To Try Men's Souls - George Washington 1 (34 page)

Trenton, New Jersey
8:10
A.M.
December 26, 1776

The sleet all but concealed the column of men rushing down the slope.

Consumed with the passion of the moment, General George Washington could hardly contain himself. The advance company, a commingling of Virginians, the unfortunate and misguided scouts who had raided the day before, and his own headquarters company, started to run ahead of him, disappearing into the storm.

Behind him the advance regiments of Greene’s men began to surge ahead as well, spreading out from the road.

It was as if the storm itself was driving them. Something long pent up, like a hunting pack unleashed for the kill, had been cut loose.

He spurred his horse, which nearly lost its footing on the ice-covered road, regained its feet, and broke into a fast trot. He caught up with his men in the advance guard. The storm with its varied pattern of eddies and swirls of snow, sleet and freezing rain, parted for a moment, granting a glimpse of a farmhouse several hundred yards ahead. Smoke whipped from the chimneys in the unrelenting gale.

“Hessian outpost!” one of the men from Anderson’s raiding party shouted. “They got twenty or more men inside!”

As if the outburst could be heard, the front door of the house swung open, a blue uniform appearing, walking out onto the porch. Even from a distance Washington could sense that the man was looking toward them.

The lone Hessian stood for long seconds, gazing in their direction, not sure whether he was seeing ghosts or men, wondering if they were friends, enemies, or merely an illusion created by the storm.

At last he realized it was what had seemed impossible in this weather. These were the Americans. The man turned and darted back into the house.

Washington felt a wild surge of hope. If the enemy had already been aroused and on guard, it would not have been a lone man gazing at them and then turning to spread the alarm. Out of the snow, sleet, and wind-driven mist, a solid battle line would have been astride the road, ready to deliver a volley and then break his column apart before it could deploy for battle. Now one lone man had seen them and run into the outpost.

Could it possibly be? How could it be after such a night of mishaps, disasters, and follies? Had God preserved the surprise despite everything? All the anxiety, the pent-up fear that had torn at his soul throughout this longest of nights, began to melt away.

Would he meet his own death this morning? He had weighed that long ago and found it next to wholly unimportant. Surely Martha would suffer, and for that he would feel infinite regret. But, as for himself, victory or death was no mere watchword. It was his code of honor for this day. Either victory or death. Paine was right. This is the trial of my soul and of America’s soul, and I am resolved to face it.

If the Revolution, this country, is destined to die this morning, my own death will be a fitting end, and a fitting reward for failure. His fear, his anguish, was for all those who had trusted in him, and had followed him throughout this endless night of agony.

“Merciful God,” he whispered. “Can it be true?”

He was now up alongside the men in the advance; they were running full out, some falling on the ice-slick road, muskets clattering.

“Take them!” Washington roared. “Don’t let a man escape! Take them!”

For an instant he was tempted to charge forward with sword leveled. He had let similar passion seize him in the past.

I am in command of this army. I must see to my duty. The men charging know now what is to be done.

He looked over his shoulder. The storm concealed the head of Greene’s column.

There could still be a fight here. This forward sentry might be only a lure to bring him in on the rush, a trap still hidden in the swirling snow. I must get the artillery forward, must see to Greene’s men.

Slowly, he reined in so his mount would not slip, turning to start up the slope to get Greene and Knox. He caught a glimpse of Billy Lee gazing at him, his servant nodding his head in agreement, without comment.

The advance company continued its charge toward the lone house. From the open doorway he saw men spilling out, blue uniforms. Definitely Hessians, but they came out in confused order, some trying to pull on overcoats, a man falling over on the slick steps, one waving a sword, his commands swept away by the howling wind.

His own men, at the sight of the enemy, let loose a wild cry. It was not a measured cheer, not the usual “huzzah”; instead it carried with it a spine-chilling effect, like the mad raging of wolves at the scent of blood.

The head of his attacking column slowed, spreading out into a ragged line. He wanted to turn back to order them to press the charge in, but going back would waste precious seconds. He continued up the slope while looking over his shoulder.

