by Ron Carter
Ten minutes later Washington rapped the table and they took their seats. Washington drew a small piece of paper from the valise and waited for complete silence.
“Does any man here not understand his assignment?”
Heads turned to look up and down the table, but there was no sound, nor did any hands go up.
Washington nodded approval. “Now there are some general orders that apply to each command.” He glanced down at the piece of paper. “First, I will be with General Greene’s command until we reach Birmingham. After that I will be where I’m needed most. Next, the time and the order in which your commands will get into the boats is written in your orders. It is imperative that each of you be across the river and ready to execute your orders by five o’clock Thursday morning because the main attack force coming down the Scotch and Pennington Roads will have no way to know if you’re in place, and they’ll begin the attack no matter what happens. Be absolutely certain you are not late.”
He glanced at the paper. “Each of you will leave behind the sick and disabled in your command to take care of your camp. Tomorrow those fit will be allowed to rest from all usual activities to be well rested. No drill, no wood detail. With help from Robert Morris, food has arrived before dawn this morning and the cooks are cooking it, as you know. Each man is to have three days of cooked rations, a blanket, and forty rounds of ammunition. I have sent an express rider to Doctor Shippen at Bethlehem asking him and his entire staff to come give us medical help during this campaign. I believe he will come.”
He slowed and his voice became intense.
“Excepting only yourselves, no one in any command is to know the details of this attack until we are gathered on the riverbank ready to cross.”
He paused to let it settle in. “The commands of Generals Sullivan and Greene will be met on the other side of the river by local Patriots who know the land and will act as our guides, and will put out all lights at Birmingham and proceed on south in full darkness and absolute silence.” Again he paused. “Anyone breaking the silence will be sent back under arrest. Anyone leaving ranks will be executed.”
He stopped and for a few moments ran his finger down the paper before him, then spoke again.
“Are there questions?”
General Hugh Mercer spoke. “What fortifications can we expect at Trenton? Trenches, breastworks, redoubts, cannon?”
Washington shook his head. “None.”
Mercer’s eyes widened. “Rall has done nothing to defend Trenton? On what information are we to believe that?”
“The most reliable. I can say no more.”
St. Clair leaned forward. “What about weather?”
Every man at the table looked at Washington. Crossing the iceladen river at night was fearful at best. To do it in a storm was unthinkable.
Washington set his jaw for a moment, then turned to Glover and waited in silence.
Glover did not hesitate. “The regiment’s seen bad weather before. We’ll get across.”
Every man at the table stared in surprise. The answer had come instantly, quietly, without reservation. They moved in their chairs, then settled as St. Clair spoke once more. “That storm coming in looks like a bad one.”
Glover nodded. “Looks like it is. A nor’easter.”
St. Clair was startled at the ease with which Glover spoke. “What happens if it doesn’t hit? We get a hard freeze instead?”
Glover shook his head. “I doubt that will happen. But if it does, we’ll deal with the ice any way we can.” There was no bravado, no arrogance in the little man. He spoke quietly, calmly.
Washington drew a large stack of papers from his valise and methodically divided them into three stacks. “Tomorrow, while your men are waiting to board the boats, have your officers read the marked article aloud to them.”
He pushed the three stacks down the table to Greene, Stirling, and Sullivan. Each read the words in bold print at the top of the first sheet, then looked at Washington in surprise. The document was a newspaper article entitled The American Crisis I taken from the Philadelphia newspaper, Pennsylvania Journal. Each officer remembered well General Washington’s orders that they read it within minutes of its arrival by special messenger December nineteenth. Most knew “Common Sense” was a pen name for Thomas Paine and that Paine had joined them and stayed doggedly with them in their headlong retreat across New Jersey.
Washington drew his watch from his vest pocket. “Gentlemen, it is imperative that our timepieces are coordinated. Would you please set your watches with mine.” He waited until each had his watch in his hand, stem drawn to set the hands. “In five seconds it will be ten-twenty-two.”
