To Try Men's Souls - George Washington 1

by Newt Gingrich

  Behind him the woods to either side of the road were swarming with hunched-over men, leaning into the storm, struggling for footing, climbing upward, slipping, falling, getting back up again, gaining a few more yards. It seemed as if the forest itself had come alive, as though hundreds of stumps of trees of man size were coming to life and were now doggedly clawing their way forward.

  He could barely see an artillery team coming onto the road. The horses had been shod with cleats that gave them some purchase, cracking through the ice to gain footing on the ground below, but still the going for them was slow, labored. Artillerymen leaned into the wheels of their pieces, slipping and sliding as they pushed the one-ton monsters up the long hill.

  “Press on, men! Come on! Press on, men!”

  He recognized the voice, looked up. It was the General, moving back down the middle of the road, his white horse standing out, ghostlike, in the moonlight, followed by his ever-present servant.

  The General looked toward him and Peter.

  “Come on, boys. You can do it. Press on! Press on! Just a few hundred more yards to the top!”

  The General turned, his horse nearly losing footing for a moment, until his hooves cracked through the ice. The General, apparently without effort, remained mounted as the horse pawed for footing, gained it, then broke into a slow trot back up the slope.

  The General’s servant looked directly at Jonathan.

  “The road flattens out at the top,” he said. “You with the headquarters company?”

  Jonathan nodded.

  “Then, sir, you better move. They’re already up there.”

  The clouds closed back over the moon, and seconds later all were enveloped again in a burst of snow and sleet. The servant and his General were lost to view.

  With each step pain shot up from his feet. He could tell they were lacerated, wishing now for the cold numbness of an hour before. With each step he drew in another wheezing breath of frozen air, which cut into his lungs, burning them.

  The only way he could sense direction was by the slope itself. Without that, he feared he might very well have staggered off and wandered into the woods until he collapsed and died.

  Peter was again by his side, coaxing him along, arm now around his waist.

  He found himself dwelling on a thought that he knew his preacher would say bordered on blasphemy. This hill was his own personal Calvary. He wondered if this was how Christ must have felt. But at least Christ knew what was coming, that in a few more hours the suffering would be over.

  He was no longer sure if he was standing or collapsing, only Peter kept him upright.

  “Jersey? You the Jersey boys?”

  He opened his eyes. It was the company sergeant. Behind him a house, lights in the window.

  “That’s us,” Peter gasped.

  “Come on, boys, the company’s already heading south. Come on.”

  The sergeant pointed the way. The building looked to be a tavern. There was a vague memory for Jonathan of having hiked far up here as a boy, a long Saturday of wandering afield, playing at being Indians with Peter and his brother James, stalking travelers on the road, waiting for the mail stagecoach from New York to Philadelphia to come flying by, its four horses breaking into a run as they crested the slope up from the river, sparks flying from their iron-shod hooves.

  Bear Tavern——that was this place. The innkeeper’s wife, Sue Keeler, playfully mimicking fright at the painted “Indians” who were lurking outside waiting to ambush and scalp all within, and then giving them each a mug of cold buttermilk as payment to spare their inn from pillage before sending them on the road back home to Trenton.

  An inner voice whispered to him to simply fall out of the column, go to the tavern, and ask the innkeeper’s wife if she remembered him from years past as a painted Indian waiting to pounce and might he have some buttermilk, or better yet hot tea.

  He pressed on.

  The column of troops, now on level ground, struggled to form into ranks even as their officers pushed them forward. There was no time for a break after the grueling climb. If they stopped here, within minutes they would block the advancing army to a standstill clear back to the river.

  One mile . . . they had gained a mile, still eight miles to go. At this moment it was hard to recollect what was next . . . the ground flat and open ahead for a mile or so . . . but then . . . he remembered . . . there was still Jacob’s Creek to cross.

  “Easy going now?” the sergeant announced, looking over at the two. It was more a hopeful question than a statement of fact.