Puffs of smoke, a volley by his men. Range too long at seventy-five yards or more, especially in this storm, more than a few of the muskets misfiring. Others fell into the volley line, shouldering past men
reloading or clearing out of their pans wet powder that had misfired, wiping off flints and the facing of frizzens to try to trigger a hot spark, then fumbling for fresh cartridges, tearing them open to prime their pans and try again.

A second volley, this one stronger than the first. The smoke and the sleet and the snow made it hard to see whether it had done any damage to the score or so of the enemy who had piled out of the house.

Muskets of the Hessians were leveled in reply, flashes of fire, Washington thought he heard a musket ball whiz past, but none of his men dropped. In the past, often just one volley would stall a line of his men, riveting them in place. But not this time. Seeing the enemy had fired without effect, the advance company charged without orders to do so. They knew the cruel formula: the Hessians could reload in fifteen seconds. Fifteen seconds, but if in those fifteen seconds they could close in, the fighting would be hand to hand. And in their frenzy and anger, they sought, indeed relished and needed, such a contest.

He reined to a full stop to watch, half expecting that a column of Hessian infantry would suddenly emerge out of the storm, the confusion of the enemy coming out of the farmhouse a ruse to lure him in, that Hessian artillery would be rolled out from behind the home or barn, slashing his men with a deadly blast . . .

Not today! There were no such cunning traps waiting for his arrival.

The Hessians in front of the house, to a man, turned and ran, several of them throwing aside their muskets. One man, breeches only half up, as if caught so by surprise, while relieving himself, fell to his knees and held hands up high, imploringly, for mercy.

He watched, incredulous at the sight of it. Never had he witnessed this. Not at Long Island, Manhattan, Harlem . . . Never had he seen the back of a Hessian . . . and now they were running. The panic of the Hessians was real. God in Heaven, the surprise, so unexpected, so unbelievable minutes ago, just might be true!

He looked up the road, straight into the eye of the storm, and out of it rode generals Greene and Knox. Behind them the column was advancing at the double. Men bent over, running as best they could on the ice-blanketed road, an unstoppable juggernaut racing down the slope of a mountain.

“The surprise is complete! We have them!” Washington roared. “Their advance outpost has fled. We have them by the grace of God! Advance at the run, boys!”

“By column or line?” Greene cried.

“Keep them moving! No time to deploy,” Washington cried. “General Greene, keep your men moving!”

He turned to Henry. “Now’s your time, Knox. Bring your guns up at the gallop and stay with me!”

The head of the column swept past him, and he edged to the side of the road, standing tall in the stirrups, sword raised high.

“Victory or death! We have them! Stay with your officers! Forward now, forward!”

Turning, astride his horse, the tallest man on the field, he led them into the battle for Trenton.

“Peter, a cartridge! Give me a damn cartridge!”

Jonathan looked down at his musket, frizzen flipped up. He had forgotten to change the powder. The sight that greeted him was a black oozing puddle of wet powder and ice. Frantically he tried to wipe it clean with trembling hands.

At last a chance to shoot, to actually fight back, and his damn musket misfires!

Peter had successfully fired off a round and was screamingly wildly, so caught up in the frenzy of the moment he ignored Jonathan’s pleas.

Men shoved in around them, elbowing Jonathan aside.

“Take aim, boys!”

He couldn’t see who was giving the command.

“Fire!”

A couple of dozen muskets rattled off, and the sound heightened his frustration and rage.

A flash thought. Strange. Fifty years from now my grandchildren will ask me about this. I will not be able to claim I fired the first shots of the Battle of Trenton. “I stood there with a soaking wet musket and did nothing.”

“Charge them! Charge the bastards!”

Men shoved against him, pushing him forward. He abandoned trying to clear his flint and pan, moving blindly, unable to see Peter, following the back of a man; it looked like the friendly sergeant. Men around him pushed forward as if possessed, and he joined them. The hours of agony of this endless night, in fact the days, weeks, and months of agony, had turned at last. They were striking back!

“Here it comes!”

A second later he heard the volley and flinched, but no one fell, and those around him truly began to scream with a wild, animal-like roar.