Each man instantly set his watch, wound the stem, checked it, then inserted it back into his vest pocket.
“This is the last time we will meet as a war council until this is over. If any of you have questions, or reservations of any kind, voice them now.”
He watched their eyes. None of them spoke, and few of them would return his direct gaze. For a moment a hollow, cold feeling rose inside, and he felt the deep loneliness known only to those in command who must take on their shoulders the crushing weight of ordering men into the black abyss of battle where they must kill or be killed. By force of iron will he straightened his spine and pushed past the pain, and in that moment a feeling surged through him that drove out the dark clouds of doubt and fear and filled him with a bright certainty. This was not his work, but that of the Almighty.
“Before we separate, there are two things remaining. I would count it a privilege, gentlemen, if you would honor me by allowing me to shake the hand of each of you with my deepest hope for your good fortune.”
He went around the table slowly, silently shaking each man’s hand. Every man drew strength from the firm grasp of his hand and the resolve of iron determination that flowed from him to embrace them, lift them.
He stopped for the last time at the head of the table. “Last, I give you the password for this operation. You will give it to your men as they board the boats. I have thought long and hard about what words would capture the moment. History is waiting to see if our dream of freedom lives to light the world, or dies on the banks of the river.”
He stopped and for a second battled for control.
“I pray to the Almighty that we will not fail Him. I have pledged Him my life in this effort.”
He waited until the room was silent before he finished. “The password is ‘Victory or Death.’ ”
Notes
The court-martial of Sergeant Bertram Pratt and the others is fictional, but it is included to illustrate how rapidly accusations of desertion were handled (see Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, p. 401).
Washington held his final war council regarding Trenton on December 24, 1776, at the home of Samuel Merrick. Supper was served before the room was cleared of all persons save for the officers who would be responsible for the attack on Trenton (see Ketchum, The Winter Soldiers, p. 245). The plan to take Trenton included dividing Washington’s forces into three separate sections, each to cross the Delaware River at a different time and place in the night. The battle plan, including the placement of the Hessian and American troops, as laid out in the novel is accurate, but for additional summaries, descriptions, and maps, see Ketchum’s The Winter Soldiers, pages 246-48, 257; Ward’s The War of the Revolution, vol. I, pages 293-94; and Smith’s The Battle of Trenton, pages 20-21, 32. An excellent source for the specific details of both the American and Hessian positions before the Trenton engagement is Stryker’s The Battles of Trenton and Princeton, pages 84-85, 92-97, 112-15.
A cartoon of General Knyphausen buttering his bread with his thumb can be found on page 154 of the 1973 edition of Ketchum’s The Winter Soldiers.
All officers set their watches by General Washington’s timepiece and the password selected by Washington was “Victory or Death” (see Ketchum, The Winter Soldiers, pp. 247, 252).
Princeton, New Jersey
CHAPTER VII
Stuck here in this forsaken hole called Princeton—army strung out for near two hundred miles—what? eight outposts? ten? We’re wasting time—rations—men—horseflesh—sending the Germans down to deal with Washington—Hessians—thieves—brutes—one thin cut ahead of outright barbarians—they stay much longer our own troops will fight them.
General James Grant, crude, dour, short, stocky, set his teeth on edge while he jammed the heel of his officer’s boot into the notch of the bootjack and heaved upward. His foot loosened and then came free and he raised his knee high to let the stiff, black leather topple over sideways to the chill, hardwood floor of his quarters. He shifted his feet to set the second boot in the notch, heaved upward once more, and let it topple. He leaned to pick them from the floor and toss them to the foot of his bed, then stood in his heavy gray woolen socks to work with the gold buttons on his white officer’s vest. While his thick fingers fumbled he glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel and drew a weary, irritated breath.
Thirteen miles—he’s down there just thirteen miles—his whole army more dead than alive. They’d last about ten minutes if we’d just gather up all our troops from these ridiculous outposts and go down there after him—all over—go home to England.
