by Ron Carter
Kip’s Bay
September 15, 1776
Chapter XX
* * *
The orange flame leaped from the cannon muzzles and the white smoke billowed and the thunder came rolling over the Americans, crouched behind the fortifications and in the trenches at Kip’s Bay. The cannonballs smashed into the breastworks, throwing a cloud of dirt and shredded timbers fifty feet into the air as the British rolled the cannon back from the gun ports to reload. One minute later the second salvo came ripping, and then the deadly barrage settled into a continuous, unending roar that splattered grape and cannister shot over every American fortification while solid shot began tearing large holes in the breastworks, and a white cloud of gun smoke settled between the British ships and the American fortification.
Then, from out of the smoke and the storm of shot, the Americans saw the bows of the eighty-four troop transports come poking, and then they saw the red and blue coats and the faces of the eager enemy, and bayonets glistening in the clear, warm Sunday morning sun. Grapeshot was kicking up dirt all around them, and men were groaning and dropping. Their breastworks were becoming death traps. The entire American force seemed paralyzed. The superior officers were not giving orders. No one was moving. They stood there as though dumb, unable to think, to move. And then the lesser officers nearest the boats shouted, “Retreat!” and they turned and ran. Those behind them turned and followed, and within seconds the entire American force was running away from the hail of shot and the Hessian bayonets. Generals Scott, Wadsworth, and Douglas rode desperately among their own men, cursing them, trying to turn them, to form them into ranks and make a line, but the panic-stricken soldiers were deaf, blind, in their fear.
Four miles north and west, at Harlem Heights, Washington stopped dead in his tracks at the first sound of the distant bombardment. He listened for two minutes while the sound of the cannon became a continuous rumble, and then without a word he leaped onto his dappled mare and smacked his spurs into her flanks. In two jumps she was on the Post Road headed south at stampede gait, Washington leaning low over her neck, kicking her in the ribs at every stride.
South and west, at the Hudson River fortifications, General Israel Putnam’s head swung around to the northeast at the first sound of the cannon, and he froze, listening, then pivoted and barked orders to General Parsons. “They’re attacking somewhere around Kip’s Bay. Send Prescott, Tyler, Huntington, and Fellows with their commands to reinforce them.”
Parsons spun his horse and was gone, and two minutes later Putnam’s command was split as Prescott led his men eastward, followed by Tyler, then Huntington, and finally Fellows with their troops.
Prescott, Tyler, Huntington, and Fellows had not gone half a mile when Putnam heard the first cannon volley come rolling from behind, and he and every man left as the New York City command turned, stunned, to watch British gunboats moving steadily up the Hudson, not two hundred yards from shore, their mainmast sails full, gun ports open, empty, like great vacant eye sockets. And then the black cannon muzzles rolled forward to fill the gun ports, reloaded, and they bucked and roared once more and grapeshot came whistling to kick dirt all around the troops, and some groaned and dropped. Solid shot followed, tearing into the breastworks at the Jersey Battery.
The officers shouted, “Get back! Get off the roads where they can see you! Move back. Back.”
The backward movement was disorganized, hectic, but not yet a panic, as the troops moved away from the shores of the Hudson, away from their breastworks and trenches, and waited for further orders. The leading gunboats continued north, directly in front of the breastworks on the south edge of Greenwich, to form a continuous line, and then they stopped dead in the water. Moments later their cannon blasted a deadly, continuous, unrelenting fire of grape, cannister, and solid shot that steadily opened great holes in the Greenwich breastworks and the Jersey Battery defenses, and sprayed above the heads of the terrified Americans.
They pulled further back, into the brush, hiding behind whatever they could, waiting for orders that did not come. The officers of the Boston regiment shouted at their men, and Billy and Eli joined in, “Stay together, don’t run, stay together,” but the men, in mortal panic, heard only what they wished to hear, and the Boston Regiment began to disintegrate along with the others.
