George Washington's Surprise Attack

by Phillip Thomas Tucker

  Rather than standing fully erect to receive the full force of a wintery blast hurtling down the river, half-frozen soldiers huddled low and close together for warmth in the boat’s water-soaked hull. Acting on instinct, they crounched behind the high, wooden gunwales to provide some slight protection against the harsh elements. Looking more like hungry beggars or homeless refugees from London’s dirty streets than Continental soldiers about to meet some of Europe’s finest troops at Trenton, Washington’s cargoes of hunkered-down Continentals were ferried slowly over what seemed like a vast watery expanse and toward the tree-lined New Jersey shore, masked in an eerie, blackened silence, that seemed to portent disaster up ahead. Meanwhile, the relentless orchestration of the continuous crossing of troops, with around thirty-five to forty men per Durham boat, by Knox and Glover only fell further behind Washington’s overly optimistic (and entirely unrealistic) timetable of transporting everyone across by midnight.

  Perhaps some of Washington’s more aristocratic officers, proud young bluebloods, schooled in the ancient classics, like the intellectual Virginian Lieutenant James Monroe, had read Homer’s The Iliad in which Achilles and his Myrmidon warrior companions, who accompanied the Greek war fleet, had sailed across the deep-blue Aegean Sea with colorful war banners flying to conquer mighty Troy in their “black boats” that each contained around fifty warriors. If so, then such college-educated Continental officers versed in the timeless lessons of The Illiad (ironically actually the West’s first anti-war narrative) might have thought back to that ancient time of around 1200 BC, when courageous Greek warriors slaughtered their fellow man, the hated Trojans, as fiercely as fighting men now engaged in the struggle for America’s heart and soul in 1776, but also yet simultaneously longed to return home to loving families, almost as if nothing had changed across the intervening centuries. This central tragedy of the human experience—the curse of incessant warfare with all its surreal horrors—linked Washington’s Continentals to the cherished western legacy of ancient Greek warriors, who fought and died far from home: mankind’s timeless burden and tragic fate—whether at Troy or Trenton—in which human beings are seemingly destined to endlessly destroy each other from either an uncontrollable biological urge, or a monumental genetic defect and, ironically, for reasons often forgotten in time.46

  Utilizing their extensive knowledge and experience of handling boats in windy and icy conditions from long Atlantic voyages that had lasted for months, the Marbleheaders skillfully employed their lengthy, wooden oars and “shad poles” to head off floating ice, bobbing up and down in dark waters and almost impossible to see in the inky blackness. Such desperate, last-second efforts prevented some larger ice chunks from damaging the vulnerable wooden hulls of the Durham boats. Most of all, the closely coordinated, smooth rhythms of the Marbleheaders and ceaseless laboring of Glover’s men in unison as a well-trained team were vital for a successful crossing of the cantankerous river. Therefore, Glover, the former experienced sea captain who knew that survival on the ever-hostile Atlantic depended upon close teamwork, made sure that his mariners at the oars of the Durham boats, as lengthy as nearly seventy feet, labored effectively as one. Glover’s soaked men knew exactly what was required of them to transport an ad hoc force of revolutionaries all the way to the Jersey shore. They now worked with an obsessive zeal, realizing that there was no tomorrow if they failed in their crucial role.

  For Glover’s Continentals, the stiff challenge of the Delaware itself was not a new experience. After all, Marblehead schooners had long taken these same seamen to the Grand Banks, where they were dropped off in small dories which they then rowed in the steady rhythm of close synchronization to reap the bountiful harvest from the world’s most fertile fishing grounds. Luckily for Washington during his final desperate bid to reverse America’s sagging fortunes before it was too late, Glover’s high-spirited soldier-sailors were experienced dorymen, whose coordinated rowing skills were second to none. In fact, the daring “bravo of dorymen [was] legendary,” and this can-do attitude, well-honed skill, and high level of experience once again now emerged in timely fashion on the Delaware on the most crucial night in America’s existence.47

