Washington- The Indispensable Man

by James Thomas Flexner

  During the night of March 4, 1776, three thousand of Washington’s soldiers moved silently onto Dorchester Neck. The ground being frozen too hard for digging, the Americans brought their fortifications with them in wagons: bundles of sticks, three feet thick and four long, and also the heavy wooden frames into which the bundles were to be piled to make ramparts that would be held down with a little dirt scratched up from the icy soil. Moving silently among his troops on horseback, Washington listened for some unexpected sound that might warn the British, stared down towards dark Boston for some flaring of lights that would indicate the enemy was aroused. All remained silent and dark. At 3 A.M., having finished the fortifications, the three thousand builders marched back across the narrow causeway while twenty-four hundred fresh soldiers moved into the fortifications to repel attack.

  While the British generals were drinking the night away, they had been notified that the Americans were active on Dorchester Neck, but they had assumed that nothing could be done there that could not be easily handled in the morning. The light of dawn revealed how much harder patriot soldiers were willing to work than the mercenaries the British officers commanded. Staring at the major works which had bloomed on Dorchester Heights, “an officer of distinction” poetically blamed “the genie belonging to Aladdin’s wonderful lamp.”

  As Washington expected, the British embarked many regiments for a landing on Dorchester. He was about to unleash his own invasion of Boston itself, when the sky blackened with what soldiers on both sides considered the most awesome storm they had ever seen. The British commander in chief, Sir William Howe (who had recently succeeded General Thomas Gage), was glad to accept this interruption as an excuse for not undertaking what the honor of his army would otherwise have required: an attack that would have cost many soldiers who could only be replaced by reinforcements brought from across the ocean. He called back the detachment which had menaced Dorchester, thereby bringing to a halt Washington’s plan to invade Boston.

  Had Howe known of Washington’s plan, he might well have cursed rather than blessed the storm. The American commander had yet to learn that in hand-to-hand fighting his farmboys, who considered their bayonets principally useful for roasting meat over campfires, were no match for England’s professional killers. He was to be taught this lesson on terrains where the Americans could save their lives by running away. But had most of his army been trapped with the murderous British on Boston Neck, Washington might then and there have lost the war.

  In Homeric times, it would have been assumed that some pro-American god had ridden the storm, procuring time for the amateur American commander to learn how to conquer.

  Washington’s half-completed operation achieved a victory he found surprising. Schooled in the rules of warfare, the British believed it intolerably dangerous to remain in a position that was within range of enemy cannon. Since they had abandoned any hope of removing the cannon, the deliberate move they had intended eventually to make from Boston became a hysterical flight. Too hurried to load onto their ships their heavy cannon, they spiked the guns and pushed them, along with General Howe’s carriage, into the bay. On March 10, the British fleet carried the British army away over the ocean.

  Many Massachusetts men were opposed to the armed protest against the British government. These “Tories” or “Loyalists” were usually prosperous citizens, sometimes the holders of British appointments, who had much to lose from civil discord. The outbreak of actual hostilities around Boston had made all but the most inconspicuous Massachusetts Loyalists flee to the city to achieve the protection of the British army. Now the army was fleeing. They were in despair. Although they scrambled to get on the ships, many were left behind. Washington wrote, “One or two of them have done what a great many of them ought to have done long ago, committed suicide.” But then he added, “Unhappy wretches! Deluded mortals! Would it not be good policy to grant a generous amnesty, to conquer these people by a generous forgiveness?”

  What would have been more natural than a parade of the conquering army through liberated Boston, with the Commander in Chief exhibiting his famous horsemanship at the head? There was no such parade. Washington slipped into the city and out again as inconspicuously as he could. However, he was proud of what had been achieved. He wrote privately to his favorite brother, John Augustine Washington, “No man perhaps since the first institution of armies ever commanded one under more difficult circumstances than I have done.… I have been here months together with what will scarcely be believed: not thirty rounds of musket cartridges a man.… We have maintained our ground against the enemy, under the above want of powder, and we have disbanded one army and recruited another within musket shot of two and twenty regiments, the flowers of the British army, and at last have beat them, in a shameful and precipitate manner, out of a place the strongest by nature on this continent.”

  He did not add that his triumphant army had not yet met the enemy in battle.

  ELEVEN

  The Continental Army on Trial

  (1776)

  The British had disappeared. It eventually developed that they had gone to their base at Halifax on Nova Scotia to refit their hysterically loaded ships. But no one doubted that their eventual destination was New York, a city that could have been created by Providence as the stronghold and jumping-off place for a naval power. Manhattan Island was bordered by important rivers. The East River, connecting with Long Island Sound, led to New England. The Hudson was navigable to oceangoing vessels so far north that it could be used to cut the well-settled part of the colonies in half. And the harbor was large enough for any fleet.

