Prelude to Glory, Vol. 5

by Ron Carter

  He softened at the thought of his men. Half of them barefoot, all of them hungry—no uniforms, short of ammunition, beaten—and still they remained. His thoughts ran on.

  Redemption—there must be a way to achieve redemption—something that can be done to regain what has been lost. . . .

  The sound of the tent flap being drawn brought him up short, and he turned to see diminutive Alexander Hamilton step inside the tent. Hamilton stopped at the sight of Washington, uniform wrinkled, unshaven, and then spoke with a quiet intensity.

  “Sir, our patrols have intercepted two British letters. They could be important.” He thrust them forward, and Washington quickly broke the seals and read them, then read them again, carefully. When he raised his eyes back to Hamilton all appearances of fatigue and frustration were gone, and there was an eager ring in his voice.

  “Gather the war council here at nine o’clock!”

  A trace of a smile crossed Hamilton’s face. “Yes, sir.”

  At nine o’clock, washed, shaven, in a crisp, fresh uniform, Washington stood at the head of the council table as his officers entered and took their seats. Sullivan, Greene, Conway, Armstrong, Wayne, Moylan, Maxwell, Nash, and Stephen. His two aides, Hamilton and Laurens, were seated at his side. On the table before him were two large scrolls.

  He wasted no time or words. “I have received a letter from General Lafayette. You will recall he was grievously wounded in the foot at the battle at Brandywine. A woman by the name of Liesel Beckel of Bethlehem—a Moravian sister—took him into her home and has nursed him back to health. He will be returning soon. I shall see to it she is rewarded. I thought you would like to know.”

  Each officer at the table exclaimed his relief at learning of Lafayette’s imminent return to duty. Battle-wise, every man knew that all too many soldiers had made their way home lacking an arm or a leg, simply because battlefield wounds were too often untreatable and battlefield surgery was rudimentary, brutal. That one of their own would be spared such agony was deeply gratifying.

  Washington waited, then raised a hand, and his officers sensed something compelling. They waited in quiet expectation.

  “We have intercepted two British messages. First, General Howe has sent a rather large force north, up the Hudson River. It is his intent to open the south end of the Hudson River by eliminating all the obstructions our forces have put in the channel and by taking whichever of our forts necessary to allow free passage on the river. That might include Fort Montgomery, Fort Constitution, Fort Clinton, and any others he chooses. I know he is aware that General Burgoyne was badly defeated by General Gates’s forces at a place called Nielsen’s farm near Saratoga on September nineteenth. I do not know if he intends moving troops on up the Hudson to relieve Burgoyne, but I doubt it.”

  Open talk broke out, then subsided as he continued.

  “The second message is that General Cornwallis remains in Philadelphia with enough men to control that city, while General Howe has moved the balance of his force to Germantown, where they are camped at this moment.”

  Every man at the table spoke at once, loud, excited. Washington waited until they settled.

  “He’s split his command. With part going to the Hudson and part in Philadelphia, he has only about nine thousand troops in Germantown. Our good fortune is we have received substantial replacements. Numerically our forces exceed his by about three or four thousand. In short, we have the advantage of General Howe at Germantown.”

  The entire council perceived what was coming, and Washington did not hesitate. He put the question to them: “I am of the opinion that conditions are right to attack General Howe at Germantown. Can you support such a decision?”

  The answer was instantaneous and unanimous. “Attack!”

  Washington nodded. “It is agreed.” He unrolled one of the two large scrolls and anchored the four corners with small leather sandbags, then turned the map slightly to square with the compass.

  “This is a map of the area.” He dropped a long index finger onto the parchment. “This is Germantown. The countryside round about is largely in farms with split-rail fences dividing them.”

  He moved his finger north. “The general British camp is here, north of town. Here, about one mile north of their general camp, they have breastworks and trenches on both sides of Skippack Road, under command of Generals Grey and Grant. Their defenses face north and are clearly intended to hold the road.”

