“That’s it!” Washington roared. “Feed it to them!”
So much was unfolding at once. He scanned the rise of ground and the open fields rimming the town.
Greene’s column was coming up. He was standing tall in the stirrups, sword raised, breaking the column in half, sending a regiment directly toward the town, the men spreading out as they ran, to try to form on the left of Sullivan’s line, which was nearly in the village.
The rest of Greene’s men raced straight toward the low hill where the first guns had deployed, then moved along the hillside to come in behind the artillery and extend the line of attack and envelop the town from the southeast.
The left?
He looked in that direction, south of the town. If the plan had been followed, the fifteen hundred Jersey militia men who were supposed to cross south of Trenton should now charge in. Nothing.
Did they make it across and were they now ready to fall in on his left? He didn’t know.
This was not the time to stop and think about it. Looking down at the village he sensed that now, without doubt, the miracle was real. The way the Hessians were dribbling out of barracks, homes, and shops, many of them milling about in confusion, showed that, for whatever reason, they had been caught completely off guard.
“Knox!”
“Here, sir!”
Knox came running even as the first two guns were reloading.
“Down there!” Washington pointed to the edge of the village where the road split into King and Queen Streets. “I want guns literally on the streets. Sweep them with grapeshot. Bottle them up inside the houses while your guns up here hit the rest of the town!”
Knox grinned like a child who had been told to play a game that would create havoc. He was at last unleashed.
Without taking time to reply, he was off, a giant of man, running full out, waving to the next section of guns to swing down toward the edge of the town.
Meanwhile the two six-pounders fired again, solid shot streaking into the center of town, scattering the Hessians as they tried to form. Several more guns came up to the top of the slope, howitzers, the heavy pieces so laboriously brought across the Delaware and manhandled over Jacob’s Creek. In a few minutes their heavy five-and-a-half-inch shells would be bursting in the village square.
And down in that village he could see two Hessian guns, pulled by teams of horses, trying to move up King Street in order to block the attack, but Knox was already on them, shouting for his gunners to tear the enemy pieces apart.
Hundreds of men were running past him, the men of Greene’s command, shouting, hollering, some heading southward to bottle up the far side of the village, others deploying to support Knox’s guns, which were swinging into position to fire down King and Queen Streets. His heart nearly broke at the sight of the men.
Their passage was marked by blood. Not blood from any wound by bullet or sword. Nearly all were barefoot, and after nine miles of marching and running toward the fight, their frozen, lacerated feet left splattered trails of blood.
George Washington stood up in his stirrups, sword raised. “Forward, men!” he cried. “Forward!”
Münchasen struggled to help Rall get his wet boots on, Potts’s servant kneeling beside him to help with the other foot. The sharp clap of artillery fire rattled the windows.
Startled, Rall stood up, his left foot not fully into his boot. The artillery could not be his, for the guns were stowed in sheds against the storm. No matter how well drilled his men, it would take long minutes to deploy them.
Merciful God, they have artillery!
“My jacket!”
Münchasen pulled it off the peg by the fireplace and helped him slip into it. It was cold, clammy.
Rall headed for the door, limping slightly until his left foot settled into the counter of the boot, then raced down the stairs. Potts was up, his rotund wife clinging to his arm.
“Is it the rebels?” she cried.
He ignored her as he headed toward the door.
“Oh God, they’ll think we’re Tories,” she exclaimed. He did not understand her words, but he sensed the meaning of it. In another minute she most likely would be calculating which side would win this day and how to react.
He was out the door, ignoring her, and a second later was against the side of the house, nearly hit by a shot that howled past, decapitating one of his men a few feet away.
He had seen thousands die on battlefields. This body collapsing, though, limbs twitching spasmodically for a few seconds, was one of his own men, and the sight filled him with rage.
The dead man’s comrades, preparing to pour out of the house and form ranks, had pulled back in terror. Up and down the street he could see his men, some in doorways, half-dressed, peering out in confusion, some just emerging, donning jackets, some only in underbreeches and shirts, all caught by surprise.
Another shot howled past. He turned and looked up the street.
The wind whipped the smoke away, and he caught a glimpse of two rebel guns, crews working feverishly to reload, infantry lines moving behind and around the pieces.
His own men, trapped in the narrow streets, had no semblance of order. At the top of the street an officer was attempting to form a line but already the unit was melting away, men turning and, running. He tried to stop them in their panic, but they dodged to either side of him and fled.
To form a line in the face of artillery but a few dozen paces away was folly. They needed a rallying point out of range for a few minutes, and once rallied, secure in their ranks, knowing their comrades were in their proper place to either side, his men would show their nerve.
He stepped into the middle of the street and started to run down its length, Münchasen appearing by his side. Both headed toward the center of town and the stone barracks.
“Rally, men! Rally in the square. Follow me!”
And yet, even as he passed, only a handful of confused men emerged, as another blast, this time of grapeshot, thundered down the narrow street, the score of iron balls by some miracle passing to either side of the colonel, sparing him.
