by Ron Carter
The pain leaped into Brigitte’s face. “You thought we were dead?”
Margaret did not flinch. “No. I never did. I knew you were alive.”
Brigitte’s shoulders slumped in relief; then she straightened. “Was it in the newspaper?”
“Yes. I saved a copy for you.”
“Does it say I killed them? I got them to go, and I killed them?” Brigitte held her breath, waiting.
Margaret spoke evenly. “No. It says you and Caleb are heroes. You tried to help the Patriot cause and gave your lives.”
Brigitte groaned and she closed her eyes in pain. “Not heroes. Fools. Fools! We got our people captured by the British and then killed by Connecticut militia! We lost everything we worked for since July. Lost it all! Heroes?” She shook her head and silent tears trickled down her cheeks onto her dress.
Margaret straightened her spine and squared her shoulders. “We’ll talk about that later.” She turned and called quietly into the kitchen. “Are you finished?”
Caleb walked through the kitchen door in his fresh nightshirt, still working his hair with his towel.
Margaret turned back to Brigitte. “Get your towel and nightshirt from your bed.”
Brigitte rose and walked silently through the archway into the bedroom wing while Margaret gave Caleb a hand sign to sit down at the table, and Caleb sat down, waiting, while Brigitte passed back through, towel and nightshirt in hand, into the kitchen.
Margaret turned to Caleb. “Brigitte told me most of it. Were you out of your head, at the first?”
“She said I was. I didn’t think so.”
“Are you all right now?”
“I’m not hurt.”
Margaret caught the shaded answer. “I don’t mean hurt. I mean, are you all right inside?”
Caleb licked his lips and his eyes dropped for a moment. “I’m all right.”
Margaret’s eyes narrowed but she went on. “You’re both thinner. Are you sick?”
“No. We couldn’t find enough to eat.”
“You had diarrhea? vomiting?”
“Yes. Bad peaches.”
“Charles Johannesen got home.”
“I heard you tell Brigitte.”
“It was in the newspaper. You and Brigitte are heroes.”
A cynical look crept over Caleb’s face and turned to a contemptuous sneer, and he turned away from Margaret and said nothing.
She spoke with a firm authority. “Are you all right?”
He turned back, eyes flat, defensive. “I said I was all right. I’m not hurt.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean inside. Are you all right inside?”
Caleb leaned back, studying his mother’s face, for the first time in his life unwilling to speak the truth from his heart. Margaret saw it and her breath came short at the realization she was seeing a gulf between them for the first time, and she felt the instant stab in her breast and the white-hot questions came leaping. What did I do wrong? When did it start? How did I miss it? Who? And then the fear she lived with every moment of her life came welling up. He needs John or Matthew—If John were here, or Matthew—I can’t go on without John—can’t—can’t—I’m going to lose him without John.
She raised her chin and faced him. “Answer me.”
For a long moment he stared into her eyes before he spoke. “I’m all right.”
She leaned forward. “You sure?”
His eyes were evasive. “I’m sure.”
She clutched his arm. “Caleb, something’s wrong. You’re going to tell me.”
He looked down at her hand on his arm, and slowly raised his eyes and his words came sharp. “When those rifles shot, I saw twenty people die. When the cannon came, there were people blown to pieces—horses—right there in front of me. I washed blood off myself the next day—not mine—I don’t know whose it was—maybe from someone on the wagon ahead of us, maybe from our own horses—I don’t know. We thought we were on the side of the Almighty, but with all the dead people and horses it didn’t make any difference whose side we were on or how right we were. Most of us were just plain dead. If we were doing the work of the Almighty, where was he when we all got blown up and shot? Where?”
His eyes were points of light, his anger so deep it struck Margaret like something physical and she recoiled and gasped, then struggled for control and thrust her head forward, eyes flashing. “Caleb! Don’t you ever speak like that again! One of the dead who willingly gave his life is your father!” Her chin trembled for a moment and then she went on, boring into him. “That afternoon, twenty minutes before he died he told me he knew this was the work of the Almighty. He knew it! Don’t you ever forget!”
