The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [238]
Lee shook his head, said, “Sir, this plan had little chance of success against such a formidable enemy. I tried to caution you . . .”
There was a shout from in front, and Washington saw one of his aides riding hard, the man halting now, “Sir! The enemy is advancing, pursuing our retreat! He is not more than fifteen minutes from our position!”
Washington looked past the man, saw a winding ravine, dense brush, narrow roadways cutting across. Beyond, the ground was a morass of swamps, patches of thick trees, framed by a ridge of high ground.
“As I suspected, sir. We are no match . . .”
Lee’s voice sliced through him, a hot sharp blade, and he felt something break inside, the fury and violence now rising, uncontrollable. Lee stopped his words, and Washington saw fear in the man’s face, Lee leaning away from him, a small shake of his head, his voice squeezing out one high-pitched word, “No . . .”
Washington felt his hands still wrapped around the leather reins, the violence in his mind now a roaring flame. He saw now that men had gathered around them, officers, troops, his staff, all watching him with breathless silence, and he closed his eyes for a brief moment, would not look at Lee. The fury began to slip away just a bit, and he opened his eyes, said, “Mr. Lee, I am relieving you of your responsibility on this field. You will place yourself at the rear of this column.”
He did not wait for a response, spun the horse around, saw a new column of troops approaching, more of Lee’s retreat, but the men were not staggering, held their muskets on their shoulders, their officers riding stiffly alongside. They moved down through the ravine, then up toward him, and Washington saw their commander, Anthony Wayne, riding alongside the young Frenchman. Wayne raised his hand, and the order went out, and the column came to a crisp halt. Lafayette rode forward still, the young man’s face clenched in grim anger.
“General Washington, we received an order to withdraw. General Wayne was compelled to disengage his men from the enemy, and he did so in good order. I wish to report that General Wayne’s brigade has performed with the most conspicuous honor.”
Wayne moved forward. Seeing red fury on the man’s face, Washington said, “Mr. Wayne, we have been informed the enemy is in pursuit of this column. Your troops are in place. Can you maintain a strong defensive position on this ground while we bring the remainder of this army into line?”
“We will not be moved, sir.”
“Then proceed.”
Wayne’s troops began to file out to the side of the road, lining the higher ground, the ravine now to their front, a deadly position for an enemy to cross. He looked at Lafayette, said, “General, we have work to do. I require someone familiar with this ground. It appears to be a good place for a fight.”
THE FIRST LINE OF BRITISH TROOPS CAME ON HORSEBACK, A MAGNIFICENT show, cavalry under tall plumed hats guiding their horses in perfect order. Wayne’s men were anchored in place, some spread out into the brush along the edge of the ravine, the only movement in their line coming from their commander. He slipped along behind his men, spoke in a hushed voice, caution, patience, unmistakable orders for the men who would only obey them. He knew the British horsemen would make a grand display of their advance, their officers holding them in line to face their enemy as a sign of pride in their power. It was so much tired tradition to Wayne, to so many of the American officers, but it was a tradition that the veteran British regulars carried proudly into every fight, centuries of pomp and magnificence that so often put fear into the hearts of their enemies. But Wayne’s men would not run, had seen too much already on this one day, had already pushed hard against the cream of the British infantry. The men on horses were simply more of the same, no matter the finery on their uniforms, or the high-stepping grace of their horses.
The cavalry rode steadily across the swampy ravine, the gait of their