To Try Men's Souls - George Washington 1 (38 page)

He had led his army to this place, fully resolved that if fate decreed it thus, he would die this day. There would be no ignominious capture such as General Lee seemed so ready to accept. No, never that. To be paraded before his captors, to be mocked and scorned, then taken to General Howe. Howe was, of course, a gentleman. He would prevent public humiliation once in British hands, but there would be humiliation, nevertheless, with demands to sign a final article of surrender. After his refusal, perhaps at least the offer of protection for Martha, also perhaps for some of his men if they now laid down arms, then on to England and the gallows.

When he had contemplated that [and the thoughts had haunted him throughout the long night], he had made his decision. If all was indeed lost, he would ride straight at the enemy line and seek a death befitting a soldier. The pagan practices of the Romans, no matter
how honorable, of falling upon one’s own sword no longer fit this world, but a well-aimed volley by a Hessian line would achieve the same end——death with honor.

“Sir, they’re trying to break out.”

Stirred from his thoughts, he looked up to see General Greene riding up the slope, coming from the south side of the town, pointing toward the village.

He did not need to be told twice. In the center of the town a knot of troops was attempting to array into column on the narrow streets, several flags among them, standing out stiffly in the tempest, the column heading south.

A six-pounder fired by his side, the flight of the ball impossible to trace. Three other guns fired seconds later, dropping solid shot and howitzer shells into the far end of the town. Behind him Greene’s men continued to run past at the double, with little semblance of order, a surging mass of men, leaning forward, slipping on the icy ground, faces drawn, eyes afire, summoning up one last burst of strength, their passage marked by their bloody footprints on the ice.

“Then we shall stop them!”

He reined about, the ever-present Billy Lee by his side. A momentary glance, and he could see his servant, his companion of years, smiling, pistol in his hand, as eager as any of the others to get into the fray.

He turned to look for Knox. He had been down at the edge of the village when last he saw him. No time to find him now and pass orders, nor any need to at this moment, for Knox knew what to do. He would keep pounding with his artillery and driving men in from the east end of the town to close the vise.

Washington urged his mount to a gallop, shards of ice flying from under his horse’s hooves, maneuvering down the gentle slope, swinging to one side to avoid trampling a knot of men who had slipped and fallen and were now tangled up with each other.

He rode past them, half standing in his stirrups, sword raised.

“Forward, boys! We’ve got them now. Forward!”

An orchard was before him. There a regiment of troops, lining up under a Massachusetts flag, was forming a volley line on the east side of bare apple trees.

At the sight of their General riding by, a ragged cheer arose.

He saluted. “We’ve got them now, lads. Get ready and give it to them!”

Behind the Massachusetts men the rest of Greene’s division continued at the run, deploying across the open field that curved around the south end of town down toward Assunpink Creek.

It was so clearly evident now that yet another part of his plan had not worked. The men of Cadwalader’s New Jersey militia were supposed to have crossed before dawn and deployed on the far side of the creek to block escape and to prevent the small enemy garrison in the village of Bordentown, five miles further south, from coming up to bring relief to Trenton. There was not a single man in position. Why, he did not know. Now was not the time to worry about it. Greene, so reliable this morning, as if redeeming himself for his failure at Fort Lee, was already seeing to this gap, pushing his thousand men out and around in an arc.

An advance guard of Greene’s men were plunging into the creek, waist deep, holding muskets and cartridge boxes over their heads, braving ice-choked water again to get to the far side and set up a blocking force.

He slowed for a moment, watching them, emotion all but overwhelming him at the sight.

They had braved the Delaware, staggered through Jacob’s Creek, endured a night march of freezing hell, and now, again, driven forward by this fury, were wading another freezing stream, in places having to break through a crust of ice. Several men were slipping and falling, floundering, comrades reaching out to pull numbed companions back up. Some of the men simply collapsed as they reached the
far shore, unable to move. But others staggered on, deploying, getting in among bushes and trees on the bank of the stream, leveling muskets.

