Prelude to Glory, Vol. 2

by Ron Carter

  Washington looked at Sullivan and Sullivan bobbed his head once, and Washington turned back to Eli. “I intend going south today to personally observe the enemy lines. Any suggestions where I should and should not go?”

  Eli considered for a moment. “Horseback?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many of you?”

  “Perhaps four.”

  “Yesterday I got a pretty good look at our own lines down there, and I know the British have sent scouts up to look at them, and we’ve had scouts out, and there’s been a little shooting and a little shifting back and forth, so I don’t know where the lines are today.”

  Sullivan’s eyes dropped for a moment, and Eli caught it but did not understand what it meant, and continued. “I’d find out where our lines are today, and I wouldn’t go past them.” He tapped the map. “There’s a little rise of ground right here that we held yesterday on our front line, and if we still hold it, four men on horses could see most of the center section of their forces and some of those at the Narrows and some of them over on the east, and not be seen if they’re careful. You’d need telescopes.”

  Washington studied the place Eli had indicated, memorizing its location, and then straightened. “Thank you. Is there anything else you think important that I should know?”

  “Yes. They have Mohawk Indians scouting. That likely means Chief Joseph Brant is with them. He’s smart and tough. If he is you can expect them to hit hard and fast, mostly at night. You might want to warn your soldiers.”

  Washington thoughtfully raised a hand to stroke his chin. “Thank you, Private. I may call on you later. There is one more thing. Colonel Thompson told me the part you played in spoiling the plot to kill me—the Hickey affair. I understand I owe you my life. I am grateful.”

  His gaze was steady. His words were not protocol, not the standard phrase, not offered because they were required of him. They were sincere, from his heart, and Eli sensed it.

  Washington continued. “If there is anything I can do in return, ask.”

  Eli cleared his throat and for a moment glanced at the other men, then spoke to Washington as though no one else were in the tent. “There is one thing. Do you have any officers in command of troops from New Hampshire or Vermont?”

  “I do. General Sullivan. New Hampshire.”

  Sullivan turned his head to look directly at Eli, and Eli continued to speak to Washington. “Could I write out a message and have it spread among those troops?”

  “What message?”

  Eli didn’t hesitate. “I lost track of my sister a long time ago. I searched but I couldn’t find her. Maybe someone from up there will remember and know her and whether she’s still alive, and maybe where I can find her.”

  Eli saw it in Washington’s eyes. Compassion, understanding, and a sense of pain at Eli’s loss. It rose above the war, the terrible imbalance he was facing, the fact he knew he would be fighting for the very survival of the Revolution within two days.

  Washington spoke firmly. “You get the message to General Sullivan, and he’ll deliver it to every company in his command.” He turned to Sullivan. “Can you do that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Washington turned back to Eli. “Anything else?”

  “No.”

  “It is my great pleasure. You are dismissed.”

  Eli turned on his heel without saluting, and walked out the tent flap.

  Washington’s eyes followed him until the tent flap closed, and then he brought his eyes down to the map. For long moments he peered at it, considering, weighing, deciding, before he spoke.

  “Gentlemen, the question is resolved. It’s clear General Howe intends attacking here, to reach Brooklyn.” He tapped the map. “I have been concerned he intended to use Brooklyn as a decoy, and strike at New York. But with six thousand Hessians arrived yesterday, he has committed over twenty-one thousand troops here on Long Island.”

  His face remained calm, unperturbed as he continued. “I will send a message to the New York command within the hour and order additional regiments to cross the river today, immediately, to strengthen our forces here.” He looked at General Stirling. “The Delaware regiment and the Marylanders who were under your command will be among them, General.” His eyes came back to the map. “And men from the Pennsylvania riflemen, some others from Maryland, and Connecticut. It will raise your strength to just over seven thousand.”

  He paused for a moment, until the tent was silent. There was no need for him to address the fact the British forces outnumbered the Americans three to one. The frightening imbalance was absolutely clear to every man at the table, and it haunted them, nagged at them.

  Washington continued. “I want every small watercraft on the East River, civilian or military, to be taken and put under supervision of our Long Island command. I do not want the British to have one vessel available to them to cross the river, should things go wrong.”

  He looked at Generals Putnam and Sullivan, who nodded.

  Washington referred to the map and his face grew solemn. “You must understand one thing. It is absolutely critical that we hold our breastworks and our trenches here, on this south ridge, at all costs. If we do not, and they do flank us, we could lose Brooklyn in one day, and most of the Continental army with it.” He raised his eyes to theirs. “At all costs, gentlemen, we must hold this south ridge.”

  General Sullivan felt the cut. Six days earlier, when General Greene had been taken from his tent on a stretcher, mumbling incoherently from fever dreams, Washington had given command of the Long Island forces to Sullivan, not Putnam. But when the British sent their first probing patrols north from Gravesend Bay to establish the position and strength of the American forces, Sullivan had sent a patrol south. The two small forces met, and Sullivan’s command had opened fire and charged. The British patrol, acting under strict orders, retreated instantly and disappeared south to report they had contacted the Americans and to mark the location on a map for their superior officer. Their orders had not been to engage the Americans, only to locate them and return, without a fight if possible.

