To Try Men's Souls - George Washington 1 (7 page)

Metzger saluted and turned back to his men, shouting more orders.

“Münchasen, ride back to town. Order the men to stand down and to get out of this foul weather, but rest under arms to continue throughout the night. Inform the surgeon to prepare to receive casualties.”

Münchasen did as ordered and galloped into the dark.

Still seething, Rall remounted, passed through the gate, and rode alone the few hundred yards to the center of town.

“Damn cowardly scum,” he muttered. Raiders, the same ones most likely who had been harassing his command since they were posted to this pathetic village. Meanwhile Cornwallis kept headquarters thirty miles away in Amboy, and two full British regiments rested comfortably in the spacious village of Princeton, twelve miles away. They put us out here, to be harassed day and night, sometimes by a single shot from the woods, and on a night such as this, even bolder, actually catching the unfortunate fools within this house by surprise. To move a single message back to Cornwallis now required a full guard of dragoons and mounted jaegers.

Damn this country!

As he reached the center of town he saw the last of his men filing into their barracks. It had been this way nearly every night for the last two weeks, his men staggering with exhaustion as two and sometimes three alarms a night rousted them out of their warm quarters, and on this night into a howling gale.

He was aware now of his own folly in rushing out without a cape or overcoat. His heavy woolen uniform was already soaked at the shoulders. In his back and legs the chill was setting in.

If there was any comfort, it was knowing that he would be back in a warm house in a few minutes, whereas the damn rebels, if still out and about, were wet and freezing. He hoped that hell rather than being a place of fire, was instead of ice and eternal cold.

Now his men were soaked as well . . . and he sensed it was going to be a very long night.

McConkey’s Ferry
6:00
P.M.
December 25, 1776

General Washington followed Knox at a discreet distance, letting him run the operation. Delegating responsibilities was something he found difficult to do. He knew it was a common complaint by men under his command that he tried to do everything himself, and on this night they were right. He would have to delegate and then pray for the best, letting them do their jobs beyond his watchful gaze. That also was frustrating, for so much could go wrong, was already going wrong.

Torches were flickering to life on the ferry dock. Glover’s men from Marblehead, as usual, manned the boats. The men who had saved the army at Long Island, carried the army across the Hudson, and once already across this same river as they retreated, would labor throughout the night again.

The first of the boats, a heavy bulk transport the locals called a Durham boat, after the maker——forty to sixty feet in length, flat bottomed, no seats except for the four to eight rowers——was tied to the dock. A company of the Pennsylvania riflemen was climbing aboard, cursing when they discovered the hull held several inches of slush and water.

He walked slowly toward the dock, mentally counting off the time, waiting as the boat filled, the men standing to make more room, boatmen already at the oars, stoic, as if the gale and the river were just another annoyance in a world filled with annoyances. There was confusion as one of the men, perhaps drunk, nearly went over the side, comrades grabbing him, the boat rocking violently, the Marble-head men cursing the Pennsylvanians soundly. There was a momentary debate as one of the men collapsed, sick, cold, or afraid, and was at last lifted out of the boat and deposited on the dock.

“Filled! Wait for the next un,” someone shouted, and then the lines were cast off. With oars inverted for use as poles, the Marble-headers pushed off from the dock. Once clear of its scant protection, the boat pivoted in the strong current, floes banging against its broad-beamed side, the riflemen cursing, several shouting out that the boat was going over.

The crew dug in with their oars, pulling hard, broaching against the current and then the boat was gone from view, disappearing into the gale.

A second boat, tied off just below the dock, was pulled into position with much heaving and cursing, and Knox came to the General’s side, shaking his head.

It had taken nearly ten minutes to load this one boat and get it off, and Glover had assured him they could do it in half that time. But that promise had been made when the weather was clear, there was no wind, and it was assumed moonlight would help them.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Knox offered. “I know what you are thinking. It’s taking too long.”

“We’re committed,” Washington replied.

“This damn storm, it’s like it was sent from hell, sir.”

He forced a smile and shook his head. “Heaven-sent.” He said the words loudly, wanting others to hear him and pass it along.

“Heaven-sent, I tell you. The enemy will think only madmen would be out on a night like this. And we are mad. Victory or death, Knox. It’s victory or death.”

He clapped Knox on the shoulder and could see the trace of a smile.

“I’ll be in the ferry house. Now keep them moving.”

Knox saluted and returned to his work.

Washington returned to the riverbank. His personal detachment, orderlies, men of the Pennsylvania cavalry assigned as his guards, and the scouts who would lead the columns once the march started, stood by, waiting.

“We’ll cross once most of the army is across. Find some shelter in the barn behind the ferry house and I’ll send for you when the time comes.”

The men saluted and left. He felt a wave of pity for them. The ferry house and attached outbuildings were already crammed to overflowing with staff, along with a couple of surgeons tending to men who had collapsed from illness and the cold. They’d have to wait in the unheated barn.

He caught the eye of one of the scouts. There were two assigned to his headquarters this night, local boys from the New Jersey militia who had stayed on with the army rather than desert, as had most of their comrades. These lads were called upon to act as guides. The youngest of them was looking straight at him, eyes wide, features pale, shivering uncontrollably.

He paused. “Try and find a dry place, son.” He put a fatherly hand on his shoulder.

The boy didn’t speak, could only nod, his teeth chattering.

“Are you well?”

The young man forced a nod. “I’m fine, sir.”

“That’s the spirit.”

He squeezed his shoulder and, turning, walked away. At the dock, troops were lining up, heads bent against the wind, waiting for what he knew would most likely be hours before they would cross to what awaited them on the other side.

