To Try Men's Souls - George Washington 1

by Newt Gingrich

  “You’re to come with me,” Putnam announced. “I’ve got a mount for you.”

  “Where?”

  “To Philadelphia. General Washington orders you to go there with all possible haste and I’m to shepherd you along. So get mounted, Mr. Paine.”

  Tom looked at the gape-mouthed provost guard who but a minute before was ready to arrest him. He could not suppress a grin.

  “Still want to arrest me as a deserter?” he asked. There was something about such officials, echoes of the country he had fled, self-important and officious, that made his skin crawl.

  “That’s it,” one of the bystanders laughed. “The rights of man against asses like him.”

  The provost, glaring, turned and stalked off, looking for someone else to bully. The small crowd taunted him as he left.

  “Time’s awasting, Paine,” Putnam announced, offering the reins of the horse he was leading.

  Tom looked at the beast warily. For him, as for so many of his class, riding a horse was a rare experience. The poor animal gazed at him with rheumy eyes. He was old, swaybacked, with about as much life left in him as the army he had been drafted into.

  As Tom gingerly mounted, the poor animal let out an audible sigh, and Tom pitied him. Following Putnam’s lead, he turned about and headed down to the docks along streets lined with weary men. Mist was rising from the river, cold, bone chilling, wrapping all in a strange light.

  He heard arguing, cursing, and had a momentary glimpse into an open doorway of a shop, a mud-caked soldier standing within, the shopkeeper and his wife shouting at the soldier, the young soldier shouting back. The boy looked familiar, the one with the carp back in Newark. Tom rode on.

  Glimpsing a lone rifleman shuffling through the mists, Tom slowed and leaned over.

  “Aren’t you Joshua’s friend?” he asked.

  The rifleman looked up.

  “I was his brother.”

  “Was?”

  The rifleman gazed at him intently.

  “The goddamn surgeon took his arm off. He didn’t need to have done that. I told him just to tie the bleeding off, but no, he didn’t have time for that, the bastard. Said the arm had to come off, and I, like a damn fool, held Joshua down. He bled out on the table while they hacked away at him and died an hour later.”

  The riflemen, so hard, tough-looking, stifled a sob.

  “I should have cut the bastard’s throat for killing him, but he was already gone. Ran off they said. If I ever find him again, I will. To hell with this damn war, I’m going home.”

  Tom was unable to reply, stunned. It had not seemed much of a wound.

  “Paine!”

  It was old Putnam, barely visible in the fog.

  “Come on, damn you!”

  Tom kicked the flanks of his horse and the old nag stumbled forward, the rifleman gone from view.

  Ahead there was a strange glow, diffused in the mist, glaring bright as he approached, a ghastly light illuminating a river dock. Men were gathered about, some trying to push their way forward, others just standing there, as if no longer caring. A large flatbed ferry was docked, a line of Maryland Infantry guarding the approach.

  “Those with passes only!” an officer was shouting. “The rest of you stand back, find your regiments, and cross when they do.”

  Tom sensed that if the men gathered had but an ounce of fight left in them, they would storm the boat, but they no longer seemed to care.

  Putnam pushed his mount through the crowd. Tom followed, passing between the bonfires lighting the approach, conjuring a literary allusion, as if he were passing down to the river Styx. But which bank was it? Was he leaving hell or crossing over to it?

  Putnam handed down a slip of paper to the officer, who held it up to the light. He scanned it, nodded, and handed it back and motioned for him to pass through the cordon. Tom followed.

  “That’s right,” someone cried. “Officers first.”

  Tom looked around, feeling guilty, almost tempted to announce who he was, that he was not an officer, that he was one of them, a citizen like them, and that he had been ordered to go to Philadelphia, that what he carried in his backpack was a weapon to help them, but he knew that such an appeal was of no use. Not here, not this night.

  He dismounted with Putnam and led his old horse onto the ferry, which was nearly filled with some of the army’s precious supply wagons. Their cargo was the sick and wounded, the air unwholesome with the fetid smell of death mingled with the cold damp of the river.

