Patriots

by A. J. Langguth

  In the midst of the dining and the toasts, an explosion echoed through the hall. Captain André reassured the guests that it had been more of Montresor’s magic, a bit of thunder to trouble the sleep of the rebels at Valley Forge. In fact the blast had come from a supply depot at Germantown, where a few American raiders had slipped inside and blown up the ammunition. But in Philadelphia John André was letting nothing mar his Mischianza, and the dancing went on until 4 A.M.

  —

  William Howe, John Burgoyne and Henry Clinton had sailed across the Atlantic together to save America for England. Now, after delay and defeats, the job had fallen to Clinton alone. It was a responsibility he had tried to avoid; he considered it a hopeless command for a professional soldier. But London couldn’t persuade any better-qualified general to take on the assignment.

  Clinton’s first order was to evacuate Philadelphia and return the army to New York. With France and her navy entering the war, London decided to protect Britain’s lucrative trade with the West Indies. Clinton’s new command would have to supply a third of the troops for that assignment, and he was ordered to consolidate his forces in New York by pulling out of Pennsylvania and Rhode Island. He was instructed to abandon New York if necessary and withdraw to Halifax, Nova Scotia, and ultimately even to Quebec. Those orders forced Henry Clinton into the same defensive posture he had deplored when he was urging action on William Howe.

  Meanwhile, Britain had sent commissioners to America empowered to offer every concession short of independence. The British might have even accepted independence so long as the king could avoid the appearance of total capitulation. But the members of Congress didn’t know that and refused to entertain the proposals. While the commissioners prepared to leave Philadelphia with Clinton’s forces, they unwittingly alerted General Washington to the British timetable. A laundrywoman’s son sneaked out to the American camp to say that some civilians had demanded that his mother have their laundry ready by June 16. Washington convened his council the next day to decide how to respond.

  By spring, the men at Valley Forge were no longer a tattered camp in rags. Steuben had instilled discipline, and a successful raid on two British supply vessels had outfitted the American soldiers in woolen uniforms of red, gray and green. During the months of waiting, officers had opened a theater and put on classic dramas and light comedy; George and Martha Washington were its leading patrons. Life at Valley Forge was no Mischianza, but morale was high and the men were restless to break camp and get on with the fighting.

  That mood did not extend to Charles Lee. His time with the British in New York had convinced him that the best solution was a prompt peace and reconciliation with England. He was the only one of Washington’s generals to urge that Henry Clinton be allowed to retreat from Philadelphia unmolested. Both Lafayette and Anthony Wayne argued so vehemently against him that Washington had to calm their tempers by asking each council member to submit his opinion in writing.

  But the British were moving too fast to permit more deliberation. Henry Clinton had only two choices. One was to send his troops to New York by ship. But that could be disastrous if the winds delayed him, because the Americans could march overland to New York and be there to greet him. Instead, Clinton decided to load his ships with American loyalists, who were clamoring to be saved from retribution when the patriots retook Philadelphia. Clinton also sent by ship the Hessians who might desert if he marched them through the countryside. Then he lined up everyone else with the baggage and set off on a march to New York. At midmorning on June 18, 1778, American horsemen rode into Valley Forge to say that the British were entirely gone from Philadelphia.

  General Washington acted on impulse. Without consulting his council of war, he ordered his eleven thousand men to prepare at once for pursuit. Clinton had crossed the Delaware River below Camden and was marching north toward New York. Washington planned to cross the river at Coryell’s Ferry, move directly east and cut off the British somewhere in New Jersey.

  Washington left behind Benedict Arnold, who was still recovering from his wounds, as military governor of Philadelphia. Entering the town, American horsemen rode through in triumph, their swords drawn against the British soldiers who had decamped. Buildings in the center of town had not been badly damaged by the winter’s occupation, although some had been turned into stables and stank so badly that Henry Knox sent his wife back to Valley Forge. The Congress returned from York and convened in College Hall because the State House was too filthy to meet there. The biggest change was the British styles adopted by the loyalists—broad-brimmed hats for men, women’s hair piled higher than a neck seemed able to support. One prostitute known to have slept with British soldiers still wore her hair in that upsweep—perhaps three feet high—and she was paraded through the streets in a parody of the Mischianza.

