George Washington has made a decision: he and his army will run.
The date is August 29. Hard rain and a stiff northeast wind rake the East River. The general pulls his long black wool cape tightly around his shoulders in a vain attempt to find comfort. Standing atop the steps leading down to the Fulton Street ferry, Washington is exhausted from two days and nights in the saddle. His thoughts are not on his own misery but on the fate of the thousands of men now gathering on the beach below him. A hastily assembled flotilla of rowboats and sailboats lines the shore, waiting to spirit the demoralized colonial troops from Brooklyn to the safety of Manhattan. Yet George Washington’s army can go nowhere until the weather turns in its favor and the river calms.
It has been a brutal forty-eight hours. The colonial rebels entered the battle confident in the strength of their chain of defensive fortresses. But because of the success of Howe’s brilliant and risky nighttime march, the enemy was able to place thousands of soldiers behind those forts. By noon on the first day of fighting, the British attacked from three sides and were clearly winning the engagement.
The slaughter was so intense that one unit from Maryland had no choice but to launch a suicide attack. The British column was commanded by a man whose name would soon become well known to Americans: Lt. Gen. Charles Cornwallis.
The men of the First Maryland were led by a bold major whose name would soon be lost to history: Mordecai Gist.
At dawn, Gist’s troops numbered two thousand, but by noon on the first day of battle, just four hundred men remained in the field. Rather than cower and await their inevitable capture by the much larger British force, the farmers, fishermen, and merchants turned soldiers, upon Gist’s order, hurl themselves at the highly trained British regulars.
At first, the plan worked.
The British were stunned, not expecting such an audacious maneuver. However, they quickly recovered, responding to the frontal assault with cannon fire, directed from a defensive position known as the Old Stone House.4
The men of Maryland were felled by the dozens. Those who remained alive were forced to step over their dead friends to press the fight. Yet the First Maryland regrouped, six times in all, to charge the British and drive them from the Old Stone House—twice.
LEGEND HERE
Still, Cornwallis’s force was too large. Each time the Marylanders captured the Old Stone House, a new wave of British soldiers drove them back.
When the skirmish finally ended, 256 Americans lay dead on the field of battle. Dozens more were wounded. Still more Marylanders had been taken prisoner, many soon to die on British prison ships.
Only ten Maryland rebels escaped the disaster unscathed.
Among those was Maj. Mordecai Gist.5
Not to be outdone in their bravery were the ill-fated soldiers of the Massachusetts militia. Their lines were just to the east of the Marylanders’, holding a vital path to Brooklyn known as Battle Pass. The contingent from New England was four hundred strong, their battle flag emblazoned with a single word: Liberty.
The Massachusetts militia soon squared off against the units of Hessian regiments anchoring the center of the British line.6 The Hessians attacked from the south, up a country lane known as Flatbush Road.
The Liberty flag flew high, but the idealistic ambitions of the Massachusetts soldiers were quickly overrun by the tactical skill of the veteran Hessian soldiers.
Faced with defeat, the remaining men from Massachusetts tried to surrender.
They raised their hands, standing still in the face of the enemy. Soon, several hundred New Englanders were surrounded by a circle of Hessian bayonets. The British had warned the Hessians that the American rebels would put to death any soldier they captured. Thus, the Hessians were intent on doing the same. Making matters worse for the Massachusetts brigade, the Hessians had been drinking all day from canteens filled with water and rum—fueling their hatred for the rebels.
Thrusting their pointed blades, the Hessians tightened the circle, stabbing and hacking at any man who tried to escape. Some rebels were run through and pinned to a tree. The Massachusetts rebels put up a valiant fight, kicking and punching and swinging their muskets toward the bayonets.
But it was futile. Finally, the rebels began pleading for their lives.
The Hessians showed no mercy. Every one of the Massachusetts patriots was slaughtered. American bodies bloated as the August morning grew warm. Flies swarmed the corpses, though not before the Hessians plundered the enemy dead for any sort of wealth. Then the Germans moved on, leaving the bodies of the men from Massachusetts to rot as they pressed their attack through Battle Pass and into Brooklyn.7
* * *
Despite the enormous casualties, the Americans are not overwhelmed by the British. The rain saves them. It pours down all through the afternoon and night. Muskets become useless as the flints and power are drenched. “All the time the rain came falling with an uncommon torrent,” one American soldier will write. “The guns of the whole army are whetted [sic].”
The earthen berms and redoubts behind which the Americans cower become nothing but mud and waist-deep puddles. There is nowhere to take cover from the elements, so men doze standing up or simply lie down to shiver in the muck. At daybreak the following morning, the British artillery opens fire, adding to the misery. But the attack does not come. The weather forbids it.
Thus, the stalemate remains for two long days. George Washington prepares for a British siege, and orders that the wounded be taken by boat to Manhattan as soon as possible. But on the evening of August 29, things change. Rather than endure a British attack, which no doubt will end in the capture and imprisonment of him and his entire army, Washington decides the time has come to send his force back to the fortifications on Manhattan Island.
Better to retreat, and live to fight another day, than to hang by the neck until dead.
