Though somewhat portly and easygoing that were obvious legacies of his more carefree innkeeper days and thanks to ample French and War experience that included solid service under General Stephen, Weedon had taken command of the Third Virginia Continental Regiment in mid-August 1776. On September 12, he had then linked up with Washington’s Army, after a dusty four hundred mile-march to New York City with slightly more than six hundred men from mostly western and northern Virginia. But now trudging through the blowing snow along the Scotch Road, those six hundred zealous Old Dominion volunteers had been culled by the brutal Darwinian-like process of a war of attrition to only around 140 men by this time.94
The Scotland-born Mercer had organized the Third Virginia Continental Regiment, but then took command of the Flying Camp upon gaining a well-deserved general’s rank. Mercer’s departure allowed Weedon, who was affectionately known as “Old Joe Gourd” to his boys because of his endearing penchant for having served over-generous amounts of spiked punch with an out-sized gourd ladle, to take command of this versatile infantry command that was as adept at “true Bush-fighting way” as with conventional tactics. Young James Monroe, the future United States president, had first joined this revered Old Dominion regiment. The Third Virginia Continental Regiment’s antecedent unit, the Culpeper Minute Battalion from the western frontier, had once terrorized the more genteel, refined citizens of Williamsburg, Virginia, at the war’s beginning by their fierce, war-like looks alone. These minute men from along the wild, picturesque Blue Ridge country presented western frontier appearances that shocked Williamsburg’s good citizens. After all, the rambunctious Old Dominion volunteers were distinguished by long hair, fringed hunting shirts, scalping knives, Long Rifles, tomahawks, deerskin moccasins, Indian leggings, and a devil-may-care attitude. In addition, they had proudly worn the patriot slogan “Liberty or Death” across their fringed buckskin hunting shirts.
Most of all, these resourceful Virginia Continentals now under Weedon’s command were hard as nails. Now an ambitious lieutenant, Monroe’s first captain, John Thornton, of Culpeper County, Virginia, had roughly hurled a “Tory” preacher out of his own church in Fredericksburg, when his sermon even hinted to a peaceful submission to England. The high confidence, can-do attitude, and jaunty air of these rough-hewn Virginia Continentals were evident from their wartime-fashionable wearing of hats “cocked on one side,” and by Washington’s repeated reliance on them in key combat situations. These Old Dominion boys had guarded the army’s vulnerable rear, along with the three regiments of Stephen’s brigade and the other Virginia command, the First Virginia Continental Regiment, of Stirling’s brigade, of which the Third Virginia Continental Regiment was apart, during the dismal withdrawal through New Jersey.
Despite its frontier ways and rustic appearances, the Third Virginia Continental Regiment was in fact an elite unit. Weedon’s regiment had been trained and drilled to exceptionally high standards by the celebrated victor at the October 10, 1774 battle of Point Pleasant over the Ohio Valley Indians, Ireland-born Andrew Lewis. On a hot late summer day at Harlem Heights, New York, when the Americans forced the enemy to turn and run for the first time, Colonel Weedon bragged how the famed Scottish Highlanders, the Black Watch Regiment, “got cursedly thrashed.” The former Fredericksburg innkeeper had a close call on that memorable September 16, 1776, when his saber’s hilt was shot away by a British bullet. Most important for Washington, the Third Virginia Continental Regiment was now filled with a good many of his own friends, former comrades, and acquaintances. He knew these men intimately and to be reliable, having socialized with them across Virginia, including at Weedon’s tavern and the Raleigh Tavern in Williamsburg.95
As repeatedly demonstrated in the past, Washington’s confidence in his Virginia boys was well-placed. Upon first reaching Washington’s Army, Captain John Chilton, Third Virginia Continental Regiment, described in a letter to his father-in-law of a common feeling among the army’s ranks in regard to these sharpshooting Virginia frontiersmen and tobacco planter sons: “great things are expected from the Virginians.” Washington was never disappointed in his own high expectations placed upon Weedon’s high-spirited soldiers, who fought with their hearts and well-honed skills to excel on the battlefield.96
The widely accepted view about the superiority of the combat prowess of Virginia troops was backed up by at least one Pennsylvania general, Anthony Wayne. Of Scotch-Irish antecedents, General Wayne lamented the regional differences in the Continental Army that sapped overall cohesion: “Had [Washington] but Southern troops he would not be necessitated so often to fly before an enemy. . . .”97
Even amid Hunterdon County’s snowy depths and despite knowing that if killed on December 26, then they could not be buried because of the frozen ground, the fighting spirit among Washington’s Southern troops remained exceptionally high, stemming from past accomplishments and a distinct sense of regional pride. However, provincialism had long fueled an intense sectional rivalry, which caused New Englanders, or “Yankees,” and Southerners, or “Buckskins” that included Pennsylvanians from the western frontier. Even Washington, reflecting Virginia planter class prejudices, had denounced New Englanders, especially the “lower class of these people,” in his own words, but also including officers, as “an exceedingly dirty and nasty people.” However, this healthy rivalry between northern and southern soldiers also spurred an intense competition to win battlefield laurels and would rise to the fore during the upcoming showdown at Trenton.
