To Try Men's Souls - George Washington 1

by Newt Gingrich

  “Damn all to hell!” Henry roared. He stalked to the side of the road and slammed his fist against the trunk of a tree. Washington went to his side.

  “Sir, it will take an hour at the very least, perhaps two or more,” Knox hissed.

  “And?”

  “Sir,” he paused, his voice thick, “we can still . . .”

  He fell silent.

  “You’re suggesting?” Washington asked, voice pitched low so the men would not hear.

  “I think you know,” Knox replied. “It will be dawn by the time we get the guns out of these ravines, if at all. One of them breaks loose, and smashes up, it will make a tangle of everything.”

  He threw up his arms in a gesture of exasperation.

  “Sir, I moved guns over three hundred miles, in the dead of winter, and faced worse than this. But it was not a race against dawn then, with a storm howling around us, an unknown enemy ahead, our men already exhausted, and a flooding ice-choked river at our backs.”

  Silence again as Knox stood by his side.

  “Go on.”

  “Sir, it is not my place to go on.” Henry’s face turned up to look at him, a momentary flash of moonlight revealing his features, drawn, exhausted. Directly behind him at the edge of the raging creek, men at the ropes looked in their direction, knowing that something was going on.

  Knox was right. Everything he had said was correct. According to the plan he, his men, the artillery, should already be moving into final position around Trenton, with two other columns, one of them Gates’s. Of the middle column, he had not heard a word. Gates, he already knew, was not coming.

  It would be close on to dawn before he could even hope to get the first of these guns clear of the ravines, infantry formed up . . . and Trenton would still be seven miles off. The storm howling through the trees above showed no sign of abating; if anything, it was increasing in intensity.

  He stared at Knox, taking it all in. Infantry, hundreds of them, were already moving down the slope, grasping at trees to steady themselves, officers and sergeants urging them on. Men of his headquarters guards were filtering down along the side of the road, trying to stay closer to their commander, moving slowly, woodenly, more than one slipping, cursing as he crashed down.

  He recognized two of the men holding on to each other, one of them staggering——the New Jersey scouts assigned to his personal guard. They passed but a few feet away, pushing on toward the creek. One hesitated for a moment, but then plunged into the torrent; he could hear the boy gasping as he did so. The two forded across and disappeared into the darkness.

  He took it all in, stepped back, cupped his hands, and faced upslope.

  “Billy Lee, get down here!”

  No one spoke as his servant appeared out of the shadows, afoot, leading his own horse and the General’s.

  Washington mounted and looked down at Knox.

  “Colonel Knox,” he replied, voice raised so that it would carry.

  “Sir.”

  “You have just told me it is impossible.”

  Knox did not reply.

  “Sir. What is the watchword for this night?”

  “Victory or death, sir.”

  “Those are the only alternatives left to us.”

  He raised his voice so that it echoed against the thunder of the creek, the howling of the storm.

  “Victory or death, Colonel Knox. There is no other alternative, sir! We move on. Get your guns across, and I will see you in Trenton! Remember, this storm may help mask us from the Hessians as it makes our journey more miserable. Better a blizzard of snow than a blizzard of lead. This is our night to win.”

  Pulling on the reins of his mount, he set off, plunging into the creek.

  Knox stood as if dumbstruck. All eyes had followed the General, and now were turning to him.

  “I’d follow him to hell itself,” Knox said softly, and then realized that no one was moving.

  “You heard the General,” he shouted in a commanding voice. “It is victory or death. Now move these damn guns!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Ford at Jacob’s Creek

  5:45 A.M., December 26, 1776

  The narrow ravine was cloaked in frozen mist, tossed up by the roaring current.

  He knew exhaustion was taking hold of his soul: exhaustion, complete and utter frustration, and an ever-growing thought, clawing at his willpower, that everything was going tragically wrong.

  In all of the planning, contemplating, and final decision to make this bold night maneuver, he had tried to plan for every contingency. These ruinous ravines had never seriously figured in that planning.

