the flanking move that had caught them all by surprise. His mind was too numb to think of blame, whether Sullivan or Putnam should have known better, whether someone should have protected against all the possible routes the enemy could have used. The blame would be Washington’s, after all, and there were far greater concerns than which officer might not have performed. He knew enough of the fight to know that many of Stirling’s men had made a valiant stand, Smallwood certainly, the Delaware line, Atlee of Pennsylvania, Clark of Connecticut. But in the end, the numbers against them were too strong, and so many of the heroes would remain nameless, cut down by the bayonets or lost in the swamps, a great many of them captured, including Stirling himself.
He thought of Greene, but his mind was drifting, and he thought, Would it have mattered? If Greene had been here, would this army have stood up better, the deployment more suited to the attack they faced? There was no reason to think so. After all, it was not just the failure of the commanders that caused the collapse. The men themselves could not face an enemy this strong and stand firm.
The great mass of color in front of him began to blur, and he backed away from the wall, fought to get control. Behind him there was a swarm of sounds, faint screams and cries, the wounded being tended to as best as they could be. Many were quiet, those whose wounds were inside their own minds, staring quietly at nothing, knowing that on this day they had shown very little of what makes a soldier. But there were signs of an army as well, officers still working their men into line, sorting through the mingling crowd, separating companies and regiments. All along the wall, the men who still had their muskets were climbing up, adding to the numbers, standing shoulder to shoulder, many with the strength still to face what lay across the open ground. In the rocks, Washington could see men climbing into safe places, aiming, practicing the good shot, others slipping between, lining the gorges and small hills. He scanned along the edge of the fortifications, thought, Of course, this is how it will be after all. This is where the strength is in this army. We don’t have the numbers to face the enemy on open ground. But here, in these rocks, on this hill, we are very strong indeed. He looked out toward the British lines, saw no motion, the vast army just standing, facing Brooklyn Heights like some strange enraptured audience. He felt suddenly impatient, there was no reason to wait any longer. He raised the glass again, focused on the largest group of officers, thought of Howe. All right, you have waited long enough. Perhaps too long. You have allowed us to make ready, the panic has passed, the chaos is now settling into a hard strong defense. Is that what you wanted? Is it more seemly for a British general to make war on a prepared enemy? Well, sir, we are prepared now. There were voices now, bits of sounds all along the British lines, orders calling out, a new burst of drumbeats. The rows of color began to ripple, like a great long ribbon flickering in the soft breeze. His heart pounded, and along the rampart his men began to shout, making ready, muskets coming to rest on the wall, facing the enemy. He could hear his officers, sharp orders, no firing, wait , and he nodded, thought, Yes, they would know. Some of these men were at Breed’s Hill. They would know what will happen if they are patient. Let them come close, a truly wonderful target, fire as one great force. With this ground, Howe cannot make a rapid charge, there can be no great bayonet assault, and so, we will have time to reload, fire again. There was motion still, the drums moving the colored line in a rhythm, but there was something odd, the lines were narrowing, the formations growing deeper. He raised the glass again, stared at the first row of troops, expected to see the bayonets, saw instead the bright uniforms . . . from behind
He thought of Greene, but his mind was drifting, and he thought, Would it have mattered? If Greene had been here, would this army have stood up better, the deployment more suited to the attack they faced? There was no reason to think so. After all, it was not just the failure of the commanders that caused the collapse. The men themselves could not face an enemy this strong and stand firm.
The great mass of color in front of him began to blur, and he backed away from the wall, fought to get control. Behind him there was a swarm of sounds, faint screams and cries, the wounded being tended to as best as they could be. Many were quiet, those whose wounds were inside their own minds, staring quietly at nothing, knowing that on this day they had shown very little of what makes a soldier. But there were signs of an army as well, officers still working their men into line, sorting through the mingling crowd, separating companies and regiments. All along the wall, the men who still had their muskets were climbing up, adding to the numbers, standing shoulder to shoulder, many with the strength still to face what lay across the open ground. In the rocks, Washington could see men climbing into safe places, aiming, practicing the good shot, others slipping between, lining the gorges and small hills. He scanned along the edge of the fortifications, thought, Of course, this is how it will be after all. This is where the strength is in this army. We don’t have the numbers to face the enemy on open ground. But here, in these rocks, on this hill, we are very strong indeed. He looked out toward the British lines, saw no motion, the vast army just standing, facing Brooklyn Heights like some strange enraptured audience. He felt suddenly impatient, there was no reason to wait any longer. He raised the glass again, focused on the largest group of officers, thought of Howe. All right, you have waited long enough. Perhaps too long. You have allowed us to make ready, the panic has passed, the chaos is now settling into a hard strong defense. Is that what you wanted? Is it more seemly for a British general to make war on a prepared enemy? Well, sir, we are prepared now. There were voices now, bits of sounds all along the British lines, orders calling out, a new burst of drumbeats. The rows of color began to ripple, like a great long ribbon flickering in the soft breeze. His heart pounded, and along the rampart his men began to shout, making ready, muskets coming to rest on the wall, facing the enemy. He could hear his officers, sharp orders, no firing, wait , and he nodded, thought, Yes, they would know. Some of these men were at Breed’s Hill. They would know what will happen if they are patient. Let them come close, a truly wonderful target, fire as one great force. With this ground, Howe cannot make a rapid charge, there can be no great bayonet assault, and so, we will have time to reload, fire again. There was motion still, the drums moving the colored line in a rhythm, but there was something odd, the lines were narrowing, the formations growing deeper. He raised the glass again, stared at the first row of troops, expected to see the bayonets, saw instead the bright uniforms . . . from behind
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