  Sullivan’s patrol had also reported instantly, that they had met the British and engaged them, and they had defeated them decisively. Sullivan had been jubilant. He had written a congratulatory letter to the officer in charge of the patrol, and immediately sent a letter to General Washington stating he had engaged the enemy and defeated them, which hopefully was but the first of many such glorious battles.

  Washington had stood aghast when he finished reading Sullivan’s letter. Didn’t Sullivan realize the British patrol was never intended to engage the Americans, but only to find them and report back? If Sullivan had not realized that, but instead thought he had met a fighting force and won a significant victory, was he capable of commanding the entire Long Island command? Washington had quickly drafted new orders and sent them to Long Island by runner. General Sullivan was relieved of command on Long Island. General Israel Putnam was to assume that command, and Sullivan was to take subordinate command of the forces defending the American left, subject to General Putnam.

  The change of command had been embarrassing to both Putnam and Sullivan, but in the critical stress of trying to arrange his officers in the best positions to meet a vastly superior British army, Washington did not have the luxury of politics. He had to call it as he saw it, and at that moment he was convinced that Putnam, the bulldog who followed orders to the letter and had demonstrated over and over again an absolute lack of fear for anything, was the man better suited for what was surely to come at the Brooklyn breastworks.

  Sullivan remained silent, as did Putnam, and Washington moved on as though nothing had happened. “I’m going to return to New York tonight, so we have to leave now if we’re going to inspect the lines. I have ordered four mounts. Generals Putnam, Sullivan, and Stirling will accompany me. Gentlemen, are you ready?”

  South of the command tent, beneath a clear sky and a hot, bright sun, Eli dropped back in
to the trench beside Billy. He cradled his rifle in his right arm and eased back to lean against the rear wall of the trench. Billy waited in silence, and Eli spoke. “Sullivan’s no longer in command here. Putnam is.”

  Billy’s forehead creased. “Why? Since when?”

  “Two days ago. I don’t know why. I think Sullivan might have done something Washington didn’t like.”

  “Was Washington there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “Nearly the whole time.”

  “What about?”

  “The redcoats and the Hessians, and the Jamaica Pass.”

  “Jamaica Pass?”

  “Yes. East of here. If the British come up through it they can get right in behind where we are and we’re trapped against the river.”

  “Did Washington understand?”

  Eli nodded. “Told Sullivan and Putnam to take care of it.”

  Billy paused to choose his words. “What did you make of him?”

  Eli drew a breath and worked with his thoughts. “I think he’d rather talk straight than pretty. I think he understands. And I know he listens to little things if they concern his troops.”

  Billy reflected for a moment. “Little things?”

  “I told him about my sister. He said I should write a message and get it to Sullivan. Sullivan commands men from New Hampshire.”

  Billy gaped. “You told General Washington about that?”

  “Yes. He said he knew about the Hickey business over in New York, and he thought he owed me—was there anything he could do for me. I told him.”

  “And he listened?”

  “He listened, but more, he felt it and he understood. I saw it in his eyes. When he told me to write the letter, he turned to Sullivan and told him to handle it, and Sullivan said yes. It was as important to Washington as anything else we talked about.”

  Billy settled for a moment. “Did you feel anything? about Washington?”

  A little time passed before Eli answered quietly, with measured words. “Yes, as far as he went. I don’t know yet what will happen in battle, but what I’ve seen so far . . . he’s a rare man.”

  The sound of troops coming in from their right interrupted and both men turned their heads to look. A young lieutenant halted a company of infantry behind them and faced them, rigid, officious, self-conscious and a little awed by the fact he was an officer. “Your watch is over. We’re your replacements.”

  Ninth Company had been on duty since midnight, watching through the night, tense, nervous, listening to every sound, certain half a dozen times the dreaded Hessians were upon them. Gratefully they climbed out of the trench while the fresh, uniformed company dropped in and took their positions, muskets in hand.

  Billy and Eli made their way to the breakfast line and with the rest of Company Nine stood with their plates and cups to get their ration of what had become their standard breakfast—lumpy cornmeal mush and fried sow belly, with bitter, hot coffee. They sat nearby to silently eat it, then washed their utensils and walked to their blankets. They sat down, and Billy dug his pad and pencil from his knapsack. “What’s the message?”

  Ten minutes later he read aloud what he had written. Eli nodded and left with the folded paper in his hand. He stopped at the command tent of Israel Thompson and waited while the picket disappeared inside for a few moments, then returned, and Eli entered.

  “This is the letter General Washington said I could write for Sullivan, about my sister.”

  It took Thompson a moment to remember. “Good. I’ll see it’s delivered. Mind if I read it?”

  “No. Go ahead.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No.” Eli turned to leave and Thompson stopped him.

  “You did fine this morning.”

  “You had something to do with that.”

  Thompson smiled. “Get back to your post.”

  Eli walked steadily back to Billy, and they lay down on their separate blankets in the mounting heat of midmorning, with one arm over their eyes, and shut out the sounds of an army, and slept.

