Love Life (19 page)

The Hessians finally arrived at Staten Island, in New York Harbor, just weeks after the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Christopher was made a “grenadier,” which meant he was part of the elite hand-to-hand fighters—the biggest, strongest and most notoriously courageous, who would be the first to storm the battlefield. He was placed under the command of General von Rall, one of the most decorated and experienced military minds in the field. They, along with all the other Hessians, would join the British forces under the supreme command of General William Howe. My ancestor had arrived in America at the beginning of its revolution and he wouldn’t
be fighting Indians; on August 27, 1776, Christopher instead went to battle against General George Washington.

The Battle of Long Island was a rout. Washington was defeated and after vicious, up-close, hand-to-hand fighting with Christopher’s grenadiers, his army ran for their lives. Within days, George Washington and the Continental Army had lost New York City.

The lauded Hessians, buttressing their British paymasters, now prepared to crush the revolution in its infancy by marching directly on Philadelphia. After securing New York and its harbor, the British and Hessian forces, along with Christopher East, set up winter camp in Trenton, New Jersey.

There are moments in time, battles in war, that change the fabric of the world. The Battle of Trenton was one. Christopher East would’ve been asleep, possibly hungover after a Christmas celebration, on December 27, 1776, when, in a Hail Mary to save America, George Washington crossed the Delaware in a sneak attack, changing the course of the war, our fledgling nation and therefore the future of the world.

As the surprised British Army and its Hessian support tried to rally in the sleeting, frigid dawn, they were caught in a brutal, violent but short battle. Christopher, on that day, fought for his life face-to-face and elbow-to-elbow with destiny’s chosen.

Present and fighting with the father of our country that cold morning were some of the greatest leaders America would ever know. In the blood and the gore of a street-scene battlefield that wasn’t very big at all, Christopher faced down two additional future presidents of the United States, James Madison and James Monroe; the future chief justice of the Supreme Court responsible for most of today’s constitutional law and for making the court a separate and coequal branch of government, John Marshall; and future legendary statesmen (and later mortal enemies) Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr.

Christopher East was taken as a prisoner. In all likelihood, he was marched past his dying commander, von Rall, whose last words to George Washington were “Look after my men,” as was noted by Washington in his diary. About von Rall and his Hessian sons Washington marveled that rarely, if ever, had he seen such dignified bravery.

I went to Trenton and then to the neighboring church where Christopher and a thousand of his fellows were held prisoner before the long march to Philadelphia, whose citizens lined the streets, hitting and spitting in the faces of the defeated prisoners.

In the old church graveyard I noticed beautiful, small markers planted before a small number of weathered headstones.

“What do those markers signify?” I asked.

“They mark the graves of revolutionary patriots. They are markers of the Sons and Daughters of the American Revolution.”

“I see,” I said, and my eyes misted. A crew was filming me and I became embarrassed by my emotion, so I turned away from the graves. A production assistant arrived with news that he had discovered a nearby Starbucks. Later, in the bustle of today’s America, I sipped my double-espresso macchiato and thought of the men back in the ground, behind the church.

I wished Christopher had been among them. I wished he had fought with and maybe known these heroes, these early men of our country. But his destiny had placed him on the other side.

But there was more to the story.

One day, I received a package from one of the lead researchers on my family’s history recounting new details about Christopher’s life after being taken prisoner by George Washington’s men. After being marched through Philadelphia, Christopher was kept in the notoriously horrendous and intimidating prison at Lancaster, Pennsylvania, which stands today.

Like all Hessian prisoners of war, he was eventually offered amnesty
in exchange for deserting the British Army. He took the offer and faded into the Pennsylvania farmlands. He was one of the few who chose not to return home at the war’s end. Of the thirty thousand Hessians who came to fight, only five thousand stayed. Why was Christopher among those few?

The researcher’s package contained a photocopy of some kind of ledger from 1782 and a letter addressed to me. I examined the ledger first. Although it was faded, you could clearly see the original handwriting. It appeared to be a small list of early settlers of Donegal Township, Pennsylvania, and a ledger of taxes paid. Christopher’s name was there, along with his payment.

I turned next to the letter. It was from the Sons of the American Revolution. It explained that the document was a record of a Revolutionary War effort supply tax to which Christopher had contributed, “serving the cause for Freedom.” As a result of walking away from the British army, choosing freedom and then contributing to its cause financially, John Christopher East was now officially a patriot of the revolution. He had come full circle, from forced combatant to actively working for the American cause. The letter went on to welcome me as a new member of the Sons of the American Revolution.

The people I admire the most are those who have the courage, foresight and ability to see themselves with cold-eyed honesty and fundamentally change themselves. Those who, with no guarantees of greater success or happiness, find it in themselves to completely alter the course of their lives to follow what is oftentimes just a small voice telling them that they can do better. That they can
be
better.