At this time when so many members of Colonel Weedon’s regiment were “bare of clothes,” the irrepressible Captain Chilton, a thirty-six-year-old planter from Fauquier County, described how the Third Virginia soldiers were “very willing to fight them on any terms.” While “fighting for Liberty,” this devoted father of five was fated to be killed at the battle of Brandywine on September 11, 1777. This heated regional rivalry between North and South explained in part why Washington decided to place all the Southerners in Greene’s Second Division column, while Sullivan’s First Division column consisted of New Englanders, except for two New York Continental regiments (the First and Third) of Sargent’s brigade and the three non-New England artillery units, two Jersey commands and one Philadelphia “long-arm” unit. As planned by Washington, the two divisions would vie with each other for reaping the most battlefield laurels in the upcoming clash at Trenton that loomed just ahead.98
Especially for Scotland-born veterans like Mercer, the slow, stumbling march of Washington’s troops south down the icy Scotch Road and ever-closer to Trenton might have reminded them of those long-lost Jacobite glory days of 1745 and 1746, when thousands of Scottish Highland warriors had followed the ill-starred destiny of twenty-four-year-old Bonny Prince Charley, the last heir to the Stuart throne, during his ambitious attempt to capture London and restore Scotland autonomy. At war against Protestantism and foreign domination, these Jacobite Highlanders, including even fanatical Celtic chaplains, who carried sharp broadswords and an abiding hatred of the English, had terrified all England by challenging George III’s rule by winning dramatic victories at places like Falkirk, Scotland (on January 17, 1746 and ironically where William Wallace was decisively defeated in July 1298), and pushing within one hundred miles of their greatest prize, London.99
Meanwhile, time was running out for Washington and his much-hampered pursuit of his great prize, Trenton. Daylight was approaching, and the possibility of unleashing the planned 5:00 a.m. attack had evaporated long ago. In a letter, Washington had once referred to the “Womb of Time,” that ironically was now not about a birth but all about the ever-increasing odds for America’s early death, if victory was not soon reaped at Trenton.100 Back in September 1758, Washington had written how time was “that never failing expositor of all things,” and that sage, old adage was never more true than in regard to the situation for his two columns struggling through the snows north of Trenton.101
Inching through the swirling tempest that stubbo
rnly refused to diminish, Washington’s two columns—Greene, the left wing, along the Scotch Road and Sullivan, the right wing, pushing down the River Road—continued to move relentlessly ever-southward over a snow-shrouded landscape and farther into the blinding darkness. Communications between the two drawn-out columns, now separated by pitch blackness and more than a mile and a dense tangle of wintery woodlands, were nonexistent. Therefore, Washington could only hope that both assault columns of his ever-optimistic pincer movement were proceeding as planned and at roughly the same pace south along two parallel roads that pointed south like two twin daggers toward Trenton’s heart. Most of all, Washington feared that the two separated columns, lurching ahead blindly in the cold darkness and across unfamiliar terrain, would never reach the town’s outskirts in a timely fashion for a simultaneous attack on Trenton to fulfill his lofty tactical vision of a double envelopment.