  A little past one o’clock they were awakened by the piercing voice of Sergeant Turlock. “All right, you lovelies. General Putnam’s given orders that we’re going to move. Get your meal and then get your blankets and knapsacks packed and be ready.”

  By half past two Company Nine and the Boston regiment were sitting on their blanket rolls, awaiting orders. At three o’clock they watched four thousand troops arrive from the north to bolster the fighting force they had in the trenches and breastworks. Their orders were to form a line east as far as they could, to try to block any British coming north on the Bedford or Jamaica Roads.

  By four o’clock the newly arrived reinforcements were dug in, stretched thin over three miles, facing south. Their line ended over one mile short of Jamaica Pass. There were simply not enough men to maintain the line farther. At the pass, five mounted American officers had been assigned to take up a position from which they could see any forces coming north on the road. If any appeared, they were to ride at stampede gait back to report to General Sullivan or Putnam.

  The Boston regiment remained at the breastworks on the south ridge, but their position was shifted two hundred yards west, directly in the center of the lines. If the British overran them, they had a clear field of approach to the fortifications on the ridge to the north bordering Brooklyn.

  Billy and Eli, and Company Nine, stacked their blankets and knapsacks on the ground and took up their positions looking south over the great logs and compacted earth. It was past five o’clock.

  Billy swatted at mosquitoes and watched and waited in silence, sweat rolling down his cheeks. Eli wiped his leather sleeve across his forehead and remained still, watching. A little past six o’clock they took their rotation at the supper line, washed their utensils, and resumed their positions. They watched General Washington and the three who rode with him return to camp at a canter on sweated horses and disappear into the command tent for a short time, while aides stripped the saddles and bridles and walked the mounts until they were cooled out, then rubbed them down and watered and fed them.

  The sun settled onto the New Jersey skyline and cast long shadows eastward before General Washington emerged from the command tent. A carriage with four armed men led, with Washington’s carriage behind, traveling west towards the river and the Brooklyn ferry.

  The sun disappeared, and the men in the breastworks licked dry lips and settled in for the night, watching, waiting, listening to every sound. Dusk settled. Campfires were lighted all along the lines, dancing, casting shadows moving in the trees, illuminating the eyes of small creatures that paused in their hunt for food to peer and then vanish in the brush. Great owls blinked in trees and their muted calls caused edgy men to cock their muskets and wait, only to uncock them and wipe the backs of their hands across their mouths and wait again.

  Far to the south, past the battle lines, near Flatbush, with dusk settling, General William Howe leaned forward over the council table in his command tent, yellow in the light of two lanterns. He glanced at the faces around him before he spoke.

  “General Grant, tomorrow morning at five-thirty a.m. your command will advance on our left, here.” He tapped the map. “Engage the Americans when you find them, but do not penetrate their lines or overrun them. Hold them right where they are. Our last report says General Lord Stirling commands the Americans you will be facing. He will fight, but you will not push them back until I give my signal.”

  General James Grant, whose hatred of Americans had driven him to boast he could march from one end of America to the other with only five thousand troops, nodded his head, eyes glittering, impatient. “When do I get your signal?”

  “I will come to that.”

  Grant remained silent, waiting.

  Howe turned to General Philip von Heister. “General, tomorrow morning at five-thirty a.m. when General Grant moves north, you will take your forces north also,
directly up the center, to engage the American lines here.” He pointed. “Your orders are to engage them and hold them there, the same as General Grant. Do not overrun them or push them back until you hear my signal. I’ll explain the signal in a short time.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Do you understand?”

  Von Heister grunted, “Ja.” His face was passive, without emotion, all business. He and his command were professional mercenary soldiers. Which side they fought on, or the reason for the war, meant absolutely nothing to them, since they fought for pay, not a cause. In von Heister’s view, the rebellion of the Americans against the British Crown was a matter of profound stupidity. In his judgment, the American army was the most disorganized collection of disgusting rabble he had ever seen, and it was incomprehensible to him that they would ever think of challenging the power of England for any reason. That they would do so solely for an abstraction they called “liberty” left him shaking his head in wonder. Given a choice, he and his Hessians would simply march forward until they had killed them all, collect their pay, and return to their homeland to wait for the next call for their services.

  Howe turned to Joseph Brant, and his eyes narrowed and he slowed his speech. Brant stopped all movement, focused.

  “Five of your best Mohawks will lead a squad of ten British cavalry east to the road that leads north through the Jamaica Pass and proceed north on that road. The Mohawks will leave the cavalry one-quarter of a mile this side of the pass and proceed to scout out the pass. If the Americans have a force there and it is too large for the Mohawks and the cavalry, they will count the number of Americans and the number of their cannon, as best they can, and return to the squad of cavalry, and they shall all wait there, one-quarter of a mile south of the pass.”

  Howe broke it off for a moment. “But if the American force is small, and your men with the cavalry can take it with little or no trouble, you shall do so, alive if you can because I will want to question them. If you take the American force, you will simply wait there at the pass. Under any circumstance, your men and the cavalry must not be captured. If they are, we will not know it and could fall into our own trap.”