Those in question were paraded, arrayed in ranks, to shiver in tattered uniforms as the cold wind blew from the north. Men who knew that the war was all but lost anyhow, and, an ultimate irony, men who he could not even honorably give their six months of pay to, since the coffers of the nation were empty. He could sense the mood of these proud men, who had given all, felt their duty complete, honor fulfilled.
Their officers rode with him. As he approached the lines he could see it in their eyes as they looked up at him. They were finished with it.
One of the officers, riding slightly ahead, turned his mount and trotted up and down the line. His was the usual appeal, attempting to sound as if he were one of them in every way, the dialect of a Yankee farmer, taunting the damn lobsterbacks, praising them as stout men of proud lineage who surely would not turn their backs to the enemy and run away like cowards.
The words hit like a slashing blow, and features hardened. Muttering arose from the ranks. “Who the hell does he think he is?”
“We ain’t cowards, damn him.”
“Son of a bitch, don’t remember seeing him in a fight, but plenty of damn talk now.”
Crestfallen, the officer turned away.
A second officer tried, invoking images of hearth and home, how they were all that stood between the Hessians and their wives and daughters: Would their wives greet them as heroes one day, or would they stand by and watch the ravishing to come. Again a cold response. One of the men dared now to step forward to shout a taunt: When the war stopped the Hessians would be gone anyhow, and where the hell was their back pay. The officer appealed for any who were men of courage to step forward and thereby pledge themselves to but one more month of service.
“Our pay, our pay, damn you, our pay!”
It became a chant. Washington had stayed back slightly, watching, listening, throat constricting. One of the men held his musket up, tossed it onto the ground, turned his back, and began to walk off in the other direction. Others around him seemed ready to follow his lead.
He had led, but he had never begged. But now?
He nudged his mount forward, the taunts continuing, and each word was like a lash to his soul. He turned his mount half a dozen paces in front of the line and slowly rode in front of the assembled ranks, saying nothing, not attempting to silence them with a harsh command, just looking at them, trying to gaze into the eyes of each man as he passed.
The taunting continued for several agonizing minutes, as if the pent-up rage of months of bitter defeat was now being poured out and heaped upon him.
He said nothing. They had their say. A man stepped forward, pointing to his bare, bloody feet, features red as he cursed a Congress that could not even provide shoes as he fought, while they huddled warm and fat in Philadelphia. He looked down at the man, unable to speak, for so many of them were barefoot, and money which had been promised them and shoes that any soldier had the right to expect, had never appeared. They were sick of it, exhausted, dying. The war was lost. They were going home.
If they went home, the war might indeed be lost, for with their departure, those who remained, with but thirty more days left on their own enlistments, would ask why they should stay. He knew that hundreds of these were standing in a loose circle around the formation, watching, listening, some joining in the protest.
He could sense that the army was on the verge of falling apart, never to reassemble.
He turned about and rode down the line. Gradually the shouting died away. They had made their statement, their protest. Their intentions were clear. All that was left now was the last ceremony, their dismissal, and it was ended, for no force could keep them.
At last they fell silent, awaiting the order of dismissal.
He drew in a deep breath, overwhelmed with humiliation for what he now had to do.
“Men,” he began, “I have heard your protests, and they are just.”
No one spoke, though he could see it in their eyes that they would listen and then leave.
“They are just. I am humiliated that I stand before you now, unable even to give you the pay you so rightly deserve. You have fought and bled. You have seen comrades die, and now in reply I cannot even give you a shilling of what you so richly deserve and have so honorably earned.
“I am not a man of orations, as you know. I have not the words for it. Nor shall I make any base appeal to sentiment, for that is beneath your dignity and mine.
“Yet you know I must now make this one final appeal.”
He could see some of them shifting uncomfortably. Some held his gaze, others lowered their eyes, as if humiliated, not for themselves, but for him, and that cut to his soul.
He fell silent for a moment, unable to continue, fearing his voice would break. He drew in a deep breath of the frigid air.
“It shall be noted and written of some day, that here, at this place, our last home of freedom, the hope for a nation of free men died.”
He lowered his head for a moment, then raised it again, saw more than a few looking at him.
“That is my appeal to you, my men. You have every right to turn away now. You have fulfilled your pledge with honor, and I thank you for that.”
He hesitated.
“But I beg you now to think upon this. That if you turn away now, with the task unfinished, that on this day America may die.
“It has come down to this. To you few hundred. You have every right to turn away and go to your homes and I shall not stop you. No one shall stop you. All that can turn you back is the voice within your own souls.
“Yes, you have every reason to protest. As we stand here, we who endured so much, tens of thousands are at this moment warm in their houses. Men, who if we should win, will reap the bounty but will never have known the pain and anguish of the labor for our freedom.
“Thus it has always been. The labor is done by the few, and later many can lay claim to the bounty. Thus it has always been. But I for one will not let my heart be turned by such as they. For in my heart, as I am certain in yours, will be the proud realization that while others might scorn us now, and then one day say they were with us all along, we few will know the truth and that truth will warm our souls.