Private Jonathan van Dorn stood silent as the General walked off.

“You wooden fool, you missed your chance.”

Peter Wellsley had joined the militia on the same day he had, five months back, when General Ewing marched into town, heading to New York to join the Continental Army, and promised each lad a ten-dollar bounty for joining.

Jonathan had needed no such encouragement. He was burning with desire to go, ignoring his parents’ protestations. He had joined with Peter and half a dozen other men of the village of Trenton, alongside his brother James.

“You should have told him the truth, you ass,” Peter said.

“What truth?”

“That you’re sick, damn it. You’re burning with fever. He’d have excused you.”

Jonathan shook his head vehemently.

“Just a chill, that’s all.”

“Come on, lads. You heard the General. Let’s get out of this storm.”

It was one of the Pennsylvania cavalrymen pushing past the two. They followed the seasoned troopers into the barn behind the ferry house, light glowing from within. One of the troopers, opening the door, was greeted with howls of protest that it was too crowded, to shut the damn door and go someplace else, but the sergeant shoved his way in, ordering the others to follow. Those crammed within were men of “the line,” Marylanders from the looks of the few who wore semblances of uniforms. Jonathan hesitated at the door, the disdain and barriers between militia and regulars were apparent now.

Peter followed the cavalrymen in, pushing Jonathan along.

“God damn militia, there’s no more room.”

“They’re with us,” the cavalry sergeant announced.

“I don’t give a damn who they’re with,” one of the Marylanders snapped, pushing through the crowd. “Out now!”

Jonathan looked at the Maryland lieutenant and wondered how any of them could tell who was who. Everyone was ragged, filthy, the bright gray uniforms of summer long since reduced to threadbare and a nearly universal dingy brown. Few of them had shaved in weeks. It
was just too damn cold. In the closed air of the barn, his head swam with the stench so that he actually was tempted to back up and retreat out the door.

The Pennsylvania sergeant stepped in front of the Marylander.

“General’s orders. They’re with us, and we are staying here waiting for orders.”

“Which general? We got so damn many of them.”

“Washington, that’s who.”

The Marylander hesitated.

“Oh,” a long pause. “Him.”

“What the hell does that mean?” the sergeant snapped. The lieutenant was looking at him with a cool gaze.

Jonathan felt trapped between the two, saying nothing.

“Were you at Brooklyn?” the lieutenant asked.

The sergeant nodded.

“Yes. I was there. And yes, I saw what happened to you.”

Jonathan gazed at the lieutenant. He had not seen it. His unit was held in reserve that day, so long ago, back in August, but the entire army knew how the Maryland line had been cut off and then slashed to ribbons, overrun, scores of their wounded supposedly bayoneted by the Hessians even as they begged for mercy. And more than a few of them blamed the general from Virginia, General Washington, for the fiasco of that day.

The barn was silent as the two glared at each other.

“Save it for the bastards on the other side,” someone from the back of the crowd snapped, and Jonathan could sense the tension breaking. The sergeant still held the Marylander’s gaze but nodded in agreement.

The Maryland lieutenant stepped back slightly, giving a sidelong glance at Jonathan and Peter.

“You two. Militia?”

“Yes, sir,” Peter replied, trying to sound defiant, but he was shaking nearly as hard as Jonathan, his voice breaking.

“And I say, damn all militia. Let me guess, New Jersey no less.”

“So what if we are?” Peter replied. There was defiance in his voice.

“We got the last two from New Jersey with us, boys. So much for Jersey.”

The lieutenant’s disdainful gaze shifted to Jonathan, who would not lower his eyes.

“How fast can you run away, boy?”

“Not fast enough to keep up with you,” he said, trying to suppress the rasping cough that had been tormenting him for days.

“You damn whelp.” The lieutenant started to draw back a hand to strike him.

“He’s game and I’m with him,” the sergeant announced, shouldering forward several of the Pennsylvania troopers, who were crowding in as well. “We are all going back to New Jersey tonight, and it is nice to have some New Jersey men to help us in
their
home state.”

For a moment Jonathan thought a brawl was about to erupt. The lieutenant stood silent.

“Lieutenant Elkins! Leave off it.”

An officer, wearing the epaulette of a major pushed his way through the press.

The major glared at the sergeant and then at Jonathan.

“Just stay away from my men.”

Jonathan and the sergeant said nothing. The order was rather absurd; they were crowded nearly shoulder to shoulder in the small barn.

The major looked back at his own men.

“Stand at ease, all of you. There’ll be plenty of those damn Germans to take it out on tomorrow.”

The lieutenant spared a final menacing glance for Jonathan and then pushed back in with his own men.

Jonathan started to cough, nearly choking for a moment as phlegm clogged his lungs and then broke loose. Bent double, gasping for breath, he spit it out and felt Peter’s arm around him, helping him to stand up straight.

“Your friend is right,” the sergeant said, his tone almost fatherly. “Lad, go to the surgeon. They’ll excuse you.”

Jonathan shook his head.

“I’m staying. The General said he needs guides who live in Trenton, and that means me and my friend here.”

The sergeant smiled. “That’s the spirit, boy.” He produced a battered wooden canteen, uncorked it, and offered it to him. “Take a pull on this. It’ll warm you.”

Jonathan did as ordered. He had never drunk rum before joining the army, except once when he and James had secretly filled a small bucket from a newly delivered barrel of rum behind a tavern, and then slipped off to Assunpink Creek to while away the afternoon fishing and drinking like men do when they fish. They had drained the bucket dry and staggered home roaring drunk. Two years ago——he was fifteen then, James seventeen, and their father had thrashed them soundly for their heathen behavior.