  “Yes, easy going,” was all Jonathan could say as they turned south, regaining the companionship of the unit they were assigned to.

  At least the storm was at their back, the wind so strong he suddenly had a childlike fantasy that if he just opened his blanket cape and held it outstretched, perhaps it would be a sail that would effortlessly push him along.

  The wind was at his back . . . and Jacob’s Creek was ahead.

  “Press on! You can’t stop now, boys! Press on!”

  For every step his men had taken in the last hour General Washington had ridden a dozen, constantly in motion, moving up and down the strung-out line shuffling through the night.

  For Washington it all now had a maddening feel to it, a nightmarelike quality, a terrible dream where one was wading through mud, or deep water, trying to run as something horrifying approached or was waiting just ahead.

  He had ridden back to the tavern again, and with relief saw that Knox had come up from the river at last, indicating that the rear of the column was across and moving. Knox was overseeing the movement of the lead section of guns, as they inched up the long slope from the river, the horses pulling the pieces and limber wagons, blowing out great billows of steaming breath, panting hard against the weight of the guns, ice crunching beneath their feet. Alexander Hamilton was in the lead as the first two guns turned and moved south at a faster pace as the ground gently sloped away, artillerymen trotting alongside the guns, calling for the infantry ahead to clear to either side of the road so that the artillery could take advantage of the slope to move at a trot.

  Washington wheeled about and moved ahead of the pieces, riding hard, all the time chanting the same refrain over and over.

  “Press on. Clear the way for the artillery. Press on.”

  The storm continued to rage, the ground slippery, but on this more gentle downward slope manageable, the land to either side mostly cleared fields, open farmland. The disadvantage was that the open fields were allowing the wind to sweep in, unbroken, but at least lashing into the men’s backs almost as if it were helping to drive his army forward. And then ahead he saw it, a line of trees bisecting the road, knots of men gathered, not moving.

  He had studied the maps hour upon hour as he plotted out this night, but in that plotting he had never considered a turn of the cards that would draw him this storm of ice.

  He reined in, his advance column of Virginians bunched up, moving slowly.

  “What is the holdup?”

  “Sir.”

  He looked down, not recognizing the soldier, then a vague memory, one of the Jersey militia, the guide who had gone over the side to help haul the boat in and had nearly disappeared into the icy river.

  “What is it?”

  “Jacob’s Creek,” the boy announced. “Two ravines, one after the other.”

  “So why the holdup?” he snapped.

  The boy could not reply, just looking up at him, shivering in the cold.

  “Ice, sir,” someone announced. “It’s all ice-covered now.”

  Without replying Washington pushed his mount forward, into the treeline, the roadway narrowing. He could feel his mount becoming nervous, gingerly putting each foot down, the ice cracking underfoot so it still had some grip. The road turned and then turned again, following the contour of the slope downward, and in occasional flashes of moonlight he saw what made his heart sink.

  The drop was steep, far
too steep. Billy Lee was up by his side, his horse’s rear hooves losing grip, the animal nearly sitting down. Lee was cursing under his breath as he hung on, the animal slipping, letting out a whinny of fear as it slid for a dozen feet down the road. Lee, a superb rider, kept his seat, hung on, reins loose because if he sawed at the horse’s mouth, the animal would surely rear back and roll. He held his breath, Lee invisible in the shadows of the deep ravine. And then ever so calmly his voice echoed back out of the darkness.

  “Sir, I think it best that you dismount.”

  In another time he might have smiled, but not now. He ignored his servant’s advice, carefully maneuvering his mount down the ice-covered path, as he went into the deep ravine, a sharp drop of nearly fifty feet to the rushing creek, its thunderous passage outhowled by the storm, the roar all-encompassing, and his heart sank.