  —

  Henry Clinton and his troops were progressing so slowly that Washington wondered whether he was being lured into a trap on the high ground around Morristown. On June 24, with the sun in another eclipse, Washington met with his council. Charles Lee, who talked more than anyone else, argued that getting rid of the British was so much in the American interest that the Continental Army could justify building a bridge of gold to speed them along. The majority of the generals agreed that Washington should avoid a major battle, although his stalwarts—Wayne and Lafayette, Nathanael Greene and Henry Knox—voted to challenge Clinton’s forces before they reached New York. Young Alexander Hamilton, never one to favor caution, complained afterward that the council’s proceedings would have done honor to a group of midwives.

  Washington had been criticized for yielding to men less able than he was, and now he seemed ready to do it again. He struck a compromise. He would dispatch fifteen hundred men to annoy the British during their retreat. Hamilton thought such a small force could be only provocative; Lee opposed sending even that many. When his fifteen hundred soldiers had barely gone, Washington, who had also been called indecisive, reinforced them with another thousand men.

  But Charles Lee was also being irresolute. His seniority ranked second only to Washington, and military protocol demanded that he be offered the honor of leading the charge, even though he had strenuously opposed it. It looked at first as though Lee would ease Washington’s dilemma by agreeing that the command should go to a young and eager officer like Lafayette. But before the orders could be issued, Lee reconsidered. If the battle turned out to be a major one, it might look odd that he had refused a role. Lee’s argument with himself took hours, and Washington grew impatient. But Lee was worrying over his honor, and that was one consideration General Washington would not challenge. Washington patched together another compromise: Lafayette could strike first, then Lee would take charge as the senior major general. The best intelligence told him that Clinton had lengthened his lead in marching from Allentown to Monmouth Court House and might soon be out of reach.

  The summer weather was sweltering, and mosquitoes swarmed over both armies. On Saturday, June 27, 1778, rain drenched the roads but didn’t bring down the temperature from nearly 100 degrees. By now General Washington had split his forces—five thousand men were committed to the first attack under Lee, while Washington tried to bring up the main army to support Lee’s charge. There was the usual welter of missed communications and vague instructions, but Lee’s orders were clear: the minute Clinton moved his camp from Monmouth Court House, Lee was to attack the British rear guard.

  The rear ranks ordinarily provided a tempting target. Although Clinton had sent much of his provisions by ship, his troops were encumbered by fifteen hundred wagons of equipment and boats, and goods looted along the route. The wagon train stretched out behind him twelve miles, and though Clinton had tried to limit camp followers to two for each company, scores of women had defied his orders and joined the march. When Clinton learned that the Americans were coming after him, he moved the baggage train to the center of the march and moved his best troops to the rear.

 
; Such foresight was not typical of Charles Lee. Washington announced at noon on June 27 that the army would strike early the next morning. He then deferred modestly to his colleagues, asking all officers to waive any consideration of rank for this vital battle and put themselves entirely under the charge of General Lee. Washington also called on Lee to meet with his officers that afternoon to plan their attack. Lee held a meeting, but it was brief because, he said, he could have no plans when he didn’t know General Clinton’s intentions.

  At midnight, a surgeon from a Virginia regiment asked to speak with General Washington. When Washington’s officer of the guard refused to let him in, the doctor asked him to tell His Excellency that he had secret and important intelligence and craved only five minutes.

  The doctor was allowed inside, and he told Washington, “I have come to warn you of Lee. That fellow is not to be trusted, Your Excellency. I know his breed too well. Pray be on your guard that he does the army no harm!”

  The doctor didn’t have proof, and the battle was set to begin in hours. Washington thanked the caller for his concern and showed him out.

