Prelude to Glory, Vol. 2

by Ron Carter

  Cornwallis watched him with an expression akin to amusement and ordered his command to continue. They marched on towards the place where Stirling had disappeared, unaware that Stirling and his men had moved forward and were waiting behind anything that would hide a man. Stirling waited until the British were nearly abreast before he rose from the brush and, with his saber raised, shouted the order. “Fire!”

  The muskets cracked and the smoke rose, and some British regulars staggered and went down.

  Instantly Cornwallis ordered the lead regiment to face the smoke, and the first British volley rang out.

  South of the shooting, the remainder of Stirling’s command heard the popping of the muskets, and grim faced, the remaining officers led them at a run to the edge of the Gowanus swamp, and they plowed in, black sticky muck flying. They plunged on, into their waists, then their chests, and they struggled on with their muskets held high and the putrid stench of dead and decaying things rank in their nostrils.

  Cornwallis waited a moment; then, satisfied that Stirling’s small group had run away, he continued south. He had gone two hundred yards when, without warning, from as close as thirty yards from the road, a second volley came whistling and more of his regulars crumpled. Again Cornwallis stopped, ordered his first regiment to face the smoke, and answered the volley. And again Cornwallis waited until there was nothing moving in the brush, and continued on south.

  Stirling left seven of his Marylanders lying in the brush and trees as he led his men silently south, dodging, running low, and suddenly they appeared on the road eighty yards in front of Cornwallis’s column. The Americans fired without command and again dodged into the brush.

  To the north, at the top of Cobble Hill, Washington watched the action develop from the beginning. Stirling marching straight into the great British column—firing—hiding—exchanging volleys—moving—firing—refusing to run—stopping the oncoming British time and again in his desperate try at saving the bulk of his command as they plowed onward through the swamp.

  Washington lowered his telescope for a moment and Reed looked at him. Washington’s eyes were too shiny, his voice too high, his chin trembling as he uttered, “What brave fellows I must this day lose.”

  Behind him, Colonel Smallwood, recently returned from New York City, spurred his horse forward, unable any longer to watch his men cut down in their heroic stand. “General, I’m begging. Let me take a regiment and go down there. I can’t . . . I’ve never seen anything like that. Someone has to go save Stirling.”

  Washington’s voice caught for a moment and he cleared his throat and spoke. “No. We can’t save him, and we can’t sacrifice men trying.”

  South of Stirling, General Grant watched the small group move north to meet Cornwallis and then the main group break for the Gowanus swamp, and he stood still, unable to believe what he was seeing. No one had ever tried to cross the swamp. And a handful of Americans stood no chance in a fight with Cornwallis. Had they all lost their minds?

  To Grant’s right, over the ridge, Parsons had suddenly realized he was hemmed in, surrounded, and ordered his men to scatter, find any out they could, and to make their own way north to the breastworks, unaware they were walking into the worst holocaust they had ever seen.

  Grant shrugged and gave his orders. “Forward.” He started up the road to close the trap that Stirling now found himself in, with Cornwallis coming from the north and Grant from the south.

  The little band of Marylanders divided, half facing one way, half the other, and they moved into the trees, dodging, loading, firing, running, loading, firing, while the British sent volley after volley after them, and slowly, one at a time, one here and one there, the Americans were dropping, most of them to remain, a few to rise to try to struggle on with their wounds.

  Once more Stirling rallied his men and gave orders. “Scatter. Go separately, any way you can. Try to get back to the breastworks or to the Brooklyn lines. Good luck to you all.” He stared into their faces for a moment. “It has been my great honor to fight by your side.”

  In ten seconds the tiny group was gone, having disappeared in the trees and brush. Stirling remained only long enough to be certain they were gone, then paused one moment to look south at Grant’s command moving in on him. His lip curled in contempt. I’ll die before I’ll surrender to that man. Or, for that matter, to Cornwallis. Resolutely he moved out into the trees, headed north and east towards the breastworks. If he was going to be killed or captured, he would be certain it was by someone other than Grant. Anyone but Grant, even the Hessians.

