George Washington's Surprise Attack
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Grant’s fatal flaws had been long covered up by friends in high places: one weakness of an entrenched military system that led to the steady erosion of the overall quality of British leadership that risked fossilization, especially when far from London. Grant had responded to Rall’s increasing concerns on December 17—nearly ten days before Washington’s attack on Trenton—by writing how, “I can hardly believe that Washington would venture at this season of the year to pass the Delaware.”44 Before America’s bid for liberty when he displayed the same blind arrogance, Grant had confidently informed Parliament how the colonists would “never dare to face an English army and didn’t possess any of the qualifications necessary to make a good soldier.”45
But now these most ridiculed soldiers in all America were relentlessly descending upon Trenton from the north, while performing and obeying orders with a discipline fitting the finest professional fighting men on the continent. Most importantly by this time, the average fighting man in Washington’s ranks, in one soldier’s words, were determined to demonstrate once and for all that American “[b]oys can fight.”46 Unknown to British and German leadership, the war was even now in the process of changing, along with a heightened resolve that had suddenly emerged among Washington’s soldiers, who had long been the butt of so many jokes on both sides of the Atlantic.
In encouraging his Second Division troops southward down the snowy Scotch Road and just before the first faint hint of dawn appeared on the frozen eastern horizon, Washington remained vigilant just in case the Hessians dispatched a sortie north from Trenton. After all, Washington’s command was now divided into two divisions and widely separated: a cardinal sin according to the axioms of war and all the great captains, especially if the alerted enemy suddenly attacked from Trenton. Meanwhile, Washington’s ragged soldiers, including a good many men, such as Captain Alexander Hamilton, not yet fully recovered from illnesses and who should have been recuperating in hospitals, gamely kept up with their plodding units during the arduous trek southward. While northeastern winds swept over the column without pity and young and old Continentals continued to lose strength with each weary mile, cold-numbed men blew hot breath on half-frozen fingers in a futile effort to warm themselves in the tempest. The added weight of snow clinging to shoes and boots made every step more difficult and laborious.
Hauling their cannon through the icy gales while the meager clothing flapped around them, Washington’s hardworking artillerymen of both Greene’s and Sullivan’s columns continued to hurry their guns onward over the snowy landscape. Most importantly, these veteran gunners from across America somehow managed to keep up with the infantrymen’s pace. Incredibly and against the odds, none of Knox’s artillery crews fell behind during the exhaustive odyssey in the blackness. By this time as they neared the north of Trenton, the wooden wheels of the artillery pieces and lumbering ammunition carts of Forrest, Hamilton, and Baumann’s guns were very likely wrapped in old blankets and cloth to muffle the creaking noise. As Washington and Knox fully realized, it was all important that the most expertly served and largest cannon remained at the head of the column as these guns would become the first engaged in combat.
Consequently, while yet mounted and as if surveying the progress of work in the sprawling fields of Mount Vernon, a vigilant Washington continued to carefully make sure that Captain Forrest’s artillery pieces did not fall behind the head of Mercer’s seasoned brigade because these guns, the two long six-pounders and two five and a half-inch howitzers, would become paramount at the battle’s opening that loomed just ahead. He also displayed the same concern in regard to the field pieces of Hamilton’s New York battery, which was one of the finest disciplined artillery units in Washington’s Army, thanks to the West Indian-born captain’s tireless efforts.47
Galloping back and forth along the column’s sprawling length, Washington seemed to be everywhere at once despite the falling sleet and snow, speaking words of encouragement and making sure everything was in order. Like a man possessed on a morning seemingly tailor-made to thwart his best efforts, Washington was determined in part to prove himself and extinguish the prevalent conviction on both sides of the Atlantic that he was “not fit to command a sergeant’s guard,” as charged General Lee, who was so widely respected by both sides, unlike himself. With the burden of saving America weighing more heavily upon him than any other man in America, this much-maligned Virginia planter knew that this was now a do or die situation for himself and his infant nation, which seemed destined for an early, untimely, and tragic death. Most of all, this was Washington’s last chance and final gamble in which the winner would take all at a time when very few people believed that a former militia colonel could possibly pull off a tactical miracle by doing what was so rare for him, prevailing in a battle, especially one of supreme importance.48