Across the island, at Kip’s Bay, the British transports met no resistance as they scraped to a stop on the Manhattan shores of the East River, and the blue-coated Hessians shook their heads in disgust at the sight of the backs of the Americans running into the trees and brush, heedless of where they were going, so long as it was away from the cannon and grapeshot and bayonets behind.
The running Americans hit the Post Road and instinctively turned north, towards the high ground and Fort Washington at Harlem Heights, throwing aside their blankets and canteens, abandoning their wagons and carts with their baggage and food, leaving behind anything that slowed them. They had not gone two hundred yards when the first of the Hessians filled the roadway ahead, and without hesitation the Americans plunged off the road to their left to run across the huge farm of Robert Murray, a Quaker.
At that moment Washington came galloping onto the farm from the west and in one second understood that the Americans were in a wild rout, with the Hessians right behind them. In the next second Washington saw the great cornfield behind the house and the stone walls lining the huge farm, and knew what had to be done. The Hessians would not be anxious to storm into a cornfield with American muskets hidden everywhere, or to walk into stone walls behind which American riflemen were crouched, waiting.
He kicked his horse into the leaders of the retreat and began shouting, “Take the cornfield! Take the walls!”
But the Americans refused! They stopped momentarily, then surged on past, not listening, avoiding Washington as he reined his horse back and forth, riding in amongst them. He drew his sword and began striking them with the flat of the blade, on their backs and arms and legs, shouting, cursing, ordering them to stop and form in the cornfield and at the walls, but they would not stop. Behind him, Generals Parsons and Fellows arrived with their commands, and following Putnam’s orders they immediately tried to stop the rout, but their own men saw the red and blue coats swarming within one hundred fifty yards and were caught up in the panic and turned to run.
Washington stood his ground until most of the American forces had streamed past him, and then the air went out of him and he slumped in his saddle, sword dangling from his hand, and he sat there, head down, face a blank, unmoving.
An aide reined up beside him, fighting his own wild-eyed horse, and shouted at Washington, “Sir, the Hessians are only eighty yards away. You must save yourself.”
Washington looked at him as though he had heard nothing, and the aide gasped as he saw the vacant eyes. He leaned from his saddle to grab the reins to Washington’s lathered, sweated horse, and he reined his own mount to the west and set his spurs. His horse lunged forward and the aide clung to the reins of Washington’s mount, and with musket balls whistling, he made the run that saved George Washington’s life.
Far to the south, at the breastworks near Corlear’s Hook on the East River, below Kip’s Bay, Colonels Henry Knox and Gold Silliman saw the red-coated British regulars and the Hessians take the shores, and gaped as the realization sunk in. With British cannon blasting the American defenses to rubble on both sides of the island, and their forces coming ashore with no resistance, Knox and Silliman were cut off, trapped!
Knox sucked in air and turned to his men. “We fight right here, to the end.” Silliman swallowed dry and began making calculations as to how many men he would lose if he made a run for it, when a man came galloping on a bay gelding and reined in the nervous, prancing mount.
“I’m Aaron Burr, aide to General Putnam. I have his orders. I know this island. I can lead you out of here, and he sent me to do it. You’re to follow me.” Burr, short, slight, dark headed and dark eyed, sat his saddle straight, in
stantly a commanding figure.
Knox looked up at him in doubt. “I’m staying here. My command will fight to the last.”
Burr saw the glassy look in the upturned eyes. “You wish me to report that you refused to obey an order from General Putnam?”
It took five full seconds for Henry Knox to understand what he was threatening to do. “No. I’ll obey the order.”
“Get your men into marching formation. Tell them we’re going to get out of here all right. Tell them.”
Knox and Silliman turned and shouted orders, and five minutes later Burr was leading them on back roads and across fields and through trees and brush and up draws and gullies and ditches, always to the north.
