Prelude to Glory, Vol. 2

by Ron Carter

  Calmly he worked out the orders that would be made known to the troops and which would seem to them normal, unremarkable, certainly not part of a plan to move an entire army across a river in one night.

  The sick, who were a burden on the army, were to be taken to the hospital and from there across to New York to report to Surgeon General Morgan. Entirely normal procedure. The newly arrived troops from New York had come to replace the men who had survived the disaster of August 27. Who could question it? Further, certain other regiments were to be transported back to New York according to their condition and need, but it had not yet been determined which ones they were. Therefore, all regiments were to be packed and prepared to leave by seven p.m.

  Washington went over the plan again and again, then sent out written orders and waited. Not one officer, not one soldier questioned the orders. Not a man in the Brooklyn command realized they were participating in a full night retreat.

  In the gloom of six o’clock, Washington convened a council of war with his officers, who needed to know that the real plan was a full evacuation of Long Island—not a rotation of troops as had been told the troops. They did not meet at the fortifications. Rather, they met secretly in the home of Philip Livingston on Hicks Street, near Joralemon in Brooklyn. Livingston was away attending his duties in the Continental Congress, and the house was vacant.

  The officers came in ones and twos, to shed dripping capes and hats in the grand entryway, try to remove the mud from their boots, and take their places at the great, polished table in the library. Putnam, Spencer, Mifflin, McDougall, Parsons, Scott, Wadsworth, and Fellows all sat silent, unsure why they were there, fearful they were going to hear the word surrender.

  “Gentlemen, I propose wasting no time. Tonight I have decided to evacuate the entire army across the East River to Manhattan Island.”

  Every man at the table reared back in his chair, eyes wide, questioning, and Washington continued.

  “I tell you this with my strongest admonition that it must not be made known to the soldiers. Should they find out, I fear they will think we are in imminent danger and slip into a panic. If we will remain calm, there is no danger.”

  Washington left no room for debate, nor did he ask for their advice. He asked only for their approval. They gave it, he thanked them, and the brief, critical conference ended.

  At seven o’clock Colonel Little moved his regiment down near the ferry, and with deadly efficiency the Marblehead fishermen, with the Twenty-seventh Massachusetts Regiment, all under command of General McDougall, loaded them into the waiting boats and pushed off into the black waters of the East River in heavy rain and deep gloom. Colonel Douglas followed. Hitchcock’s Rhode Islanders hoisted their baggage to their shoulders and marched through the mud with no light left, and minutes later the third flotilla of sailboats, longboats, barges, whaleboats, sloops, flatboats, and pettiaugers pushed off into the swollen river.

  At nine o’clock heavy winds came pushing high tides. Glover’s fishermen cast worried eyes upward, knowing what was coming, but they did not slow. Half an hour later a howling nor’easter came in behind the winds, and the Marbleheaders furled all sails and anchored the sailboats but continued moving the men in the longboats and barges and whaleboats. But they knew; if the nor’easter held, and they had nothing but the longboats and whaleboats and barges to move the entire army, they would not be finished by morning. And if that happened, those remaining on the Brooklyn side would be annihilated by Howe’s redcoats. The Marbleheaders set their jaws doggedly and kept working.

  At eleven o’clock the nor’easter suddenly dwindled and in minutes it died. Seconds later a gentle breeze set in from the southwest, and Glover and his Marbleheaders peered at each other in disbelief. They had sailed the open seas and every river on the American coast, but never had they known a nor’easter to blow itself out in minutes, to be followed in seconds by a steady, quiet breeze from the opposite direction. They said nothing and kept working with their steady efficiency, loading the boats, some of them so heavy the water was within three inches of the gunnels when they pushed off into a river that was smooth as glass.

  By two o’clock half the army was on the New York side. By four o’clock, two-thirds were standing on the New York docks.

  At the trenches and breastworks on the Brooklyn side, General Mifflin remained with his selected command, who had been assigned by Washington to cover the retreat should Howe find out what was happening and make a night attack. They were to raise the alarm at the first sight of the British advancing and then retreat to the Brooklyn church to make their defense. If any of Washington’s troops were to be lost in the retreat, it would be Mifflin’s command, left behind to cover the silent boats.

