the Birmingham Meeting House. But in the wild, chaotic melee of exploding British cannonballs, the division led by Sullivan became separated from that of Stirling in the middle and Stephen to the far right as they swept on to seize and hold the high ground just west of the meetinghouse. Sullivan suddenly realized he was ahead of the two divisions to his right and half a mile away. He slowed his command until the three divisions were aligned, and then kicked his horse to a gallop through the shot and smoke to reach Stirling and Stephen.

  “Can you hold?” he shouted.

  Stirling shook his head violently. “They mean to come around our right and flank us and then come in behind you!”

  Stephen pointed. “You need to be over here to present a solid front to take their attack.”

  Sullivan did not hesitate. “Hold here! We’re coming!”

  With cannon shot ripping the ground around him, Sullivan galloped back to his men, eight hundred yards to the west, and hauled the horse to a skidding stop before them, sword drawn, pointing to Stirling’s command as he shouted his orders.

  “To the right! To the right! Join Stirling! Follow me!”

  Captain Charles Venables turned to the New York Ninth Regiment and shouted, “To the right! Close with Stirling’s men! Move!”

  Sergeant O’Malley gave his orders to Third Company. “Close the gap!” he bellowed. “To the right!”

  Caught by surprise the bewildered division turned right and began to move, slowly at first, then faster as the officers rode among them, slapping laggards with the flat of their swords, shouting, demanding they move.

  Clutching his French musket before him, Caleb Dunson fell in behind Sergeant O’Malley, trotting, moving with the sea of sweating men. It seemed they were no longer individuals, rather, they had become a tide, flowing down one grassy incline, then up another that rose to the top of Battle Hill. The smoke and the sound of the guns became a blur.

 
Get to the top—the top—join Stirling at the top.

  It was the single thought that rose above all else to bind them together as they started up the incline toward the summit of Battle Hill. From the top, looking east, one could see the white spire among the trees that marked the settlement of Birmingham. To the north, Battle Hill faced Osborne’s Hill, with the country lane named Street Road winding its way through the gentle valley between.

  We can hold them if we get to the top.

  The Continentals had climbed less than two hundred yards when the cannon suddenly ceased, and movement and a strange new sound across the small valley brought their heads around to the north to stop them in their tracks, staring in utter disbelief.

  Caleb gaped, and his breath caught in his throat. In perfect alignment, the British forces crested Osborne’s Hill and started down the incline toward Street Road. Their cannon and muskets were silent, and neither an officer nor a soldier uttered a sound. The oncoming ranks seemed to reach out of sight. Never had he seen so many bright red coats with crossed white belts. He looked to the east, where the green- and blue-coated German Hessians and Anspach jaegers marched in their twenty-pound stiff, black leather boots that reached above their knees. Every soldier carried his musket with muzzle thrust forward, with its long, slender bayonet mounted. The light of the late afternoon sun turned their uniforms into a kaleidoscope of blinding bright colors, and it touched the hated steel bayonets to turn them into glistening instruments of death. They came ten thousand strong, rank upon rank, marching down the slope like one monstrous, silent, disciplined, terrible, flowing organism.

  Faintly at first, then with strength, the sounds of their band reached across to the Americans, flaunting the inexorable power of the British Empire, insulting the Americans, intimidating them with the strains of “The British Grenadiers.”

  Then, from the far right came the harsh battle cries of the Germans as they surged forward, still in perfect alignment. Across Street Road, then up the slope of Battle Hill they came, shouting as they ripped into the far right of Stephen’s command, bayonets flashing in the sun, thrusting. General Stephen watched in helpless agony as the three regiments of Marylanders under his command, led by General Prudhomme de Borre, took the charge. In less than two minutes they were in wild retreat, terrified of the naked steel and the overpowering onslaught of the Germans. As by magic General Stephen found himself with his right wing shorn away and his flank wide open to attack. He rode shouting among his men, slapping them with the flat of his sword, ordering them to stop, to stand their ground and fight, but his command had become a panic-stricken horde, unstoppable in their headlong retreat from those dreaded bayonets.

  Sullivan realized that with Stephen’s command gone, Stirling’s right flank was defenseless, and with the British coming head-on and the Germans coming in from his right, Stirling was trapped. In desperation Sullivan turned and screamed an order to his men, “Forward! Join Stirling! Join Stirling!”—before he jammed spurs to his horse and sprinted ahead to reach the American cannon clustered on the hilltop, while his mind raced ahead, The guns—must be loaded with grape and the muzzles depressed to shoot downhill—must get there—must get there.

  At that moment, the red-coated regulars surged up Battle Hill in full-throated battle cry. They came running, rank upon straight rank, like a flowing carpet of crimson, with the sun sparkling off the tips of their bayonets. Those in Sullivan’s command were running with all their strength to reach Stirling, directly across the face of that first rank of red-coated regulars, when they realized that their leader—General Sullivan—was no longer with them. And then the awful sight of the oncoming crimson line with their bayonets lowered struck into them. The Americans slowed. One turned to the right, threw down his musket, and ran. Half a dozen more broke away and turned to follow, racing away, down the slope of Battle Hill. In twos and threes and then in companies they broke.

  Six hundred yards to the east, at the cannon at the crest of Battle Hill, Sullivan looked back at his men, and for a moment his breath caught. Too late he realized his fatal mistake. He was not there to lead them, rally them. It flashed in his mind—too late, too late—and he kicked his horse to stampede gait back to his disintegrating command. He plowed into them as they retreated, shouting at them, pounding them on their backs with the flat of his sword. They dodged and swarmed past him, hearing nothing, feeling nothing but terror, possessed by but one thought. Run! Run!

