Only a slight fracture, especially if clogged with ice, in a fragile, slender wooden artillery wheel or gun carriage could render a light field piece immobile and inoperable. Therefore, all eighteen cannon of Knox’s cannon had to be carefully manhandled down the steep slope by already exhausted men and then pulled across the swirling, dark waters rushing over the banks. And then the entire time-consuming process—beginning with Forrest’s Pennsylvania guns—had to be repeated up the northern edge of the equally steep slope on the opposite, or southern, side of the fast-moving creek, which flowed west and descended toward the Delaware along a steady, but very gradual, drop in terrain.
Already emaciated, underfed, and not yet recovered from the long retreat across New Jersey, exhausted artillery horses proved too weak to pull the iron and bronze cannon out of the muddy creek bottom, and then uphill on the creek’s other side. Therefore, soldier manpower, despite already worn-down by the crossing’s and march’s rigors, completed the arduous task of pulling the cumbersome field pieces, whose wheels cut deeply in the muddy bottoms, up the snowy slope.
While the road dropped sharply from the high ground almost to the creek’s north bank, where only a relatively narrow level section of wooded bottom ground bordered Jacob’s Creek at this point, the artillerymen’s work was somewhat easier because a broader stretch of level ground, or creek bottom, stood immediately on the creek’s south side. Here, the wet, exhausted artillerymen briefly rested, before the imposing task of pushing up and pulling the guns up the sloping ground on the creek’s other side. However, by this time, much of the creek bottoms, especially on the more level south side, was partially flooded by the creek’s overflowing waters.
Therefore, even more precious time was lost in the snowy, densely timbered depths of Jacob’s Creek, with Washington’s unrealistic timetable continuing to fall apart beyond all recognition. But at last, Knox’s final artillery piece, the eighteenth gun, was taken across the high, brown waters of Jacob’s Creek by thoroughly soaked artillerymen, after more backbreaking labor. As in the Delaware crossing, not a single artillery piece was lost in traversing the gorge-like depression of Jacob’s Creek. Fortunately, small rocks, generally flat and worn smooth by water erosion, along the creek bottoms helped to ensure that none of Washington’s cannon became permanently mired in the mud, and that no slender artillery wheels splintered into pieces.
In addition, the crossing of such a relatively smooth creek bottom of mostly flat rocks also meant that none of Washington’s men broke ankles or legs on a pitch-black night, when few soldiers could see their own hands before their faces in the storm. By this time, the hard-working artillerymen, wet and muddy from the creek crossing, were now thoroughly exhausted, but their challenges were only beginning on this unforgettable morning in Hunterdon County. Once finally across the imposing obstacle of Jacob’s Creek, Captain Forrest and his Philadelphia artillerymen again took their assigned places at the head of Greene’s column to resume the trek down the Bear Tavern Road, nestled in the midst of a primeval wilderness that continued to slow Washington’s progress and ambition of reaching Trenton as soon as possible.56 With no margin for error and racing the clock, Washington had embarked upon the kind of desperate venture that he had cautioned John Hancock about only recently in September: “We should on all occasions avoid a general action or put anything to the risque [risk], unless compelled by a necessity, into which we ought never to be drawn.”57
Fortunately for Washington’s exhausted men, the Bear Tavern Road now turned sharply to the right, or west, almost immediately upon reaching the creek’s other side to follow the creek bottom’s mostly level ground, instead of ascending all the way up a small, wooded hill before them to the south, or directly opposite from where they had crossed the raging watercourse. Here, the road turned abruptly to follow the more favorable lay of the land, with Washington’s troops trudging west down the slightly plunging wooded hollow of the creek bottoms, sandwiched between forested hills to the north and south, which gently dropped toward the Delaware to the west.
Because the flooded creek flowed straight west toward the Delaware, so the road now ran in the same direction in following the easiest topography, with both the creek and the road running parallel and dipping slightly westward through the timbered hollow, now filled with a crowd of marching men with muskets on shoulders. All the while, the stoic Continentals, never more wet and miserable, yet remained quiet as ordered by Washington, moving onward with a firm determination to reach Trenton before it was too late. Washington continued to play an essential role in keeping the winding column pushing forward, despite all the obstacles and impediments met along the way.
