To Try Men's Souls - George Washington 1 (5 page)

Of course, he loved plays.

Like all soldiers, he could not help but smile when the play was about war, and great heroics were enacted. When the first volley struck into Braddock’s column in 1755, dropping scores of men instantly, there had been no pause in which Braddock could deliver a speech. That was no thimbleful of stage blood when a musket ball smashed into the face of the man next to him. It was easy enough for an actor to cry out, “Victory or death,” but now, at this moment?

He had told Rush there would be no alternative on this night. If he flinched from the weather and the risks, from the difficulties and the enemy, the collapse in morale would lead his army to disintegrate. Within a week there would no longer be an American army. Then death would be his fate and the fate of every leader of the Revolution.

Victory or death. If the Hessians were forewarned, aroused, and awaiting them in full battle array, he would lose. Of that he had no doubt. His men hated, loathed the Hessians after the reports of
their bayoneting of prisoners and wounded at Long Island and Manhattan. They feared them as well for their clocklike precision, discipline, and frightful ability to pour out four volleys a minute to the two ragged volleys of his “Continental line,” and as for the militia, they barely knew how to load their weapons, let alone fire them in a disciplined manner. If the Hessians were waiting and deployed, what was left of his army would be pinned to the east bank of the Delaware and then overwhelmed by the British garrison, warm and well fed, pouring down from Princeton.

He looked up at the dark sky and found himself wondering if he would ever see home again.

Martha and Mount Vernon? What of them?

She would survive, he prayed. The English were not savages; in fact, it was tragic in a way that they faced each other now like this. For they were of the same blood. The Howe brothers were gentlemen and would not take vengeance on the widow of a slain enemy. But Mount Vernon? It would be confiscated as a prize of war, and Martha would be turned out to live off the charity of friends, at least those friends who had stayed Loyalist and thus still held their property.

He had written her that afternoon, confided in her how much he missed her and how he longed to be home in their wonderful place looking out over the Potomac. He had not confided that his men were cold and hungry, his army losing courage, their situation reduced to this last, desperate lunge. He had promised to write her on the morrow and reminded her of the love he felt in the depths of his being. He had said winning this war was vital to him, not only for America and freedom, but because it would let him go back home to the cherished companionship of the one whom he loved more than life itself. He thought briefly of Martha by the fire down in Virginia and shook his head. Time now only to decide, act, lead, arouse, and impose. Time now to show the Hessians and the British what kind of people they were trying to enslave.

Another gust of wind roared in across the river, coming more from the northeast, driving a gale of frozen rain. The moon was up,
visible in the gaps that momentarily appeared in the scudding clouds. But the western horizon beyond the hills bordering the river was now obscured as well, and what little light there was seemed to be extinguished, like a candle snuffed out, and the world went dark.

The far bank disappeared from sight. The wind howling across the river now was a steady blow, treetops swaying and crackling as the icy rain froze to branches and then shattered.

Damn, it was so damned cold.

He pulled his cape in tighter and turned to face Knox.

“Start them across,” he announced.

He could barely make out the features of his chief of artillery, who was tasked this night with commanding the crossing of the river.

Knox was one of the few men in this world whom he actually had to look up to.

For a few seconds, Knox looked into his trusted friend’s eyes. Nothing needed to be said; the time to debate was over. Knox saluted, turned, and started down to the ferry dock.

“We’re going!” he bellowed. “Start loading up.”

No one moved. He could sense their disbelief that he was pressing forward in an enterprise that most all of them believed to be a forlorn hope.

Washington forced a smile. “Just keep telling them the Hessians will be asleep. What awaits them in Trenton will be warm shelter, hot food, and dry boots for the taking.”

Even the words sounded wooden to him. Merciful God, are we so pathetic in this endeavor that I must motivate men by the promise of dry shoes taken from the enemy?

He could see the response in their eyes as they circled around him. Knox was aflame, as was Greene, but the others?

They would be facing the Hessians come dawn, and nearly all in the rank and file feared them.

“It is time to pay them back, gentlemen. Pay them back for the humiliations dealt to us. Tonight will be our night. Now to your duties.”

The group slowly began to break up except for Knox, who stormed
off, shouting orders, his voice booming above the thunder of the storm.

The Hessians. Mercenaries. My God, how could those who were once our own countrymen do this, hire a foreign army to trample down our liberties? Yes, they had aroused the ire of his army, when first sighted, but now all they did was arouse fear. For they were the best disciplined infantry in the world and the most relentless on the battlefield.

His spies had told him whom he would face. A Colonel Rall. He had glimpsed him on the battlefields at Fort Washington and White Plains. Fearless, and rumor was, one of their best.

Am I a fool to think that these frozen men around me, ragged, barefoot, already soaked through, will face and defeat Rall in the morning?

Or was all hope of surprise already lost? Rall was a professional, his intelligence reports saying he was a man with thirty years’ experience in war. And at this moment he and his men were warm, well fed, and resting.

He felt a dark premonition and pushed it aside. By dawn, he would face Rall, and it would be the German commander who would take the sword from his dying hand.

He turned back to watch the men beginning to file past.

“Close up the ranks, boys, and keep moving. Remember, it is victory or death.”

Trenton, New Jersey
6:00
P.M.
, December 25, 1776

Colonel Johann Rall leaned back in his chair, gazed at his host with a contented grin, and moved his black checker over his opponent’s last survivor, thus winning the game.

