by Jeff Shaara
“Rest your bones, gentlemen. This journey is not yet over. We will be moving out in the morning. I suggest you find something to eat.”
He could hear small moans, had no patience for complaining, stepped gingerly toward the headquarters, sharp pains in both hips. The doorway was alive with firelight, and he thought of food, but there were no smells, the evening meal long past. He straightened himself, waited for the stoic guards to open the door. The bagpipes behind him were drowned out by music of a different kind now, from inside the headquarters. He could hear a violin and bad singing, and not all of it from men. He stepped inside, was surprised at the festive mood, men around a table, several bottles emptied, a group of brightly dressed women gathered around a pair of musicians. The music stopped, and the voices grew quiet, and he brushed at the dust on his disheveled uniform, was in no mood for pleasantries. He saw Grant, the older man sitting tall in a chair, looking at him with a strained smile. Grant suddenly rose, said, “Ah, General Cornwallis, welcome. Forgive me, sir, but you appear to be in need of a rather stiff beverage.”
Cornwallis felt his weariness giving way to annoyance.
“No, General Grant, I do not require any beverage.” The word came out of him with a spitting hiss. “I did not expect to find a party. It is certainly not in my honor. Whose honor might it be? A memorial for Colonel Rall perhaps? General de Heister? Or perhaps you would have us salute the man who brought so many of us back out here? Would that be General Washington?” There was complete silence, and he saw Grant’s expression change, regretted his outburst, No, there is no need to shame the man.
Grant motioned to the women.
“Ladies, you will excuse us. The musicians may leave.”
There were disappointed protests from the women, but they obeyed, and the dresses swirled past Cornwallis, a cloud of perfume engulfing him. Grant waited for the room to clear.
“General, if you feel it is appropriate, then I offer my apologies. This may seem to be a party, only because there has been a considerable brightening of spirit in this camp. Over the past two days, the arrival of the reinforcements has brought a new vigor to these proceedings. Not a man here fails to see that there will be a considerable and inevitable turnabout, a glorious reversal in the affairs of this past week.”
It was the speech of a man accustomed to giving speeches. Cornwallis looked around the room, familiar faces all, Leslie giving him a small self-conscious nod. He moved to a chair, sat slowly, a stab of pain in his back, blinked hard, fought the dust in his eyes, said, “I have had an exceptionally tiresome day. It would not be prudent of any one of you to ask my particular view toward the affairs of this past week.”
He could see Grant deflate now, and the man seemed to slump as he sat. Cornwallis thought, No, do not worry, General, I did not come here to censure you. “Do we know the disposition and strength of the rebel forces? Where exactly is Mr. Washington?”
No one spoke, and he could see faces turning toward Grant. Cornwallis wiped at his face with dirty gloves, said, “Do you have a report for me, General Grant?”
“I can only relate to you what our scouts have determined, sir. The rebels have occupied Trenton and seem content to remain there. They have made forays toward our position, capturing a miniscule amount of supplies, wagons and whatnot, but of no consequence. I do not know, precisely, where Mr. Washington may be found.”
Cornwallis heard the familiar tone in Grant’s voice, the arrogant dismissal of Washington, thought, Hardly the time, General. He felt a cavernous hole in his stomach, the exhaustion of the day blossoming into an overwhelming desire for a simple plate of bread and meat.
“I require some rest, gentlemen, thus I will be brief. Tomorrow morning, this army will advance in column toward Trenton. We will confront whatever defensive position the rebels have constructed. If Mr. Washington chooses to remain on this side of the river, his army will be annihilated. Good evening, gentlemen.”
Cornwallis stood slowly, and around the room, the others stood as well. He turned toward the door, was suddenly frozen in place by Grant’s booming voice.
“Quite so, sir! Let us sweep up this rabble once and for all! They are certainly no match for us! I shall enjoy seeing Mr. Washington wearing a rope!”
