Prelude to Glory, Vol. 5

by Ron Carter

  He shook his head in bewilderment, then forced his racing, fragmented thoughts into some semblance of order.

  Charleston? Maybe. But if he wanted Charleston, he’d have been there weeks ago. I can’t take this army down there to oppose him, and he knows it. That leaves only two logical objectives: Philadelphia, or the Hudson and Burgoyne. He sees Philadelphia as the capital city and thinks taking it will hurt us and elevate him in the eyes of Parliament and King George. We can give him Philadelphia and survive quite well. But we can’t give him the Hudson River corridor and survive. So it has to be the Hudson, and a rendezvous with Burgoyne. If that’s true, then sailing his ships to the south is nothing more than a deep feint to draw this army down there, so he can turn around and sail back north, up the Hudson, without opposition.”

  He stopped pacing to silently repeat it all to himself, testing whether it had the ring of sound judgment, common sense. It felt right. He gathered the reins to his mount and raised his left foot to the on-side stirrup before he caught himself. He lowered his foot back to the forest floor while holding the reins with his left hand, his right hand resting on the neck of the horse.

  Maybe Charleston really is his objective. Conquer the south and use it as a base to move north. Maybe. Maybe. Always a maybe. Maybe he intends leading us all over the coast. A matter of attrition—which of us runs out of food and men first. He can move faster on the water than we can on land. Is that the answer? Simply grind us down?

  Again he paused to look the thought straight in the face, to test the sound of it, the feel of it. It would not pass the test of good sense. If Howe had wanted Charleston, he could have been there, almost unopposed, weeks earlier. And the notion that fifteen thousand men on ships, limited in both food and water, could outlast an army on land with an endless supply of food and water and replacements was sheer nonsense. There was no plausible explanation.

  He turned at the sound of horses cantering in and waited while Hamilton and Laurens dismounted and stood, waiting for his orders. Both men saw the anguish on his face as he spoke. “Report.”

  Hamilton spoke first. “The man and his mount are taken care of. Food and rest. He’ll sleep for a while, then be available for further orders.”

  “When he’s rested have him return to his command. There is no return message.” He shifted to Laurens, waiting.

  “The column is stopped until further orders. The war council will convene on your notice. They know nothing of what the messenger said, so far as I know.”

  “Good. I need time. Have my tent erected. I’ll be along shortly. Don’t go far. I’ll want both of you at the council.”

  Startled, Hamilton stiffened. “Sir, are we to leave you alone out here in the woods?”

  For a moment Washington considered. “I’ll be all right. I won’t be long.”

  Both men mounted their horses, and Washington watched their backs as they rode the fifty yards to the column of agitated men, milling about in a loud, confused muddle, their attitude nearly mutinous. From the grove of trees where he held his horse, Washington watched and listened to the frustrated men.

  Stop? We’ve done nothing but march every which direction, and now we just stop here in the forest? For what? Are we trying to find the redcoats, or trying to not find ’em?

  Washington turned back to his mount and loosened the saddle girth. For a time he stood beside the horse, one hand holding the reins, the other unconsciously patting the horse on the neck while he stared at the ground, working to force some conclusion to the pieces that would not come together. Half an hour passed before he tightened the saddle girth and mounted, then reined his horse around and tapped spur.

  His tent was ready, and he entered. Both Laurens and Hamilton were waiting.

  “Gather the war council.” He removed his tricorn and settled onto his chair facing the long table while he waited, then rose at the sound of a horse coming in at a gallop. General Nathanael Greene pulled his mount to a stop, and a moment later the picket pulled the tent flap aside to give him entrance. His eyes searched Washington’s face as he came to attention.

  “Take a chair. The others will be along shortly.”

  “May I inquire, sir. Have the British been located?”

  “They have.”

  “May I know where, sir?”

  Seconds passed before Washington answered. “Sinepuxent Inlet, Maryland.”

  Greene gaped. “Where? Did I hear you correctly, sir? Sinepuxent Inlet? Maryland? Clear down past the Delaware Capes?”

