To Try Men's Souls - George Washington 1 (25 page)

He had learned, and as he rode along the shivering column now, he sensed many things.

A casual observer would have captured only the utter misery of the moment. All were soaked to the skin. The temperature was steadily dropping; the limbs of trees overarching the road were drooping with heavy loads of ice. Strange how the light from the dozens of fires almost made the moment look beautiful, firelight reflecting off the ice so that the road seemed like a glowing flickering tunnel, the light shifting and changing with each gust of wind.

What he sensed in them, in addition to exhaustion and absolute abject misery, was a certain defiance. Such suffering as they endured could push a man in one of two ways. For many, in fact most, it would be a collapse, a giving in, a feeling that the elements of heaven had turned against them and any further effort would be futile.

Men like that, however, were gone, long gone. He found himself thinking of what Paine had written about sunshine patriots. Those men had gone. He had watched them leave by the thousands, even as he argued, told them to stay, and then, as he stood utterly humiliated, begged them. But they had fled.

But these here, on this road, on this night? These were all that were left. Again, a memory of the frontier. You learned quickly how to spot those new to the world beyond the Alleghenies who would survive and those who would not. The survivors had a certain “something”
to their cast . . . they were lean, sinewy, tough, usually laconic, for a man who talked too much might not hear the quiet sounds that carried death. And around these there was almost a certain light that told you, here is a man you can trust, he will not abandon you. This is a man you want by your side, and at your back.

That was his army, this bitter, freezing night.

They were what was left, the final few who indeed were willing to choose victory or death. And if death came, they would face it and not turn away. The trust, he sensed, was mutual, they trusted him as he trusted that they would indeed follow him, this desperate night, to either victory or death.

As he gazed at them it was hard in a way to believe that this was the same army of but twenty-five days past.

December the first, he thought, head lowered, was in his heart a day of complete personal humiliation, not just because of the defeat at the bridge but because of what transpired that evening.

It was after the rout at the Raritan, the army staggering on a muddy road, their personal Calvary, and on that day the enlistments of hundreds had run out. These were men who had signed on for six months, back in the heady days of June, when word had raced across the colonies of the triumph at Boston, when talk of independence was in the air, when the juggernaut of an angry king’s reply had yet to appear off New York Harbor.

Enlistments were up for a fair part of the army. The men that morning, honorable men who had stayed throughout the debacles, defeats, and numbing retreats, were now legally free to ground arms, turn themselves toward warm homes and firesides in Pennsylvania, Maryland, upstate New York. They had served their time and were free to leave without recourse or restraint. They had believed in their independence, had fought for it, had seen it totter to the edge of final defeat while he led them. There was nothing he could do but offer one final appeal to those free to go.

Those in question were paraded, arrayed in ranks, to shiver in tattered uniforms as the cold wind blew from the north. Men who knew that the war was all but lost anyhow, and, an ultimate irony, men who he could not even honorably give their six months of pay to, since the coffers of the nation were empty. He could sense the mood of these proud men, who had given all, felt their duty complete, honor fulfilled.

Their officers rode with him. As he approached the lines he could see it in their eyes as they looked up at him. They were finished with it.

One of the officers, riding slightly ahead, turned his mount and trotted up and down the line. His was the usual appeal, attempting to sound as if he were one of them in every way, the dialect of a Yankee farmer, taunting the damn lobsterbacks, praising them as stout men of proud lineage who surely would not turn their backs to the enemy and run away like cowards.

The words hit like a slashing blow, and features hardened. Muttering arose from the ranks. “Who the hell does he think he is?”

“We ain’t cowards, damn him.”

“Son of a bitch, don’t remember seeing him in a fight, but plenty of damn talk now.”

Crestfallen, the officer turned away.

A second officer tried, invoking images of hearth and home, how they were all that stood between the Hessians and their wives and daughters: Would their wives greet them as heroes one day, or would they stand by and watch the ravishing to come. Again a cold response. One of the men dared now to step forward to shout a taunt: When the war stopped the Hessians would be gone anyhow, and where the hell was their back pay. The officer appealed for any who were men of courage to step forward and thereby pledge themselves to but one more month of service.

“Our pay, our pay, damn you, our pay!”

It became a chant. Washington had stayed back slightly, watching, listening, throat constricting. One of the men held his musket up, tossed it onto the ground, turned his back, and began to walk off
in the other direction. Others around him seemed ready to follow his lead.

He had led, but he had never begged. But now?

He nudged his mount forward, the taunts continuing, and each word was like a lash to his soul. He turned his mount half a dozen paces in front of the line and slowly rode in front of the assembled ranks, saying nothing, not attempting to silence them with a harsh command, just looking at them, trying to gaze into the eyes of each man as he passed.

The taunting continued for several agonizing minutes, as if the pent-up rage of months of bitter defeat was now being poured out and heaped upon him.

He said nothing. They had their say. A man stepped forward, pointing to his bare, bloody feet, features red as he cursed a Congress that could not even provide shoes as he fought, while they huddled warm and fat in Philadelphia. He looked down at the man, unable to speak, for so many of them were barefoot, and money which had been promised them and shoes that any soldier had the right to expect, had never appeared. They were sick of it, exhausted, dying. The war was lost. They were going home.

If they went home, the war might indeed be lost, for with their departure, those who remained, with but thirty more days left on their own enlistments, would ask why they should stay. He knew that hundreds of these were standing in a loose circle around the formation, watching, listening, some joining in the protest.

He could sense that the army was on the verge of falling apart, never to reassemble.

He turned about and rode down the line. Gradually the shouting died away. They had made their statement, their protest. Their intentions were clear. All that was left now was the last ceremony, their dismissal, and it was ended, for no force could keep them.

At last they fell silent, awaiting the order of dismissal.

