The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [74]
The men were beginning to celebrate, the shock of what they had discovered turning into a party. He saw more rebels pulled by their shirts into the open, drunk as well, and he understood now. Of course, more stragglers, whose loyalty to their rum keg exceeded their loyalty to Mr. Washington.
He kept moving forward, closer to the sharp cliff that fell away to the river. In the rocks were the cannon, the big guns that had tormented the British ships. His men were examining them, and he could see that none had been spiked, none damaged. He thought of Howe, the order that would not let him pursue the rebels. Well, sir, you will be pleased. We have captured not only the fort, but every piece of equipment, every tent, every dinner plate, every gun. The rebels have simply left it all behind.
CORNWALLIS STAYED TRUE TO HOWE’S ORDERS, AND ONLY WHEN THE fort and all its supplies had been secured did his troops begin the march in pursuit of the rebel garrison. They had crossed the Hackensack River in a blinding storm of sleet and rain, made worse by the destruction of the single bridge, repairs to which took several days. Cornwallis knew that Greene’s men had joined up with Washington’s, had stayed in one place for the several days that Cornwallis had been delayed. The rain-soaked roads could not disguise the misery of Washington’s army, supplies and stragglers dropped all along the way, an army that could not keep itself together. Along every mile, Cornwallis’ men scooped up prisoners, and he heard more tales of despair than he had ever heard from the deserters at Harlem Heights. Every farmhouse was filled with exhausted, barely clothed men, and when Cornwallis reached Brunswick, he knew that just across the Raritan River, Washington’s army was melting away.
He paced the horse along the river, could see that the weather was turning foul again, a thick black sky moving toward him from the west. The chill cut through his uniform, and he reached for the heavy coat, an aide quickly beside him, pulling it over his shoulders. Upriver, he could see a group of rebels, a dozen perhaps, and he rode that way, ignored the faint objections from the staff, thought, It hardly matters, gentlemen. They have no muskets. He halted the horse, and the rebels began to wave, and he didn’t know if they were taunting or surrendering. He looked at the sky over their heads. Another night like the last few, and the rebels will likely beg for mercy. Mr. Washington cannot want a fight, not under these conditions. Surely he is outnumbered by two or three to one. And everything we have seen tells us that those men have very little fight in them. He looked down the river again, where the engineers were repairing the bridge. Gentlemen, I implore you. Do make haste.
The army was back in whatever cover they could find, mostly in patches of woods, and he had relaxed the usual discipline, allowing the men to gather branches and moss, any kind of protection against the weather. When the march out of Fort Lee had clearly become a pursuit, he had ordered the army to leave their tents behind, the men already encumbered by the weight of their packs and muskets. Once the weather changed for the worse, he had regretted the order. But their means of making a dry camp was well behind them now, and they would need their rest. They had endured the same march as Washington, and the toll was etched on their faces. Even as they gathered up the rebel stragglers, his own men were dropping in place, staggering through muddy roads in blind fatigue. There is some blessing in this delay after all. And still, right there, across this river, Washington’s army is