Prelude to Glory, Vol. 2

by Ron Carter

  Percy spoke. “If it’s the forts that concern you, sir, give me half an hour with the cannon and they won’t be standing.”

  Howe raised a hand. “We wait. Issue orders that we camp here tonight.”

  It was finished.

  The sun touched the western rim of the world and shadows lengthened, and suddenly the shout came once again from the American lines. “They’re building cook fires—bedding down for the night.”

  Again the Americans stood in the trenches and fortifications to peer south into the first shades of dusk. Fires winked on. They could hear the clatter of iron tripods being spread and the clank of huge black kettles being hung on chains as the regimental cooks started supper. The Americans stood still, staring, afraid to hope.

  Billy turned to Eli, standing in the trench next to him. “Do you believe it?”

  Eli rubbed a grimy hand over tired eyes. “I don’t know. It could be a trick for a night attack. In a while I’ll go look.” He glanced back at Billy. “Seen Thompson? Turlock?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know if Thompson got our sick out before the British hit us?”

  “Mary?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know. I doubt it. It happened too fast.”

  “What do the British usually do with sick prisoners?”

  “No one ever said. I suppose they take care of them. It’s the only way to be sure we’ll do the same for them.” He looked at Eli and saw the need. “Mary’s not a soldier. She’ll be all right.”

  Ten minutes later Washington set up his meager command post out in the open, in full sight of his tattered army. It was only a table and a few chairs, with a lantern, but from it a sense of sanity, of organization, of focus seemed to spread. He put out a call for all officers of the rank of captain or above and ordered them to search out their own men and assemble them in one place and report back. He issued orders to the regiments to set up cook fires, while he sent runners to Forts Putnam, Greene, and Box with orders to empty their commissaries immediately of all smoked meat, flour, and fresh vegetables and bring them to his command post within the hour to be distributed at once. All medicines, all clothing, all utensils, all blankets, all available muskets and cartridges were to be stockpiled behind him. The able were to do what they could for the wounded. Pickets were assigned on a four-hour rotation. At all times the trenches and breastworks and forts were to be fully manned, prepared to defend against a night attack, which was surely coming. Men were to take sleep in four shifts, two hours each, so at all times at least three-fourths of the army would be ready in the trenches.

  It crept outward. He’s here. He’s in command. It will be all right.

  In full darkness the regiments collected around their cook fires, taking their portion of stew steaming in wooden bowls they had just been given, to sit on blankets that had been passed out, and work at their stew with wooden spoons while they drank scalding coffee from pewter mugs they were handed. They tore chunks of black bread and ate in silence. They finished and put down their utensils dirty and walked back to take their positions in the trenches, listening, watching.

  A little after nine o’clock Eli slipped past the pickets and disappeared in the darkness, traveling south. At nine-thirty a drummer softly pounded out tattoo, and one-fourth of the men sought their blankets for their two hours of sleep, exhausted, weary to the bone, gone before their heads were down.

  Just after ten o’clock Eli returned unseen and dropped beside Billy. “They’re not coming for a night attack.”

  “Think Washington should know?”

  Eli thought for a moment. “Maybe.”

  The two wearily made their way to the command table to find General Washington sitting erect, working in the dim yellow lantern light with pen and quill, writing orders. His personal bodyguard faced the two, hand on his sword. Washington raised his face as they approached and waved his hand to his bodyguard, who stepped back.

  “Sir,” Billy said, “Corporal Billy Weems, Boston regiment. This is Private Eli Stroud. We haven’t found our officers yet, but I thought we should report to you.”

  Washington squinted to see Eli clearly. “Have we met?”

  “Yes. I scouted the British lines and reported to you yesterday.”

  “I remember. What can I do for you?”

  Eli spoke. “I just came back from the British lines. They’re in for the night. There won’t be a night attack.”

  Washington’s eyes widened. “Who sent you down there?”

  “No one.”

  “What did you see?”