  Even beardless drummer boys and fifers of Glover’s regiment put down their instruments, wet and ice-covered, to assist in the arduous task of rowing the big Durham boats across the choppy river. Providing a much-needed respite, these mere boys, including bright-eyed teenagers, gave the older, grizzled mariners a brief rest in the crowded boats overflowing with a huddled mass of half-frozen, miserable soldiers, who wondered if they would safely or even ever reach the elusive east bank. Glover’s young musicians included drummers Benjamin and John Thompson, who were brothers, Hugh Raynor, and John Anthoine.

  Another musician of the Fourteenth Massachusetts Continental Regiment was fifer Thomas Grant, Jr., the son of Captain Thomas Grant, Sr. He had just celebrated his fifteenth birthday only a dozen days before on December 13. A pious member of the Second Congregationalist Church, Captain Grant commanded the Marblehead company in which his son served as a fifer. Before America embarked upon its bold bid for liberty, Grant was Marblehead’s most gifted silversmith. He operated his own Marblehead shop, where his son worked by his side. Grant created some of New England’s most elegant masterpieces in high-grade silver, demonstrating a creative skill that he now applied to the art of war and in killing his fellow man. Most, if not all, of these young musicians of Glover’s regiment very likely contributed in the time-consuming crossing of the unruly Delaware that seemed to have no end.48

  As a sad fate would have it, the ranks of Glover’s musicians had not been immune to a recent cruel decimation. Glover’s regiment lost one fine drummer, Philip Follett, who was captured at the battle of Long Island. He was part of an inseparable father-son team, which was fully prepared to sacrifice their all for America’s freedom. Philip was the beloved son of Thomas Follett, Sr., who died of disease when the regiment was stationed at Cambridge where Washington first took command in July 1775. The other son, Thomas Follett, Jr., was released by Glover to attend to the welfare of his impoverished family and grieving mother in long-suffering Marblehead. But never forsaking the struggle for liberty, the young man soon went out to sea aboard a privateer to wage war against British shipping. He was determined to avenge his father’s death, eager to play his patriotic part at sea while Glover’s regiment fought on land. Clearly, fortunately for Washington and his ragtag army, the commitment of such dedicated young men in Glover’s Bay State regiment was very much of a personal and family affair, revealing yet another reason why this close-knit elite command, the pride of Marblehead, functioned so efficiently on land and water on December 25–26.49

  Amid the pelting mixture of rain, snow, and sleet that continued to pour down upon poorly protected heads, some Continental officers drew their sabers to employ them in desperate attempts to keep ice chunks from ramming into the sides of the Durham boats. Each jarring thump that shook vessels reminded the nervous, half-frozen occupants of the omnipresent danger that so suddenly struck out of the blackness. Most of Washington’s city boys and farm lads could not swim, which naturally heightened concerns about a boat’s sinking. Consequently, heightened tension and fear consumed even the most tried Continental veteran, who had already risked his life at Harlem Heights, Pell’s Point, or White Plains, throughout the long, nerve-racking journey across the turbulent river. On this darkest of nights, a Durham boat’s sinking, especially in icy, rough waters with strong currents, was now a certain death sentence even for a strong swimmer, of which there were few. In desperation, therefore, agile Massachusetts oarsmen and strong-armed pole-men attempted to ward off the largest ice floes from striking fragile hulls, but such efforts were usually too late. Such desperate attempts resulted in some lost swords, or the tips of officer’s swords breaking off in chunks of ice.

  In later years, one elegant, decorative sword, without a tip, was fished out of the Delaware’s waters at McConkey’s Ferry, wh
ich revealed one such frantic effort. Because of the sword’s high quality and obvious expensive quality, some historians speculated that the saber might have belonged to Washington himself, who was one of the first to cross over America’s river of destiny. Or perhaps this sword came from one of Washington’s faithful band of staff officers, such as Lieutenant Tench Tilghman (Maryland), Colonels Stephen Moylan (Pennsylvania), John Fitzgerald (Virginia), and Joseph Trumbull (Connecticut), and Lieutenant Colonels Samuel Blachley Webb (Connecticut) and Richard Carey, Jr. (Massachusetts).

