The Glorious Cause (21 page)

There had been a brisk fight along Assunpink Creek, and the main body of the army was still facing the enemy on the far side, separated by a short span of icy water. With artillery on both sides covering one bridge it was a standoff for the moment, neither side wanting to venture into a difficult fight in the dark.

He eased his horse down narrow streets, the staff carrying no lantern, no target for a marksman. He could not see the condition of the houses, and it didn’t matter after all. It was a town already trampled by two armies, and surely the rebels had abused what the Hessians did not destroy.

There was a sharp whine, and down a side street the smashing of wood and glass. Yes, of course you will drop your iron, just enough to keep us on edge, to lose us some sleep. He knew the name, Knox, the rotund bookseller from Boston. How is it you know your artillery? But then, your entire army is made up of men like you. A gun in one hand, and a military manual in the other. How in God’s name could the Hessians have allowed you such an advantage?

Couriers were riding past him, reporting the troop placements to his staff, the men speaking in low whispers. He could make out a line of soldiers forming close to the creek, and he nudged the side of his horse, rode that way. Past a double line of crouching soldiers he could see the ground fall away to black water, and farther down, he could see the bridge that had been such an object of contention. He knew the soldiers were waiting for orders, that if he decided to engage the rebels again, they would surge ahead, right down into the water. He stopped the horse, heard low voices, the officers’, saw another line of men adding to the strength. Across the creek, the skyline was lit by a long row of rebel campfires, the reflection on the faces of the British troops who stared at them. He felt himself shiver, thought, A crossing here will be difficult even in daylight. They fought to a stalemate today. In the dark, nothing good can be accomplished, and these men already know that. Those who have just arrived are too exhausted even to try.

He stared at the distant campfires, could hear the sound of shovels, axes, the rebels strengthening their defense. Yes, Mr. Washington, you know that as well. But
behind
you is a wide river, and unless you have all your boats, you aren’t going anywhere at all. He turned the horse, surprising his aides, said, “I wish to see General Grant. I must learn what the scouts have to say.”

The windows were covered in black cloth, hiding the headquarters from the continuing annoyance of the rebel cannon. Grant was laying out a map, and Cornwallis moved around the small table, pointed to the creek, said, “Is there any one place more suited for a crossing? The bridge will be the focus of their artillery. How shallow is the water along this stretch, here?”

Grant looked to an aide, who stepped forward, said, “General, according to the men who fought there today, there are depths to a man’s chest along most of the creek. Some more shallow areas, of course, but we do not have the exact locations.”

There was a knock at the door, it opened slightly, and one of Grant’s aides held a black cloth up to shield the lantern. A voice from outside said, “Excuse me, sirs. Scout’s arrived.”

Grant motioned, and quickly the man was inside, the door closing behind him. Cornwallis was studying the map, saw the scout’s face, unfamiliar, was surprised to see the gray hair of a veteran. The scout was wide-eyed, seemed surprised by the presence of Cornwallis, said, “Sirs! Forgive the interruption. I have just returned from the river just north of town. We have scouted up that direction for a good bit. We ran into a bit of a flurry, rather like stumbling over a bee’s nest. No casualties though, sir. Even their squirrel hunters can’t shoot in the dark. But sir, the rebels have got their boats under pretty strong guard.”

Cornwallis absorbed the word.

“
Boats?
You found the rebels’ boats?”

The man’s confidence seemed to wilt under Cornwallis’ stare, said, “Um . . . yes, sir. Quite. Just above the town.”

Cornwallis was skeptical.

“Do you mean that the rebels are separated from their boats? What of the river south of town?”

The scout showed no hesitation.

“No, sir. I was down the river myself when the artillery fire stopped. We were trying to find some route to get in behind the rebel position, slipped our way right out to the river proper. There are no boats there. They’re all upriver, sir.”

Cornwallis felt a surge of enthusiasm, looked at Grant, said, “General, can you tell me how the rebels might escape across the river, if
we
are between their men and their boats?”

Grant understood, was smiling now, said, “No, sir. I cannot.”

Behind him, another man spoke. “General, it is our best chance! We can take it to them right now!”

There were murmurs of agreement, and Cornwallis looked around the room, saw that the comment had come from his quartermaster.

