The Glorious Cause (49 page)

The units on the far left had received the order first, confused and furious men withdrawing in good order across the ravines. Lafayette pushed the horse as hard as he dared, rode again toward the right flank, the animal stumbling as it moved past the dense brush. The sounds of fighting were scattered throughout the field, Lee’s order pulling men away from a startled enemy. Lafayette knew that Wayne would still be stubborn, that if his men had held their ground, he would not simply back away. He reached the final ravine, could see the wide field littered with bodies, heaps of red, bloody patches of white. The horse seemed to stagger, and he reined up, said, “Not now . . . please. A moment more.” There was no one around him now, Knox already in some new position, or withdrawing, as many of the others were doing. Far out along the edges of the ravine he saw horsemen, couriers, and one man was moving toward him, a hard, fast ride. The man slowed the horse as he moved to the causeway, and Lafayette saw the man’s face, young, wide-eyed with fear.

“Sir! Sir! I must find General Wayne!”

Lafayette pointed toward the wide hill, said, “Across there.”

“Uh, sir, I’m supposed to give General Wayne the message. General Lee has ordered the army to retreat. We’re pulling back, sir.”

He nodded, said, “Yes, Sergeant, I have been informed.” He had thought Lee might yet change his mind, might see that the ground across these deep cuts was there for the taking. But the young man in front of him was the final confirmation, one of many who finally carried some definite instruction to the army Lee was supposed to command. He looked down at the exhausted horse, patted its neck, his own frustrations and weariness giving way to tears. He wiped his eyes, looked up at the man through a thick blur. The courier seemed to sense his anguish, said, “I’m sorry, sir. But can you tell me where General Wayne is?”

He blinked hard, leaned forward, his arms resting across the horse’s mane.

“Sergeant, I will give the order to General Wayne. I have a much more important mission for you.”

“Whatever you say, sir. I’d just as soon not go out . . . there.”

“On my responsibility, you are to go to General Washington. He is advancing on the main road, should not be more than two or three miles back. Tell him, Sergeant, in the most urgent terms, his presence is required on this field.”

38. WASHINGTON

The march had begun quickly, shirtless men energized by the enthusiasm of their commander. But as the sun moved overhead, the heat had drained much of the energy away. He had seen men collapsing in the road, helped off by their comrades, knew that others were simply slipping away, seeking some brief comfort in patches of blessed shade. He had tried to gather them in, ordering the provosts to bring the stragglers back to the line. Any delay in the march could mean greater danger for the men already facing the enemy. But the sheer brutality of the heat could not be erased by threats of punishment. The provosts were called off, and he hoped that the men who fell away might regain some strength, might rejoin the army in time to give their support.

As he reached Englishtown, he could hear the steady rumble of cannon, knew that around him, the troops were responding to the sounds as he was. The march became energized again, the men focusing on what lay ahead of them. He wanted to push them harder, fought to hold himself in line with the troops. But the sounds were a message that, finally, the enemy was where Washington needed them to be; that finally, there was a fight erupting in the manner of his plans; that finally, if there was any surprise to be suffered, it was suffered by the British.

And then the sounds began to fade. He spurred the horse, leading the staff forward, moved out toward the advance regiments. The sounds of the horses, of the calls from his men obscured any sounds of a fight, and he crested a small hill, stopped, strained to hear. He felt a twist in his stomach, said in a low voice, “Begin . . . now. Surely. Renew the charge.”

He stared ahead, wide fields rolling to the horizon, patches of low trees, deep narrow creeks. And silence.

The column was moving by him still, and he nudged the horse, could only resume the march. His mind was a swirling torrent of questions, and he looked back, saw the faces of the staff, the expectation of what he would say.

“One of you . . . Mr. Hamilton. Go to General Lee. I must know what is happening. Repeat my order, if necessary, that they press the attack.”

Hamilton began to move, slowed his horse again, said, “Sir, there.”

A man was stumbling toward them, a ragged mess of a uniform, no weapon, and Washington could see now he was only a boy. The guards were there now, the boy held by two men, and Washington stopped the horse, said, “Who are you, young man? Are you a soldier?”

The boy stared at him with wide ghostly eyes, his red face a smear of sweat and dirt. One of the guards lifted him upright, said, “You will respond to the general.”

The boy nodded slowly, tried to speak, and Washington saw the shredded insignia on the man’s sleeve, said, “You are a musician? I do not have time for riddles. Who are you, why are you on this road?”

The boy seemed to gather himself, said, “A fifer, sir. I was with General Varnum’s brigade. I have lost my fife.”

He looked at the wild stare from the boy’s eyes, thought, Madness from the heat, certainly. He said to the guards, “See to his care. Send him toward one of the creeks.”