  In the days before this march, he had been told the creek did not have a bridge, but not to worry, it was barely ankle-deep at the ford. As he came alongside Billy, who was still mounted, he could make out flashes of movement in the darkness. The creek was flooding, perhaps thigh deep. A couple of infantry pickets were looking up at him, and at the sight of their General one simply shook his head.

  “Sir, it ain’t good at all. Stephen and I been here now since before dark. Ya could have skipped across this twelve hours ago, and it’s still rising.”

  “Anyone beyond you?” he asked sharply.

  “Yes, sir. We picketed here just at dark as ordered. The advance company came through, I’d calculate a couple hours ago at least.”

  Did no news mean there were no problems and the advance company was deployed and waiting for the rest of the army to come up? Or could it be that the advance company had run into something and might not even exist anymore, the Hessians just waiting for this army to get tangled in the ravine before launching a counterattack?

  “Then go across. Find them. Let them know we are crossing and report back to me.”

  “If you say so, sir,” and he wondered if there was reluctance in the man’s voice.

  He glared down at him, but in the shadows of the ravine, he could not distinguish any features.

  Without further comment the man held his rifle up high, slid down the few feet to the creek, and splashed into it, cursing as he did so.

  In the darkness he was hard to spot, but Washington could see the man struggling to maintain his footing, nearly falling over, water up to midthigh and then, gaining the other shore, lost to view.

  He reined his horse around and started up the steep incline, Billy behind him, his mount so skittish that he loosened the reins, letting the animal pick its own way. His regret was that he had not actually come over here to look about a day or two ago, but to do that might have meant some Tory spotting him, reporting it, and that being taken as a sign of his intent.

  At the top of the ravine troops were beginning to move down, staying off the road since it was so slippery, inching down the steep slope, again into the trees for handholds, more than one falling, a voice cursing that he had broken his ankle.

  He could hear horses approaching, the creaking of wheels crushing ice. It was Hamilton with the lead battery of six-pounders.

  “Over here!” Washington shouted.

  Hamilton was up by his side, saluting.

  “The slope ahead is impossible for horses,” Washington announced. “They’ll lose their footing on that ice and be crushed by the guns.”

  “You’re not going to leave us behind?” Hamilton replied, the distress in his voice obvious.

  “No.”

  As he spoke he could see Knox approaching.

  He had already made his decision as he rode up the steep incline. Leave the artillery behind, and order the infantry alone to press ahead? Do that, we will run into the Hessians arrayed out in open field, undoubtedly with their artillery, and we will be torn to shreds. But if I wait to move these guns the plan of attack, already three or more hours behind will be even more behind. How much longer? Four hours, perhaps five? It will mean attacking Trenton in broad daylight, the garrison without doubt forewarned, deployed, and ready for battle. His men drenched, frozen, exhausted, the Hessians stepping out of heated barracks, well fed, in dry, warm clothes.

  He drew his watch out, snapped it open, but it was so dark he could not see the face.

  Knox was by his side, gazing down into the ravine and then back to his General.

  “Sir,” Knox announced. “It can be done, but it will take time.”

  Washington thanked God for a man like this. No questions at a moment of crisis, only the forming of a plan and a will to act on it.

  “I recommend we unhitch the teams, lead them across to the opposite slope. Secure ropes to the guns, wrap the ropes around a tree, and play them out. I did it a hundred times or more with each of the guns we moved from Ticonderoga.”

  The matter-of-fact way he said it gave Washington heart. Knox made it sound almost casual, an everyday thing, not an operation performed in the middle of a maddening storm, in the dark, by men barefoot on raw ice and suffering.

  “Then let’s do it!” He was trying to sound firm and commanding and keep frustration out of his voice.

  Knox was in his element now. He was moving guns across bad ground in bad weather. This is what had made him famous in the first place.

  The horses were unhitched from the two lead guns, Hamilton ordering several men to take them across and get them up the slope on the far side. They started off, disappearing into the shadows of the ravine.