“Thank you for your suggestion, Mr. Erskine.” Grant was looking at him with the same hopefulness, and Cornwallis rubbed his hands together, said, “Gentlemen, they cannot reach their boats tonight. There is no need for haste. Crossing the Assunpink Creek will be a deadly affair in the dark, and there is no point in distressing the troops so severely. This army needs its rest. We will be fresh in the morning.”

He was feeling the spirit now, the first time in a long while, the sense that finally something good would happen. They were a long way from New York, from General Howe, from the politics and foppery of the city. Out here it was army against army, strength against strength, and when the sun came up, they would have their confrontation. It was all he had hoped for, and it was coming to pass from an unexpected surprise. This time it was Washington who had made the mistake. He looked at the map, ran his finger around the rebel position, the campfires, tried to imagine the desperation of those men as they dug their earthworks, the utter terror of what they would face in the morning. He smiled, thought of Washington. You have backed yourself into a dangerous and desperate position, and now you will pay the price. He looked around the room, could see the optimism, their excitement building with his.

“Gentlemen, we have him. We finally have him. Tomorrow morning, we shall bag the fox.”

16. WASHINGTON

J
ANUARY 3, 1777

Joseph reed had put his embarrassment aside and agreed to return to headquarters, and Washington would make no comment about the man’s indiscretions with Charles Lee. Reed’s response to Washington’s generosity was to take responsibility for leading a scouting party in the direction of Princeton. Reed had a home in Trenton, knew the land and the roadways, and if the army was to find the means of escaping Cornwallis’ certain attack, Reed was certain he could find it.

The council of war had been a quiet affair, no one obsessed with his own glory, every senior commander aware that the army was facing a serious dilemma. They could not remain behind Assunpink Creek in the face of the strength Cornwallis brought against them. Despite the good work of the men with the shovels, if the British succeeded in crossing the creek, the boats could not be brought down quickly enough to make an escape. If Cornwallis pressed them hard against the river, Washington’s men would have nowhere to go.

The Assunpink Creek wound its way farther inland and gradually grew more shallow, cutting through woods and farmlands where the maps were incomplete. But Reed had made his own sketch, the route to a narrow trail that paralleled the Post Road to Princeton. The scouting party had picked their way back from Princeton without confronting a single British soldier. If Cornwallis was even aware of the trail, no one in the British camp had taken care to patrol it. Reed estimated the British had only three regiments still in Princeton, around twelve hundred men, and beyond, their enormous supply depot at Brunswick was barely defended. If the army could push another night march, the surprise might overwhelm both positions and put Cornwallis in a serious hole.

For several days, the weather had been mild, a thaw that muddied the roads, but this night, when darkness came the winter returned, and temperatures plunged again. When the ground began to harden, Washington knew that the men and the cannon would have a much easier march. A little after midnight, the army slipped away from the fortifications behind Assunpink Creek and began to follow Reed’s trail. The wheels of the cannon had been wrapped in cloth, and every man knew that before the hard cold dawn, they would need absolute quiet.

Behind Assunpink Creek, Washington had ordered four hundred men to continue their noisy work all night long, stoking the campfires, clanging their shovels against the stumps of cut trees, all a very good show of an army digging itself in. Just before the first light, they too would follow the trail away from their hard work, their mission accomplished. If the plan was successful, Cornwallis would still bombard the earthworks, would still send his men swarming through the chilly waters of the Assunpink. On the crest of the long rise, Washington’s campfires would still be smoldering, but the trenches would be empty.

He rode in the still darkness, trying to remember his words that had inspired the men to stay with the army, but his memory was a fog, the only vivid picture in his mind the single veteran who led them forward. Around him, the soldiers marched as they had marched down to Trenton, each man holding himself in the road by keeping close to the man in front of him. But the soldiers were exhausted beyond anything they had experienced before, and at each pause in the march, men would simply collapse where they stood, others falling asleep while still on their feet. Behind them, more troops would be marching still, and the collision would jar them all into sudden alarm. The sudden surprises were not all harmless. Far back in the column the silence had been shattered by a sudden wave of shouting, and Washington had ridden back to find that Cadwalader’s militia had suddenly panicked, a bizarre rumor spreading through the men that they were suddenly surrounded by the Hessians they had once pursued. The outburst had slowed the march, but the panic was mostly contained, only a few men disappearing into the night, chased by a nightmare that might pursue them all the way to Philadelphia.

