army. This army.
The smoke began to clear again, and he could see across the plain, could see the Guian Heights. Troops were visible to the east, and it was not chaos, but signs of order and discipline, men in formation, straight lines, advancing in good order. But it was not the uneven colors, the irregular uniforms of his men. The lines were red and white, and then to the south, formations of sharp blue, reflections off rows of bayonets. He stared with a growing coldness in his mind. The lines were moving toward him, all across the field, driving before them scattered pieces of his army.
He looked back into the works, could see Putnam now, working to pull the shaken troops together, the men who had escaped wounds, whose panic had been brought under control. Gradually a line formed, men from various regiments gathering into a line of battle. Putnam was shouting something, officers repeating the calls, but few of the men paid attention to them, some staring up toward the ramparts, where men with quivering hands stared out at the same stunning sight that faced Washington. Some were looking toward him, and he saw it in their faces. This is the moment, the one instant that will decide their fate. If they run, abandon these works . . .
He would not look to the rear, give them any hint of what he was thinking. But he knew what was there. It was no accident the works were built with the rear against the East River. The design had been Stirling’s, the man with a talent for engineering, for making the best use of the lay of the land. The river was a barrier to protect them. And he understood now, it was a barrier as well to their escape. Should they try to run, should the rout be complete, these men would have nowhere to go. He tried to wipe the thought from his mind, shouted again, “Hold firm! We are secure here!”
It was feeble, but he didn’t know what else to say. The men on the rampart seemed to move with a pulse, each man fighting in his own heart the urge to run away. He knew that all it might take would be that one awful sight, one man with a horrible wound, one man who suddenly leaped from the ramparts, scrambled back toward the river, infecting them all. He looked for Putnam again, saw him still forming men into line, and Putnam looked at him, the older man’s face a silent question.
“General Putnam, have these men remain ready! But there will be no advance. No one will move forward!”
Putnam nodded, understood what Washington was doing, that it was not only sound tactics in the face of an overwhelming force of the enemy, but those orders would calm the men. They would not be asked to do it again. Not this day.
He turned to his aide now, saw Tench Tilghman watching him, waiting for orders. The small thin man was holding the spyglass, and Washington motioned. Tilghman climbed a short ladder and handed him the glass. Washington took a breath, focused out on the closest line of troops he could see, a short line of blue coats. But it was not the sharp blue of the Hessians. These troops were facing the other way. There was a sudden burst of smoke, a volley, and out past them, a British line seemed to collapse, scattering into pieces. Washington said aloud, “Who is that? What . . . unit is that?”
He didn’t expect an answer, but Tilghman said, “Marylanders, sir! Colonel Smallwood!”
Washington could hear the excitement in Tilghman’s voice, still stared through the glass, could see more of his scattered men rallying to the Maryland line, bits of uniforms distinct now. His hands gripped the glass, yes! He is correct! The Maryland regiment. And . . . Delaware. Hazlet’s men.
The British came together again, another advance against the Maryland line, and to one side of them, Washington could see men emerging from a thicket of trees, most of them running, more of the retreat, moving past their own solid line, the men who held their ground. He thought of the horse, I must go there. They are making a
The smoke began to clear again, and he could see across the plain, could see the Guian Heights. Troops were visible to the east, and it was not chaos, but signs of order and discipline, men in formation, straight lines, advancing in good order. But it was not the uneven colors, the irregular uniforms of his men. The lines were red and white, and then to the south, formations of sharp blue, reflections off rows of bayonets. He stared with a growing coldness in his mind. The lines were moving toward him, all across the field, driving before them scattered pieces of his army.
He looked back into the works, could see Putnam now, working to pull the shaken troops together, the men who had escaped wounds, whose panic had been brought under control. Gradually a line formed, men from various regiments gathering into a line of battle. Putnam was shouting something, officers repeating the calls, but few of the men paid attention to them, some staring up toward the ramparts, where men with quivering hands stared out at the same stunning sight that faced Washington. Some were looking toward him, and he saw it in their faces. This is the moment, the one instant that will decide their fate. If they run, abandon these works . . .
He would not look to the rear, give them any hint of what he was thinking. But he knew what was there. It was no accident the works were built with the rear against the East River. The design had been Stirling’s, the man with a talent for engineering, for making the best use of the lay of the land. The river was a barrier to protect them. And he understood now, it was a barrier as well to their escape. Should they try to run, should the rout be complete, these men would have nowhere to go. He tried to wipe the thought from his mind, shouted again, “Hold firm! We are secure here!”
It was feeble, but he didn’t know what else to say. The men on the rampart seemed to move with a pulse, each man fighting in his own heart the urge to run away. He knew that all it might take would be that one awful sight, one man with a horrible wound, one man who suddenly leaped from the ramparts, scrambled back toward the river, infecting them all. He looked for Putnam again, saw him still forming men into line, and Putnam looked at him, the older man’s face a silent question.
“General Putnam, have these men remain ready! But there will be no advance. No one will move forward!”
Putnam nodded, understood what Washington was doing, that it was not only sound tactics in the face of an overwhelming force of the enemy, but those orders would calm the men. They would not be asked to do it again. Not this day.
He turned to his aide now, saw Tench Tilghman watching him, waiting for orders. The small thin man was holding the spyglass, and Washington motioned. Tilghman climbed a short ladder and handed him the glass. Washington took a breath, focused out on the closest line of troops he could see, a short line of blue coats. But it was not the sharp blue of the Hessians. These troops were facing the other way. There was a sudden burst of smoke, a volley, and out past them, a British line seemed to collapse, scattering into pieces. Washington said aloud, “Who is that? What . . . unit is that?”
He didn’t expect an answer, but Tilghman said, “Marylanders, sir! Colonel Smallwood!”
Washington could hear the excitement in Tilghman’s voice, still stared through the glass, could see more of his scattered men rallying to the Maryland line, bits of uniforms distinct now. His hands gripped the glass, yes! He is correct! The Maryland regiment. And . . . Delaware. Hazlet’s men.
The British came together again, another advance against the Maryland line, and to one side of them, Washington could see men emerging from a thicket of trees, most of them running, more of the retreat, moving past their own solid line, the men who held their ground. He thought of the horse, I must go there. They are making a
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