Cornwallis looked at Grant’s purposeful grin, fought the words in his mind, wanted to wipe away the man’s arrogance, thought, That rabble has just given us a thorough thrashing, and you have already forgotten? He sorted out his words, said, “Let us not dwell on what should be, General. Let us use the means we have at hand, and make it so. Whether or not Mr. Washington is a match for this army is still to be determined. I intend to find out.”
The march began early, and immediately they were confronted by musket fire from carefully hidden defenses. Across every creek bed the ground had been littered with cut trees, and in every narrow pass the woods held marksmen. As the army inched its way closer to Trenton, the resistance became more organized, stronger, rebel earthworks concealing well-placed cannon, entire companies of riflemen chasing the British skirmishers back to their main column. Over each hill, past each patch of woods, the constant pressure from the rebels had to be met, and Cornwallis was forced to spread the army into a line of battle. Each time they would push forward with bayonets ready, only to find the rebels vanishing in front of them. The regiments would assemble again into the column of march, only to hear another burst of musket fire. By the time they reached Trenton, it was after dark. The ten-mile march had taken over ten hours.
The dragoons had spread out through the streets of Trenton, harassed only by the occasional sniper. His staff was nervous, but Cornwallis pushed ahead, saw to the placing of the army, the wider streets giving them room to make camp. He would not be as careless as Rall, would not scatter his cannon in useless display, but kept the guns together, their crews ready to move on short notice, anywhere they were needed.
There had been a brisk fight along Assunpink Creek, and the main body of the army was still facing the enemy on the far side, separated by a short span of icy water. With artillery on both sides covering one bridge it was a standoff for the moment, neither side wanting to venture into a difficult fight in the dark.
He eased his horse down narrow streets, the staff carrying no lantern, no target for a marksman. He could not see the condition of the houses, and it didn’t matter after all. It was a town already trampled by two armies, and surely the rebels had abused what the Hessians did not destroy.
There was a sharp whine, and down a side street the smashing of wood and glass. Yes, of course you will drop your iron, just enough to keep us on edge, to lose us some sleep. He knew the name, Knox, the rotund bookseller from Boston. How is it you know your artillery? But then, your entire army is made up of men like you. A gun in one hand, and a military manual in the other. How in God’s name could the Hessians have allowed you such an advantage?
Couriers were riding past him, reporting the troop placements to his staff, the men speaking in low whispers. He could make out a line of soldiers forming close to the creek, and he nudged the side of his horse, rode that way. Past a double line of crouching soldiers he could see the ground fall away to black water, and farther down, he could see the bridge that had been such an object of contention. He knew the soldiers were waiting for orders, that if he decided to engage the rebels again, they would surge ahead, right down into the water. He stopped the horse, heard low voices, the officers’, saw another line of men adding to the strength. Across the creek, the skyline was lit by a long row of rebel campfires, the reflection on the faces of the British troops who stared at them. He felt himself shiver, thought, A crossing here will be difficult even in daylight. They fought to a stalemate today. In the dark, nothing good can be accomplished, and these men already know that. Those who have just arrived are too exhausted even to try.
He stared at the distant campfires, could hear the sound of shovels, axes, the rebels strengthening their defense. Yes, Mr. Washington, you know th
at as well. But behind you is a wide river, and unless you have all your boats, you aren’t going anywhere at all. He turned the horse, surprising his aides, said, “I wish to see General Grant. I must learn what the scouts have to say.”
The windows were covered in black cloth, hiding the headquarters from the continuing annoyance of the rebel cannon. Grant was laying out a map, and Cornwallis moved around the small table, pointed to the creek, said, “Is there any one place more suited for a crossing? The bridge will be the focus of their artillery. How shallow is the water along this stretch, here?”
Grant looked to an aide, who stepped forward, said, “General, according to the men who fought there today, there are depths to a man’s chest along most of the creek. Some more shallow areas, of course, but we do not have the exact locations.”
