Prelude to Glory, Vol. 2

by Ron Carter

  Mrs. Murray was on her feet instantly. “Oh, General, surely you can’t mean to leave. We’ve prepared a musical presentation of songs with the harpsichord in the music room. You absolutely must spend a few more moments.” She laid her hand gently on his arm and gazed upwards into his face, eyes pleading.

  He sighed. “All right. Just a few moments.”

  “Oh, wonderful! Please bring your wine glasses.”

  One hour became two as they sat in the music room and a servant played every song she knew on the harpsichord, while Mrs. Murray joined with her clear, clean soprano voice, engaging if not professionally trained.

  Finally General Howe raised a hand. “Madam, were circumstances different we would be delighted to remain longer, but we cannot. Our troops are rested, and we must move on. Would you be certain to give my compliments to your husband, and thank him for the graciousness of the Murray house?”

  “I shall. And our compliments to you, sir, and your companions. You know you will be welcome here any time, should you pass by again.”

  She spoke to her servants and several of them hurried out the back door to saddle and lead the general’s horses from the barn to the front gate, while others fetched the hats and cloaks of the visitors. She followed the general down the stairs to the gate, and watched as he and his entourage mounted their horses.

  Howe gallantly swept his hat across his breast and bowed deeply to her from the saddle. “Good-bye, madam. We shall not forget your hospitality.”

  She curtsied. “Nor shall I forget your most welcome visit.”

  The general reined his horse smartly to the left, around the house, and raised it to a rocking lope out towards the cornfield, and Mrs. Murray watched them disappear behind the buildings and a line of trees.

  She turned her head and stood still, holding her finger to her mouth to silence her servants. For more than three minutes she stood listening, without moving. There was no rattle of musket fire from the direction in which General Howe had disappeared, and she exhaled held breath and her shoulders dropped. She gave orders and one of her servants saddled his horse and loped out towards the west, to return in less than one-half hour.

  “Madam, it appears all the Americans got past while you held the general here. The only sounds are muskets once in a while, at least a mile to the north, up by Bloomingdale.”

  Her head rolled back and she closed her eyes and a great breath escaped her as the realization sunk in. Had Howe pushed on westward but ten minutes earlier than he did, he would have cut off most of Putnam’s command coming north and had them trapped against the British coming from the south. Under her breath, Mrs. Robert Murray said quietly, “Almighty God, I thank thee.”

  The afternoon became a cauldron of humid, sweltering heat. Aaron Burr led the Americans steadily north, through draws and gullies unknown to the British, staying ahead of them, out of sight. In the heat, the sweating men began seeing dancing spots before their eyes. Occasionally some would drop, unconscious from heat exhaustion. Helping hands lifted them, then laid them back down when they discovered they were dead.

  Billy and Eli picked twenty men from the Boston regiment and fell back to slow down the pursuing British. Eli rested his Pennsylvania rifle over a tree limb, steadied it, and waited. When the first mounted British officer came riding from the trees one hundred eighty yards behind, he pulled the trigger. The officer sagged in his saddle, then folded over frontwards and tumbled to the ground, finished. Billy fired, and the men beside him fired their muskets, and the advancing British line slowed and stopped, and Eli and Billy led their small group back two hundred more yards and settled to their haunches behind rocks and trees, waiting for the British to follow.

  The afternoon wore on, with the Americans working their way north, slowed by the twists and turns and the thick brush and trees. Burr led them places where there were no trails, but neither were there cannon or Hessians. With Burr and Glover’s Marbleheaders leading, and Billy and Eli and their small group at the rear harassing, they plowed on, with the sun reaching for the western horizon.

  They came to a creek and marched through, and Billy and Eli and their men fell to their bellies to drink. When they stood, Billy glanced at the man to his left, still on his stomach, head submerged in the cold, clear water. Billy reached to nudge him with his foot, and the man did not move, and Billy seized him by the back of his shirt and rolled him over. His eyes were open, vacant, dead.

