by Ron Carter
General Henry Clinton contacted Washington to discuss matters between England and the United States. Washington replied that he did not have such powers; they were vested in Congress only. Freeman, Washington, p. 391.
General Benedict Arnold was ordered to occupy Philadelphia when the British abandoned it. General Lee was given command of the right wing of the Continental Army for purposes of attacking the retreat of General Clinton. General Lafayette was ordered to proceed with 2,200 men to Barren Hill for the purposes of observing the British and harassing them. Reed, Valley Forge: Crucible of Freedom, pp. 50, 57, 61, 68.
Monmouth, New Jersey
June 28, 1778
CHAPTER XXXII
* * *
The evening star hung low and dim in the east, where the approaching day had defined earth from sky. The waning half-moon was fading in the south. The awful heat of June twenty-seventh had not cooled in the night; a hot, sultry, humid west wind had risen to sweat the Continental Army as the men lay on their blankets, fighting night insects, twisting, turning, unable to sleep.
Inside his command tent, General Washington looked at the clock on his small desk in the corner, then turned back to the table to count. There were fourteen general officers seated, tricorns on the table before them, sweat-stains showing on the necks of their shirts. Two were yet lacking. Seated beside Washington’s chair at the head of the table, Hamilton and Laurens looked at their papers, impatient, anxious to move on. Behind them, toward the desk in the corner, Eli stood alone in his beaded buckskin hunting shirt and leggings and moccasins, with his weapons belt still buckled around his middle.
There was a commotion at the tent flap, and Generals Duportail and Huntington stepped in. They blinked in the lantern light while their eyes adjusted from the darkness. They realized they were late and quickly dropped into the two chairs that were left.
Washington drew a breath and started.
“A review is in order. General Lafayette returned from his mission to Barren Hill and brought much-needed information. The British have about sixteen thousand men and scores of heavy guns. We now have about eleven thousand men who are capable of combat and fewer than thirty cannon. We have divided our forces into five divisions under Generals Lee, Mifflin, Lafayette, DeKalb, and Stirling. We have been pursuing the British from the day they marched out of Philadelphia—the night of June eighteenth—until now, June twenty-eighth.”
He referred to a map he had on the table before him. “We are here, at Cranbury.” He pointed, then moved his finger. “The British are here, at Monmouth, camped around the courthouse, less than one day’s march ahead of us. All too soon they will reach Amboy and go on to Sandy Hook, where ships are waiting to ferry them to Staten Island.”
He straightened. “In short, we have no more time. Either we strike them now, or not at all.”
A brief murmur went around the table and stopped.
“It is five o’clock. Scout Stroud reported minutes ago that the British were up and marching at half past four. General Clinton knows we’re here, and he knows why. The only thing he does not know is when we will strike and where.”
Some officers shifted in their chairs, then settled.
“This is the plan.” Again he placed his index finger on the map. “General Lee and his command are here at Englishtown under my strictest written orders to contact the British and attack the rear of their column the moment he catches them and hold them until we can arrive in support.”
His finger moved as he traced lines on the map. “General Morgan is here with six hundred riflemen, on the east flank of the British column, waiting to attack when General Lee engages. General Stirling has command of my left wing, General Greene my right. I will lead the main division of the army with seven thousand eight hundred men to here, Penelopen, where we will be in a position to move instantly to support General Lee when he has engaged and stopped the British column.”
He straightened to face his war council. “I repeat, it is critical to understand that General Lee is under my written orders to attack as soon as he comes upon the British. When he does engage them, he will be totally dependent on us being there to support him. We cannot fail.”
Washington stopped to look at his documents, then raised his head once again. “Does anyone have any questions of the overall plan or his part in it?”
No one spoke.
“The heat has been devastating, and it appears it will continue. Be certain your men fill their canteens. Nearly four hundred have already dropped from heat exhaustion. I have ordered the drummer to sound reveille in five minutes. Do whatever you must to have your men marching by half past five. They can eat hard rations while they’re marching. We must catch the British today.”
For a moment Washington peered into their faces. The tension in the sweltering tent was like a great, physical hand pushing down.
“Dismissed.”
At nine o’clock the Continental Army was marching northeast, every man dripping sweat. By ten o’clock half the canteens were empty. Half an hour later one hundred fifty men had dropped in their tracks, delirious from heat exhaustion. Their companions quickly dragged them to the nearest tree for shade, poured what water they could spare over their heads, and left them. At eleven o’clock Washington called Eli, Alexander Hamilton, and General Knox to his side.
“I must know where General Lee is and when to expect the engagement to begin. Scout ahead and report back when you know.”
At noon the first rumble of a single distant cannon shot reached the Americans, and Washington drew rein on a strong, white mare given him that morning by New Jersey Governor William Livingston. He turned his head and listened. Two—three—four—five cannon shots followed, and Washington breathed light, listening intently for the inevitable rattle of musketfire to follow.
There was no such sound.
Mystified, Washington felt the first chill of concern come into his mind. Cannon, but no musketfire? How can that be?
He tapped spur to the big white mare and moved ahead, holding her in check so he did not distance his command. Twenty minutes later Hamilton came in at a gallop and reined his sweated horse to a stop. Hamilton was panting, excited.