  Vociferous murmuring broke out, and Washington waited until it died. His generals had not forgotten it was British General “No Flint” Grey who had ambushed Wayne’s command at two o’clock a.m. with bayonets at Paoli, in what had instantly become known as the “Paoli Massacre.” And it was General James Grant who had contemptuously declared that with five thousand British regulars he could march from one end of the United States to the other, destroying any part of, or all of, the Continental Army should it oppose him.

  He moved his finger as he continued. “We are here in Worcester Township, about twelve miles north and west of the British.” He stopped until every eye was on his hand as it moved. “From where we are, there are three main roads that run north and south. The center one is the Skippack Road, which I identified a moment ago. You can see it runs past the British breastworks, on past the British camp, and continues south to become the main street running through Germantown.”

  He retraced Skippack Road. “Here, about three miles north of the British camp, is the second north-south road. It runs generally parallel to and east of the Skippack Road to this point, called Chestnut Hill, where it joins the Skippack.”

  Again his finger moved. “The third north-south road is here, about one mile west of the Skippack Road and less than three hundred yards from the Schuylkill River. It is called the Ridge Pike Road, and it runs past Van Deering’s Mill, here.”

  He straightened for a moment, then continued. “Now we examine the roads running from east to west. We begin at the Van Deering Mill, where this road runs east for about a mile to cross the Skippack Road. The British breastworks are here, on the south side of this road, facing north, on both sides of the junction.”

  He paused to satisfy himself everyone was tracking, then continued. “Moving on south, the next east-west road is called the Lime Kiln Road. It comes in from the east, past Luken’s Mill, here, to join the Skippack Road, here, where there is a large stone house called the Chew House because it is owned by Chief Justice Benjamin Chew.”

  His finger moved on. “Farther south is this road, called the Old York Road. It comes in at an angle to join the Skippack Road, here.”

  He stopped to tap the spot. “The British have a second camp here, in the angle made by the junction of Skippack Road and Old York Road. They have forces there in reserve to support the breastworks if they get into trouble.”

  He straightened for a moment, and his eyes went around the room, pausing for a moment on each man.

  “This is the plan of attack. General Sullivan will move down Skippack Road with Generals Stirling, Conway, Wayne, Nash, and Maxwell. To the east, General Greene will lead a force that includes Generals Stephen and Smallwood in a sweeping curve that will bring them in south of the Lime Kiln Road. They will take Luken’s Mill and continue west to come in south of the Chew House. From there they can protect the left flank of Sullivan’s attack as they move south to the British breastworks and the support camp on Old York Road.”

  General Greene concentrated, then nodded his understanding, and Washington went on.

  “Here, to the west, General Armstrong will bring a force down Ridge Pike Road and will turn east on the road at Van Deering’s Mill, then leave the road to come in behind the breastworks and trenches of the British, here.”

  Washington straightened. “Make yourselves acquainted with the detail of the map and the part you play in the general plan of attack.”

  For three minutes he remained standing while the generals stood, hunched forward, tracing the roads with their fingers a
s they memorized them and began making the decisions that would guide them through the battle.

  Washington waited until they were all seated once again, then spoke.

  “Let me bring this to its simplest terms. Generals Sullivan, Conway, Wayne, Maxwell, Nash, and Stirling come down the Skippack Road. Generals Greene, Stephen, and Smallwood come in from the east. General Armstrong comes in from the west. Thus the breastworks and the main British camp are caught front, left, and right. With superior numbers, we will at least be able to hurt the British badly. With good fortune, we could take down the entire British force in Germantown.”

  The members of the war council looked at each other, caught up in the possibilities, calculating, judging. It’s possible! Take down General William Howe! “No Flint” Grey. James Grant. It’s possible.

  Washington interrupted their thoughts. “General Greene will need about four hours more marching time because his command has the greater distance to cover, and some of it is cross-country. I have arranged for a guide who is familiar with the area. His command will leave first, then General Armstrong, then General Sullivan and his forces.”