There was a knock at the door, it opened slightly, and one of Grant’s aides held a black cloth up to shield the lantern. A voice from outside said, “Excuse me, sirs. Scout’s arrived.”
Grant motioned, and quickly the man was inside, the door closing behind him. Cornwallis was studying the map, saw the scout’s face, unfamiliar, was surprised to see the gray hair of a veteran. The scout was wide-eyed, seemed surprised by the presence of Cornwallis, said, “Sirs! Forgive the interruption. I have just returned from the river just north of town. We have scouted up that direction for a good bit. We ran into a bit of a flurry, rather like stumbling over a bee’s nest. No casualties though, sir. Even their squirrel hunters can’t shoot in the dark. But sir, the rebels have got their boats under pretty strong guard.”
Cornwallis absorbed the word.
“Boats? You found the rebels’ boats?”
The man’s confidence seemed to wilt under Cornwallis’ stare, said, “Um . . . yes, sir. Quite. Just above the town.”
Cornwallis was skeptical.
“Do you mean that the rebels are separated from their boats? What of the river south of town?”
The scout showed no hesitation.
“No, sir. I was down the river myself when the artillery fire stopped. We were trying to find some route to get in behind the rebel position, slipped our way right out to the river proper. There are no boats there. They’re all upriver, sir.”
Cornwallis felt a surge of enthusiasm, looked at Grant, said, “General, can you tell me how the rebels might escape across the river, if we are between their men and their boats?”
Grant understood, was smiling now, said, “No, sir. I cannot.”
Behind him, another man spoke. “General, it is our best chance! We can take it to them right now!”
There were murmurs of agreement, and Cornwallis looked around the room, saw that the comment had come from his quartermaster.
“Thank you for your suggestion, Mr. Erskine.” Grant was looking at him with the same hopefulness, and Cornwallis rubbed his hands together, said, “Gentlemen, they cannot reach their boats tonight. There is no need for haste. Crossing the Assunpink Creek will be a deadly affair in the dark, and there is no point in distressing the troops so severely. This army needs its rest. We will be fresh in the morning.”
He was feeling the spirit now, the first time in a long while, the sense that finally something good would happen. They were a long way from New York, from General Howe, from the politics and foppery of the city. Out here it was army against army, strength against strength, and when the sun came up, they would have their confrontation. It was all he had hoped for, and it was coming to pass from an unexpected surprise. This time it was Washington who had made the mistake. He looked at the map, ran his finger around the rebel position, the campfires, tried to imagine the desperation of those men as they dug their earthworks, the utter terror of what they would face in the morning. He smiled, thought of Washington. You have backed yourself into a dangerous and desperate position, and now you will pay the price. He looked around the room, could see the optimism, their excitement building with his.
“Gentlemen, we have him. We finally have him. Tomorrow morning, we shall bag the fox.”
16. WASHINGTON
JANUARY 3, 1777
Joseph reed had put his embarrassment aside and agreed to return to headquarters, and Washington would make no comment about the man’s indiscretions with Charles Lee. Reed’s response to Washington’s generosity was to take responsibility for leading a scouting party in the direction of Princeton. Reed had a home in Trenton, knew the land and the roadways, and if the army was to find the means of escaping Cornwallis’ certain attack, Reed was certain he could find it.
The council of war had been a quiet affair, no one obsessed with his own glory, every senior commander aware that the army was facing a serious dilemma. They could not remain behind Assunpink Creek in the face of the strength Cornwallis brought against them. Despite the good work of the men with the shovels, if the British succeeded in crossing the creek, the boats could not be brought down quickly enough to make an escape. If Cornwallis pressed them hard against the river, Washington’s men would have nowhere to go.