Perhaps John Christopher East perceived the greatness around him at Trenton and later throughout the new America. It must have changed him fundamentally. He gave up all he had ever known to
stay in a foreign land instead of returning home. He had arrived here and been told to kill. But in the end, he fell in love. With a young country and its promise of personal freedom and, later, with a young woman named Maria and the promise of family. And like most who take the risk to follow love, the promises were rewarded. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.

I believe we’re all influenced by our epigenetic legacies. From the time I was small, I was interested in government. When my grade-school pals played kickball, I sold Kool-Aid for George McGovern. I followed the minutiae of the White House long before I worked there playing Sam Seaborn in
The West Wing
. When Sheryl and I built our home its elevation was inspired by Mount Vernon, although I had never seen it in person. For years before knowing this surprising story, hanging above our fireplace was an original oil portrait of . . . George Washington. Learning my family’s history filled in the gaps of why I had always been drawn to those things.

But in spite of my early interest in politics, I had to learn to better love my country. My grandfather’s support of the Vietnam War, Nixon and the events at Kent State were a barrier to seeing America in its true totality. The worldview of my youth had to be reshaped by time, experience and travel. Like my ancestor, I was better able to see my home after crossing an ocean and spending time in foreign lands. What he saw and learned made him never return to his home. What I learned made me never want to leave mine.

I am the son of my grandfathers. I sometimes imagine I can feel them in my blood guiding me. And even though it’s just a historical organization membership and some may think it’s silly, I’m proud to be a Son of the American Revolution. It inspires me to try to make the same choices for the same reasons that John Christopher did. For freedom and for love.

O
ne of my favorite
parts of being an actor is the preparation that goes into creating a character. There is no right way or wrong way. For the most part, every actor does it differently, although there are some universally accepted secret tricks of the trade.

After our run together on
The West Wing
, Aaron Sorkin and I took his first brilliant calling card, the play
A Few Good Men
, to London’s West End, for its revival. I loved the movie but was really fascinated with the play it was based on, which Sorkin famously wrote on cocktail napkins while working as an usher at the Palace Theatre on Broadway. I remembered the commotion it caused when it opened with a post-
Amadeus
Tom Hulce in the starring role of LTJG Kaffee. Only a few other guys played the role onstage and I knew them all: Timothy Busfield, Bradley Whitford and Michael O’Keefe. They always talked about the power of the part, how, in front of a live audience, it was the kind of role that is the rarest of all, huge and demanding, onstage basically curtain to curtain, extremely dialogue-heavy,
romantic, passionate and very funny (I didn’t see a ton of humor in the film version, so I was always curious about that). Aaron felt Kaffee was tailor-made for me. The London revival of
A Few Good Men
was booked into the West End’s most storied theater, the Royal Haymarket, home to Oscar Wilde and John Gielgud.

Obviously, I wanted to try my hand.

Although my first role onstage was at nine years old, I hadn’t been onstage in a decade. In the early nineties I had done a run on Broadway in a Feydeau farce, but it was an ensemble. In London, this part was the lead and the show would succeed or fail on the shoulders of its hero, the cocky naval lawyer.

I was worried about my voice. Sorkin’s characters are notably verbose and the show was packed with monologues made famous by the movie version. I knew that every night, people would be waiting for “You can’t handle the truth!” I wanted to make sure that by show one hundred, I could still deliver. I also didn’t want to ever miss a show. Having never carried a play of this scope and pedigree, there was no guarantee. I needed to go into training. Luckily, I knew who to call: an expert I’d met years ago for a very big potential project.

In 1991, during a matinee of my Broadway show, the stage manager told me that I had a call on the backstage phone.

“He says it’s Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber!” he said, eyes popping out of his head.

Andrew Lloyd Webber’s calling midperformance on a pay phone in the middle of a Feydeau farce on Broadway should have seemed like a prank, but somehow I knew it was real even before I heard his voice.

“Hello, Rob, sorry to bother you but I’ve seen the show and I want to work with you.”

I was hugely flattered. Being welcomed by the gatekeepers of areas
that I’m not established in is always a goal of mine. I need to expand and try new things. Andrew Lloyd Webber wanted to help.

“Have you heard of my show
Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat
?”

Who hadn’t? I passed its giant billboard in Times Square on the way to the theater every day.

“I want you as Joseph for its London run.” I was honored but hesitant. Did Mr. Lloyd Webber know whether I could sing? Did he even care? Maybe he was the one person out of the billion watching who liked my duet with Snow White at the Oscars.

“Wow! I don’t know what to say!” I said truthfully. It was a big vote of confidence from the master of the musical.

But I knew it wasn’t the right fit for me. As much as I like to stretch and take chances, I also didn’t want to be shirtless, holding that gaudy dreamcoat four stories high on billboards everywhere.
Joseph
had always struck me as a little cheesy. I had another idea.

“I hear you are making a musical of my favorite movie,” I said.

“What movie is that?”

“
Sunset Boulevard
.”