  To the north, the Hessians who were with Cornwallis’s regulars angled to their right, off Gowanus Road, to the swamp where the bulk of Stirling’s command was working its way north, struggling, fighting their way through the black slime that reached to their waists, desperately trying to reach the safety of the Brooklyn lines. From their right came running the Americans who had broken through the British and Hessian trap at the breastworks, one or two at a time, and they plunged into the Gowanus swamp and the woods, driven by blind terror. The Hessians trotted along the eastern edge of the swamp, forming a long line, and then they stopped. With relentless precision they picked their targets and they fired and reloaded and fired again, in a steady stream. The nearest Americans held their muskets high over their heads and turned towards the shore, screaming, “We surrender! We surrender!” but the Hessians did not understand one word of English, nor did they care. They shot them, and those that made it out of the muck they bayonetted, and the screams of the wounded and the dying meant nothing to them. They had come to destroy the impertinent, ragged, foolish Americans, and they were doing it. They would finish by nightfall and collect their pay and go home to Germany.

  Washington could take no more. He turned to his staff. “We’re going to the breastworks.” He reined his horse around and tapped his spurs to its flanks.

  The breastworks were a chaotic bedlam. American officers shouted orders that were instantly lost in the deafening roar of muskets and cannon, and of men screaming as bayonets struck, and of British and Hessian soldiers in full battle cry, slowly tightening their circle. In their blind panic the American soldiers heard no orders, nor did they try, and their officers drew their sabers and pounded their own troops on the back and legs with the flat side, trying to rally them, regroup them, organize them into a defensive unit.

  Then the Hessians began seeking out the American officers, and in twos and threes they ringed them and drove their bayonets home and watched the officers topple, and moved on, seeking the next one.

  After Eli broke from a stammering Putnam, in the wild jumble of sound and men, he sprinted, dodging, towards the center of the breastworks, empty rifle slung over his back on its strap, tomahawk in hand, searching for Billy. A redcoat swung around with his bayonet lowered, and Eli slapped it aside and swung the tomahawk once and leaped over the body and continued on, watching, head turning in his desperate hunt, unable to hear anything above the deafening din. He saw only the hated Hessians at the place the Boston regiment had been, mechanically thrusting with their bayonets as they worked their way towards the British. He plunged into them, tomahawk swinging, knocking aside their muskets, and he broke through and Billy was not there, nor was his body among those lying on the ground, bloody and broken and dead.

  He vaulted to the top of the breastworks and spun around, frantic, and then he saw Billy thirty yards north and east. In the mindless heat of battle, with no time for either Billy or the British to reload, Billy had thrown down his useless musket and swept up the sword of a fallen officer and was swinging with all his strength, hacking his way, leading half a dozen of the regiment in a do-or-die fight to break through for a desperate run to the Brooklyn defenses. The British were using their overpowering numbers, their bayonets, and their musket butts as they systematically continued in their deadly work of annihilating or capturing the American forces.

  A Hessian rushed at Eli with his rifle butt raised, and Eli du
cked and swung the tomahawk in the same motion and the Hessian dropped. Eli leaped from the breastworks and ran, jumping over bodies, striking with his tomahawk, dodging bayonets, until he reached the tiny group led by Billy, and then he was beside Billy, and they surged forward into the wall of red-coated regulars.

  A British officer spread his feet squarely in front of Billy and raised a huge pistol directly into his face. Billy swung the sword and he saw the officer jerk the trigger and the hammer fell—and the thought flashed in Billy’s mind, Too late, too late—and the flint struck the frizzen and the powder in the pan flared just as Billy’s sword struck the side of the pistol. In the fleck of time it took for the fire to burn through the touchhole, the pistol muzzle was knocked four inches to Billy’s left, and he twisted his head to the right just as it went off. The blast blackened Billy’s shirt around his upper left side and the ball tore through the cloth to leave a black streak on the crown of his left shoulder and leave his ear ringing.