“The choice is yours. It is in your hands now, not mine. If it is your wish to leave, I will not hinder you. Some of us will stay, some at least will stay and tomorrow will face the final end, and die with pride in our hearts that we died in defense of a just cause and face God with that knowledge which He surely sees as well.
“It rests now solely with you as to whether the deaths of those who stay will be a final act of futility or something far greater. If you stay I can promise you nothing. I will not attempt to beguile you with promises of glory, for we have seen how hollow promises of glory can ring. I cannot even offer to you the promise of warmth, of shelter, food, or shoes. All I can offer you is a promise of what will rest in your soul if you stay.
“And that promise is honor.”
He paused again.
“So I now ask you for but thirty more days. If at the end of those thirty days we do not see a change in our fortunes, then free you shall be to go. That is my pledge to you. Can you not find it in your hearts to make that pledge to me?”
He fell silent again, gathering his thoughts, gazing at them, the men silent.
He turned his mount and silently trotted down the line, trying to find the eyes of each man and look into them.
There were no more appeals to be made. It was finished.
“Those men who will pledge but thirty more days. Take three steps forward. Those who will not . . .”
His voice did indeed begin to break, and he was filled with humiliation that his emotions now so basely were betraying him.
“Those who will not . . . you are free to go.”
He turned away and slowly rode back to where his staff waited. There was silence for a long moment, and finally he turned, praying that the gesture would not be seen as some futile begging appeal.
And then a lone man stepped forward, looking straight at him, not much more than a boy. He was not sure if the tears in the boy’s eyes were produced by emotion or the frigid wind.
Long seconds passed. Another stepped forward, then another, and then just a score of men and no more.
A score of men, and the rest stood silent with heads lowered. Twenty out of more than a thousand followed him, falling back on the road toward Trenton, the others standing silent and then turning aside, heading westward, toward the hills of the Watchung and out of the war.
He had lost more in those five minutes than in the battle for Brooklyn Heights. A score followed him back to the assembled ranks and humiliated he had marched on.
He continued to ride down the line of men who were waiting for the command to begin the march on Trenton, met eyes with one of those waiting. Their gazes held for only a second.
“Victory or death, general,” the soldier announced.
He could not reply. He nodded and rode on, returning the salute of a young Hamilton with his guns.
He knew that these men, freezing to death, upon this night, would march straight into hell if he asked them now. Their months of suffering, of humiliating defeat after defeat, had hardened them, and now, finally, they would stand, look death in the face, and strike back.
They were ready.
Now for just a little bit of luck with the Hessians, he thought. Let us pray the storm has lulled them into warmth and off their guard. Then we will have caught the fox. The hunt is on, and for the first time in months I am the hunter and my opponents are the prey. He felt warmed inside at the thought, even as his body felt chilled.
Twin bonfires marked the head of the column. There the men of his headquarters unit, who had been gathered around the fire by the ferry landing, were scrambling to fall into ranks.
A delegation awaited him, a local militia man and one of his Virginia riflemen, the militia man holding a sputtering torch.
“Sir, we’ve been sent back to report,” the rifleman announced.
“Go on.”
“Sir, the road is secured clear to the ford at Jacob’s Creek.”
“We know who the Tories are that live along the road,” the militia man interjected, “and we have a guard posted in each of their houses.”
“Well done.”
“But, sir,” the rifleman announced, “the road, sir, it is nothing but a sheet of ice and that creek . . . what’s its name . . .”
“Jacob’s Creek,” the Jerseyman interjected.
“It’s a bad un, sir. Steep approach, flooding up.”
“This army moves as planned.”
“Just thought you should know, sir.”
He did not reply.
Looking over his shoulder he could see for only a few dozen yards. A swirling cloud of snow was whipping out of the northeast, trees shaking, ice cracking and tinkling down.
He caught the gaze of the colonel of his lead brigade, Stephens’s Virginia Brigade, though on this night it was led by the second in command, Colonel Charles Scott. He had chosen this unit deliberately. They were tough, seasoned, and——an important factor in his mind——Virginians. Though he had struggled to weave the fabric of this army from thirteen different states, at a moment like this he felt most comfortable that fellow Virginians were leading the way.
“You may begin the advance,” he said to Scott, who stood expectant, trembling, as if with excitement, though obviously from the frightful cold.
Scott drew his sword and raised it in salute.
“Virginia! Virginia!” His voice was high-pitched, nearly lost in the thunder of the storm. “Forward march!”
The column lurched forward.
As it did so he drew out his pocket watch again, flicking open the lid. It was twenty minutes past three.
“We’re moving!”
“Thank God,” Jonathan gasped.
The hours before the fire had lulled him into a strange, nearly dreamlike state, as he slowly turned and turned again, warming one side of his body while the other side froze . . . and all the time his feet were going from anguished pain to numbness.
When the call had come that it was time to form ranks, he had been snapped out of his near-comatose state, but then found he couldn’t move. It had taken the joint efforts of his friend Peter and one of the corporals from the headquarters unit to help dress him. It was humiliating, Peter talking to him almost as if he were a child as he knelt down and helped pull his trousers on.
