After an hour’s march the prisoners at the head of the columns passed the word back they could see the spires and rooftops of Philadelphia, the grand city of the Rebellers. We were that close, Georg thought. Instead of winter quarters in Trenton, if our Officers and the British General who paraded so pompously before the Rebellers’ artillery on the banks before Trenton had led us properly, we could have crossed that narrow river and captured this place.
As they entered Philadelphia, large crowds of its citizens packed the main thoroughfare, gawking and pointing at the Hessians. Additional regular troops formed a barrier between the people and the prisoners. The populace did not seem hostile but simply curious to catch a glimpse of the Hessians. Georg looked around at the fine three story brick buildings on the broad streets and the people along their route, the men well-dressed in long black coats with silver buttons, the women in cloaks, some with fur collars turned up against the cold wind, their hands hidden in woolen muffs
Christoph gave voice to Georg’s thoughts. “There would have been plenty of booty and plunder in this place,” he said ruefully. Georg thought back to his Regiment’s rampage in Brunswick and the entry in the Quartermaster’s ledger of his share for that, as well as the Rebellers’ captured cannons and supplies in New York. It was all gone now. He would not return to his homeland a wealthy man, that is if he survived and returned at all.
They made a right turn on to a narrower cobble stoned street, as the men from Colonel Rall’s regiment continued straight. The column bunched up and Georg heard shouts ahead. A group of women, less prosperous looking than those the prisoners had passed entering the city, strands of their gray hair protruding from under their bonnets, screeched at the Hessians as they shuffled by, pelting them with filth and kitchen garbage and an occasional stone. Georg was in the file closest to them and raised his arm to fend off a barrage of fish heads, offal and rotten vegetables. The militia seemed unable or unwilling to quell the women’s anger, their only reaction being to hurry the prisoners along. One woman easily eluded a guard, hurled the contents of a chamber pot at the head of a Hessian and then, still not satisfied, let loose a huge gob of phlegm catching him in the ear. The prisoner plodded on, not even stopping to rub the filth from his uniform. Georg could not understand any of the shouted words and wondered why these women hate them so? 1
They stopped in front of a long low building, surrounded by a four-foot high rusting iron fence. It was a warehouse by a river. The metal gates were thrown open and the one hundred or so prisoners were herded into the yard. After the gates were closed, they discovered the building’s doors were locked. There was no other choice but to sit on the ice-covered ground, their backs against the brick walled building and wait. Four militiamen stood at the closed gates, occasionally drinking from their canteens. From their laughter and joking, Georg knew they were drinking alcohol. He wet his lips, recalling the taste of the brandy coursing down his throat and warming his innards that they had been given in Trenton with their last hot dinner before the Rebellers’ attack.
By late afternoon, as the sun set low in the winter sky accompanied by a bitter chill to the air promising a brutally cold night, Georg was convinced the Rebellers intended to starve and freeze them to death. He was angry at his Officers and angrier still at the men around him, as stupid and docile as dumb beasts of burden, shitting where they stood or sat, listless with no spark of human intelligence on their weary, grimy, expressionless faces.
“This will not do,” Georg muttered and gestured for Christoph to follow him.
The two of them walked around the yard, peering into the eyes staring out from the unshaven faces of the men from their Regiment. Georg was searching for those who had good strong voices. He assembled eight of them in a curving row in the center of the compound facing the building. They began to sing. They sang the Psalms they all had sung during the terrifying voyage across the North Sea to overcome their fear. As their voices rose and echoed off the building wall, a few of the prisoners staggered to their feet and joined in. More did the same, until there almost all one hundred of them were standing, some with bowed heads, praising the Lord in words they had known since childhood. The few Hessians remaining on the frozen ground were too physically weak or too defeated in spirit to make the effort.
