Chapter 75: Monmouth

The last bit of information I passed along that spring was that Howe was leaving. By then it was in April, and it was time to get out of Mandy's bed and back to the war. I wish that was the last time I visited Philadelphia.

The new British commander, Sir Henry Clinton, probably under orders, moved his army back to New York after loading his guns, some of the more unreliable Hessians and about 3,000 Tories and their whores and goods on his ships. It looked like a perfect chance for the army of esteemed Washington, toughened by Von Steuben, to win a reasonably easy victory. I know George Washington was disappointed that he did not win because I saw his anger and dismay.

We were back in the army again, scouts and skirmishers. Poor old George Reedy showed up with a slight case of the romantic pox and two or three of our men had gone home, having served out their time, but Captain Foster had found some others willing to join our company from among those who were decent shots and could not stand the drillmaster's taunts and tirades.

Despite the awful winter, the Continental Army was feeling pretty good about itself. And despite Conway's foolishness, morale was high and the big Virginian was respected and admired. Arnold's brave exploits and Burgoyne's surrender to Gates were certainly part of that feeling, but by June the army itself was spoiling for a fight, for a chance to make up for Brandywine and the fiasco at Germantown. We had heard that the French was going to join in, but we did not expect any immediate help. Besides we wanted to smash the British ourselves.

Through General Greene's efforts, most of the men were a lot better clothed, armed and fed than they had ever been. And thanks to Von Steuben they all knew which end of the musket the balls came out of and which was their left foot. In mid-June the British started moving north, and we crossed into New Jersey at Coryell's Ferry, a few miles behind them but traveling lighter. Clinton's baggage train was ten or twelve miles long, and it must have taken half his big army to guard it. Some of his men were shouldering packs that looked like they weighed a hundred pounds, filled with their belongings and the loot from Philadelphia and the countryside.

We were assigned to Lafayette's division and given the job of harassing the flanks of the stretched out, two-column force. The local militia tore up the roads and destroyed the bridges on front of Clinton while we picked off officers from concealment and made quick in-and-out attacks on isolated units along the route. The weather was very hot, and there were storms almost every day.

The British in their heavy uniforms and enormous packs suffered and collapsed all along the route. When enough of them gathered at a well, we would hit them hard. When we spotted an officer on horseback, he became a prime target. They started out most mornings at about 3 AM and did well until the sun was high in the sky. They were still burning and looting as they went, and they were very slow. Clinton only made four or five miles a day, and he decided to give his exhausted men a day of rest near Monmouth Courthouse. On the June 27th they sat and rested, and strangely enough so did we.

We had them. They were in sad shape, and we could hit an open flank as they headed for Sandy Hook and Admiral Dirty Dick's transports. I was sure we had them, and I reported back to Captain Foster while riders from Lafayette, carried the same message to Washington. Now George Washington was undoubtedly a great man. No one disputes that, but he made a dumb mistake right then, a terrible misjudgment. He sent for Charles Lee, fresh out of British captivity where some suggested he was much too friendly with his captors, put him in chargé of Lafayette's division and gave him command of about half of the whole army including two fresh brigades. We wasted Saturday.

Baron von Knyphausen, commander of all the mercenaries, had the wagon train, camp followers and covering companies on the road by 4 am on Sunday. I saw them, resisted the temptation to fire, and rode back to report. Nothing happened. Sunrise came and still nothing. The Redcoats were on the road, and we began our usual harassing fire from the flanks. It was not until the sun was well up, perhaps 10 AM, that I finally saw the men under Lee's command about to fall on the British rear guard and left flank. (It's a date we know: 28 June 1778)

The battle was on, but the British were counterattacking, first with dragoons and then with their rangers. The day was getting hotter and hotter, and so was the fight. The Americans stopped and went to defensive positions. I could not believe it. We had them outgunned and outnumbered. I slung my rifle over my back, clicked the bayonet onto my musket and joined a line of soldiers in a ravine. "What's goin' on?" I asked a sergeant.

"Nobody knows. We been back and forth to this place and ain't fired a shot yet." He shook his head in disgust.

On our left I saw a company of Americans suddenly about face and begin to quick march from the field. Two lines of Redcoats with their bayonets leveled came out of the trees, and the men I was with ran with their cursing sergeant in vain pursuit. That was just about as much as I saw of that battle because I decided to get off a shot or two before I had to scaddle.

I had good concealment down in this ditch and could reload in safety, pop up and fire. There were plenty of targets. After my third or forth shot, I heard a noise behind me and turned to see a red-faced Redcoat in my ravine, charging right at me, still wearing his heavy pack. I yanked out my ramrod and fired in his face just about the time he got me in back of the thigh with his bayonet as I tried to scramble away from him. I felt the spike bounce off the bone. It went clear through, and the man fell atop me, the back of his head blown away. There I was in the bottom of this weedy ditch, in a few inches of muddy water, with a Brown Bess sticking in my leg and a heavy, dead soldier pining me down, attracting flies

I heard voices, decided they did not sound like Americans, and kept still for a while. Then more men were running past, cussing, and they did sound like my comrades so I pushed the dead man off of me, yanked his bayonet out of my leg, picked up my musket and joined them, trying to remember what I had done with my ramrod. I guess I was bleeding pretty good and not walking too well because a man slowed to help me down to the river where soldiers were clattering across a bridge on the edge of a swampy area, still cussing. They looked angry to me rather than scared.

I had not seen him in the mob, but when I looked back toward the way I had come, there was Washington himself sitting his big horse and waving his hat. I was told he had already reamed out General Lee by then, but I missed that. He was riding up and down, stopping the retreat, getting his officers back to work and cussing a blue and profane streak, smacking his hat on his thigh. One feller, who is a lot better with words than I am, said he made the leaves shake on the trees. I do not think I have ever seen a man so just plain furious.