“Lee’s about to engage. Is it time to turn Greene’s troops south to cover the right flank if Lee is overrun?”
Washington’s eyes narrowed as he considered, and then he turned to the sound of a second rider coming in at a dead run. Henry Knox pulled his mount to a sliding stop, dirt flying, and his face was filled with thunder and lightning.
Washington held his breath.
“Lee’s men are in a state of mass confusion! They’re breaking! They’re going to retreat!”
Washington started. “Impossible.”
At that moment a farmer from nearby rode up on a heavy-footed plow horse. “Gen’l Washington, sir, the countryside ahead is full of our troops in full retreat! They’re comin’, sir.”
Washington shook his head in bewildered disbelief. “That cannot be! There is no musketfire, no sign of a battle! There has to be a—” He stopped at the sight of Eli bringing his horse in at stampede gait, the horse sweating, throwing its head at the pressure of the bit.
“Lee’s command is in full retreat!” Eli exclaimed. “Maybe ten, fifteen minutes behind me, and ten minutes behind him half the British troops are coming as hard as they can run.”
It flashed in Washington’s mind—This is Long Island all over again—in minutes this army will be in chaos—defeated—defeated—defeated.
He rammed his spurs into the flanks of the white mare, and she was at a full-out gallop in three jumps, neck stretched low, forelock and mane flying as she skimmed the ground. Behind, coming as hard as his sweating mount could follow, came Eli, and behind him most of Washington’s staff, and a few of his aides.
Washington put the horse down a slope, thundered across the wooden bridge that spanned the creek at the bottom of West Ravine, crested the hill beyond, pulled the horse to a stiff-legged
, skidding halt, and gaped.
Spread before him the Continental Army came streaming through the trees and on the road, pell-mell, in a full, panic-driven retreat. Leading them was Colonel Israel Shreve of the Second New Jersey Regiment. Washington reined over into his path and forced him to a stop.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Washington bellowed.
“I don’t know, sir. All I know is that General Lee gave the order to retreat, and the men retreated. The officers didn’t control it, and it became a rout!”
“What? Retreat from what? There is no sign of a battle.”
“I don’t know what, sir. I only know General Lee came riding back, shouting his order to retreat.” Shreve twisted in his saddle. “He’s right back there, sir, not more than three hundred yards.”
Washington covered the distance in twenty seconds and reined his horse up in front of Lee’s mount, nose to nose.
“What is the meaning of this, sir? What’s this disorder and confusion all about,?” he roared. His face was flushed, his neck veins protruding.
Lee recoiled as though struck in the face.
“Sir?”
“I said, what’s this retreat all about?”
Lee stammered for a moment, then blurted, “My scouts gave me misinformation that caused mass confusion that caused General Charles Scott to fall back from his favorable position, and I could not sustain an attack.” His story took on its own bravado, and he snapped, “Besides, you will recall that I opposed this attack in the war council! We should be taking Pittsburgh, not engaging Clinton!”
At that moment Eli pulled his horse to a prancing stop, with half a dozen members of Washington’s staff still following, including Tench Tilghman, one of the general’s aides. The lot of them sat dumbfounded at what they heard next.
Washington leaned forward in his saddle, his voice crackling like Doomsday. For thirty seconds he cursed Lee, invoking profanity that no one had ever heard come from his mouth before. He ended by accusing Lee of being an accursed paltroon, which was the gentlest description he had used.
Lee was white as a sheet, trembling, beyond any hope of framing an answer.
At that moment one thing was clear to Washington. In minutes, without warning, what had begun as an attack to hurt the British had become a trap in which he could lose nearly the entire Continental Army—the one thing he had sworn he would never let happen. He turned in his saddle and shouted orders to the officers around him. “We’ve got to save those men! We can’t form a defense here on this low rise! Does anyone know this country?”
Tilghman pointed. “There, sir. David Rhea of the Fourth New Jersey. He knows this country.”
Ten seconds later Rhea was sitting his horse in front of Washington, wide-eyed.
“We’ve got to make a stand. Is there cover around here? Anywhere?”
Instantly Rhea’s hand shot up, pointing. “Yes, sir. Just over that rise. A hedgerow. It will cover a lot of men.” He shifted his point. “This little rise where we are is part of a long elevation, sir, and right down there is a bad swamp, right in front of it. Over there, to the left, is a thick woods on a ridge. Get your army into those woods, and they’ll have the swamp in front to slow down the British. There’s no way the British are going to gain the high ground to rout them out of those trees.”
Never had Washington felt the relief that rushed through his being. He spun his horse, shouting orders. Instantly the men leaped to his commands, some sprinting for the hedgerow, others for the woods.
Thirty feet behind Washington, General von Steuben sat on his bay horse, listening, watching, masking his fears of what his army would do. A full-blown retreat, men in blind chaos, the British coming, officers totally out of control—he could not recall a worse scene. It was one thing to teach men to drill smartly on a field in their own camp. It was quite another for them to obey orders instantly in the disaster he was watching unfold. He held his breath and watched and waited.
