The Glorious Cause by Jeff Shaara Page A

stand. It could rally the men! The field was bathed in smoke again, a fresh wave of volleys from the left, pushing more of Sullivan’s men across the open ground, making their escape to the safety of the works. He watched the Maryland line still, could tell they were retreating in order, giving ground slowly, allowing the scattered troops to escape past them. But in front of them, he could see a growing force of British, and on one side, emerging from the same woods, a sharp reflection from more bayonets, a wave of blue, different, more Hessians. Men were climbing into the works all around him, and one man was suddenly at his feet, down below, shouted up to him, “Sir!”
    The man could barely speak, his words bursting out in short breaths. Washington looked at him, and the man saluted shakily, said, “Sir! Colonel Smallwood requests reinforcements, sir! He asks . . . in the most urgent terms!”
    Washington stared at the man, saw clear hard eyes, the man waiting for his answer. Washington looked again through the glass, and the man’s impatience gave way.
    “Sir! Colonel Smallwood . . .” Washington held up one hand, stopped the man, could see the Maryland line moving back toward him, a faster retreat now, but still good order. He felt relief, thought, No, Smallwood is saving his men. There can be no rallying now. This fight is done.
    Smallwood was pulling his troops toward the safety of the Heights, a swarm of color pursuing them from three sides, a wave of gray smoke rolling over them, some of the Marylanders going down. Washington looked at Smallwood’s man now, said, “It will not be necessary for you to return to Colonel Smallwood. There can be no reinforcements. The colonel understands that. He is in retreat.”
    The man tried to say something, a protest forming on his face. Washington forced himself to ignore him, stared again through the spyglass, the smoke blurring the view, the fight closing in all across the open ground. The sounds rolled in his direction, vast patches of smoke swirling around him. His men still came, the wounded still struggling, men helping each other, screams and shouts and panic. He stepped away from the rampart, looked for Putnam, thought, We must make ready. This is a good place for a fight. He shouted again, “Man the ramparts! Keep to your arms!”
    Men still scrambled past him, some stumbling, and he could see the high rocky ground within the fortifications filled with what was left of Sullivan’s command, every open space, some men sprawled out, some sitting, more of the wide-eyed shock. And, now for the first time, he saw that many of them were empty-handed, had left their muskets behind. Much of what remained of this army was nearly unarmed.
    The firing had stopped, and all out in front of Brooklyn Heights, the British had brought their army into neat formation, stood in line now, officers straightening the formations, as though organizing a parade. They stood just beyond musket range, and whether through discipline or pure terror, Washington’s men did not respond to this astounding target, no wild potshots at the great mass of power spread across the plain in front of them. He could hear music, a discordant rattling of drumbeats, a mix of rhythms, small groups of musicians and drummers, rallying their well-trained regiments. Behind the formation men on horseback were gathering, and Washington stared through the glass, tried to see them clearly, studied the grand uniforms. He could see one larger group, senior commanders, men with girth, heavy in the saddle, aides flittering about them. He didn’t know the faces, thought, Howe, perhaps. Certainly he would be here, to see for himself what his army has accomplished. Their great . . . triumph. He was engulfed by the same shock that still spread through his army, that they had faced the might of King George, and had been swept from the field. And worse, it was not merely the confrontation, the power, but the tactics as well,