The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [241]
He could see up the long rise, scattered bodies of red, gathering together. They are beaten, he thought. If we drive them now, they will not survive this day. But the men around him were immobile, some lying flat on the ground. He climbed down from the horse, fought through agonizing stiffness in his legs. He had been in the saddle for nearly fifteen hours, had crossed every piece of this field, every place the fight had gone. He knew so many of his officers had done extraordinary work, Greene and Stirling making the best of the wonderful ground on the flanks. Wayne had continued to perform with perfect discipline, Lafayette holding the center of the line as they fought off assault after assault from men Washington knew to be Clinton’s finest infantry.
He stood among them, stared up across the wide field. It will be tomorrow, he thought. We have no alternative. They are in worse condition than we are, certainly. General Clinton is not a butcher, he will not send his men down to try this ground again. So, we must wait. He looked along the gathering of his troops, could see men climbing up from the ravines, joining the men in the field. All along the lines, the army was coming together. He wanted to walk among them, as he had done so many times before, to hear their words, and if they doubted what they had accomplished on this day, they would learn it from him. He thought of Lee, but he had no energy to curse the man, tried to avoid the exercise in his mind. But he could not help thinking of what these men might have done before the British were able to respond. Was it my mistake after all? Should I have known what the man would do? How could I have kept him from his rightful place on this field? Would Mr. Lafayette have performed so much better? The questions rolled up at him, drifted through his exhaustion. He moved back to the horse, took a long breath, pulled himself up to the saddle. There will be no answer, not today. We have accomplished all we can for now. Tomorrow . . . it must be tomorrow.
JUNE 29, 1778
He had made his bed under a tree in the open air. Lafayette was nearby, the young man keeping him awake late into the night, the energy to talk coming from Lafayette’s own fury at the collapse of Charles Lee. But Washington had finally ordered him to sleep, knew that before much time had passed, there would be repercussions from what Washington had done, that Lee would certainly not go quietly, might even expect to resume some kind of command.
Even in the silence, Washington had begged for sleep, staring up at stars through the leafy branches of a wide tree, and finally the stars were gone, and he had ridden through a great field of cannon and horsemen, all chaos and smoke, realized it was Mount Vernon, the grounds of his beloved home, the shock . . . the house . . . Martha.
“Sir!”
The image was gone in the darkness, and the voice came again, a hard whisper, “Sir!”
He raised himself, felt a sharp stab from the stiffness in his back. He heard a match strike, squinted at the glow, saw it was Tilghman.
“Yes, Colonel. I am awake. What is the hour?”
“Four o’clock, sir.”
He rolled himself over to his knees, stood up slowly, and Tilghman said, “Should I wake General Lafayette, sir?”
“By all means. I am certain no one will wish to miss a moment of this day.”
Now fully awake, he walked out from under the tree, could see the stars again, sharp points of lights covering the entire field. There was movement already, all around him, and he heard the voices, the sound of a tin pot. He felt a thick dryness in his mouth, was desperately thirsty, searched the dark for an aide, someone with a canteen. He moved back toward the tree, more voices in front of him, and Lafayette was there, said, “General. Good morning, sir.”
“Mr. Lafayette. I would like you to supervise