The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [43]
But there was no one to hear him now, just his staff, gathering slowly behind him, no one able to hold the troops from their manic retreat. He turned, looked again toward the British troops, saw them advancing again, the same small line, the drummer keeping the rhythm of their march. He slumped in the saddle, watched them come, the uniforms distinct, the sharp colors, the bayonets a bright silver reflection in the afternoon sun. They were nearly within musket range now, and still they kept their discipline, came forward at a steady march. He felt a strange sense of wonder, it was after all just one small unit, no real strength at all. Indeed, just a scouting party. He could see the sergeant leading them, close enough to see the features of the man’s face, confident, watching him as a hawk watches his prey, moving closer. There is no need for them to fire a volley. No, they will just capture us. We are unprotected. He felt the horse suddenly jerk to one side, saw Tilghman close beside him, pulling on the bridle, the young man looking at him with a terror of his own.
“Sir! We must go!”
The horse was moving now, and Washington felt the reins that were still in his hand, could see the staff in motion, the sounds of the horses. Tilghman said again, “Sir!”
His mind snapped alive, and he spurred the flanks of the horse, and it responded, the familiar gallop. The staff was all around him, riding as he rode, moving up the Post Road, following the trail of debris left by his army.
HE HAD CAUGHT UP TO MANY OF THE RETREATING SOLDIERS, HAD accepted their uselessness to make a stand. The staff had gathered as many officers as could be found and began to guide the troops toward the one place they could find safety. The northern part of Manhattan Island was rocky, with a wide stretch of high ground known as Harlem Heights. There, while Howe had spent two weeks planning his invasion of Manhattan, Washington had placed his headquarters, and the greatest strength of his army, a naturally fortified position, tall cliffs and massive boulders that spread from the Hudson River on the west to the Harlem River on the east.
Washington rode westward now, reached another crossroad that intersected the Bloomingdale Road, the main north–south road on the western part of the island. He crested a hill, could see the Hudson River in front of him, a line of British warships sitting at anchor, part of Howe’s grip on the island. He stopped the horse, the staff, other officers now gathering, more of his army finding their way to the safer roadway. Their movement was northward, and he made no attempt to stop them, knew that they would first have to gather on the rocky Heights if they were to have spirit for another fight.
The road was churned into dust, men moving past without seeing him, and he did not look at them, did not want to know whose men they were, whether or not they were Mifflin’s men or had been a part of the collapse at Kip’s Bay. There was the sound of a horse, then another, and Washington heard his name, the staff motioning. A horse emerged through the choking clouds, and Washington could see it was Israel Putnam. The short round man was holding tight to the reins of a horse whose hide was soaked with hot foam.
“General Washington! Thank God, sir! Thank God! I feared the worst!”
Washington waited for Putnam to collect himself, the exhausted horse lowering its head, Putnam wiping caked dirt from his face.
Putnam commanded the battery far to the south, and Washington knew how far he had come.
“General Putnam, I am pleased to see you are safe.”
Putnam huffed, seemed not to notice the black mood in Washington’s voice.
“Sir, I am not safe at all!” The words poured out of Putnam in a torrent. “We are in a deadly strait! My division is still occupying the battery. I must urge you, sir, to consider our immediate withdrawal! As best as we can determine, the entire