For a moment he continued to stare at her, unmoved, defiant, and then he softened, and for a moment she caught a glimpse of the boy who had left home only weeks earlier, eager, anxious to take his place in the battle for freedom, liberty. He dropped his eyes and murmured, “I’m sorry, Mother. Truly. I’m sorry.”
Margaret folded her hands on the table and worked them together, groping for what to say, when Brigitte’s voice came from the kitchen. “Mother, would you do something for me? Would you help me wash my hair?”
Margaret stood. “In a minute.” She turned back to Caleb. “No need for you to wait. Let’s go to your room and have our evening prayer.”
He had no choice. He rose and followed her, toes raised from the chill of the polished hardwood floors. She knelt in the lamplight beside his bed and waited for him to kneel beside her, and she turned to him. “You offer it for us.”
He hesitated for a long moment, then clasped his hands before his face and closed his eyes. “Almighty God, for all things we thank thee . . .”
He rose and slid between the crisp, clean sheets and pulled the comforter up, and settled his head onto the pillow. Margaret could not resist. She leaned over him and kissed him on the cheek, and touched his damp hair. “It’s good to have you home, son.”
He reached up and pulled her down and held her close. “I love you, Mother.”
Her breath caught and she straightened and her eyes were too shiny, and she smiled down at him. She turned the wheel on the lamp and the light died, and she walked out and closed the door behind her, then walked into the kitchen.
Brigitte sat in the tub and gasped as Margaret poured warm water over her head, then worked in the soap, rinsed, lathered, rinsed again, and once more. Margaret handed her the large, clean white towel and walked back into the living room while Brigitte dried, slipped on her nightshirt, then went to work on her long hair with the towel. She came out into the parlor, where Margaret was sitting at the table, waiting.
Brigitte spoke as she worked with the towel in her hair. “Oh, Mama, that feels so good.”
Margaret smiled as she watched her daughter take joy. “When was the last time you had a bath?”
Brigitte shook her head. “A few days before the attack. I’ve forgotten.”
Margaret shook her head, then sobered. “Come sit for a minute.” She waited until Brigitte was seated beside her at the table, hair wrapped in the towel.
Margaret’s stare was direct. “Did you have prayers with Caleb each night?”
“Yes.”
“Did he take his turns?”
“Most of the time.”
“Notice anything wrong?”
Brigitte leaned back in her chair and pursed her mouth for a moment. “What makes you ask that?”
Margaret avoided the question. “Did you?”
Slowly Brigitte nodded her head. “I thought it was him trying to forget the killing. It was horrible.”
“Has he said anything that made you think he’s questioning God?”
Brigitte’s eyes widened as she realized the implication. “He said some things, but I didn’t think about them that way.”
“What did he say?”
Brigitte paused while she pushed her memory. “A remark about where was God when all our people were killed. Why? Has he said somethi
ng to you?”
“The same thing.” Margaret began working her hands together on the tabletop. “I’m terrified he’s questioning the Almighty. He’s only fifteen. His father’s gone, Matthew, Billy. He needs them so badly. He’s had to grow up too fast—too fast. He wasn’t ready for the hard things of life, and now he’s seen the worst of it—the senseless killing of war—and he’s too young to know how to handle it.”
Margaret raised tortured eyes to Brigitte. “I can accept death, and war, but I cannot accept him turning on the Almighty. Losing his immortal soul. I can’t. I can’t.” She began rocking back and forth, sobbing quietly, tears trickling down her cheeks.
Brigitte could not bear it, and she knelt before her mother and threw her arms about her, and held her close until the shaking slowed and stopped and Margaret pulled away to wipe at her eyes.
“He’ll be all right, Mother. He’ll find his way through it.”
Margaret looked into her eyes. “Watch for a chance to talk to him. Help him. I’ll ask Silas to talk with him.”
