by Jeff Shaara
Mifflin’s men were fully in place, and behind him, still other units were advancing, more strength. Washington directed them back behind the first troops, a second line of muskets. The officers had control now, and he moved his horse out into the Post Road, stared to the south, expecting to see the familiar columns of red and white, Howe’s massed forces pushing their way north. The horse moved under him, and Washington held hard to the reins, Yes, I know. Right here! We will meet them right here. And we are prepared.
He could see a small hill, about a quarter mile away, the Post Road running up and over, then disappearing beyond. He knew that past the small hill, the road dropped off toward another much larger hill, crowned by the Murray estate, and then just below, Kip’s Bay. He had not expected Howe to come ashore there, had thought they might land farther north, closer to the mouth of the Harlem River, farther from Washington’s strength in the city. He knew the area around Kip’s Bay was commanded by William Douglas, with a brigade of fresh Connecticut troops, green recruits who had not been with the army more than a few days. But south of the bay were more Connecticut troops, under James Wadsworth, experienced men, and Wadsworth would know to reinforce Douglas. He had no idea if the men who had retreated with such panic were Douglas’ men, or Wadsworth’s, or both. But for now, it made no difference.
From behind him, men continued to come forward, reinforcing his stand, and he sat high in the saddle, could hear some men calling out to him, would not acknowledge that, thought, This is not a moment for hat waving and celebration. Show me how you can fight. That is all I ask.
He continued to stare down the Post Road, could hear nothing but the men around him, but then something faint, a muffled rhythm. The men began to hear it as well, and the voices grew quiet. On the hill, he saw a flicker of red, saw a man, a single soldier suddenly crest the hill. The man stopped, seemed to wave, and now more men appeared, filling the road, some spreading out to each side. The muffled sound was now sharp, distinct, the careful rhythm of a lone drummer. The British came forward slowly, and Washington felt his heartbeat rising, expected to see a great mass of troops, but the British moved toward them down off the hill, and behind them, the hilltop was bare, the road empty. The British still moved forward, but the drum had stopped, the soldiers halting now, extending into a single line. Washington could see now, no officers, no one on a horse, thought, It’s merely a scouting party, perhaps, sixty, seventy men. They will not come much closer, unless they have strength behind them. I must hold these men back, they might be tempted to charge them, an easy capture. We must see what they do first.
His thoughts were jarred by a sudden cascade of voices, men on either side of him. He expected to see them bursting forward, shouted, “No! Hold here . . .”
But they were not advancing. Instead, men were pulling away from their cover, the stone wall emptying, as they suddenly rushed out of the cornfield. It had begun with a few, but the infection spread, and all around him, men dropped their muskets, a sudden eruption of panic as his men, Mifflin’s men, the others, abandoned their position. He stared in horror, felt a burn in his chest, his voice choked away, the infection now complete, hundreds of men filled the Post Road, scampering away across the fields. He tried to shout, made just a noise, no words, saw Mifflin riding back through his men, trying to turn them, and the anger rose inside of him, Damn them! Why do they run? His staff was close by, watching him, waiting for some instruction, and Washington felt the anger growing into a hot mindless rage. He spurred the horse, rode through the panicked men, slapping at them with his sword, his voice now harsh, raw. “Stop! You are cowards! Damn you!”
He saw a young officer, the man pushing past his own men, knocking one man to the ground, the officer scrambling over a fence, stumbling, tearing at his own canteen, throwing it aside. Others were doing the same, dropping whatever was in their hands, cartridge boxes, powder horns, littering the ground with the tools of his army. Washington tore the hat from his head, gripped it hard in his fist, still watched the young officer, the man now running away from him in full stride. Washington’s hand was shaking, his hat bunched into a shapeless mass, and he threw it hard to the ground, shouted again, “Damn you!”