At that moment, north, where the Post Road ran past the Robert Murray farm due east of Kip’s Bay, General William Howe, with New York governor William Tryon mounted at his side, broke into the clearing just east of the winding Post Road. With an almost detached interest, Howe watched the Hessians steadily moving ahead, and beyond them he caught sight of the distant backs of the Americans in full, disorganized, panic-driven retreat. A look of passing disgust crossed his face for a moment, and he reined in his horse and studied the scene before him.
The Murray home was huge, opulent, the yards well kept, the outbuildings painted, the fences white. Inside, Mrs. Murray stood at the bank of windows that faced east towards the road, feet spread slightly, face a study in determination.
When the sounds of the distant British cannon had begun at Kip’s Bay two hours earlier, she had gasped and thrown her hand to cover her mouth, aware what was beginning. Then when the cannons had cut loose in the Hudson River, she realized the British attack was massive—they meant to take the island. She watched at her windows until she saw the Americans break from the trees east of the road, running, wild, and she ran to watch to the south, down towards New York. When the first of the retreating Americans appeared from the south, she knew. The British intended setting a line across Manhattan Island and trapping those still coming from the south, to destroy them.
Within minutes she had decided what she was going to do, and she had shouted for her house servants. They had gathered in the great parlor, eyes wide, frightened.
“Bring wine. Twenty bottles. Get all the cakes we have in the house. Nut cakes, pumpkin cakes—all of them. Set up this parlor to receive high-ranking guests. We’re going to entertain whatever British officers arrive here.”
The servants recoiled in astonishment. Robert Murray and his wife were Quakers! They had long since declared their strong stand in favor of the American quest for liberty. And now, she was going to receive and entertain British officers?
Without a word the servants disappeared into the cellar for the wine and into the pantry for the cakes, while Mrs. Murray ran to her bedroom to change into one of her finest gowns.
To the south, Burr had led Silliman and Knox and their commands north, where they stumbled into Putnam’s command, also heading north in full retreat, and the two groups merged, but with no clear leader in command, because Putnam had left his subordinate officers in charge while he rode to the aid of Washington. Burr began shouting, “Follow me,” and as they continued north, they found themselves following him simply because he was the sole person who seemed to know where he was going. He led them to a road that skirted the east side of Greenwich, out of sight of the British gunboats six hundred yards to the west, and they continued north.
John Glover’s Marblehead regiment had arrived to lead, because they were the only command that remained cool, organized, silently following every command given by their commander. Glover saw the Americans coming in from the east, chaotic, in twos and threes, no one in command, and he raised a hand and his regiment paused. He saw the hated bluecoats move out of the trees and brush behind the Americans, in a line, bayonets gleaming.
Instantly Glover gave hand signals and his men turned east and formed into two lines. He gave another signal and they all started forward, Glover leading. They let the Americans pass them, and then Glover marched his men straight out in front of the oncoming Hessians, and gave another hand signal. The first line knelt and cocked their muskets. The second line spaced itself two feet behind those kneeling in front, cocked their muskets, and they waited.
The Hessians were fifty yards away when Glover shouted his first audible command. “Fire!”
Those kneeling pulled the triggers and close to five hundred muskets blasted. Hessians all up and down the line staggered backwards and sat down and toppled over. Those behind kept coming. Instantly the kneeling line began to reload.
Glover shouted his second command. “Fire!”
The second line, standing, cut loose and another five hundred muskets bucked, and again Hessians groaned and fell backwards, and still those behind kept coming.
The kneeling line was reloaded, and they waited.
Again Glover shouted, “Fire!”
And again the kneeling line pulled the triggers and the third volley in as many minutes ripped into the Hessians, and more of them dropped and staggered backwards.
The standing line was reloaded, and as Glover watched, the Hessians stopped, and they stared, and they turned and ran!
“Fire!”
The fourth volley blasted out and Hessians dropped as the rest of them disappeared in the trees and brush to hide, their relentless attack stalled temporarily.
Glover turned to look at the Americans behind, and they had slowed, mesmerized by the Marblehead sailors, dressed in their white trousers and blue jackets and black flat-topped hats.
