Potts caught the somewhat anxious glance, understood, and called for one of his African servants to go outside and secure the shutter. He apologized for the intrusion.
As the servant opened the door, a cold gust came rushing in, causing the crackling blaze in the fireplace to waver and flicker.
“A terrible night to be out and about,” Potts said. “I will bet you a pound to a shilling, sir, those damn rebels will be hiding in their holes tonight.”
Rall did not reply.
Yes, a terrible night, he thought. But would it be a night so terrible that he and his men might truly relax and enjoy a peaceful sleep?
He could recall that on more than one night such as this he had forced his men to march for a surprise attack at dawn.
And the bet? As a gentleman, of course, he would never make a wager with a civilian on such an issue. He had learned long ago that such bets could indeed be bad luck.
Potts began the game and Rall played along, absently losing three checkers rather quickly, Potts obviously delighted to have gained an advantage in the opening moves.
Thirty-five years! And now I find myself in this godforsaken land, Rall thought glumly. Yet it was what his prince had ordered, and like any good soldier he had obeyed his orders, though to more than a few in his ranks the orders seemed nothing short of insane.
What stake did he have in this fight? None, other than the honor of his regiment and the practical realization that, with Europe at peace, this expedition would at least provide some training for his men and keep them in fighting trim for when a real war ignited. Already there were rumors that the French just might intervene in America, and for him, as for most Germans, another chance at the French did have its appeal. But if the confidence of the English commanders was to be believed, this war was all but over. Come spring, he and his regiment would embark on the long and nauseating six-week sail homeward with their mission completed, though more than a hundred of his men would never return, having found a place to rest until the final trumpet in this strange land.
Was it worth the price?
Unlike the stereotype of some of his fellow officers, especially the officious and noisome division commander Colonel Donop, he truly did care for his men and took pride in knowing most of them by their family names. A good officer, he always said to his youngest and newest lieutenants, learned to take care of the feet of his men first, and from there their stomachs and hearts, and by that means he could motivate their souls. If such means did not work there was always the lash, but he always believed that to be the absolute last resource of a good officer and too often the first choice of a bad officer.
When the lowest of privates realized that, they would surely follow such an officer into the gates of hell if need be. Nor would the officer ever have to fear that death on the battlefield would come from a musket ball striking his back between the shoulder blades.
Unlike the British army, an officer gained his rank in the armies of Hesse-Cassel and even that of Prussia itself by merit and leadership, and not by how much they could pay for their commissions. How the English could run an army in such a manner was beyond him, and though he would never voice it publicly he felt that was the source of many of the problems this campaign had faced. He had respect, to a certain degree, for Lord Cornwallis, but as for the rest . . .
He stirred, looking over at the portly American merchant who was his host, the man studiously examining the checkerboard. He wondered, deep in his heart, what this man actually thought of the war. Potts had greeted them with open arms, loudly crying that he was delighted to be free at last of the rebel thieves. Had the man said the same thing five months back when independence was declared, or had he cheered along with the rest of the rabble, but now turned eager to make his peace?
Potts finally made his move. Rall nodded politely, quickly made his in reply and settled back, turning his gaze toward the crackling fire. Like his father before him, he had served his prince, entering service at the age of fourteen. At sixteen he had seen his first action when the great Frederick had led the north German states against Austria. During the Seven Years’ War, which these strange Americans called the War of the French and Indians, he had seen a dozen pitched battles and scores of minor ones, and had even been presented to the King of Prussia and commended for bravery at the Battle of Luetzen.
The memory of that filled him with pride, so that his attention to the game wavered and he quickly lost two pieces to only one of Mr. Potts’s.
Thus he had learned how to lead men. A true German officer led the charge from the front, regimental flag by his side, and if he retreated he had to be the last to leave the field. Such was expected of a true German officer, and so he insisted on with those whom he trained and led into battle. Oh, the British officers were certainly brave enough, but they seemed to lack that bond to their common soldiers that he demanded of his officers.
He had even fought against the Turks when his ruler had loaned some of his most trusted officers to his cousin Catherine, the czarina of Russia, and his portfolio of personal commendations swelled as the czarina herself praised his skill and bravery.
All of those years of service, and here I find myself in this godforsaken land on the edge of a dark and godforsaken wilderness. What the appeal was of this America was beyond him. The people were dirty and ill bred, their farmsteads lacking neatness and order. The taverns served awful beer and even worse wine. The beds more often than not were filled with bugs, and as for the roads . . . The memory of the march from Amboy to Trenton was one of unrelenting mud and slime.
He gazed at the checkerboard for a moment, at last offering a riposte, clipping off one of Potts’s pieces, and settled back while the portly American merchant grunted with disapproval and would most likely spend the next five minutes contemplating a reply.
I should not even be here, he thought ruefully. If handled correctly, the war, if one could call it that, should already be over, my men at sea even now, returning home.
He held these Americans in contempt. Their pretension to what they called an army was truly a joke, but at times the British, or at least their officers, had proved to be little better.
