To Try Men's Souls - George Washington 1

by Newt Gingrich

  “Damn him,” he gasped. “Can I not even trust my own officers anymore?” The fact that General Lee had recently so openly disobeyed him, and then, after being taken prisoner a week ago, was reportedly dining with General Howe and advising him. That was bad enough. But this?

  “Bad news, sir?”

  He looked up. Knox was silhouetted by the roaring fires that marked the dock.

  He hesitated, looking down at the letter in his hand.

  Knox was trembling again from the cold, the icy blasts that whipped around them changing, at least for this moment, from rain to sleet and snow.

  He wanted to shout out a bitter reply, to send a dispatch rider back to Philadelphia, to order Gates’s men to cross. To cross now!

  Absurd. Eight to ten hours, and by then it will be decided anyhow.

  He crumpled the letter. He stared at the dark waters of the Delaware, the reflections of the bonfires shimmering off the whitecapped river. On impulse he threw the note into the swirling flow.

  A momentary regret. He had just thrown away a bit of evidence for history. A bit of evidence, if dawn does bring us victory, with which I could bring Gates up on charges.

  No, that was useless. Typical of so many of his ilk, Gates had his friends in the Congress. He had written each word carefully, and victory or no, he could argue that he had taken the prudent path.

  Prudence.

  Prudence does not win battles . . . or wars.

  “Sir, is it bad news?”

  General George Washington forced a smile.

  “Nothing, Knox. Nothing. A matter of the moment is all.”

  “Sir, your boat is waiting to cross.”

  “Fine then,” he said softly. “Lead the way.”

  Though seething inside he had to make his expression show indifference, indicating to all that the contents of the note had been trivial, even though it meant that given the delay here, the entire plan was unraveling.

  No. Don’t let any of them know that a third of the force expected to cross this night would not do so. It would unnerve them.

  It must not unnerve me.

  He forced a look of quiet determination as he stepped back into the firelight.

  He saw Major Wilkinson standing nervously at the edge of the dock. The lad stepped forward.

  “Sir, is there any message I should bear back. My mount is tired, but I think I could return to Philadelphia by midmorning.”

  “No, major. No reply.”

  Wilkinson stared at him, and he could see what was in the boy’s eyes. And it heartened him. There was a look of relief. Wilkinson, without doubt, knew every word of the dispatch.

  “Major, I assume you know the contents of that letter.”

  “Yes, sir.” He hesitated, obviously concerned that Washington might think he had somehow looked at it even though it was sealed or that he might face the legendary consequence of being the “Greek messenger.”

  Washington smiled and shook his head.

  “It is our secret,” he whispered, voice barely heard because of the rushing storm. “Not a word to anyone.”

  Wilkinson grinned, a young man now sharing a great secret with a commanding general.

  “Sir, if I am not to return to Philadelphia, I beg you, sir, to let me have the honor of volunteering to cross with you.”

  He knew others were listening, and those who might suspect knew that Wilkinson was on Gates’s staff.

  “Why?” Washington asked.

  “So I can tell my grandchildren I crossed with you this night,” Wilkinson replied.

  His words sounded far too melodramatic but in a gesture that was completely uncharacteristic, Washington clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Then you must know the watchword for tonight, major,” he replied.

  He looked at the shivering men of the line awaiting their turn to cross.

  “The watchword is: ‘Victory or death.’ ”

  Wilkinson repeated the words and then actually smiled.

  Washington turned away and walked the last few feet to his boat. The men of his staff and personal escort were already aboard the forty-foot-long Durham boat. The vessel was eminently suited for this night. Broad of beam, flat-bottomed, it was designed to haul bulk freight on the Delaware, its crew using sweeps or long poles to guide it up and down the river. On this night, it was one of many craft, from the large Durhams, up to sixty feet and more to small scows and rowboats, laboriously moving back and forth against the current of the ice-choked Delaware.