  The ferryman shouted for them to push in closer, and a moment later the boat shoved off, bow angled upstream, unseen hands on the far shore laboring at the cable to pull the boat across.

  Tom stood silent, looking back. The glare of the fires receded into the mists. The river rushing by but inches away was pitch-black, frightening. If the boat should roll over, he knew all aboard would die. As for himself, he could not swim a stroke. Old Put bit off a chew of tobacco, nudged him, and he took a bite and handed it back.

  “Out of one hell and into another,” Putnam grumbled.

  “How’s that?”

  “Haven’t you heard?”

  “What?”

  “Congress, the cowards. They’re going to abandon Philadelphia and run for Baltimore. My orders are to find them, report on what is happening, and try to recruit more men.”

  “They’re gonna run?”

  “What the hell else do you think they would do? Hell, we’re all running now.”

  “So why am I going with you?” Tom asked.

  Putnam leaned over the railing and spat, the wind blowing most of the tobacco juice onto Tom’s ragged trousers.

  “Find a printer and get whatever you wrote published. The General thinks it might stop some from running. He thinks you may be our best weapon at sustaining the Revolution. We need your new pamphlet. That’s your orders.”

  Tom said nothing. The fires on the east bank had faded from view. The far side of the river was dark as well.

  CHAPTER SIX

  McConkey’s Ferry

  11:00 P.M., December 25, 1776

  A frigid wind blew in through the open doorway.

  “General, I think it is time for you to cross the river.”

  Stirred from his thoughts, Washington looked up. If not for the terrible stress of the moment, he might have offered a gibe in reply. Colonel Knox, all three hundred pounds of him, stood in the doorway looking like a drowned rat. In the few seconds he had been standing there, water was already puddling around his feet. His tricornered hat was bent down by the weight of sleet and ice it had accumulated, his wool coat hanging heavy and limp.

  Washington felt a sense of guilt. He had tasked Colonel Knox with direct command of the crossing earlier in the day before any hint of the intensity of the storm that was now upon them. While he had been waiting here in the comfort of the home of the ferry operator, Knox had been out in the driving storm, shouting, cursing, directing the loading of each boat.

  Washington stood up, beckoning toward the fireplace.

  “For heaven’s sake man, take a few minutes to warm yourself.” Knox accepted the offer without hesitation. He extended his hands to the glowing flames, rubbing them vigorously.

  Washington came up to Knox’s side and offered him the cup of coffee he had been sipping. Knox eagerly took it, draining it down in two short gulps. Washington took the cup back and handed it to Billy Lee, who went to refill it.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Knox began. His voice was quavering a bit, not from nervousness, but from the cold. “We are far behind schedule.”

  “I know,” Washington replied. There was no reproach in his voice though for the last hour, while waiting for word that he should cross, every few minutes he had checked the time. According to the elaborate schedule he had laid out in writing for this attack, they were now nearly three hours behind.

  His staff sat silent. No one had dared to speak, to comment on how the plan was falling apart or offer any words to divert
him as he kept opening and closing his gold pocket watch.

  Billy Lee came back bearing a cup filled nearly to the brim with coffee, and as Washington took it he could feel the heat. He offered it over to Knox in a friendly gesture.

  “Careful,” he said. “This is hot.”

  Knox cradled the cup in both hands, spilling some of the contents on his bare hands, whispering an oath under his breath. Washington’s men generally tended to control their “soldier’s talk” around him, though in moments of stress he was known to curse with the best of them, or the worst. Now he acted if he had not heard his friend’s words.

  “The temperature is dropping,” Knox said at last. “Can’t seem to make up it’s mind, though. Rain, sleet, snow, sometimes all of it together. A regular nor’easter.”

  He paused, taking another gulp.

  The way Knox said “nor’easter” sounded almost alien. The dialects of New England and Boston seemed to come from a different world, at times as hard to understand as the words of a man fresh off the boat from Yorkshire or Scotland.