The general’s plan to ferry nine thousand men, wagons, horses, and cannon across a turbulent tidal river in the dead of night is not just audacious; it is downright foolish. Washington opposed retreat until this afternoon, when his council of war told him he had no other choice. Now that it has begun, the general is at the mercy of the wind, tides, rain, and, most of all, darkness. All will be lost if the retreat is not concluded by sunrise, when the British will see for themselves that the Americans are on the run. Victory will be as easy as pinning the rebels down on the beach with cannon and commencing a wholesale slaughter.
One by one, Washington’s troops have been pulled from the front lines, with orders to march in absolute silence. They have not been told where they are going, only that they are pulling back to a more advantageous position. No talking or even coughing is allowed. Wagon wheels are wrapped in cloth to ensure quiet, and officers have been ordered to issue commands in face-to-face whispers. Should the British learn of Washington’s withdrawal, they will surely attack in force. As the last two days of fighting have shown, superior numbers and better-trained soldiers would allow the British Army to destroy the Americans. The war would be over, Washington would be hanged, and independence would be forever lost. So, it is imperative that this retreat be flawless.
As the beach below Washington becomes choked with men, soldiers can no longer make their way down to the boats. A line forms, leading up the steps, and onto the ridge. By now, Washington’s army knows its destination. The men are eager to reach Manhattan. Many are already planning to quit the war and return home, a thought that seemed impossible just hours ago, when the rebels were on the verge of total annihilation.
The backup of soldiers waiting to set foot on the beach grows to a hundred yards long, then to a quarter mile. Panic sweeps through the ranks. After forty-eight hours of utter devastation at the hands of Gen. William Howe’s army, fighting in mud and water up to their knees, and seeing friends and fellow soldiers run through by British bayonets, the Continental soldiers see this retreat as salvation. But the idea of being so close to safety only to have the British once
again find them tests the limits of their fear.
Washington notices with alarm that the soldiers on the beach are no longer following orders. Despite the foul weather and stiff currents, one group of men has boarded a boat and is preparing to shove off before the general has given the command to do so. Furious, George Washington races down the stairs and pushes his way through the throng. He bends down and grabs a large rock with two hands, then draws up to his full height and lifts the heavy stone over his head.
“Damn you!” he shouts at the soldiers crowding into the skiff. His voice cuts through the utterly quiet night. All eyes turn to watch.
“Leave this boat instantly or I will sink it to hell,” he roars, threating to hurl the rock through the wooden hull.
The threat works; the anarchy is over. The soldiers immediately do as they are told. Order settles through the ranks.
At last, the rain stops. The wind dies. A protective camouflage of fog blankets the East River, which soon turns smooth as glass.
Now it is time to go.
The first wave of rowboats shoves off for the one-mile journey to Manhattan. Like the wagons, the oars are covered in cloth to muffle the sound. Most boats are so overloaded that the water is just two or three inches below the gunwales—but they are afloat. And thanks to a group of Massachusetts soldiers who labored as fishermen before the war, the boats are helmed by very capable watermen.
The time is 11:00 p.m.
Sunrise is 5:24 a.m.
The most important six hours in America’s short history are about to take place.
A defeated George Washington vows to be the last man out.
* * *
The hour of 5:24 a.m. comes and goes. But though the dawn has arrived, Washington’s retreat continues. A fog so dense that one soldier complains he can “scarcely discern a man at six yards’ distance” makes it possible for the rescue flotilla to continue its back-and-forth between Brooklyn and Manhattan. But the general knows that time is running out. As he maintains his vigil at the ferry landing, he knows that soon the British will realize the rebels have fled.
It is now 7:00 a.m. Washington steps onto the last, heavy-laden rowboat. His entire army is safely across. The only items left behind are a few cannon too heavy to pull through the mud.
George Washington is the last man to leave.
Halfway across the East River, he turns and watches with relief as the first astonished units of British soldiers arrive at the ferry landing. The fog now lifting, the enemy sees the general clearly—but can do nothing.
George Washington is safe—for now.
9
LONDON, ENGLAND
OCTOBER 31, 1776
NOON
King George is savoring victory.
More than three thousand miles from New York, the thirty-eight-year-old monarch sits enthroned in the British House of Peers, just moments away from delivering his opening address to Parliament. The ceiling is vaulted, making for unreliable acoustics, and the great walls are covered in tapestries celebrating the defeat of the Spanish Armada more than one century ago. Arrayed before the throne are the leaders of England, many sitting on padded benches known as woolsacks. Those men belonging to the House of Lords wear scarlet wool robes trimmed in white miniver fur, while members of the House of Commons stand in the back of this great room with its vaulted ceiling with the nonlegislative spectators, dressed without ceremony. The members receive no salary for their time in Parliament, and must rely on a second profession to make a living.1
It has been more than four months since King George last addressed this distinguished body as part of the annual Closing of Parliament, delivering a speech in which he took great pains to focus his attention on the war in America.