Not long after the painfully slow crossing of the troublesome Jacob’s Creek, yet another east-west flowing watercourse (like Jacob’s Creek), that ran through its own wooded ravine, was shortly encountered by Stephen’s three regiments of seasoned Virginians at the head of Washington’s column. Known as Ewing Creek, this smaller, but equally rain-swollen, watercourse flowed slightly perpendicular, by the time it entered Jacob’s Creek from the east, to the Jacob’s Creek ravine that ran generally east-west at this point. With a rapid rush of water overlapping its banks, this formerly inconsequential, peaceful creek was now confronted by Washington’s tired men not long after they pushed only a short distance down Bear Tavern Road, after turning sharply west through the blackened woodlands draped in snow.
Now consumed by a fast-flowing torrent, Ewing Creek was a tributary of Jacob’s Creek, and was located just south of the first crossing point. Presenting yet another nasty surprise for Washington and his soldiers this morning, this overflowing tributary entered the main creek just east, or a short distance down Jacob’s Creek, of where the main strike force had already passed over. Even though the bottoms of both Jacob’s and Ewing Creeks merged into one where they intersected amid the dish-shaped timbered hollow, this challenging feature of topography ensured that Washington’s soldiers now encountered yet another deep ravine amid a thick virgin woodlands by which the entire laborious process of the combined efforts of both artillerymen and infantrymen in hauling the artillery across high waters had to be repeated: an exhausting task that continued to cost more precious time. Finally, after another difficult struggle against the triumvirate of nature, weariness, and the harsh elements, the second ravine carved out by the waters of Jacob’s Creek, or its flooded southern tributary, was likewise overcome, after Washington’s troops had additionally exerted themselves on a hellish night that no one would ever forget, and seemed to have no end.
After safely crossing to Ewing Creek’s timbered southwest side, the Bear Tavern Road then turned sharply to the left, or south, from its westerly direction parallel to Jacob’s Creek, and the terrain ascended sharply out of the heavily wooded, dual depths of Jacob’s Creek and Ewing Creek bottoms now covered in a thick blanket of ice and snow. While trusty flintlocks on shoulders and under the uncomfortable weight of packs, knapsacks, weapons, sixty rounds of ammunition and rations for three days, the foremost of Washington’s men began to lurch up the slippery slope, finally leaving the troublesome wooded lowlands of the twin creeks behind. With nothing but their will and the last, ever-diminishing reserves of strength pushing them relentlessly onward through the falling snow, the Continentals once again struggled up another steep slope to reach higher ground: another generally level plateau of this alien wilderness region. Finally escaping the depths of the creek bottoms and rugged forested ravines, Washington’s troops felt a small measure of relief upon gaining the more level ground that provided for easier marching for sore legs and feet, after the grueling crossings of the twin obstacles of Jacob’s and Ewing Creeks.
At long last straightening out like an arrow, the Bear Tavern Road now ran in a southeastward direction, just like it had before the column’s deep descent into the gorge-like ravine of Jacob’s Creek. At this point just south of Jacob’s Creek, the key intersection of the Bear Tavern Road and the Upper Ferry Road, that led to H
owell’s Ferry on the Delaware to the southwest, was located barely two miles distant and farther down this snowy road just to the southeast.
Finally, with the entire infantry column and all eighteen artillery pieces having emerged unscathed almost miraculously out of the deep, timbered hollow of both Jacob’s Creek and Ewing Creek, Washington’s march proceeded steadily south over the whitish landscape and down the Bear Tavern Road toward Trenton. Leaving no details overlooked in their micro-management style, both Washington and Knox made sure that the carefully chosen artillery, the two six-pounders and two five and a half-inch howitzers, continued to advance at the column’s head proper, or Mercer’s Connecticut, Maryland, and Massachusetts brigade, and before each following brigade of Continental troops with an ever-decreasing number of cannon.