  Scouts and locals he had interrogated about the line of march had marked on a map every home and farm along the way that harbored known or suspected Tories, and even as the first contingent of his army crossed, his advance scouts had raced to each of those dwellings, placing those within under guard. He had known that the first stretch of the road up to Bear Tavern would be steep and hard as an uphill march from the river valley, but the ravines?

  No one had suggested the ravines might be this steep, the ice might be this hard, the water this cold, or the men this exhausted.

  I never thought about what it could be like on a night such as this.

  The storm continued in its fury. He could sense the wind was backing around more to the north, meaning that perhaps the worst of it was nearly over, but with that change in the wind, temperatures would most likely plummet, the sleet change over to snow.

  “Tobias! Watch it!”

  He heard screaming, cursing. Turning, he rode back to the edge of the second ravine and dismounted, tossing the reins of his horse to Billy Lee. Invisible men, down in the hollow, were shouting, a horse neighing in anguish. Staying clear of the road, he slid down the sharp face of the ravine, hanging on to trees, sliding a dozen feet, grabbing another and then another. In the shadowy mist to either side of him, infantrymen were still climbing upward, gasping, cursing, not even knowing who was going past them on the way down. More than one was damning all officers and the madman who had conceived this hellish ordeal.

  Fires had finally been built at the bottom of the hollow. Whoever had managed to strike flint and get the blaze going was truly skilled in forest survival, most likely one of his Virginia or Pennsylvania riflemen from the frontier. They knew how to use bark peeled from birch trees and dead twigs from pines for kindling.

  By the glow of the fire he caught glimpses of the tumbling creek. At the ford just above him, several artillery pieces had been lowered down the opposite face and were waiting to be hitched to cables for the final pull up by their exhausted crews.

  The commotion was caused by half a dozen men, several of them in the stream, struggling with a panicked horse that had most likely slipped on the rocks and tumbled downstream. The poor animal was shrieking with terror, flailing; men were cursing, trying to avoid being kicked.

  A burly man, an African, by what was left of his uniform a New York artilleryman, had hold of the horse’s bridle and was holding on, not letting go, shouting for the others to back away.

  The animal was half up, and the man holding the bridle moved closer, his voice loud but calming in the confusion, and the animal finally was still, both of them in the creek that flooded around them.

  The animal’s left foreleg was broken, the beast holding it up, limb dangling.

  “Tobias, she’s a goner,” one of the others announced, squatting down to look, but keeping well back.

  The black man kept his attention focused on the horse, both hands now holding the bridle tight, with the horse’s rapid, labored exhalations, wreathing him in mist.

  “No, sirra, no,” Tobias replied, voice husky. “No, sirra.”

  “Get him out of the stream,” Washington announced, and paused. “And then you have to finish him.”

  All looked at him, not realizing he was watching from only a few feet away.

  “Sir?” Tobias started.

  No one
responded. Tobias looked at Washington, then nodded assent.

  The animal fought for a moment, then with a hobbling limp moved the few feet up to the bank of the stream. One of the men started to draw a pistol.

  “No gunfire,” Washington exclaimed. A single shot could trigger confusion, even panic.

  “Everything’s soaked anyhow,” another man announced. With a quick sure movement he had a knife out, came up alongside the horse, and cut its throat.

  The horse gasped, screamed, thrashed, Tobias still holding on, getting splattered by blood spurting from the gash in the horse’s throat.

  “Sleep, friend, sleep now, sleep,” he chanted, almost a singsong quality to his voice, an echo of the Caribbean isles.

  Washington had to turn away, unable to watch. In such a harsh world, still there was something about putting down a horse or a beloved hunting dog that raised an anguish that cut into the heart. Holding on to tree limbs he made his way back the few dozen feet to the ford.

  Knox was still at it. Someone motioned and Henry turned to offer a salute.