  —

  On Sunday, June 28, 1778, at 4:30 A.M., an American scout saw the British forces begin to move away from their camp at the clapboard-and-shingle Monmouth Court House. General Washington sent word that Charles Lee and his five thousand men were to follow the enemy and force an engagement. Washington would lead the support team, and he had also sent out a thousand New Jersey militia and Daniel Morgan’s six hundred riflemen. As the morning wore on, the temperature rose. Washington’s men began collapsing from the heat, yet he kept urging them forward so that they would be in place when General Lee launched his offensive.

  But the unfamiliar terrain was posing difficulties for Lee. He had not sent out his own scouts and now was cursing the conflicting information being brought to him. He didn’t know whether the entire British army had left Monmouth Court House or whether some rear units had stayed behind. Time was running out. If Henry Clinton could get his men and baggage to Middletown, the surrounding hills would shelter them. Lee’s route to Monmouth was blocked by three ravines and by rough woods and stretches of marsh. He had intended to keep the British engaged while he sent troops behind and to the left of them, cutting them off from their main force. But Henry Clinton had anticipated that tactic and, because he controlled the road, could send two divisions back quickly while Lee was still puzzling over the landscape. Trying to figure out where to cross one ravine, Lee led his troops back and forth across the same bridge until finally he cried out, “I am teased, mortified and chagrined by these little marches and countermarches.”

  Finally, Lafayette rode up and convinced Lee to disregard the conflicting intelligence and get on with the attack. Lee maneuvered his men over the second ravine and across open country toward the courthouse. But as the Americans approached, they caught a glimpse of Clinton’s baggage train galloping away in the distance.

  General David Forman of the New Jersey militia was on home ground and told Lee he knew a shortcut. Lee brushed him away. “I know my business,” he said.

  For a moment, it almost seemed he did. Lee sent troops around the courthouse and thought he was going to encircle the two thousand British soldiers who had remained there. He didn’t seem bothered to be out of effective contact with most of his commanders, and he boasted to Lafayette, “My dear Marquis, I think those people are ours.”

  When a messenger rode up from George Washington, Lee assured him as well that he would cut off the British rear guard. “By God,” Lee was exclaiming now, “I will take them all!”

  Then, at about 10 A.M., Henry Clinton returned to Monmouth Court House with four thousand troops, and Lee’s worst fears came flooding back. Lafayette wanted to begin a counterattack, but Lee forbade it. “Sir,” he said, “you do not know the British soldiers. We cannot stand against them.”

  Some Americans were pressing forward to fight, others were falling away. Charles Lee first told officers to take their men into the woods to save their lives, then upbraided others for retreating without his order. “They are all in confusion, they are all in confusion,” Lee kept repeating. His officers were appalled. A French captain of engineers, Pierre L’Enfant, demanded to know why the Americans were not attacking.

  Lee said, “I have orders from Congress and the commander in chief not to engage.”

  —

  At that moment, George Washington was five miles to the rear. He was riding a tall white horse at the side of his main army as it marched to back up Lee in his victory. An army doctor who was chatting with him remarked, “Looks like a Sunday battle, General Washington.”

  “Yes, it does. I don’t feel much like fighting on the Sabbath,” said Washington, who had waged his most successful attack on Christmas Day. “But I must yield to the good of the country.”

  They were interrupted by Thomas Henderson, a lieutenant colonel in the militia from nearby Englishtown. Henderson called out that the American troops were retreating.

  “Retreating?” Washington repeated. He asked where that information had come from. Henderson pointed to a fifer. Angrily, Washington hailed the boy and demanded to know what he had been saying.

  It was true, the fifer insisted. Everybody was on the run.

  Washington was sure the story must be false. He told a sergeant to put the boy under guard to stop him from spreading the damaging rumor.

  Riding on, Washington came to American soldiers pulling their artillery back across a muddy brook, away from the courthouse.

  “By whose orders are the troops retreating?” Washington asked their officer.

  “By General Lee’s,” the man replied.

  The aides watching him thought George Washington’s passions were about to explode. “Damn him!” Washington said.