But there was no one to hear him now, just his staff, gathering slowly behind him, no one able to hold the troops from their manic retreat. He turned, looked again toward the British troops, saw them advancing again, the same small line, the drummer keeping the rhythm of their march. He slumped in the saddle, watched them come, the uniforms distinct, the sharp colors, the bayonets a bright silver reflection in the afternoon sun. They were nearly within musket range now, and still they kept their discipline, came forward at a steady march. He felt a strange sense of wonder, it was after all just one small unit, no real strength at all. Indeed, just a scouting party. He could see the sergeant leading them, close enough to see the features of the man’s face, confident, watching him as a hawk watches his prey, moving closer. There is no need for them to fire a volley. No, they will just capture us. We are unprotected. He felt the horse suddenly jerk to one side, saw Tilghman close beside him, pulling on the bridle, the young man looking at him with a terror of his own.
“Sir! We must go!”
The horse was moving now, and Washington felt the reins that were still in his hand, could see the staff in motion, the sounds of the horses. Tilghman said again, “Sir!”
His mind snapped alive, and he spurred the flanks of the horse, and it responded, the familiar gallop. The staff was all around him, riding as he rode, moving up the Post Road, following the trail of debris left by his army.
He had caught up to many of the retreating soldiers, had accepted their uselessness to make a stand. The staff had gathered as many officers as could be found and began to guide the troops toward the one place they could find safety. The northern part of Manhattan Island was rocky, with a wide stretch of high ground known as Harlem Heights. There, while Howe had spent two weeks planning his invasion of Manhattan, Washington had placed his headquarters, and the greatest strength of his army, a naturally fortified position, tall cliffs and massive boulders that spread from the Hudson River on the west to the Harlem River on the east.
Washington rode westward now, reached another crossroad that intersected the Bloomingdale Road, the main north–south road on the western part of the island. He crested a hill, could see the Hudson River in front of him, a line of British warships sitting at anchor, part of Howe’s grip on the island. He stopped the horse, the staff, other officers now gathering, more of his army finding their way to the safer roadway. Their movement was northward, and he made no attempt to stop them, knew that they would first have to gather on the rocky Heights if they were to have spirit for another fight.
The road was churned into dust, men moving past without seeing him, and he did not look at them, did not want to know whose men they were, whether or not they were Mifflin’s men or had been a part of the collapse at Kip’s Bay. There was the sound of a horse, then another, and Washington heard his name, the staff motioning. A horse emerged through the choking clouds, and Washington could see it was Israel Putnam. The short round man was holding tight to the reins of a horse whose hide was soaked with hot foam.
“General Washington! Thank God, sir! Thank God! I feared the worst!”
Washington waited for Putnam to collect himself, the exhausted horse lowering its head, Putnam wiping caked dirt from his face.
Putnam commanded the battery far to the south, and Washington knew how far he had come.
“General Putnam, I am pleased to see you are safe.”
Putnam huffed, seemed not to notice the black mood in Washington’s voice.
“Sir, I am not safe at all!” The words poured out of Putnam in a torrent. “We are in a deadly strait! My division is still occupying the battery. I must urge you, sir, to consider our immediate withdrawal! As best as we can determine, the entire British army is east of this position. If they advance across to the Bloomingdale Road, m
y men are cut off. The navy ships have been dueling with our guns down there, and I have no doubt they will attempt some sort of landing after dark. Colonel Knox is putting up a gallant fight, sir, but we are no match for an assault from land and sea! Sir, we must withdraw!”
Washington turned to the east, thought, No sound, no drums, no advance. Nothing. He looked at Putnam, said, “Since you rode this far, I am assuming the Bloomingdale Road is still open all the way southward.”
“Yes, sir! For now, that is! We cannot delay!”
“No, you cannot. Can you make the ride yourself, General?”
Putnam seemed insulted at the question, said, “I am here to protect my men, sir! I will make any ride necessary!”
Washington looked at the other horseman, a much younger man, the face familiar, Aaron Burr, a contentious man who had served briefly with Washington’s staff.