He drew in a deep breath, overwhelmed with humiliation for what he now had to do.

“Men,” he began, “I have heard your protests, and they are just.”

No one spoke, though he could see it in their eyes that they would listen and then leave.

“They are just. I am humiliated that I stand before you now, unable even to give you the pay you so rightly deserve. You have fought and bled. You have seen comrades die, and now in reply I cannot even give you a shilling of what you so richly deserve and have so honorably earned.

“I am not a man of orations, as you know. I have not the words for it. Nor shall I make any base appeal to sentiment, for that is beneath your dignity and mine.

“Yet you know I must now make this one final appeal.”

He could see some of them shifting uncomfortably. Some held his gaze, others lowered their eyes, as if humiliated, not for themselves, but for him, and that cut to his soul.

He fell silent for a moment, unable to continue, fearing his voice would break. He drew in a deep breath of the frigid air.

“It shall be noted and written of some day, that here, at this place, our last home of freedom, the hope for a nation of free men died.”

He lowered his head for a moment, then raised it again, saw more than a few looking at him.

“That is my appeal to you, my men. You have every right to turn away now. You have fulfilled your pledge with honor, and I thank you for that.”

He hesitated.

“But I beg you now to think upon this. That if you turn away now, with the task unfinished, that on this day America may die.

“It has come down to this. To you few hundred. You have every right to turn away and go to your homes and I shall not stop you. No one shall stop you. All that can turn you back is the voice within your own souls.

“Yes, you have every reason to protest. As we stand here, we who endured so much, tens of thousands are at this moment warm in their houses. Men, who if we should win, will reap the bounty but
will never have known the pain and anguish of the labor for our freedom.

“Thus it has always been. The labor is done by the few, and later many can lay claim to the bounty. Thus it has always been. But I for one will not let my heart be turned by such as they. For in my heart, as I am certain in yours, will be the proud realization that while others might scorn us now, and then one day say they were with us all along, we few will know the truth and that truth will warm our souls.

“The choice is yours. It is in your hands now, not mine. If it is your wish to leave, I will not hinder you. Some of us will stay, some at least will stay and tomorrow will face the final end, and die with pride in our hearts that we died in defense of a just cause and face God with that knowledge which He surely sees as well.

“It rests now solely with you as to whether the deaths of those who stay will be a final act of futility or something far greater. If you stay I can promise you nothing. I will not attempt to beguile you with promises of glory, for we have seen how hollow promises of glory can ring. I cannot even offer to you the promise of warmth, of shelter, food, or shoes. All I can offer you is a promise of what will rest in your soul if you stay.

“And that promise is honor.”

He paused again.

“So I now ask you for but thirty more days. If at the end of those thirty days we do not see a change in our fortunes, then free you shall be to go. That is my pledge to you. Can you not find it in your hearts to make that pledge to me?”

He fell silent again, gathering his thoughts, gazing at them, the men silent.

He turned his mount and silently trotted down the line, trying to find the eyes of each man and look into them.

There were no more appeals to be made. It was finished.

“Those men who will pledge but thirty more days. Take three steps forward. Those who will not . . .”

His voice did indeed begin to break, and he was filled with humiliation that his emotions now so basely were betraying him.

“Those who will not . . . you are free to go.”

He turned away and slowly rode back to where his staff waited. There was silence for a long moment, and finally he turned, praying that the gesture would not be seen as some futile begging appeal.

And then a lone man stepped forward, looking straight at him, not much more than a boy. He was not sure if the tears in the boy’s eyes were produced by emotion or the frigid wind.

Long seconds passed. Another stepped forward, then another, and then just a score of men and no more.

A score of men, and the rest stood silent with heads lowered. Twenty out of more than a thousand followed him, falling back on the road toward Trenton, the others standing silent and then turning aside, heading westward, toward the hills of the Watchung and out of the war.

He had lost more in those five minutes than in the battle for Brooklyn Heights. A score followed him back to the assembled ranks and humiliated he had marched on.

He continued to ride down the line of men who were waiting for the command to begin the march on Trenton, met eyes with one of those waiting. Their gazes held for only a second.

“Victory or death, general,” the soldier announced.

He could not reply. He nodded and rode on, returning the salute of a young Hamilton with his guns.

He knew that these men, freezing to death, upon this night, would march straight into hell if he asked them now. Their months of suffering, of humiliating defeat after defeat, had hardened them, and now, finally, they would stand, look death in the face, and strike back.

They were ready.

Now for just a little bit of luck with the Hessians, he thought. Let
us pray the storm has lulled them into warmth and off their guard. Then we will have caught the fox. The hunt is on, and for the first time in months I am the hunter and my opponents are the prey. He felt warmed inside at the thought, even as his body felt chilled.

Twin bonfires marked the head of the column. There the men of his headquarters unit, who had been gathered around the fire by the ferry landing, were scrambling to fall into ranks.

A delegation awaited him, a local militia man and one of his Virginia riflemen, the militia man holding a sputtering torch.

“Sir, we’ve been sent back to report,” the rifleman announced.

“Go on.”

“Sir, the road is secured clear to the ford at Jacob’s Creek.”

“We know who the Tories are that live along the road,” the militia man interjected, “and we have a guard posted in each of their houses.”

“Well done.”

“But, sir,” the rifleman announced, “the road, sir, it is nothing but a sheet of ice and that creek . . . what’s its name . . .”

“Jacob’s Creek,” the Jerseyman interjected.

“It’s a bad un, sir. Steep approach, flooding up.”

“This army moves as planned.”

“Just thought you should know, sir.”

He did not reply.

Looking over his shoulder he could see for only a few dozen yards. A swirling cloud of snow was whipping out of the northeast, trees shaking, ice cracking and tinkling down.