  There was no time. Billy folded the limp arms over the still chest, bowed his head for a moment, and quietly repeated, “Almighty Creator of us all, receive this good man, one of thy sons.” Then he waded gasping into the cold, chest-high water of the creek, holding his musket and cartridge box above his head as he kept moving with Eli and the small detachment from the Boston regiment. With abrupt suddenness a rainsquall swept up the island, drenching everyone before it moved on north and the sun drew steam from everything as it quickly dried.

  The sun set and dusk settled as they walked out of the trees onto Harlem Plains. In full darkness Major Burr found the Post Road and continued on past the Hollow Way to their left, as the sounds of musket fire from the rear stopped. The road ran along the east edge of Harlem Heights, and then it led upward in a steady incline, to crest out on top. They passed the lights of the Morris house to their right, where Washington was setting up his new headquarters, and a mile ahead they saw the blessed lights of Fort Washington and in the starlight could make out the dim, stark outline of the thick walls, five-sided and solid against the stars, and knew they were under the cover of the cannon and muskets of the regiments stationed there.

  They marched on and Burr slowed at the first challenge of a hidden picket.

  “Who comes there?”

  “Burr, under orders of General Israel Putnam. We’re coming in.”

  “Come ahead.” Two minutes later a lantern beamed ahead, and then another, and then they came on by the dozens as the regiments of Fort Washington came pouring out the heavy gates to meet them, jubilant, venting their fear that they had all been trapped and killed or captured in the chaotic retreat.

  Billy slowed and stopped and sat down on a rock to wait for orders. Eli came up beside him, and Billy spoke, weary, sweated out, hungry. “We nearly got trapped again today. Close. Too close.”

  Eli stared down at him for a time. “They didn’t get us. We’re here.”

  “For now. What happens tomorrow?”

  “It couldn’t be worse than today.” He shook his head sadly. “It was pretty sorry, the way the regiments broke and ran.”

  Billy heaved a sigh. “We better start looking for firewood. Maybe they got something to eat inside the fort.”

  ______

  Notes

  Much of the novel’s depiction of events and people associated with the battle of Kip’s Bay (September 15, 1776)—including the landing of the British and Hessian soldiers, the Americans’ retreat, the brave actions of Colonel John Glover and his Marblehead regiment, and so on—follows the account given in Johnston, The Campaign of 1776, part 1, pp. 233–42 (see also Carrington, Battles of the American Revolution, p. 225; Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 277–79; Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, p. 160). As shown here, General Washington met the retreating Americans near the farm of Robert Murray and rode among his own troops ordering them to “Take the cornfield! Take the walls!” but was essentially ignored. He continued his efforts without effect, and finally he slumped in his saddle in near collapse. One of his aides led his horse away, probably saving the general’s life.

  Regarding the participation of Mrs. Murray, who allegedly delayed General Howe long enough to allow the fleeing Americans to escape, historians are not unanimous on the facts of the event, some denying it happened. The report of it in this chapter is taken from Johnston, The Campaign of 1776, part 1, 239–40. In his later works, Johnston was less convinced of the accuracy of it. Thus, while the facts are controversial, the story is included herein for the human-in
terest value.

  Harlem Heights

  September 16, 1776

  Chapter XXI

  * * *

  In the black before dawn, General Washington eased himself onto the chair at his desk in the Morris house, still in his dirty uniform, damp from the sweat and rain of the chaotic retreat and the battle of yesterday. Unshaved, unbathed, he fumbled to light the lamp, then trimmed the wick, and the yellow glow reached to fill the room and cast shadows. With deliberation, he squared a piece of paper on the desktop and picked up the goose-feather quill, then paused, slowly twisting it in his fingers while he pondered the first words of the harsh, bitter letter he must write.

  He exhaled a deep breath and his shoulders settled as he dipped the quill tip into the ink bottle. The scratching of the pen sounded too loud in the stillness of the room.

  To: John Hancock

  Head Qrs. At Col. Roger Morris’s House

  Septr. 16th, 1776

  Sir:

  On Saturday about sunset, six more of the enemy’s ships, one or two of which were men-of-war, passed between Governor’s Island and Red Hook and went up the East River to the station taken by those mentioned in my last. In half an hour, I received two expresses, one from Col. Sarjent at Horn’s Hook (Hell Gate) giving an account that the enemy to the amount of three or four thousand . . .