In regard to the upcoming, much-belated attack on Trenton, all that Washington could now do was to hope and pray that he and his long-suffering Continentals were not fated to suffer the much-dreaded “Fatal Day,” as he described it in a letter, similar to Braddock’s fiasco in which the mounted Virginian had narrowly escaped with his life.49
Pale Dawn Over a Sleepy Trenton
With his bone-weary troops advancing steadily down the ice-covered Scotch Road to gain the Pennington Road as rapidly as possible, Washington’s desperate, high-stakes race with the sunrise to reach Trenton’s northwestern outskirts with Greene’s Second Division continued unabated. Often losing their footing along the slippery roadbed that had been long ago hewn through Hunterdon County’s dense forests that must have reminded the Hessians of the Black and Teutoburg Forests, where three entire Roman Legions were destroyed by fierce German tribes in 9 AD, back home, Greene’s troops felt a mounting sense of nervousness as they neared Trenton. A wave of growing apprehension about approaching Trenton and the inevitable battle with the always-victorious Hessians swept through the ranks of these young men and boys so far from home, thanks to so many past defeats. As if knowing as much, meanwhile, Washington and his fellow officers encouraged everyone to keep moving onward through the howling northeaster while steadying their men as best they could before meeting their greatest challenge. Washington continued to inspire his generally unsophisticated (but yet commonsense smart), homespun farm boys, the large number of immigrant Irish and Scots, and beardless teenagers who had never received proper educations. These stalwart souls moved onward with legs weary, when flintlocks on shoulders never felt heavier, and they never felt colder.
At long last after the lengthy descent south and down the gently sloping Scotch Road, Greene’s Second Division troops finally neared the strategic intersection with the Pennington Road. Here, just before reaching the Scotch Road-Pennington Road intersection, Stephen’s Virginia vanguard, positioned at the head of Greene’s column, finally met the stationary, half-frozen soldiers of Captain Washington’s foremost vanguard, which had accomplished its mission of guarding the main road that led into Trenton from the northwest. Like a protective mother hen taking in her lost young, Stephen’s Virginia boys united with the soldiers of Captain Washington and Lieutenant Monroe’s vanguard, which emerged into the Old Dominion fold at another obscure place in the trackless New Jersey countryside. After having successfully completed their mission, the little band of cold-numbed Virginia riflemen felt considerable relief upon joining an entire brigade of their fellow Virginia Continental soldiers after having been on their own and vulnerable before the main column for so long.
Realizing that they were on the last leg of their arduous journey to reach Trenton, Washington’s troops moved onward with renewed vitality and higher spirits down the Pennington Road, into which the Scotch-Road had smoothly merged almost without anyone noticing the stealthy transition along the snow-covered ground and amid the stormy night. After the local New Jersey guides had informed him that Trenton was just ahead, Washington rode forward. Symbolically, he was determined to lead the way toward what would be either a great victory or a m
onumental fiasco, or perhaps even a battlefield death.
But Washington was emboldened as never before. After having so many close brushes with death going back to the French and Indian War, he sincerely believed that a kind providence now protected him, sparing him for a special purpose, which was now securing victory at Trenton to save America before it was too late. As throughout this most bitter of nights and with a confident assurance as if only riding forth on a spring morning to survey his extensive holdings of his Virginia plantation along the Potomac, the commander-in-chief’s calming presence at the front continued to fortify his soldier’s resolve, bolster spirits, and steady frayed nerves before meeting the much-touted Hessian Brigade in a climactic showdown.
Obeying orders to remain silent and close to their officers, the common soldiers kept slogging southward in Greene’s Second Division column. From across America, these young Continentals were partly fueled to continue pushing down the Pennington Road by the knowledge that the frozen dawn of December 26 was drawing closer and would come near at 7:21 a.m. But with the punishing northeaster showing no signs of letting up, the first hint of a muted, pale sunrise on the eastern horizon could not be easily determined except for the snow on the ground gradually becoming a bit lighter to the eye. After not following his early preordained course in life as once preached by his Quaker parents’ pacifist faith, although he sympathized with Quaker principles, even while he wore a sharp sword by his side, the plainspoken General Greene might have now longed for happy times and the warm, reassuring comfort of his favorite Bunch of Grapes Tavern, owned by Elisha Doane, on King Street (now State Street) near the waterfront in the heart of Boston.
