He tried to take it all in. Several company commanders, able to see him at last now that he was mounted, were running to his side for orders.
He had to calm himself, to display no confusion, no alarm. In the war against the Turks, while serving in the army of the czarina, the enemy had infilitrated their camp at night. With the Russian officers in a panic, he had taken command, forming a square, the formation rallying their courage so that at last they were able to leap forward and drive the enemy off.
Form a square now?
The town square was too small, and even as he contemplated the action, a volley swept in from the north side of town. He turned, facing into the wind, squinting, and saw the shadowy forms emerging, racing forward, his own men on that side of the square giving back, some turning to run.
Looking up the street that he had just come from, he could see it packed with rebel infantry, overrunning a gun. Send a column up to drive them back?
Do that and we are flanked from the north, he realized.
He felt a tug at his shoulder. A musket ball had clipped his uniform jacket. He turned and could actually see the man who had fired at him, shaking his fist, shouting some incoherent curse.
We’re flanked either way we turn.
He looked south and knew it was their only recourse.
“Follow me, men!” he shouted, and with drawn saber pointed toward the open field south of town. Surely the rebels had not yet surrounded the town. But five minutes to form ranks, restore order out in an open field free of the confines of this miserable town, and he would charge back and retrieve the day, and the tattered shreds of his honor.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Trenton, New Jersey
9:05 A.M., December 26, 1776
The cold wind swept in through the open door, causing the glowing embers in the fireplace to flare upward.
Jonathan stood disbelieving, musket leveled at his father, who faced him defiantly in the middle of the room. Behind him were half a dozen men, Hessians. He scanned them quickly, realizing with sudden panic that his own weapon was not loaded. The Hessians gazed at him wide-eyed, near panic, uniforms dripping ice and water on the floor. Several held muskets, one of them half raised.
He swung his musket toward the Hessian, shouldering it.
“Surrender!” he shouted, as he struggled for a breath of air, his lungs feeling as if they were on fire.
Peter pushed in beside him, musket raised as well.
“Damn you!” Peter shouted. “Surrender or you’re dead men! Geben Sie auf! Oder sterben!”
The Hessians seemed to be frozen in place.
The soldier with his weapon half raised slowly bent to place his weapon on the floor, the others following.
Jonathan stepped away from the door and gestured for them to get out.
“Out in the street! Keep your hands over your heads.”
One of them turned to Jonathan’s father. “Bringen sie uns um?” he asked. [Will they kill us?]
“Tün sie was sie sagen.” Jonathan’s father replied. [Do as they order].
The way the two spoke struck Jonathan like a bolt. These men had fled here because they were quartered here. They were living in his home.
The six raised their hands. Frightened, they started for the door, Jonathan and Peter backing away several feet, keeping their weapons pointed at them.
As they left, Jonathan tipped his head at Peter, who nodded and without comment followed the six out the door. There was shouting outside, someone laughing that “Jersey militia” had bagged six more.
Jonathan turned to face his father.
“You won’t kill them, will you?”
“We’re not like them,” Jonathan announced with proud assertiveness.
And then he had another shock. His own father did not know who he was. It was the way his father was looking at him, with outright fear, not even a glimmer of recognition.
The moment was like a tableau. The prodigal son returned. This prodigal son barefoot, trousers nothing but tattered rags, blanket cape pulled in tight, hat tied down under his chin with a strip of burlap.
“My family is in the back,” his father said. “Do you promise them safety?”
“All your family?”
His father hesitated.
“Jonathan? My God, Jonathan, is that you?”
His son said nothing.
There was such a strange flood of emotion. He had stumbled through the village during the retreat and could not bring himself to stop, but this now was different. The goods of their store were intact, neatly arranged on shelves, tanned leather in bales, shoes and boots arrayed along a wall, belts, gloves. The fact that they were out on display meant that there had been some arrangement with the occupying Hessians. He glanced at his father, who stood silent.
“I suggest you hide all this now,” Jonathan announced, gesturing toward the shelves
The old man gazed at him, shocked, confused by the exhausted skeletal apparition of his son standing thus.
Jonathan turned and pushed the door open leading to the family living quarters, a short corridor going straight to the kitchen.
And he could see them now. His mother was standing by the fireplace.
“Mother! It’s Jonathan!” his father shouted behind him.
The woman stepped away from the fireplace and started slowly toward him, and then he saw, his brother.
James, how a month had changed him! Gone was the ragged beard and tattered clothes. He was clean shaven, dressed in a comfortable shirt and doeskin breeches, obviously well fed. His mother started to run toward Jonathan and then slowed as she drew closer, as if not sure.
“My boy?”
“Yes, Mother.”
And her arms were around him, head buried against his chest, a shuddering sob escaping her.
He still held his musket in one hand, but his arm came around her and his gaze was fixed on James.
“I’m glad to see you are safe,” James said woodenly.
“I’ll bet you are.”
“Don’t start on this now, Jonathan,” James replied sharply. “You have to protect this house.”