  Caught in the chaotic panic, Caleb was swept one hundred yards down the back side of Battle Mountain before his numbed mind caught and began to function. All around him white-faced men were throwing down their muskets, running. He raised his head, searching for Sergeant O’Malley, and he was nowhere before him. He slowed and twisted, peering back up the hill, and there found O’Malley’s red hair and beard. The sergeant was fifty yards above him, cursing, shouting, swinging his musket at his own men, knocking them sideways as he tried to stop Third Company’s retreat, turn them back to meet the British.

  Caleb turned into the oncoming rush of men, dodging, shoving, pushing, making his way back one yard at a time. He reached O’Malley, and with only half a dozen men from Third Company following, they climbed back to the crest of the hill. There, alone, was Stirling’s command, grim, bracing for the bayonet charge they knew was coming. Three thousand Americans facing six thousand of the flower of the greatest military force in the world. O’Malley, with Caleb beside him, broke through to the front of the American lines and settled to one knee, staring down the hill at the oncoming tide, ready.

  From behind came shouts, and the Americans turned to look. Tall on his unmistakable gray horse, knocking the retreating Americans left and right, rode General George Washington, sword in hand, racing for the crest of the hill. Stirling’s command opened passage for him, and he brought his blowing mare to a stop at the crest, instantly taking in the length and breadth of the oncoming British, less than one hundred yards down the slope of the hill.

  “Form ranks! form ranks!” he shouted. “Prepare to fire!” From his right the remnants of Stephen’s command came running, and from his left, what was left of Sullivan’s men. Generals Sullivan, Stirling, and Stephen, and the proud French-Irish General Thomas Conway came in from either side, shouting, “Stand fast! Stand fast!”

  Kneeling beside O’Malley, Caleb raised the frizzen of his musket to check the powder in the pan, locked it back in place, then tapped it to be certain it was ready for the hammer and flint to fall. Then he looked down the hill. At one hundred yards the first ranks of the British were faceless forms, laboring up the incline, muskets thrust forward, bayonets gleaming. Not one of them had fired a shot. Clearly, they intended to take the hill with their hated bayonets.

  Washington held his sword high, gauging time and distance—eighty yards, seventy, sixty, fifty.

  At fifty yards the faceless men suddenly had faces. Young, old, smooth, bearded, frightened, disciplined, short, tall—they took shape and form, individuality—each became a living person, like people in the streets of Boston or New York or in the shops of Morristown or Amboy or Middlebrook or from the farms of Pennsylvania or New Jersey.

  Caleb drew back the heavy hammer of his musket and lowered the muzzle to bury the thin sight at barrel’s end just below the place the white belts crossed on the chest of the redcoat coming directly at him. He took up the slack in the trigger and waited for the order to fire.

  Then, for the first time in his life, the stark reality of what he was doing rose to paralyze him. I’m going to kill that man! Kill him! Forbidden of God! Forbidden!

  General Washington whipped his sword downward as he shouted, “FIRE!”

  The first American volley hit the leading ranks of the British, and men all up and down the line stumbled and went down. Those behind stepped over them, filled the empty places, and came on, steady in those terrifying red coats and crossed belts while their band arrogantly blared out “The British Grenadiers.”

  Caleb suddenly
stood, musket still at his shoulder, and then he raised the muzzle. As though in a dream he looked dumbly at the hammer. It was still cocked. The frizzen was still upright, waiting for the flint to knock the pan open and strike the spark. He had not fired!

  O’Malley grasped his arm, jerked him down to his knees. “Get down! Shoot! Shoot or be killed!” he shouted.

  Without a thought and without aiming, Caleb thrust the muzzle forward and pulled the trigger. The frizzen leaped, the pan flared, the musket bucked, and the white smoke belched from the muzzle. Caleb saw the hit on the young man’s chest and heard the grunt, and he saw the man’s brown eyes glaze in shock and pain as he pitched forward. He tried once to rise, then relaxed, and died.

  Caleb stared, unable to move, to think. In his heart and mind was but one thought that filled his soul with terror. Forbidden! Forbidden! He was not aware that he was crying, tears running.

  O’Malley’s hand came down hard on his shoulder as he bellowed, “Reload! Reload!”

  Tears mingled with sweat and gun smoke to streak his face as Caleb jerked a fresh paper cartridge from the box on his hip, ripped the sewn end open with his teeth, tapped powder into the pan, smacked the cover closed, jammed the remainder of the paper cartridge with the powder and ball into the muzzle, yanked the ramrod from its housing beneath the barrel, slammed it down the muzzle once, replaced the ramrod, cocked the hammer, and took aim. He closed both eyes to fire but could not block out the image of another man groaning as he stumbled and fell forward to die.

  From behind came a clamor, and the officers turned to look as the Americans opened a path. Charging through came the young Marquis de Lafayette, galloping into the center of the battle, pant leg soaked with blood from a musket ball that had ripped through his foot. He reined his foam-flecked horse in beside General Washington with sword drawn, waiting for orders.

  Outnumbered two to one, the Americans stubbornly defended the crest of Battle Hill until they could no longer hold the relentless British. Slowly they backed off the hilltop, and then they stiffened. With General Washington leading and the other officers rallying, they stopped, and in full battle cry they doggedly fought their way back up the hill to drive the British before them, to the top, then down the far side.