  He paused to dip his pen again, then described the movement of the British and Hessians that evening before he moved on to the disaster of the following morning.

  But in the morning they began their operations. Three ships of war came up the North River as high as Bloomingdale, which put a total stop to the removal by water of any more of our provisions, etc., and about eleven o’clock those in the East River began a most severe and heavy cannonade to scour the grounds and cover the landing of their troops between Turtle Bay and the city, where breastworks had been thrown up to oppose them.

  He laid the quill down and flexed his fingers, then continued.

  As soon as I heard the firing, I rode with all possible dispatch towards the place of landing, when to my great surprise and mortification I found the troops that had been posted in the lines retreating with the utmost precipitation and those ordered to support them, Parsons’s and Fellows’s brigades, flying in every direction and in the greatest confusion, notwithstanding the exertions of their generals to form them. I used every means in my power to rally and get them into some order, but my attempts were fruitless and ineffectual, and on the appearance of a small party of the enemy, not more than sixty or seventy, their disorder increased and they ran away in the greatest confusion without firing a single shot . . .

  With the battle scene and the shameless retreat running before his eyes, he wrote rapidly, describing it in blunt detail, struggling to bridle the anger that was driving his words and his pen. He continued.

  We are now encamped with the main body of the army on the Heights of Harlem, where I should hope the enemy would meet with a defeat in case of an attack, if the generality of our troops would behave with tolerable bravery. But experience, to my extreme affliction, has convinced me that this is rather to be wished for than expected. However, I trust that there are many who will act like men and show themselves worthy of the blessings of freedom . . .

  Once again he stopped and by force of will brought his raging feelings under control. He wrote one more line advising that he had sent out scouting patrols, then closed.

  I have the honor to be with the highest respect, sir, your most obedt. sert.

  With the rose colors of dawn breaking in the eastern sky, he tossed the quill aimlessly onto the desk and leaned back. He dug the heels of his hands into weary eyes, then hunched forward to read what he had written, weighing the delicate question of how the politicians, with whom he must contend in the Congress, would respond to his blunt, sharp criticism of the troops who had fallen into the shameful, headlong plunge from their assigned battle positions and run blindly north, defying their officers, including himself, the commander in chief. Would his letter divide Congress along the same lines as his army was now divided, New Englanders against the middle colonies, each throwing hot, divisive accusations of cowardice and desertion against the other?

  For a long time he stared out the east bank of windows at the beauty of a sun rising over the rolling emerald hills across the Harlem River, on the Westchester County mainland, and he sighed as he struggled with his own thoughts. Suddenly he straightened and folded the letter.

  They are the politicians. I am the commander in chief of the Continental army. It is my duty to tell them the truth. Let them do with it what they will.

  He folded the flap into place and dropped the wax on it, and pressed the seal of his command into the warm wax.

  “Adjutant!”

  A moment later Colonel Joseph Reed was in the doorway. He was in his dirty uniform, unshaved, unbathed. The entire staff had worked until three o’clock in the morning to move the records and the furniture and bedding into the Morris house before Washington ordered them all to take a rest. They had lain down wherever they could, hungry, dirty, unbathed, for two hours, and then they were back at their duties. Fatigue showed in their faces, in their movements, their demeanor.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This dispatch should go out by special messenger today to Congress.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Reed took the message and turned to go, when Washington stopped him.

  “Colonel, yesterday your behavior was exemplary. I regret I am unable to say that of many of our officers, but yourself, and Glover, and a few others conducted yourselves in the best military tradition. Should further engagements require it, would you take a command in the field?”

  “I would be honored, sir.”

  “Thank you. Would you tell the rest of the staff to heat water for—”

  The pounding of an incoming horse at full gallop sounded at the front of the house, and Washington came off his chair in one fluid move and was out the door, striding down the long hardwood hallway towards the great entryway. At that moment the door burst open, and one of the pickets entered, pulled up abruptly, and saluted.

