The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [341]
He was nearly clear of the town, the ground around him sandy, mostly covered by storm water. He navigated around a wide puddle, stopped, was suddenly engulfed in a hard grotesque smell. It was something he had smelled before, and he backed away instinctively. He could see now, the puddles were littered by heaps of broken men, pieces of bodies. He looked down, saw a man’s arm close to his own feet, felt the sickness coming. He stepped back, then stopped, scolded himself, You are not some recruit!
He looked out toward the defensive line, uneven mounds of dirt, shattered trees, could see movement, men rising as they saw him. They began to pull away from their cover, moving closer to him, recognition now. “Sir! It is dangerous here! You should get back, sir!”
He stepped past them, moved closer to the mounds of dirt. There was a new smell, sulfur, the odor rising from the ground, replacing the smells of death. He stared out above the mounds, the men calling to him, hard whispers, “Sir! Lower yourself, sir!”
He ignored them, tried to see some movement, some sign of the rebels, something beyond the low haze of smoke. He thought of Trenton, his fury at the empty trenches, Washington slipping away in the middle of the night. It has happened to both of us, he thought. At Monmouth it was Clinton, leaving you behind, a pleasant little surprise for you to discover. And I would have done it here. Or will it be you, Mr. Washington? Could it be that you will oblige us once more and just . . . march away? Perhaps you believe you have done all the damage you can do, that we can endure no more.
It was a ridiculous fantasy, and he focused on the batteries across the open ground, thought, No, they are present indeed. And I have no further possibilities. My king may condemn me . . . but we cannot all die here for no good reason.
He saw the flash, and the men shouted at him, “Down, sir!”
The shell whistled past, burst into a house back behind him, the house that had once been his headquarters. All down the enemy lines more flashes came, a new wave of firing, shot and shell now echoing all down through the town.
“Sir! Please! You best be lowerin’ yourself!”
He backed away from the mound, said aloud, “I require an officer.”
“Yes, sir! May I assist you, sir?”
The man scrambled low toward him, and he recognized the face, a young lieutenant, the name swept away in the clutter around him.
“You have a drummer here?”
“Quite, sir!” The man turned shouted, “Mr. Brown! Attend!”
Cornwallis saw the boy’s face, filthy and scared, the drum bouncing against his knee. Cornwallis said, “Do you know the cadence for a parley, young man?”
The boy seemed terrified, glanced at the lieutenant, then at Cornwallis.
“Yes, sir. That would be . . . three hard . . .”
“Climb the parapet there. You will commence to call for a parley.”
The boy seemed ready to cry, and the lieutenant motioned. “Go on! Do as your general commands you!”
The drummer climbed the mound of dirt, began to rap on his drum, the beat echoing down the line. The lieutenant was close to him now, said, “General, with all respect, it can’t do any good. With the shelling, he can’t be heard.”
Cornwallis waited a moment, the young man still drumming, and now the beat seemed louder, the steady rhythm cutting through the rumble of the guns. The lieutenant looked out toward the rebel lines, said, “The shelling . . . they’re ceasing their fire.”
Cornwallis still looked at the drummer, said, “They may not hear him. But they can see him. Lieutenant, do you have a handkerchief?”
“Yes . . . yes, sir.”
“Place it on the tip of your sword. You will advance out beyond your drummer.