To Try Men's Souls - George Washington 1 (43 page)

He alighted, grinned, and flung his arms wide.

She leapt into his embrace, still laughing, face radiant, eyes sparkling, brow and cheeks not yet lined with age. She kissed him excitedly.

“Oh, George, you should have been home ages ago,” she exclaimed, kissing him again, and again as he held her high in the air. “What kept you?”

What kept me?

Had it been a hunt that went too far afield? He and the others deciding to just make it a night, building a fire and settling down, sleeping under the open canopy of the sky until first light of dawn, all of them then joking about how wives would be waiting, arms akimbo, ready to let fly with various accusations.

Or was he now just back from the Monongahela, bearing the first tidings of that terrible defeat . . . No, that was before Martha, long before her.

“You’re cold, George,” she exclaimed, cupping both hands to his cheeks. “Good heavens, you’re chilled to the bone, and soaked clean through.”

She pushed back slightly, and he let her slip to her feet, stepping back slightly, her headed tilted in a manner that could always cut into his heart.

“George Washington, you’ll catch your death of cold.”

The front of her dress was stained, wet from his holding her, and he wondered if the fine blue silk would somehow be ruined. But she didn’t seem to care. She reached out to take his hand, clasping it firmly with both of hers, chaffing it vigorously even as she turned to lead him back to the house.

“What have you been doing? We must get you inside at once! And get you out of those wet clothes this instant.”

How he adored the way she could, at times, take command of him this way, her gentlest suggestion a wish for him to fulfill, her orders something he would accept with a knowing smile and follow if only to please her.

She began to chatter away, telling him all the news of what had happened since he left. How long ago was it? Yesterday afternoon? A month ago? Ten years? There was talk of the Richardsons and their newborn twins, of the storm that had blown down a favorite old chestnut tree where as a boy he had gathered nuts to roast. But when was that? Wasn’t that eight years past, its wood now paneling a guest room?

Talk of a new colt from a favorite sire, the loss of a hunting dog——“poor thing, we buried him as you would have wished,” she sighed——the arrival of new china settings for twelve and apologies that they had cost eight pounds more than expected and four of the cups arrived broken and how their agent in London would hear of it . . . Such a thing . . .

He laughed and shook his head. Four cups broken. Strange how important that now was, and he clucked, saying he would send a letter forthwith and insist upon proper replacement without charge for, after all, the entire set was useless until plates, cups, and saucers matched.

She squeezed his hand with delight and exclaimed again how cold he felt.

They were at the four steps that led up to the porch. One of his hounds, now aged, allowed to run free about the place, came out from under the porch, tail slowly wagging in greeting, head up, sniffing at him. Poor thing, nearly blind, but still he could recognize his scent and drew closer. He reached down with his free hand and
scratched him behind the ears. Was it Scottie, Old George, or Max? But wasn’t it Old George who had died long ago and was buried under the chestnut?

Accepting the greeting, the dog went back, and with a sigh settled into the soft warm earth under the porch.

She stopped on the third step, the place where when she turned she could meet him at exactly eye level.

“How I’ve missed you,” she said, and leaning forward kissed him lightly on the lips.

He drew her closer and she laughed.

“You know everyone is watching us, George. What will they say?”

“They’ll say that I’m home.”

He kissed her and she sighed, leaning her head on his shoulder.

“When will you come home, George?”

He drew back slightly in surprise.

“But I am home.”

He was on the porch of Mount Vernon, she was in his arms, the doorway was open, house servants coming out, smiling, ready to greet him. Neighbors were coming from across the fields beyond, waving, distant shouts.

“I am home.”

“Sir . . .”

“Martha?”

“Sir!”

The voice was a whisper, masculine . . . It was Billy Lee.

“Sir.”

Trenton, New Jersey
11:30
A.M.
, December 26, 1776

A chill breeze swept in and around him as he opened his eyes. Billy Lee was leaning over him, hand resting gently on his shoulder, shaking him.