  “They got their tents up. Horses tied. Pickets out. Cannon blocked. Lights out.”

  Washington released his breath, and for a moment Billy saw profound relief in his face. “Are you certain?”

  “Certain.”

  Washington stared long and hard, judging whether he dared accept this report from a man he had met but once. He made his decision. “Thank you. That will give us precious time to get ready for their attack tomorrow morning. Go back to your regiment and carry on.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They were turning to leave, when Washington rose to his full height. His face shined in the lantern light, and his eyes were like flecks of pale gray obsidian. He spoke once more, softly. “Gentlemen, it was a privilege to be one of you today. Our losses were not the fault of how our men fought. I have never seen such courage.” He paused for a moment, then finished. “Get some rest. We have much to do to see this thing through. God bless you both.”

  ______

  Notes

  One of the most thorough, competent historical reports of the battle of Long Island—which includes the geography of the battle area, the officers involved, the troop movements, and the results—is found in Johnston, The Campaign of 1776, part 1, pp. 139–206. The narrative given by Johnston, together with the battle map that accompanies his book, supports the general text of this chapter. See also Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, pp. 152–59, and Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 258–67.

  Brooklyn Fortifications

  August 28, 1776

  Chapter XVII

  * * *

  Pelting rain fell straight down drumming in the black an hour before dawn, and the Continental army stood shivering in the Brooklyn trenches in mud and water up to their ankles. Chill water dripped from their noses and chins and drenched their clothing and matted their hair, and soaked the powder in their musket pans. They watched south in the rain, straining to hear sounds of slogging feet or the guttural cursings of soldiers trying to move cannon up the incline, with wheels sunk ten inches into the sticky muck. There was nothing.

  Sunrise came to change the blackness to a pall of gray gloom. There were no lights in either camp; every campfire had been drowned to lifeless heaps of soaked ashes. Hunger came gnawing, and the men took rotation by the regiment to go to the commissary and get their ration of two hard biscuits and four ounces of raw pork for the day. The officers stood in line with their men, George Washington leading. He received his two hard biscuits and chunk of pork with the others, and walked dripping back to his command table in plain sight of his men. They returned to drop splashing into the mud and water in the trenches. They broke their biscuits with wet rocks and shoved pieces between chattering teeth and slowly began to work it. They used their belt knives to cut small chunks of raw pork. And they looked at their commander, working on his ration with a pocketknife, soaked, muddy, fatigued just like them, without rest since the battle of yesterday, and they took heart.

  A little before eight o’clock the first British cannonballs came whistling to plow into the mud thirty yards in front of the breastworks and disappear, and then the rain-muffled sound of the distant cannon came rolling. The buried cannonballs exploded with a nearly soundless thump and did little more than raise half a ton of mud eight inches before it settled back.

  American cannoneers peered intently down the incline with narrowed eyes until they saw the ora
nge wink of the British cannon in the blur, and then they held heavy tarps over the touchholes of their own heavy guns and loaded and returned fire. One of the first ten shots hit something in the British camp filled with gunpowder, and flame spurtled fifty feet upward. A moment later the resounding blast rolled past, and the American cannoneers stood in their trenches and raised their fists and shouted their defiance.

  A little before nine o’clock the rattle of sporadic musket fire came from the left and then stopped, and Billy and Eli and the others in the front trenches turned anxious faces to peer, expecting an ocean of red and blue coats to suddenly walk from the rain with bayonets at the ready. But there was no one. Twenty minutes later written orders to all regiments arrived from General Washington.

  “Each regiment will select a squad of men and send them towards the British lines, where they shall proceed until they make contact with the British forces. They will not engage them, but will return at once to report their position and their movements. It is vital that we know their location and, if possible, their preparations to move against our defenses in force. I am, &c., Gen. G. Washington.”