“Here they come!”

He looked to his right, the blast of the storm now in his face. The advantage Sullivan’s men had coming down from the north, with the storm at their back and in their enemies’ faces was reversed here, and he had to squint, leaning forward slightly.

Hard to see for a few seconds. Shadowy figures were emerging, but with no clear color to their uniforms. All was shrouded in tones of gray——snow, sleet, and smoke.

He turned about to move in behind a volley line, a single rank deep, men spaced several feet apart. Other troops, running hard, continued to move behind this line, Greene shouting for it to be extended.

More shadows appeared, moving like ghosts flying toward them.

There was a momentary fear: Were these his own men? Had some debacle unfolded in the village in the last few minutes? Had the Hessians, ever so precise and disciplined, re-formed? Were they now driving his men out? Would he in a few more seconds see the enemy emerge and advance inexorably, ready to return volley for volley?

More shadows appeared . . . uniforms . . . blue! They were running blindly.

“Make ready!”

The Massachusetts men raised their muskets high.

“Take aim!”

A hundred or more muskets were leveled. And at that instant the shadows before them began to slow, men sliding to a stop. Guttural cries drifted on the wind . . . in German.

“Fire!”

A volley rang out, half a dozen Hessians dropping.

There were cries of confusion, rage. Several raised muskets and fired back, shots going wide in the confusion.

The Massachusetts line was already reloading. More shots rang
out. The men falling in to the left of the Massachusetts men were hurrying to join the fray.

Allen stepped away from the trapdoor, looking defiantly at Jonathan for a few seconds, and Jonathan slowly stood up. Seeing James again, warm, well dressed, and obviously well fed, had been bad enough.

But this?

There was shouting outside in the alleyway, triumphal cries, more men running past the window.

“For God’s sake,” Jonathan hissed, “take that goddamn jacket off now!”

Allen did as ordered, letting it fall to the floor.

As the oldest child Allen had always been the protective brother, pulling Jonathan out of so many childhood scrapes with James. It was Allen whom he had idealized, and it was Allen who so often said that it was Jonathan, though the “runt of the litter,” as he would jokingly call him, was the one who was born with the brains and destined to attend college. It was Allen who, when Jonathan slipped away from his chores to play or wandered afield, would so often cover for him, quietly doing the chores himself and never saying a word. It was Allen who, when he went down to Philadelphia on family business, would always return with some small present for him, such as a book from Mr. Franklin’s shop, and then tell him all the news of the wide world beyond.

“Jonathan,” Allen sighed, and he came toward him, eyes filled with obvious relief.

Jonathan held his hand up in a gesture as if to ward him off.

“No, don’t.”

“My God, Jonathan, we’ve been worried sick for you.”

“Obviously.” He gestured toward the food spread on the table. “Even as you fed them.”

“Jonathan, we had to,” Allen replied.

“At least they didn’t loot us,” James interjected, speaking up at last. “The way your army wanted to when it ran through here three weeks ago.”

“We did not,” Jonathan retorted. “What we took we paid for.”

James snorted derisively. “The money made good kindling.” He gestured toward the blazing fire. “That’s all it was worth.”

“And from what I saw in the shop, you made certain most of the goods were well hidden.”

“Son, do you want us reduced to poverty because of this damn war?” his father interjected.

“You know what I wanted.”

“All of you, stop it,” his mother snapped. The men fell silent.

“William, go fetch some dry clothes for our boy.”

His father nodded and left the room.

She folded her arms and gazed at her sons. “All of you, sit down. I will have no fighting or profane words in my kitchen.”

Jonathan could not help but chuckle sadly. Did she not know that a battle was literally raging outside her home? A war that months before seemed so distant when he had marched off to join it——with James by his side——had literally come to their doorstep. And one of the enemy stood before him.

Allen came to sit across from Jonathan, but as he pulled the bench back, Jonathan stood and backed away.

“I will not sit with you, Brother.”

“For heaven’s sake, Jonathan! Stop it.”

