In the dream he was riding forward to try and convince Braddock to halt the column, form a defensive position, send scouts out to probe, and in the dream he already knew the haughty response. A British officer taking advice from a colonial officer? Impossible. “Why, thank you, my good man, I’ll note your diligence,” and the subtext, not spoken but revealed by a glance, a slight curl of the lips, “I’ll remember you are a cowardly bumpkin and note it in my reports.”
In that dream, that damned recurring dream, it was all so real, the frustration, the sense of impending doom . . . and the rage. He was as good a man as any British professional officer, and still they looked down on him. He did not quite know how the latest fashion in London dictated that one held a teacup in camp at the evening mess. His accent was pronounced, clear evidence of a colonial, even if he was an aristocrat, but only of the Virginia aristocracy and so lacking in that certain hauteur of London, Cambridge, and Oxford. He was not to be taken seriously, nor ever would be taken seriously, even at this moment, in his world, in these forests of the western frontier, when in a few seconds they would be slaughtered for their absurdities and arrogance.
In the dream he had just ridden to Braddock’s side——and then the shutter had slammed. In that final confused second of the dream it was a musket firing . . . the ball striking his chest, not Braddock’s, as it had while by his side. I am the one who is shot . . . and he just sits there, looking disdainfully at me.
He had all but jumped up with a start. His staff, silent, looked at him for an instant and averted their eyes.
A soldier’s dream. A soldier’s nightmare.
Of course, all soldiers had them, and none ever spoke of them. Across the long months of this bitter campaign, more than once the sleep of others was interrupted by a muffled cry, a sob as someone came awake, bolt upright, sweating. He wondered uncomfortably how many times his iron control had given way while he was asleep and he had cried out, as he apparently had at this moment.
No one spoke. There were a few nervous coughs. His servant, Billy Lee, squatting by the side of the fireplace, did not even bother to look back at him; he poked the fire with an iron and then threw a few more logs on it.
Through half-open eyes he looked at Billy’s back. Such a strange mix of emotions he felt for this person. Billy had been his servant, his slave, for years. Billy could keep his seat on the wildest of rides; he always made sure that Billy was as well mounted as himself. He prided himself on being considered one of the finest horsemen in Virginia and most definitely in this army. Billy came a very close second, much to the chagrin of many a white landholder in Virginia when they rode to the hounds, or, in this last year, on the battlefields around New York.
Billy would die for him without hesitation. That had been proven often enough these last months. When the bullets and shot were whistling pretty, more than once he had snapped at Billy to go to the rear, because the man was obviously positioning himself and his horse to take the blow if a round, errant or aimed, came their way. Unusual for a slave, Billy rode with a brace of pistols strapped to his saddle, for the protection of his master, of course. But still . . . a slave armed?
He knew Billy would, without a second’s hesitation, give his life to protect him. Would I do the same in that instance, he wondered?
The fact that “his” man did not look back in concern at his outcry when he awoke from the dream spoke volumes. This had happened before, the weakness when one was asleep. Billy made a studied effort to be indifferent, and the others in the room took their cue from him.
The gusts of wind outside caused a back draft in the fire Billy was tending, and for an instant smoke puffed into the room. The storm was increasing in fury.
Awake now, he fumbled at his breast pocket to draw out his pocket watch, clicked open the cover . . . seven ten in the evening.
No one spoke, and he did not want to ask. To ask implied nervousness; regardless of the dream he had to show outward calm. He mimicked a casual mood, trying to find a comfortable position in the straight-backed wooden chair, stretching out his long legs. His feet were still damp, but he did not want to ask Billy to help pull his boots off; he had to be ready in an instant to go outside if needed.
He heard the outer door to the house fling open and slam shut, the draft slipping in under the door to this inner room. By the heavy footballs he knew who it was. No one spoke as the cold draft came whisking in, but all heads turned.
Again he resisted. He would not anticipate and look back.
“How goes it, Colonel Knox?” he asked. Again a demonstration of calm and control. Everyone in that room was on edge, nervous, even frightened by the prospect before them. His role was to demonstrate complete calm and indifference.
Though acting was a profession detested by those of his class, he had to be an actor this night. His lines and every single gesture were well rehearsed, contemplated, and planned. He had to know, before the first shot was fired, every move he would make, for all eyes would be upon him. I must inculcate in all of them now, at this moment, the roles they, too, will have to play . . . and that is the role of confidence, strength, and belief that victory on this dawn is foreordained . . . even if I have my own inner doubts and worries.
“General.”
There was a slight clicking of heels, far too British or Hessian a gesture, but then again, Knox the bookseller had first learned this trade of soldiering inside his bookstore in Boston, reading everything he could find on the military arts.
He had learned those lessons well. It was he who first ventured the idea of going nearly three hundred miles westward to Fort Ticonderoga to empty the captured fort of the heavy guns placed there during the war with France and then drag them overland, three hundred miles, on sleds in the depth of winter, and use them to displace the British and drive them and their fleet from Boston. Many now said the trek was the American equal of the anabasis of Xenophon. The feat had made Knox, transforming him from an oversize bookstore owner into an admired soldier.
