To Try Men's Souls - George Washington 1 (15 page)

Knox and his gunners were across, the last among them, young Alexander Hamilton, moving his pieces to the east side of the road, across from a broken-down tavern.

“Move, boys, move,” he kept chanting trying to stay calm, looking back at the relentlessly advancing enemy.

Humiliation.

“Boat away.”

Stirred from his thoughts, he looked upstream. Another Durham boat was shoving off into the ice-choked Delaware.

River crossings.

He sighed.

It wasn’t like the books he had read on summer evenings on the porch at Mount Vernon or during the pleasant chill of a winter night in his library.

Head lowered against the storm, he turned to go back into the ferry house and continue the wait.

Trenton, New Jersey
December 9, 1776

The cold cut through the clothing——the humidity made it all the colder——and every marching soldier was shivering. Night was settling, covering all with a freezing blanket of mist rising up from the Delaware River, a ghostly undulating mist engulfing the village ahead.

“There’s Trenton, boys.”

Thomas Paine raised his head as someone exclaimed that the village and the safety of the river was just ahead. There were no shouts of joy.

“There’s Trenton, boys,” and the wooden pace continued. Raise your foot, put it ahead of you, heavy mud caking thick on each boot. Put your foot forward, sink into the congealing glue nearly to the boot top, the chilled slop sometimes spilling inside. Pull your other foot up out of the slop, stagger forward another step. There was no longer any semblance of a marching column, just an endlessly weaving line of men ahead, the last few stragglers of this broken army. Take a step, move forward another two feet, curl your toes inside your boot to hold tight to it so it isn’t sucked off. Take another step.

Dusk was closing in, giving him a strange, distant feeling, as if his
universe were collapsing in upon itself. He felt that in a few more minutes he would be totally alone and that this was his eternity, his hell, punishment for his sins. He wondered if there were a God who could so cruelly set a man upon such a road without end, an agony more painful than Sisyphus had ever endured, for at least the ground beneath his accursed feet had been firm . . . and the weather hot.

Raritan Crossing
December 1, 1776

Hot. It had been hot a few days back at least . . . hot for the blood, even though it was snowing . . . his first taste of combat.

South of Newark the army had reached the Raritan at Brunswick, and the dread many of them carried, that the British might jump the narrow channel between Jersey and Staten Island with a blocking force, thus pinning the army, had proven to be unfounded. The way south was still open, but Cornwallis was closing in fast from the north as the last of the army, using the ferry and a narrow bridge, struggled to reach the south shore.

It had been snowing intermittently for two days, temperature hovering near the freezing point, making life even more miserable. The road had not frozen solid enough, so it was churned into rivers of gluelike mud. It felt as if heaven itself had turned its back upon them.

On the north side of the river there was an air of panic, behind them there was the occasional rattle of musketry, the muffled thump of a field piece, and, most annoying in a way, bugle calls. The calls had set his blood to boiling, flash memories of childhood, the “gentlemen” of the countryside chasing their damn foxes, at times trampling down precious crops. Oh, there would be apologies, a “sorry, my good man,” the flip of a half crown or a guinea from a purse to compensate before they rode on. It was their attitude, though, that rankled him when he stood there as a boy watching them. They
were lords, lords and gentlemen, because that was the way of the world. And he was the son of a staymaker . . . and so it was——unchangeable——unchallengeable——a fact of British life.

And now, laughingly, they were using the same foxhunting calls to herd the Americans along. The men waiting to cross the bridge were near to panic, just like a fox, cornered, panting, waiting for the hounds to close in for the kill, while the gentlemen smiled and shared a drink as their prey was literally torn apart.

He had crossed the wooden bridge, shuffling along with the others, one of the last. No orders kept him to his place; it was rather a kind of perverse curiosity. It was time to see if there was still at least some shred of a fight left in the army. He had to know this if he was to write about it, to add something more to the meager pages wrapped up in his pack.

On the south shore a few men were at work with axes, chopping away at several of the bridge piers and not making much progress. Others were dragging up brush, some siding from a barn, hoping to set the structure on fire. He knew that effort would be vain as well; everything was too wet.

The endless muddy track led on southward. It could no longer be called a road, though until the war it had been fairly well maintained, since it was the highway and post road linking Philadelphia and New York. The passing and repassing of armies across the months had churned it into mud, and now the weather had turned it into a glutinous river of slush.

It was snowing again, the view obscured for the moment. To his left he saw a section of four field pieces, mixed caliber; two of them looked to be four-pounders, the others heavier six-pounders. The gunners were standing ready, sergeants shielding the glowing tapers on the end of the linstocks, touchholes covered with oiled cloth to keep them dry. He recognized their commander, the lad from New York, only nineteen and, word was, already destined for bigger things, Alexander Hamilton.

He watched them for a moment. Hamilton had raised a small
field glass, a bit of a vain gesture since the far shore was barely visible through the swirling snow. He was tempted to go over, stand by, watch, lend a hand, and so perhaps get a chance to fire a shot. It would be a pleasure. Surely if he dropped his name, the men would let him fire one round.

But on the other side of the road was shelter, what looked like a tavern. It had already been picked clean, its door gone, torn from its hinges, most likely part of the kindling meant to set the bridge afire, broken crockery scattered about on the porch. He chose momentary comfort over the thrill of defiance.