He tossed his vest on the bed beside his British officer’s tunic and sat down to pull at his socks. He paused for a moment to listen to the moan of the freezing wind at the windows.
Men bored out of their minds—starting to show—and where’s our leader? New York—chasing wine and women—one woman—the respectable Mrs. Joshua Loring—Elizabeth Loring—chasing her while he’s conveniently sent her husband as far away as he can in his government job—chasing her and waiting for that new red ribbon to be hung around his neck—waiting for the sword to touch him on both shoulders and make him a knight. King George ecstatic with Howe’s report—told only we won in New York—no one told him we could have ended it twice but Howe wouldn’t—dawdled around—equivocated—wouldn’t finish Washington when we had him trapped—rather keep this insanity going for another year or two—be sure he’ll have a place in history. He’ll have a place all right—the general who wouldn’t finish.
He had one long wool sock in his hand when he heard the rapid footsteps in the hallway and then the sharp rap on his door. He scowled, his shoulders slumped, and he barked, “Speak!”
His adjutant’s voice was too high, too excited. “Sir, that gentleman is downstairs. Says it’s urgent.”
Again Grant looked at the clock. Twenty minutes before ten o’clock. He exhaled through ballooned cheeks, battling the need to tell the man to get out and come back tomorrow, knowing he could not. “That gentleman” was one of his most effective informants, and by Grant’s direct orders, his name was never spoken. His appearance at nine-forty at night gave Grant pause.
“I’ll be down in five minutes.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll have him wait, sir.”
He pulled his sock back on, then his vest, and buttoned the bottom four buttons, but did not put on his officer’s tunic. He padded down the hall, then the stairs to the lower floor, and into the parlor where his informant stood, nervous, eyes quick, darting. He still wore a long black overcoat with a gray scarf looped and knotted around his neck.
Grant spoke abruptly. “What brings you here?”
The man did not sit. His eyes flitted to the adjutant, then back to Grant. “Sir, is there someplace we can talk?”
Grant turned on his heel and the informant followed, heels clicking up the stairs and hall. Grant closed the door and faced the man, waiting.
“Sir, I believe the rebels are planning a troop movement. Probably an attack on Trenton, and I believe it will be in the next one or two days.”
“What have you seen?”
“General Washington held a council of war two days ago. Then wagons came into camp with flour and salt meat and the cooks are cooking it to hand out, three days of rations to each man. Forty rounds of ammunition. Tonight the same council of officers met again and were still meeting when I left there at seven o’clock. It all points to one thing. They’re planning to attack, probably at Trenton.”
While he spoke, he was working his hat with his hands, pointing, gesturing.
“How will he cross the river?”
“He has boats. The big freight boats from Riegelsville.”
Grant shrugged. “He’s had them for three weeks.”
“He’s been saving them until now. He plans mischief. I know it.”
Grant stared at the man for several seconds in silence while the wind worked at the windows. He reached to scratch his jowls. “I’ll send word to Rall at Trenton, tonight. Tell him to be ready. If Washington sends men over, Rall will be waiting with cannon and bayonet.”
The man’s head bobbed and Grant opened the door. The man hesitated and Grant said, “Tell the adjutant to give you a gold piece, to cover the, uh, use of your horse.”
The man bobbed his head once more and hurried down the hall while Grant closed the door and padded to his bed to sit down, shoulders rounded while he considered. Ten minutes later he moved to the corner and sat for several minutes at his desk before he took quill and paper from the drawer and scrawled a terse message to Colonel Johann Rall.
24 Dec 1776
Herr Colonel Rall:
I am reliably informed Americans may be preparing to attack Trenton. Take all appropriate precautions. Be prepared, ready at all times.
General James Grant
Finished, he folded it twice, sealed it with hot wax, and opened the door far enough to call for his adjutant. The man bounded up the stairs two at a time and trotted down the hall to stand at rigid attention. “Yes, sir.”
