The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [242]
“Sir, right away!”
The young man moved away in the darkness, and Washington could see the faint glow of a fire, the flame hidden deep in the ravine, no target for a British cannon. He thought of coffee, a marvelous luxury. One cup, just one. He looked for Tilghman, heard the young man’s voice, the rest of the staff gathering. He stepped that way, thought, One simple luxury cannot do damage. After this day, we may feel like celebrating, indeed!
EVEN BEFORE THE FIRST REAL LIGHT, THE PICKET LINES HAD LED THE advance up the long rise, out past the ravines. The men moved with deliberate care, each man waiting for the first flash of light, the British pickets who would be waiting for them. As they spread through the wide field, they discovered a gruesome reality. Bodies of British soldiers were scattered through the grass, the horror deepened by the soft cries from men who were still alive. But there would be no hesitation, and the men of the skirmish line could see the low gray outline of the village. They had expected to find the enemy before now, and the men were flinching at every sound, every crack of a stick. But they kept moving, and behind them, curious officers moved up close, men on horses looking beyond the skirmishers, surprised that Clinton would pull his defensive line back so close to the village. The word began to travel back to the main line, and Washington rode forward, feeling the icy chill in his heart, the low light of the new day revealing what many still could not believe.
The troops continued to advance until they reached the main road itself, the avenue that cut through Monmouth Court House. There were more wounded now, some men on blankets, a few who could pull themselves up, who watched with a new horror as the Americans filled what had been the British camp. But the only other sign of the British army was the enormous amount of equipment they had left behind.
As Washington rode into the small town, his men were pushing beyond the village, the scouts riding hard to the east. He would wait for their reports, but knew already what they would find. It must have begun late in the night, the British gathering those wounded who could walk and putting their men to the march. He sat on his horse in the center of the village and stared east, could see a faint glow, the sun breaking the horizon. The excitement, the anticipation of the morning was gone. Clinton had pulled his army away, had abandoned the field. It was a victory to be sure, a glorious triumph for Washington, for the army who gathered around him. But he could not celebrate, could not feel anything but a numbing emptiness, another grand opportunity to crush the enemy let slip away.
THE BRITISH REACHED SANDY HOOK ON JUNE 30, AND WERE QUICKLY ferried to Staten Island. Despite Washington’s distress that he had missed another astounding opportunity, Clinton’s command now encompassed nothing more than bases at two American cities, Newport, Rhode Island, and New York. For three years, the British had marched and maneuvered over hundreds of miles of American soil, had assaulted or occupied nearly every major American city. Through a baffling combination of glorious victory and desperate defeat, the king’s army now found itself in no better position, with no advantage in either land, morale, or ability, against an army that had demonstrated a maturity and an increasing will to stand tall. Washington had no choice but to assemble his army once more along the Hudson River and wait for the French to make their much-heralded appearance. Clinton established himself once again in the crowded, charred misery of New York, could only begin the effort to convince London that he should at least be given the opportunity to sweep away the legacy of William Howe, some chance to win this war on his own terms.
PART THREE
NATHANAEL GREENE
39. GREENE
JULY 11, 1778
WASHINGTON’S LOOKOUTS ON THE JERSEY