  Americans. Strange how this war is making us all Americans, Washington thought.

  “That’s better,” Knox sighed. The shivering abated as the fire and the syrupy drink warmed his body.

  “As I was saying, sir,” Knox continued, now slightly embarrassed for having forgotten that momentarily focusing on his physical discomfort and relief might be seen as an insult to the General.

  “Go on.”

  “A regular nor’easter it is. The freezing rain is making the approach to the landing dock all but impossible for the horses and a nightmare for moving the guns. I have men spreading straw, manure, dirt, anything for footing. After every crossing we have to smash the ice off the gunwales of the boats else they become top-heavy. Several men have broken arms or legs falling, but, thank the Lord, no boats have gone under, and there are no reports of men falling overboard.”

  “The Jersey shore?”

  “I’ve crossed twice since we’ve started. Our advance pickets have secured the road for more than two miles ahead. I’ve taken the liberty, therefore, of allowing fires to be built to warm the men while they form up.”

  Washington thought about that for a moment and then nodded in agreement.

  “If the road is secured as far as you say, there is no sense in the men waiting in discomfort.”

  “Just about half the men and guns are across, so, as you originally planned, General, I think it time for you to cross and take command on the other shore.”

  “Then let us begin.”

  He looked back at his staff. All were ready. The tedium and the tension of waiting were over at last. They were committed.

  Knox was reluctant to leave the comfort of the fire, but did not hesitate. He finished the last of his coffee, audibly sighing, and then put the cup on the mantel over the fireplace.

  His staff was up now, a few having to be roused from their fitful slumber. As was always his practice when occupying a civilian’s home or business place, he looked about to make sure that all was in order, nothing disturbed, broken, or taken.

  Buttoning his cloak at his throat, he nodded to Knox.

  “Lead the way, sir.”

  As he stepped out the door he understood instantly why Henry had so relished the few minutes of warmth and dryness to be found in the ferryman’s house. The wind was howling down from the northeast, icy pellets slashing into his face. Instinctively, he tucked his chin down into his chest and pulled his hat low over his brow, holding on to it lest it be blown into the darkness.

  Two great bonfires were burning on either side of the approach to the ferry dock, and as he stepped out of the house he confronted a line of men, formed up, blankets, if they had them, pulled close to their emaciated bodies, more than a few barefoot, stamping their feet as they stood in place. If they were grumbling or cursing the weather, the British, the Hessians, or even their commander, he could not hear them, the howling of the wind encompassing all.

  He walked alongside them, moving down to the dock, the men to his left all but oblivious of his passing as they waited to board the boats. By the great bonfires that lit the last few feet to the dock he saw that those feeding them were most definitely disobeying orders this night. Fence rails were being thrown in. He had given specific orders that a farmer’s valuable fences were not to be touched. But they were dried and seasoned wood——chestnut, and hickory——and would burn with fury. He said nothing as two sergeants picked up several rails and heaved them onto one of the fires, sparks whipping away with the howling wind.

  He drew closer. There were two officers. One kept endlessly chanting: “Wait your turn, men, wait your turn. Get in the boat assigned. Stand and move close together. Don’t worry, boys, these boats are manned by Glover’s men, they know their business . . .

  “Wait your turn, men . . . Wait your turn . . .”

  He walked past the officer, who was obviously wet through, shivering, near to breaking by the sound of his voice.

  His attention was suddenly seized by a second officer on the far side of the shivering, frozen, miserable column of men waiting to board the boats.

  “By order of the General, men, I’m going to read something. Listen now. Listen. This is what Tom Paine just wrote: ‘These are the times that try men’s souls.’ ”

  Not normally given to emotion Washington stood silent for a moment, closing his eyes.

  “Oh God,” he whispered, “let this not be in vain, I beseech Thee. If we are doomed to die, Thy will be done. If it is Thy will that this night shall bring victory to our cause, may we never forget Thee and the blessing Thou has given us and give thanks to Thee daily, forever more. Those that fall on this night and in the day to come, I beg Thee to gather them peacefully into Thy arms and let their names not be forgotten.”