The Assunpink Creek wound its way farther inland and gradually grew more shallow, cutting through woods and farmlands where the maps were incomplete. But Reed had made his own sketch, the route to a narrow trail that paralleled the Post Road to Princeton. The scouting party had picked their way back from Princeton without confronting a single British soldier. If Cornwallis was even aware of the trail, no one in the British camp had taken care to patrol it. Reed estimated the British had only three regiments still in Princeton, around twelve hundred men, and beyond, their enormous supply depot at Brunswick was barely defended. If the army could push another night march, the surprise might overwhelm both positions and put Cornwallis in a serious hole.
For several days, the weather had been mild, a thaw that muddied the roads, but this night, when darkness came the winter returned, and temperatures plunged again. When the ground began to harden, Washington knew that the men and the cannon would have a much easier march. A little after midnight, the army slipped away from the fortifications behind Assunpink Creek and began to follow Reed’s trail. The wheels of the cannon had been wrapped in cloth, and every man knew that before the hard cold dawn, they would need absolute quiet.
Behind Assunpink Creek, Washington had ordered four hundred men to continue their noisy work all night long, stoking the campfires, clanging their shovels against the stumps of cut trees, all a very good show of an army digging itself in. Just before the first light, they too would follow the trail away from their hard work, their mission accomplished. If the plan was successful, Cornwallis would still bombard the earthworks, would still send his men swarming through the chilly waters of the Assunpink. On the crest of the long rise, Washington’s campfires would still be smoldering, but the trenches would be empty.
He rode in the still darkness, trying to remember his words that had inspired the men to stay with the army, but his memory was a fog, the only vivid picture in his mind the single veteran who led them forward. Around him, the soldiers marched as they had marched down to Trenton, each man holding himself in the road by keeping close to the man in front of him. But the soldiers were exhausted beyond anything they had experienced before, and at each pause in the march, men would simply collapse where they stood, others falling asleep while still on their feet. Behind them, more troops would be marching still, and the collision would jar them all into sudden alarm. The sudden surprises were not all harmless. Far back in the column the silence had been shattered by a sudden wave of shouting, and Washington had ridden back to find that Cadwalader’s militia had suddenly panicked, a bizarre rumor spreading through the men that they were suddenly surrounded by the Hessians they had once pursued. The outburst had slowed the march, but the panic was mostly contained, only a few men disappearing into the night, chased by a nightmare that might pursue them all the way to Philadelphia.
As the army drew closer to Princeton, Washington could not keep the daylight away, and as at Trenton, the march took longer than he had pla
nned. The last two miles would find the army bathed in stark rising sunlight, a brisk cold windless day. But there had been no sign at all of British soldiers, no patrol, no scouts. As the men continued their slow shuffle along the narrow trail, hidden from the vast rolling fields, he was feeling the mix of excitement and relief, convinced that Cornwallis still had no idea where these troops had gone.
They moved through thick trees that ran alongside a narrow deep creek called Stony Brook. The creek ran straight up to the Post Road, where it flowed beneath a wooden bridge, a key barricade to slowing down any march by the British. He could see another road, turning away to the right, leading out into an open field, then dropping down into a long ravine. Washington stopped the horse, and Reed pointed.
“The back road. That will lead us south of the town.”
There was pride in Reed’s voice, and Washington nodded silently, thought, Every piece of information he has given me has been accurate. Sullivan’s division was already following Reed’s map, the column marching toward the ravine, and behind Sullivan came one of Greene’s brigades, commanded by Hugh Mercer. Mercer was actually a doctor, another of the old veterans, a crusty Scotsman Washington had known since the French and Indian War.
It was no accident that Mercer was now beside him, that he had been given the most important assignment of the mission. Mercer was to lead a force of three hundred fifty men straight up the Stony Brook, and destroy the bridge over the Post Road. Once the bridge was gone, it would be a simple matter for marksmen to seriously delay any British crossing, whether it be a retreat by the troops in Princeton or the sudden appearance of Cornwallis, who would certainly move quickly once Washington’s escape was revealed.