  “These are the last of them, sir,” he said, his voice heavy, rasping.

  Even as he spoke a shout came from up the slope, the ropes secured to the gun going taut, the unseen crew above renewing their labors, a voice calling out, “Pull . . . pull . . . pull, lads . . . That’s it, pull!” It sounded like Hamilton.

  “The going’s getting a bit easier,” Knox reported. “Moving all the guns finally broke up the ice on the trail, but it’s mud underneath.”

  He looked up.

  “Feels like it’s getting colder.”

  “It is.”

  “Good. It’ll change to snow rather than this sleet.”

  And the colder wind will increase the suffering of the men, he realized. Even with his well-tailored uniform, heavy woolen cape, and tanned boots, he was soaked through. As long as he kept moving, it did not bother him much, but standing still, or when mounted, he could feel the chill setting in.

  “Last of the infantry is just about across as well,” Knox announced.

  He didn’t reply. The column was formed up on the road above the ravines where he had held them until all the guns were across. Otherwise they might be strung out on the road for several miles. If the Hessians were aroused and waiting . . . he needed everything together for that final fight . . . for surely it would be the final fight if the enemy was waiting . . . and he wanted his artillery at the front, and not straggling, to be devoured one piece at a time.

  “I’d say ten more minutes, sir, and we’ll have the last of these guns out of the ravine.”

  Washington reached into his vest pocket, for his watch. The cover was damp and he hoped moisture had not seeped into the watch’s delicate works. He snapped it open and held it so he could see the face by the smoky fire.

  “Six by my watch,” he announced.

  He looked up. Sunrise was an hour and a half off. Even though they were in a mist-shrouded ravine, the storm still raging, he wondered if he could already sense the first faint trace of rising light, able to discern the tracery of ice-covered trees arching over their heads. Or was it just the occasional glimpse of moonlight above the racing clouds? It reminded him of the night crossing of the East River, that same sensing but not yet seeing that dawn was approaching. A silent, desperate appeal to God to somehow make the world freeze in place, to give but one extra hour of darkness. But he was not Joshua before Jericho; the sun would not remain motionless, and dawn would soon come.

  The attack should have gone on more than an hour ago. There was no way of knowing what fate might already have befallen the thousand militiamen who were positioned below the falls at Trenton. They were supposed to have crossed by now and taken up position to block any retreat of the enemy south out of Trenton, and to then take the small enemy garrison of a hundred or so men in the village of Bordentown. If they were across the river, they were unsupported, with his column still six miles away. If discovered, the alarm would have already been sounded, the enemy aroused. Fifteen hundred of the king’s toughest mercenaries against our militia would make short work, and then they could turn and be waiting in ambush for us.

  He closed the watch and put it into his pocket. He felt a pang of hunger but far worse was the fear, the indecision that threatened to cut into him.

  Another piece started up the slope.

  The die is cast. We can’t turn back now, not here. Not with this behind us. If I order a retreat, it will take two or more hours just to turn everything around again. The enemy will catch us here and the slaughter will be complete.

  By my will alone I have forced the army this far, and they have done their duty. If I turn back now I doubt that but one in ten would ever follow me again——if they even manage to get back to the Delaware. They will endure this cold and exhaustion for a chance at victory. They will not tolerate it if their leader is indecisive or confused. Certainty is the key to everything now.

  “We’ve lost half a dozen horses and several dozen men,” Knox said. “Broken limbs. Damn the ice.”

  Washington looked down the ravine. The death throes of the horse were nearly at an end. It was lying on its side, kicking feebly, Tobias cradling its head. Neither of the generals spoke for a moment. A soldier leaned over to pat Tobias on the shoulder and then helped to pull him up and away.

  The small knot of artillerymen came up the ravine, passing the generals, Tobias struggling to hold back his sobs. They paused for a moment and then without orders fell in behind the last gun to push it along and up the slope.

  “With such men,” Washington said softly.

