The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [42]
He could see a small hill, about a quarter mile away, the Post Road running up and over, then disappearing beyond. He knew that past the small hill, the road dropped off toward another much larger hill, crowned by the Murray estate, and then just below, Kip’s Bay. He had not expected Howe to come ashore there, had thought they might land farther north, closer to the mouth of the Harlem River, farther from Washington’s strength in the city. He knew the area around Kip’s Bay was commanded by William Douglas, with a brigade of fresh Connecticut troops, green recruits who had not been with the army more than a few days. But south of the bay were more Connecticut troops, under James Wadsworth, experienced men, and Wadsworth would know to reinforce Douglas. He had no idea if the men who had retreated with such panic were Douglas’ men, or Wadsworth’s, or both. But for now, it made no difference.
From behind him, men continued to come forward, reinforcing his stand, and he sat high in the saddle, could hear some men calling out to him, would not acknowledge that, thought, This is not a moment for hat waving and celebration. Show me how you can fight. That is all I ask.
He continued to stare down the Post Road, could hear nothing but the men around him, but then something faint, a muffled rhythm. The men began to hear it as well, and the voices grew quiet. On the hill, he saw a flicker of red, saw a man, a single soldier suddenly crest the hill. The man stopped, seemed to wave, and now more men appeared, filling the road, some spreading out to each side. The muffled sound was now sharp, distinct, the careful rhythm of a lone drummer. The British came forward slowly, and Washington felt his heartbeat rising, expected to see a great mass of troops, but the British moved toward them down off the hill, and behind them, the hilltop was bare, the road empty. The British still moved forward, but the drum had stopped, the soldiers halting now, extending into a single line. Washington could see now, no officers, no one on a horse, thought, It’s merely a scouting party, perhaps, sixty, seventy men. They will not come much closer, unless they have strength behind them. I must hold these men back, they might be tempted to charge them, an easy capture. We must see what they do first.
His thoughts were jarred by a sudden cascade of voices, men on either side of him. He expected to see them bursting forward, shouted, “No! Hold here . . .”
But they were not advancing. Instead, men were pulling away from their cover, the stone wall emptying, as they suddenly rushed out of the cornfield. It had begun with a few, but the infection spread, and all around him, men dropped their muskets, a sudden eruption of panic as his men, Mifflin’s men, the others, abandoned their position. He stared in horror, felt a burn in his chest, his voice choked away, the infection now complete, hundreds of men filled the Post Road, scampering away across the fields. He tried to shout, made just a noise, no words, saw Mifflin riding back through his men, trying to turn them, and the anger rose inside of him, Damn them! Why do they run? His staff was close by, watching him, waiting for some instruction, and Washington felt the anger growing into a hot mindless rage. He spurred the horse, rode through the panicked men, slapping at them with his sword, his voice now harsh, raw. “Stop! You are cowards! Damn you!”
He saw a young officer, the man pushing past his own men, knocking one man to the ground, the officer scrambling over a fence, stumbling, tearing at his own canteen, throwing it aside. Others were doing the same, dropping whatever was in their hands, cartridge boxes, powder horns, littering the ground with the tools of his army. Washington tore the hat from his head, gripped it hard in his fist, still watched the young officer, the