To Try Men's Souls - George Washington 1 (12 page)

So he would write through the night.

McConkey’s Ferry
7:00
P.M.
December 25, 1776

The sleet against the windowpane sounded like the tinkling of a shower of broken glass . . . and then an explosion.

George Washington, drifting on the edge of sleep sat up with a muffled cry, the others gathered around him by the fireplace in the ferry house were silent, giving him furtive glances but saying nothing. He suddenly felt embarrassed. In the warmth of the fire he had drifted off to sleep for a few minutes, and was awakened by a loose shutter slamming closed.

He had been dreaming. Back on the Monongahela River with Braddock. A strange dream had haunted his sleep for twenty years. In the dream he already knew the ambush by the French and Indians lay
ahead. In some ways, though, it was not a dream, not a nightmare, at all. On that terrible day, on that Pennsylvania frontier near Pittsburgh, a column of more than two thousand British troops and colonial militia was all but annihilated. On that day, everyone familiar with life beyond the frontier had sensed the trap. Throughout the morning, as the lengthy column pushed through the forest, those who knew the land were reporting in, and Braddock was ignoring them. After all, they were only rabble, foul-smelling colonials who came bearing warnings, and he was a professional soldier from Europe, immune to rumormongering and panic.

Scouts ranging around the advancing column of British and colonial militia reported signs, a low-hanging bough broken, sap from the white pine tree oozing from the break and not yet solidifying, leaves scuffed up to reveal the damp mulch underneath, mushrooms trampled by a human foot, a tree someone had urinated against. No Indian would be so stupid as to do that; it obviously had to be a Frenchman. There was even a particular scent in the air, that scent of unwashed human bodies that lingered long after men had moved on. Anyone who lived on the frontier could tell the difference between an Indian and a Frenchman a hundred yards off; some even claimed they could tell which tribe. Anyone, at such a moment, foolish enough to be smoking tobacco, could be sensed a hundred paces away if the wind was right, and more than a few claimed they had smelled the tobacco the French were fond of smoking, along with gobs of spittle from those who chewed it.

In the dream he was riding forward to try and convince Braddock to halt the column, form a defensive position, send scouts out to probe, and in the dream he already knew the haughty response. A British officer taking advice from a colonial officer? Impossible. “Why, thank you, my good man, I’ll note your diligence,” and the subtext, not spoken but revealed by a glance, a slight curl of the lips, “I’ll remember you are a cowardly bumpkin and note it in my reports.”

In that dream, that damned recurring dream, it was all so real, the frustration, the sense of impending doom . . . and the rage. He
was as good a man as any British professional officer, and still they looked down on him. He did not quite know how the latest fashion in London dictated that one held a teacup in camp at the evening mess. His accent was pronounced, clear evidence of a colonial, even if he was an aristocrat, but only of the Virginia aristocracy and so lacking in that certain hauteur of London, Cambridge, and Oxford. He was not to be taken seriously, nor ever would be taken seriously, even at this moment, in his world, in these forests of the western frontier, when in a few seconds they would be slaughtered for their absurdities and arrogance.

In the dream he had just ridden to Braddock’s side——and then the shutter had slammed. In that final confused second of the dream it was a musket firing . . . the ball striking his chest, not Braddock’s, as it had while by his side. I am the one who is shot . . . and he just sits there, looking disdainfully at me.

He had all but jumped up with a start. His staff, silent, looked at him for an instant and averted their eyes.

A soldier’s dream. A soldier’s nightmare.

Of course, all soldiers had them, and none ever spoke of them. Across the long months of this bitter campaign, more than once the sleep of others was interrupted by a muffled cry, a sob as someone came awake, bolt upright, sweating. He wondered uncomfortably how many times his iron control had given way while he was asleep and he had cried out, as he apparently had at this moment.

No one spoke. There were a few nervous coughs. His servant, Billy Lee, squatting by the side of the fireplace, did not even bother to look back at him; he poked the fire with an iron and then threw a few more logs on it.

