The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [239]
Wayne kept up his movement, calming his men, urging them to wait. One of the horsemen pulled aside, and Wayne saw the gold disc on the man’s chest, his symbol of rank, the officer who gave the commands. Wayne focused on the man, could see him scanning the lines of troops that blocked his path, and Wayne smiled, knew the order to charge would come from him. He leaned close to the soldiers nearest him. “Take aim at the king bird.”
The horsemen continued to close and Wayne ignored the nervous glances from the men around him, repeated the words, “Steady. Do not fire.”
The horsemen were now within forty yards, the thunder of their drums filling the air, and Wayne watched the British officer raise his arm, point out to one side, the drums changing their beat. The cavalry began shifting their formation, making ready for their final grand assault. Wayne still focused on the officer, was close enough to see the man’s expression, the utter contemptuous sneer for these half-dressed men who dared impede the march of the king’s own cavalry. Wayne stood up tall, caught the man’s eye, raised his hand in a hard fist, then slowly extended one finger, pointed straight into the man’s chest, shouted, “Fire!”
The rows of muskets exploded in one sharp blast, and for a long moment, there was nothing to see. He shouted again, “Reload! Fire at will!”
As the smoke began to clear, there was a strange hesitation along his line, men staring for a moment at the horrific sight. Horses and their riders were spread along the edge of the ravine, some moving in short fits, blood spreading on both man and beast. The horsemen who could still ride did not remain, were already escaping back across the causeway, and there was no order, no kind of formation. Wayne’s men began to fire again, many aiming at horseless soldiers as they tried to pull themselves into some kind of line. But there was no command, no officer to lead them, and before Wayne’s men could mount a third volley, what remained of the King’s cavalry had limped themselves away.
THE CANNON HAD MOVED INTO NEW POSITIONS ALL THROUGHOUT the afternoon, Knox himself appearing around each battery. The British had responded with waves of their own artillery fire, more than a dozen guns on each side throwing shot and shell at each other, and at the men who fought between them.
Among them was Molly Hays, and she came out to stand with her husband as he worked one of Knox’s guns. It was one of the awful fortunes of war that these two armies would wind their way through the New Jersey countryside, to finally collide on this ground, so close to the Hays farm. Molly had come to the deadly fields, as so many of the wives would do. They came to help, of course, but the men would fear more for the women than for themselves, would scold them, command them in fierce language to stay away, to go home, out of the way of the danger. But Hays knew his wife would not endure such a lecture, would certainly never obey one. If she could not stand beside him, then she would offer to perform whatever work was needed. On this awful day, in the killing heat, she found her role, had brought a large clay pitcher, ran from the battery down to a nearby creek, bringing water to the blackened men who worked their guns and themselves with relentless effort.
She had made several trips, the men shouting after her, giving her a playful nickname. She carried it with pride, especially when she saw General Knox himself, the round man sitting high on the horse cheering her as well. The guns had continued to shift position, and she had stayed close, still dragged the water. It was a torturous routine, but she never slowed her efforts. She did not expect to return to the battery to be faced by a silent gathering of men. As they slowly moved aside, she saw him slumped over the axle of the cannon. They pulled him