  The men of his personal guard, escorts, staff, and guides had already piled into the boat, only waiting for him. They were packed nearly shoulder to shoulder. Glover’s men were ready, too, with sweeps raised, oars inverted to be used as poles to push off; other men, still on the dock and squatting down, held the boat firmly in place. The planking of the dock was slick with ice. Boarding was a difficult moment; fall now and far too many will see it as a portent.

  He stepped onto the boat, a couple of his guards moving aside to make room, and he could feel several inches, perhaps half a foot, of icy water sloshing around his feet.

  He looked back at Knox, now towering above him on the dock.

  “Sir, I’ll cross with the last boats,” Knox shouted.

  “Keep them moving” was all he could say.

  He caught the eye of Colonel Glover, the man sitting at the tiller.

  “Take us across.”

  Glover shouted for his men to cast off. The boat lay on the leeward side of the dock. They drifted clear and broadside to the river, the crew using the butts of their oars to brace it, push off, and then quickly turn the oars about, sitting down on the narrow rowing benches, and dig in hard. The bow turned, facing at a forty-five-degree angle into the flood current and, now clear of the dock, it began to rock, rattling booms shaking the boat as ice floes slammed against the upstream side. The rowers strained, grunting, heads bent over, backs and shoulders slumped over, then leaning back with each pull of the sweeps.

  The boat began to rock, pivoting as a gust of wind caught it on the flank, threatening to turn them broadside, the hat of a man in front of the General whipping off, disappearing in an instant.

  The boat drew only a couple of feet even when fully loaded with its usual bulk cargo of wheat, ore, and lumber. Still, as he looked over the side, it felt threatening, the dark frigid waters just a few feet away, the boat rocking. Some of the men around him were leaning against each other, trying to move back and forth to compensate.

  “Damn all!” Glover shouted. “Don’t move! Don’t move!”

  Washington looked back at him.

  “Sorry, sir,” the Marbleheader offered.

  This was, of course, the same man who had saved the entire army after the Battle of Long Island, slipping them across the East River at night, under cover of fog, literally pushing between the blockading frigates of the British undetected. He had saved the Revolution that night, and now here he was again at another vital point performing an irreplaceable role.

  “No offense, colonel. You are in command of this boat now.”

  Glover nodded, eye turned upstream, as if in the darkness he could somehow detect what might be flowing their way.

  There was a shout from their right and a glimpse of another Durham boat returning to the Pennsylvania side, seen only for a second and then lost in the darkness.

  On the shore he had just left he could still mark the glow of the twin bonfires, and now, ahead, two more, marking their landing point.

  He stood lost in thought. The slushy water was soaking through his already waterlogged boots. No one spoke. There were no heroic comments now, no posturing, no desire on his part to say something that might be remembered, to strike some sort of pose to inspire others, as he was wont to do on a battlefield. When mounted, he would often ride along the line, letting the men see him unperturbed by the musket balls and cannon shot screaming by.

  Here, alone in the dark, packed in tight with the others, there was nothing he could
do but be yet another man crossing a river to an unknown fate. The Jersey shore edged closer, the boat angled steeply against the flood current, rowers straining, groaning.

  It was no wonder they were so far behind schedule. When the plan had been contemplated it was thought it would be a matter of but several minutes to cross the river. It was taking twice and three times as long fighting against the current and floes. Not too much of a strain if the crew was doing it once or twice. But these men would be making the journey several dozen times this night, and already they were at the point of exhaustion, and the grinding effects of the storm were sapping their strength even more.

  It was a miracle they had anything left at all, anything more than sheer willpower to keep the boats moving.

  The dock on the Jersey side was illuminated clearly by the fires. Down close to the riverbank, the landing was somewhat sheltered from the northeasterly blow, but that now presented its own difficulties. Ice floes drifting in were not being driven clear by the wind, and were now piling up, the entire mass added to by the freezing rain, which was reflecting the firelight like sparkling diamonds.

  Another boat was at the dock, off-loading a field piece, a nightmare task even in good weather. Its crew was moving the bulk of more than a ton up and out of the boat by manhandling it, men slipping and cursing on the icy dock. Their boat had to wait. Glover pointed their prow straight into the current, rowers again inverting oars, using the handles to plunge down into the river, digging into the bottom and leaning against the poles to keep the boat in place.

