To Try Men's Souls - George Washington 1 (39 page)

He looked down at them. To the column that had fled out of the town, he had passed the order that once clear of the village they were to form a square. But no square was forming. These men were milling about, some just gazing in shock at the ghostlike enemy, who now poured in volley after volley, a blast of grape sweeping in, bowling over half a dozen men. Those to either side were edging back in terror, a few tossing aside their weapons, falling to the ground.

He looked toward the stream, strangely named Assunpink, some savage name most likely. The bridge was blocked, again by ghostlike enemies standing on the far shore, firing toward him.

“Colonel!”

He didn’t recognize the man. Someone from the other regiment under his command.

“What are you orders, colonel?”

The wound was beginning to stab with a painful agony. He struggled for a breath of the frigid storm-driven air. He couldn’t draw the air in.

Out in the open? Without artillery to suppress theirs, they will pound us to pieces.

He looked toward the village. Head there? Try to take the barracks. It’s a stone building. Hole up in there, make a defense. Try to get word to Cornwallis. Ask the damn British to come rescue us after putting us here?

He caught a glimpse of his flag. My flag. The bearer went down, a sergeant snatching the colors and holding them back up as a rally point.

I must at least save my colors. Merciful God, how can I ever go back home without my flag?

My God, what will I say to my prince?

“Colonel! Your orders?”

“Back to the town. Rally at the barracks.”

And then the second blow hit, this one knocking him to the ground and, for the moment, oblivion.

Washington caught glimpses of faces. Men wide-eyed, but not with terror and panic this time.

A fury of battle was being unleashed as more and more men fell in, extending the battle line southward around the town. As each man came into place, with Greene shouting for them to “get into it, boys,” more and more men raised their muskets, leveled, and fired.

Wild shouts, curses, huzzahs, guttural screams of long-pent-up fury greeted each shot.

Before them was confusion. No military formation, just random knots of Hessians. Some milling about in panic. One formation was emerging, perhaps company strength, led by an officer waving a sword. Before they could level and fire, a volley from his own men dropped the officer and the enemy line disintegrated, turned, and ran back toward the village.

A flag could be glimpsed in the smoke and snow, more of the enemy coming up. His men did not flinch; instead, the sight was greeted with curses, shouts to get that “damn, bloody flag!”

The enemy charge surging toward the orchard disintegrated before it had really started. Greene was riding up and down behind his line, shouting encouragement, yelling for his men to hold and deliver disciplined volleys, but his encouragement was not needed, not this day.

Washington saw the flag go down, come up again, and a few seconds later a mounted officer riding alongside of it collapsing.

Washington watched in silence, heart swelling, awed by what he was seeing unleashed, at last.

The shadows in the smoke and snow fell back.

“Close in on them, men!” Washington roared. “Close in!”

They needed no urging. Without a single officer present these men would have pushed forward. At this moment they were filled with a mad passion, a passion for war, driven by the most primal of urges.

The line, ragged and disordered, pushed to the edge of the orchard, and as they came upon some of the fallen enemy, several of the men dashed forward, knelt down, and began to try to pull off their boots and jackets.

Officers shouted for the men to keep moving and reluctantly the looters, feet trailing smears of blood, fell back in and pressed on.

“Look there, sir!”

It was Greene, eyes afire, filled with fierce delight, pointing farther south to the far side of Assunpink Creek.

A column on the move, pushing several artillery pieces along. Another moment of doubt: Why was Greene filled with such delight? And then he realized why. It was Continentals pouring out of the south side of the village, in orderly fashion, running at the double . . . Sullivan!

They were through the village, crossing the bridge, deploying to seal the gap that should have been filled by the Jersey militia, having enough presence of mind to bring up several cannon for support.

The two elements of the trap were closing tight.

A cone of fire was now slashing into the enemy from all directions, the jaws of the vise inexorably closing tighter and tighter.

He caught glimpses of a Hessian column that had advanced toward the orchard heading back into the town, perhaps trying to break through to the north, or rallying to make a final stand in the village. If they became organized, the battle would turn into a vicious house-by-house. Or if they could hole up in the stone barracks, it might take hours to dislodge them, and in the interim enemy reinforcements might arrive. This victory might still degenerate into a bloody killing match if they were allowed to still their panic and regain a semblance of command.

He knew that the scope of the battle was, at this instant, beyond his ability to control, with his own forces formed in a circle more than a quarter mile across. But his heart told him that though beyond his control, his men, this morning, knew what they must do and would not hesitate now that they were tasting this long-hoped-for victory.

The enemy column had disappeared, except for occasional glimpses of their flags. From the hill where he had first watched the battle begin, he could hear the thumping of the artillery, well-placed shots plowing into the flank of the enemy column, shredding it.

Some of Sullivan’s men were deployed on the far side of the creek and at the bridge, others in buildings at the edge of the town were leaning out from windows to fire at their enemy in the open.

The Hessian retreat to the edge of the village was lost to view, fire increasing, while in the orchard the Massachusetts men came to a stop, dressed their line, and reloaded, some of the men casting aside weapons that had misfired, picking up muskets dropped by the Hessians.

“Here they come again, boys!”

It was Greene, who seemed to be everywhere at once, riding up and down the line, sword drawn, pointing toward the field below the orchard.

He was right. Another enemy surge was pouring out, in some vague semblance of order, the storm clearing enough for the moment that this time he could see them clearly. A ragged column, colors at the
center, was attempting to deploy into volley line, to batter its way through their tormentors.

