The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [22]
By midmorning, a grim darkness had rolled over them from the west, and the rains came. It was not the quick violence of the thunderstorm, but a slow steady drizzle that grew harder as the day passed. By afternoon, the rains had soaked the ground and the men, and settled around them like a thick dark shroud.
AS THE DREARINESS OF THE AFTERNOON HAD PASSED, HE HAD RIDDEN among the troops, the horse slipping its way through the wet ravines and earthworks, the staff grumbling behind him. There were no cheers for the commanding general, the men huddled glumly in groups, some perched under ledges of rock, makeshift tents of blankets draped over muskets. The British had stayed put, again, and Washington knew instinctively that as the miserable day wore on, there would be no assault, Howe’s men in no better position to fight the weather than they were Washington’s fortified Heights. As he turned the horse back toward his headquarters, he sent aides out in search of the senior officers. He had not yet had a general council of the commanders, but he needed one now. It was not because of the men, or any move by the British. All along the fortified lines, he had told the men to check the pans on their muskets, and to those who had them, to check the condition of their cartridge boxes. Some of the men knew before he even told them. Their powder was soaking wet. And worse, no one had taken charge of the supplies. Boxes and cloth sacks of gunpowder were simply sitting in the rain. Throughout most of the Heights, there was almost no usable ammunition.
They gathered in a makeshift headquarters, an open-sided tent staked up behind a steep bank of rock. It was now one of the few dry places anyone could find. Most of the officers were as soaked as he was, and the moods were mixed. He still hoped to see more of the familiar faces, knew that all through the past two nights, men had continued to straggle in, finding their way in the darkness past the British. But as he looked at the faces, his last hopes were brought down. He looked at Putnam now, said, “We have heard nothing further? No word?”
Putnam shook his head, said nothing. Washington took a breath, said, “We do not have definite reports, and thus there is no way to make certain of the facts. But by all accounts, General Sullivan has not been seen. Those who saw him in the field are confident that he survived the action. It is a forlorn hope that he is alive and well, and, as the best alternative, is in the hands of the British as a prisoner.”
He looked at the others, knew that Putnam was the only available senior commander, most of the others men of lesser rank, and certainly, lesser experience. One man seemed to surge forward, said, “Sir, if you will allow . . .”
“Everyone may speak, General Heath. This is a council of war. What have you to say?”
William Heath was a Massachusetts man, had served under Putnam in Boston, and if Heath had not distinguished himself for any particular action, the two men were at least accustomed to working together. He seemed full of protest, unsure how to begin, finally said, “Sir, I am at a loss to explain the actions of some of our most . . . able commanders.”
There was sarcasm in the word, and Washington did not want to hear this, but Heath continued. “I have been made aware, sir, that certain regiments behaved with scandalous disregard for the safety of this army. I am told that the Marylanders carelessly burned a bridge