While the snow and ice poured down to cause more havoc upon the commander-in-chief’s already shattered plans and timetable, the march of Greene’s and Sullivan’s columns continued to ease down gently sloping terrain as they neared the Delaware that curved slightly east eventually to where Washington’s troops would again meet it at Trenton. Fortunately, along both the River and Scotch Roads below the tiny village of Birmingham, the terrain dropped away in a gradual descent south and toward Trenton, allowing relatively easier marching for weary men, who had been up all night. But because Sullivan’s route paralleled and lay closer to the river, the land fell more sharply than on the generally higher terrain encountered by Greene’s Second Division troops to the east. However, the farther that Sullivan’s troops pushed south, the closer the First Division’s column neared the Delaware, where the ground sloped more gradually.
When Sullivan’s division first proceeded south from the Birmingham crossroads, the Delaware lay just more than a mile and a half to the west. But after Sullivan’s troops trudged almost directly south, but slightly southeast, for just more than a mile from Birmingham, the yet unseen Delaware lay only three-quarters of a mile to the west. Meanwhile, during the relentless push ever-southward, the snow-covered terrain to Sullivan’s right, between the river and the lengthy column of mostly New England troops remained generally high, revealing little indication to Sullivan’s men that the river flowed just to the west. Although the ground continued to slope downward ever since the right wing column had departed the Birmingham crossroads, the terrain was yet gently rolling and relatively high for easier marching to Sullivan’s leg-weary soldiers, while they plodded wearily onward and down the River Road over gradually descending ground.
Then, at a point just more than a mile south of Birmingham, the troops of Sullivan’s column descended down a sharper slope to encounter the first natural obstacle during the gradual descent south toward the river and Trenton: Heath Creek, or today’s Gold Run, which was located about three miles south of Jacob’s Creek. Running in a southwest direction toward the Delaware and parallel to Jacob’s Creek far to the north, this small creek crossed the road upon which Sullivan’s First Division soldiers trudged, barely able to put one foot before the other.
But fortunately and unlike Jacob’s Creek, this smaller creek had not cut a deep ravine in its descent toward the river because of less top soil and more bedrock just below the surface. Therefore, unlike at Jacob’s Creek, Sullivan’s rather easy crossing of Heath Creek only resulted in a relatively short delay. Here, as earlier at Jacob’s Creek, Sullivan’s soldiers continued to get their feet, already cold and half-numb, wet, however. Nevertheless, these half-frozen scarecrows stumbled onward with undiminished determination, pushing forward toward where their officers now led them forward into the dark unknown in a supreme leap of faith.
Just after crossing Heath Creek, Sullivan’s First Division troops continued to slog a short distance south down the River Road to finally gain the barely discernable Lower Ferry Road, which paralleled the ice-laced creek in its descent southwest toward the Delaware to Beatty’s Ferry, just under a quarter mile away. Here, and thanks to intimate knowledge about his own home area from guide Captain John Mott, a mounted Sullivan signaled for his half-frozen troops to turn sharply to the right, and march southwest and parallel to the little creek flowing toward the Delaware. The Lower Ferry Road led west to the River Road proper, which more closely paralleled the river, following close to its east bank. Just as Heath Creek fell more sharply in cutting southwest and roughly perpendicular to the north-south flowing Delaware, so the Lower Ferry Road also descended in a like manner toward the river.
However, unlike the gorge-like obstacle at the Jacob’s Creek crossing to the north, the topography now proved far more favorable for Sullivan’s weary foot-sloggers, because the creek descended through a wide, timbered hollow, which was sandwiched by higher ground on each side to the north and south. For the steadily marching First Division troops, this was a relatively easy access point leading southwest from higher to lower ground along the river, while the steeper, bluff-like terrain farther south and closer to Trenton would have impeded a comparable march west from the relatively high ground to the river bottom below.