Jonathan, raging with frustration, stood impotent, unable to fire his musket while those around him blazed away at the thin line of Hessians attempting to form at the edge of his village. With the storm closing in again, it was hard to see, but obviously their volleys were hitting hard, for the enemy was dropping, windows of houses shattering.
“Clear the way!”
Over his shoulder Jonathan saw an artillery crew running alongside a four-pounder being pulled by a horse, the driver lashing the animal. Four more guns were behind them.
Peter was so intent on loading and shooting that Jonathan had to shove him to one side as the first gun skidded across the ice. The crew struggled to turn it about and unlimber the piece.
“Lend a hand!”
Jonathan, glad at last to be able to do something, anything, tossed his useless musket aside and grabbed hold of a wheel, putting his shoulder into it.
“Grapeshot! Load! Load!”
Even before the gun was in place a boy was slamming a powder bag into the breech, followed seconds later by a bag filled with lead balls, topped off with a liberal mix of nails and iron fragments.
Jonathan continued to brace the gun, leaning into it as it was turned about.
He glanced up for a second. The Hessians they had been facing were turning, running, retreating down King Street, stumbling, a confused mass of men. Some were trying to surge forward, led by an officer. He caught a glimpse of a flag being held up at the head of a column. Others were scattering, dodging into alleyways or going in the opposite direction.
“Stand clear, you damn fool!”
Someone grabbed Jonathan by the shoulder and pulled him away.
He was barely clear of the piece as it leapt back several feet, the explosion jarring Jonathan. The tongue of flame snapped out brightly, snow and sleet eddying and swirling as the shot howled down King Street, cutting into the Hessians,
dropping several men, who cried out in pain and terror.
A second gun fired, windowpanes of the first house on the street blowing out, several balls tearing along the side planking and sheering back into the crowded street.
The gun he had been helping with was already being rolled forward, another charge rammed in. He tried to help, but so many eager hands were at work that he was shoved back, Peter grabbing hold of him, pulling him away.
“You damn near got crushed, you fool!” Peter cried.
“I don’t care!”
Another gun fired, and then another, these aimed down Queen Street. This time it was impossible to see the effect.
Another salvo from the guns, more men going down in the street, snow closing in, again impossible to see.
Something screamed over their heads, men ducking. At least one Hessian field piece was firing back.
Men were piling in around Jonathan, far too many to help the gunners, in fact starting to get in their way. The artillerymen were roaring for them to stand clear and let them do their work.
Jonathan caught a glimpse of Knox, riding just a few feet behind them, hat off, shouting for the artillery to keep pouring it in.
All around him was confusion, shouts, orders, huzzahs; moments when it was impossible to see more than a few feet because of the smoke and the storm.
Though not moving he felt strangely hot, his body trembling, each breath an agony. But that did not matter.
There was a coiling up within, a rising tension, a frenzy. Men were shouting, cheering as each of the guns cut loose, their target now unseen in the storm, but knowing without doubt they were hitting something, for cries could be heard even above the storm.
They were like some primal force, which after month upon month of defeat, abuse, and scorn was lashing back.
At that moment he felt no pity, only a fierce, deadly rage as the cries of the enemy reached him. After all the long months of humiliation, of defeat, at last their moment had come.
“He that stands it now . . .”
I will stand it, he thought.
“Virginians! Who is with me!”
Knox, still mounted, was leaning over, pointing down the street. The storm had lifted for a moment, two enemy guns visible in the middle of the street. The men gathered around Knox had, to Jonathan’s eyes, the appearance of hunting dogs about to be unleashed, eyes wide, hands tightly clenched on muskets and rifles.
“Take those guns!”
The Virginians leapt forward, and the moment swept through his soul.
“Come on, Peter!” Jonathan cried.
He fell in with the swarm of men charging down King Street and into the village. Men of Massachusetts and Virginia mingled together as one, truly American in their unity against the common enemy. A wild howling roar erupted from them, some shouting obscenities, others laughing with a mad hysterical edge, others just screaming.
This street . . . the street where he had played for countless hours as a boy, watching in awe as the mail coach galloped through, stepping back as some wealthy personage came by with a matched pair of horses, the street he had walked down so many times on the way to church, to school, to go fishing in the river, this place of childhood dreams.
The ice-covered thoroughfare was slick with fresh blood, turning to slushy pink as the snow continued to fall.
From an upper window a Hessian leaned out, aiming a musket. A rifle cracked beside Jonathan, startling him, and the Hessian fell back.
Windowpanes to either side shattered. They could hear screaming from within. He passed a narrow alleyway, packed with Hessians, cowering. To his right several more of the enemy emerged, obviously caught by surprise, as if running from some other threat. A Virginian swung his musket like a club and Jonathan could hear the sickening sound of the man’s skull being crushed. The other fleeing Hessians fell to their knees screaming.
“Ich ergebe mich!” [I surrender!]
Jonathan slowed to look at one of them. Not much older than himself, face clean shaven, long mustache, thin and scraggly, a boyish attempt at being a man.
He slowed, unarmed, Peter by his side, musket leveled.
He looked into the Hessian’s eyes and saw the terror. Peter was there, still with a weapon in his hands, also not sure how to react.