Brigitte rose. “Help me dry my hair, and then we must go to bed.”
Later, with the house dark, Margaret went to her knees beside her bed. She clasped her hands and her words came from her soul. “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. I thank thee for the blessings of my life. I beg of thee, with all my heart, do not abandon Caleb. Forgive him his youth and strengthen him . . .”
McGown House, New York
September 12, 1776
Chapter XIX
* * *
Gone! Six thousand of the Connecticut regiments gone—deserted—captured—killed—others deserting every day—murmuring in the ranks that they were sold out on Long Island—how close are they to mutiny? My letters to Congress ignored—Congress beginning to question—army shrinking every day—morale gone.
Washington sighed and rose from the table in the spacious library and walked slowly to the bank of windows, morose, troubled, filled with self-condemnation. He hated the anger he felt towards officers who had broken and run in the soul-wrenching defeat on Long Island, and soldiers who had thrown down their arms in their blind, mindless stampede. His eyes wandered over the lush gardens and courtyard without seeing as his thoughts ran.
The army thought this would be over in time for harvest—they meant to be home in time to prepare for winter—didn’t realize this will go on—not soldiers, citizens.
He parted a lace curtain to peer towards the street in front of the great mansion.
How does one deal with men who are citizens first, soldiers second? who despise authority? who hold their independence so dear? How does one reach them?
He flinched at the sudden rap at the door. “Enter.”
Colonel Joseph Reed swung the door open. “They’re waiting in the conference room, sir.”
General Washington nodded, straightened his vest, walked to the table, and picked up a thin valise of documents. He followed his adjutant down the hall, boot heels clicking on the polished hardwood floor. Reed opened the door and Washington walked into the large room, and his eyes swept the men seated at the great, polished table.
Generals Putnam, Spencer, Heath, Greene, Scott, and eight others watched him take his place, then leaned forward, intense, waiting.
“Thank you for your attendance. General Greene, how is your health?”
General Nathanael Greene, hollow cheeked and sallow from eighteen days with a raging fever, answered, clear-eyed, strong. “Very good, thank you. The surgeon says I’m fit for duty.”
Washington nodded approval. “There are some matters I must review before I reach the purpose of calling you to this council.” He took a great breath, then continued.
“You know that Lord Admiral Howe sent General Sullivan, after his capture on Long Island, to arrange a negotiation with Congress, and Congress sent Franklin and Adams and Rutledge to Staten Island to see what Howe proposed. Nothing came of it.”
Washington glanced at handmade notes. “You will recall that on September second we agreed to divide Manhattan Island into three sections, under the command of Generals Putnam, Spencer, and Heath—lower, middle, and northern sections, respectively. You will also recall the warm debate we held that day concerning whether we should abandon everything below Harlem Heights and, if so, whether we should destroy New York City, on which question I personally wrote to Congress.”
He selected a document from the valise. “Congress instructed us not to damage New York City.” He looked at General Greene and a smile flickered for an instant. “General Greene advised us to abandon it and burn it to keep the British from using it as a base through the winter. John Jay said the same. General Scott agreed.”
He laid the letter back on the valise. “September seventh we held a war council and made our decision. Having been led to suspect that Congress wished the city to be maintained, and contrary to the instincts of some, we decided to try to hold New York, and we left General Putnam and his command here. At that time it was clear that this island was critically vulnerable to invasion by British troops coming across the East River, and we left our troops remaining in strong fortifications from Corlear’s Hook, just above New York City, clear up to Horn’s Hook, just south of the plains of Harlem. Those regiments were under Generals Scott and Wadsworth and Colonels Douglas, Chester, and Sargent. At Kip’s Bay, we left Fellows and Parsons with strong commands to support Colonel Douglas. On the Hudson River side, we left Colonel Silliman in command of fortifications near Greenwich and on up towards Bloomingdale.”
He opened the valise and removed a large folded document and laid it on the table without unfolding it.