  Letting his emotion show was rare. He had spent a lifetime mastering it, to avoid letting emotion, passion, rage, or sentiment show, to be a stoic, as any man of his birth should be.

  And yet . . .

  “I’m ordering the column to resume the march,” he announced. “Bring these last guns up sharply.”

  He did not wait for a reply from Knox, and he followed one of the artillery pieces up the path.

  The climb was short, less than a hundred feet, but the ravines had cost him more than a precious hour and a half to negotiate.

  He reached the top of the ravine. With the ice broken on the road he sank halfway to his knees at times with every step. In the gloom he could see the wheels of the artillery pieces thick with congealing mud, men casting off ropes from the carriages, teamsters moving to hook the gun to its limber and team of horses.

  Washington passed the black artilleryman, his tears stilled as he labored to hook the piece to its limber, the General noticing how one of the artilleryman’s comrades comforted him, saying words inaudible to him.

  Now Billy Lee was up by his side, leading his horse. Washington mounted. “With such men,” he found himself thinking again as he watched the artillerymen swing their piece around.

  As the column moved out, he heard whispered snatches of conversation. “About time, damn it . . .” “First damn Hessian I get, off comes his shoes once I kill him, I swear it by God . . .” “Let’s get on with it.”

  They were grim, angry, yet not a word about turning back now. Perhaps Jacob’s Creek was a blessing. With it at their backs, the prospect ahead was the only alternative; going back, melting into the woods, no longer was even a remote thought.

  So unlike the retreat from Fort Lee.

  That had truly been a debacle. The position atop the Jersey Palisades were deemed by all to be impregnable. The cliffs along the Hudson soared up from the river a hundred and fifty feet or more. It was a rise even more difficult than the one the legendary Wolfe had scaled seventeen years before to take Quebec, an action that had won universal awe and acclaim.

  Four thousand men were garrisoned at Fort Lee, the fortifications containing within them his reserve supplies, thousands of rations, tentage to shelter an entire army, tons of powder, tens of thousands of flints and shot, fodder for horses and mules. It was a redoubt deemed to be solid, absolute, a barrier the British co
uld never storm.

  Cornwallis had achieved it without losing a man.

  He had trusted Greene, and still did. But on that day, not much more than a month ago, someone had failed, and Greene had to shoulder the blame. Under cover of a moonless night Cornwallis, leading the advance, crossed the Hudson from the New York side and landed his men on a narrow spit of land below the Palisades, their first landfall so tenuous that a score of boys armed only with rocks, standing atop the cliffs, could have slain hundreds.

  The guard on the spit of land had not been relieved when his watch was done. The guard who was supposed to keep an eye on the barely visible trail leading to the top of the cliffs was gone as well, no doubt drunk and assuming after months of tedious watching without action, nothing was amiss.

  Cornwallis gained the heights, not only with his infantry, but according to reports that crossed through the lines, had even disassembled his artillery pieces and had them manhandled up the rocky cliff. He did have to admit to a grudging admiration of that feat. It was worthy of another Wolfe, and if someday this Revolution was lost, Cornwallis would return to England a hero, a peerage most likely awaiting him as reward.

  It was the same Cornwallis who now commanded the far-flung garrisons spread across New Jersey this night. The Cornwallis he prayed he would humble this dawn was not a foe to be taken lightly. The man had proved that at Fort Lee.

  Word had come at dawn that there the army was trumped, that thousands of British and Hessian troops were atop the Palisades and storming down upon the flanks and rear of the fort, about to cut off any hope of retreat.

  He had also lost Fort Washington, on the northern tip of Manhattan in a bloody debacle. There was nothing he could possibly have done at that moment. To stand and fight would be folly, putting what was left of his army in a closed sack. All Cornwallis then needed to do was surround them, sit back, go to siege, and within days capture what was left of his army.

  Humiliated, he ordered the abandonment of Fort Lee and full retreat. Any supplies that could not be carried out were to be torched.