Realizing the moment required formality, Washington came to his feet and returned Knox’s salute.
“Sir, I beg to report that, regrettably, the crossing is not on schedule.”
Again the sound of sleet and freezing rain slashing against the windowpane, followed a few seconds later by the banging of the shutter. This time he did not blanch at the explosive sound.
“The weather, Colonel Knox, is beyond your control, but do keep the men moving. We shall not recall this attack, whatever the weather.”
“Sir, we’ve already lost one of our boats. Capsized when the horses aboard panicked. The Marblehead men have managed to drag it back to shore but it is stove in from a horse kick. The animals are half frozen from going in the river.”
“To be expected,” Washington replied, as if the loss was not of the slightest concern, though every boat was precious.
“The Pennsylvania riflemen and the advance scouts are across, though. The other bank is secured, and scouts are moving forward to secure the road toward Trenton and arrest any civilians moving about and keep them in place. I just returned from the other shore, and so far, at least, it seems we have complete surprise. No report of advance patrols that either the Hessians and British are about this evening. We have a report from several patriot families on the far shore that the Hessians are completely unaware of our movement and no one has anticipated it.”
He nodded. That had been a great fear. That the scattering of dwellings and farmhouses along the road to Trenton might have along it a Tory family that at the first stirring would send a report galloping southward. It had been a balancing act, to be sure. On the one hand, he had counted on a nearly full moon and clear weather to facilitate the crossing. On the other, the storm was heaven-sent, for only madmen would be about on a night such as this, and most certainly not an army, no matter how desperate their straits.
“It is the loading of the artillery and horses, sir, that is proving difficult. The storm is shifting, tempe
rature dropping; the approaches and the dock are slippery with ice and sleet. I wish I had thought of it, sir, to acquire sand, even dirt, to spread about so the men and animals had better footing. I’m sorry.”
“It is not your fault, Colonel,” and in a rather uncharacteristic gesture he approached Knox and gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder.
He knew the others were listening to every word.
“Knox, this storm is heaven-sent, I tell you. If prayers are indeed answered by Providence, then they have been answered this night.
“I should perhaps have warned you beforehand that my prayers would be answered,” and he smiled at his weak attempt at humor.
Knox forced a smile in response.
“We never were sure of the loyalty of the families on the Jersey shore. I feared that if but one of them observed us and slipped off to send warning, we would have been met by a roused garrison of Hessian troops, the British garrison in Princeton then coming down to strike us on the flank.
“This storm is our Christmas miracle. Just keep the men moving, and when you feel the time is right for me to cross, come fetch me.”
“Sir, that might not be until midnight at best.”
He took that in. Midnight? The plan was that by midnight the army would already be on the march southward to Trenton, to deploy long before dawn and strike before first light. Midnight?
There was a moment of fear, an inner nagging voice whispering that it was not too late. Even now he could call this thing off, recall the men on the far shore, order the rest back to their camps. He could sense the eyes of the staff behind him, staring at him, more than a few silently praying that he would see reason, that rather than call the storm heaven-sent he would see the logic, the reality of it. Never in the history of war had an army attempted this, to cross a river at night, to then put that flooding river at their backs and attempt an assault in the dark against a vastly superior and well-rested foe.
Stop it now, they were silently begging.
He stood, staring at Knox, wondering if this man felt the same. He was in himself, with slush dripping off his uniform to puddle on the floor, His soaked, bedraggled appearance, a warning that nothing was going according to plan this night.
In the silence the memory of the dream, of the bullet striking him, recurred. Was that dream a warning? Was it that the bullet struck, not him, but this last desperate enterprise, and that the British, in all their strength and arrogance would be awaiting them at dawn?
He shook his head.
No.
“Who crosses next?” he asked. He could actually hear the audible sighs of the others in the room. Like the disappointment, even exasperation, of children anticipating they were about to be relieved of some chore and told to go play or off to warm beds instead——and were not.
“The plan was for the Maryland line to cross, sir, to put up barricades and form a circle of defense on the other shore, supported by half a dozen four- and six-pounders of my artillery.”
He smiled at the way Knox said “my artillery.” Good, very good, the words bespoke possessiveness and pride. In an army so notoriously weak in the firepower of its infantry, especially now, on a night that would foul muskets, the guns of Knox could still be counted on.
“Then, Colonel Knox,” he said with a slight crease of a smile lighting his features, “why are you here? Send them across!”
There was actually a moment of surprise on Knox’s face, then a smile in return and a formal salute. It was evident that Knox had come here half expecting to be ordered to stop this movement, retrieve the men on the far shore, and call off the assault. His General’s own response had renewed this man’s confidence.
