Prelude to Glory Vol, 3

by Ron Carter

  The picket opened the door and gestured Honeyman inside.

  Honeyman nodded and walked into the room that once had been the parlor, now converted to an office and waiting room. He took off his hat and approached the desk facing the door. The young lieutenant raised his head from a large ledger and waited for Honeyman to speak.

  “I got a receipt for two more cattle.”

  “What price?” The German accent was thick.

  “On contract. Same as always.”

  The lieutenant took the paper, checked the signature, and spoke to Honeyman without looking at him. “Wait.”

  Honeyman nodded and moved to a hard bench against the south wall, shoes sounding hollow on the hardwood floor. The bench creaked as he sat, and he waited until the young lieutenant was absorbed in working with quill and ink before he yawned and stretched, then leaned back. Casually he studied the large map on the wall behind the lieutenant, quickly memorizing names, locations, and numbers.

  The lieutenant used a key to open a metal box in a desk drawer and laid the paperwork on his desk while he recalled the word he needed. “Sign.”

  Honeyman walked to the desk, briefly scanned the paper, signed his name, and waited. The lieutenant put the voucher inside the metal box, counted out four coins, locked and replaced the box, then opened a second drawer and studied the contract. He stood and held out the coins to Honeyman. “Pay.” He took a breath while he struggled with the next words, hating the struggle of speaking in English. “More later?”

  Honeyman put the money in a leather purse, stuffed it into his trouser pocket, and nodded, then held up three fingers as he spoke. “Three more.”

  “Good ones?”

  “Angus. Good. More in January.”

  The lieutenant nodded. “Talk later.”

  Honeyman nodded in agreement, then tapped himself on the chest and pointed south. “Stay tonight. Same price?”

  The lieutenant nodded, and Honeyman drew one of the two smaller coins he had brought from home from his pocket and handed it to the lieutenant, who dropped it into the money box and spoke.

  “Tell Captain Schultz. You stay. Old Barracks.”

  Honeyman bobbed his head. “Thank you.” He turned on his heel and walked out into the late afternoon sunlight, where the old sorrel horse stood at the hitching post, head down, half-asleep, one hind leg cocked. Honeyman smiled at the picket by the front door, untied the bridle reins and mounted, then paused for one moment as he realized that the only two cannon he had seen in town were the two now before him, in front of the headquarters building.

  The horse plodded down King Street once more, past the Old Barracks building to the rear entrance, where Honeyman stopped at the door to knock.

  “I stay. One night.”

  The sergeant nodded indifferently and pointed to the horse pens.

  Honeyman led the horse into the nearest of the three large pens, stripped the saddle, blanket, and bridle, and watched the jaded animal wearily work its way through the herd to the water tank. He carried his gear back outside the pen, closed and latched the gate, and climbed the fence to peer over the top rail. With the practiced eye of a stockman he counted the horses by threes, in all the pens. One hundred eighty-eight head. He marked the number in his mind, walked to stow his gear in the tack shed, then climbed the stairs to the second floor of the barracks building and put his blanket and pillow on a bunk against the south wall, beneath a window.

  Supper was boiled beef and cabbage with hard, dark bread. Finished, he followed some Hessian soldiers out into the frigid night air, up to the Oak Tree tavern. He used his last coin from home to pay for a pint of hot spiced cider, took his change and his steaming pewter mug, and settled onto a stool at a small table in the corner.

  The soldiers ordered dark beer, and as the evening wore on, their tongues loosened with each succeeding pint. They became loud in singing the drinking songs of their homeland, then boistrous and profane in their cursing of the German army in general and their officers and current duty in particular. Honeyman nursed his hot cider, eyes half-closed, appearing to be absorbed in his own problems, while he listened intently, piecing together what he could of the half-German, half-English exchanges in the confusion of the tavern.

