Washington swiftly determined to retreat.  It was a desperate undertaking, and a lesser man would have hesitated and been lost.  He had to transport nine thousand men across a strait of strong tides and currents, and three quarters of a mile in width.  It was necessary to collect the boats from a distance, and do it all within sight and hearing of the enemy.  The boats were obtained, a thick mist settled down on sea and land, the water was calm, and as the night wore away, the entire army with all its arms and baggage was carried over, Washington leaving in the last boat.  At daybreak the British awoke, but it was too late.  They had fought a successful battle, they had had the American army in their grasp, and now all was over.  The victory had melted away, and, as a grand result, they had a few hundred prisoners, a stray boat with three camp-followers, and the deserted works in which they stood.  To grasp so surely the happy chance of wind and weather and make such a retreat as this was a feat of arms as great as most victories, and in it we see, perhaps as plainly as anywhere, the nerve and quickness of the man who conducted it.  It is true, it was the only chance of salvation, but the great man is he who is entirely master of his opportunity, even if he have but one.

The outlook, nevertheless, was, as Washington wrote, “truly distressing.”  The troops were dispirited, and the militia began to disappear, as they always did after a defeat.  Congress would not permit the destruction of the city, different interests pulled in different directions, conflicting opinions distracted the councils of war, and, with utter inability to predict the enemy’s movements, everything led to halfway measures and to intense anxiety, while Lord Howe tried to negotiate with Congress, and the Americans waited for events.  Washington, looking beyond the confusion of the moment, saw that he had gained much by delay, and had his own plan well defined.  He wrote:  “We have not only delayed the operations of the campaign till it is too late to effect any capital incursion into the country, but have drawn the enemy’s forces to one point....  It would be presumption to draw out our young troops into open ground against their superiors both in number and discipline, and I have never spared the spade and pickaxe.”  Every one else, however, saw only past defeat and present peril.

The British ships gradually made their way up the river, until it became apparent that they intended to surround and cut off the American army.  Washington made preparations to withdraw, but uncertainty of information came near rendering his precautions futile.  September 15 the men-of-war opened fire, and troops were landed near Kip’s Bay.  The militia in the breastworks at that point had been at Brooklyn and gave way at once, communicating their panic to two Connecticut regiments.  Washington, galloping down to the scene of battle, came upon the disordered and flying troops.  He dashed in among them, conjuring them to stop, but even while he was trying to rally them they broke again on the appearance of some sixty or seventy of the enemy, and ran in all directions.  In a tempest of anger Washington drew his pistols, struck the fugitives with his sword, and was only forced from the field by one of his officers seizing the bridle of his horse and dragging him away from the British, now within a hundred yards of the spot.