“Why did you do it?” Jonathan asked, and was ashamed that his voice began to break with emotion.

“Jonathan.”

Allen was up and by his side, arms going around him, and for a moment Jonathan did indeed break. He began to weep, Allen holding him as he had so often in the past when he lost a scrap or fell into trouble with his parents.

He wept and Allen held him.

“Jonathan, I had to.”

“If not for Allen, they would have looted us clean,” James interjected.

“Is that it? Is that what the price of your soul is worth?” Jonathan snapped, pulling away from Allen.

He glared at James.

“You I figured out, at last, to be a coward.”

“You can go to hell, Jonathan.”

“Sunshine patriot, that’s all you ever were, James,” Jonathan cried. “But you, Allen? You?”

“Do you actually believe in that rot?” James retorted.

“What rot?”

“Reverend White showed us a copy of what that fool Paine just wrote.”

“And you call it rot?” Jonathan cried.

“Yes, the ravings of a drunken fool, and you actually believe it.”

“Yes, I do!”

He felt light-headed and in spite of himself collapsed back onto the bench, emotion all but overwhelming him. Outside the storm, the battle, continued to rage.

“Listen to that! There are good men, my comrades out there. Fighting, dying, for what you call rot.”

James replied with a sarcastic sneer.

“Damn you. Don’t you believe in anything?”

He nodded toward Allen, who looked down at him with a sad and weary expression.

“At least he believes in something, even if I now call him my enemy.”

“Jonathan, you could never be my enemy,” Allen whispered.

“Then why are you wearing that damn traitor’s uniform?”

“Traitor? I am loyal to our king. Little Brother, which of us is the traitor?”

“All of you, stop it!”

There was a time when a mere whisper from his mother, far more effective than any shouted commands from his father, would have sent Jonathan scurrying, but not now.

“Mother,” he sighed, “I will always respect you as my mother, but please don’t try and stop me now.”

“You are sick, my boy.” Again her tone was that of a mother hovering over an ill child.

There was an instant when he did want to give way, to be led to bed, to be under warm covers with her sitting by his side, as she had so often done when he was sick as a boy.

James stalked out of the room and turned into a side room that was the office for their business. Jonathan could hear a desk drawer being opened, and seconds later James returned, holding up a newspaper.

“Reverend White gave this to us yesterday. Do you see it?”

He held it up before Jonathan. He could barely focus on it, but he knew what it was.

“And you actually believe the ravings of this madman? All of those damn madmen. Do you know that while you froze, that Congress of cowards ran away? While all this madness goes on, they are safe, warm, and fat in Baltimore?”

He pointed toward the window, the sound of battle rising in volume.

“For all you know, your army is on the run, and in a few more minutes those Hessians that were here will be back, looking for your hide, and Allen will of course try to save you, even though you don’t deserve it.”

The blow nearly lifted Colonel Rall from the saddle, knocking the breath out of him.

There was no pain. That had always struck him as strange. He had heard it in the garrison talk around the table when as a boy he was allowed to listen to the stories of old soldiers. Then there were his own memories of Luetzen, when he had nearly lost his arm, the slash of a Turkish saber across his thigh on the Romanian border. At first no pain, just a numbed blow. The pain would always come later.

“Sir!”

It was Münchasen, up by his side, offering a steadying hand. He waved the man off and actually forced a smile.

“Nothing, Münchasen. Now rally the men, please.”

Münchasen looked at him, wide-eyed, another volley ringing out, his adjutant flinching.

“Never show fear Münchasen,” he gasped. “Now help rally them!”

Münchasen drew away.

Rall could see the rebel lines. My God what was happening? This was not as before. They moved like ghosts in the storm, relentless, coming forward, swinging in to block him in. Behind the infantry he could see several guns being manhandled into position.

This could not be the damned rebels. Always they had run, always.

And in spite of his order to Münchasen, he felt fear for the first time. Not for his own life, though from the numbness in his side he did wonder if the blow was fatal. It was so hard to breathe now. But what of his honor? What of his men?