To Try Men's Souls - George Washington 1 (30 page)

And then he would return to the front of the column, ensuring that the sharp pace of the march was maintained.

Keeping pace with the General, Peter rattled off the names of places passed, distances to go. The General looked down, nodding and now with the rising light they could distinguish his face, drawn with exhaustion, but filled, it seemed, by some inner light, a passion to his eyes.

“There, sir,” Peter announced, pointing to his left. “It’s a lane up to a wood lot. The Kindermans’, I think. The lane, though, it continues from the northeast side of the woodlot, links up to the road that comes down from Princeton a mile or so farther on.”

Washington turned, snapped an order to one of the men riding nearby. He reined about, calling for several of the infantrymen marching behind the headquarters company to follow him, and started up the lane.

Washington looked down at Jonathan.

“You, lad?” he asked. “You’re the one who jumped into the river, aren’t you?”

Peter had been doing most of the talking while Jonathan struggled to keep pace. Feeling had most definitely returned to his legs and the agony was nearly overwhelming. He had looked down only once, and in the early morning light the sight had frightened him. He had just stepped into a puddle of slush, which had washed the mud off, but there was something dark oozing out even as he pressed on . . . His feet were bleeding. He saw bloodstains in the snow. He looked back at the men pushing behind them, the way their feet were moving, the men staggering. Would the road be paved with blood? he wondered.

But it was breathing that he was most focused on. Each gasp of the damp air took effort. The faint warm glow of the offering of the Gaineses had long ago been extinguished. He just pushed on. He could not give in, but he had let Peter do the talking.

“Son, did you hear me?”

“Ah, yes, sir,” he replied haltingly. “Yes, sir.”

“Lad, are you feeling fit to continue?”

He wondered if this was an offer for him to fall out.

How far back to the Gaineses? Surely they would take him in. Surely they might remember him from years past.

The sunshine patriot . . .

No, damn it.

“Yes, sir. I’m with you, sir. I feel fine now, sir,” he lied.

“How much farther to where the road forks?”

Did he detect something in the General’s voice. Almost like it was about to break?

“It should just be ahead, sir,” Jonathan offered.

Washington turned to one of his staff.

“Tell General Sullivan to come up.” He pressed on, the courier turning back and minutes later returning with Sullivan by his side.

Jonathan looked up at the famed officer who was considered one of the backbones of the army. His face was grim, and he was shivering from the cold, riding without a cape or cloak, his uniform clearly visible.

In the rising light Jonathan could resolve the shadows ahead into a small knot of men standing in the middle of the road, the advance scouts. He recognized the place, the hamlet of Birmingham. It was now just four miles or so to Trenton.

Washington slowed to engage Jonathan again. “Is this Birmingham and the Scotch Road?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

The crossroad was marked by half a dozen homes, one of them an inn, another owned by a cabinetmaker of local renown. The crossroads had obviously been occupied by the advance guard, who were posted in front of each house, guides waiting in the middle of the road.

Washington rode forward at a trot, stopped for a moment to ask a hurried question, then turned back.

“General Sullivan, here is where our column divides,” Washington announced. “Your troops will continue straight ahead. Deploy as close to the town as you dare, then drive straight in the moment you hear our guns open up. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then God be with you, sir,” and he leaned over to shake Sullivan’s hand.

“Victory or death, sir,” Sullivan replied loudly.

Jonathan could see the General force a smile.

“I will see you after the battle, sir.”

Though not privy to the plan of march Jonathan understood what was now happening. The road straight ahead was the one he had usually tramped along as a boy when venturing northward out of Trenton. Some called it the River Road, for in another mile it would drop down toward the Delaware and then run close to its banks for the rest of the way into Trenton. The General would turn his horse east, to lead the column on another line of march, swinging out and away from Trenton for a mile or so before turning south again, the road then taking them into Trenton on the eastern side of town.

Jonathan knew enough of strategy to grasp that Sullivan was to close the approach from the north side of town while the column led by General Washington with men mostly of General Greene’s command would close from the northeast and east. It was the longer route, and he was shaken to realize he was nowhere near as familiar with this road as the one that Sullivan would take.

He looked over nervously at Peter.

“Do you know this way,” he hissed.

“Of course I do. Remember when I got that deer two years ago? It was over near the Whitman farm. That’s on this road.”

It was hard to hold on to his thoughts, to remember the roads, lanes, and narrow paths he had explored as a boy. It was all becoming even more confusing, but he said nothing as the column led by the General turned left and pressed on, while Sullivan waited for his men, farther back in the line of march, to come up and then press straight in toward the town.

The march to the east was anguishing, for they were facing into the wind. The General had also quickened the pace, in spite of the condition of the road. In places it was frozen almost solid, and it was nearly impossible to keep one’s footing. They turned down into a gentle hollow, crossing a marshy stretch that was flooding calf deep with icy water, then back up again.

Another crossroad appeared ahead, a few more advance scouts marking the way, and the column turned south.

All the time daylight was approaching. Its coming drove the General forward, as if goading him along. Peter and he had to run at a steady trot to keep up now. His lungs felt like a bellows drawing in fire.

And then they heard the sound of horses approaching, a movement in the mists ahead.

The sergeant behind them snapped a command and the headquarters company, moving at a flat-out run, two men spilling on the ice-covered ground, raced to either side of the road and began to form into a semblance of a line, men unslinging muskets from shoulders. All Jonathan could think of at that moment was the utter absurdity of the gesture. If there were Hessians ahead, chances were that few men in the entire army behind him or now deploying had a weapon with dry powder that could fire.