  He paused and leaned slightly forward for emphasis. “We will march in the evening hours tomorrow, October third. The attack will begin at five a.m. the next morning, October fourth, and it will be done with bayonets.” His eyes narrowed with intensity. “It is critically important that the first assault be a total surprise. That means we must silence their pickets before they can raise an alarm. To do that we must know where their picket stations are located. I will leave it to each of you to pick a few men who can leave camp tonight, move ahead in the dark, locate those British picket posts, and return undetected before morning to make their report. Tomorrow night those same men will move ahead of each command to the British pickets and silence them any way necessary. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Washington straightened. “Good. Issue ammunition and rations. Have your men rested. Tomorrow will be a long night followed by a heavy battle. Dismissed.”

  Two hundred yards south of the command tent, New York Third Company was laboring through midmorning drill when the war council officers ducked out through the tent flap and walked to their tethered horses. The reflection of the sun off the glittering gold on their epaulets caught the eye of Sergeant O’Malley, and he glanced at them, then turned back to his men. “Halt,” he bawled, and the ranks came to a ragged, uneven halt while O’Malley studied the officers as they mounted their horses.

  “Nine of ’em,” he muttered, and for a moment he pursed his mouth. “Somethin’s happenin’.” He glanced at the officers once more. “Guess we’ll hear about it soon enough.”

  It was during the noon meal that a young, thin officer with a trimmed Van Dyke beard came riding a high-headed, high-blooded bay gelding through the trees to the cook fire. His clothing was homespun, save for his tunic, which was new, with the gold epaulets of a captain prominent on each shoulder. O’Malley stood and came to attention while others nearby raised their heads from their wooden bowls to watch. Caleb walked within hearing distance to listen. The captain stopped but remained mounted while he eyed the men critically, then spoke in a high voice.

  “I’m looking for Sergeant O’Malley.”

  O’Malley saluted. “I’m O’Malley, sir.”

  The man frowned. “I don’t see your chevrons.”

  “No one ever gave them to me.”

  The man shrugged it off and tossed a hand indifferently. “I have orders to discuss with you in private. Follow me.” A sense of superiority flowed from the man as he turned his horse away, expecting O’Malley to follow.

  “Sir,” O’Malley called, “who are you?”

  The man turned in the saddle, eyes flashing. “Do you see these epaulets? Does it matter who I am?”

  “It does to me, sir.”

  The man reined the horse around to face O’Malley. He pulled himself to his full height and thrust out his chest. “I am Captain Gerald Allen Furniss, lately placed in command of the New York Ninth Regiment. I am your commanding officer.” He stared at O’Malley.

  O’Malley showed no emotion. “What happened to Captain Venables?”

  “His death at the battle of Brandywine was confirmed two days ago.”

  O’Malley looked at the ground while he accepted the shock. Most of the men of Third Company came to their feet to stand quietly, seized by their own thoughts about the death of their captain. Caleb walked to within six feet of O’Malley and stopped, still watching in silence.

  O’Malley spoke. “I’m sorry about Captain Venables. He was a good officer. A good officer.”

  “I did not know the man. Follow me, Sergeant.”

  The noon mess was finished, and the men of Third Company were at the Skippack Creek washing out their bowls and utensils with clear, cold creek water and sand when O’Malley returned. They gathered around him, waiting, Caleb among them.

  O’Malley’s face was a mask of disgusted restraint as he spoke. “That’s our new captain. The whole army’s under orders to get ready for an attack. Tonight Third Company’s got to send eight men down to the British camp and find their pickets. They go in pairs. The British can’t know they been scouted. Tomorrow night the whole army goes down there, and we got to silence those pickets before they raise an alarm.”

  An old, bearded soldier asked, “What was all this business of takin’ you somewhere, like this is all secret? Why didn’t he just tell us all at once?”

