George Washington's Surprise Attack

by Phillip Thomas Tucker

  Amid the blinding snow flurries and as best he could, young Greenwood likewise struggled onward against mind-numbing weariness amid the lengthy column of St. Clair’s brigade in reserve. He described how the worn soldiers, stumbling and sliding along the slick road surface, after hundreds of marching feet had already churned up the initial layer of snow, were “nearly half dead with cold for the want of clothing, as, putting the storm to one side, many of our soldiers had not a shoe to their feet and their clothes were ragged as those of a beggar.”103

  Perhaps no soldiers in Sullivan’s column were colder than the African Americans of the First Division, which contained more blacks than Greene’s Second Division. In regard to Washington’s New England units, wrote one officer, “no regiment is seen in which there are not negroes in abundance, and among them there are able-bodied, strong and brave fellows” fighting for America.104 And another soldier penned how there was “a lot of Negroes” in every Massachusetts regiment.105 On the torturous march to Trenton, black and white soldiers struggled onward together, assisting each other in continuing ever-southward through the snow and freezing cold.

  Then, as if he didn’t have enough to worry about, Washington received even more reason for concern about the wisdom of having decided to continue marching upon Trenton with the arrival of the most disturbing news from Colonel Glover’s son. A vigilant Captain John Glover, Jr., who was the favorite, not just because he was firstborn of eleven children, child of his father-colonel, conducted a brief inspection of his tough Marblehead Continentals, while his suffering troops labored by in a badly stretched-out First Division column that seemed to have no end. To his horror, Captain Glover now discovered that a good many flintlocks of his Third Company Marbleheaders were completely soaked and inoperable, with wet ammunition as well. Because so many cartridges (sixty rounds) had been issued, Washington’s Continentals had insufficient room for all of their rounds in leather cartridge-boxes that protected paper cartridges against rain and snow.

  Therefore, the common soldiers had placed the extra twenty cartridges in their pockets which then became thoroughly soaked during their long ordeal. For the first time and compared to those New Englanders, especially Rogers’ Rangers, who had long battled against a resourceful opponent in winter campaigns during the French and Indian War, the seafarer’s lack of western frontier experience now came back to haunt the Marbleheaders at this crucial moment. Glover’s Massachusetts men, who had long praised “Nature [for] the formation of our harbor” at Marblehead, now cursed a seemingly spiteful Mother Nature who seemed to have sided with Colonel Rall on this most tempestuous of early winter mornings.

  Captain Glover’s unit was the Marblehead colonel’s favorite company, and the regiment’s best drilled command. Therefore, this Grenadier Guard-like company of the Fourteenth Massachusetts Continental Regiment was destined to play a key role in the fighting that lay ahead at Trenton. Thanks to the heightened concern of the colonel’s meticulous son, who was proving as capable as a leader as his father during this relentless march, the twenty-one-year-old captain immediately reported the disturbing news to his father, who then quickly dispatched word to General Sullivan.

  The resilient son of hopeful immigrants from Ireland, Sullivan and his hard-working aides then checked their soldier’s weapons to verify the validity of Glover’s alarming report, which proved only too true. Every inch a fighter and even though the snow was falling heavier than ever, Sullivan then barked out, “Well, boys, we must fight them with the bayonets!” Then Sullivan dispatched a courier, or most likely a trusty aide, on a fast horse not back up the River Road and then back to Birmingham and onto the Scotch Road to alert Washington, but by way of some unnamed perpendicular road (a mere trail through the woodlands), about a mile south, or below, the Birmingham crossroads, that connected the River Road and the Scotch Road.