As the army drew closer to Princeton, Washington could not keep the daylight away, and as at Trenton, the march took longer than he had planned. The last two miles would find the army bathed in stark rising sunlight, a brisk cold windless day. But there had been no sign at all of British soldiers, no patrol, no scouts. As the men continued their slow shuffle along the narrow trail, hidden from the vast rolling fields, he was feeling the mix of excitement and relief, convinced that Cornwallis still had no idea where these troops had gone.

They moved through thick trees that ran alongside a narrow deep creek called Stony Brook. The creek ran straight up to the Post Road, where it flowed beneath a wooden bridge, a key barricade to slowing down any march by the British. He could see another road, turning away to the right, leading out into an open field, then dropping down into a long ravine. Washington stopped the horse, and Reed pointed.

“The back road. That will lead us south of the town.”

There was pride in Reed’s voice, and Washington nodded silently, thought, Every piece of information he has given me has been accurate. Sullivan’s division was already following Reed’s map, the column marching toward the ravine, and behind Sullivan came one of Greene’s brigades, commanded by Hugh Mercer. Mercer was actually a doctor, another of the old veterans, a crusty Scotsman Washington had known since the French and Indian War.

It was no accident that Mercer was now beside him, that he had been given the most important assignment of the mission. Mercer was to lead a force of three hundred fifty men straight up the Stony Brook, and destroy the bridge over the Post Road. Once the bridge was gone, it would be a simple matter for marksmen to seriously delay any British crossing, whether it be a retreat by the troops in Princeton or the sudden appearance of Cornwallis, who would certainly move quickly once Washington’s escape was revealed.

Washington pointed along the wooded trail, and Mercer smiled at him, unusual for the stern Scotsman.

“General, we’ll see you on t’other side a’hell.”

Mercer saluted him, and his men were quickly in motion. Washington watched him until his column had moved beyond the intersection, thought of the wilderness in Virginia, the disaster of General Braddock. It had been twenty years now, and he could still recall marching with Mercer alongside British troops who even then despised anything American. Godspeed, General Mercer. We may all have our sweet memories of this day.

More troops in the long column were moving past him, turning onto the back road. He spurred the horse, rode quickly alongside them, broke out past the trees, felt the warmth of the sunlight. To the left, a wide grassy field rose up away from him, obscuring his view of the Post Road. He turned out into the field, the horse stepping through a thin layer of glistening frost. He climbed the long slope, could see the hill cresting around a pair of farmhouses. Behind him, he saw Sullivan’s men, the head of the column farther east, a ripple of motion as the men moved through the ravine. They did not have to be prodded now, there was no falling out for sleep. They all knew how close they were to the British, that they had yet to be discovered, that so far, everything had happened according to plan.

Above him on the hill, he saw a rider, an officer, coming down from the crest. The man rode past a line of skirmishers, and Washington motioned to Tilghman, who moved up the hill. The officer met Tilghman on the slope, and Washington could see the man pointing back up the hill. Washington spurred his horse, moved closer. Tilghman said, “Sir, Major Wilkinson reports a column of British troops up on the Post Road. They were on the march west, but have turned, and are in line moving this way.”

“How many?”

Wilkinson shook his head, said, “Could only see one regiment at most, sir. They had already crossed the bridge. General Mercer’s men were coming out of the trees, moving out this way.”

Washington digested the image, thought, Mercer has seen the British, must know he can no longer destroy the bridge. He could see nothing, the hillside still blocking any view of the main road. So the British are on the march, but where? Only one regiment? It came together in his mind now. These British are marching
west
, toward Trenton. It was the first time he knew for certain that Cornwallis had been fooled. If Cornwallis was still expecting a sharp fight along the Assunpink Creek, he would certainly order the Princeton garrison to send reserve strength to Trenton. These troops had no doubt begun their march at first light. From that vantage point, they could certainly have spotted Mercer. It is simply bad fortune. If we had only been here earlier . . .

There was musket fire now, up toward the bridge, where Mercer’s men would certainly be. He rode that way, glanced behind him down the hill, the last of the main column below him. He focused again on the sounds, one solid volley, scattered shots. He said to Tilghman, “Go to the main column. Divert the three units of the rear guard this way, have them advance in haste. I will see what we are facing. General Sullivan and the remainder of the column must keep moving toward Princeton.”