  These highly esteemed members of Washington’s “family” most likely also crossed the Delaware with Washington in Captain Blackler’s Durham boat. This exquisite saber of a high-ranking officer was later allegedly positively “identified” as Washington’s own. It was, therefore, speculated that “when a large piece of floating ice bore down upon them [the soldiers in Washington’s boat under Captain Blackler were already] engaged in keeping the ice clear of the other parts of the boat, and, seeing no help from them, General Washington plunged his sword into the frozen mass and pushed it from the boat. In doing so, however, he found that the weapon had stuck fast, and in endeavoring to pull it out the point broke off in the ice and the other part fell from the General’s frozen fingers into the water.”50

  A seasoned Continental soldier named Oliver Cromwell was one African American who crossed the Delaware on this hellish night that no one would ever forget. He was not a slave but a free man. A diligent farmer, Cromwell tilled New Jersey soil to earn the fruits of his own labor. Born on May 23, 1752 in the village of Black Horse, now Columbus, Burlington County, Cromwell hailed from the pine-covered lands of south New Jersey. This area was distinguished by a relatively large free black population, thanks to past abolitionist Quaker influences and activities. The famous Emanuel Leutze painting entitled Washington Crossing the Delaware has been often criticized by modern historians and scholars for the abundance of its historical inaccuracies. But in fact, the African-American soldier, wearing a short, blue sailor’s jacket typically worn by New England seamen, depicted by Leutze in Washington’s Durham boat (more correctly that of Captain Blackler) was actually quite accurate, representing one of Glover’s black mariners. Leutze’s soldier of African descent has been most often misidentified as Prince Whipple, who was a slave owned by Declaration of Independence signer William Whipple. However, he was with his master on December 26, 1776 and not in the Trenton-Princeton Campaign. Prince Whipple only later served with Washington’s Army at Saratoga.51

  Meanwhile, around forty of Captain Flahaven’s soldiers of the First New Jersey Continental Regiment, Eastern Battalion, from such eastern New Jersey counties as Essex, Morris, Bergen, Somerset, Middlesex, and Monmouth, reached the east bank in one of the first Durham boats. The poorly shod feet of Captains Flahaven and Washington’s vanguard troops were already wet after struggling to get ashore in the blackness. With the darkness and the storm’s intensity concealing where the water ended and land began, the first soldiers to gain the east bank sloshed through shallow, cold water before gaining firm ground at Johnson’s Ferry. Here, a solid sheet of ice lined the bank. These men, consequently, underwent “the greatest fatigue” in the “breaking [of] a passage” through the frozen mass clogging the river’s east bank. However, the vanguard Virginians and New Jersey men, mostly Scotch-Irish soldiers of the Presbyterian faith like the majority of New Jersey Continentals, shortly trudged inland across higher ground than they had just left on Pennsylvania side, pushing deeper into western New Jersey to fulfill General Washington’s orders. Here, the overall topography consisted of rolling hills and high plateaus: terrain that briefly reminded Captain Washington’s Old Dominion men of their own homeland in northern and western Virginia.

  After gaining the windswept east bank upon disembarking from Captain Blackler’s Durham boat, Washington began to busily supervise the landing of additional troops, just as he had overseen his army’s embarkation during the stealthy escape from Long Island at the East River ferry less than four months before. Playing another psychological high card, the commander-in-chief remained in the forefront at the busy Garret Johnson’s landing site, well within sight of unloading soldiers to inspire resolve and instill a sense of calm. With his horse yet attended by a trusty soldier on the Pennsylvania side, Washington stood tall for all to see on the New Jersey shore.