“Deliver this to the duty officer at once. Tell him to dispatch a messenger to carry it to Colonel Rall at Trenton, now, tonight. Urgent.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Tonight, sir?”
“Tonight.”
“Yes, sir!”
The duty officer had to be wakened. The reluctant messenger was playing cards in his underwear. The stable sergeant was hunched over a small iron stove in one corner of the barracks. The picket at the stable door had his back turned against the howling, freezing wind, stamping his feet, hugging himself for warmth. The horse was feisty, hating the bit forced between his teeth and the bite of the saddle-cinch in the bitter cold. It was after eleven o’clock before the messenger led the animal outside into the wind and the stable sergeant and picket grabbed the cheek straps on the bridle to hold the horse while the messenger mounted. The mount bogged his head down between his front knees and buck-jumped twice, and the messenger desperately grabbed a handful of mane to hold his tenuous position in the saddle while he jerked the reins to the left and kicked the animal in the ribs. It spun two quick circles and then straightened, throwing its head as it lined out towards the Princeton Road leading to Trenton.
The road was rutted, covered with patches of snow and ice and mud frozen solid. The horse was shod with standard military flat-plate shoes that would not grip and hold, and the messenger dared not let the animal run. A slip and fall, and a thirteen-hundred-pound horse rolling on him in the pitch-black could break his leg or back, or kill him. He held a tight rein while the horse pranced, wanting to run, wanting to have the night’s business finished and be back in the stable with oats and water.
At four-twenty A.M. the picket at the front door of Rall’s headquarters heard the unmistakable sound of a horse walking on a frozen road and watched a big brown mare materialize from the dark. Instantly he brought his musket to the ready and shouted into the wind whistling through the skeleton trees, “Who comes there?” first in German, then in badly accented English.
The answer came in English. “Friend. Messenger from General James Grant in Princeton. Urgent message for Colonel Johann Rall.”
The picket understood but four words. Grant. Princeton. Johann Rall. He stood with his coat blowin
g in the wind, unable to think of what to do next, when the messenger reached inside his coat and drew out the message, to hold it low where the picket could see it.
“Message. For Colonel Rall,” he called above the wind, and pointed at the building.
The picket bobbed his head and reached for the document and the messenger withdrew it, shaking his head. “Rall. Only Rall.” Again he pointed at the building.
The picket stood for a moment in indecision, torn between duty and fear of waking Colonel Rall at four o’clock in the morning. Finally he turned back to the large door and rapped heavily. Twenty seconds passed with no response and he took off his heavy mitten and banged with the flat of his hand and waited. A light flickered dull on the drawn blind at the window and half a minute later the door opened six inches to throw a narrow shaft of light onto the ground in the darkness.
Lieutenant Jacob Piel, young, eager, adjutant to Colonel Rall, barefooted and hair awry, squinted against the lantern light. Piel’s own quarters were next door, but tonight he had chosen to sleep in a spare downstairs bedroom in the headquarters building after working late. “What is it?”
“Messenger with a writing from General Grant to Colonel Rall.”
“The colonel’s asleep.”
“He will not give it to me—only to the colonel.”
A sour look crossed Piel’s face at the thought of waking Rall, but he drew a breath and said, “Bring him in.”
Ten minutes later Rall stumped down the stairs in his stockinged feet, wrapped in a robe. The messenger came to attention and Rall spoke. “Ja. What is it?”
The British trooper thrust the paper to him. “From General Grant. Urgent.”
Rall looked at Piel, who translated, and Rall responded. “Ja? What is so urgent this time of morning?”
“I was not told.”
Piel translated, and Rall grunted. He spoke to Piel. “Tell him to go to the barracks and tend his horse and rest until after breakfast and then come back here. I may have a message to send back. I’ll need you to come to my quarters to translate.”