Jonathan tried to give voice. He couldn’t. His lungs were afire. It was hard enough even to keep his footing as he ran with the others. They reached the house the Hessians had occupied but a few minutes before. Through the open door Jonathan saw a roaring fire and a table set with food. The temptation was to go inside, grab a biscuit, a piece of bacon, and collapse by the fire, but someone was shouting for them to press forward.

“Come on lads! Drive the bastards. Drive ’em!”

The chase was on, and leaving the house behind, he joined in.

The ragged line, with men from several different units, raced down the road. He saw Peter, angled in to be at his side, and wanted to ask again for a dry cartridge but didn’t have the breath to do so as he struggled to keep up. Sensation was returning to his feet, which had gone numb again after crossing Jacob’s Creek, so that each step was an agony. Someone ahead of him fell. He thought for an instant the man was shot, but even as he ran past him the soldier was half up, cursing the ice.

He was aware again of the storm. It seemed as if rain, sleet, and
snow were all falling at the same time, driven nearly horizontal by the wind out of the north, now at their backs.

Another flash of thought; in the eyes of the Hessians, it would be our advantage. In his lessons on ancient battles, the Greeks and Romans always had wanted the wind and the sun at their back in a fight.

Occasionally he glimpsed the retreating Hessians. He had never faced them directly in battle, but he had seen their handiwork, the bayoneting and clubbing of prisoners, had heard of their arrogance, their mocking disdain. And now they were running. The sight filled him with glee, driving him forward in spite of his burning lungs, which labored like tattered bellows for each ragged breath.

For a few precious minutes he forgot his own ills. The enemy was running hard, disappearing for an instant behind a curtain of snow, then visible again.

The ground was familiar——the Vanderhaven farm, the front door open, no one visible. The road took a slight curve to the right.

“The town, it’s just ahead!” Peter cried. “Not a hundred yards!”

Peter was right. The ground sloped off sharply here, and in the gloom Jonathan could see the outline of the houses and buildings where this road split into King and Queen streets.

And his home was one of those houses.

The Hessians they had been pursuing were turning, an officer trying to form them into some semblance of a line. A trickle of men were coming up the street, some of them trying to pull on overcoats, several still in their underbreeches and barefoot.

“Volley fire, boys!”

It sounded like the sergeant.

Men slowed, reaching into cartridge boxes, bringing out cartridges, several of them cursing, throwing the sodden mass to the ground. Jonathan came to Peter’s side.

“A cartridge, just give me a damn cartridge!”

Peter, working his ramrod, paused, cursed Jonathan, but reached down and pulled one out. It felt solid and dry in Jonathan’s hand. He
placed one end in his mouth, holding it thus while flipping the lock of his musket open, wiping away the gummy mess of wet powder with his thumb. He tried to wipe the flint clean with his forefinger, his hand so numb that he didn’t even realize it when the sharpened flint cut the finger nearly to the bone and blood spilled out.

Tearing the cartridge open, he filled the pan.

“Take aim!”

He tried to keep up, to close the lock, hoping the charge inside the barrel was still dry.

“Fire!”

The volley rang out, startling him. The men around him were screaming curses, shouting their defiance, their hatred, and their rage at the enemy, who had turned at the edge of the village.

He snapped his own frizzen shut and shouldered his musket while others around him were still reloading.

He was shaking so hard . . . He would never admit it was fear, but he could not even hope to aim properly. Besides, the storm was kicking up snow and sleet around him. The enemy was again like shadows. He pointed his weapon toward the Hessians arrayed not fifty yards off and squeezed the trigger.

There was a flash of fire and then smoke in the pan of his musket . . . and then nothing.

Blind rage filled him. His musket was useless. The ball would have to be extracted, powder cleaned out. Impossible in this fight.

The Hessians fired a ragged volley back. In the confusion, the panic, and the gusting storm, not a single round hit anyone, and that triggered jeers from the men around him. So much for the feared Hessian volley fire! Men to either side of Jonathan finished loading, leveled their weapons, and fired again, and he saw men in the Hessian line going down.