Tilghman was gone quickly, and Washington was surrounded by his skirmishers, the men pulling closer to his horse, protecting their commander. He listened again, another sharp volley, but it was not as many muskets. He knew Mercer would make the good fight, but he had to see. He reached the crest of the hill, could hear the shouts of men blending in with the scattered firing. There was a thick grove of trees, an orchard, a dense cloud of smoke rising above. To his right was the highest point along the crest, framed by the two farmhouses. He watched the fight in the orchard, then looked anxiously behind him, some sign of the advance of his men from the road. Finally they came, a solid line, and he saw Edward Hand’s Pennsylvanians, followed by a line of Virginia riflemen. As they moved past him, they were running, every man seeing the fight. Washington focused again on the orchard, but the firing had stopped, just shouts, and Mercer’s men emerged from the orchard, some stumbling, wounded, others in a fast run.

He could see bits of color now, the British moving through the orchard, some pursuing Mercer’s retreat. Up on the rise, more British suddenly appeared, spreading into line, moving toward Hand’s men. The two regiments moved toward each other, no firing, Hand’s men allowing Mercer’s refugees to stream past. He began to shout at the retreating men, “Stop! Hold here! Fall in with these men!” Other officers were assembling, some quieting the panic, and the veterans responded, many of Mercer’s men gathering in their own fear, falling in behind Hand’s line. The British were still advancing, and Washington took off his hat, saw the last of Mercer’s retreating men, some scattered behind Hand’s line, some wandering, dazed, some moving forward again, absorbed by the advance of Hand’s men. He saw one small group still running back, stumbling, exhausted men, and they were close to him now, the faces looking at him, the men slowing, fighting for breath, and he shouted at them, “Come with us! They are but a handful! We shall have them!”

He waved the hat, spurred the horse, and the men responded, found their way into the line of the Pennsylvanians, and he cheered them, knew they would not falter now. Nearly all of Mercer’s men were advancing again into the brief fight they had just lost, their panic erased by the strength of the men beside them. The British were less than fifty yards away, the gap between the two armies closing rapidly, and he spurred the horse, bolted forward, was out in front of Hand’s men, stopped the horse between the two lines. The British were barely thirty yards from him, halted their line, and he waved the hat again, looked back at his men, shouted, “Halt!”

The soldiers were facing each other, a long silent moment, Washington between them still, and he raised the hat, shouted, “Fire!”

A smoky blast erupted around him from both sides, the musket fire engulfing him in a roar of sounds. The horse jumped, and he held tight to the reins, stared hard toward the British, could hear the cries and groans, most of the British line a heap of fallen bodies. The men who were not hit were pulling back, the British officers waving their swords, the retreat orderly, but then, the order was gone. They began to run, scrambling back along the side of the hill in a rolling wave of red. His men were around him, wildly cheering, the men looking at him with awestruck relief. Tilghman was there, grabbing the reins, shouting, screaming something, a prayer, some kind of curse, crying relief. Washington could not hear the young man’s words, his ears still ringing from the cascade of musket fire, the voices of his men. But he focused on the British, disappearing out toward the Post Road, leaving so many of their own in the field around him.

Sullivan’s men had met their own resistance closer to the town, had driven more of the British garrison away in a glorious rout. The British were in full retreat, some escaping west on the road to Trenton. Others were in full flight, disappearing into the countryside. Both wings of Washington’s assault closed in on the town itself. As he reached the open grounds of the college, there was a new scattering of musket fire, piercing the air around him, his men rushing forward on the roads, officers up front pointing the way. He could see flashes now, bursts of firing from the windows of Nassau Hall. Around the large building, his men were beginning to return fire, but they were in the open, British troops smashing out windows, firing from the protection of the brick walls. Cannon were rolling past him, and he looked for Knox, but the guns were manned by another officer, a very young man he had come to know at Harlem Heights. Washington remembered the first meeting, Knox pointing him out, giving the commander notice to watch this young man, some instinct Knox had, that Alexander Hamilton would perform an exceptional service to this army. Washington moved closer, would not interfere as the guns were unhitched and swung around, and now Hamilton looked toward him, seemed to wait for instructions. Well, yes. I would not have anyone destroying this college without orders. Washington was beside the guns now, said, “Captain Hamilton, the enemy is causing us some inconvenience. Are you carrying solid shot? Can you provide them some discouragement?”