The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [18]
Washington stood high on a rampart of the works, could see gaps in the drifting smoke, the sharp breeze blowing from the north. He could see men moving toward him, toward the safety of the works, but it was not any kind of orderly retreat. It was chaos. As they reached the fortifications they began to climb up and through the obstacles, the cut trees and earthen walls, the rocks and crevices. He stared numbly at their wounds, the ripped shirts, men with no shoes, blank and dazed expressions, or worse, wide-eyed panic. Some moved slowly, in a haze of shock, others ran, scrambling to safety, and then running again, within the works, men who had lost themselves to their fear. The sounds came as well, screams, some of the wounded calling out, the ones who had used the last bit of their strength to reach the Heights, only to collapse, no strength to climb the sharp rocks. He began to shout to the men who lined the ramparts, pointing to the fallen, “Go! Bring them up!”
A few men had already climbed over, were helping the others, but many more just stared, absorbed by the horror. He wanted to shout again, but the officers took up the call, began to prod their men forward, and he fought the urge to climb down himself, saw one man trying to stand, using a broken musket as a crutch, blood on the man’s chest. Washington looked away, brought his mind into focus, No, we must maintain our . . . what? There was no word. Courage? He looked at the men along the wall, knew they were mostly fresh recruits. None of them had ever seen anything of war, and even the officers commanding them were facing a horror no one could prepare them for. He pulled himself tightly together, the discipline directed inward. No, stay up here. They must see you. They will look to you. He shouted again, “Bring them in. But keep firm on the wall! Muskets at the ready. This is not over!”
There was a new roar of sound now, from straight in front of him, a fresh burst of white smoke, another chattering volley. The ground out in front of the Heights was an open plain, woods beyond, and the woods were alive with motion. The sounds kept reaching him, and he was more anxious now, the discipline slipping a bit, and he thought, I should ride out . . . see who is in command there. He had not seen Sullivan or Stirling since the battle began, thought, If they are out there, they will know to withdraw. He focused more to the northeast, heard very little sound, the British surprise already advancing well into Sullivan’s flank. Surely he will withdraw. It may be the only way to save his army. This army.
The smoke began to clear again, and he could see across the plain, could see the Guian Heights. Troops were visible to the east, and it was not chaos, but signs of order and discipline, men in formation, straight lines, advancing in good order. But it was not the uneven colors, the irregular uniforms of his men. The lines were red and white, and then to the south, formations of sharp blue, reflections off rows of bayonets. He stared with a growing coldness in his mind. The lines were moving toward him, all across the field, driving before them scattered pieces of his army.
He looked back into the works, could see Putnam now, working to pull the shaken troops together, the men who had escaped wounds, whose panic had been brought under control. Gradually a line formed, men from various regiments gathering into a line of battle. Putnam was shouting something, officers repeating the calls, but few of the men paid attention to them, some staring up toward the ramparts, where men with quivering hands stared out at the same stunning sight that faced Washington. Some were looking toward him, and he saw it in their faces. This is the moment, the one instant that