To Try Men's Souls - George Washington 1 (18 page)

His staff sat silent. No one had dared to speak, to comment on how the plan was falling apart or offer any words to divert him as he kept opening and closing his gold pocket watch.

Billy Lee came back bearing a cup filled nearly to the brim with coffee, and as Washington took it he could feel the heat. He offered it over to Knox in a friendly gesture.

“Careful,” he said. “This is hot.”

Knox cradled the cup in both hands, spilling some of the contents on his bare hands, whispering an oath under his breath. Washington’s men generally tended to control their “soldier’s talk” around him, though in moments of stress he was known to curse with the best of them, or the worst. Now he acted if he had not heard his friend’s words.

“The temperature is dropping,” Knox said at last. “Can’t seem to make up it’s mind, though. Rain, sleet, snow, sometimes all of it together. A regular nor’easter.”

He paused, taking another gulp.

The way Knox said “nor’easter” sounded almost alien. The dialects of New England and Boston seemed to come from a different world, at times as hard to understand as the words of a man fresh off the boat from Yorkshire or Scotland.

Americans. Strange how this war is making us all Americans, Washington thought.

“That’s better,” Knox sighed. The shivering abated as the fire and the syrupy drink warmed his body.

“As I was saying, sir,” Knox continued, now slightly embarrassed for having forgotten that momentarily focusing on his physical discomfort and relief might be seen as an insult to the General.

“Go on.”

“A regular nor’easter it is. The freezing rain is making the approach to the landing dock all but impossible for the horses and a nightmare for moving the guns. I have men spreading straw, manure, dirt, anything for footing. After every crossing we have to smash the ice off the gunwales of the boats else they become top-heavy. Several men have broken arms or legs falling, but, thank the Lord, no boats have gone under, and there are no reports of men falling overboard.”

“The Jersey shore?”

“I’ve crossed twice since we’ve started. Our advance pickets have secured the road for more than two miles ahead. I’ve taken the liberty, therefore, of allowing fires to be built to warm the men while they form up.”

Washington thought about that for a moment and then nodded in agreement.

“If the road is secured as far as you say, there is no sense in the men waiting in discomfort.”

“Just about half the men and guns are across, so, as you originally planned, General, I think it time for you to cross and take command on the other shore.”

“Then let us begin.”

He looked back at his staff. All were ready. The tedium and the tension of waiting were over at last. They were committed.

Knox was reluctant to leave the comfort of the fire, but did not hesitate. He finished the last of his coffee, audibly sighing, and then put the cup on the mantel over the fireplace.

His staff was up now, a few having to be roused from their fitful slumber. As was always his practice when occupying a civilian’s home
or business place, he looked about to make sure that all was in order, nothing disturbed, broken, or taken.

Buttoning his cloak at his throat, he nodded to Knox.

“Lead the way, sir.”

As he stepped out the door he understood instantly why Henry had so relished the few minutes of warmth and dryness to be found in the ferryman’s house. The wind was howling down from the northeast, icy pellets slashing into his face. Instinctively, he tucked his chin down into his chest and pulled his hat low over his brow, holding on to it lest it be blown into the darkness.

Two great bonfires were burning on either side of the approach to the ferry dock, and as he stepped out of the house he confronted a line of men, formed up, blankets, if they had them, pulled close to their emaciated bodies, more than a few barefoot, stamping their feet as they stood in place. If they were grumbling or cursing the weather, the British, the Hessians, or even their commander, he could not hear them, the howling of the wind encompassing all.

He walked alongside them, moving down to the dock, the men to his left all but oblivious of his passing as they waited to board the boats. By the great bonfires that lit the last few feet to the dock he saw that those feeding them were most definitely disobeying orders this night. Fence rails were being thrown in. He had given specific orders that a farmer’s valuable fences were not to be touched. But they were dried and seasoned wood——chestnut, and hickory——and would burn with fury. He said nothing as two sergeants picked up several rails and heaved them onto one of the fires, sparks whipping away with the howling wind.