“Sir, you were dreaming, sir.”

He started to say her name again and then stopped, embarrassed. The room was filled with a dozen or more men. They were standing politely, with backs turned, for no proper gentleman should hear the whispered dreams of another, but he could see a couple of them exchanging sidelong glances and grins.

“How long was I asleep?” he asked, an edge of embarrassment and then anger at himself in his voice for being caught up this way.

“Only a few minutes, sir. Just a few minutes.”

He stood up, Billy Lee drawing back. Wordlessly he accepted the offer of a cup of coffee. He wanted to dress Billy down, to tell him never to allow that to happen again. It was undignified. How dare he allow me to fall asleep while my men still labored?

But he said nothing. Billy knew without being told, and being Billy, he had allowed his General a brief nap, knowing that just twenty minutes or so would refresh him. Yet now he felt as if drugged. It was hard to shake off the sleep, and the softness of the memories.

He sipped the coffee Billy Lee offered, black and thick, not hot, but still warm enough, and drained the contents quickly, letting it go to work.

The room suddenly felt confining, hot. The doorway out onto the street was open. General Sullivan entered, mud spattered, wet breeches soaked, a broad grin lighting his face.

“They have over forty hogsheads of rum, by God,” he exclaimed, and then, seeing the General, he fell silent, the others grinning again.

“Where?” Washington asked.

“Sir, in a storehouse behind the barracks.”

“Order it destroyed. If our men get into that we won’t have an army in another hour.”

“Sir, I’ve already ordered that.”

Washington said nothing more, but could clearly smell the rum on Sullivan.

Greene stood in one corner, Knox was over by the fireplace, extending his large beefy hands, rubbing them vigorously. Stirling and
Mercer were leaning over a map spread on a table, the corners held down by pewter candlesticks, the map itself wet and stained.

He walked over to join them.

“Your reports?” he announced, signaling that a meeting had begun, and each, unable to contain his delight, told his story.

“Fifteen hundred or more prisoners . . . Three stands of colors . . . Six field pieces, four of them of bronze . . . The Hessian commander Rall is dying . . . Over a hundred enemy dead and wounded, with surgeons now attending to them . . .”

He nodded, taking the information in while continuing to gaze at the map, as if by looking at its lines he could somehow cross the spanning miles and divine all.

“First, gentlemen, any reports of British movement from Princeton?”

They looked one to the other and shook their heads.

“Do you know for sure? I want definite information, not assumptions.”

“Sir, as ordered,” Sullivan replied, “advance scouts were sent out along the Pennington Road, and from there on to the Princeton Road. None have reported in with any observations of movement. In fact, the garrison at Princeton may not even be aware yet of our presence here.”

“Do we know that for certain?” Washington replied again, and as he spoke he shot a glance to Billy Lee, who came, fetched his empty cup, and returned seconds later with a refill, this one scalding hot.

“No, sir, not for certain, but we do have agents afield who certainly would have reported in if they were moving.”

He said nothing for a moment. None of them in this room, other than perhaps, interestingly enough, Billy Lee, fully knew just how many agents he did have in the field. Though he could never raise enough to pay the men of this valiant army, he had always placed the highest of priorities on the use of what little gold he had to purchase the right information from the right people, having cast his net wide even as the army withdrew across New Jersey. It was how he
had known the disposition of the enemy here in Trenton, information that he was now finding was indeed accurate. It was how he knew the tenuous connection between the garrisons at Bordentown, Trenton, and Princeton and from there on to the main garrison at Perth Amboy which was two days’ march away, perhaps three now, given this weather. Without such information from his secret network of agents and spies he never would have dared to begin this campaign. And he knew, as well, how to keep secret their existence.

And yet, news from them could only travel as fast as the swiftest horse.

Some of the Hessian dragoons based here in Trenton had, after all, escaped the net. He reached into his vest pocket and drew out his watch and opened it. Three hours had passed since the first shot was fired. Even in this blow a terrified rider could have driven his mount fifteen, perhaps even twenty miles, avoiding his patrols by using back lanes and cutting across fields.