The boy seemed not to hear him, said, “Sir, the army is retreating.”

The words stabbed at him, and he said, “You will use caution. That kind of talk is dangerous.” He looked at the guards now, said, “Hold him under guard. His madness could affect others. We cannot have him spreading such rumors.”

He took a last look at the boy, felt annoyance at the weakness of such a child, turned the horse away. He moved back into the road, tried to calm himself, thought, He is a boy, after all. He cannot be blamed for suffering this heat. But if he is correct . . . I must know. He slapped at the horse with the leather straps, began to ride hard out past the front of the column. In front of him, the guards responded, moving quickly. One man stopped, called back to him, pointing, and he saw now, men in the road, a small group coming toward him, dragging muskets behind them. He stopped, waited for the staff, and Tilghman was there now, said, “Sir. Those are soldiers.”

“I am aware of the obvious, Colonel. Find out who they are.”

Tilghman began to move forward and the guards shouted again, and now the road was coming alive with men, most shuffling slowly, some emerging from the brush. They began to flow by him, most not seeing, some stumbling, one man now falling close to him, the man’s musket clattering to the hard ground. Behind them, a larger group of men appeared, were more organized, two columns, a small flag of a regiment. They came on slowly, the men holding themselves in the road with deliberate steps. He saw officers, men on horses, and Tilghman said, “Sir . . . Colonel Shreve.”

The faces were familiar, and Washington moved the horse forward again. Shreve moved off the road, let his column move past him, saluted Washington now, said, “Sir. Thank Almighty God.”

“What is the meaning of this, Colonel? Why are these men retreating?”

“I do not rightly know, sir. I received the order an hour ago. We had not yet engaged the enemy.”

Behind the regiments, more columns appeared, some uneven, men barely able to move, some falling out of line. There were too many for the narrow roads, and the fields out to one side were filling with columns as well. He looked at Shreve, wanted to shout in the man’s face, clamped down on the words, said in a growl, “You were ordered to retreat? By whom?”

“I cannot say, sir. The orders came from . . . command.”

He stared at the man for a moment, looked now at the column of exhausted troops, said, “Gather these men into a place where they can rest. Refresh them as best you can. This day is not yet concluded.”

He moved past the officers, rode between lines of silent troops, thought, This is not a panicked retreat. These men are not beaten by anyone. They have their muskets, they . . . Shreve’s words came back to him . . .
had not yet engaged the enemy
. He pushed the horse to a gallop again, threaded his way past the troops. He searched the faces, more officers, some as drained as their men, some moving toward him. He was suddenly at a bridge, a small deep cut across the road, stepped the horse carefully, saw another column in the road ahead, a pair of dogs scampering across the road, saw now, Charles Lee.

He slapped the horse, Lee waiting for him, no expression on the man’s face, and Washington pulled up beside him, felt his grip loosening on his temper, the control gone from his voice. He shouted, “What is the meaning of this? Why are these men in retreat? Why is there such confusion?”

Lee stared blankly at him, seemed surprised by his volume, tried to speak, turned slightly in the saddle. Washington’s rage was complete, the words a flow of molten rock.

“What have you done, Mr. Lee?”

Lee seemed to stagger under the heat of Washington’s glare, a hint of wide-eyed fear. He formed the words, said in a low voice, “There is no confusion here.” He tried to gather energy, the smugness beginning to return. “There has been considerable difficulty this morning arising from disobedience of my orders, sir. I have received contradictory intelligence, the enemy has confounded my every move. Officers under this command have failed me in every respect. The ground over which this fight was to be made is wholly unacceptable, a plain so large that no army can make a show for itself. The enemy grenadiers shall surely have destroyed us. As you know, sir, this entire operation was undertaken against my own opinion.”

Washington gripped the reins, his fingers curling into hard fists. He glared at the man’s smugness, all the perfect excuses, wanted to pull Lee up off his horse, wrap his hands around the man’s thin neck. He felt himself choking on the rage, forced his words through a tightly clenched jaw, “You ought not have accepted this plan . . . you ought not have accepted this
command
if you did not intend to carry it through!”

Lee shook his head, said, “Sir, this plan had little chance of success against such a formidable enemy. I tried to caution you . . .”

There was a shout from in front, and Washington saw one of his aides riding hard, the man halting now, “Sir! The enemy is advancing, pursuing our retreat! He is not more than fifteen minutes from our position!”

Washington looked past the man, saw a winding ravine, dense brush, narrow roadways cutting across. Beyond, the ground was a morass of swamps, patches of thick trees, framed by a ridge of high ground.

“As I suspected, sir. We are no match . . .”