“Major Burr, you are familiar with this road. If the enemy attempts to block it, can you guide General Putnam’s troops on alternate routes?”
The young man seemed calm, unaffected by Putnam’s excitement.
“Sir, I know every back road, all the trails. I can guarantee you we’ll make good our escape.”
Washington was already familiar with the young man’s arrogance, tried to ignore the boast, said to Putnam, “Return to your command, General. Have Colonel Knox salvage what he can, but do not jeopardize your men by attempting to remove the cannon.”
He saw the look of despair on Putnam’s face, and Putnam said, “Sir, we have sixty-seven guns there. That’s nearly half our artillery.”
“You have four thousand men, General. Their safety is my first concern. If you do not succeed, this army has lost far more than cannon. Do not delay, General.”
Putnam saluted, turned his horse, and the young Burr led the way. Washington looked to the west, the sun moving lower in the sky. He pulled the horse around, moved out into the road, the staff behind. He stopped suddenly, strained to hear, the only sound the movement of scattered men, all heading north. He thought of the scouting party, the small detachment of British troops who had so frightened his men. Scouting parties will be out in all directions. All it will take is one who moves west, who dares to go as far as the Bloomingdale Road. If they locate Putnam’s column, Howe can throw a great force into their flank in short order. Putnam has four thousand men. Howe could bring twice that many. He thought of Henry Knox, the young rotund man, the bookseller who had become the best artilleryman in his army. We need your guns, young man. But more, we need you. He glanced back down the road to the south, the road open and silent. He thought of Howe, the man’s tactics: Why does he delay? Why does he not finish the job he had begun this morning? He knows I will not abandon Putnam’s men, he knows they will retreat. That could be his plan, after all. Strike us when we are on the march. He pushed the image from his mind, had seen enough of retreat and panic for one day. He moved the horse again, stared ahead to the high ground to the north, where the mass of his army was digging in.
As he moved northward, he continued to pass the gathering troops, more of his army, seeking the safety of Harlem Heights. He met officers as well, new orders going out, men sent back to the southeast. As the Post Road cut more diagonally across the island, it ran through a natural defile of rocks known as McGown’s Pass, where he was certain a small body of men could hold back a much larger British advance. It was the last piece of good ground his men could use to keep the British away before they came to the flat plain in front of Harlem Heights. He didn’t know if it would work, but he gave the job to the Marylander, Smallwood, one of the few men whose troops he knew would make a stand.
As the darkness spread, it began to rain. The shovels still worked through the deepening mud, but the wounded and the panic-stricken found whatever shelter they could, the sounds of the rain muting the cries of their misery. Washington tried to ignore the rain, sat on his horse on a protruding point of rocks, stared to the south. He had seen nothing of the British, and so, he knew that Smallwood was doing his job, that the British had been slowed down enough to halt for the night below McGown’s Pass.
Putnam’s division had made their escape, exhausted men who had survived the incredible journey up the long route of the Bloomingdale Road, a forced march led by the furious tenacity of their commander. Though Knox had left behind many of his guns, and the men had given up far more of their supplies than the army could afford to lose, four thousand troops had slipped past an enemy three times their number and were now safely in Harlem Heights.
With Howe’s occupation of New York, Washington had one other concern, could not keep it from his mind. Nathanael Greene was in a sickbed in the city, would surely have been captured, had von Donop’s Hessians not been so interested in plunder. As the bleak night wore on, General Greene had made his escape as well, had ridden safely to the Heights, his arrival an astonishing, joyful surprise.