  Here, by the glare of flashing torchlight half-dimmed by the dropping sheets of the sleet and snow, Washington spent an extended period personally supervising the landing of hundreds of Continentals, who poured inland with each new boatload of cold-numbed soldiers. Later, once the operation was progressing smoothly and as additional groups of Continentals poured ashore, he finally sat down on an empty wooden beehive, which served as his ad hoc command post and offered no protection from the harsh elements. But Washington was shortly back on his feet. While his long, dark military cloak flapped in the wind and with his hair tied and pulled back in a stylish queue, Washington exhorted his newly disembarked troops to bear up to the severe hardship and then to get ready to fight like men, when the decisive moment came. With a benign expression despite the freezing cold that stung faces, Washington watched the hushed files of ill-clothed troops, who yet maintained a disciplined silence as ordered, steadily disembarking in the narrow river bottoms of level ground immediately situated below a slight, wooded bluff located just west of the small, wood-frame Garret Johnson Ferry House.

  Encouraged by the sight of enhanced discipline in the ranks that brought a sense of relief, Washington had never seen so many of his soldiers so quiet as he had specifically ordered: a good sign for future success at Trenton. All the while he maintained a confident manner that was noticed by the common soldiers. Washington’s dignified command presence, quiet authority, and assuring words continued to radiate a calm confidence, if not a slight hint of an air of invincibility, that emanated from his inspiring physical presence and moral authority. Proving to be an accomplished master at masking his mounting apprehensions with his timetable of reaching Trenton just before dawn shattered, Washington hid his increasing doubts to present a stoic appearance that preserved morale and fueled confidence among his men. All the while, the former planter from Mount Vernon felt the heavy burden of command responsibility for having undertaken the war’s most daring gamble, and one that would determine if a revolutionary army and a young republic would live or die in the hours ahead.52

  Meanwhile, just the mere sight of Washington posturing and talking with confidence to his troops along the east bank lifted the spirits of each new arriving group of soldiers. These Continentals appreciated the fact that their commander-in-chief, unlike Howe or thirty-seven-year-old Lord Charles Cornwallis, Howe’s top lieutenant who had already retired to New York City, was now in the forefront, sharing the same dangers and enduring the same deprivations as the lowest private. In consequence, Washington was already seen as a father figure to the men in the ranks, long before he was viewed as the “father of his country” by his nation.

  Ever-optimistic Colonel William “Billy” Tudor, a Boston-born intellectual and lawyer who possessed a prestigious Harvard College degree (Class of 1769) and was well-read on the day’s leading military works, now served as legal councilor to the commander-in-chief and the army’s Judge Advocate General. He looked unkindly upon the lower-class Irish, especially the immigrants, who served in the Continental Army’s ranks. In an informative Christmas Eve letter penned to his future wife, Delia Jarvis, back in Boston, the twenty-six-year-old Tudor explained Washington’s all-important moral and psychological impact on the men, who looked to him for not only for guidance, but also for deliverance: “I cannot desert a man [Washington] who has deserted everything to defend his country, and whose chief misfortune . . . is that a large part of [the infant nation lacks the necessary] spirit to defend itself.”53 Indeed, at the most critical moment in the war, Washington continued to demonstrate a most remarkable ability to inspire others by his mere presence a
nd actions. To one and all, the commander-in-chief, in his desperate bid to secure America’s salvation, revealed a rare leadership quality, because he now “attained his greatest nobility at times of crisis.”54

  While standing erect just below the small Johnson Ferry House which was distinguished by a gambrel roof, Washington supervised the landing of hundreds of additional troops with a steady, reassuring hand. Knox continued to efficiently manage the time-consuming task of a disciplined and carefully orchestrated embarkation from the river’s west side. Now separated by the Delaware, a flotilla of Durham boats, and pitch blackness, Washington and Greene continued to perform as a highly effective leadership team at their respective ends of the crossing point during the most audacious river crossing of the war.