  “There’s a Lieutenant Geisler on the front porch, sir. Says he was sent back by Lieutenant Colonel Knowlton. They ran into a British regiment coming this way.”

  Washington brushed past the man, out onto the porch, and the young, smooth-cheeked, blonde lieutenant snapped to rigid attention, spine like a steel rod, chin sucked in. His hand hit his forehead hard in his ambitious salute. He was sweating, panting, and behind him his sorrel horse was standing spraddle-legged, fighting for wind.

  “Sir,” he gasped, “Colonel Knowlton sent me.” His words came tumbling. “Sir, we ran into a regiment or a brigade or a company of British coming this way, sir. We engaged them, sir. Sir, Knowlton says he thinks we got them drawn out and—”

  “Settle down, son.” Washington took him by the shoulder. “You’re doing fine. Just talk to me. What happened?”

  The young man’s shoulders dropped and he looked up gratefully into the blue-gray eyes and his speech slowed. “There’s a pretty good body of them, sir. Colonel Knowlton has only twenty men, so we dropped off to one side and ambushed them, and we hit them pretty hard. Then he led them north, up towards the plains, and he thinks if we act fast we can get in behind them and trap them. He sent me to tell you.”

  Washington spun on his heel and called orders to Reed, and ten minutes later he led Reed, the young lieutenant mounted on a fresh horse, and four other members of his staff south on the Post Road at a gallop. They rode down the incline and broke out onto the Harlem Plains and galloped straight ahead, cross-country, down towards Bloomingdale. They reined in at the sound of musket fire ahead.

  Washington spoke. “I wanted to be certain they weren’t coming in force across the plains. It sounds like they’re down near the Apthorpe home or the Vandewater place, by the Bloomingdale Road.”

  Reed’s response was instant. “Sir, I ask permi
ssion to lead a probing party down there to find out what’s going on.”

  Washington nodded. “Granted. I’ll go back to headquarters. Report as soon as you can.”

  Twenty minutes later Reed and the lieutenant, with two other members of Washington’s staff, pulled their horses to a halt at the sight of Americans crouched behind trees and rocks two hundred yards ahead, north of the Bloomingdale Ridge. They waited only long enough to see them fire a volley and fall back one hundred yards, and they spurred their horses ahead at a canter, shouting, “We’re friendly, coming in behind.”

  Five minutes later Reed was facing Colonel Knowlton behind a stand of oak. Knowlton was intently watching all movements to the south, bright-eyed, his blood up as he spoke quickly to Reed. “We ran into them three miles south. Three hundred of them. We got them to follow. If a company of our troops can get behind them, we can trap them.”

  Suddenly Knowlton raised a hand for silence, and they watched the flashes of red in the trees one hundred fifty yards away, and then the first of the British pursuers were out in the brush and foliage, low, working forward. Knowlton’s command did not move. They waited, poised, behind trees and rocks and bushes, Reed and his men with them, waiting for the command from Knowlton, who was like a statue, gauging distance. He waited until the leaders were seventy yards away.

  “Fire!” he shouted, and the American muskets erupted and British redcoats groaned and dropped from sight.

  “Fall back and reload,” Knowlton continued, and the Americans dropped from sight and moved north, working with their cartridge boxes and ramrods as they moved.

  Reed grasped Knowlton’s arm. “I’ll go back for help.”

  “Know what to do?”

  “Circle around them without being seen and box them in.”

  “Good. I’ll try to keep them coming.”

  Reed swung up onto his mount and three minutes later burst out onto the Harlem Plains, his men in a line behind, past Snake Hill, and he held his mount to a full-out gallop until they hit the incline from the plains up to Harlem Heights. He slowed and stopped for a moment, and dismounted to give the horses time to catch their wind, then remounted and climbed the hill at a trot. Once on top of the heights, he again raised the horses to a gallop and pulled them to a skidding stop, dust flying in the morning sun, in front of the Morris house. One minute later he stood across the desk from General Washington.