  Five minutes later Corporal Billy Weems led a squad of eleven men over the lip of the trench, moving south, using brush and rocks for what cover they could find. Beside him, Eli’s head was constantly moving, watching everything in front of them and counting the paces. Eleven hundred yards south of the lines they walked into a water-soaked British patrol that stopped dead in its tracks, staring in disbelief at the Americans twenty yards away.

  Billy gave a hand signal and his patrol vanished into the brush before the young British lieutenant in charge shouted orders. “Fire!”

  All fifteen redcoats in his patrol instantly pulled back the hammers on their heavy Brown Bess muskets, pointed them at the place the Americans had been, and pulled the triggers. Not one of the soaked powder pans took the spark.

  The young lieutenant swallowed hard and for a moment stood as if in a trance before he shouted his next order. “Mount bayonets.”

  Billy gave a hand signal and his squad turned and started back, staying low, moving in the brush.

  The startled British squad jerked their bayonets from their scabbards and fumbled with wet, cold fingers to slip them over the muzzles of their muskets and lock them in place, then stand waiting for the next order.

  “Charge!” shouted the young officer, and the squad lowered their bayonets and trotted faithfully into the soaked brush for twenty yards before they slowed and stared at the lieutenant.

  He cleared his throat. “Uh, fall back. We, uh, must return and report this contact with the Americans.”

  Billy’s weary squad stood upright as they approached the Brooklyn lines and dropped back splashing into the trenches to once again wait for the inevitable British assault, while Billy made his way to the command post. A captain he had never seen took his report and then searched for a rain-soaked report of the missing from the battle twenty-four hours earlier. For several seconds he read from it before he stopped, and Billy saluted and returned to his regiment.

  He turned to Eli to speak quietly. “A captain back there has a written report. They can’t find Stirling, or Miles, or Sullivan. Maybe dead, maybe captured. And they can’t find Thompson or Turlock.”

  They stood for long moments, dripping in the steady rain, eyes downcast as they worked with their thoughts.

  “Did he say what happened to the nurses back at the hospital?”

  Billy saw the haunted look in Eli’s eyes. “They were left there with the sick. The British won’t harm them.”

  Eli remained silent, and both men turned to once again watch and listen and wait in the mounting tension for the surging attack that was certain to come.

  By nine o’clock the ground could absorb no more water, and the rain began filling the trenches and running in rivulets down the slope towards the British lines. By ten-thirty the Americans were standing in water to their knees, holding their muskets and rifles over the lip of the trench, no longer making an effort to keep their powder dry, because it was impossible. Those relieved from the trenches for sleeping sat cross-legged in the mud behind the trenches, soggy blankets draped over their heads and shoulders, staring down, making no pretense of trying to sleep. With no cook fires and no way of making one, they broke cold pieces from their biscuits and cut small chunks from their pieces of raw pork, and their jaws worked slowly, methodically, to appease the hunger pangs.

  Eli whittled a chunk of wood and jammed it in the muzzle of his rifle to keep the rain out, and once again raised his eyes to probe the slope, and there was nothing, and he murmured to Billy, “I’d like to know what Howe’s thinking. Looks like his horses and cannon will have trouble moving up the slope, and his foot soldiers won’t be able to keep their powder dry. They’re going to move slow until the weather changes.”

  “Sooner or later they’ll come.”

  One and one-half miles south, General Howe sat at the conference table in his field tent that had been erected before dawn and ditched against the rain. He rose, dour, impatient, frustrated, and paced, then settled back down in his chair, waiting. His orderly walked to the tent flap. “They’re here, sir.”

  “Bring them in.”

  Howe stood as Clinton ducked to enter the tent, followed by Cornwallis, Percy, and Grant. They all removed their hats to throw water on the tent floor, and stood waiting, eyes dead, water dripping from their cloaks.

  “Be seated.” Howe waited for them to take their chairs at the table according to rank, then stood at the end of the table. He had neither the ability nor the inclination to do other than speak his mind bluntly, without the slightest hint of concern for those whom he might offend.

  “I was advised less than an hour ago that Washington has reinforcements coming today from New York, perhaps thousands.”