  In the dead of the night, Major Scammel misunderstood an order from General Washington and rode to General Mifflin. “Sir, you are to bring your command to the boats, now.”

  Within minutes Mifflin had his entire command marching through the mud, the breastworks and trenches behind, to the boats in the East River ahead. The sudden sound of horse hooves in the mud slowed Mifflin, and his eyes widened as General Washington reined in his mud-splattered, steaming horse.

  “What are you doing?” Washington demanded.

  “Sir, Scammel brought an order from you to move down to the boats.”

  Washington raised his voice. “Then Scammel has mightily misunderstood. Turn around. Return to the breastworks. You might be all that stands between the remainder of the army and destruction if the British attack.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mifflin spun and barked orders, and his men headed back for the trenches and breastworks at a trot.

  Towards dawn the rain slackened, and then stopped, and the rolling clouds parted to show countless stars for the first time in three days. Mifflin ran a hand across his mouth, searching for what to do when sunrise came and Howe realized the American breastworks and camp were nearly deserted.

  He drew a deep breath and cracked out orders. “All right. Get anything that will burn. Break down the doors and the walls inside the forts. Bring out the dry blankets, tables, chairs, bunks—anything inside that’s dry enough to burn—and set up a row of campfires along the breastworks and trenches. Get fires going. The British are going to have to believe we’re still here in force when it’s light enough to see. Move.”

  Desperate hands grasped axes and sledges and stripped doors and furniture out of the three forts while other hands seized dry blankets and trotted outside. With the morning star fading, they heaped the shattered wood onto the blankets in thirty places and struck flint to steel, nursed the spark, and set the fires. Then they climbed the towers into the fort where they could be seen, and took up what positions they could behind the breastworks, but avoided the trenches that were nearly filled with water.

  Mifflin walked among his men, talking, encouraging. “If they come, fire until they’re fifty yards from the trenches, then retreat to the church. Fall back twenty paces, reload, fire, fall back, reload, fire. Do not panic. We’ll make it.”

  The unanswered question that was foremost in the fears of every man in his command was simple. How do we slow down twenty thousand seasoned British troops and still escape? They said nothing as they obeyed their orders and took up their positions.

  At half past five the eastern sky was glorious as the sun caught the breaking clouds and turned them into a thousand colors of reds and golds and yellows. Mifflin’s command licked at dry lips and watched and listened and waited, and then they saw the British a mile down the slope, preparing to advance.

  And as they watched in absolute disbelief, a fog bank moved up the East River and began to spread, and within five minutes Brooklyn and the East River and the British army were smothered in a thick, wet fog. From behind came the sound of a horse, and Mifflin’s men turned and heard the command, “Come to the boats. Everyone is across. You’re the last.”

  With the sound of British pickaxes at work and of Howe’s army advancing, they broke fro
m their positions and ran. They reached the steps down to the boats and General Washington was there, giving them his hand to steady them as they pounded down the slippery, wet stone steps, and the Marbleheaders grasped their arms to help them aboard the boats, rocking gently in the black water.

  Behind them they heard a cannon blast, and then a continuous roll of cannon fire, and then two rapid volleys of a thousand muskets, and then silence. For one moment they paused and looked back, and in their minds they saw it. The British charging into the abandoned fires, blasting with their cannon and muskets, only to find the American camp deserted, empty.

  They grinned as the Marbleheaders shoved the boats out into the river.

  Lieutenant Benjamin Tallmadge of Connecticut peered back at the last boat, and he saw the last man to step in, tall, with a tricornered hat and a cape, and Tallmadge watched as Washington turned to peer back at the Brooklyn shore.

  General Howe, with Cornwallis and Clinton at his sides, reined his winded horse to a sliding stop on the banks of the East River, mud flying, and leaned forward in the stirrups to stare through narrowed eyes as the last boat disappeared in the fog. Standing in the rear of the boat was the tall silhouette of General Washington.

