The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [237]
“I am aware of the obvious, Colonel. Find out who they are.”
Tilghman began to move forward and the guards shouted again, and now the road was coming alive with men, most shuffling slowly, some emerging from the brush. They began to flow by him, most not seeing, some stumbling, one man now falling close to him, the man’s musket clattering to the hard ground. Behind them, a larger group of men appeared, were more organized, two columns, a small flag of a regiment. They came on slowly, the men holding themselves in the road with deliberate steps. He saw officers, men on horses, and Tilghman said, “Sir . . . Colonel Shreve.”
The faces were familiar, and Washington moved the horse forward again. Shreve moved off the road, let his column move past him, saluted Washington now, said, “Sir. Thank Almighty God.”
“What is the meaning of this, Colonel? Why are these men retreating?”
“I do not rightly know, sir. I received the order an hour ago. We had not yet engaged the enemy.”
Behind the regiments, more columns appeared, some uneven, men barely able to move, some falling out of line. There were too many for the narrow roads, and the fields out to one side were filling with columns as well. He looked at Shreve, wanted to shout in the man’s face, clamped down on the words, said in a growl, “You were ordered to retreat? By whom?”
“I cannot say, sir. The orders came from . . . command.”
He stared at the man for a moment, looked now at the column of exhausted troops, said, “Gather these men into a place where they can rest. Refresh them as best you can. This day is not yet concluded.”
He moved past the officers, rode between lines of silent troops, thought, This is not a panicked retreat. These men are not beaten by anyone. They have their muskets, they . . . Shreve’s words came back to him . . . had not yet engaged the enemy. He pushed the horse to a gallop again, threaded his way past the troops. He searched the faces, more officers, some as drained as their men, some moving toward him. He was suddenly at a bridge, a small deep cut across the road, stepped the horse carefully, saw another column in the road ahead, a pair of dogs scampering across the road, saw now, Charles Lee.
He slapped the horse, Lee waiting for him, no expression on the man’s face, and Washington pulled up beside him, felt his grip loosening on his temper, the control gone from his voice. He shouted, “What is the meaning of this? Why are these men in retreat? Why is there such confusion?”
Lee stared blankly at him, seemed surprised by his volume, tried to speak, turned slightly in the saddle. Washington’s rage was complete, the words a flow of molten rock.
“What have you done, Mr. Lee?”
Lee seemed to stagger under the heat of Washington’s glare, a hint of wide-eyed fear. He formed the words, said in a low voice, “There is no confusion here.” He tried to gather energy, the smugness beginning to return. “There has been considerable difficulty this morning arising from disobedience of my orders, sir. I have received contradictory intelligence, the enemy has confounded my every move. Officers under this command have failed me in every respect. The ground over which this fight was to be made is wholly unacceptable, a plain so large that no army can make a show for itself. The enemy grenadiers shall surely have destroyed us. As you know, sir, this entire operation was undertaken against my own opinion.”
Washington gripped the reins, his fingers curling into hard fists. He glared at the man’s smugness, all the perfect excuses, wanted to pull Lee up off his horse, wrap his hands around the man’s thin neck. He felt himself choking on the rage, forced his words through a tightly clenched jaw, “You ought not have accepted this plan . . . you ought