  The tent fell silent, save for the steady hum of the rain.

  Howe continued, slowly. “I cannot understand what Washington is thinking. His Long Island command is trapped against the East River, and he’s bringing more men over, right into the trap with them! If he brings his entire New York command over here, there won’t be enough to change the outcome. All we have to do is wait for them to arrive, then have the navy move gunboats up the East River behind Brooklyn and bombard it, while we wait for the weather to change enough to give us full use of our cannon from this side and then storm their trenches with infantry. We can annihilate the whole Continental army in less than one day.” Howe paused, his forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. “Why isn’t Washington moving his men away from the trap rather than into it?”

  He stopped, unaccustomed to saying so much at one time, then shrugged and concluded. “Until I can see good reason to do otherwise, we wait until he gets his reinforcements over here, and our men-of-war are in place, and the weather breaks. In the meantime, I’m sending some of Brant’s Mohawks up there to take a count of men, and find their powder magazine, and count the cannon covering the Brooklyn Harbor.”

  A little before eleven o’clock the rain slackened for a short time, then resumed the drenching downpour. At eleven-fifteen Billy and Eli and every man in the breastworks and trenches flinched and turned, white-faced, at the sound of a thousand shouting voices coming in directly behind them. They gripped their muskets white-knuckled, or their swords, or the axe handles, or the rocks they held for weapons, while bright images of the endless horde of red-coated regulars coming in behind them just twenty-four hours earlier flashed in their minds.

  Then they saw the blurred figures through the rain and they became American soldiers. A shout went up from the trenches as the incoming column marched on into camp, with General Mifflin leading his two Pennsylvania regiments under Colonels Magaw and Shee, with others following.

  Behind came General Mercer with his New Jersey forces.

  Last came Colonel John Glover with his Marblehead regiment of fishermen. They marched in silence, with the rolling gait of men grown accustomed to a pitching
deck beneath their feet. Their hands were curled from salt seawater and hawsers, and their faces were weathered, wrinkled, eyes narrowed. They wore the white breeches and blue blazers of men of the sea and the flat-brimmed, flat-topped black hats that mark the sailor. They spoke with the twang and dialect of fishermen, and did not worry if those unfamiliar with the ways of the sea could not understand that a “hord-horted” man was a “hard-hearted” man or that a “tor barl” was a “tar barrel.”

  Their leader was small, thin, wiry, and could not remember a day when he had been other than a fisherman out of the port of Marblehead, Massachusetts. The men in his command were gathered from Marblehead and had known him, and each other, for most of their rememberable lives. No regiment in the American army stood closer to each other and to their revered commander, nor were any more dedicated to the cause of liberty than the Marblehead regiment. With the hardheaded practicality of New En-glanders and the inborn confidence of men of the sea, they assumed they could do whatever had to be done.

  Washington was instantly among them, handing out written orders, encouraging, directing, seeming to be everywhere. The incoming regiments moved to the locations shown on their orders and settled in.

  As he watched, Eli spoke to Billy. “Looks like we got enough now to make a respectable fight of it.”

  “I estimate we should have over nine thousand now.”

  “Howe has twenty thousand, and more cannon, but we have the high ground and the breastworks. Should be interesting.” Eli’s next words were slow, deliberate. “See any doctors or nurses come in with them?”

  “No. They could have. I just didn’t see them.”

  Eli remained silent for a moment. “I’ll go see later, maybe when the rain stops.”

  “She’ll be all right.”

  The afternoon wore on, gray, chill, the downpour steady, neither side able to see one hundred yards. Patrols from both sides clashed and retreated, under orders to locate the enemy and retreat and report. In the gloom of late afternoon, once again the British opened up with their cannon firing blind, and the solid shot balls sent mud flying as they sank in two feet, to explode with nothing more than a rise in the soaked earth. Americans returned fire without ever knowing where their shots were hitting, and fifteen minutes later the cannon fell silent.