What unfolded was slaughter.

His artillery up on the hill plowed solid shot into the enemy ranks, one officer and his mount going down in a tangled mass. From out of the village, pursuit by his own soldiers followed, men firing, hurriedly reloading, pressing forward a few dozen feet, firing again. Men with wet muskets advanced with bayonets leveled, and if without bayonets, their muskets held high like clubs, waving them, screaming defiance.

From the south, Sullivan’s men pressed in as well.

An enemy surge headed toward the bridge, but the artillery Sullivan had so brilliantly moved to the far side of the Assunpink opened on them with a salvo, dropping a dozen or so. That one salvo showed clearly enough that escape that way was impossible.

A milling knot of the enemy broke into a run, heading for the gap that was still in his line between the far left of Greene’s command and the right flank of Sullivan’s, the enemy tossing aside muskets, plunging into the creek. Some appeared to make it across, others were shot down before reaching the far bank. It was hard to see, but in the confusion it looked to be a hundred or more who were escaping.

All was happening so quickly he knew he could not react to fill this momentary breach in the circle. Sullivan would have to contain the enemy alone. To order Greene to try to push his line farther south might leave this barrier by the orchard too thin to block any renewed surge.

The advancing enemy numbered in the hundreds, clustered around their flags. Yet with every step, more and more of them fell, fire ringing them in. He heard musket balls and then a solid shot screech by overhead. The enemy was not firing in their confusion. The ring was now so tight around them that the bullets and artillery rounds must be coming from Sullivan and his men pressing out now from the town.

Another volley came from the men deployed at the edge of the
orchard. Solid shot was plowing into the confusion, knocking Hessians over like ninepins, ghastly cries rising up.

“For God’s sake,” he whispered, “give up.”

It was changing from a battle into a massacre.

There was the slightest ripple of fear. Not for himself, but for the battle itself. Might it have shifted after all, the Hessians rallying? Jonathan turned his attention away from James, looking out the window as if he could catch a glimpse beyond the alleyway.

The artillery fire had reached a crescendo. There was distant cheering, but by which side?

“At least Congress won’t have to worry about printing more money to pay you fools at the end of the month,” James taunted, even as Jonathan faced the window trying to discern what was happening outside, wondering now if he should just leave this damned house and rejoin his comrades for what might be their final stand.

“Though I bet Paine is still making his money. He’s warm, well fed, and safe in Philadelphia, writing this drivel while you fools freeze and die at his bidding.”

James turned to the fireplace, balling up the paper as if about to throw it in.

Jonathan was out of his seat, and before Allen or his mother could stop him, he flung himself on James, the two bowling over. James let go of the paper, and it rolled into the fireplace. Reaching in, Jonathan grabbed it, cursing, scorching his hand as he pulled it out. With a feeble effort he grasped the paper tight and then stuck it in under his jacket to keep it safe.

He could barely hear his mother screaming, or feel the strength of Allen as he separated the two of them, the way he so often had when as boys they had fallen into yet another fight.

Jonathan, gasping for air, came to his feet. Without Allen’s support he knew he’d collapse. He leaned against his brother.

“You better hold on to him,” James sneered. “In a few minutes our old lodgers will be back, ready to run him through.”

“At least I’ll die for something I believe in,” Jonathan said coldly. “You have no soul, you have nothing but yourself and your selfishness. God help you.”

“Will they hurt him?” his mother asked, looking up at Allen.

“No, Mother. He’s just a very sick boy. They know me. I won’t let them hurt him.”

“I don’t need your pity,” Jonathan gasped.

“Do you think they won?”

Jonathan’s father was in the doorway to the kitchen holding a bundle of clothes. There was something about him, at this moment, for Jonathan, that was heartbreaking. He saw the old man so differently now. A merchant, a scared merchant, once portly with success, now shaken and uncertain.

“I think, Father,” Jonathan whispered, “either way, you will lose.”

He tried to pull away from Allen’s grasp.

“Jonathan, you better stay close to me,” Allen said. “They’re not a bad sort once you get to know them.”

“I can see you have.”

He looked into his brother’s eyes. Allen lowered his gaze.

“Someday, you might understand.”

“I doubt it.”

He looked back at James.

“You at least have the courage of your convictions, Allen.”

The roar of battle echoed from outside, reaching a new peak and then, suddenly, began to die away, a strange eerie silence enveloping the room, punctuated only by the occasional musket shot and counterpointed by the ever-present howling of the window.

“It is finished,” James said coldly. “You’ve lost.”

“For God’s sake,” Washington cried out. “End it! Surrender!”

As if his thoughts had been picked up by the men around him, he heard shouts from his own line, in German.

Startled, he looked about. Some of his men were actually lowering their muskets, cupping hands to their mouths, shouting in German. “
Geben sie auf! Leben sie noch!
” [Surrender, damn you! Surrender! Quarter if you surrender!]

It caught his heart. The men shouting were riflemen from Pennsylvania and the Maryland line, men fully as German as their Hessian opponents. In a different world they, too, might have been in Hessian uniforms, but having chosen America were now loyal to their new home and their new dream.

The cry was picked up, others shouting in English.

Again there had been no order to do this, and his heart filled. He wondered, if all were reversed, would these Hessians be doing the same? Or would they be as merciless as they had been at Long Island and Harlem? There when his men were defeated, fleeing and pleading for mercy, the Hessians had advanced with the bayonet and slaughtered.