Through half-open eyes he looked at Billy’s back. Such a strange mix of emotions he felt for this person. Billy had been his servant, his slave, for years. Billy could keep his seat on the wildest of rides; he always made sure that Billy was as well mounted as himself. He prided himself on being considered one of the finest horsemen in Virginia and most definitely in this army. Billy came a very close
second, much to the chagrin of many a white landholder in Virginia when they rode to the hounds, or, in this last year, on the battlefields around New York.

Billy would die for him without hesitation. That had been proven often enough these last months. When the bullets and shot were whistling pretty, more than once he had snapped at Billy to go to the rear, because the man was obviously positioning himself and his horse to take the blow if a round, errant or aimed, came their way. Unusual for a slave, Billy rode with a brace of pistols strapped to his saddle, for the protection of his master, of course. But still . . . a slave armed?

He knew Billy would, without a second’s hesitation, give his life to protect him. Would I do the same in that instance, he wondered?

The fact that “his” man did not look back in concern at his outcry when he awoke from the dream spoke volumes. This had happened before, the weakness when one was asleep. Billy made a studied effort to be indifferent, and the others in the room took their cue from him.

The gusts of wind outside caused a back draft in the fire Billy was tending, and for an instant smoke puffed into the room. The storm was increasing in fury.

Awake now, he fumbled at his breast pocket to draw out his pocket watch, clicked open the cover . . . seven ten in the evening.

No one spoke, and he did not want to ask. To ask implied nervousness; regardless of the dream he had to show outward calm. He mimicked a casual mood, trying to find a comfortable position in the straight-backed wooden chair, stretching out his long legs. His feet were still damp, but he did not want to ask Billy to help pull his boots off; he had to be ready in an instant to go outside if needed.

He heard the outer door to the house fling open and slam shut, the draft slipping in under the door to this inner room. By the heavy footballs he knew who it was. No one spoke as the cold draft came whisking in, but all heads turned.

Again he resisted. He would not anticipate and look back.

“How goes it, Colonel Knox?” he asked. Again a demonstration of
calm and control. Everyone in that room was on edge, nervous, even frightened by the prospect before them. His role was to demonstrate complete calm and indifference.

Though acting was a profession detested by those of his class, he had to be an actor this night. His lines and every single gesture were well rehearsed, contemplated, and planned. He had to know, before the first shot was fired, every move he would make, for all eyes would be upon him. I must inculcate in all of them now, at this moment, the roles they, too, will have to play . . . and that is the role of confidence, strength, and belief that victory on this dawn is foreordained . . . even if I have my own inner doubts and worries.

“General.”

There was a slight clicking of heels, far too British or Hessian a gesture, but then again, Knox the bookseller had first learned this trade of soldiering inside his bookstore in Boston, reading everything he could find on the military arts.

He had learned those lessons well. It was he who first ventured the idea of going nearly three hundred miles westward to Fort Ticonderoga to empty the captured fort of the heavy guns placed there during the war with France and then drag them overland, three hundred miles, on sleds in the depth of winter, and use them to displace the British and drive them and their fleet from Boston. Many now said the trek was the American equal of the anabasis of Xenophon. The feat had made Knox, transforming him from an oversize bookstore owner into an admired soldier.

Realizing the moment required formality, Washington came to his feet and returned Knox’s salute.

“Sir, I beg to report that, regrettably, the crossing is not on schedule.”

Again the sound of sleet and freezing rain slashing against the windowpane, followed a few seconds later by the banging of the shutter. This time he did not blanch at the explosive sound.

“The weather, Colonel Knox, is beyond your control, but do keep the men moving. We shall not recall this attack, whatever the weather.”

“Sir, we’ve already lost one of our boats. Capsized when the horses aboard panicked. The Marblehead men have managed to drag it back to shore but it is stove in from a horse kick. The animals are half frozen from going in the river.”

“To be expected,” Washington replied, as if the loss was not of the slightest concern, though every boat was precious.