He drew closer. There were two officers. One kept endlessly chanting: “Wait your turn, men, wait your turn. Get in the boat assigned. Stand and move close together. Don’t worry, boys, these boats are manned by Glover’s men, they know their business . . .

“Wait your turn, men . . . Wait your turn . . .”

He walked past the officer, who was obviously wet through, shivering, near to breaking by the sound of his voice.

His attention was suddenly seized by a second officer on the far side of the shivering, frozen, miserable column of men waiting to board the boats.

“By order of the General, men, I’m going to read something. Listen now. Listen. This is what Tom Paine just wrote: ‘These are the times that try men’s souls.’ ”

Not normally given to emotion Washington stood silent for a moment, closing his eyes.

“Oh God,” he whispered, “let this not be in vain, I beseech Thee. If we are doomed to die, Thy will be done. If it is Thy will that this night shall bring victory to our cause, may we never forget Thee and the blessing Thou has given us and give thanks to Thee daily, forever more. Those that fall on this night and in the day to come, I beg Thee to gather them peacefully into Thy arms and let their names not be forgotten.”

He opened his eyes.

“Wait your turn, men. ‘These are the times that try men’s souls . . .’ ”

Henry Knox stood beside him. By the light of the fire he could see that his friend had been watching him. He had said nothing, and Washington wondered if the man had heard his whispered prayer.

Most likely not, given the demonic howling of the wind.

Knox struggled to clear his throat.

“Sir, your boat. It is that Durham boat on the left side.”

“Thank you, Henry.”

Even as they spoke he could hear some muttered cursing behind him. Looking back, the column was moving a bit to one side of the half-frozen mud-choked path. It was his guard and escort detail, rousted out to fall in and join their commander.

“General Washington! I’m looking for General Washington!”

From out of the darkness he saw a horseman approaching, the illumination of the fires at last making him visible.

“Over here!” Knox shouted. The man drew closer and he recognized
him. It was young Major Wilkinson, of General Gates’s staff. The mere sight of the lad caused Washington’s heart to constrict.

Wilkinson’s mount nearly lost its footing on the icy pathway down to the ferry dock, the waiting soldiers cursing, jumping back. The horse regained its footing and Wilkinson dismounted.

“Sir, I bear a personal dispatch from General Gates,” he announced, breathing hard and shivering, like all of them.

Wilkinson handed over a leather dispatch case and then, in an obvious gesture, stepped back several feet, as if by so doing he was disasociating himself from its contents.

Wilkinson’s move was signal enough. Washington opened the case, drew out the letter, broke the seal and opened it up, holding it high so he could read it by the light of the fire, trying not to hold it too close and thereby revealing the fact that in private, of late, he had been forced to wear spectacles.

He scanned the contents of the letter. Paused, and then reread it, incredulous, disbelieving, as if by rereading the words they would somehow change. “Regret to inform you, sir, that . . . In my judgment this offensive action at this time is ill advised. Sir, since I have heard not to the contrary from you I shall this day order my men to remain upon the west bank of the Delaware and proceed to Baltimore where Congress has sought refuge, to seek their guidance . . . I pray, sir, that my movement is but a reflection of your own wishes at this moment which I would not otherwise do if I should hear the contrary from you . . .”

He reread it.

The plan had been for General Gates, based in Philadelphia, to move on this night as well, to cross to the eastern bank of the Delaware. The taking of Trenton was but a part of his overall plan. Gates, by crossing from Philadelphia to the New Jersey village of Camden, would trigger one of two results. Ideally, it might very well lure the British garrison based at Princeton to move in haste in that direction, thereby cutting them off as he seized Trenton, and with Gates as an anvil, he could be the hammer coming in from behind to finish
them off. The other option would be of some benefit. The overwhelming effect of his column, that of Cadwalader crossing below Trenton, and Gates at Philadelphia would so catch the British and Hessians off guard, that after he seized Trenton, the enemy garrison at Princeton would retreat back to Brunswick or even to Staten Island.