Fortunately for Washington’s exhausted men, the torturous march down the Bear Tavern Road now became somewhat easier. Toiling onward through the snow, Washington’s troops continued south to enter the northern edge of yet another plateau, where the land leveled out once again. Thankfully for the foot-sloggers, the terrain and the road continued to gently rise, leveled out again, and then dipped slightly, before again ascending over ever-rising ground that led south. Better time was now made by the marching troops because the column proceeded across favorable terrain that gradually now rose higher to a wind-swept elevation of around 250 feet. Here, at this high point, the winds howled more fiercely, sweeping the thin column of long-suffering men and sending a deeper chill through Washington’s sojourners, who continued to stumble onward in the bitter night in the hopeful of salvaging something positive out of this New Jersey ordeal.
Most importantly and fortunately for Washington, this generally more level terrain allowed for Knox’s artillery, especially Captain Forrest’s Pennsylvania guns, to keep up at the column’s head (Mercer’s brigade), and each following Continental brigade, with exhausted horses straining harder in pulling the creaking artillery pieces over a snowy landscape drenched in an omnipresent blackness. Clearly, with artillery pieces now moving forward at the head of columns and brigades, the dynamic team of Washington and Knox, who both fully appreciated artillery’s decisiveness on the battlefield, were setting the stage for placing their guns in the most advantageous position and then utilizing them in an aggressive manner once the fighting erupted.
In the December 18, 1776 words of Colonel Knox, who had learned his artillery lessons well during the New York Campaign, which emphasized how it was now time to take a page out of the military manual of the British, who utilized the most effective artillery arm in America: “They scarcely or ever detach a single Regiment without two or three field pieces; the regulations of their artillery are founded upon the most convincing experience of their utility, & we shall have no reason to blush by imitating them in those particulars.”58
Meanwhile, most of Washington’s common soldiers knew not yet exactly where they were headed in the cold darkness or their exact mission, thanks to their commander’s penchant for secrecy. Consequently, this exhaustive march deeper into an unknown country of virgin wilderness and the New Jersey blackness remained a mystery. Young men and boys from across America, therefore, continued to place a blind, almost religious-like faith in Washington’s leadership and ability, despite him having been at the head of so many recent defeats and fiascos: a rather remarkable vote of confidence under the circumstances. In purely logical terms, the common soldier’s faith in the commander-in-chief was hardly fully justified at this time, however.
Consequently, these relatively few Continental and state soldiers who remained with Washington were now the staunchest believers in what their commander-in-chief could achieve against the odds, when few others possessed any faith in the Virginian’s tactical abilities. Many people sincerely believed that Washington was entirely unfit to command even a sergeant’s guard. Knowing that the stoic Virginian was trapped in a no-win situation, General Anthony Wayne wrote how “My heart bleeds for poor Washington,” but relatively few others in America were so sympathetic.
Fueling their faith and strengthening badly frayed belief systems, these resolute fighting men were convinced that America possessed a special destiny and held a promising future for a free people. Most of all, they were convinced that God yet supported America in its life-and-death struggle, because this higher moral law superseded the arbitrary rule of George III and Parliament. Almost instinctively, teenage Private Greenwood, who now carried both a musket and his favorite fife, knew that this blind reliance in Washington’s highly questionable leadership ability was somewhat a risky gamble in itself, but an absolutely necessary vote of confidence, if an important victory was to be secured for America. Therefore, he waxed philosophically: “None of the officers knew where we were going or what we were going about, for it was a secret expedition, and we, the bulk of the men [knew] anything about the country [of western New Jersey but] This was not unusual, however, as I never heard soldiers say anything, nor ever saw them trouble themselves, as to where they were or where they were led. It was enough for them to know that wherever the officers commanded they must go, be it through fire and water, for it was all the same owing to the impossibility of being in a worse condition than their present one, and therefore the men always liked to be kept moving in expectation of bettering themselves” and their country’s sinking fortunes.59 Under such severe adversity on the torturous march to Trenton, perhaps some of Washington’s men recalled the inspiring lyrics of a popular song (“Chester”), which emphasized, “Let tyrants shake their iron rod, And slavery clank her galling chains . . . We fear them not; we trust in God.”60 Washington’s soldiers also felt the heavy responsibility of literally carrying America’s fate and future with them on the trek to Trenton, because, in Sam Adams’ words, they were “now the guardians of [our] own liberties.”61