  When Washington finally received the grim news that might have caused a less determined commander to suddenly abort this already most risky of operations after so many things had gone afoul, he continued to maintain his calm composure and firm resolution in the face of this new crisis, while the snow and sleet fell around him as if it would never stop. He shouted out orders that were transmitted to Sullivan and the First Division soldiers along the ice-slick River Road by his aide and private secretary, Lieutenant Colonel Samuel Blatchley Webb, born in Wethersfield, Connecticut in 1753, who had been wounded at the battle of Bunker Hill, or Breed’s Hill: “Then tell the general to use the bayonet and penetrate into the town; for the town must be taken and I am resolved to take it.” With no choice remaining, Washington now planned to rely upon the bayonet, the last-ditch conventional tactic that had brought so much past successes to the Hessians and British. To fuel resolve, Washington responded to this latest set-back by riding up and down the column’s length, shouting orders and increasing the pace of his marching men, who forged ahead through the snow.

  Clearly, Glover’s son had made a most timely contribution, and one of his last. In barely six months, Captain John Glover, Jr., would be dead. He was fated to be lost at sea while serving aboard a privateer schooner. With flags flying in the salty air, these wide-ranging privateers sailed out of Marblehead to wage war on British warships to break up their death grip on the prime fishing grounds of the Grand Banks, Marblehead’s economy, and the port’s primary maritime industry, so that fishing could once again provide a living for a destitute people: a ruthless war of attrition on yet another front for Colonel Glover and his Bay State mariners, whose struggle this morning in Hunterdon County was as much about hard economic realities as lofty Age of Enlightenment ideology and idealism.106

  Thanks to Captain Glover’s timely warning, Sullivan immediately ordered his First Division men to clean their flintlocks as best they could, while the wind howled through the swaying trees, that cast no shadows on this most miserable of nights, surrounding the sheet-pelted column strung-out along the River Road. With the moon yet covered by dark clouds and casting no light to seemingly dim Washington’s fortunes, the mostly New Englanders began frantically wiping and blowing away snow and ice encrusted on firing mechanisms. As Washington and Sullivan had ordered, what relatively few soldiers who possessed bayonets now fixed them to smoothbore flintlock barrels. Glover’s men were among the relatively few troops in Sullivan’s Division, and in the entire Continental Army, who could now count on the trusty cold steel of bayonets and only because Marblehead privateers had earlier captured British ships that provided invaluable war supplies. Therefore, Colonel Glover’s boys now marched down the River Road with added confidence because they possessed fine bayonets, made in England, and knew how to use them as expertly as a wooden oar of a Durham boat on the Delaware’s choppy waters.107

  Wondering what else could possibly go wrong this seemingly ill-destined morning which might have reminded of when he, at age twenty-two, had written in April 1755 how “surely no man ever made a worse beginning” in regard to his initial military service, Washington hurriedly issued the same order to clean off weapons to all soldiers of Greene’s Second Division column. A flurry of hectic activity rippled down the tattered ranks, with Washington’s timely order awakening some half-asleep men about to fall by the snowy wayside. Besides Lieutenant Orne’s timely warning, other members of Sullivan’s column also discovered that the snow and ice had made their weapons inoperable.

  In leading the advance toward his own house situated along the River Road while serving as a sharp-eyed advanced guide for Sullivan’s Division, Captain John Mott was one soldier who likewise made this shocking discovery that caused so much consternation. Clearly, in breaking military tradition, Washington’s troops were unprepared for initiating a winter campaign even of short duration, and especially during an intense snowstorm. In serving as a guide for Sullivan’s column laboring down the River Road, Mott had earlier attempted in vain to protect the black priming powder in his firing pan of a trusty fusil, or “fuzee,” which was a shorter, lighter-weight version of
the smoothbore musket and usually carried by American officers, with only a thin handkerchief.108

  Also in the slow-moving ranks of Sullivan’s column that were spread-out along the River Road like a long, black snake crawling over a white-colored landscape and cutting through heavy woodlands, Greenwood also felt an initial panic of uncertainly upon realizing that his Massachusetts regiment’s combat capabilities, especially with so few bayonets, had been seriously eroded because: “As we had been in the storm all night we were not only wet through and through ourselves, but our guns and powder were wet also, so that I do not believe one would go off” if fired.109