  Washington’s expression remained fixed. “Correct.”

  Greene was foundered, astonished. “South? To where? What’s to the south?”

  Washington exhaled a weary breath. “Charleston, perhaps. But if he wanted Charleston, he could have been there five weeks ago, and there is very little we could have done about it.”

  At the sound of horses they both fell silent, waiting. The officers of the war council came in from different directions: Stirling, Lafayette, Cadwalader, Stephen, Wayne, all with the same blank expression on their faces. They filed into the tent and waited for direction. Washington remained standing to speak.

  “Take your places.” Chairs squeaked, and Washington waited until they were settled. “I have just received reliable information that General Howe and the British fleet were seen and counted yesterday south of the Delaware Capes, at Sinepuxent Inlet in Maryland.”

  Instantly the air was filled with exclamations, loud, raucous. Washington gave them a moment to vent their disbelief, then raised a hand, and the talk ceased.

  “You will recall that when the fleet was sighted in Delaware Bay, and then disappeared, I had decided to wait at the Delaware River for him to show his hand. Then it seemed he must certainly be headed back north, up the Hudson to join Burgoyne, and I ordered this march north to meet them. Now he’s down off the coast of Maryland, moving farther south.”

  The only sounds were the creaking of saddles outside as their horses moved, breathing hard, mingled with the buzzing of summer insects and the chortling of birds in the trees.

  “I cannot recall such contradictory maneuvers in all the military history with which I am familiar. It should not be difficult to find an army of fifteen thousand men with horses and cannon and supply wagons, but we have now spent two months and two weeks trying to do so, and all we have to show for it is a footsore army that has rightly concluded that we do not know what we are doing. I’m sick to death of it. If any of you has a rational explanation, I would be most grateful to hear it.”

  General Anthony Wayne spoke first. Average size, blazing eyes, he had earned the title “Mad Anthony” from the headlong, devil-take-the-hindmost way he led his men into battle. He knew only one way to fight—straight on, shouting at the top of his lungs, sabre swinging wildly at anything resembling the enemy.

  “Send out patrols in both directions. North and south. He’s bound to be one place or the other—Philadelphia or the Hudson. I have men in my division who could handle it.”

  Washington nodded as Greene broke in.

  “He can hurt us worse if he joins with Burgoyne. Together they could cut the states in two. It could end the war.”

  Washington’s expression did not change. “I agree.”

  Cadwalader interrupted. It was General John Cadwalader who had been assigned to cross the Delaware River at Bordentown the night of December 25, 1776, to seal off the escape route for the Hessians following the battle of Trenton. He had made the crossing in a raging blizzard, only to discover it was impossible to bring his cannon across the ice-choked river. He had recrossed back to his men and waited. Washington had commended his judgment and his action.

  Cadwalader spoke up. “It’s possible he’s after Charleston, but if he is, there is nothing we can do about it because of the distance. The most sensible thing would be to do what General Greene suggests—pick the spot where he could do the most damage, and go there. That would be the Hudson.”

  Stirling nodded in agreemen
t but said nothing. William Alexander Lord Stirling was the only American in the Continental Army with a British title, which, however, had never been confirmed by the crown in England. It was Stirling who had made the heroic stand to cover an American retreat south of the Gowanus Swamp on August 27, 1776, during the catastrophic defeat of the Americans at the battle of Long Island.

  Washington turned to Stephen, who met his gaze but said nothing. He turned to Lafayette, standing to his right, and waited. The nineteen-year-old, untried French major general spoke, his French accent prominent.

  “I am not here to advise, but to learn. However, it seems to me that if General Howe is as far south as Maryland, his true objective must be Charleston. That defies all military reason, and further, if it is true, there is nothing this army can do to defend that city because of the distance. It would seem better judgment to move north to meet Burgoyne to prevent finding ourselves between the two armies as time goes on.”

  Washington stood still for a moment: tall, face a study in perplexity bordering on anger. He wished the fiery Benedict Arnold and tough backwoods fighter Daniel Morgan were in the group, instead of up north somewhere trying to rescue St. Clair’s battered army from Burgoyne and Fraser and Phillips and Riedesel.

