The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [149]
THE COLLAPSE OF SULLIVAN’S FLANK WAS COMPLETE, SOME UNITS FLEEING in utter panic, but most holding themselves in good order, fighting as they retreated. As Howe’s assault against Sullivan’s position roared to life, the Hessians had responded as well, had launched their own assault across Brandywine Creek over the same fords that Greene had abandoned. Though pockets of resistance slowed the British advance, Washington knew he could not hold his position, and by nightfall, the ground along Brandywine Creek was fully in British hands. With Greene serving as a strong rear guard, Washington gathered those troops who could still fight and withdrew them to the town of Chester.
THE STRANGE FARMER WAS LONG GONE, AND WASHINGTON STOOD IN the dark, thought of the man’s name, Cheney, his profane fury at being ignored. Indeed, sir. You were correct in every detail.
Most of the army’s equipment had been salvaged, and the camp was taking shape in the darkness around him. He watched as a group of men nursed a small fire, brush and sticks piled on, the flame growing, a soft glow spreading across the ground around him. As the fire engulfed the darkness, his eyes were captured by the light, and for a long moment, he felt lost in the flame. He had not allowed himself a moment’s rest in nearly two days, and he stood alone in the soft glow, his mind drifting through a soft fog. In so many of these quiet moments, he saw the face of his older brother, saw it now, Lawrence, the good soldier, leading him on the wonderful expeditions through the rugged country around Mount Vernon. His brother was the scout, the experienced woodsman, but as Washington had grown older, his brother had grown curious about the surveyor’s instruments that Washington would carry. As Washington taught himself more and more of the craft, Lawrence paid more attention, and the memory still brought a smile, the one day when they stopped on the trail, when the sixteen-year-old began to explain how to map the valley below them, details of the ground, turning the landmarks into mathematics, mapping his way through an unknown land. It was the first time he actually impressed his older brother, the first time he knew that Lawrence respected him. But the guiding hand fell away, Lawrence weakening, the horrible fits of coughing from the consumption that would kill him. Lawrence had died when Washington was only twenty, and Washington had often wondered that if his brother had survived, would he be in the commander’s shoes now? The years had not dimmed his reverence for the man who had so impressed the boy, the man who still might have been Virginia’s finest soldier. And today, he thought, I have brought shame to you yet again. But it is different than the defeats of a year ago. It was not for lack of courage, there was little of the pure raw panic of untested soldiers. On this day, we put up a good fight, there was no chaotic retreat. But it was a retreat nonetheless, the utter and complete failure of a very good plan. And if it is not the men, if this army had indeed been ready for a fight, then the failure was nowhere else but in their commander.
He had walked out in the open field to hear the words of his men, as though they would not notice him, would pour out their anger whether he was there or not. It would be his penance, to overhear their protests, that if he heard a vocal gathering around a campfire, he would invite them to face him, to pour out their frustration. But there