  Amid the predawn wintry stillness, that was so surreal that there seemed to be no more war, and heightened anxiety that hung over the head of Greene’s column like a cloud, Washington’s doubts about not only catching the Hessians by surprise but also about exactly how many of his soldier’s weapons would fire once the battle opened in full fury continued to be a nagging concern. A less determined commander than Washington might well have yet aborted what seemed to be a doomed march of folly, which now possessed all the self-defeating ingredients of yet another inevitable American disaster in the making. But much like Napoleon, the enduring strength and weight of Washington’s moral, spiritual, and physical drive kept his resolve firm and faith unshaken, despite—or perhaps because of—each new setback. Most of all, he remained firmly focused on fulfilling his single-minded vision and his primary goal of securing victory at Trenton at any cost. Even though the weather conditions worsened and setbacks continued to pile up like a spiraling of bad gambling debts, Washington’s ambitious vision, firm resolve, and initial plan never waved.

  At the head of his Delaware, Pennsylvania, Maryland, Virginia, Massachusetts, and Connecticut infantrymen pushing down the Scotch Road with muskets on shoulders, General Greene also naturally felt greater concern. This bright, gifted Rhode Islander of almost limitless potential worried because Washington now only possessed what was most of all “a very pitiful army to trust the liberties of America,” and one whose already limited combat capabilities had been even additionally dramatically reduced by the weather on the eve of its most important battle to date.110 Washington could only hope and pray that his men would rise to the Trenton challenge, as during the ambush of Braddock expedition and the resulting disaster, when the “Virginia companies behav’d like Men and died like Soldiers,” as penned in a letter.111

  Fortunately, for America, what relatively few soldiers who now remained trudging onward in Washington’s ranks were incredibly tough, resilient, and durable, including the commander-in-chief’s own supporting cast of top lieutenants. And perhaps no one at the senior leadership level was tougher than General Mercer himself. During the daring September 1756 raid on the Indian village of Kittanning, Captain Mercer had been badly wounded with a broken right arm, and then became separated from the raiding party in the wilderness of the Ohio country during its long withdrawal back east across the parallel, north-south running ridges of the Allegheny Mountains.

  Now riding at the head of his own veteran infantry brigade of Maryland, Connecticut, and Massachusetts troops surging down the windblown Scotch Road with high hopes for reaping a sparkling success at Trenton, Mercer might have reflected upon that harrowing experience. As revealed by an article in the Pennsylvania Gazette, Mercer had successfully evaded Indians during “14 days in getting [safely on his own] to Fort Littleton [and] He had a miraculous Escape, living ten Days on two dried Clams and a Rattle Snake, with the Assistance of a few Berries.”112

  Most importantly, Washington could count on such resourceful men to the very end. The determined Virginian now rode forward at the column’s head with the army’s two rising stars, Colonel Knox, the former bookseller from Boston, and General Greene, a former militia private from a Quaker family, both of whom he had early groomed after recognizing their outstanding leadership abilities even though neither men possessed ample military experience or educations that qualified them for such high placement in the army’s hierarchy. Clearly, unlike the British military system, this revolutionary army of free men and mostly yeomen farmers was an unprecedented place where a man of talent could rise up through his own abilities rather than aristocratic bloodlines and elevated upper class status.113

  Meanwhile, Washington continued to encourage Greene’s First Division troops south through the incessant flurries of snow and sleet, pushing down the Scotch Road, and ever-closer to the all-important Pennington Road, which paralleled and intersected the Scotch Road from the north, where the little town of Pennington lay just northeast of Bear Tavern. With more precious time slipping away and knowing that his nation’s life was now hanging by a mere thread, Washington galloped down the column and implored at a loud voice, “Press on, press on, boys!” Once they gained the Pennington Road, just north of Trenton, at the advanced point now held by the half-frozen soldiers of Captain Washington’s and Lieutenant Monroe’s little advance guard of trusty Virginia soldiers, Greene’s Second Division column would have an open avenue, although slick with ice and snow covered, into the northern end of town.114