  A little ahead, another aide, Colonel Robert Harrison, encountered one of General Lee’s captains, John Mercer. For the love of God, Harrison shouted, why are you surrendering?

  Agitated, Mercer shouted back that if Harrison went any farther he would meet columns of enemy foot and horse–Colonel Harrison interrupted him. “Thank you, Captain, but we came to this place expressly to meet columns of enemy foot and horse!”

  As Washington got closer to the scene, Alexander Hamilton rode up, jumped from his horse and ran to his side. “General!” Hamilton cried. “General! We are betrayed! General Lee has betrayed you and the army.”

  Washington said, “Colonel Hamilton, you will take your horse.” He drew up his own reins and crossed the planks laid over a narrowing in the marsh. Two hundred yards farther on he met Charles Lee, who stopped his horse and was about to greet him when Washington blurted, “My God, General Lee! What are you about?”

  Either Lee did not hear or the abrupt tone left him speechless. “Sir?” Lee said. “Sir?”

  “I desire to know, sir, what is the reason for this disorder and confusion.”

  General Lee launched into various excuses: The intelligence had been contradictory. One unit had abandoned a favorable position. And, he concluded, the whole plan had been put into action against his advice.

  “Whatever your opinions might have been,” Washington replied, “I expected my orders would have been obeyed. The British at Monmouth were a covering party at most.”

  “Maybe so, sir,” said Lee, “but it seemed stronger than that, and I did not think it proper to risk so much.” He added that American troops could not stand up to British bayonets.

  At that, Washington muttered something to himself, which his orderly overheard. Charles Lee may have heard him, too: “You’ve never tried them, you damned poltroon!”

  Washington left Lee and rode forward to the front of the action. Colonel Harrison galloped up and reported that the British main force was barely fifteen minutes away and pressing hard. Washington had time only to act on reflex. He charged through the confusion, lining up the Americans behind a hedgerow. Alexander Hamilton watched admiringly as Washington, cool and firm, m
olded the soldiers back into a fighting force. Lafayette, who was also looking on, decided that he had never seen so superb a man as George Washington at that moment. Washington was still clearly angry, but calm as he rode effortlessly among the men, converting panic to enthusiasm.

  General Wayne, who had survived the attack at Paoli, got his troops into position behind the hedge and waited for the British to charge. His men considered him a tyrant—Mad Anthony Wayne—but he could guarantee they would stand their ground. Charles Lee passed by and asked what he thought he was doing. Wayne said he was carrying out the express commands of General Washington.

  At that, Lee made a ceremonial bow. “I have nothing further to say.”

  After Washington had stemmed the retreat and lined up the Americans for battle, General Lee rode to his side. “Will you take command,” he asked, “or shall I?”

  Washington, ready to put the last hour behind them, answered, “If you wish to take it, I will return to the main body and arrange them on the heights at the rear.”

  Lee said gravely, “I will take command here, Your Excellency, and check the enemy. Nor will I be the first to leave the field.”

  Alexander Hamilton was exalted by the impending battle. Joining them, he vowed, “I will stay with you, my dear General Lee, and will die with you here on the spot!”

  Lee answered him dryly, “When I have taken the proper measures to get our main body in position, I will die here with you. On this spot, if you like.”

  Despite that pledge, Washington remained in control. Once Lee had restored order among his troops, Washington ordered him to march them as reserves to Englishtown. Within minutes, Alexander Hamilton fell in battle, but not as valiantly as he had promised. His horse rolled on him, and though Hamilton lived he was out of combat. The day was hard on horses. George Washington’s white mount, a gift from the governor of New Jersey, collapsed of sunstroke, and Washington quickly switched to his favorite brown mare. Lieutenant Colonel Aaron Burr had a horse shot out from under him but freed himself unhurt. Colonel Burr was another officer who felt wronged over a slow promotion, for which he tended to blame Washington. Here at Monmouth, Burr was angered more when Washington stopped him from pursuing a host of British soldiers he was sure he could have captured.