Meanwhile, the heavy, moisture-laden skies over Hunterdon County on the eastern horizon retained a nighttime blackness, made even darker by dense storm clouds. Fortunately, by this time, the strong, high winds of the Jet Stream began to push the northeaster farther east and toward the Atlantic, instead of hovering with its former intensity over western New Jersey and the hard-hit Delaware Valley. Washington’s troops, consequently, now moved and operated farther away from the eye of the storm, which had already unleashed a couple feet of snow in Virginia and Washington’s Mount Vernon.
At long last at around twenty minutes after 7:00 a.m., and slowly but surely, the sky began to lighten faintly when the day’s first light finally began to force it belabored way through the thick cloud cover that hovered over eastern horizon. This first dull simmer of light of the palest of dawns started to appear on the eastern horizon. However, this slight illumination revealed to Washington how far Greene’s column of weary soldiers was yet strung out down the Pennington Road, which seemed smothered under an endless white blanket as far as the eye could see. In a most revealing December 27 letter, one of Washington’s officers estimated how, “it was day break when we were two miles from Trenton, but happily the enemy were not apprised of our design. . . .”50
Neither Washington, even though his plan to strike at 5:00 a.m. was shattered, nor his men could believe their good fortune. As during the risky evacuation from Long Island and even while the storm continued to swirl around him, Washington’s luck in stealthy maneuvers in close proximity of the enemy remained firmly intact. The silence among the ranks of his ever-individualistic men continued to be profound, indicating to Washington that discipline among his troops remained firmly intact. Hence, despite all of their suffering, he now knew that these resilient soldiers were ready for action. Most incredible of all, Washington had already won a major victory, having succeeded in convincing his weary men that they could accomplish what even they had believed impossible only a few hours before.
The late December day’s growing light around 7:30 a.m. also revealed what perhaps many soldiers certainly thought would be impossible throughout this most nightmarish of marches, after having struggled across troublesome Jacob’s Creek and its rugged, heavily wooded environs, especially raging Ewing Creek, and the season’s most fierce winter storm: Washington’s Second Division column now remained as cohesive as when it had first marched to McConkey’s Ferry more than twelve hours before, without his relatively few Continentals units getting lost, entangled, or reduced extensively by straggling or even desertion under the army’s most arduous undertaking of the war.
Even more astounding and despite their bone-weariness, the spirits of Washington’s troops remained surprisingly high, in part because they had survived the worst night of their lives. Especially after having finally reached the Pennington Road, a new sense of optimism for success soared through the ranks, almost as if these soldiers somehow instinctively knew that they were getting closer to the most elusive of all things in the history of this revolutionary army, an amazing victory that would astound the world. Ironically, the storm’s harshness continued to work to Washington’s favor on this terrible night in part because the common soldiers realized that straggling behind the main column was virtually a death sentence. The fact that Hunderton County was Tory country, despite Dickinson’s zealous rebels, also ensured that large numbers of Continental soldiers had not fallen out of Washington’s column to be left behind to the Loyalists’ wrath.51
Amid the relative shelter of the dark woodlands, which acted as a breaker against the furious northeast winds, lining the rutted artery known as Scotch Road just northwest of Trenton, the first light of this frozen Thursday in western New Jersey also revealed just how pathetic Washington’s men appeared at this time. After the long, arduous march, Washington’s best Continental troops looked even more like forlorn scarecrows—with wet, stubbled faces, in tattered clothing, wrapped in blankets, and mud-smeared—than real soldiers, who now held America’s fate and future destiny squarely in their hands. As revealed in a letter, Ireland-born Colonel Moylan marveled how “what a morning [it] was for men clad as ours are, to march nine miles to attack an enemy provided with every necessary and elated with a succession of advantages over our handful of men whom they were accustomed to see retreating before them.”52
But more importantly in regard to shortly meeting the famed Rall brigade in its own cozy nest of Trenton, where “everyone [now] lay in pleasant quarters,” wrote Lieutenant Wiederhold in his diary, Washington’s common soldiers were only able to reach the Pennington Road in relatively good shape primarily because they were a hardened, enthusiastic cadre of young, experienced soldiers now led by capable officers, who were as determined to succeed as the men in the enlisted ranks, and had been inspired by Washington’s herculean efforts.