  But he had sent them, and they were gone, and Washington had long since learned that in the end, he who bears the weight of final command must deal with what he has—nothing more. He must make the soul-wrenching decisions, guided only by the hard facts, instinct, and whatever inspiration the Almighty chooses to impart at that moment. “If only” and “I wish” were useless luxuries.

  He raised his face. “I’m tired of playing the part of the fool. The single course that appears to be reliable is to go north to stop Burgoyne. Unless there is some better suggestion, that is what we will do.”

  His eyes went around the circle, but the silence held.

  “Prepare your men to march in the morning. You are dismissed.”

  The officers looked at him for a moment while they accepted the order. Each nodded his agreement and then stood, each with his mind leaping ahead, making the never-ending small calculations and decisions that hold an army together. With Hamilton and Laurens at his side, Washington watched the other officers file out the tent flap, mount their horses, and wheel them about to work their way back through the sprawled camp of distraught soldiers. He watched until he heard the captains and lieutenants bawling out orders to prepare the camp for their overnight stay, then get ready to march north in the morning.

  Minutes passed before he turned to his two aides.

  “Colonel Hamilton, would you have my horse saddled? Both of you should accompany me.”

  Hamilton’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “Yes, sir. May I inquire where we are going?”

  “To move among the men. Listen. Watch. Be seen.”

  “Yes, sir.” Hamilton left the tent at a trot to reappear minutes later with the horses saddled and waiting.

  Washington mounted his mare and reined her out into the open with Hamilton on his left, Laurens on his right. He sat erect, straight, chin up, as he walked the tall horse north, intently watching the faces of the soldiers, listening to their voices, sensing their mood while he let them see him, stoic, calm, unperturbed. He returned the salute of officers as he passed them and acknowledged the slight bow of the head of the enlisted as they showed their respects. He reached the head of the column and returned southward, walking the horse among the men as they turned east toward the creek and began the work of unloading the great black iron tripods and cook kettles, then the bedrolls and the few tents they had, to set up their camp.

  He passed the New York Regiment, and tall, hawkish Captain Venables saluted. Washington returned it as his horse walked on. Sergeant O’Malley was facing the creek, his back to the approaching Washington. He saw his men slow, then stop in their work while a sense of awe came into their faces, and he turned, looking for the cause. He instantly came to attention and saluted as Washington passed a scant twenty feet away. Washington looked him in the eye, touched the brim of his hat, and moved on. It seemed that time stood still as they watched him disappear into the trees and the bustle of men and equipment.

  As he departed, murmuring broke out among O’Malley’s men.

  “Why’re we stoppin’ again? We was already goin’ north up towards the Hudson, and now we’re stopped, with orders to make camp and then get up in the mornin’ and keep marchin’ north again. Seems like this is the contrariest army since creation.”

  “He musta had a reason. Don’t do nothin’ without a reason.”

  “Well, it would be just dandy if he’d tell us what it is. Stoppin’ just to stop?”

  “He’ll say when we need to know.”

  O’Malley let it run for a minute before he called out, “All right, you heard Cap’n Venables’s orders. Get your bedrolls on your backs and your muskets in your hands. We’re settin’ up camp over by the creek. Move!”

  In the oppressive midday heat of the dead August air, the men shouldered their equipment and moved east through the swarms of mosquitoes and flies and brulies and the tangled undergrowth and oak trees to drop their bedrolls where they chose. Sweating and swatting at the flies, they sat where they could to wait for the wagons to rumble in with the heavy cooking equipment and the tents for the officers.

  With sunset approaching they set the fires beneath the smoke-blackened cook kettles, carried water from the creek, waited for it to boil, and dropped diced beef brisket, turnips, and onions into it, followed by moldy flour for thickening, and salt. They cut, trimmed, and peeled tree limbs and thrust them in to stir until the stew was all thick, with great clumps of floating fat. O’Malley called Third Company, and the men came with their wooden bowls and spoons to get their ration of beef brisket stew and a chunk of heavy, hard, brown bread.