For such reasons, Washington looked with a sense of admiration upon these young men and boys, who “act from the noblest of all Principles, Love of Freedom and their Country.”62 But the iron discipline now displayed in the ranks was what most of all impressed Washington, who had long believed that “it is Subordination and Discipline (the Life and Soul of an Army), which next under Providence, is to make us formidable to our enemies, honourable in ourselves, and respected in the world.”63
Perhaps some of Greenwood’s Fifteenth Massachusetts comrades, including a good many Continental soldiers from the picturesque Connecticut community of Litchfield, which “was situated on a large plain more elevated than the surrounding terrain,” wrote one officer, realized that whatever they now endured, it was far worse for their unfortunate friends, relatives, and neighbors captured at Long Island and Fort Washington. Such harsh realities only made Washington’s troops more determined to succeed this morning at all costs. Therefore, a pent-up longing for revenge was another factor that also motivated Washington’s soldiers to keep moving through the blowing snow and toward whatever unknown fate lay in store for them to the south. Of the thirty-two Litchfield soldiers captured at Fort Washington, for instance, twenty had already died in the disease-ridden New York prisons and death ships, while another half dozen of Litchfield’s sons eventually succumbed on the death march journey back home to their same agricultural community of “about fifty houses pretty near each other, with a large square . . . in the middle,” after their release from a prison hell. Counting the four men killed in Fort Washington’s ill-advised defense at Manhattan Island’s north end in mid-November, only six soldiers, out of the original thirty-six, ever returned to see their homes and families at Litchfield, nested in a little valley in northwest Connecticut, or Litchfield Hills, again.64
On this frigid night amid the windswept forests north of Trenton, Washington’s soldiers, without gloves or mittens and some without socks or shoes, suffered the early stages of hypothermia. The night’s cold had thoroughly numbed limbs, especially lower extremities, and faces while hypothermia sapped moral, awareness, and motor skills. As the march progressed south al
ong the ascending ground of the windswept plateau of the unfamiliar countryside, except to the handful of Hunterdon County guides and Flahaven’s New Jersey Continentals, conditions only became worse. Additional feeling went out of hands and feet of an ever-increasing number of soldiers, who continued to gamely trudge ahead. Many of Washington’s men no longer felt the cold’s bitter sting, which was an early sign of frostbite: a gradually deteriorating physical condition not fully realized by the victim at this time, including such faithful soldiers as Ireland-born Private William McCarty. This veteran Irish soldier of Lieutenant Francis Ware’s First Maryland Continental Infantry, Mercer’s brigade, suffered frostbite on both feet, paying a high price for his patriotism on this terrible night.
Colonel William Smallwood’s Maryland Continentals were recruited primarily from the thriving ports of Baltimore, which the exiled Congress now called home, Annapolis, and the lucrative Tidewater tobacco plantations situated among the gently rolling hills of the Maryland Piedmont. These crack Marylanders had once worn such resplendent uniforms that envious New Englanders and middle state soldiers, especially Pennsylvanians from the western frontier, openly mocked. Taunts and insults were promptly returned by the spunky Maryland boys, who were always ready for a fight. Westerners, especially the Virginians, derisively called the finely uniformed Marylanders “Maccaronies”—a popular sobriquet for dandy—not only because they wore “macaroni cocked hats,” but also because they were mostly city slickers. These high-spirited “Maccaronies” consisted of a diverse ethnic mix, which included Irish, Germans, French, Scots, English, and Dutch soldiers, reflecting the varied urban and ethnic compositions of the bustling ports of Baltimore and Annapolis. But those resplendent uniforms, created by the best tailors in Baltimore and Annapolis and once worn so proudly by these planter’s sons, lawyers, artisans, and merchants, were no more by this time.
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