“We are engaged in a great national cause, the prosecution of which must be inevitably be attended with many difficulties and much expense,” he stated on May 23. As is usual in Parliament, his voice was drowned out by dissenters shouting their opinions. “I will still entertain a hope that my rebellious subjects may be awakened to a sense of their errors, and that, by a voluntary return to their duty, they will justify me in bringing about the favorite wish of my heart, the restoration of harmony and reestablishment of order in every part of my dominion.
“But,” the king then sternly warned, “if a due submission should not be obtained from such motives and such dispositions on their part, I trust that I shall be able, under the blessing of Providence, to effectuate it by a full exertion of the great force with which you have entrusted me.”
That final threat troubles many in Parliament’s minority Whig Party. They believe in reconciliation, not extermination. To some, however, the Whig argument borders on treason, implying as they believe it does that the troubles in America were brought on by King George himself and his punitive treatment of the colonists.
Moments before the summer recess was officially convened, outspoken Whig politician David Hartley introduced a motion that Parliament should not recess at all, for fear that a lengthy summer break would allow the king to pursue his war policies without parliamentary oversight.2
Hartley’s motion was immediately rejected—though not for reasons that had anything to do with politics. June through September finds London at its humid, fetid worst, and many politicians wanted out. Heat accentuates the body odor of the unwashed poor. Lice infestations are rampant. There is no such thing as public sanitation, so residents simply empty chamber pots onto the streets, allowing the aroma of fecal matter to mingle with the stench of rotting garbage, scraps of offal thrown away by the local butchers, and the carcasses of dead cats, dogs, and horses.
In addition, the common man in London often quenches his thirst by drinking from the murky brown waters of the River Thames—which also serves as the city’s raw sewage and factory waste dump. Thus, each year, London is plagued by an epidemic of dysentery and diarrhea. Many citizens, seeking to avoid these maladies, prefer to douse their thirst with copious amounts of cheap gin.3
* * *
Prior to the summer recess, Parliament was united in the belief that the colonies must remain British. Yet members were torn over how to make this possible. The Tory majority loyal to the king believed war to be the only answer. In their opinion, prisoners of war should be shipped to the British colony in India and the rebel leadership hanged to prevent further uprisings.
But the Whig minority insisted that the American colonists were still British citizens. Thus, they were in favor of giving in to the colonists’ demands for parliamentary representation and rescinding some of the punitive Coercive Acts.
On July 8, a casually transmitted line of information from Gen. William Howe to King George changed the political landscape: “I am informed that the Continental Congress have declared the United Colonies free and independent states.”
King George and the vast majority of Parliament were outraged. There would be no reconciliation.
Then, in mid-August, the entire Declaration of Independence was published in the newspaper the London Chronicle. Public reaction was swift and angry, with many British citizens viewing the document as nothing more than a clever justification for treason.
A typical comment came from Ambrose Serle, the civilian secretary to Adm. Richard Howe, an elder brother of Gen. William Howe. He wrote that the Declaration proclaims the “villainy and madness of these deluded people.”4
Most public opinion centered on the two opening paragraphs, which justify independence and introduce the unique notion that free men should be accorded “the pursuit of happiness”—an absurd concept to Britain’s impoverished masses, a group numbering roughly three-fourths of the island’s population, most of whom can neither read nor comment on the Declaration. Almost all of them are doomed to a life of misery and want, thanks to a social structure that prevents upward mobility from one class to another. Seeking to keep wealth and power for themselves, the British upper class makes quality education a constant for their children, yet none is provided for
the working man, who can ill afford to pay tuition.5
To King George, the Declaration is a personal affront. By far the document’s lengthiest passage consists of eighteen blistering accusations against the king’s character and policies. The words chosen by Thomas Jefferson are deliberately provocative, designed to publicly humiliate a monarch who revels in the fantasy that his colonial subjects universally adore him. Now, as the Declaration begins to make its way around Europe, Jefferson’s disrespect raises questions about how King George will fight back.
While the war is certainly preoccupying George, he is also harboring a secret. His mental health is in decline. The king has become prone to long, disjointed discussions with members of his royal court, veering uncontrollably and without warning from one topic to another. The same can be seen in his writing, where sometimes single sentences ramble on for a full page. George now has trouble sleeping, and his vision is beginning to blur. So far, neither the king nor any of his advisers sees these symptoms as anything more than duress—there is the stress of the colonial war, along with Queen Charlotte having brought their eleventh child into the world six months ago.
George’s reputation as a learned and passionate husband, father, and ruler guarantees that his behavior will go unquestioned—until it becomes too late. Very soon, the king’s descent into madness will begin in earnest. Behavior that is now merely eccentric will be replaced by violent, manic episodes and, ultimately, confinement to a straitjacket.6
But on this last day in October, as the king formally opens Parliament, he is the very image of a regal monarch. For two long months, he has kept his emotions in check, refraining from a public response to the Declaration of Independence.
But soon, he will parry the words of Thomas Jefferson. With any luck, British troops will capture Jefferson and the other backers of the Declaration before the year ends. When that happens, the king will personally see to it that the tall Virginian hangs.
No one insults the king of England.
Killing England Page 10
