The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [20]
Smallwood was pulling his troops toward the safety of the Heights, a swarm of color pursuing them from three sides, a wave of gray smoke rolling over them, some of the Marylanders going down. Washington looked at Smallwood’s man now, said, “It will not be necessary for you to return to Colonel Smallwood. There can be no reinforcements. The colonel understands that. He is in retreat.”
The man tried to say something, a protest forming on his face. Washington forced himself to ignore him, stared again through the spyglass, the smoke blurring the view, the fight closing in all across the open ground. The sounds rolled in his direction, vast patches of smoke swirling around him. His men still came, the wounded still struggling, men helping each other, screams and shouts and panic. He stepped away from the rampart, looked for Putnam, thought, We must make ready. This is a good place for a fight. He shouted again, “Man the ramparts! Keep to your arms!”
Men still scrambled past him, some stumbling, and he could see the high rocky ground within the fortifications filled with what was left of Sullivan’s command, every open space, some men sprawled out, some sitting, more of the wide-eyed shock. And, now for the first time, he saw that many of them were empty-handed, had left their muskets behind. Much of what remained of this army was nearly unarmed.
THE FIRING HAD STOPPED, AND ALL OUT IN FRONT OF BROOKLYN Heights, the British had brought their army into neat formation, stood in line now, officers straightening the formations, as though organizing a parade. They stood just beyond musket range, and whether through discipline or pure terror, Washington’s men did not respond to this astounding target, no wild potshots at the great mass of power spread across the plain in front of them. He could hear music, a discordant rattling of drumbeats, a mix of rhythms, small groups of musicians and drummers, rallying their well-trained regiments. Behind the formation men on horseback were gathering, and Washington stared through the glass, tried to see them clearly, studied the grand uniforms. He could see one larger group, senior commanders, men with girth, heavy in the saddle, aides flittering about them. He didn’t know the faces, thought, Howe, perhaps. Certainly he would be here, to see for himself what his army has accomplished. Their great . . . triumph. He was engulfed by the same shock that still spread through his army, that they had faced the might of King George, and had been swept from the field. And worse, it was not merely the confrontation, the power, but the tactics as well, the flanking move that had caught them all by surprise. His mind was too numb to think of blame, whether Sullivan or Putnam should have known better, whether someone should have protected against all the possible routes the enemy could have used. The blame would be Washington’s, after all, and there were far greater concerns than which officer might not have performed. He knew enough of the fight to know that many of Stirling’s men had made a valiant stand, Smallwood certainly, the Delaware line, Atlee of Pennsylvania, Clark of Connecticut. But in the end, the numbers against them were too strong, and so many of the heroes would remain nameless, cut down by the bayonets or lost in the swamps, a great many of them captured, including Stirling himself.
He thought of Greene, but his mind was drifting, and he thought, Would it have mattered? If Greene had been here, would this army have stood up better, the deployment more suited to the attack they faced? There was no reason to think so. After all, it was not just the failure of the commanders that caused the collapse. The men themselves could not face an enemy this strong and stand firm.
The great mass of color in front of him began to blur, and he backed away from the wall, fought to get control. Behind him there was a swarm of sounds, faint screams and cries, the wounded being tended to as best as they could be. Many were quiet, those whose wounds were inside their own minds,