  Washington reached New York on April 13, 1776, to discover that every advantage the geography there offered a naval power was also a bayonet aimed at such an army as his. Manhattan Island was too long to be defended completely with the forces he had, and so narrow that an army in the little city at the tip might be trapped by a quick march to the opposite shore of soldiers landed from boats above the town. Military strategy clearly indicated that the city should be abandoned to the enemy—or better yet, burned—while a defense line was set up further north on the Hudson, where accommodating highlands dominated the river. But Washington agreed with Congress that in the current political situation, when public opinion had not coalesced in opposition to Great Britain, the effect on morale of abandoning—not to speak of burning—a major city would be disastrous. And so Washington decided to occupy New York as best he could.

  The only favorable aspect of the geography was that along the Hudson River side of Manhattan there arose an easily defensible high ridge, which made blocking that river unnecessary to the defense of the city. However, on the other side of the island, a flat shore invited invasion across the East River. This meant that the East River must be made immune to British shipping. To block its mouth near where it entered the harbor boats were sunk, creating an underwater barrier that would stop or at least slow down British warships. Guns from three forts were trained on that very spot: one from the south tip of Manhattan, one from a little island, and the third from the far shore. So far, so good. But the essential fort on the far shore could not be held unless the part of Long Island on which it was built were also held. And Long Island was much too extensive a land mass for Washington’s little army completely to defend.

  Week after week for more than two months, no British sails appeared. However, it was for Washington hardly a quiet time. Traveling to Philadelphia, he wrestled with Congress concerning two major problems. His own army needed strengthening. Furthermore, the northern army, under his overall command but semi-independent, was in trouble. It had almost captured Canada, but was now in flight from a combination of disease and British reinforcements. If the northern defenses were not reconstituted, upstate New York and New England would be open to invasion from Canada.

  As Washington expostulated, the congressmen found it hard to listen, for they were struggling in their minds with the most serious possible political problem. Now th
at the fighting had gone so far, should the colonies abandon all efforts to compromise with the Crown? Should they make possible active support from that enemy of Great Britain, France, by declaring their independence? Would a declaration strengthen or weaken the cause at home? How many Americans who were supporting what they regarded as “a loyal protest” would go along with independence, an idea which, only a brief year before, had been given serious consideration by only a few extreme radicals? Was independence safe, was it justified, was it expedient?

  Since he did not regard political decisions as the business of the military, Washington made no public statement, but he wrote privately of his regret that the delegates “of whole provinces are still feeding themselves upon the dainty food of reconciliation.”

  Washington was back with his army in New York when, on July 6, 1776, he received a copy of the now enacted Declaration of Independence. It was a queasy moment. Promulgation of the news would induce reactions that would indicate what percentage of the army, how many inhabitants of New York, would welcome—would indeed not rebel against—this radical change in the nature of the cause. After the brigades had been drawn up on their respective parade grounds to have the Declaration read to them, Washington heard cheers. But were they loud enough? And, once the news had spread through the civilian population with the speed of human breath, he studied the faces of people on the street, listened to the intonations of voices.

  The British officials, who had still been functioning in New York, had to flee, and Tories were now liable to arrest as enemies of a new nation. Their absence would simplify defense when the British invasion came, but Washington, who left the problem to the civilian authorities, hoped that Tories would be treated with “every indulgence which … good judgment will permit.” When a plot was discovered aiming at his own assassination, he suppressed the matter as best he could lest mobs rise and attack conservatives who might, if not molested, be persuaded to support the cause.

  A few days before the Declaration reached New York, the British fleet that had disappeared from Boston reappeared in New York Harbor. The troops were landed on Staten Island. These fifty square miles of fertile farmland out in the bay were well suited to contain and support the British base that was established there. As more and more ships came in, these directly from Europe, Washington saw gathering before him what was in fact the largest expeditionary force of the eighteenth century. The total mounted to thirty thousand men, one third of them the Hessians George III had rented from four German princes. The accompanying fleet included ten ships of the line and twenty frigates.

  Washington’s army was less numerous: twenty-three thousand. It had one aspect greatly pleasing to its Commander in Chief: it was not just from New England but truly national. However, the mixing of diseases from various regions made it very sickly.

  Having delayed to determine whether the overwhelming power they manifestly wielded would not in itself make the rebels back down, the British finally advanced on August 21, 1776. A large detachment landed on the eastern tip of Long Island, too far from Washington’s lines for him to make any real resistance. The key position was now Brooklyn Heights, about two square miles of cliff, across from the tip of Manhattan, on which were placed guns necessary to keep the East River shut. Beyond, in the direction of the British advance, was a rough spine of forested hills that extended from the shore of the East River some nine miles inland. In this advanced position, Washington stationed thirty-five hundred of his best men, while four thousand who were less experienced were camped in and around the protecting fortifications on the Heights.

  Suspecting that the British movement on Long Island was merely a feint and that the real attack would be directly from Staten Island on the city, Washington stayed in New York. He entrusted the command in Brooklyn to the fiery and erratic Major General John Sullivan. Since Sullivan lacked the troops to guard the whole nine-mile stretch of hills, his left wing hung in the air. This did not bother him—or his Commander in Chief—as it would have bothered a trained regular.