  Howe gritted his teeth and pounded his fist on the pommel of his saddle, while Clinton threw both hands upward and hurled curses into the fog-filled heavens.

  ______

  Notes

  The novel’s depiction of the events and circumstances during the two days following the defeat of the Americans on August 27, 1776—including the weather conditions, George Washington’s presence among his troops, the council of war held at the home of Philip Livingston, and the retreat across the East River—is based on the account given in Johnston, The Campaign of 1776, part 1, pp. 208–24 (see also Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 265–67; Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, pp. 158–59). Eli Stroud’s involvement in these events is, of course, fictional.

  Boston

  September 10, 1776

  Chapter XVIII

  * * *

  Don’t you worry. The Almighty’s watching. They’ll be home soon.”

  Margaret Dunson tucked the comforter under Prissy’s chin and touched her cheek as she peered into the worried eyes. “If you get scared, call. I’ll leave the lamp on and the door open.” She turned the wheel and the lamp dimmed, and she rose and walked from the bedroom into the hall leading to the parlor. Three steps short of the archway a feeling began in her heart and surged to become an overpowering conviction. She stopped, wide-eyed in the dim light, and her hand flew to cover her mouth.

  They’re alive! They’ll be here tonight!

  With the sureness born of a mother’s intuition she set large brass kettles of water on the stove and poked huge chunks of coal into the glowing embers of the firebox. Then she carried the supper remains of ham and potatoes from the root cellar and set them in the oven, and went back for a pitcher of cider and a jar of butter.

  While the water heated she strung the lines in the kitchen for baths and draped them with blankets, then cut bread onto a plate and took the honey pot from a cupboard. She walked back to the bedrooms and silently stole to the bedside of both Prissy and Adam, and for a moment leaned to study the innocence in their faces and listen to their deep, slow breathing. She laid fresh underwear and nightshirts and towels on Caleb’s bed, then on Brigitte’s, and went back to the kitchen to check the water. It was heating but not yet steaming. She went outside to drag the huge wooden bathtub into the kitchen, then back out to the well to carry in two buckets of cold water and set them against the wall.

  With the water kettles steaming, she moved them off the stove onto the black top of the oven and set the lids clattering on top to hold the heat. She jiggled the grate to the firebox, reset the draft, looked around to satisfy herself, and walked back to the parlor. She set two more large kindling sticks on the fire in the great fireplace, then settled down into her rocking chair to wait.

  At eleven o’clock a light southeasterly breeze came off the Atlantic, and she heard it soft in the chimney. She got her knitting basket and settled back into her chair, fingers working without thought, eyes bright, waiting for what she knew would come. At half past twelve she rose, stretched, and walked back into the kitchen to lift the lids to the kettles. Steam rose and she set them back, then returned to her rocking chair and once again picked up her knitting needles.

  A little past one o’clock her hands stopped and her eyes dropped as she concentrated on a faint sound at the front gate, and then she heard footsteps on the brick walkway, and she bolted for the door and threw it open. Brigitte blinked and squinted as the irregular rectangle of yellow lamplight flooded out from the open door, and she saw the black silhouette of Margaret in the same instant Margaret saw her, with Caleb slightly behind her to one side. Margaret uttered a sound, and in two lunging steps the women were in each other’s arms, Margaret holding Brigitte to her breast with all her strength, Brigitte murmuring, “Mother, Mother.” Caleb reached to touch his mother’s arm, and she seized his hand and pulled him to her, and they stood in the dooryard for a time, the three of them clinging, while the many days of dark fears faded.

  Margaret pushed them back and stared into their faces, dirty, gaunt, and then at their clothes, filthy and frayed. “You’re both a mess!” she exclaimed. “Come in and wash while I set the table, and then you’re both getting out of those clothes and taking a bath!”

  For a long time the two sat leaned over their plates while they ate steadily in silence, possessed only by the thought they had never tasted anything so wonderful. Margaret watched in the lamp glow, taking satisfaction in their voracious appetites, waiting for the talk to start.

