To Try Men's Souls - George Washington 1

by Newt Gingrich

  A wagon, stacked high with boxes of papers, rolled past, followed by another, and then a carriage, well appointed, drawn by a matched team, curtains within drawn shut. Someone picked up a fresh horse dropping and hurled it.

  “Bloody cowards!”

  The crowd lining the street roared its approval and joined in the fun, pelting the wagon with filth. Others cursed. Many stood sullen, silent. Only a few seemed distraught, heads lowered in shame.

  Another wagon passed, this one with a couple of street urchins hanging on the back. They knew their business well, one diverting the soldier who was sitting atop small bales of papers, while the other grabbed one and jumped off. Half a dozen boys fell in about the thief, and laughing, they tore the package open. It contained continentals, five-dollar bills, and the boys started to pocket their find, a crowd swarming around. But this was not a mob falling on a rich man’s purse dropped in the street, ready to tear each other apart for the guineas waiting to be taken by the strongest. It was more of a lark——money being tossed in the air, snatched by some, trampled by others——more than a few making obscene comments about what they intended to do with the paper.

  Paine watched in silence. When the army had been paid last month at Fort Lee, just before it fell, men had lined up in a freezing rain to draw their ten dollars continental——pay for a month of agony, of brutality, of facing death——and now it was merely worthless paper lying in the street.

  As they rode the few yards to the hall that had been the home of the grandly named Congress of the United States of America, Tom looked about at the disorganized, milling crowd. He recognized more than a few, clerks, dockyard workers, day laborers. Men he had first met and drunk with upon arriving in this city. A few merchants with cloaks drawn tight, as if not wanting to be recognized, were scurrying about on business. Lawyers dressed in finery who had pressed their cases and causes while a hundred miles away an army was bleeding to death. He noticed a few of his former comrades from the Associators with whom he had marched months before. None were in uniform, which had been shucked when the entire regiment deserted. Some stood silent; more than a few were gathered with obvious knots of Tories enjoying the spectacle of the rabble fleeing the city.

  In the heady months after the publication of Common Sense he had been the toast of this town. For the first time in his life he actually owned a well-made coat of fine broadcloth, proper stockings, even shoes with pewter buckles, and a wig. Dr. Rush had insisted that he have at least some semblance of respectability, especially when asked to dine with the likes of Jefferson, Adams, and others to discuss the issues of the day.

  After Common Sense was printed, how life had changed, at least in that springtime when the city was aswarm with troops from the southlands, and members of the Continental Congress debated in the statehouse, debated on street corners, and at night boasted in taverns as all quoted Paine and cried for independence.

  Hats had been doffed to him as he walked the streets that remarkable spring, as a rebellion for the rights of Englishmen became instead a war for independence. More than a few said it was his pamphlet that had shifted the thinking of so many.

  Then he could barely walk a block without handshakes and, whenever he wished, free drinks in any of the taverns in town, and not just the swill he had drowned himself in in London. Instead there were the finest wines, or the raw hot drink of this new land, whiskey made from corn, and sometimes dark-colored rums.

  Now, as he rode in worn clothing up Market Street, no one noticed him. He rubbed the stubble on his chin, actually a matted beard now, his face chilblained and sore. He had lost weight, perhaps a stone or more. He was just another scarecrow soldier drifting back from the war.

  “I’m not sure where to report,” Putnam grumbled as they reined in before the city meeting hall, some stragglers dragging out more boxes of documents, more paper. Amazing how much paper they have, Tom thought, as he watched them heaving it aboard a wagon.

  The wind was picking up, turning colder, the spectators beginning to disperse. The militia guard surrounding the building were relaxed, leaning on muskets, some sitting on the steps, others gathered around a small bonfire in the street, trying to warm themselves. The scene had the feel of an ending of things, not with a spectacular roaring explosion of a mob storming the building, fighting in the streets, a defiant stand, but a sputtering out, a dying away, a movement dying, and few seemed to care.

  Such a contrast, he thought bitterly. But forty miles north of here Washington was struggling to get his army across the river to safety after a grueling two and a half weeks of fighting withdrawal across Jersey. For all he knew, at this minute the army might be pinned with its back to the river, dying. Here Congress was running, the once cheering crowds silent, more than a few slipping home to find a concealed Union Jack, ready to hoist it in surrender or even celebration, when Cornwallis’s columns marched into town, which surely all expected.

  Barricaded street by street this city could hold off entire armies, but obviously none of these had the stomach for that. All he could feel was disgust.

  Putnam dismounted, tethered his horse, and looked up at the meeting hall.

  “Get it done, Paine. Lord knows, we need the power of your words at a time like this. But first of all, for God’s sake, get something to eat,” he sighed, then without another word started up the steps. No one among the guards bothered to offer a salute as the general passed by.

  Paine turned his weary old mount, kicking its ribs hard to get it to move, and the animal plodded along. He rode another block, the world hazy, red-rimmed it seemed. When he stopped, the building in front of him was familiar. There was even a warm memory to it.

  MCKINNEY & SONS the sign read above the door, PRINTER AND PURVEYOR OF FINE BOOKS. Like all the shops this day, its windows were shuttered. It took a moment to work up the strength to stand in the saddle, swing a leg over and dismount.

  He tried the door. It was locked, and he pounded on it. No answer, and he pounded again and again.