  The gun was finally out, a couple of dozen men with ropes heaving it up the slope of the bank, shouting, cursing, slipping.

  The empty boat cast off, its crew pushing out, pivoting on the current, its bow slamming into their boat, crews of both boats cursing, blaming each other. Finally, the other boat bobbed off into the night.

  “Smartly now!” Glover shouted, and the oarsmen leaned into their inverted oars, pushing, inching their boat toward the dock. Then, twenty-five feet short, it ground to a stop.

  “Damn you! Push, damn it, push!”

  The boat moved a few more inches. Washington felt something scraping beneath his feet. They were snagging bottom, the way ahead blocked by the river ice piling up around the dock.

  A man at the bow tossed a cable across to a hand on the dock, missed, the man on the dock slipping on the icy surface as he scrambled to catch it and nearly falling into the river. A second try, the rope falling just short.

  Glover stood up at the helm.

  “Damn all to hell,” he roared. “I need volunteers. Someone carry that damn cable to the dock, three or four of you get off to lighten the load.”

  No one moved.

  “Now!”

  Washington looked back at him, tempted to volunteer to lead the way. No, I can’t, I must stay focused on the hours ahead. If I drown or freeze out there . . . He inwardly detested the moment, the restraints that command placed upon his acting as he wished.

  “I’ll go.”

  One of the men farther forward edged to the bow, handing his musket to another, and then another followed.

  “It’s only a few feet deep!” Glover shouted. “You’ll be fine. Take the cable and walk it in.”

  The two went over the side.

  “You damn fool,” Peter hissed.

  Jonathan said nothing. Slipping over the side, he found that Glover was right, the water was barely above his knees. The way ahead was filling up with ice floes. Just push them aside.

  “Careful now: Don’t slip!”

  It was the boatman forward, leaning over, handing him the end of the heavy cable. It was covered thick with ice. No wonder the men waiting on the dock were having a hard time snagging the end.

  Peter fell in beside him, the two grasping the two-inch-thick rope. Now clear of the bow of the boat, the current all but knocked them over, ice banging against their thighs, the blows stinging, storm swirling about them. Only twenty feet to go.

  He struggled forward, leaning against the current.

  A dozen feet.

  He took the next step, ready to hold the cable up for those leaning out from the edge of the dock.

  Then he stepped into a hole, lost his footing, the current knocking his other foot out from under him. Jonathan went under.

  In that instant he could only think that anyone who said that freezing to death was not as bad as fire . . . had not tried one or the other. It felt as if a thousand icy knives were being driven into his flesh, the wind knocked out of his lungs in a convulsive gasp. The world was pitch-black, terrifying. He could feel the cable slipping from his numbed grasp.

  He surfaced. Peter, one hand holding the cable, was reaching out with the other to grab Jonathan as he floundered.

  Someone was by his side, bracing him. Who, he didn’t know.

  He started to thrash, terrified. Strong arms were about his chest.

  “Hold tight, boy, to the rope, boy! I got you!”

  He couldn’t see. He felt someone pull the cable from his hands and then, seconds later, lift him up.

  Other hands grabbed him and tossed him onto the dock, gasping. He could not catch his breath.

  His rescuer, one of the dock workers, was being pulled up by his comrades.

  “You damn fool, you’ll kill yourself,” he could hear one exclaim.

  “The General is on that boat!” the rescuer shouted. “Now pull, you bastards.”

  The boat cleared the snag and seconds later was up against the dock, Glover’s men reaching out to grab and hold it as the men began to get off.

  Someone was pulling Jonathan to his feet. It was Peter.

  “Damn you, Jonathan! Damn you!”

  Jonathan couldn’t speak, he was shaking uncontrollably.

  “Get the boy over to the fire and strip him down.”

  He looked into the face of a bearded, burly Marblehead man and sensed this was his rescuer.

  “Thank you,” Jonathan gasped.