“Protect it from what?”
“What’s going on out there?” Jonathan could see that James was afraid.
The sound of battle outside continued unabated, the windowpanes in the kitchen rattling from the thump of artillery. He caught a glimpse through the kitchen window of men running down an alleyway, Hessians, shouting in terror, followed scant seconds later by his own comrades. One slowed, looked in the window, saw Jonathan, waved, and then ran on.
“What’s going on out there?” James asked again.
Jonathan began to cough, struggling for breath. The room was hot and confining, and even though he was shaking, he felt as if he were on fire.
“We’re winning a battle, damn you. That’s what’s going on.”
“Don’t take that tone with me,” James announced.
“I’ll take any damn tone I want with you from now on.”
James took a step closer. Jonathan started to pull away from his mother, half bringing his musket up.
She clutched him even tighter.
“Jonathan, Jonathan, don’t!”
He felt a hand on his shoulder. He tried to pull away from his mother and looked back. It was his father.
“Son . . .”
“William, he’s burning up,” his mother gasped, still holding him tight, her hand going to his forehead.
“Sit down, son,” his father said, pointing to the bench at the kitchen table.
He could not resist for the moment, as his parents guided him the few feet to the bench. He collapsed on it, but still held on to his musket with one hand, gaze fixed on James, who stood silent by the other side of the table.
The table. It was spread with food, nearly a dozen plates, bacon, eggs, ham, fresh-baked bread, a wooden tub of butter. Some of the meals were half consumed, several of them spilled over, a number of broken plates on the floor
, food trampled underneath.
For a few seconds he found himself looking at the food on the brick floor, actually wondering what might be worth saving, and then he looked back to the table.
“A regular feast you’ve set out here,” he whispered to his mother, who hovered over him protectively, tears streaming down her face.
She didn’t reply. She ran her hands over his face, again feeling his forehead, as she slipped off the strip of cloth under his chin and removed his hat. She looked at the hat with disgust, the look of a mother whose boy had just come in after a day of play and was covered with muck, and let it fall to the floor.
“Who is the meal for?” he asked again. “For us, perhaps?”
“The Hessians quartered twelve men here,” his father interjected.
“I see. And you clearly were feeding them well.”
“Jonathan, we had to!”
“Obviously.”
The room began to swim before his eyes. It was warm, far too warm.
“William, he’s burning with fever,” his mother gasped.
His father stepped closer, putting a hand on his forehead.
“Let’s get some dry clothes on you first, my boy,” and as he spoke he took hold of the muzzle of the musket, as if to take it away.
“No!” Jonathan snapped, and clenched the weapon tight, gaze still fixed on James.
“Where’s Allen?” he asked sharply.
James looked at his father.
“Where is he?”
No one spoke.
“Allen. Where is he?”
There eyes, shifting back and forth, told him everything. He motioned to the trapdoor that led down to the basement larder.
“Tell him to come up. He has nothing to fear.”
“You’ll give him protection?” his mother asked.
Jonathan sat back against the wall and actually laughed softly.
“My oldest brother? My protector? Tell him to come up.”
James did not move, and Jonathan felt a momentary burst of pity.
“You know, James, deserters have been shot in our army. And you deserted.”
“My God, Jonathan,” his father cried. “You wouldn’t——”
Jonathan shook his head wearily. “The fact that my brother is a coward is safe with me. I won’t tell and bring shame upon our name. He has to live with it now, not me.”
James bristled at the word “coward,” but said nothing.
“Now get Allen out of that damn larder room.”
The sound of battle outside was rising in intensity, and he wondered if he should leave this place and get back into the fight, but all his strength had drained out of him. All he could do was sit and stare as his brother went to the far end of the room, opened the trapdoor, and called out Allen’s name.
As the head and shoulders of his oldest brother appeared, Jonathan felt a deep sickness welling up in him, and for a few seconds he feared he might vomit.
Allen was wearing a Loyalist uniform.
The freezing storm was peaking, as was the battle being fought in its murky confusion.
The Americans charging down into the village pressed forward with a wild fury. The road was wreathed in smoke. There were flashes of light from guns firing, the wind at Washington’s right shoulder and back whipping the smoke and the noise away so that the drama was played out in near silence.
Sullivan’s men were halfway into the town, disappearing into alleyways, reappearing again, relentlessly pushing forward, driving the blue-clad Hessians, who ran before them in mad panic. Storming in from the east end of the town, a jumbled mix of men, Mercer’s Virginians, and his own headquarters company charged down King and Queen Streets. Never had General George Washington seen his men go forward like this. Never. They charged like men possessed. “To take on the aspect of a tiger . . .” He wasn’t sure who had written that, but at this moment it fit. His men did indeed race into the battle like tigers.
Throughout the long cold night of confusion, agony, and doubts, his heart had been burdened with the great fear, that at dawn, upon approaching this village, arrayed to greet him would be three elite, well-drilled, warm, and rested regiments of the enemy, waiting and ready.