Lee’s voice sliced through him, a hot sharp blade, and he felt something break inside, the fury and violence now rising, uncontrollable. Lee stopped his words, and Washington saw fear in the man’s face, Lee leaning away from him, a small shake of his head, his voice squeezing out one high-pitched word,
“No . . .”

Washington felt his hands still wrapped around the leather reins, the violence in his mind now a roaring flame. He saw now that men had gathered around them, officers, troops, his staff, all watching him with breathless silence, and he closed his eyes for a brief moment, would not look at Lee. The fury began to slip away just a bit, and he opened his eyes, said, “Mr. Lee, I am relieving you of your responsibility on this field. You will place yourself at the rear of this column.”

He did not wait for a response, spun the horse around, saw a new column of troops approaching, more of Lee’s retreat, but the men were not staggering, held their muskets on their shoulders, their officers riding stiffly alongside. They moved down through the ravine, then up toward him, and Washington saw their commander, Anthony Wayne, riding alongside the young Frenchman. Wayne raised his hand, and the order went out, and the column came to a crisp halt. Lafayette rode forward still, the young man’s face clenched in grim anger.

“General Washington, we received an order to withdraw. General Wayne was compelled to disengage his men from the enemy, and he did so in good order. I wish to report that General Wayne’s brigade has performed with the most conspicuous honor.”

Wayne moved forward. Seeing red fury on the man’s face, Washington said, “Mr. Wayne, we have been informed the enemy is in pursuit of this column. Your troops are in place. Can you maintain a strong defensive position on this ground while we bring the remainder of this army into line?”

“We will not be moved, sir.”

“Then proceed.”

Wayne’s troops began to file out to the side of the road, lining the higher ground, the ravine now to their front, a deadly position for an enemy to cross. He looked at Lafayette, said, “General, we have work to do. I require someone familiar with this ground. It appears to be a good place for a fight.”

The first line of British troops came on horseback, a magnificent show, cavalry under tall plumed hats guiding their horses in perfect order. Wayne’s men were anchored in place, some spread out into the brush along the edge of the ravine, the only movement in their line coming from their commander. He slipped along behind his men, spoke in a hushed voice, caution, patience, unmistakable orders for the men who would only obey them. He knew the British horsemen would make a grand display of their advance, their officers holding them in line to face their enemy as a sign of pride in their power. It was so much tired tradition to Wayne, to so many of the American officers, but it was a tradition that the veteran British regulars carried proudly into every fight, centuries of pomp and magnificence that so often put fear into the hearts of their enemies. But Wayne’s men would not run, had seen too much already on this one day, had already pushed hard against the cream of the British infantry. The men on horses were simply more of the same, no matter the finery on their uniforms, or the high-stepping grace of their horses.

The cavalry rode steadily across the swampy ravine, the gait of their horses tied to the sharp rhythm of their drummers. Behind them, along the far side of the ravine, British infantry was moving into position, waiting for the first great thrust from their horsemen to soften up this line of rebels.

Wayne kept up his movement, calming his men, urging them to wait. One of the horsemen pulled aside, and Wayne saw the gold disc on the man’s chest, his symbol of rank, the officer who gave the commands. Wayne focused on the man, could see him scanning the lines of troops that blocked his path, and Wayne smiled, knew the order to charge would come from him. He leaned close to the soldiers nearest him.
“Take aim at the king bird.”

The horsemen continued to close and Wayne ignored the nervous glances from the men around him, repeated the words, “Steady. Do not fire.”

The horsemen were now within forty yards, the thunder of their drums filling the air, and Wayne watched the British officer raise his arm, point out to one side, the drums changing their beat. The cavalry began shifting their formation, making ready for their final grand assault. Wayne still focused on the officer, was close enough to see the man’s expression, the utter contemptuous sneer for these half-dressed men who dared impede the march of the king’s own cavalry. Wayne stood up tall, caught the man’s eye, raised his hand in a hard fist, then slowly extended one finger, pointed straight into the man’s chest, shouted,
“Fire!”

The rows of muskets exploded in one sharp blast, and for a long moment, there was nothing to see. He shouted again, “Reload! Fire at will!”

As the smoke began to clear, there was a strange hesitation along his line, men staring for a moment at the horrific sight. Horses and their riders were spread along the edge of the ravine, some moving in short fits, blood spreading on both man and beast. The horsemen who could still ride did not remain, were already escaping back across the causeway, and there was no order, no kind of formation. Wayne’s men began to fire again, many aiming at horseless soldiers as they tried to pull themselves into some kind of line. But there was no command, no officer to lead them, and before Wayne’s men could mount a third volley, what remained of the King’s cavalry had limped themselves away.