He held the letter, this letter of betrayal, struggling to control his emotions. He could not let the rank and file, standing but a few feet away, see him thus unnerved. Armies were the same throughout history. A commander’s every word and gesture could, within an hour, spread like wild fire to either hearten or to create panic.

And yet!

Struggling for control he stalked off, moving away from the fires.

Damn the man!

Gates’s move was obvious, the words so carefully crafted. He was going to ask Congress’s advice on his next action! Therefore, if I lose this night, this last remnant slaughtered and I with it, Gates will be in Baltimore, ready to have the title of commander in chief bestowed upon him! If, instead, I am victorious, he can claim prudence guided him because even at the very last instant he had not heard from me. This storm itself would be his excuse. Even if I move against him, should I survive this action, he will be firmly wrapped in the bosom of his friends in Congress and too well protected.

“Damn him,” he gasped. “Can I not even trust my own officers anymore?” The fact that General Lee had recently so openly disobeyed him, and then, after being taken prisoner a week ago, was reportedly dining with General Howe and advising him. That was bad enough. But this?

“Bad news, sir?”

He looked up. Knox was silhouetted by the roaring fires that marked the dock.

He hesitated, looking down at the letter in his hand.

Knox was trembling again from the cold, the icy blasts that whipped
around them changing, at least for this moment, from rain to sleet and snow.

He wanted to shout out a bitter reply, to send a dispatch rider back to Philadelphia, to order Gates’s men to cross. To cross now!

Absurd. Eight to ten hours, and by then it will be decided anyhow.

He crumpled the letter. He stared at the dark waters of the Delaware, the reflections of the bonfires shimmering off the whitecapped river. On impulse he threw the note into the swirling flow.

A momentary regret. He had just thrown away a bit of evidence for history. A bit of evidence, if dawn does bring us victory, with which I could bring Gates up on charges.

No, that was useless. Typical of so many of his ilk, Gates had his friends in the Congress. He had written each word carefully, and victory or no, he could argue that he had taken the prudent path.

Prudence.

Prudence does not win battles . . . or wars.

“Sir, is it bad news?”

General George Washington forced a smile.

“Nothing, Knox. Nothing. A matter of the moment is all.”

“Sir, your boat is waiting to cross.”

“Fine then,” he said softly. “Lead the way.”

Though seething inside he had to make his expression show indifference, indicating to all that the contents of the note had been trivial, even though it meant that given the delay here, the entire plan was unraveling.

No. Don’t let any of them know that a third of the force expected to cross this night would not do so. It would unnerve them.

It must not unnerve me.

He forced a look of quiet determination as he stepped back into the firelight.

He saw Major Wilkinson standing nervously at the edge of the dock. The lad stepped forward.

“Sir, is there any message I should bear back. My mount is tired, but I think I could return to Philadelphia by midmorning.”

“No, major. No reply.”

Wilkinson stared at him, and he could see what was in the boy’s eyes. And it heartened him. There was a look of relief. Wilkinson, without doubt, knew every word of the dispatch.

“Major, I assume you know the contents of that letter.”

“Yes, sir.” He hesitated, obviously concerned that Washington might think he had somehow looked at it even though it was sealed or that he might face the legendary consequence of being the “Greek messenger.”

Washington smiled and shook his head.

“It is our secret,” he whispered, voice barely heard because of the rushing storm. “Not a word to anyone.”

Wilkinson grinned, a young man now sharing a great secret with a commanding general.

“Sir, if I am not to return to Philadelphia, I beg you, sir, to let me have the honor of volunteering to cross with you.”

He knew others were listening, and those who might suspect knew that Wilkinson was on Gates’s staff.

“Why?” Washington asked.

“So I can tell my grandchildren I crossed with you this night,” Wilkinson replied.

His words sounded far too melodramatic but in a gesture that was completely uncharacteristic, Washington clapped him on the shoulder.

“Then you must know the watchword for tonight, major,” he replied.

He looked at the shivering men of the line awaiting their turn to cross.

“The watchword is: ‘Victory or death.’ ”

Wilkinson repeated the words and then actually smiled.