. Beside him, one man let out a cheer, and there was a silent pause, and then more men began to pick it up, the sounds echoing all down the ramparts, the men reacting to the sight, seeming to understand the mystery. Washington was still puzzled, still expected to see the great mass changing into line again, moving to a flank assault perhaps, slipping off to one side. But the columns grew longer, deeper, and he could see it plainly now. The mystery was solved. The movements were precise, the formations exact. But the British were not advancing. They were marching away.
A UGUST 29, 1776
He had brought more of his men across the East River, strengthening the forces in Brooklyn Heights, preparing the army for the assault that must still come. Through a long night he had watched the darkness, anticipating some move, a surprise attack. It was not the British style, of course, and he understood tradition, but the Hessians were still out there, and he knew that they might not have the same respect for a gentlemen’s assault, especially the green-clad jagers , who were as comfortable in the dark as any of Washington’s sharp-shooting woodsmen.
For two nights they had heard the sounds of the British camp, a vast sea of flickering fires, extending back into the woods. He had sent small scouting parties out, probing carefully toward the British flanks. There had been nothing significant to report, the vast bulk of the enemy staying put in their camps, only scattered eruptions of musket fire, British pickets shooting blindly at the indiscreet noises. But when each dawn had come, he could see that the British had been busy indeed, had made good use of the shovel, long snaking lines of entrenchments all along in front of his fortifications. If Howe had not been in a hurry to move against his fortifications, it did not mean the British were content to just sit and watch Brooklyn Heights. As the entrenchments grew longer and more complex, he had seen horses adding to the activity, drawing cannon, their crews setting the big guns behind great mounds of dirt, safe from his own artillery. It was clear now that Howe was not merely planning an assault. He was planning a siege.
By midmorning, a grim darkness had rolled over them from the west, and the rains came. It was not the quick violence of the thunderstorm, but a slow steady drizzle that grew harder as the day passed. By afternoon, the rains had soaked the ground and the men, and settled around them like a thick dark shroud.
As the dreariness of the afternoon had passed, he had ridden among the troops, the horse slipping its way through the wet ravines and earthworks, the staff grumbling behind him. There were no cheers for the commanding general, the men huddled glumly in groups, some perched under ledges of rock, makeshift tents of blankets draped over muskets. The British had stayed put, again, and Washington knew instinctively that as the miserable day wore on, there would be no assault, Howe’s men in no better position to fight the weather than they were Washington’s fortified Heights. As he turned the horse back toward his headquarters, he sent aides out in search of the senior officers. He had not yet had a general council of the commanders, but he needed one now. It was not because of the men, or any move by the British. All along the fortified lines, he had told the men to check the pans on their muskets, and to those who had them, to check the condition of their cartridge boxes. Some of the men knew before he even told them. Their powder was soaking wet. And worse, no one had taken charge of the supplies. Boxes and cloth sacks of gunpowder were simply sitting in the rain. Throughout most of the Heights, there was almost no usable ammunition.
They gathered in a makeshift headquarters, an open-sided tent staked up behind a steep bank of rock. It was now one of the few dry places anyone could find. Most of the officers were as soaked as he was, and the moods were mixed. He
A UGUST 29, 1776
He had brought more of his men across the East River, strengthening the forces in Brooklyn Heights, preparing the army for the assault that must still come. Through a long night he had watched the darkness, anticipating some move, a surprise attack. It was not the British style, of course, and he understood tradition, but the Hessians were still out there, and he knew that they might not have the same respect for a gentlemen’s assault, especially the green-clad jagers , who were as comfortable in the dark as any of Washington’s sharp-shooting woodsmen.
For two nights they had heard the sounds of the British camp, a vast sea of flickering fires, extending back into the woods. He had sent small scouting parties out, probing carefully toward the British flanks. There had been nothing significant to report, the vast bulk of the enemy staying put in their camps, only scattered eruptions of musket fire, British pickets shooting blindly at the indiscreet noises. But when each dawn had come, he could see that the British had been busy indeed, had made good use of the shovel, long snaking lines of entrenchments all along in front of his fortifications. If Howe had not been in a hurry to move against his fortifications, it did not mean the British were content to just sit and watch Brooklyn Heights. As the entrenchments grew longer and more complex, he had seen horses adding to the activity, drawing cannon, their crews setting the big guns behind great mounds of dirt, safe from his own artillery. It was clear now that Howe was not merely planning an assault. He was planning a siege.
By midmorning, a grim darkness had rolled over them from the west, and the rains came. It was not the quick violence of the thunderstorm, but a slow steady drizzle that grew harder as the day passed. By afternoon, the rains had soaked the ground and the men, and settled around them like a thick dark shroud.
As the dreariness of the afternoon had passed, he had ridden among the troops, the horse slipping its way through the wet ravines and earthworks, the staff grumbling behind him. There were no cheers for the commanding general, the men huddled glumly in groups, some perched under ledges of rock, makeshift tents of blankets draped over muskets. The British had stayed put, again, and Washington knew instinctively that as the miserable day wore on, there would be no assault, Howe’s men in no better position to fight the weather than they were Washington’s fortified Heights. As he turned the horse back toward his headquarters, he sent aides out in search of the senior officers. He had not yet had a general council of the commanders, but he needed one now. It was not because of the men, or any move by the British. All along the fortified lines, he had told the men to check the pans on their muskets, and to those who had them, to check the condition of their cartridge boxes. Some of the men knew before he even told them. Their powder was soaking wet. And worse, no one had taken charge of the supplies. Boxes and cloth sacks of gunpowder were simply sitting in the rain. Throughout most of the Heights, there was almost no usable ammunition.
They gathered in a makeshift headquarters, an open-sided tent staked up behind a steep bank of rock. It was now one of the few dry places anyone could find. Most of the officers were as soaked as he was, and the moods were mixed. He
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