There was a friendly laugh from his host, Mr. Potts, who had so graciously offered his home as headquarters for, as he put it, “our allies in the suppression of treasonous rebels.” Shaking his head, Potts stood up, went to the sideboard, and held up a decanter filled with wine.

“You are too good an opponent,” Potts announced, gesturing with the decanter as an offer to refill the colonel’s glass.

“No, sir. Duty. I must not drink much,” Rall replied with a smile.

He felt that his English was awkward, though he had been practicing ever since his prince had informed him, nearly a year ago, that his regiment would be sent to the Americas to help “our English cousins” against this peasant rebellion sweeping their colonies.

Potts, who could speak some German, made a second offer of just a bit more to celebrate this Christmas night, and Rall again refused, this time in German as well.

It did not stop Potts from refilling his own glass before returning
to sit across from the colonel, motioning to the checkerboard, offering to set up another game.

Rall nodded and Potts began to reset the pieces.

Rall was glad to find a fairly decent competitor in this game. Like any gentleman he could play a good round of chess, but on a night like this he preferred a game that required far less concentration, that he could play casually while he dwelt on other concerns.

The wind outside continued to rise, windowpanes and closed shutters rattling. One of the shutters, breaking free and swinging out and then slamming back, sounded almost like a musket shot. Old soldier that he was, he tried not to show a reaction to the sharp sound, but it did cause him to look over with a start.

Potts caught the somewhat anxious glance, understood, and called for one of his African servants to go outside and secure the shutter. He apologized for the intrusion.

As the servant opened the door, a cold gust came rushing in, causing the crackling blaze in the fireplace to waver and flicker.

“A terrible night to be out and about,” Potts said. “I will bet you a pound to a shilling, sir, those damn rebels will be hiding in their holes tonight.”

Rall did not reply.

Yes, a terrible night, he thought. But would it be a night so terrible that he and his men might truly relax and enjoy a peaceful sleep?

He could recall that on more than one night such as this he had forced his men to march for a surprise attack at dawn.

And the bet? As a gentleman, of course, he would never make a wager with a civilian on such an issue. He had learned long ago that such bets could indeed be bad luck.

Potts began the game and Rall played along, absently losing three checkers rather quickly, Potts obviously delighted to have gained an advantage in the opening moves.

Thirty-five years! And now I find myself in this godforsaken land, Rall thought glumly. Yet it was what his prince had ordered, and like
any good soldier he had obeyed his orders, though to more than a few in his ranks the orders seemed nothing short of insane.

What stake did he have in this fight? None, other than the honor of his regiment and the practical realization that, with Europe at peace, this expedition would at least provide some training for his men and keep them in fighting trim for when a real war ignited. Already there were rumors that the French just might intervene in America, and for him, as for most Germans, another chance at the French did have its appeal. But if the confidence of the English commanders was to be believed, this war was all but over. Come spring, he and his regiment would embark on the long and nauseating six-week sail homeward with their mission completed, though more than a hundred of his men would never return, having found a place to rest until the final trumpet in this strange land.

Was it worth the price?

Unlike the stereotype of some of his fellow officers, especially the officious and noisome division commander Colonel Donop, he truly did care for his men and took pride in knowing most of them by their family names. A good officer, he always said to his youngest and newest lieutenants, learned to take care of the feet of his men first, and from there their stomachs and hearts, and by that means he could motivate their souls. If such means did not work there was always the lash, but he always believed that to be the absolute last resource of a good officer and too often the first choice of a bad officer.

When the lowest of privates realized that, they would surely follow such an officer into the gates of hell if need be. Nor would the officer ever have to fear that death on the battlefield would come from a musket ball striking his back between the shoulder blades.

Unlike the British army, an officer gained his rank in the armies of Hesse-Cassel and even that of Prussia itself by merit and leadership, and not by how much they could pay for their commissions. How the English could run an army in such a manner was beyond
him, and though he would never voice it publicly he felt that was the source of many of the problems this campaign had faced. He had respect, to a certain degree, for Lord Cornwallis, but as for the rest . . .

He stirred, looking over at the portly American merchant who was his host, the man studiously examining the checkerboard. He wondered, deep in his heart, what this man actually thought of the war. Potts had greeted them with open arms, loudly crying that he was delighted to be free at last of the rebel thieves. Had the man said the same thing five months back when independence was declared, or had he cheered along with the rest of the rabble, but now turned eager to make his peace?

Potts finally made his move. Rall nodded politely, quickly made his in reply and settled back, turning his gaze toward the crackling fire. Like his father before him, he had served his prince, entering service at the age of fourteen. At sixteen he had seen his first action when the great Frederick had led the north German states against Austria. During the Seven Years’ War, which these strange Americans called the War of the French and Indians, he had seen a dozen pitched battles and scores of minor ones, and had even been presented to the King of Prussia and commended for bravery at the Battle of Luetzen.

The memory of that filled him with pride, so that his attention to the game wavered and he quickly lost two pieces to only one of Mr. Potts’s.

Thus he had learned how to lead men. A true German officer led the charge from the front, regimental flag by his side, and if he retreated he had to be the last to leave the field. Such was expected of a true German officer, and so he insisted on with those whom he trained and led into battle. Oh, the British officers were certainly brave enough, but they seemed to lack that bond to their common soldiers that he demanded of his officers.