Upon arrival at New York he had attended the briefing offered by one of Howe’s aides on the disposition of forces, and the plan for the campaign to sweep the enemy off Long Island.
Folly.
If Frederick were in command, he would have laughed with derision and finished the rebellion in a week. The Hudson was a broad enough river that with the tide behind them and a wind from the south or southwest, the entire fleet could have simply sailed a few miles upriver without any fear of the enemy batteries and disembarked in the farmland in the middle of Manhattan Island. That move would have cut off most of Washington’s army, which was deployed at the lower end of the island and across the East River on the long island that some called Brook Land.
Digging in across the width of the island, the British would have cut off the rebel city from supplies and eventually forced the rabble to attack out of sheer desperation.
Once they were dispatched, a holding force would remain in the city, guarded by the fleet. Troops moved back down the river would disembark again below the village of Amboy, and two days of hard marching across the province of Jersey would bring them to the rebel capital of Philadelphia. The British had the fleet and one of the finest harbors in the world. Any attempt by the Americans to move from one bank of the river to the other would require days of marching; their crossing of rivers could easily be blocked. On the other hand, British ships could move entire armies back and forth in little more than a hour or two. Why the Howe brothers had not taken better advantage of this was beyond his understanding.
Once Washington and his scum were bottled up and destroyed, a quick march across Jersey, or if the British did not wish to muddy their feet, a day’s sail around the southern cape of Jersey, could then have placed them within a quick short march of the enemy capital.
End of th
e war and home by Christmas. Instead I sit here.
That is how the great Frederick would have done it. It was a problem so elementary that even the newest of his sergeants could have figured it out, and most of them had, chaffing at the orders of their “cousins,” who seemed to view this war, not so much as a snuffing out of a rebellion, but as an exercise in leisurely campaigning and at times what appeared almost to be a parent’s coaxing of a wayward child.
Settle it sharply and quickly, with the bayonet if need be, and the hell with the coaxing. A recalcitrant child should always be whipped, and whipped soundly.
Instead, months had been wasted. The battle for Long Island, and allowing the enemy to escape to Manhattan——that in itself had filled him and the men of his command with disgust. One sharp day of battle and the damn rebels had run like rabbits; by the thousands they had huddled along the shore, literally under the guns of the British navy blocking their retreat across the East River. He had begged Donop to ignore the British orders, to close with the bayonet and finish it then and there, driving them into the river or forcing surrender, but that damnable Lord Howe had ordered them to hold until the morning, when they would finish it.
Under cover of night, and he had to admit grudgingly, in a masterful move, Washington had evacuated his entire army across the East River, literally between the bow of one British frigate and the stern of another. My God, was every man aboard those ships asleep that night? The entire crew of every ship, from captain to lowest seaman, should have been flogged for their failure to keep proper watch.
And so Washington and his rabble had escaped, and would escape again and again as summer ended and autumn settled on the land. And finally, in the last weeks of this year, they had fled across Jersey.
His men had been in the vanguard of that pursuit. Countless times he had begged for release, for one day, just one day, to be slipped free of the leash and lead his men forward relentlessly to finish this war so they could go home. Just one forced march by night to the flank and into the enemy rear before dawn, as he had so often done in Bohemia, Silesia, and on the Turkish border. One night of movement free of ponderous restraints. Or just one day of hot pursuit with bayonets leveled. But always the order was given by Howe to bring his men to rest.
If there was a kindred spirit in the British command it was their Lord Cornwallis. He, too, had bridled at the slow movements, the chances lost, as Washington and his rebellious scum, like oily serpents, escaped the traps laid, traps that any German officer would have ensured were indeed traps, and not nets with holes in them.
“I have my first king, sir,” Potts announced grandly as he double-jumped two of Rall’s black pieces.
Rall smiled graciously and said nothing. Couldn’t the man see that his opponent was barely paying attention to the game?
The wind outside rose in pitch, howling under the eaves of the house, counterpointed by a thump, a second thump, and then several more.
“Jacob, that damn shutter is loose again!” Potts shouted, calling for his servant to go outside.
Rall sat bolt upright, head cocked slightly.
Another thump.
“That was not your shutter, sir,” Rall announced in German, standing up, straight-backed chair falling with a clatter behind him.
He headed for the door, which was flung open before he could reach it. One of his staff, young Münchasen, rivulets of icy water dripping from his cape, stood in the open doorway, breathing hard.
“Sir. The rebels, sir.”
“I know, Münchasen. Where is my horse?”
Without taking time to put on a cape or overcoat, Rall was out the door. An orderly was leading his horse from the stable behind Potts’s house, saddled and ready. He climbed up, Münchasen gaining his own horse as well.
Another thump followed by what sounded like a ragged volley of a dozen or more muskets, the sound distant, barely audible against the wind.
From the northwest, most likely the outpost on the River Road.