  The officer gasped and stumbled backwards, and Billy swung his fist with the sword handle in it and struck the officer over the right ear and he hit the ground in a heap. In one movement Billy swept him up and draped him over his left shoulder and once again walked straight into the red-coated regulars, sword poised, ready.

  The British soldiers blinked and then they raised their bayonets and began backing away, confused about how to attack a man who had a British officer slung over his shoulder. None of them wanted to be the one court-martialed and shot for wounding or killing one of their own officers.

  There were four regulars in front of Billy and Eli, and then two, and then there were none, and then they were past the British lines, past the edge of their own camp, running free in the brush and foliage towards the tree line. Billy threw the officer from his shoulder, rolling in the dirt as they plunged into the trees and ran, not looking back. They ran until the sounds behind them were fading, and they stopped, panting, trying to catch their wind. Sweat ran, and their faces were streaked and dirty from gun smoke. Billy looked at the men who had followed him away from the breastworks. There were six when they started. Three remained.

  Without a word Eli pointed and started west at a trot. Five minutes later the trees gave way to grass and brush, and then they were on the Flatbush Road. They stopped to look, and to listen. The only sounds were those of the unending battle behind them, and they turned their faces north and started up the rutted dirt road towards the Brooklyn lines. Eli turned once to look back.

  What did they do with the nurses? Did they move her out before the fight? Is she back in New York, safe?

  They continued on in the heat of the August sun, silent, without speaking, their minds struggling to leave behind the world filled with soldiers in blue and red uniforms, and guns and bayonets, and screaming men maimed and dead.

  To the west, past the breastworks, General Washington rode to the sound of the guns. It led him south, where he suddenly found himself among Americans running headlong from all directions, through the trees and brush, driven by panic. There were officers scattered among them, but they were making no attempt to halt the fragmented troops. Washington jerked his saber from its scabbard and rode spurring his horse back and forth, slamming into his own men, shouting, “Remember what you are contending for. Wives, families, liberty.” If they heard his words, and if they recognized who he was, it did not slow them. They streamed past him, not stopping, not caring.

  They pushed past him and around him, and they paid no heed. He began smacking them with the flat of his sword, his voice raised, shouting at them to stop, and they did not. He singled out an officer and reined his horse directly in front of the man and shouted, “Halt! Take command of your troops.” The man paused half a second to stare up at him white-faced, and he dodged around the horse and was gone.

  For a long time Washington spurred his horse into the midst of his beaten army, waving his sword, shouting, striking officers and troops alike, and they ignored him in their headlong stampede.

  Panting, angry, watching his army disintegrate before his eyes, Washington slowed and then he stopped. The air went out of him and his shoulders slumped and he sat there, head bowed, sword dangling from his hand. A hundred Hessians burst from the brush and trees eighty yards to the south and came trotting, bayonets lowered. One of Washington’s aides gasped and reached from his own mount to grasp the bit of Washington’s horse and jerk the animal around, and he raised the two horses to a gallop, running with the decimated, retreating army, trying for the safety of the Brooklyn lines.

  It was a few minutes past three o’clock in the afternoon when Billy and Eli, with the three survivors who had followed them, caught their first glimpse of the Brooklyn defenses in the distance. The open ground sloped steadily upwards to the lines, which were anchored on the right by Fort Putnam and on the left by Fort Box, with Fort Greene and a great breastwork spaced between them. The Flatbush Road ran through the center, dividing Brooklyn nearly in half. The structures were connected by trenches, where men had dug in with their muskets.

  Billy and Eli plodded forward, silent, watching others, one or two at a time, stumbling towards the road. Slowly the survivors of the beaten army entered onto the roadbed, some limping, some helping others, all of them filthy, ragged, most of them bloodied, all with but one thought: Brooklyn—safety.