  He opened his eyes.

  “Wait your turn, men. ‘These are the times that try men’s souls . . .’ ”

  Henry Knox stood beside him. By the light of the fire he could see that his friend had been watching him. He had said nothing, and Washington wondered if the man had heard his whispered prayer.

  Most likely not, given the demonic howling of the wind.

  Knox struggled to clear his throat.

  “Sir, your boat. It is that Durham boat on the left side.”

  “Thank you, Henry.”

  Even as they spoke he could hear some muttered cursing behind him. Looking back, the column was moving a bit to one side of the half-frozen mud-choked path. It was his guard and escort detail, rousted out to fall in and join their commander.

  “General Washington! I’m looking for General Washington!”

  From out of the darkness he saw a horseman approaching, the illumination of the fires at last making him visible.

  “Over here!” Knox shouted. The man drew closer and he recognized him. It was young Major Wilkinson, of General Gates’s staff. The mere sight of the lad caused Washington’s heart to constrict.

  Wilkinson’s mount nearly lost its footing on the icy pathway down to the ferry dock, the waiting soldiers cursing, jumping back. The horse regained its footing and Wilkinson dismounted.

  “Sir, I bear a personal dispatch from General Gates,” he announced, breathing hard and shivering, like all of them.

  Wilkinson handed over a leather dispatch case and then, in an obvious gesture, stepped back several feet, as if by so doing he was disasociating himself from its contents.

  Wilkinson’s move was signal enough. Washington opened the case, drew out the letter, broke the seal and opened it up, holding it high so he could read it by the light of the fire, trying not to hold it too close and thereby revealing the fact that in private, of late, he had been forced to wear spectacles.

  He scanned the contents of the letter. Paused, and then reread it, incredulous, disbelieving, as if by rereading the words they would somehow change. “Regret to inform you, sir, that . . . In my judgment this offensive action at this time is ill advised. Sir, si
nce I have heard not to the contrary from you I shall this day order my men to remain upon the west bank of the Delaware and proceed to Baltimore where Congress has sought refuge, to seek their guidance . . . I pray, sir, that my movement is but a reflection of your own wishes at this moment which I would not otherwise do if I should hear the contrary from you . . .”

  He reread it.

  The plan had been for General Gates, based in Philadelphia, to move on this night as well, to cross to the eastern bank of the Delaware. The taking of Trenton was but a part of his overall plan. Gates, by crossing from Philadelphia to the New Jersey village of Camden, would trigger one of two results. Ideally, it might very well lure the British garrison based at Princeton to move in haste in that direction, thereby cutting them off as he seized Trenton, and with Gates as an anvil, he could be the hammer coming in from behind to finish them off. The other option would be of some benefit. The overwhelming effect of his column, that of Cadwalader crossing below Trenton, and Gates at Philadelphia would so catch the British and Hessians off guard, that after he seized Trenton, the enemy garrison at Princeton would retreat back to Brunswick or even to Staten Island.

  He held the letter, this letter of betrayal, struggling to control his emotions. He could not let the rank and file, standing but a few feet away, see him thus unnerved. Armies were the same throughout history. A commander’s every word and gesture could, within an hour, spread like wild fire to either hearten or to create panic.

  And yet!

  Struggling for control he stalked off, moving away from the fires.

  Damn the man!

  Gates’s move was obvious, the words so carefully crafted. He was going to ask Congress’s advice on his next action! Therefore, if I lose this night, this last remnant slaughtered and I with it, Gates will be in Baltimore, ready to have the title of commander in chief bestowed upon him! If, instead, I am victorious, he can claim prudence guided him because even at the very last instant he had not heard from me. This storm itself would be his excuse. Even if I move against him, should I survive this action, he will be firmly wrapped in the bosom of his friends in Congress and too well protected.