In the middle of one Psalm, the men facing Georg and his makeshift choir, fell silent. A few pointed at the gates. Georg heard the high-pitched grating as the cold metal squeaked in protest at being opened. Several wagons loaded with straw and barrels entered the compound, accompanied by their militia guards and two mounted officers. One dismounted and unlocked the padlocked doors to the building. The militiamen, by gesture and shouts, directed some prisoners to unload the straw and carry it inside while others rolled the barrels into the dim long room.
Torches were lit. The building was empty except for large stones stored at one end. The Hessians spread the straw laterally down both long walls. The barrels were set upright in a row and left at the entrance. The prisoners, as directed by the militia, lined up in the center on the dirt floor path between their straw bedding and the barrels. They were ordered forward in groups of ten. This time, under their guards’ watchful eyes, there was no mad scramble for food. Each man was given hard biscuits and a piece of salt pork and every five men shared a ration of watered cider from a single mug. That night, again without blankets, they slept on the straw covered floor, shivering in the cold dank moisture of the warehouse.
By Georg’s count, they remained in their makeshift warehouse prison for three nights. During the day, they were permitted to walk around the yard. At night the doors were barred from the outside and militiamen were posted at the gate.
On the first full day after their arrival, at mid-morning under a clear but cold winter sky, several women approached the fence. Their heads were covered with white embroidered caps under the hoods of their dark cloaks. Their skirts were a plain black. They carried baskets. They pulled back the cloth covers embroidered with colorful patterns of red, green and yellow, to reveal freshly baked breads, chunks of hard cheese, small dried and salted little fish, their eyes glazed at the end of their thin silver bodies, dried apples and even an occasional pie or meat patty. The prisoners, responding to the generous and modest demeanor of the women, lined up along the fence, with their hands outstretched between the metal bars, and waited for the women to divide up the food and place a piece of this or that in each outstretched palm. When it was Georg’s turn, he instinctively wiped his hand on his breeches before offering it. When the woman gave him a small piece of bread and cheese, he bowed slightly and said “Danke.”
“You are welcome,” she replied, acknowledging his thanks and moved on. 2
The second day more women came, with more food. Now the men smiled and conversed in either German or in broken English. Georg learned from Christoph two phrases, “good morning,” and “God bless you,” which he repeated to every woman distributing food through the fence.
The nights were still unbearably cold without blankets or a warming fire. They awoke stiff in limb and shivering in their worn uniforms, thinking of the blankets and coats they had lost and the thin, straw filled mattresses of their barracks. At the time, they had cursed their winter quarters in Trenton where the wind blew the powdered dust of deteriorating caulking through large clefts in the stone. Now, they longed for those drafty barracks.
The anticipated visits by the women prompted the prisoners to brush the straw and dirt from their jackets and pants, attempt to tie their pigtails more neatly and to smooth out their ragged mustaches. To Georg, this grooming was a comical but welcome return of the prisoners’ recognition of their own humanity. He had no illusions how they all looked. One only had to take a deep breath inside the warehouse to know how filthy and foul they smelled. Still, the women came and the men remained polite and grateful for their generosity.
Early in the morning, on the fourth day, the prisoners were assembled in the yard. Georg stood straight
and tall under the appraising gaze of a pudgy man in a rich dark brown wool coat who walked along the line. When he nodded to a soldier next to him, the militiaman would point at the prisoner and beckon him to step forward. Georg was one. He saw Christoph was another. At the end of the inspection, twenty-two men had been singled out. They were marched to a small shed within the gates and compelled to stand outside in the cold. Georg had no idea what they had been selected for. He did not think they were to be executed. The British used the Rebeller prisoners to dig graves and construct defenses. That would not be so bad, he thought, if they were away from any fighting and given proper rations. When it was his turn, he entered the shed. A clerk sat at a small table upon which were a ledger, a quill, an inkstand and a candle. Georg was surprised when the soldier, who he thought was standing guard, addressed him in heavily accented German which sounded more Dutch, asking for his name, rank and Regiment.
Georg replied and the soldier spoke to the clerk who duly noted down the information.