  Brigitte set her buttermilk glass on the table and Margaret spoke. “What happened?”

  Brigitte looked into her eyes. “I’m not sure. Did anyone else make it back?”

  “Charles Johannesen. Three days ago. He tried to get Donald Hughes home but his leg was broken. He died. Charles buried him.”

  Brigitte’s face blanched. “Just Charles? No one else got home?”

  Margaret shook her head. “Not yet.”

  Brigitte’s chin quivered and she dropped her eyes to the table.

  Caleb spoke, angry, bitter. “Cannon shot us to pieces. We don’t know who did it.”

  Margaret drew a deep breath. “The Connecticut militia did it. They said they saw British soldiers and Tories moving wagons with supplies to the British army and they shot at them.”

  Caleb’s face turned white and Brigitte’s head jerked up as he exclaimed, “Connecticut militia? They’re the ones? Our own army?”

  Margaret nodded once, her face grim, noncommittal.

  Caleb tried to speak again but could find nothing to say.

  Brigitte’s face was white when she turned again to Margaret, and Margaret saw the desperate need in her eyes as Brigitte spoke. “Eleven dead by our own army? Because of me?”

  Margaret chose her words carefully. “No. Eleven dead because they chose to join the work of the Almighty in the fight for liberty. Like your father, and Matthew, and Billy. In war people make mistakes. The Connecticut soldiers thought they were doing their duty. No one meant it to happen.”

  Caleb’s lip curled in a sneer, and Margaret glanced at him, and he turned his face away while Margaret’s eyes narrowed. She turned back to Brigitte. “Tell me about it.”

  Margaret saw the horror come into Brigitte’s eyes as she recalled the scenes, and suddenly she swallowed and said, “Oh, Mama, I can’t. I can’t. It was . . . the British took us by surprise and . . .” By force of will she had not cried since the blasting cannon had filled the world with exploding wagons and rifles had knocked men from their horses dead in the twilight in that faraway Connecticut meadow, but now the dam had burst and she could not stop it. She buried her face in her arms on the table and her body shook with her sobs as the long days of grief and guilt, hiding and walking, eating nuts an
d berries, and stealing from farm granaries and fields and orchards came flooding.

  Margaret placed her arm about Brigitte’s shoulders and spoke softly to Caleb. “Get your bath. There’re towels and a nightshirt on your bed.” Caleb rose and walked through the archway into the bedroom wing.

  Slowly the bitter tears slowed, and then stopped, and Margaret waited.

  “We had a traitor. Remember the young Irish boy? Cullen? He was in with the British, and they woke us up in the night with muskets and bayonets.” Margaret watched the haunted terror in Brigitte’s eyes as she continued, words coming faster and then spilling out in a rush.

  Forced to drive on—leaving the main road—dusk coming on—driving through the gap between two groves of trees—the cracking of rifles from ambush—the British redcoats knocked from their horses, dead—the drivers of the advance wagons, tumbling—the horses bolting—the cannon blasting nearly in their faces—the lead wagon hit—the next one blown in two pieces—then the ammunition wagon exploding—the hot blast killing the horses—knocked backwards off the wagon—in the grass—terrified—hearing shots—not knowing who it was—crawling backwards in the dark—Caleb out of his head—walking—eating anything they could find—a farm—being chased by a man with a hoe—sleeping in haystacks, fields, ditches, anyplace they could find—eating peaches left rotting on the ground in an orchard—corn from a corncrib—turnips stolen from a garden—no meat—diarrhea—vomiting—endless walking . . .

  Margaret sat silent, face set like stone as she listened, and then Brigitte was finished and raised her tear-stained face to her mother.

  “Did Charles Johannesen tell all this? Our people who were killed? Does everyone hate me?”

  Margaret saw the searing fear in her eyes, and took time in choosing her words. “Charles told it the way he remembered it. He thought you and Caleb were both killed when the ammunition blew up. He tried to help Donald Hughes, but his leg was broken too bad. It went rotten and Charles tried to cut it off, but Mr. Hughes died. Charles came on back. He thought he was the only one who survived.”