It was late on the night of August 26, 1776. The sun had set blood red beyond the Jersey palisades, touching, as it dipped, the British ships in New York harbor. The nine thousand Continentals camped on Brooklyn Heights, with their backs to the East River and their gun muzzles pointed toward the rugged hills which masked Flatbush, wondered where Howe kept himself and wished for the actual presence of Washington. “Old Uncle Putnam!” grumbled the spruce Marylanders. “Galloping around here in his shirt sleeves and a dirty leather jacket. A ---- New England farmer. A very fine appearing gentleman, indeed. Why doesn’t Washington put a military man in command of the Long Island troops?”…
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