  The daily patrols up and down the Delaware River ordered by Rall were stupid—the American patrols every morning and evening were cowardly—hiding behind trees, shooting from ambush—Rall moving the two cannon up and down King Street with fife and drum every day as a show of strength was utter idiocy—German girls were far superior to colonial girls—if Rall would spend as much time taking command as he did drinking half the night and sleeping it off in the morning they could do some soldiering—build fortifications—defenses for the village—the weather was bound to get worse—up north past Riegelsville a cold snap had frozen eighteen inches of ice on the river—military food wasn’t fit—the German Christmas celebration was coming—holiday—no duty for a day—drinking—cards—carousing—a break from the misery and grinding monotony—a toast to Christmas—and another toast to Christmas.

  The dregs in Honeyman’s cider mug were cold when he followed the last German soldiers out of the tavern into the starry night, their boots crunching in the frozen mud and slush as they trudged back down King Street to the barracks.

  The morning reveille drum came rattling in the six o’clock gray. At seven o’clock, with the skiff of high clouds in the eastern sky shot through with red and yellow from the rising sun, Honeyman turned his horse north on King Street. A little past one in the afternoon he reined the old sorrel in at the feed pen of his home, racked the saddle, bridle, and blanket in the milking barn, threw a forkload of hay into the manger, and walked to meet the children as they came running to throw their arms about his waist.

  At seven o’clock two mornings later he stood in the kitchen, drew Hannah close and held her for a moment, then each of the children, before he walked out to the horse, already saddled and waiting, with the three Angus steers on lead ropes tied to the feed pen. At a little after eleven o’clock he stopped at Eight Mile Run to let the horse and the three Angus steers water while he ate cheese and meat and bread. At half past one he pulled the big horse to a stop less than one mile from the junction of Princeton Road and Quaker Lane. For a time he sat the old horse while his eyes scoured the orchard and cornfield ahead to his left, then the road straight ahead, as the three Angus steers milled about, throwing their heads against the restraint of the lead ropes. There was nothing moving on the road, or in the orchard or cornfield. He checked his pocket to be certain he had the usual two coins, and an old, crumpled copy of a receipt from cattle delivered to the Hessians six weeks earlier.

  He moved past the junction of Princeton Road and Quaker Lane, on past Queen, then King Streets, and angled back to the northwest on the old Scotch Road, turned back to his left, southwest on the Ferry Road, down to the River Road that paralleled the Delaware. He turned right once again, moving northwest with the Delaware River in sight to his left. He passed the Hermitage on his left, continued one mile, and again pulled the horse to a stop and dismounted. He led one of the steers into the brush and trees and willows along the riverbank and tied it to a tree, then returned to the horse. Forty minutes later he rode past the Old Barracks building and stopped at the rear entrance and knocked on the door. A captain appeared and eyed Honeyman for a moment before he remembered him.

  “Ja?”

  Honeyman pointed and spoke, watching the Hessian’s eyes to be certain he understood. “Two more beef. Lost number three. Down by the river, west. Leave two here, and go catch the third one. Now. Before dark.”

  He penned the steers and coiled the two lead ropes and tied them to the saddle, then rummaged through the tack shed until he found a whip with a five-foot stock and a twelve-foot lash. Three minutes later Honeyman raised the old horse to a lumbering, rough trot, headed west on Second Street towards the River Road with the whip clutched in his right hand. Once again, he passed the Hermi
tage and ten minutes later left the River Road, watching sharp as he plowed through the willows and brush that grew heavy as he approached the Delaware. He stopped the horse twenty feet short of the black steer and it lunged and bawled, the whites of its eyes showing as it set its legs stiff against the taut rope.

  Honeyman dismounted, tied the reins together, and threw them back over the horse’s head, then walked towards the steer. The big horse’s head came up, startled, questioning at being left saddled, unhobbled, and untied. The steer bawled again and threw its head from side to side as Honeyman worked down the rope, talking low. He reached the halter and quickly released the jaw strip as the animal reared back and jerked free, backing up, not knowing what to do with its sudden freedom. Then it turned and kicked its hocks high as it plunged away from Honeyman, rattling the brush and thick willows.