“Yes, sir!” Knox replied, and yet again the formal salute, which he returned, and an instant of a shared intensity, almost as if Knox were saying, “I was half hoping, sir, but, damn it, if you are game for this, so am I.”
Knox left the room, trailing a river of slush. The door closed. Seconds later he could hear Knox’s booming voice.
“Damn you. If need be, put a blinder on that damn horse and get him aboard the boat. Keep moving!”
Washington looked around at his staff. No one met his gaze. All affected a studied indifference. Some slouched down in their chairs, feet toward the roaring fire, hats pulled low over their eyes. One of the men stirred, went to a sideboard where a pot of tepid tea sat, poured himself a cup, looked his way with a gesture, and Washington shook his head in reply. The officer gulped the tea down and returned to his chair and settled in, making a show of acting as if he were about to relax and fall asleep.
Washington settled back into his chair. The only one to meet his gaze directly, Billy Lee, still squatting by the fire, absently poking at the logs, picked up another split log of slow-burning chestnut and tossed it in.
For several long seconds Billy held his gaze, and the man smiled at him, as if conveying approval.
He nodded in reply, then closed his eyes to hide his feelings.
I know what I am fighting for, he found himself thinking. But what of Billy? Loyalty to me, yes. But what of him? The thought was troubling. There were so many thoughts to trouble him this night, though, and he pushed it aside.
He kept his eyes closed, and like many a seasoned veteran at such a moment, he drifted off to sleep, to grab a few more precious minutes to gain energy before the crisis to come.
“Maryland line! Maryland line, fall in!”
The cry startled Jonathan van Dorn from his fitful slumber.
Like nearly all who awake in strange surroundings there was a moment of disorientation. Am I home? In my bed, a plush goose down pillow under my head? Feeling guilty as well, for he had been dreaming that Diana Mueller was actually alongside him. Dear, dear Diana, who had kissed him on the lips and flung her arms around him on the day the Burlington militia paraded down Queen and King Streets in Trenton and marched off to the war.
She had been half asleep beside him, her eyes greeting him in the dream he had been having, her arms going around him, pulling him in closer to her side . . . and then . . .
No. Embarrassed, he opened his eyes, wondering if any had heard or noticed what he had been dreaming.
Instead, he found himself curled up in the corner of a pig stall in a stinking filthy barn. The frozen manure of the pigs under his backside and thighs was thawed by his resting in the filth, and soaked through his threadbare trousers.
He stank, became aware of the hundred itching sores from the lice infesting his jacket. Like all soldiers of this forsaken army, he awoke to scratch, still half asleep but hoping he would find one of the little bastards so he could exact revenge and crush it with his cracked and dirty fingernails.
“Maryland line! Maryland line! Fall in, we’re crossing over!”
Jonathan opened his eyes.
The candle that someone had placed on the railing of the stall above him while he had read from Thomas Paine was still glowing but was slacked halfway down. He must have drifted off for an hour or two. The tattered pamphlet by Paine was still in his hands.
Confused, he looked about. Had he fallen asleep while reading?
Peter was by his side, not Diana, but there was a deep love there nevertheless, his friend’s head resting on his shoulder. He was still asleep, shivering, muttering something undistinguishable. Not to disturb him, he did not move, struggling to suppress a spasm of coughing that was about to hit.
“Maryland line! Damn you all, fall in!”
A hundred or more men were standing up, cursing, rolling up tattered blankets, most draping them around their shoulders and with a bit of burlap or leather tying them on as capes.
Men were coughing, hawking, and spitting. Jonathan saw several passing around a bottle, draining off the last of the contents. A sergeant was kicking, but not too hard, a drummer boy who cursed him vehemently, to the delight of the men already standing, the sergeant then extending a hand to pull the boy to his feet, the boy still half asleep and leaning against the
sergeant for support.
“Clean out your pans but don’t put in fresh powder, boys. Wait till we get there,” the sergeant announced.
The men did as ordered, opening the locks of their muskets, using a bit of rag or dirty fingers to wipe out the damp powder, that in most cases was a greasy paste that never would have fired. The few that had a brass or bronze wire with them used it to clean out the touchhole, then loaned the valuable tool to their neighbors, who did the same. They checked their flints, carefully wiping them clean, then they took a strip of oiled or grease-covered cloth and bound it back around the lock in what was most likely a vain attempt to keep it dry.
The door to the barn was wide open, admitting an icy blast of wind, bringing with it sleet and thick, heavy flakes of snow.
“Come on, you bastards! Move it!”
The sergeant led the way. The men, cursing, complaining, shuffled along after him, many pausing for a moment to check the bindings of the rags wrapped around their feet. A few, gazing out, seeing the futility of foot rags on such a night, pulled them off, tucking the damp rags under their jackets, and ventured out barefoot.
One of the last to leave was the officer of the Maryland line whom Jonathan had nearly come to blows with earlier, the officer shoving along the reluctant few who were holding back.
To Try Men's Souls - George Washington 1 Page 9