Much to the relief of Sullivan’s New Jersey, Massachusetts, and Philadelphia artillerymen, who dreaded the prospect of encountering another nightmarish Jacob’s Creek-like ravine, what was now presented to the First Division’s worn soldiers was a natural avenue leading straight to the river along a comparatively easy route. Therefore, after shifting their ranks, Sullivan’s Continentals now marched mostly southeast through the steady deluge of snow to ease down gradually descending terrain that dropped toward the river, and fell more sharply, although along terrain that yet made relatively easy marching for infantry and accompanying artillery, as they pushed ever-nearer to the Delaware. By this time, clothing and uniforms of these exhausted soldiers, who had never felt colder, were heavier, sodden with wetness and snow. And, worst of all, there was no shelter from the storm and no rest in the inky blackness.
After trudging wearily around half a mile southwest parallel to Heath Creek, Sullivan’s threadbare soldiers finally reached the River Road, proper, that lay along the river’s east bank. Here, the lengthy column, consisting of Sargent, Glover, and St. Clair’s brigades, respectively, turned sharply left off the Lower Ferry Road and onto the snow-covered main River Road running southeast and leading straight into Trenton’s southwestern end. Therefore, Sullivan’s troops must have felt a sense of relief upon gaining the river’s firm bottom ground—which made for easier marching—and finally having gotten off the high ground, where the wind gusts cut through uniforms and the snow had piled up, and in reaching close to the river’s east bank without great difficulty, or significantly slowing up the march’s progress. Indeed, just to the right and beside the dark belt of winter’s leafless oaks, hickories, and sycamores lining the east bank, the Delaware’s swift, brown waters flowed south toward Trenton and Sullivan’s ultimate objective that had to be reached as soon as possible.
But in fact not everything was going well in Sullivan’s First Division column, even though it had finally reached the River Road proper for the final descent upon Trenton. Numbed by a combination of freezing cold, hypothermia, and an unprecedented weariness, some men moved onward like ice-caked Zombies through the snow and howling winds. During the march southeast down the slippery River Road, one determined officer in Glover’s regiment, Lieutenant Joshua Orne, who was Glover’s old business associate back in Marblehead, suddenly found himself in serious trouble. He was completely worn down by the ravages of the cold and hypothermia from the combined effects of the seemingly endless rowing of a Durham boat across the river, and then the seemingly endless struggle of marching through the drifting snow mile after weary mile. Therefore, with his strength and energy thoroughly sapped and suffering severely, Lieutenant Orne simply could go no farther down the River Road. Far from his fine mansion and close friends back at his picturesque home port, the aristocratic lieutenant hailed from a leading Marblehead merchant f
amily, which could not help him now. Orne was one of the best officers in the experienced company commanded by Colonel Glover’s son. With his stamina failing him and his luck running out, Lieutenant Orne staggered out of the shuffling column of Glover’s Massachusetts regiment in the blinding snowstorm. Orne’s dilemma in the darkness and the raging storm’s intensity was life-threatening.
Neither Captain John Glover, Jr., and the company’s other lieutenant, Marston Watson, Ensign William Hawks, or their enlisted men saw Orne’s sad plight. With the first signs of hypothermia setting in, including the loss of feeling in his lower extremities, and weakened from the strenuous exertions in crossing the Delaware and marching all night, Orne fell hard in the snow. He tumbled down by the side of the River Road, and then lay in a hump in the snow. With everyone else just focused on simply putting one foot before the other, the Massachusetts soldiers marched past Orne’s prostrate form that no longer betrayed movement or any sign of life. No doubt believing that he would never again see his father, Colonel Azor Orne, who had served on key revolutionary committees of Marblehead, or his merchant family of the so-called codfish aristocracy, Lieutenant Orne lay comatose beside the road, as a soft veil of dropping snow began to slowly cover his motionless body.
Meanwhile, Fourteenth Massachusetts Continental Regiment soldiers continued to struggle slowly onward down the River Road with Colonel Glover, as usual, at the head of his mostly Massachusetts brigade. Fortunately, one of the last stragglers, evidently of St. Clair’s brigade to Glover’s rear, stumbled accidently upon the perfectly still lieutenant beside the road. He aroused Orne and helped the groggy officer to his feet. Once revived and awakened from a deep, comforting sleep that would have proved fatal, Orne again shouldered his musket, which now felt as heavy as lead, and continued slogging down the River Road. He even later picked up the pace, hoping to catch up to Glover’s Bay State regiment, before it was too late. Clearly, it was a close call for Lieutenant Orne.102
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