  Honeyman coiled the lead rope and halter and gave the animal a fifty-yard lead before he started after it, trotting, shouting, cracking the whip like a pistol shot in the fading light of late afternoon. The frightened steer turned away from the river and trotted out into the open, ears pricked, head high and swinging from side to side, lost, bewildered. Honeyman followed, stumbling on the uneven, frozen ground, whip popping as he called again and again. The steer crossed the River Road into an open field and Honeyman followed.

  He was twenty yards past the road when he saw the mounted riders a quarter mile farther north, up the road, moving towards him at an easy lope. In the mid-afternoon sunlight he stopped to stare at them, panting from his run, vapor rising from his face. At one hundred yards he shouted to them, “Head that steer! I’ll pay you!”

  The riders smacked their spurs to their horses and came at him at a full gallop. At fifty yards he saw the muskets slung on their backs with the bayonets pointing upward, and he turned to run as hard as he could, slipping on the crusted, uneven ice and snow. They caught up to him, one on each side, and knocked him to the ground and one dived onto him, then the other. He got his knees under his body and threw them off and ran, and again they caught him. They threw him down and one quickly used the lead rope he carried to tie him, hand and foot, while the other one threw the whip away.

  He strained against the ropes while the two men sat for a moment, panting to catch their breath, one licking knuckles that were torn and bleeding from being driven against frozen earth and ice in their brief battle, while the other one roughly went through Honeyman’s pockets. He jerked out the two coins and the crumpled receipt. He smoothed the worn paper and read. He lowered the paper and raised his eyes.

  “John Honeyman?”

  Honeyman strained against the ropes, then turned hot on the man nearest him. “Who are you? Robbers? You want the money? Take it. It’s all I’ve got.”

  The man rose to his feet, voice filled with anger. “You’re under arrest in the name of General George Washington and the Continental army of the United States.”

  Honeyman’s mouth dropped open for a second. “You’re soldiers? Where’re your uniforms?”

  The man wiped a grimy sleeve across his mouth. “I lost mine at Long Island.” He jerked Honeyman to his feet, still tied. “You’re going across the river.”

  “Why?” he cried. “I’m a Patriot. I’m on your side.”

  The man paused and thrust his face close to Honeyman’s, and his eyes were flashing as he thrust the yellow receipt under Honeyman’s nose. “You’re the Tory that’s been delivering beef to feed the Hessians at Trenton—six or eight head this month, just like the one you were chasing today. There’s a few men on the other side of the river that would like to talk to you before we hang you.”

  He loosened the lead rope from Honeyman’s feet and cut it just below his bound wrists. He fashioned a noose and slipped it over Honeyman’s head and handed the rope end up to the other soldier who had caught their horses and was now beside them, mounted.

  He spoke to Honeyman as he mounted his own horse. “You can make a break any time you want and save us the trouble of hanging you later.” He drew a pistol from his saddle holster and leveled it at Honeyman’s head at near point-blank range. “And should the noose fail, I won’t.” He reined his horse around and started north, Honeyman forced to trot to keep up.

  The sun was reaching for the western rim when they turned southwest towards McKonkey’s Ferry and it was half-gone when the two soldiers docked their boat on the Pennsylvania side of the Delaware and walked their prisoner into the American camp. Five minutes later the two troopers were led by a captain to Washington’s headquarters at the east end of camp in the two-story stone home of William Keith. The picket at the door stopped them, staring at Honeyman.

  “For what purpose does the captain approach?”

  “We’ve captured a Tory who has information about Trenton. The general will want to know.”

  The picket considered. “I’ll advise the general’s aide.” He rapped on the door and waited, then rapped again, and seconds later it opened. A major in full uniform stood in the doorway, puzzled at the sight of Honeyman, clothing dirtied from the fight in the snowy field, hands tied. He waited for the picket to speak.

  “Sir, the captain says this man is a Tory. Might know about Trenton.”

  The major looked at the captain. “You sure of this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he have a name?”

  “John Honeyman.” He handed the Hessian receipt to the major.