Inside the tavern was as cold as outside, the fireplace dark, the place looted, cupboards torn open. He poked around with the instincts of a poor man, and fate, for once, was kind. Two bottles of gin were tucked beneath a torn-up floorboard, most likely the remnants of a stash. These last bottles he claimed as the rightful property of the Revolution. Finding the two bottles he felt that fate was luring him into another losing fight with drink. Besides on a day like this who wouldn’t drink? Returning to the porch, which was momentarily bathed in feeble sunlight by a break in the snowfall, he settled down, cracked open one of the bottles, and began to drink.

Stupid move.

A minute later, several of the artillerymen wandered over and he had to share, especially when their young officer came to herd the men back and recognized him, extending his hand. It was an honor to meet Tom Paine.

Damn fame. He sighed inwardly as he offered the bottle, but kept the other concealed. The artillerymen each took a drink, strangely polite now, one of the men offering the half-empty bottle to Hamilton, who took a quick sip. A scattering of musketry echoed from the far bank. Hamilton ordered his men back to their posts, thanking Paine and——again that strange custom of this land——shaking his hand and asking the same infernal question.

“What are you writing now?”

Tom forced a smile and shrugged, as Hamilton returned to his guns.

Thinking better of where he chose to drink, Paine slipped back into the looted tavern and sat on the floor, careful not to settle down on any broken glass. He finished off the bottle, pulled out the second, and set to work on it.

“Democracy be damned,” he muttered, nursing his cheap gin alone.

More shots outside. The four cannons lit off, rattling the building. He looked out the open doorway. Smoke was whipping around the gunners as they reloaded.

A bad spot to be in, he suddenly thought, if the British rush the bridge and I’m sitting here half drunk.

The gunners will give me warning enough. When they run, I’ll run. Besides, he had stayed to watch the fight for the river, and this was as good a spot as any.

“In here!”

He was startled when two men appeared at the doorway. They were lean, tough, dressed in brown fringed hunting frocks, long leggings, broad-brimmed hats tied down with strips of burlap to protect their ears from the cold, and in their hands they carried the famed instruments of their trade, Pennsylvania long rifles. Their long, rifled barrels could reach out far beyond any musket and deliver death with an accuracy that stunned men who had never seen them in use before.

After the two came to a halt, staring down at him, one of them smiled and, without asking, extended his hand. Sighing, Tom passed the bottle up and each took a liberal swig.

“Good a spot as any, I figure,” one of them announced, and seconds later they had smashed out the lower panes and frame of a window facing the river and knelt down. The snow was abating, occasional flickers of sunlight as the low clouds scudded southeastward, then snow again, then another splash of sunlight.

Curious, he went over to stand behind them at the window.

The far shore, a hundred and fifty yards away, was now an enemy landscape. A few dragoons galloped along the riverbank; seconds later, a half dozen more, these men riding slowly, came out of a woodlot, herding several dozen prisoners before them with the flats of their swords. The ferry house on the north shore was in their hands, but the last men across had cut the tow cable. There were flickers of movement, then nothing. Several men in green uniforms were darting through a doorway of a warehouse and more into a nearby house.

Jaegers. Hessian riflemen, he realized.

“Now you just stand there a moment,” one of the Pennsylvania riflemen announced, giving Tom a quick glance over his shoulder. “You’re a good target. After they get you, we’ll get the bastard that dropped you.”

As if in fulfillment of prophecy a windowpane over the head of one of the riflemen shattered, the bullet singing by Tom’s face before it slapped into the far wall. He ducked down, both of his comrades chuckling, one glancing back but the other still focused.

“His smoke, see it!”

There was a flash, a concussive crack, the shooter trying to peer through the smoke. He settled back down, leaning against the wall, drawing out his ramrod to start reloading while the other one stayed posted at the window.

“Missed the bastard, Joshua. Think he’s laughing at you.”

Joshua said nothing, looking at Tom, who had instinctively sprawled out on the floor.

“Made you shit yourself, didn’t it?” Joshua asked.

“Nothing left inside to give,” Tom replied, trying to sound just as laconic. Joshua grinned.

“Them’s Hessian jaegers over there on the other shore. Not as good as us, but they got rifles, men from their forests. Think the word means hunter or something. Not as good as us, but close enough.”

Joshua grinned as he continued to load, pouring a measure of powder down the barrel of his rifle, drawing out a greased patch, setting the ball atop it, pressing it into the muzzle with his thumb, then pressing down with the ramrod, pushing the charge home. A man armed with a smoothbore musket could load a couple of times a minute, a grenadier on the other side of the river was expected to load four times a minute, but an unaimed shot wasn’t worth much after fifty yards. Joshua spent a good two minutes loading, but he could carry death out to two hundred and fifty yards.

“I’m just about ready,” Joshua announced. “Would you mind getting up and standing by the window again?”

“You can kiss my ass,” Tom retorted, and the two laughed.

Still feeling a bit shaken, he drew the bottle of gin out of his haversack, looked at the two, uncorked it, and made an offer.

Joshua shook his head.

“Workin’ now. After we get one we’ll celebrate, but go ahead, brother, don’t let us stop ya. Looks like you need another drink.”

Tom did not argue the point, his knees felt like jelly. He took a long pull. Crouching low, he went out the door and sat down on the porch.

It was a comfortable spot, facing southeast, protected from the cold wind, and when the sun did peek out, there was even a touch of warmth for a moment.

The crews trying to tear down the bridge or set it afire were now being peppered by harassing fire from the far shore, and one by one they broke away and ran for cover.

All we do is run, he thought. Another crack of a rifle from within, followed by Joshua’s cursing.

He watched the two riflemen at work through the open door of the tavern.

“That one. See ’im?” Joshua announced, peeking up over the edge of the windowsill. “Upper window, the house with the green shutters and two chimneys. Yup, watch this!”