They were among the most feared troops in the world, some of them veterans of the armies of Frederick of Prussia. Men who regardless of losses, if given but a few minutes to form ranks, would rally into their precise lines and with clocklike precision lash out at any who dared to approach sending four terrible volleys a minute crashing into any troops who ventured into range.
He had worried that these formidable professionals would be waiting and that at the sight of them his men——frozen, hungry, numbed beyond exhaustion, hearts filled with memories of so many defeats——would be paralyzed by fear, indecision, and hopelessness. Then, with the first shattering volleys, they would turn about and run, as they had run so many times before, not because they were cowards, but because so much had been asked of them. And once they began to run, the Revolution would indeed be finished, for there would be no place to run to, other than toward the ferry where relentless pursuers would run them down and slaughter them mercilessly.
He had led his army to this place, fully resolved that if fate decreed it thus, he would die this day. There would be no ignominious capture such as General Lee seemed so ready to accept. No, never that. To be paraded before his captors, to be mocked and scorned, then taken to General Howe. Howe was, of course, a gentleman. He would prevent public humiliation once in British hands, but there would be humiliation, nevertheless, with demands to sign a final article of surrender. After his refusal, perhaps at least the offer of protection for Martha, also perhaps for some of his men if they now laid down arms, then on to England and the gallows.
When he had contemplated that [and the thoughts had haunted him throughout the long night], he had made his decision. If all was indeed lost, he would ride straight at the enemy line and seek a death befitting a soldier. The pagan practices of the Romans, no matter how honorable, of falling upon one’s own sword no longer fit this world, but a well-aimed volley by a Hessian line would achieve the same end——death with honor.
“Sir, they’re trying to break out.”
Stirred from his thoughts, he looked up to see General Greene riding up the slope, coming from the south side of the town, pointing toward the village.
He did not need to be told twice. In the center of the town a knot of troops was attempting to array into column on the narrow streets, several flags among them, standing out stiffly in the tempest, the column heading south.
A six-pounder fired by his side, the flight of the ball impossible to trace. Three other guns fired seconds later, dropping solid shot and howitzer shells into the far end of the town. Behind him Greene’s men continued to run past at the double, with little semblance of order, a surging mass of men, leaning forward, slipping on the icy ground, faces drawn, eyes afire, summoning up one last burst of strength, their passage marked by their bloody footprints on the ice.
“Then we shall stop them!”
He reined about, the ever-present Billy Lee by his side. A momentary glance, and he could see his servant, his companion of years, smiling, pistol in his hand, as eager as any of the others to get into the fray.
He turned to look for Knox. He had been down at the edge of the village when last he saw him. No time to find him now and pass orders, nor any need to at this moment, for Knox knew what to do. He would keep pounding with his artillery and driving men in from the east end of the town to close the vise.
Washington urged his mount to a gallop, shards of ice flying from under his horse’s hooves, maneuvering down the gentle slope, swinging to one side to avoid trampling a knot of men who had slipped and fallen and were now tangled up with each other.
He rode past them, half standing in his stirrups, sword raised.
“Forward, boys! We’ve got them now. Forward!”
An orchard was before him. There a regiment of troops,
lining up under a Massachusetts flag, was forming a volley line on the east side of bare apple trees.
At the sight of their General riding by, a ragged cheer arose.
He saluted. “We’ve got them now, lads. Get ready and give it to them!”
Behind the Massachusetts men the rest of Greene’s division continued at the run, deploying across the open field that curved around the south end of town down toward Assunpink Creek.
It was so clearly evident now that yet another part of his plan had not worked. The men of Cadwalader’s New Jersey militia were supposed to have crossed before dawn and deployed on the far side of the creek to block escape and to prevent the small enemy garrison in the village of Bordentown, five miles further south, from coming up to bring relief to Trenton. There was not a single man in position. Why, he did not know. Now was not the time to worry about it. Greene, so reliable this morning, as if redeeming himself for his failure at Fort Lee, was already seeing to this gap, pushing his thousand men out and around in an arc.
An advance guard of Greene’s men were plunging into the creek, waist deep, holding muskets and cartridge boxes over their heads, braving ice-choked water again to get to the far side and set up a blocking force.
He slowed for a moment, watching them, emotion all but overwhelming him at the sight.
They had braved the Delaware, staggered through Jacob’s Creek, endured a night march of freezing hell, and now, again, driven forward by this fury, were wading another freezing stream, in places having to break through a crust of ice. Several men were slipping and falling, floundering, comrades reaching out to pull numbed companions back up. Some of the men simply collapsed as they reached the far shore, unable to move. But others staggered on, deploying, getting in among bushes and trees on the bank of the stream, leveling muskets.
“Here they come!”
He looked to his right, the blast of the storm now in his face. The advantage Sullivan’s men had coming down from the north, with the storm at their back and in their enemies’ faces was reversed here, and he had to squint, leaning forward slightly.
To Try Men's Souls - George Washington 1 Page 28