“The Pennsylvania riflemen and the advance scouts are across, though. The other bank is secured, and scouts are moving forward to secure the road toward Trenton and arrest any civilians moving about and keep them in place. I just returned from the other shore, and so far, at least, it seems we have complete surprise. No report of advance patrols that either the Hessians and British are about this evening. We have a report from several patriot families on the far shore that the Hessians are completely unaware of our movement and no one has anticipated it.”

He nodded. That had been a great fear. That the scattering of dwellings and farmhouses along the road to Trenton might have along it a Tory family that at the first stirring would send a report galloping southward. It had been a balancing act, to be sure. On the one hand, he had counted on a nearly full moon and clear weather to facilitate the crossing. On the other, the storm was heaven-sent, for only madmen would be about on a night such as this, and most certainly not an army, no matter how desperate their straits.

“It is the loading of the artillery and horses, sir, that is proving difficult. The storm is shifting, temperature dropping; the approaches and the dock are slippery with ice and sleet. I wish I had thought of it, sir, to acquire sand, even dirt, to spread about so the men and animals had better footing. I’m sorry.”

“It is not your fault, Colonel,” and in a rather uncharacteristic gesture he approached Knox and gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder.

He knew the others were listening to every word.

“Knox, this storm is heaven-sent, I tell you. If prayers are indeed answered by Providence, then they have been answered this night.

“I should perhaps have warned you beforehand that my prayers would be answered,” and he smiled at his weak attempt at humor.

Knox forced a smile in response.

“We never were sure of the loyalty of the families on the Jersey shore. I feared that if but one of them observed us and slipped off to send warning, we would have been met by a roused garrison of Hessian troops, the British garrison in Princeton then coming down to strike us on the flank.

“This storm is our Christmas miracle. Just keep the men moving, and when you feel the time is right for me to cross, come fetch me.”

“Sir, that might not be until midnight at best.”

He took that in. Midnight? The plan was that by midnight the army would already be on the march southward to Trenton, to deploy long before dawn and strike before first light. Midnight?

There was a moment of fear, an inner nagging voice whispering that it was not too late. Even now he could call this thing off, recall the men on the far shore, order the rest back to their camps. He could sense the eyes of the staff behind him, staring at him, more than a few silently praying that he would see reason, that rather than call the storm heaven-sent he would see the logic, the reality of it. Never in the history of war had an army attempted this, to cross a river at night, to then put that flooding river at their backs and attempt an assault in the dark against a vastly superior and well-rested foe.

Stop it now, they were silently begging.

He stood, staring at Knox, wondering if this man felt the same. He was in himself, with slush dripping off his uniform to puddle on the floor, His soaked, bedraggled appearance, a warning that nothing was going according to plan this night.

In the silence the memory of the dream, of the bullet striking him, recurred. Was that dream a warning? Was it that the bullet struck, not him, but this last desperate enterprise, and that the British, in all their strength and arrogance would be awaiting them at dawn?

He shook his head.

No.

“Who crosses next?” he asked. He could actually hear the audible sighs of the others in the room. Like the disappointment, even exasperation, of children anticipating they were about to be relieved of some chore and told to go play or off to warm beds instead——and were not.

“The plan was for the Maryland line to cross, sir, to put up barricades and form a circle of defense on the other shore, supported by half a dozen four- and six-pounders of my artillery.”

He smiled at the way Knox said “my artillery.” Good, very good, the words bespoke possessiveness and pride. In an army so notoriously weak in the firepower of its infantry, especially now, on a night that would foul muskets, the guns of Knox could still be counted on.

“Then, Colonel Knox,” he said with a slight crease of a smile lighting his features, “why are you here? Send them across!”

There was actually a moment of surprise on Knox’s face, then a smile in return and a formal salute. It was evident that Knox had come here half expecting to be ordered to stop this movement, retrieve the men on the far shore, and call off the assault. His General’s own response had renewed this man’s confidence.