  While the snow descended heavier upon the twin columns of Washington’s right and left wings and the biting cold never seemed more severe, no music was played by the young regimental fifers to lift the men’s spirits as in comparable miserable situations, because of Washington’s directive to maintain perfect silence. Marching in Sullivan’s column of quiet soldiers, Boston-born Johnny Greenwood had long bolstered his comrade’s morale by his lively fife playing. Greenwood had grown up in a fine Salem Street house, because his father, a Boston dentist and merchant, was engaged in the lucrative ivory trade with Africa. The grandson of a distinguished Harvard professional, Greenwood was also inspired by a distinguished warrior ancestor, who had served as an officer-chaplain in the conquering Puritan Army of diehard Protestants under Oliver Cromwell.

  When only nine or ten years of age, Greenwood had found an old fife and quickly learned to play. Therefore, he early became a fifer in a Boston militia company which served under an “English” flag. At age thirteen, Greenwood was sent to live with his uncle in Falmouth, today’s Portland, Maine, before the escalating crisis with Great Britain changed everything. He then became the much-pampered “boy” fifer of the local militia company known as “the Cadets” in which his uncle served as an officer. When the war erupted at Lexington and Concord when the famous “shot heard ‘round the world” was fired in anger, Greenwood ran away from his uncle’s command because he feared his family “would all be killed” by the British, who occupied Boston. He consequently had gone forth with a determination “to fight for my country.”

  Upon reaching Boston, Greenwood promptly enlisted, while basking in the British’s derogatory name for New England rebels, the “Yankees.” Despite his father having paid for a substitute to take his son’s place in the ranks, Greenwood remained faithfully with his Massachusetts Regiment. Despite the spoiled pet of the older soldiers and looking too small for his age, Greenwood was a fighter. He knew how to use a tomahawk, sword, and musket, the last of which he now carried with him down the icy River Road and toward an unknown fate at Trenton. Like other soldiers, Private Greenwood was now fueled by a sense of revenge, after having learned in the recent Canadian Campaign, that the “Indians and the English acted very much alike, that is, without principle.” For such reasons, Johnny now struggled onward through the snow with Sullivan’s column, despite a recent illness that had ravished Colonel John Patterson’s regiment until scores of his comrades and friends “died like rotten sheep,” in his embittered words.

  On such an awful night in western New Jersey when this little “fife-major,” who was the “favorite” of the entire New England regiment, could not play his spirited martial tunes—his hands were too cold and he obeyed Washington’s strict orders for silence—that had so often cheered his comrades, perhaps Johnny Greenwood yet recalled his mother’s final words to him before he marched off to war: �
�hope [that] you will behave like a soldier.” And now his mother’s “hope” also ensured that Greenwood continued to march silently beside his equally determined Fifteenth Massachusetts comrades.115

  Teenage Major Wilkinson, serving with St. Clair’s staff, was one of the relatively few Americans who was now riding a horse south toward Trenton. Benefitting from a fine classical education and possessing a distinct taste for music, art, and fine living, Wilkinson was a Maryland cavalier and a proper Southern gentleman. He was very much of a product of the planter class. Wilkinson benefitted from his privileged upbringing in the South’s northeastern edge and amid southern Maryland’s tobacco country of fertile river and creek valley and rolling hills. His grandfather, Joseph, had been an enterprising English tobacco merchant, before deciding to settle in Calvert County, Maryland, at Stoakling Manor, the family’s tobacco plantation.

  But life was not easy for young James, because of falling tobacco prices, spiraling debts, and his father’s early death, before his mid-thirties, when he was only six. Stoakling Manor had to be sold to pay off spiraling debts and taxes. Wilkinson then attended the same school in Baltimore, Maryland, as Washington’s stepson, John Curtis. Here, far away from the Calvert County tobacco plantation, Wilkinson grew to relish the vibrancy of city life, basking in its cultured sophistication. His soaring ambitions led him to attend medical school in Philadelphia at only age sixteen. In less than two years, Wilkinson left medical school in April 1775 to open up a medical practice on the western frontier at Monocacy, Maryland, which had been settled primarily by German immigrants.