“Craft or trade,” the soldier asked. Georg hesitated.
“Tailor? Blacksmith? Carpenter?
Georg shrugged. “Farmer,” he replied and sensed that was the wrong answer. If he had named one of the crafts, maybe he thought they would send him to work indoors, in a warm shop in a town. It was too late to change his answer.
“That is all,” the soldier said.
“What is this for?” Georg asked. “Where are you taking us?”
“I am not here to answer questions from you. You will find out, soon enough.” He waved the back of his hand dismissively and Georg ducked under the low entrance and went back into the yard. He saw Christoph waiting and pretended to stumble as he passed. “Tell them you know a trade or craft,” he whispered to his friend, before moving down the line. 3
James Kierney led Zak, his family’s ox, pulling a sled with the two heavy stones he and his father had levered from the snow covered field, toward the log and slat bridge over the little creek that ran below their house. James was almost eleven. He favored his mother’s side with his sandy hair, thin bones and bright blue eyes, as well as his eager, quick manner. He saw the wagon in the distance, bumping up the rutted road, being driven by a soldier with two more militia on the plank benches. His keen eyes made out the bare heads of three men on the wagon floor. It must be a bumpy ride, he thought to himself. Everyone knew sleds rode smoother than wagons in the winter.
“They are coming,” he shouted exuberantly to his father who was still in the field, selecting more boulders to make the abutments for the new bridge. Thomas Kierney waved to his son in acknowledgment. He was a solidly built compact man, more square then lean, with a broad back, well muscled from the hard labor of farm work. Unlike his young son, who bounded everywhere like a dog on the scent of a rabbit, Thomas moved with measured efficiency, as if he knew by conserving energy, he would have strength in reserve available for the next task. His face matched his physique, strong with black eyebrows over equally dark eyes, a nose like an arrowhead and a stern thin mouth. But at home with his wife and children, the fierceness of his gaze would disappear, his tight lips would loosen into a smile and his eyes would soften into a look of pride and love.
James urged Zak to move faster, anxious to get a first look at the Hessian prisoners. Father had said they needed an extra laborer if they were to get the bridge built by spring. And there was the mill to be constructed. And now, real Hessians were coming. One would be staying with them on the farm until the war was over. James had no idea when that would be but perhaps they could finish the bridge and do most of the stonework for the mill before the Hessian would have to leave.
James had heard stories about them, how tall and strong they were, how they were fearsome soldiers with terrifying mustaches. They used bayonets as long as swords with which they speared the enemy and tossed them over their shoulders as easily as father pitched hay into their bark-roofed barn. General Washington and the army had defeated them at a big battle at Trenton and captured more than one thousand of them. James imagined the General himself riding on his big white horse leading the Americans forward in a furious charge toward the Hessians who threw down their muskets and ran away in panic.
By the time James had reached the road, the wagon, pulled by two sway- backed horses whose every rib and bone protruded under their shaggy coats, was rounding the bend toward their farm. He urged Zak on, and then impatiently left the ox to plod the familiar path on his own, and ran ahead shouting to his mother and sisters that the Hessians were coming. His father came through the field and joined his wife and family who had emerged from their plain dirt floor wooden cabin. Smoke curled upward from the clay and stick wooden chimney he and his father had repaired in the early fall. No smoke leaked from the seams. His father was so good with his hands and knew how to make anything, James thought proudly.
They stood together, his mother, his sister Sarah, who was eight, her arms folded under her wool cloak to keep warm, his baby sister, Rachel, clutching on to her mother’s long skirt and peering out from behind her legs, at the wagon jolting up the rutted road.
The soldier who was driving, tipped his tri-corn to Hannah Kierney. The two other militiamen climbed over the sides of the wagon and stretched their legs.
“Be you Thomas Kierney?” the driver asked, rather formally James thought, since he must have known to come up this road.
His father nodded.