As Washington heard the sounds ahead there were a few seconds of tension, a coiling up, a quick thought that his horse pistol in the saddle holster was most likely soaked. If there were Hessians, deploying out, the first volley would strike quickly.

I’ve faced worse he thought. There had been that moment on the Monongahela when a Frenchman stepped out from behind a tree, not ten paces off, and in that instant he had actually been looking into the muzzle of the musket, could see the man’s eye squinting as he aimed, time seeming to drag out, the flash of fire in the pan, the explosion of flame from the barrel, so close he could feel the heat of it . . . and the ball had clipped the side of his hat, not an inch away from his temple. Behind a curtain of smoke the Frenchman disappeared, and with drawn sword he had saluted in his direction and turned back to the center of the fight.

They’ll volley fire he thought, then charge, so be ready to fall back . . . Get Knox to push the guns off to the side of the road . . . Be
ready to give ground. It is still dark enough that in the confusion I can run artillery out into the fields to either side while trying to push this column into a hammering charge at their center.

The shadows drew closer, a man mounted in the lead, others behind him, moving swiftly. They appeared to be Virginia troops, a captain of rifles leading the way.

They slowed at the sight of him. His heart still pounding, he assumed the role of actor upon the stage, knowing others were watching. He nudged his mount forward, as if expecting this encounter all along.

“Sir!”

The captain, breathing hard, stopped before him.

“Do you have something to report?” Washington asked, and then he could not contain himself. “The Hessians, are they coming?” he asked. “Are they behind you?”

He knew his questions were too hurried, his thought now being that these men were falling back to the main column with the enemy in hot pursuit.

“I don’t think so, sir.”

More men were coming out of the snow and fog, traversing an open field to the right that was covered with ice, corn stubble sticking up out of the frozen ground, hard going for some of the men who were barefoot and moving slowly.

“Your report then?”

“Sir, I must say it’s a surprise to see you here.”

The captain looked up at him excitedly, actually smiling.

“Who are you?”

“Captain Anderson, sir. Third Virginia, sir.”

Third Virginia? He felt a moment of confusion. No advance scouts had been detached from that regiment.

“Yes, sir, Third Virginia. General Stephens, sir, we were talking to him yesterday and said that it was a shame, its being Christmas and all, and given how those damn Germans like to celebrate, that maybe we could come over and stir their party up a bit.”

The captain actually chuckled at what he obviously thought was a delightful, boyish prank.

“So, General Stephens, he told me to take some men, get across the Delaware, poke around a bit and go ahead and have some fun. Up until yesterday it was only some militia with Ewing that were having all the fun, and the honor of Virginia was at stake if we didn’t join in.”

Washington felt that his heart was about to stop. Stephens had not been briefed until late yesterday afternoon on the plans for an attack. During that briefing Stephens had not said a word about this impromptu raid. He wondered if the man had forgotten or had decided simply not to say anything.

“And what happened?” Washington asked slowly, sick at heart with what he expected to be the reply, the excitement of the young captain answer enough.

“Sir, we hit them good. Waited until about four hours ago, got to the edge of the town and fired a few volleys right into the house where some of those damn Germans were keeping warm. We made it warm for them all right! Think we even got a few and, sir, we certainly stirred them up! Must’ve woke up the whole town, it did. We could hear drums rolling and men running about.

“Ruined their night of precious sleep, I’m certain of it. It was like hitting a hornet’s nest with a rock. You should have heard them buzzing, but we was gone and nothing for them to sting! I bet they are still running around in circles.”

The young captain was beaming with pride. The rest of his command, coming in from the nearby field, were gathering around, nodding their heads, obviously delighted with themselves.

“Well, that kicked up a stir, sir. We just headed back up into these fields. Got comfortable in a house and barn owned by some good patriot who, forgive us, sir, gave us some buttered rum to take away the chill, and we’re just coming back out now when someone said you were on the road, so we came down to find out. We were thinking of maybe kicking ’em up again before heading back across the river and——”

“Damn you! Damn you, sir!”

The words exploded out of him with thunderous rage.

“You damn fools. You damnable fools!”

Washington’s explosive outcry startled his mount, causing the horse to rear up slightly.

Turning, he looked to the troops behind him, struggling to keep the pace, were coming forward, still several dozen yards off.

“General Stephens!” he cried. “Up here now!”

He gazed angrily at the column of infantry that was slowing at the sight of their General stopped in the middle of the road, the headquarters company deploying as if for a fight. In the snow and mist it was impossible to see if Stephens was close by or not.

“You say you stirred them up after dark?” Washington shouted at the now thoroughly confused and frightened captain.

“Sir. I’m sorry, sir, but General Stephens told us we could do it, sir.”

Washington could feel his temper about to descend on this man, to curse him, berate him. All was now in ruins, absolute ruins. Gates had not crossed. It was already well past dawn, and the plan had been to attack nearly three hours before dawn and catch the enemy while still fast asleep. He had no word whatsoever whether the blocking force south of the town had crossed the river, and if it had done so undetected. And now this. Stephens had allowed some over eager men to cross the river to “stir things up a bit,” and then had not admitted it or had conveniently forgotten to tell him.

The plan might well be in ruins. These men surely had aroused the Hessian garrison, most likely just before the watch was about to change. Any officer expecting further raids or suspecting that the evening sortie was the beginning of a full-scale attack would have now doubled his watch and kept most of the men under arms until dawn. He would have sent out probing parties to patrol the surrounding countryside.