  Billy stared hard as they neared the lines, looking for smoke or men in red coats, wondering whether the British had sent men-of-war and troops up the East River and taken Brooklyn from behind. They had not. The exhausted men plodded on.

  By four o’clock small groups of men from all commands had passed through the lines to gather on the ground, waiting, watching in silence as others came in, grim faced, looking for their officers or any familiar face. By four-thirty most of those who could had gathered, and dropped into the grass to lie as they fell, drained, body and soul.

  A little past five o’clock the shout from the lines came echoing, “They’re coming.”

  And then General Washington was there among them, on the ground, leading his horse. He spoke a word here, gave a helping hand there, constantly moving, encouraging. There were no incriminations, no accusations of who had failed. He shook the hands of the officers, asked what they needed, circled their shoulders with his long arm, knelt beside a private with one leg missing to cover him with his cape and touch his forehead.

  Slowly he rallied his battered army, and they rose to their feet one more time and grimly made their way to the trenches. They brought anything they could for weapons—muskets if they had them, swords, axes, sticks, rocks—and they lowered themselves into the trenches and peered down the slope at the Flatbush Road. They saw the flood of red and blue coats fanning out from east to west in lines a mile long, and they saw the cannon. In the warm late afternoon sunlight, with shadows slanting to the east, the officers in the forts silently made their count and sent word to General Washington.

  A little over twenty thousand British regulars and Hessians were forming in regiments, with over one hundred cannon in a line, less than one mile away. Washington stoically accepted the reports, then ordered his staff to count his officers and if possible his men, and report.

  Sullivan, Miles, Stirling, Parsons, Putnam—all missing, either dead or captured, and no one knew the count of the lesser officers. Nor did anyone know how many men were crouched in the trenches and in the forts and breastworks. Perhaps two thousand, perhaps more, or less.

  Every officer, every man at the lines knew their small beaten huddle of men would be overrun in minutes when the British and Hessians came marching. The Continental army would be annihilated, crushed, and in their hearts they knew their dream of America, and of liberty, would pass into history barely noticed, remembered as foolishness by only a few. They set their jaws and they gripped their weapons, and they waited.

  “They halted! They stopped!” The shout came from a dozen throats.

  Every head on the lines jerked up and eyes opened wide, afrai
d to look, afraid to believe, and the men slowly stood in the trenches, dumbstruck as they saw the long British lines standing still, waiting.

  Behind the massive lines, General Howe called for consultation with his officers. Clinton, Cornwallis, Percy, von Heister, and Grant all faced him, their faces alive, eyes keen, their blood hot for a final attack, and they wanted it before dark.

  Howe turned and studied the terrain—the open slope up to the trenches, the Americans dug in at the top. Was he seeing Bunker Hill all over again—a few Americans cutting the redcoats to pieces, stacking the dead row upon row as they marched up a hill? Was it true—his sympathies were stronger for the Americans than for the Crown? Was he calculating the time it would take to put Brooklyn under siege and starve them out, with no battle at all? His officers could not tell.

  He turned back to them. “We wait. Tonight they have a lot to think about, and tomorrow we’ll move on them. I expect Washington will offer terms of surrender. I don’t think he’ll sacrifice the last of his army for a lost cause.” He pursed his mouth for a moment. “So we wait.”

  Clinton’s mouth fell open. “What?” He pointed north, animated, and his words coming hot. “They’re right there, in the palm of our hand. In one hour this entire idiotic revolution can be over, finished, and we can be on our way back to England. I’ve never seen an army so close to total annihilation!”

  The other officers held their breath, waiting, covertly watching Howe. Seldom had they seen any general officer address his commander so sharply.

  Howe’s expression did not change as he turned to Clinton. His voice was calm. “We will wait.”

  Cornwallis exhaled. “Sir, respectfully I must point out that a delay will only give them time to regroup, organize, re-arm, plan something. At this moment they have no semblance of command, half of them are not armed, their spirit is broken, they’re sitting right there, ours for the taking.”

  Howe remained passive and silent.