The driver unfolded a worn piece of paper from his tunic. “There are three prisoners remaining. You have your choice. One is destined for your neighbor to work in his sawmill. The last one to a farm I hope to reach by the end of the day. I will need you to sign this paper of your acceptance.”
The driver stepped down and walked with Thomas to the rear of the wagon. James followed more curious than apprehensive. He felt Sarah slip her hand in his and hold it tightly. Three men were hunched together, cold and shivering. He had expected them to be in uniform. Upon closer inspection, he could see a few pewter buttons on one of the men’s jacket that used to be a light blue. Their breeches were torn and grey. The men all had scraggly mustaches that drooped down and wild rangy, uncombed hair. They had no hats and one was barefooted. James was disappointed. He had expected them to be all spit and polish with bright red uniforms and shiny black boots, like the Redcoats he had heard the adults describe.
“To a man, they do not look as if they could hold an axe,” his father said, appraising them as if he were purchasing a horse. The driver gestured impatiently to the back of the wagon. “Make your choice. It matters not to me.”
“I need one strong enough to do a decent day’s work, not a useless mouth to feed in wintertime.” He took off his round slouch hat and scratched idly above his pigtail.
“Thomas,” his mother said softly. “Remember your bible. These are miserable wretches in need. We must help them and that alone will be our reward. The rest may follow.”
“Whether they are strong enough or weak, is not my concern,” the driver said. “If you are not so inclined to sign for one, I will be on my way.”
James watched his father eyeing two of the Hessians. He motioned with his hands palms up for them to stand. Only one did, grabbing the side-board for support. He stood unsteadily in the back of the wagon, his hands stiff against his thighs. He was tall, taller than Thomas Kierney but so emaciated his hands seemed larger in proportion to his thin forearms. He looked at James’ father, then to his mother, the two girls and finally his eyes, deep in their sockets, rested on James. And he smiled, a weak thin smile, but one nevertheless.
“He will do,” his father said, reluctantly. James stepped forward and offered the Hessian soldier his hand to help him down. The man smelled worse than the barn before James cleaned it out of the accumulated goose shit and the manure from Zak, Daniel their only horse, and their cow, Abigail. The man declined James’ help and eased himself off the wagon. He stood brushing the straw from his clothes and stomping his feet. James saw the blackened toe
nails on the prisoner’s left foot protruding through his worn shoe.
His father invited the driver inside, first pointing to an iron boot scraper. James followed and he and Sarah brought mugs of hot mulled cider to the two militiamen guarding the prisoners. His mother took down a spare mug and gave it to James to take outside. James carried it to the prisoner his father had selected. The man clutched the warm pewter in his dirt encrusted hands and held it up to his cheek, savoring the warmth. “Danke,” he said to James over and over again, taking small sips. “Thank you,” he said tentatively pronouncing the “th”as a D. James smiled. “It is thank you.” The prisoner held out his mug for more and when James returned with it filled, the man offered it to his two comrades, still lying listlessly in the wagon.
The driver climbed back up on his seat and flicked the whip to get the two horses moving. The Langleys, their nearest neighbor’s farm was a few miles away. They had a sawmill and one of these Hessians was destined to work there. At church this Sunday, he would find out from Oliver Langley, who was only a bit older than James, about their Hessian.
“His full Christian name is Georg Frederich Englhard,” his father said to the family. The Hessian raised his head and looked at Thomas. “Ja.Ja. Mein name ist Georg.”
“I will call you King George.” The Hessian looked puzzled. “It is to remind us you were hired by a tyrant monarch to bring war to our land.” Thomas Kierney pointed at George’s chest. “You have caused us to fight. And now you will work until we are free of King George and his minions.” The Hessian shook his head, not understanding the torrent of words.
Thomas turned to his son. “Show him to the barn. He will sleep there with Zak and Abigail for company. He looked at George’s flimsy shoes. “Give him the old wooden clogs on the shelf next to Zak’s stall. I will be down in the field. We will see if King George can load stones on our sled.”
Blood Upon The Snow Page 7