He raced down Queen Street. A drummer was standing outside the stone barracks in the center of town, beating assembly. His was the duty regiment for the garrison this evening, the men ordered to remain in full uniform, cartridge boxes strapped on at all times, muskets on hand even when resting in their bunks, and now they were filing out on the run. Some had overcoats on, many did not. He slowed for a few seconds to watch. These men knew their duty. They began to form up along the street with heads lowered, hats pulled low over their brows, ready for action, complete with musket locks wrapped in oiled cloth to keep them dry.
No need to stop here. He spurred his mount, turning on to the River Road, and after passing a block of houses and a church was out to the edge of town. Münchasen was struggling to keep up. “Herr Oberst. Please slow down. The rebels could be anywhere!”
Rall ignored him, pressing hard. In the darkness he saw movement. It was the guard company, posted in the center of town and kept under full arms, weapons loaded. They were running hard, struggling with the damnable mud as they advanced. He edged off to the side of the road, splashing through what passed as a drainage ditch and coming up to the head of the column of fifty men.
At the sight of their colonel in the lead, the men’s pace quickened. Captain Metzger shouted for his command to press forward.
“That’s it, my children!” Rall shouted. “Quickly now, quickly!”
The outpost in a farmhouse a hundred yards north of the village could be seen, windows illuminated. A musket flashed within.
“Comrades!” Metzger shouted. “Comrades!”
Several more flashes from outside the house, the sound of a musket ball whizzing close by Rall.
Just stay in place, damn you, he thought. Just stay in place a few seconds more!
“Charge, lads, charge!” he cried, saber out, pointing the way, urging his mount to a gallop, the nervous Münchasen pressing up by his side, trying as usual, against all etiquette, to place himself between his colonel and enemy fire.
They reached the open gate leading into the farmyard . . . and there was nothing.
The door to the outpost was flung open as Rall reined in a splatter of mud.
It took him a moment to register who it was.
“Sergeant Lindermann, where are they?” Rall cried.
The sergeant looked about, unable to reply.
“Where are they?”
“Sir, I believe they have fled.”
“Damn them,” Rall growled as he started to dismount.
“Sir, shall we pursue?” Metzger asked, breathing hard, coming up alongside the colonel.
Angrily, Rall shook his head. “The cowardly peasants have fled, as usual.”
He looked to the sky. If the moon were out, he would have pursued them. But if the weather had been clear, the fields bright with moonlight on snow, the rebels would never have dared to creep in this close to town and to linger as long as they had.
“Useless, Captain Metzger. Post guards around the house, and keep them away from the light of the windows. The rest of the detachment, move into the barn for now and out of this storm.”
Metzger saluted and began to shout orders, detailing off pickets as Rall, heart still racing, climbed the four steps to the broad porch of the farm house.
“Now, sergeant, your full report.”
“Sir, I have wounded inside.”
Rall brushed past him and into the house. He could hear cries of anguish from the back, and the kitchen looked like a slaughtering shed. One man was on the floor, gasping for air, foaming frothy blood with each breath. Two more were sitting on the floor, one with arterial blood pulsing from a gaping wound in his left forearm, a corporal kneeling by his side, already tightening a tourniquet around it as blood pooled and spread across the brick floor and splattered against the wall. This man, if he survived, would go home with that arm missing.
Two others were bleeding as well, one with a hole through his cheek, crying out as he spat blood and shattered teeth. It was an
agonizing wound, and Rall paused for a moment, bending by his side, putting a hand on the young man’s shoulder.
“Be brave, my lad, be brave.”
The soldier looked up, saw who was addressing him, and his crying ceased.
“The damn cowardly dogs!” someone cried, coming down the stairs from the second floor. “They got Yeager in the face and Franz in shoulder——”
The corporal stopped his cursing as he stormed into the kitchen and saw his colonel. He snapped to attention.
Rall took it all in. There was food on the table, plates knocked over, some shattered on the floor. Several muskets, never used, were leaning against the wall behind the table. The room was heavy with the smell of gunpowder, a cold breeze racing in through broken windows and driving the smoke out. There were bullet holes in the wall, one with a splattering of blood around it.
He did not need to be told what had happened.
The outpost guards, with the onset of the storm, and this being Christmas night, had settled down to a feast. Following his orders, they had not taken any spirits, which were banned for the entire army this night. But they had let their guard down. It was all so clearly evident. The raiders had literally crept beneath the eaves of the house and into every window fired a volley.
It was little better than murder. It was also a surprise that never should have happened.
He turned to face the sergeant, who stood before him, features pale.
“Did you have an outside guard posted at all four corners?” Rall snapped.
“Not exactly, sir.”
“Did you, or did you not, sergeant?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Sir, Private Withers shot a deer this morning and we roasted it.” He pointed woodenly toward the table where half-carved haunches of venison rested.
“I was changing the guard, sir, allowing the men coming in to dry off. Those about to go out took but a few minutes more to eat before going out into the storm.” His voice trailed away.
To Try Men's Souls - George Washington 1 Page 4