“We must assume word has reached Princeton by now.”

He looked carefully at those who had gathered by his side and around the table.

No one showed disagreement.

“Their garrison could even now be on the march, but if so, to where?”

There was no agreement, some pointing directly at Trenton, where the enemy could move to attack him directly. Greene, ever the strategist, pointed instead back to McConkey’s Ferry.

“Cut us off first from our line of retreat,” he announced. “That would be the move, then sweep down from the north and hold us in place while the garrison from Perth Amboy force marched.”

“We attack in reply or simply fall back to the south,” Sullivan replied, and the debate was on. Washington listened, saying nothing, as was his practice, letting their nimble minds fight out the varied arguments.

“Did anyone else cross? Was there no one else?” he finally interjected.

They looked one to another, and Greene shook his head.

“Sir. We got a message across the river from General Ewing. He begs to report, with regret, that ice prevented him from crossing as it also prevented General Cadwalader.”

Washington took it in. “Why did it prevent them and not us?” he asked.

“Sir, I can see their side of it,” Greene replied. “Just below the falls here at Trenton, the river is tidal. The ice is piled up three, four feet thick in places. Broken as well, so any man who tried to disembark while still in the river would have fallen through. It was impossible.”

He finally nodded, accepting the answer.

“It was a miracle we even got across,” Mercer interjected. “I know this river, sir. No blame to Ewing or Cadwalader should be placed. It’s a wonder even we made it.”

“Yes,” Washington said softly.

He looked again at the map.

I am across on the enemy side of the river with fewer than two thousand five hundred men, he realized. He had counted on six thousand or more fording the river during the night.

We were alone, the enemy garrison should have been fully aroused and yet it was not. That foolish assault of the evening before, ordered by Stephens, who still would have to answer for doing so without informing him, had most likely aroused the garrison, had forced them stand to arms for several hours. Then the men, worn down by the weather, had simply retired, believing that surely, on such a night, there would be no additional peril.

Again a miracle.

Shall I push farther? he wondered.

The others were still arguing, Stirling exclaiming that, surely, with the advantage of surprise, the enemy would be on the run and if they marched now upon Princeton, before the day was done, the mere onset of their men, imbued now with the fire of victory, would create a rout.

Fired by enthusiasm he painted a picture in which, with luck, perhaps even Cornwallis might be present. What a prize that would be, to take the commander of the Jersey garrisons prisoner, a triumph that would trump even what they had accomplished this day. Perhaps even bring an end to the war.

Washington looked steadily at Knox, the ever steady Knox, who nodded his head, but without enthusiasm. His only comment was that his gunners were exhausted; it was a different story for artillerymen manhandling one-ton pieces along ice-slicked roads than for infantry who had only their muskets to bear.

Greene pointed out on the map that though the enemy garrison at Bordentown was small, still it was upon their flank and a threat. He pointed out that, beyond all else, they had to honorably deal with the prisoners taken here first.

There was no mutual agreement, the argument shifting back and forth.

If anything, at this moment Washington was aware of just how uncomfortable he felt. The room was warm, surely, but he was still soaked clean through, wool underclothing, shirt, vest, jacket, all heavy with the damp, his boots cold and clammy, feet so chilled he could barely feel his numbed toes.

If I feel this way in here, what of those out there?

He looked out the window where his men were milling about. They were in a jubilant mood, more than a few sporting captured Hessian headgear, strutting about like children at play. Others were trying on cast-off Hessian jackets, coats turned inside out so there would be no mistake as to which side they were on. And yes, more than a few were staggering, either from exhaustion or the fact that those hogsheads of rum had not all been smashed in immediately upon discovery.

Looking closer, he saw yet more of his men, curled up in doorways, or inside the yard beside the homes across the street, collapsed, sleeping, or just sitting.

There was a brief glimmer of sunshine, and yet, even as he watched, it darkened and a spattering of freezing rain began to come down.