  Caleb carried his bowl to his bedroll beneath an oak tree and sat down to stir the smoking mix while he blew on it. He sucked air as he touched his tongue to the first wooden spoonful and jerked it back, singed. He grimaced as he broke his bread into the bowl, stirred until it was softened, and forced down the salty, greasy gruel. After eating he walked to the creek to fill his canteen, scrubbed the bowl and spoon with water and sand, then returned to his bedroll to sit for a time, watching the familiar muddle of untrained citizen-soldiers trying to set up a camp and settle in for the night.

  Half an hour passed before he opened his bedroll to dig out his burlap bag and fill it with dirt and sand, then hang it from a tree branch. He wrapped his hands with the dirty, frayed canvas strips and dropped easily into the stance of a boxer and began his nightly ritual—left jab, left hook, right hand in hard. He had raised a sweat before he saw Dorman working through the men and bedrolls.

  For a time Dorman watched in silence with a critical eye, making mental notes of the things Caleb did that were right, and wrong, with his feet, his elbows, his shoulders. It’s coming. One day soon. Sooner than I thought.

  After a time, Caleb dropped his hands and turned to face his mentor, waiting.

  Dorman’s face was almost expressionless as he said, “Now we take the next step. I hit back. Not hard, just enough.”

  A smile flickered on Caleb’s face. “Enough to what?”

  “Teach you.”

  Caleb shrugged and raised his hands. Dorman did the same, watching as Caleb began the circling. The boy’s left hand flicked out to jab. Dorman’s right hand came up just enough to deflect the punch, then drop back, and the circling continued. Caleb jabbed again. The next sequence of movements were a blur as Dorman again blocked it with his right hand while his left hand came ripping through Caleb’s spread arms to thump his chest over his heart. The blow was harmless, but in that instant Caleb knew Dorman could have knocked him down backwards, maybe unconscious, if he had not pulled the punch at the last instant. Shocked at the ease with which Dorman had penetrated his defense, Caleb dropped both hands for a moment, and in that split second Dorman jabbed with his le
ft hand and punched with his right. All Caleb saw was both hands start to move and in the next instant felt the fingertips of both touch, left on his chin, right on his forehead, scarcely hard enough to be felt.

  He gaped at Dorman, unable to believe the speed with which the gray-haired, round-shouldered old man had struck and withdrawn. He started to speak, and once again Dorman’s hands flicked out with the blinding speed of a striking snake, and once again Caleb felt the tap on his left temple, then his chin. Dorman began to circle him, his face a mask of concentration, eyes locked onto Caleb’s chest while he took in the whole boy—feet, hands, head, eyes, his every move.

  Caleb raised his hands again, eased his left foot forward, tucked his chin into the hollow of his left shoulder, and began circling clockwise with Dorman, eyes on his chest, vision decentralized to take in the whole man. The men who were lounging nearby turned to watch, fascinated to see the two of them, an old man with finely honed skills, and a young one learning, warily stalking each other, one swinging hard, the other carefully. Minutes passed to a quarter of an hour, and Dorman backed away to drop his hands.

  “Enough for now?” he asked Caleb.

  “Tired?”

  Dorman shook his head.

  “Then let’s go again.”

  Twice Caleb’s hands got through Dorman’s defenses and landed hard, once in the chest, once on the forehead. For two seconds Dorman saw the familiar white and yellow spots dancing before his eyes but gave no sign and kept moving. A quarter of an hour later he backed away once again.

  “We’re through for tonight.”

  Caleb used his fingers and teeth on the knots of his hand wraps. “Did I hurt you? Those two times? I didn’t mean to.”

  Dorman shook his head. “I felt it. No harm.”

  “I’ll try to be careful.”

  “No, don’t. The whole idea is for you to learn to hit hard while you’re moving. The only way you’ll learn that is to do it. I’ve been hit hard before. I’ll tell you when it’s enough.”