Part of him, at that instant, wanted to kill this enemy, and he realized if he had held a loaded musket in his hand he just might have done that. And yet . . . He saw the terror in his enemy’s eyes. That was victory enough for now.
Jonathan grabbed the Hessian’s musket, tearing it from his grasp.
“Lie down!”
He pointed to the ground, and the young soldier fell on his face, sobbing with fear. Jonathan looked over at Peter, clenching the captured musket, grinning at him.
“Come on!”
The Virginians were still charging toward the enemy guns, now half a block away. Men were still falling, but not from enemy fire. The street was coated with ice and splattered with blood. They went in and over the enemy dead and wounded. A Hessian lay nearly decapitated, blood and brains oozing out onto the ice. Another, with arm torn off, was sitting against the side of the house, blood pouring from the stump. Others were holding up their hands begging for mercy. One man, small book in hand, obviously a Bible, was holding it up as if it were a talisman that could save his life, even as life drained out of a body riddled with grapeshot and nails.
The guns. They were nearly to the guns!
Half a dozen dead and dying horses were sprawled out behind the guns. In the lead was a young Virginia lieutenant who suddenly staggered backward nearly collapsing, clutching his shoulder, arterial blood spurting out, the young man trying to regain his footing and continue with the charge.
Jonathan reached out to help him. The wounded officer took Jonathan’s hand, regaining his feet. There was a momentary glance, a nod of thanks, the officer pressing his hand tight against his torn shoulder in an attempt to stanch the flow of blood, but not willing to give up, weaving forward with the charge.
A lone Hessian, an officer, stood by one of the pieces as if ready to defend it, until the lead man in the charge came up, raising a sword on high. Then the Hessian turned and fled into the smoke, snow, and mist.
Wild cheers broke out. Men were slapping their hands against the gun, slapping each other on the back. Even in those seconds of celebration, panic-stricken enemy soldiers darted around and through them, pouring out of side alleys from the northwest side of town. Several were clubbed down; others dropped their weapons and pleaded for mercy. Some tried to turn back and then turned again, for seconds later it was men of Sullivan’s command pushing through, triumphantly driving the enemy clear of King Street.
“Turn their own guns on them!” someone shouted. A dozen willing hands pitched in, swinging the Hessian guns about and pointing them toward the center of town. The enemy gunners had fled with their rammers and sponges; a cry went up to fetch replacements, but somehow, in their mad enthusiasm, the amateur gunners, in an act that in other times would be considered pure and utter madness, pushed powder bags down the hot barrels using the barrels of their own muskets, loaded in bags of grapeshot from the abandoned limbers, tore musket cartridges open to provide powder for the touch-holes and set the field pieces alight by firing a pistol at the powder heaped on the touchholes. Amazingly, instead of blowing up, the guns sent blasts of fire and grapeshot the length of the street and into the village square where the enemy was attempting to rally.
Jonathan watched, incredulous. It was as if all of them were drunk with some wild frenzy. The sound of battle roared up from the south, Mercer’s and Sullivan’s men pushing up alleyways, yielding for a few minutes with shouts that the enemy was trying to rally but then charging forward again.
But Jonathan did not join them. He stood there, wooden, as if stricken, barely focused on the captured artillery pieces tearing apart any who tried to rally in the center of the town.
He clenched his captured musket tigh
t. Occasional shots rang out from upper-story windows, desperate men firing down on their attackers. All up and down King Street the advancing infantry were turning their attention to any of the enemy still holding out on the upper floors of homes and shops, kicking in doors, gunshots echoing, the shouts of men now commingled with screams of women and children cowering within.
Jonathan stood before a doorway a few paces back from the artillery pieces that were pounding the center of the town and advanced toward the door, Peter by his side.
Jonathan slowed and then actually reached out for the door handle and tried it. It was locked.
Somehow that filled him with a mad fury. Using the butt of his captured musket he slammed it against the door like a battering ram. The effort drained the last of his strength.
The mad frenzy of a minute before was pouring out of him, like the last rivulet from a broken dam. His knees were trembling, his entire body shaking with shock, exhilaration, exhaustion——and rage.
The brass doorknob broke, and Peter threw his weight into the door. It cracked open.
Jonathan, musket already turned, had his weapon up, cocked, and aimed. He kicked the door open the rest of the way.
On the far side of the door stood his father, eyes wide with fear.
“My horse!” Rall yelled.
He looked about, frantic. His men must see him mounted and in command. Several hundred or more were forming ranks in front of the stone barracks. A section of guns was out of the shed, the artillerymen pushing the pieces forward and onto Queen Street. The hope was forlorn, but they might buy a few minutes of the time he needed.
An orderly came up to his side, leading his mount, and he climbed into the saddle, for the moment feeling more secure, able at least to see over the heads of his men.
Few were in full uniform, many were without jackets, some even without muskets or boots. Companies were jumbled together, sergeants frantically racing about, some shouting for the men to form into column, others to shake out into volley line.
To Try Men's Souls - George Washington 1 Page 27
