staring quietly at nothing, knowing that on this day they had shown very little of what makes a soldier. But there were signs of an army as well, officers still working their men into line, sorting through the mingling crowd, separating companies and regiments. All along the wall, the men who still had their muskets were climbing up, adding to the numbers, standing shoulder to shoulder, many with the strength still to face what lay across the open ground. In the rocks, Washington could see men climbing into safe places, aiming, practicing the good shot, others slipping between, lining the gorges and small hills. He scanned along the edge of the fortifications, thought, Of course, this is how it will be after all. This is where the strength is in this army. We don’t have the numbers to face the enemy on open ground. But here, in these rocks, on this hill, we are very strong indeed. He looked out toward the British lines, saw no motion, the vast army just standing, facing Brooklyn Heights like some strange enraptured audience. He felt suddenly impatient, there was no reason to wait any longer. He raised the glass again, focused on the largest group of officers, thought of Howe. All right, you have waited long enough. Perhaps too long. You have allowed us to make ready, the panic has passed, the chaos is now settling into a hard strong defense. Is that what you wanted? Is it more seemly for a British general to make war on a prepared enemy? Well, sir, we are prepared now. There were voices now, bits of sounds all along the British lines, orders calling out, a new burst of drumbeats. The rows of color began to ripple, like a great long ribbon flickering in the soft breeze. His heart pounded, and along the rampart his men began to shout, making ready, muskets coming to rest on the wall, facing the enemy. He could hear his officers, sharp orders, no firing, wait, and he nodded, thought, Yes, they would know. Some of these men were at Breed’s Hill. They would know what will happen if they are patient. Let them come close, a truly wonderful target, fire as one great force. With this ground, Howe cannot make a rapid charge, there can be no great bayonet assault, and so, we will have time to reload, fire again. There was motion still, the drums moving the colored line in a rhythm, but there was something odd, the lines were narrowing, the formations growing deeper. He raised the glass again, stared at the first row of troops, expected to see the bayonets, saw instead the bright uniforms . . . from behind. Beside him, one man let out a cheer, and there was a silent pause, and then more men began to pick it up, the sounds echoing all down the ramparts, the men reacting to the sight, seeming to understand the mystery. Washington was still puzzled, still expected to see the great mass changing into line again, moving to a flank assault perhaps, slipping off to one side. But the columns grew longer, deeper, and he could see it plainly now. The mystery was solved. The movements were precise, the formations exact. But the British were not advancing. They were marching away.
AUGUST 29, 1776
He had brought more of his men across the East River, strengthening the forces in Brooklyn Heights, preparing the army for the assault that must still come. Through a long night he had watched the darkness, anticipating some move, a surprise attack. It was not the British style, of course, and he understood tradition, but the Hessians were still out there, and he knew that they might not have the same respect for a gentlemen’s assault, especially the green-clad jagers, who were as comfortable in the dark as any of Washington’s sharp-shooting woodsmen.
For two nights they had heard the sounds of the British camp, a vast sea of flickering fires, extending back into the woods. He had sent small scouting parties out, probing carefully toward the British flanks. There had been nothing significant to report, the vast bulk of the enemy staying put in their camps, only scattered eruptions of musket fire, British pickets shooting blindly at the indiscreet