  O’Malley shook his head. “I don’t know. That youngster acted like this was the biggest secret since Noah’s Ark.” He heaved a sigh. “Don’t matter anyway. An attack’s an attack.”

  He cleared his throat. “About their pickets. I figger the fairest way is volunteers. Some of you men from the woods who’s trained in Indian fighting—you want to volunteer?”

  A tall man with long hair tied back spoke. “Don’t kill ’em? Just find ’em and come back?”

  “Yes. They can’t know you was there.”

  “Do we take our rifles?”

  “I’d say no, but that’s up to you. Just don’t fire them.”

  An older man dressed in ancient fringed buckskins and moccasins grinned. “I kin smell one of them redcoats for about half a mile, rain or shine, day or night. I’ll go if someone’ll watch after my rifle ’til I get back.”

  Three more stepped forward, then one more, then two more.

  O’Malley looked around the circle for a moment. “One short.” He glanced at Caleb. “How about you, Dunson? You move good, with all that boxin’ you been studyin’.”

  Caleb started, wide-eyed. “Me? I’ve never been out at night looking for pickets. I don’t know the woods.”

  “Seems like you did fine in the dark when the British hit Wayne’s camp at Paoli. You’ll have a partner. Maybe someone who knows the forest.”

  The old man in the fringed buckskins raised his chin to scratch at his scraggly beard. “I’ll take him. If he got outta that Paoli mess with a whole hide, he knows enough.”

  O’Malley bobbed his head. “Dunson, you just volunteered, and that makes eight. You men team up, and tonight after mess I’ll meet you at the cook fire. By then I’m supposed to have a map tellin’ what part of the British lines we’re responsible to scout, and we’ll work out which pair goes where. After tattoo, you slip out of camp. Tell our pickets when you leave, so they’ll know you when you get back. You got to get there and be on your way back before daybreak. And remember, the British can’t know you was there. This afternoon we’re supposed to make sure our weapons are clean and workin’ and then go get forty rounds of ammunition each. Let’s get at it.”

  The old man walked over to Caleb and eyed him, top to bottom. “What’s yer name, sonny?”

  “Dunson. Caleb Dunson.”

  The old eyes widened in surprise. “Caleb, you say?”

  “Caleb Dunson.”

  A wry grin slid across the whiskered old face. “Now that oug
hta get someone a little confused. My name’s Caleb, too.”

  Caleb’s eyebrows arched. “Caleb? Your last name?”

  The old man dropped his eyes for a moment. “I been called Caleb so long I near forgot the last half. Pryor. Caleb Pryor.”

  “You’ve spent time in the woods hereabouts?”

  “Since I was younger’n you. Family was taken by smallpox. I been in the woods ever since. I know what the momma panther says to her cubs. Tonight I’ll get you there and back. Where you from?”

  “Boston.”

  “Boston? Boston City?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How’d you get mixed up in a New York regiment?”

  “That’s a long story.”

  “Meet me at the cook fire after evening mess, and we’ll get our assignment. Then we’ll get back together at the fire after tattoo and leave from there. Don’t bring your musket or canteen. An’ wear somethin’ dark. That shirt’ll show up in the moonlight.”

  In full darkness, Caleb hunkered down by the dying coals of the evening cook fire and listened to the sounds of the tattoo drum fade in the trees. The camp quieted as he waited, peering into the night for Pryor while his thoughts ran rampant.

  In the dark—in strange country—with a man I don’t know—searching for British pickets! Insane!—O’Malley’s insane—Pryor’s insane—I’m insane—this whole war’s insane.

  The voice came from six feet directly behind him. “You ready?”

  In one fluid move of pure instinct, Caleb dodged to his right and spun, crouched, balanced, prepared.

  Pryor stopped and raised both palms defensively. “Easy there, son. I’m on your side, remember?”

  Caleb straightened, and there was a shade of anger in his voice. “Coming in from behind like that, in the dark . . .”