Washington was still out on the point of rocks, the horse quiet beneath him, could still hear the sound of shovels, the army doing its work to make the high ground safer still. The word of Greene’s return had come from his staff, and he had sent them away, did not respond to their curiosity, why he did not join the welcome. He was enormously relieved that Greene had returned, perhaps too much so, felt a strange release of emotion at the news, but he kept it to himself, would not allow the staff to see him that way. There had been enough emotion today, this shameful, awful day. He was embarrassed still by his show of anger at his troops, and though no one else seemed to fault him, though no indiscreet comments came to him, he knew it had been a serious mistake to lose control of his demeanor. He felt the opposite about Greene, not rage, but pure joyful relief. The staff and the other senior officers already knew how much he valued Greene. When Greene had fallen ill, there was talk among the doctors that he might not survive, and Washington had been surprised at his emotions, a fear and sadness he was ashamed to admit. We are all soldiers, and General Greene is as likely as any of us to be killed. But I do need him. Beyond the politics, all the jealousies that infest this army, there is an honesty in the man, something I truly need.
As it grew late, the rain had begun to slacken, the first stars appearing, clouds drifting apart. It was only then that he had sent for Greene, knew the man might still be fragile from the illness. He would not ask him to endure the weather any more than he already had. He stared still toward the open plain in front of the Heights, as he had done at Brooklyn, wondered if the British would form the same way, a vast thick line. Behind him, he could hear the dull plod of a horse’s hooves.
“Not such a pleasant day, I understand.”
The voice was Greene’s, and Washington did not look at him.
“It was not a pleasant day.”
“Your Mr. Tilghman asked me if I would inform you that Colonel Smallwood has brought his men in.”
Washington nodded, said, “Very good. Fine officer.”
Greene moved his horse close up beside him, seemed to lower his voice.
“From what I’ve heard, yes. If anything is to come of this fight, we will need fine officers. We will need good soldiers as well. Could have used some today, so I’m told.”
Washington had tried to erase the image from his mind, fought it now, could still see the men running away, leaving their positions in the face of a mere handful of the enemy.
“I do not wish to experience another day like today. I shouted out to them, shamelessly, even cursed them.”
“Did they not deserve it?”
He stared into the darkness, more stars now appearing.
“I have wondered, Mr. Greene, is this the army with which I am to defend America? Can we do no better than to scamper away? We have done nothing but give up every patch of ground we have been required to defend. Now, we have lost New York. I had thought we could make a fight of it.”
Greene said, “If we are to rely on militia, men pulled away from the tenderness of their homes, given muskets, instructed to stand up to
an experienced army . . . what kind of fight do we expect of them? These are men who will flee from their own shadows. Howe was determined to have New York. He intends to make winter quarters there, so I’m told. The Tories in the city were gleefully vocal on the subject. British flags are already appearing in every shopwindow.” He paused for a moment. “It is still possible we can burn the place. Without the city to make himself comfortable, Howe will have to keep moving, or build his camps, which could leave him at some disadvantage. It may be the best opportunity for us to strike at him.”
Washington shook his head, said, “No. Congress instructed me to hold the city at all hazards.” The words seemed to stick in his throat, and Washington knew what was coming.
“It seems you did not comply.”
Washington saw no humor, said, “No, but it was the very reason we attempted to make our stand there. I would never have allowed General Putnam to remain in the city, to place his division in such peril if the congress had not wished it. To have simply handed New York to General Howe without a fight would have had disastrous consequences for the country. As it is . . . the loss is incalculable.”
Greene sniffed.
“Congress. Is congress to fight this war? What do they know of battle? They expect one glorious fight, army facing army, like some childhood game. What strategy do they impart to you? Here’s your authority to make war. But, do it without harming anything of value, such as New York.”
Washington knew that Greene would speak his mind, would sometimes give in to the frustrations.
“Mr. Greene, the congress has expressed their confidence that we should not destroy New York because we will yet possess it again. Optimism is to be admired.”
“Yes, sir, I love a good optimist. New York is a fine city to be sure. But it’s just a city. It’s not an army, and it cannot do anything to win a war. Right now, it is a collection of houses and buildings that will serve to give shelter to the enemy. There is only one good course remaining. Burn it. If we come to possess it again, then we can rebuild it.”