“Follow me,” Glover shouted to his regiment, and they turned and fell into a column behind him, and he led them to the front of the Americans and turned them north, silent, calm, orderly, and once again they led the retreat towards Harlem Heights.
At the Murray farm, Howe turned to Governor Tryon. “I believe we’ll stop at the house for a refreshment.”
Tryon reflected for a moment. “If they have American troops hidden inside?”
Howe shrugged. “The nearest American troops are right over there”—he pointed—“leaving as fast as they can.”
He walked his horse across the road, watching every building for movement that might suggest a trap. There was nothing.
Howe had reached the front gate when Mrs. Murray walked boldly out onto the long covered porch. “Gentlemen, how kind of you to stop.”
Howe slowed and studied her for a moment. “I’m General William Howe of the Royal Army. This is Governor Tryon of New York. My staff is with us.”
Mrs. Murray gasped expertly, then covered her mouth with her hand and dropped her eyes demurely. “Why, I hadn’t expected such distinguished visitors in the midst of all this . . . interesting commotion. The day is hot and you must have come a long way. We would be most honored to share our house and some refreshment with you before you move on.”
Howe glanced at Tryon, then his staff. “We would be most appreciative.” He spoke to one of his aides. “Ride to tell our officers to hold our troops at this farm for a while. They need a rest before the final push.”
The aide spurred his horse around the fenced house and galloped towards the front of the British line.
Howe and his entourage dismounted at the fence and pushed through the gate and walked to the three steps leading up to the porch. “May I speak with your husband?”
“I regret that he’s away on business, sir. He’s a merchant. I’m certain he would count it a high honor to have you take a rest here with us.”
Howe removed his hat and bowed. “I thank you, ma’am.”
“Mrs. Robert Murray,” she corrected.
“Mrs. Murray,” Howe repeated.
She gave a hand signal and servants walked rapidly to the horses tied at the hitch rack at the gate, and walked them towards the barn, to be unsaddled, rubbed down, fed, and watered.
Mrs. Murray led Howe into the house to the great parlor. Her servants took the capes and hats of the guests. She gestured
to the large, polished oak table, set in front of the windows with crystal wine goblets and cakes on silver platters, and white linen napkins and porcelain plates and shining wine bottles.
“Please,” she said, “would you help yourselves to the wine and cakes while you rest?”
Howe was totally captivated. In the midst of cannon and musket fire, with soldiers from both sides swarming throughout the countryside, five hundred of them visible from the windows of the house at that very moment, this gentlewoman was offering a refreshment more befitting the gentilities of a cotillion than a war!
“Absolutely delighted,” Howe responded, and stepped to pick up a china plate with hand-painted winged cherubs around the edge. He selected four slices of cakes, poured white wine from a decanter into a sparkling goblet, picked a fresh white linen napkin, and sat down on an upholstered chair with a high back. Governor Tryon followed, then each of their staff. Howe tasted the first cake and he closed his eyes and for long moments he sat still, savoring the sweet nut flavors. “Madam,” he said, “I assure you, this general has never tasted better. My utmost compliments.”
“Oh, my, I am so pleased. You will take more, won’t you.”
Indeed they would.
Minutes passed to half an hour, and still they sat, savoring the moist sweet cakes while the sounds of battle continued to the west. They sipped the wine, and they talked.
Governor Tryon turned to Mrs. Murray. “Madam, I can’t help but comment on how surprising it is to have you receive us so royally, when it is known your sympathies are with the Americans.”
Mrs. Murray didn’t bat an eye. “We are Quakers. You’re as welcome here as any of God’s children.”
Howe looked steadfastly at his plate while he smiled, charmed by the political expertise with which Mrs. Murray had handled Governor Tryon.
Half an hour became an hour, and still General Howe sat, unconcerned about finishing the taking of Manhattan Island, secure in the knowledge he could complete the task any time he pleased. At length he set his plate back on the table and rose. “Madam, it has been a great treat and delight to—”