This unexpected and improbable development in a crisis situation was one benefit of the brutal Darwinian-like process of the New York Campaign and New Jersey retreat that had so unmercifully culled Washington’s ranks to now leave only the most physically robust, morally committed, and resilient patriots in what little was left of Washington’s Army. Thousands of once-enthusiastic patriots, when the war was going so well for America, were no more, having deserted and vanished long ago. Consequently, what had been left—the toughest and most durable chaff—for Washington to undertake his most audacious gamble was an exceptionally highly motivated and toughened soldiery. This brutal evolutionary-like process of attrition that had left only on the best, brightest, and most die-hard soldiers explained the sudden appearance of an unprecedented amount of superior discipline and elevated sense of sheer determination that now dominated Washington’s ranks: maintaining perfect silence, keeping up with the column, and staying close to officers as ordered during the marathon trek of nearly ten miles through a blustery winter storm, which, fortunately, was yet at their backs, over unmapped country during a pitch-black night and the worst possible conditions for an offensive operation.
Equally important, Washington’s men were yet supremely idealistic, motivated by the desire to preserve their newly declared independence and save their dying nation before it was too late, knowing that Trenton offered the last chance to accomplish these feats. Silently leading Greene’s Second Division steadily south down the Pennington Road in
protective fashion, General Stephen’s vanguard of veteran Virginians consisted of especially highly durable soldiers. Hardened by both the frontier experience and the war’s rigors, these steadfast Virginians were well known to the Indians, who had felt the sharp sting and lethality of their blazing Long Rifles. Indeed, Stephen’s Virginia boys “can march and shoot with any in the known world,” bragged the fiery Stephen, whose words proved prophetic in the upcoming showdown at Trenton.
And among Washington’s lieutenants, no Virginia commander was tougher or more resourceful than Stephen himself. The outspoken Scotsman had been one of the first Virginia leaders to advocate open revolt against Great Britain’s might so that America could go its own way and fulfill its boundless potential. Now engaged in the last-ditch offensive effort to prove his point, he had once proclaimed with unbridled confidence: “Let us be provided with arms and ammunition [and] the gates of hell cannot prevail against America.” The hard-bitten Stephen was Washington’s “old tempestuous old comrade,” and he remained indispensable in demanding combat situations of importance, as the commander-in-chief fully realized. Neither time, this fierce storm, nor the freezing night had dimmed Stephen’s martial ardor, feistiness, or fighting spirit. During the withdrawal through New Jersey, he had warned New Jersey’s governor that if the Tories, who had been captured by his men, were released for whatever reason, then his own Old Dominion “soldiery will put them to death.”53 And in a display of western frontier toughness that had once again risen to the fore on the march to Trenton, Stephens had meant every word of the grisly threat.
Despite the severe disruptions of Washington’s delicate timetable that had been shattered beyond all recognition, Stephen remained optimistic for eventual success at Trenton largely because he fully appreciated the yet untapped, latent potential of America’s fighting men, despite having been vanquished so often in the recent past. In a prophetic warning to the British government before the American Revolution, he had emphasized how American soldiers could rise magnificently to even the most daunting challenge, as now posed at Trenton: with only “a few Brave men, on the Conclusion of Harvest, laid down their Sickles, & Pitch forks, took up their Rifles & Tomahawks, march[ed] 300 miles without Noise or parade, took position in the Enemy’s Country, chastised them [and] imposed on them more humiliating Terms, than before could be done by all the Kings forces ever employd [sic] against them [consequently] let the Enemies of America hear this & Tremble!”54