  The major read it and shrugged. “Wait here. I’ll tell the general.” He turned on his heel and closed the door against the freezing air and returned to open it two minutes later. “You will bring the prisoner in. The general wishes to speak to you.”

  The captain blinked in surprise. “All of us?”

  “Yes.”

  The captain followed the major down the hall with Honeyman behind and then the two soldiers. Their boots clumped on the polished hardwood floor and the sound was strange in the silence of the building. The major stopped at a door, straightened his tunic, and rapped.

  “Enter.” The voice was restrained.

  The major swung the heavy door open. “Sir, the prisoner is here with the men who captured him.”

  “Bring them in.”

  The major led and the five men lined up before Washington’s heavy oak desk. The room was average sized, furnished with solid but not costly appointments, with a great stone fireplace behind Washington. His uniform was clean, proper, long hair pulled back and tied behind. Tall, sitting erect, his face was clouded, dark, chin set like granite, bluegray eyes boring into Honeyman. He held up the crumpled receipt. “Is this yours?”

  Honeyman’s words came hot. “These men took that from me, and my money. They had no right!”

  “You’re John Honeyman?”

  Honeyman clamped his mouth shut and stared defiantly back at Washington.

  Washington shifted his eyes to the two soldiers, their tattered clothing still showing the dirt and stains of the fight in the field and the bloodied knuckles of the soldier on Honeyman’s right. “You caught this man?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What made you think he is a Tory?”

  “He’s been delivering beef to the Hessians for months. We seen him. That receipt proves it. That’s what he was doing today.”

  Slowly Washington laid the incriminating receipt in the center of his desk as his eyes narrowed. “Leave him here. I want to talk to him alone.”

  The major gaped. “You want us to leave you here alone with this man?”

  “Yes. If he comes out of this room before I call for you, shoot him.”

  The astonished major squared his shoulders. “Yes, sir.” He led the captain and the two soldiers into the austere hallway and closed the door, eyebrows still arched in surprise.

  Washington waited until he heard boots fading in the hallway, then quickly stood and circled the desk where he untied Honeyman’s hands. Honeyman began rubbing the circulation back into his wrists.

  “Are you all right? Hurt?” />
  Honeyman shook his head. “All right.”

  “We haven’t much time. What have you learned?”

  “Do you have a map of Trenton?”

  Washington hurried to his side of the desk, unrolled a large map and anchored the four corners with leather pouches filled with buckshot. Honeyman leaned over it, studying for a moment before he began.

  “The British have men camped here”—he pointed and shifted his finger from place to place as he spoke—”at Perth Amboy, Brunswick, Princeton, Trenton, Bordentown, Burlington. Fourteen hundred at Trenton under Colonel Rall. Johann Gottlieb Rall. He has a couple of officers in his command, one named Knyphausen and one named Lossberg. A Colonel von Donop is down here at Bordentown and has command of all the troops south of Princeton, including Rall’s command at Tenton, and they’re all Germans. Hessians.”

  He paused for a moment. “Rall’s a fighter, but he’s no commander. He parades every day but hasn’t turned one shovelful of dirt to dig trenches or build fortifications to defend Trenton. I saw only two cannon in town, both right in front of his headquarters, here on King Street”—he pointed—”and he has his men parade them to the top of King Street every morning with fife and drum as a show of force.”

  Again he paused to shake his head in disgust.

  Washington interrupted. “How do you know about their troop placements and the numbers and commanders?”

  “Saw them on a big map while I was waiting for my money in Rall’s anteroom last Thursday.”

  Washington nodded and Honeyman went on.

  “Rall’s a heavy drinker and his men know it. He drinks late at night and sleeps it off in the mornings. Sometimes he’s still in bed at ten o’clock. His troops condemn him for it. Morale’s low. The Hessian soldiers don’t know why they don’t cross the river right now and take your camp and get it over. They’re looking forward to the German Christmas celebration—a day free of duty—drinking—gambling—anything to break the monotony.”