“Now I must review with you what else has happened since September second.” He again referred to handwritten notes. “September third the British man-of-war Rose convoyed thirty ships up the East River, and they are anchored at Wallabout Bay. Our artillery was unable to do them any appreciable damage. Today thirty-six more gunboats sailed up the river. This morning I am reliably informed that tomorrow, forty more will go up, and the next day, ten more, including six transports.”
The men at the table leaned back in their chairs, eyes set as they made calculations at the picture Washington was developing, and Washington waited until their muted remarks quieted. He unfolded the large document and laid it on the table before them.
“This is a detailed map of Manhattan Island and the surrounding area, including Westchester on the mainland, east of this island and north of Long Island Sound.” He waited while they oriented themselves. “Over here, directly across the East River from Kip’s Bay on Manhattan Island, is Newton’s Creek on Long Island. Howe has assembled eighty-four troop transports over there under the command of Cornwallis and Clinton. He is also assembling massive numbers of both British regulars and Hessians.”
Open exclamations of surprise edged with heavy concern erupted and Washington raised a hand to quiet them.
“North of Kip’s Bay, up here above Hell Gate, on Montressor’s Island, within rifle shot of Harlem, they have another large camp of troops ready to move. All told, the British will have over one hundred six ships in the East River, many of them men-of-war, and eighty-four troop transports ready to move from Newton’s Creek and Montressor’s Island. They can reach any point on this island with twenty thousand troops, from New York City on the south tip of the island clear up to King’s Bridge at the north tip, within hours, under cover of over twelve hundred cannon.”
He waited while his officers gave vent to their growing fears.
“Now look at the Hudson. That string of obstructions we built from Fort Washington across the river to Fort Lee to stop their boats has totally failed. No one knows why. They move ships up and down the Hudson freely, and their cannon outnumber ours many times over.”
Again he waited for quiet.
“I received information less than an hour ago that Howe is sending squads of men into Westchester on the mainland to find out what they will meet if they dec
ide to move north there. Howe wants New York because of its docks and shipyards. With those facilities he can bring his naval power against us along the entire Atlantic coast, and can reach any major city we have in any state, either from the sea or from the major rivers.”
He was pointing as he spoke, and the men at the council table were watching, dread beginning to show as Washington continued. Then, suddenly, most of them straightened, wide-eyed as they caught the implication.
“Now may I make the point.” Washington tapped the map. “I think Howe is getting poised to do again what he did at Long Island. If he moves men up through Westchester just above King’s Bridge, then sends gunboats up both the Hudson and the East River to bombard our positions, and then lands sizeable forces at Kip’s Bay and Harlem, or other places, he has us trapped on all sides with no way out. We will lose our entire Continental army.”
The room went dead silent.
Washington straightened. “Gentlemen, for these reasons I am abandoning New York City. I am drawing those troops up to Harlem Heights, to the high ground around Fort Washington, and probably on north, across King’s Bridge to White Plains on the mainland, where we will be out in the open and can maneuver. The fortifications and breastworks on the east shore and the troops we have in place there will remain until New York is evacuated, and they will follow when I give the orders. I am not going to allow Howe to trap us here the way he did at Long Island.”
Every general leaned back in his chair, startled into silence at the swift, unexpected, radical change in the plan of defending Manhattan Island, their minds groping to work it, understand it, accept it.
Putnam dropped his eyes to the tabletop, feeling the sting of his monstrous failure on Long Island. He had known of Jamaica Pass and the terrible consequence that could come if it were left unguarded, and had thought that General Sullivan had sent men to block the pass. Washington saw his pain.
“The Jamaica Pass mistake is as much on my shoulders as anyone else’s. I inspected our lines the day before they took the pass and I did nothing. I was disappointed in the panic that seized some of our men, and our officers, and said so in my letters to Congress, but it’s all behind us and forgotten. The real value of the error is, did we learn our lesson?”