“Cannon!” shouted Washington.
Instantly Colonel Eleazer Oswald bawled out his orders, and his men grabbed four of the heavy guns and sprinted, rolling them forward to the crest of a small rise. They swung them around and went through the drill von Steuben had so laboriously taught them of how to quickly load and elevate a cannon.
General Stirling drew his sword and shouted orders at his men. Fifty of them grabbed the trails of ten cannon, and within minutes had them in the trees, hidden, waiting. Among them was John Hays, and with him was his wife, Mary, who had defied the American officers by refusing to leave her husband’s side.
From the right Greene’s men came marching across an open field in rank and file, following the cadence as their officers chanted.
“Right, oblique!” The entire command, rank and file, hit the ground with their left foot at the same instant and pivoted on a forty-five degree angle to the right, striding straight for the hedgerow. Thirty seconds later they closed on it, and the order came ringing, “Company, halt!”
Every soldier stopped on the count of two.
“Company, fall out and take up defensive positions behind this hedgerow!”
Shouting, the entire company broke ranks, and in thirty seconds had filled out the defensive line behind the hedgerow, muskets laid over the top, bayonets gleaming.
From the left General Anthony Wayne’s brigade came marching, every man chanting the cadence, one-two-three-four, company, halt. The rank and file held its interval.
“Fall out and form a defensive line in those trees!”
In three minutes a line of Americans was kneeling at the edge of the trees, muskets at the ready, and behind them a second line of Americans stood, muskets and bayonets extended over the heads of those in front. Wayne was pacing behind his men, calling to them, “Steady—steady—wait—wait.”
They heard them before they saw them. The rattle and clatter of British drums pounding out the beat coming first and then the horde of red-coated regulars pouring over the hills and through the fields.
Washington sucked air. An all-out assault. We’ve never withstood an all-out assault. Half a mile away, still mounted, von Steuben stiffened in his saddle. The brass trim on his huge pistols, mounted in the saddle holsters, sparkled in the sunlight as he licked at his lips and waited, his gray eyes mere slits in the bright June sunshine.
From behind the leading ranks of infantry, the vaunted British cavalry came at the gallop, screaming, swords high.
At the hedgerow General Wayne stood straight, sword in his hand, calming his men. “Hold your fire. Steady . . .”
The thunder of three hundred galloping horses rolled over them, and Wayne mentally measured the distance as they closed. At forty paces, he dropped his sword and shouted, “FIRE!”
The men in the front line cut loose, and the leading ranks of the charging cavalry took the first volley head-on. Riders and crippled horses went down all up and down the line. The first American line stepped back two paces and quickly reached for fresh cartridges to reload while the second row stepped forward two paces, muskets at the ready, and again the order came.
“FIRE!”
The second rank of the charging cavalry stumbled and went down.
The two rows of Americans again changed places, and the front line reloaded, waited.
“FIRE!”
Deadly orange flame spurted from their muskets, and the third rank of redcoated British cavalry faltered. The fourth rank stopped in its tracks. Before them, the ground was littered with men in crimson tunics, dead, dying, wounded, writhing, moaning, while crippled horses called out their pain. The fourth rank turned and ran.
Wayne was grinning ear to ear as he shouted, “Reload!”
Two hundred yards down the slight incline, British commander Henry Monckton bellowed commands, and his infantry rose up to charge. Determined to succeed where the cavalry had failed, or die in the attempt, carrying the pole with the British Union Jack fluttering in the wind, Monckton led them forward at a run.
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bsp; Wayne paced behind his men. “Wait, wait, wait . . .” Again he judged distance. Ninety yards—eighty—seventy. “Here they come, men. Steady. Wait for my word; then pick out the king-birds.”
At forty yards he shouted, “FIRE!” and once again white smoke and orange flame blasted from the American muskets, and the heavy musketballs ripped into the leading ranks of the charging redcoats. All up and down the line, officers and regulars buckled and staggered and went down. An American ball punched into Monckton’s chest, halting his headlong dash and dropping him to his knees. He pitched forward onto his face, the proud flag lying limply in the grass and dirt before him. Instantly, two Americans leaped the hedgerow, pried the fallen colors from his dead grasp, and carried them back to the American lines.
Washington spurred his horse toward Wayne’s command, and stumbled into a befuddled, indecisive Lee. Washington shouted to him, “You stay here and do what you can for these men. I’m going back to form the center of our line of defense.”
Lee blustered, “Yes, sir. I will be the last to leave the field.”
Alexander Hamilton, less than twenty yards distant, swung his sword and shouted at Lee, “That’s right, my dear General, and I will stay and we will all die here on the spot!” Furious, Lee jerked around, and Hamilton stared him down.
Washington swung his horse around to gallop off to prepare the heart of his lines for the assault that was sure to come. He shouted orders to those in command of cannon as he went and reined his horse to a winded stop to watch. Soldiers leaped to swing the cannon muzzles northeast, then rammed powder and shot down the barrels, grasped the smoking linstocks, and waited.
From nine hundred yards, the heavy British guns blasted. Their thunder rolled across the open ground as white smoke blossomed from their muzzles.