  Very early on the 27th, Howe created a diversion along the East River shore on Sullivan’s right flank. Dawn further revealed Hessian regiments drawn up in the center under the part of the bluff Sullivan was best prepared to defend. When Washington, seeing no preparations to attack the city, dashed across the river with reinforcements, the only sound on the left flank was the singing of birds. Then suddenly there burst forth in that quiet sector musket fire and even the music of an expert military band. A powerful British column had, by making a wide sweep to the left, marched around the furthest American defenses. Now advancing to the right, it inserted itself between the fort on Brooklyn Heights and Sullivan’s men along the bluff. At the same time, with another roar of gunpowder, the Hessians charged Sullivan’s front.

  Washington hoped that if Sullivan’s men did not “flee precipitously” the battle might still be won. But, except for a Maryland regiment that made a heroic stand and was almost annihilated, the soldiers either surrendered or pelted as best they could for the fort. Washington galloped to the fort, concluding that the most vital need was to keep the four thousand rookies stationed there from reacting to panic outside with hysteria inside.

  As the last fugitives dashed singly, gasping and often bloody, into the fortification, there came the sound of many feet hitting the ground in unison. In perfect formation, regiment by brightly uniformed regiment, the enemy entered the clearing outside the walls. They drew up just beyond musket range. There was a long period of suspense as the professionals stared stolidly and the quaking amateurs stared back across their ramparts, and then, to Washington’s incredulous relief, the enemy wheeled and moved backwards.

  Historians have long argued that Howe threw away a great opportunity by not attacking while Washington’s men were, despite his best efforts, still in great fear and confusion. The British commander, however, congratulated himself on his restraint. In common with his governmental superiors overseas, Howe believed that the rebellion had been fomented by a few desperate men, who had terrorized the American majority, which still loved their sovereign. By making fools of these desperate men—as he just had done—Howe would encourage the well-disposed majority to brush them aside.

  His restraint was also military prudence. Even if the Americans were not good at fighting, they were good at digging. Their earthworks were considerable and could not be stormed without considerable loss. The rebels could be more cheaply defeated for a second time by knocking down their walls with artillery. If, in the meanwhile, Washington tried to withdraw, Howe would intervene, catching the patriot army half on land and half on water.

  Three days later, Howe woke up to find that the American force had disappeared—it seemed miraculously. The professional officer, whose men were trained to move only in formation, could not understand how thousands of American soldiers had slipped off in the dark so inconspicuously that no indication was given. Habituated to thinking for themselves, Washington’s soldiers had flowed around obstacles and away as easily as a stream of water. And Washington had made up a convincing falsehood to explain the gathering of boats which had made the ferrying possible.

  Although a London publication accorded the escape of Washington’s force “a high place among military transactions,” the fact was that the Continental Army had, in its first pitched battle, taken a severe drubbing. Washington tried to keep up morale by referring to the Battle of Long Island (or of Brooklyn Heights) as a mere “skirmish,” but he had lost some fifteen hundred men, almost half of those who had been outside his walls. He was still convinced that the British flanking maneuver would have amounted to little had the men done their “duty.” He confessed to Congress that “want of confidence in the generality of the troops,” made him now “despair” of holding New York City. This despair was not alleviated when thousands of soldiers, having had their first real taste of the British might which they had optimistically hoped to overcome, went home. The Connecticut militia shrank from eight tho
usand to two thousand.

  The capture of Brooklyn Heights opened the East River to British shipping, and gave the British army control of the Long Island shore opposite Manhattan’s easily invaded east side. However, there remained to the patriots a defensible area known as Harlem Heights. As Manhattan narrowed towards its northern tip, the bluff along the Hudson filled the whole top of the island. Various of Washington’s officers urged that the army move north to Harlem Heights. It was argued that, if the British took the middle of the island, any patriot force in the city would be trapped.

  However, Congress, having refused Washington permission to burn the city, ordered him to hold it “at all costs.” He decided to send nine thousand men to the Heights, spread out five thousand to protect the miles of lowland between the Heights and the city, and to leave a garrison of five thousand in New York. Historians have accused him of stupidly sentencing that garrison to capture if the British landed above them and moved across the narrow island. Manhattan was admittedly narrow, but it was, except for occasional fields, heavily wooded. Experience had taught Washington that European troops were helpless in woods. He believed that, if worse came to worst, the garrison could escape through the forest (as they were actually to do).

  Having paused to see whether the rebels would not react to their drubbing by throwing themselves on the mercy of the Crown, the British struck Manhattan on September 15. Five warships anchored broadside in the East River off Kip’s Bay. Although this indentation in the shoreline, which then penetrated almost to present Second Avenue, is now between Thirty-seventh and Thirty-eighth streets, it was then some miles above the northern confines of the city. Under a barrage of the great naval guns, eighty-four six-oared barges brought ashore red- or blue-clad British or Hessian troops. The defense consisted of shallow trenches filled with the least-experienced of Washington’s militiamen. The farm-boys took to their heels.