  Knox was already shouting for some of the infantry of the Virginia brigade to fall out and stack muskets, while from the limber boxes of the first two guns, Hamilton and his men pulled out hundred-foot lengths of rope.

  Though they worked swiftly under the guidance of the two officers, still it seemed forever before the first of the guns, barrel pointed down slope, was manhandled to the edge of the road and dropped into the ravine, two lengths of rope secured to it. Ten men on each rope coiled it around stout trees to give them control and better leverage. Knox stood behind the gun, shouting orders, the piece slowly rolling down the slope, ice cracking underneath it. Washington started to follow but realized if he did so mounted, and his horse slipped, they could easily crash into Knox and the gun.

  He dismounted, tossing the reins to Billy and on foot followed down, watching the way Knox worked, the artilleryman bellowing orders for one team to play out more rope, then the other. It was hard to judge how long this was going to take. Five minutes . . . ten minutes?

  Twice he nearly lost his own footing, boots sliding so that he had to reach out and grab a tree to keep balance, a shower of ice crystals cascading down on him.

  “Damn it all to hell!”

  It was Knox. Losing the struggle to preserve his dignity, Washington slid down to join him in a semisquat.

  “We’re still fifty or so feet short of the bottom of the ravine,” Knox announced. The last of the rope had been played out. “Two more cables now!” Henry roared. “And twenty men!”

  It took another five minutes for the men to get down in the gorge and, following Henry’s orders, tie the ropes to the gun, make sure the ropes were around trees, and cinch tight. Then the piece was pulled back up the slope a couple of feet to put slack onto the ropes from the team farther up the hill, Henry personally untying each of the cables.

  Without bothering to look to the General, Knox turned to Hamilton. “This is how we do it!” he shouted triumphantly, raising his voice to be heard above the roar of the flooded creek.

  “Hamilton, you supervise the first team at the top of the slope, secure each gun, lowering them as you just saw us do it. Second team here takes over and gets it the rest of the way down to the water’s edge.”

  “Why not just splice the ropes together into one long length?” Hamilton offered.

  “Rope, Colonel Hamilton. Using two teams like this, we can lower two guns at a time with four hundred-foot lengths of rope. Spliced together
, we need eight hundred feet for the same job, and we can only have one gun coming down at a time.”

  Washington said nothing. He marveled that Knox could so quickly calculate the advantage.

  “Two sets of rope, four teams——we can keep two guns moving along. Get extra lengths of rope and while two guns are being lowered, the next one in line is prepared to speed things along. Have additional teams ready as well to relieve the exhausted.”

  He paused.

  “Or in case something goes wrong and we lose some men.”

  “God save the lower group if the upper gun breaks loose,” Hamilton said softly.

  Knox did not reply.

  “Gun crews move with their pieces. Once at the bottom here, they will have to manhandle them through the torrent. We must make sure the ammunition chests and the powder inside stay dry. We’ll get more men across to move the guns out of the ravine. I’ll get two more teams working the upslope on the far side; that should be easier because we can use horses for the upper part . . . then once up there, hitch ’em back up and then move like hell. Infantry stays off the road, they go down through the woods, pick anyplace but the road, cross, and reform on the far side.”

  “Sirs.”

  It was the lone sentry still posted at what, twelve hours earlier, had been an ankle-deep ford and a steep but still manageable road for a wagon or even an artillery piece.

  “What is it?” Knox snapped.

  “Uh, well, sir. Hate to tell you this, but this is just the first ravine. There’s a second one, a fork of this here creek once you get up over yonder to the top.”

  “What?” Knox asked.

  “Just that, sir. This here is the first of two ravines, and that second one, I think, is worse than this one.”

  Washington said nothing. With all his evaluating and managing here, the man had forgotten the map exercise and briefings of the day before. For some perverse reason, this road, rather than crossing the creek once a few hundred feet farther downstream, instead descended and crossed over the main creek and rose, then descended into a small tributary branch before rising again to level ground.