  “Boy, get to that fire or you’ll be dead in minutes.”

  The man was soaked from the waist down, water was pouring off of him, and Jonathan, though his mind was clouded with shock, wondered about this man’s strength.

  “Thank you,” he tried to say again. The Marbleheader offered a momentary smile and then went back to his work of holding the gunnel of the boat as men streamed off, a couple of them slipping and falling on the dock.

  Peter dragged Jonathan up to the roaring bonfire. Like the fires on the Pennsylvania shore, it was fed with well-seasoned fence rails, the fire white hot. A knot of men was gathered around, some cursing as Peter elbowed his way closer, until they saw Jonathan, completely soaked, shaking violently.

  “Someone help me!” Peter cried, as he struggled to keep Jonathan erect, while stripping off his blanket cape, the soaked jacket underneath. One of Washington’s guards came up. The sergeant set their muskets down on a log.

  “You’re a damn fool, lad,” the sergeant exclaimed and then, while Peter held his friend up, the sergeant unbuttoned Jonathan’s trousers and began to pull them down.

  Jonathan struggled.

  “Stay still, boy. No shame in this. No lasses around to admire you here. Now stay still.”

  In an almost fatherly way, as if helping a small boy out of his clothes after a dunking, the sergeant pulled Peter’s trousers off and laid them, along with his jacket and cape on a log facing the fire, then pushed Jonathan as close to the fire as they dared to approach. It was the wrong side, wind driving billows of smoke and hot gases around them, but there was no possible way to get to the other side, as other men were now packed in too tight.

  Jonathan felt something dry go around his naked shoulders. The sergeant had given him his own blanket cape.

  He was still shaking uncontrollably, and it was nearly impossible to breathe. Having taken in some water, a spasm of coughing consumed him, doubling him over. The sergeant slapped him on the back as he half coughed, half-vomited the water ou
t.

  “This lad’s damn near drowned,” the sergeant exclaimed. “For God’s sake, does anyone have a drink on them.”

  No one moved.

  “My God, men, have some pity.”

  A lone soldier wearing the tattered uniform of a New York regiment edged over to them, pulled out a flask, and offered it.

  Peter held it to Jonathan’s lips and he managed to get a gulp down before another spasm of coughing hit.

  It was cheap gin, but the warmth hit his stomach and seconds later his head, making him feel light.

  “Jersey, we’re forming up there!” and the sergeant pointed to the low crest above the ferry dock. “Dry out and join us there. It’ll be another hour or two before we move.”

  “For heaven’s sake,” Peter replied, “let him go back. He’s finished.”

  The sergeant said nothing.

  “I’ll be fine,” Jonathan gasped. “Just give me a few minutes to get warm.”

  “That’s the spirit, son,” the sergeant replied. He slapped him on the shoulder, then moved to fall in with his unit.

  Jonathan watched him leave, with a rush of emotions. The Marbleheader who had jumped in to save him was still at work at the dock. The last few men were getting off the boat, the sergeant making his way up the slippery path. Even the New Yorker, taking the flask back, had returned to join his comrades. Strangers all and yet brothers, far more than my own blood brother.

  Emotion flooded him, and hot tears came to his eyes. Shaking, he felt Peter actually embracing him, holding him closer.

  “You’ll get warm. My God, that fire is like a furnace.”

  Peter could not tell he was crying, and he was grateful for that. To be unmanned before these comrades?

  The heat beat upon him like a furnace on one side, yet the other side of his body was freezing. He was suddenly embarrassed beyond all measure. He was completely naked except for the blanket cape loaned by the sergeant. But as he looked around, squinting against the hot air and sparks, he saw more than a few like him, men literally naked, some with bare backsides turned to the fire. There were no jokes, no ribald comments, all of them miserable beyond describing. If there would be any laughter, he thought, it would be from their enemies if they should storm upon them now. Enemies well dressed in heavy wool uniforms, heavy capes and cloaks to ward off the storm, dry boots, capturing naked scarecrows who, inspired by some mad dream, actually believed they could defy the greatest empire on earth.