The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [44]
Washington turned to the east, thought, No sound, no drums, no advance. Nothing. He looked at Putnam, said, “Since you rode this far, I am assuming the Bloomingdale Road is still open all the way southward.”
“Yes, sir! For now, that is! We cannot delay!”
“No, you cannot. Can you make the ride yourself, General?”
Putnam seemed insulted at the question, said, “I am here to protect my men, sir! I will make any ride necessary!”
Washington looked at the other horseman, a much younger man, the face familiar, Aaron Burr, a contentious man who had served briefly with Washington’s staff.
“Major Burr, you are familiar with this road. If the enemy attempts to block it, can you guide General Putnam’s troops on alternate routes?”
The young man seemed calm, unaffected by Putnam’s excitement.
“Sir, I know every back road, all the trails. I can guarantee you we’ll make good our escape.”
Washington was already familiar with the young man’s arrogance, tried to ignore the boast, said to Putnam, “Return to your command, General. Have Colonel Knox salvage what he can, but do not jeopardize your men by attempting to remove the cannon.”
He saw the look of despair on Putnam’s face, and Putnam said, “Sir, we have sixty-seven guns there. That’s nearly half our artillery.”
“You have four thousand men, General. Their safety is my first concern. If you do not succeed, this army has lost far more than cannon. Do not delay, General.”
Putnam saluted, turned his horse, and the young Burr led the way. Washington looked to the west, the sun moving lower in the sky. He pulled the horse around, moved out into the road, the staff behind. He stopped suddenly, strained to hear, the only sound the movement of scattered men, all heading north. He thought of the scouting party, the small detachment of British troops who had so frightened his men. Scouting parties will be out in all directions. All it will take is one who moves west, who dares to go as far as the Bloomingdale Road. If they locate Putnam’s column, Howe can throw a great force into their flank in short order. Putnam has four thousand men. Howe could bring twice that many. He thought of Henry Knox, the young rotund man, the bookseller who had become the best artilleryman in his army. We need your guns, young man. But more, we need you. He glanced back down the road to the south, the road open and silent. He thought of Howe, the man’s tactics: Why does he delay? Why does he not finish the job he had begun this morning? He knows I will not abandon Putnam’s men, he knows they will retreat. That could be his plan, after all. Strike us when we are on the march. He pushed the image from his mind, had seen enough of retreat and panic for one day. He moved the horse again, stared ahead to the high ground to the north, where the mass of his army was digging in.
AS HE MOVED NORTHWARD, HE CONTINUED TO PASS THE GATHERING troops, more of his army, seeking the safety of Harlem Heights. He met officers as well, new orders going out, men sent back to the southeast. As the Post Road cut more diagonally across the island, it ran through a natural defile of rocks known as McGown’s Pass, where he was certain a small body of men could hold back a much larger British advance. It was the last piece of good ground his men could use to keep the British away before they came to the flat plain in front of Harlem Heights. He didn’t know if it would work, but he gave the job to the Marylander, Smallwood, one of the few men whose troops he knew would make a stand.
As the darkness spread, it began to rain. The shovels still worked through the deepening mud, but the wounded and the panic-stricken found whatever shelter they could, the sounds of the rain muting