The hours his clothes had been laid out to dry had not done them much good. At least they were not soaking wet, but within a minute or so after he had struggled back into pants, shirt, and jacket, what warmth that had been imparted by the fire had fled, and the filthy rags clung again to him with the same clammy feel.
Holding up the two wet rags he had used as foot wraps, he realized that, after but a few dozen steps, they would be soaked clean through again, and in a hundred yards weighed down with mud. He tossed them aside. Marching barefoot would be better.
Slinging on his haversack, he fumbled inside it for a moment, making sure his Bible and the copy of Paine were secured, the oilskin wrappings having saved them from destruction when he fell into the river. Next his backpack and blanket cape went on, and then musket. He left his cartridge box behind, the ammunition inside useless from the dunking. When the time came, he could always borrow a few rounds from Peter.
The first few steps away from the fire were agony. Peter reached out to offer a hand.
“Can you walk?” Peter asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Your legs. They’re all swollen from the cold.”
Jonathan said nothing, but was glad to have his friend to lean on. Gasping for air, lungs burning, he made it up to the roadway. It was packed with troops, and he was forced to move along the side. Though his feet were numb he suddenly felt sharp stabs of pain as he stumbled over rocks and gravel. If not for Peter he would have gone sprawling. He hit one rock hard, knees buckling as he tripped, legs moving on their own without any ability on his part to control them.
It was hard to see where they were supposed to be. The troops on the road were an undistinguishable mass of huddled men, looking like lumps of stone covered with snow and ice.
“Jersey!”
Peter looked up. It was the sergeant calling to them. The two staggered back onto the road, for a moment the congealing and freezing mud beneath Jonathan’s feet a balm to the sharp shooting pains. He wondered if, stumbling over the rock, he had broken a toe.
They stood silent for a moment, nothing happening, the only sound the wind howling through the trees, the tinkling fall of ice from the branches tumbling down on them.
The shadows ahead of them began to move forward, the sergeant of the detachment calling out for the company to march. Jonathan shuffled forward. If a toe was broken, at least for the moment it did not feel too bad. The road ahead had been churned to slop, but he still had to lean on Peter to steady himself.
For the first few hundred yards, the road moving along the east bank of the river followed the contour of the Delaware. He passed between two bonfires set to either side of the road which then turned right . . . straight up a long slope through the woods.
Then he felt as if he were in hell. The wet soothing mud gave way to hard, rocky ground, deeply rutted in places, ruts impossible to see as they tripped and staggered up the slope.
Any semblance of marching order broke down within a hundred yards, the ground so slippery in places that Peter gave up on the road, moving into the edge of the woods, grabbing hold of branches for bracing with one hand, and pulling Jonathan along with the other. Already a man was down, sitting against a tree, cursing.
“God damn arm. Broke my damn arm . . .”
Jonathan could barely see the man in the darkness, the storm was blowing full into his face, blinding him. He tucked his chin down low into his chest, hanging on to Peter, legs wooden, still barely functioning, as he willed hi
mself forward one step at a time.
Pain was returning to his feet. Farther up the slope, which had been openly exposed to the full fury of the storm for hours, the ice was heaped an inch or more thick in places, jagged and as sharp as knives.
Peter slipped and fell, bringing Jonathan down with him, the two tumbling together with a clattering of muskets. Lying there panting for breath, Jonathan pulled himself back up.
“I can make it,” he gasped. “Come on.”
Letting go of Peter he reached to the next tree, pulling himself forward. The men to either side of him were strangers. The accents sounded like Virginia, but then the headquarters guard were Virginians as well. These men were carrying muskets. Most of the headquarters guard were cavalry, dismounted for this march, armed with sabers and pistols.
“Peter?”
“Here.”
He looked back, his friend a shadow coming up beside him. He reached out and grasped Peter’s hand. Not because he wanted to admit that he still needed bracing, though he was regaining some feeling in his legs due to the exertion, but because at this moment, pushing up a slope in the face of a gale, heading into some dark unknown, he needed to feel the touch of someone, anyone.
He felt foolish for a moment as Peter grabbed his hand and squeezed it tight, the two standing there for a moment, Jonathan gasping for breath.
“Come on,” Peter hissed, but before letting go of Jonathan he squeezed his hand again.
If ever he felt love for another man it was at this moment, Jonathan realized. If Peter can make this climb, then I can, too. I must.
He started forward, gaining another few dozen yards until a man in front of them slipped and fell so heavily that he slid backward into them, nearly bowling them over.
They helped him to his feet.
“I swear to God Almighty,” the man gasped. “If anyone ever talks to me again about my duty and loving my country . . .”
There was almost a rueful chuckle.
“I’ll shoot the son of a bitch. Thanks, boys.” Regaining his footing, he continued on.
The clouds above nearly parted for a moment, the feeble light spreading across the slope leading up from the Delaware. Grabbing hold of a tree, Jonathan turned to look back.
To Try Men's Souls - George Washington 1 Page 19