  He heard the bolt thrown back, and a face peeked out.

  “And what do you want?”

  “I have something for you,” Tom said softly, throat so dry he felt as if it would crack apart when he spoke.

  “Go away.” McKinney started to close the door.

  Tom put his foot in, blocking him. “I’m Paine.”

  McKinney’s eyes widened. “The devil you say!”

  More than a bit startled, the printer opened the door, looking about nervously as Tom shuffled in.

  The smells that greeted him gave him a thrill. The smell of paper, of ink, raised a memory of another world.

  McKinney closed the door and stepped away from Tom.

  “My God, man, you look near dead.”

  “Could I have something to drink?”

  McKinney hesitated, nodded. Not bothering to offer Tom a place to sit, he went into a back room and returned with a tepid cup of coffee. Tom drank it down, the brew rousing him slightly but leaving him feeling nauseous.

  “Now best be on your way,” McKinney announced. “I have no work for you, Thomas.”

  Tom shook his head and struggled to slip off his backpack. Untying the leather bindings, he drew out the rolled-up oilskin, untied the string holding it tight, and handed it to McKinney.

  “Just take a moment,” Tom asked.

  McKinney went over to a table and unrolled the papers, picking up the first sheet. Adjusting his spectacles he scanned the page, and then shook his head.

  “You think me daft?” McKinney announced.

  “What?”

  “To print this now?”

  Tom could not reply.

  “You’re back from the war, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you don’t know what it is like here. Word is the British will come marching up Market Street by tomorrow.”

  “They’re a week or more away.”

  “Oh really?” McKinney replied with a rueful laugh. “I heard
that not an hour ago from a clerk from Congress. Put this on my press as they come marching in, and both of us will be dancing at the end of a rope.”

  “They’re a week away.”

  “The army is gone, Paine. Finished.”

  “That’s a damn lie. I was just with them this time yesterday.”

  “A lot’s happened since yesterday, Paine.”

  “I can see that,” Tom replied bitterly. “A lot since the last time I saw you.”

  McKinney tried to hold his gaze and then lowered his eyes.

  “Thomas, my advice to you: Burn this devil’s tract.” He gestured toward the fireplace with the pages as if ready to do the deed.

  Thomas leapt forward and snatched them from McKinney and stuffed them into his pack, not bothering to roll them up.

  “Listen to me, Thomas. It is over. Leave now. They will hang you, you know that?”

  “Let them try.”

  McKinney sadly shook his head.

  “Leave, follow the damn fools to Baltimore if you must. Or just go west, where they can’t find you. There’ll be a price on your head. Take my advice.”

  “So you won’t print it?”

  McKinney laughed. “Even if I could, I can’t. Paper is not to be found unless you have the money.”

  “So that’s it?” Thomas retorted. “You’re afraid to print it, but if the price is right and I bring paper?”

  “If I’m still here,” McKinney replied. “I printed that last pamphlet of yours, so they have my name, too.”

  “Just crawl out when they do come and beg the king’s pardon,” Tom replied bitterly, “Hell, you might make money printing up pardons for them. They’ll sell well.”

  The printer stood silent, and Tom went for the door.

  “Paine.”

  Tom turned and looked back. McKinney was reaching into his vest pocket. He drew out a couple of shillings and came over, trying to put them in Tom’s hand.

  “For God’s sake, man, toss out those stinking rags you have on and buy some clothes with this. The war is over.”

  Tom took the shillings, looking down at the image of the king stamped upon them. For the first time in his life he threw money aside.

  His exhausted mount, it seemed the only friend he had in this city, stood patiently by the curb. He did not have the strength to mount, and taking the bridle he slowly led it away. He weaved along for a few blocks and then, as if driven by some instinct, turned down the lane that led to his first benefactor in this land.

  He stopped in front of the home of Dr. Rush and found that for a long moment he could not even move.

  The door to the smart three-story home cracked open, an elderly black servant looking out at him, finely dressed in dark broadcloth and hose. The man was dressed better than many a general.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m here to see Dr. Rush,” Tom gasped. “He’s busy.”

  Tom didn’t respond. His mind was not functioning clearly anymore. Too much, far too much. This time yesterday he was staggering through the mud on the road from Princeton to Trenton; he had ridden all night, had only one greasy meal at dawn, and now this, a return to a city that seemed to be dying.

  The servant stood onto the top step and looked down at him. “You sick? A patient of the doctor’s?”

  “Michael, isn’t it?” Tom whispered.

  The man came down the steps and stared at him.

  “Mr. Paine?” His voice was quizzical, rich with the melodious inflection of the Indies.

  “The same.”

  “Why didn’t you say so, sir.” Michael’s tone softened. “I’m certain the doctor will want to see you at once.”

  The servant turned, as if pointing the way, but Tom did not move. After so long a journey, the last few steps seemed insurmountable.

  “I can’t move.”

  The man came to his side. Tom was afraid he was going to collapse, his legs numb. The servant supported him and led the way up the steps, calling for someone to tend to the horse.

  In the parlor Michael took Tom to a straight-backed chair by the fire, eased him into it, and left to fetch the doctor.

  Tom sat in silence, the warmth of the fire making him suddenly light-headed, the room closing in, almost choking him.

  “Tom Paine?”

  Benjamin Rush swept into the room. Tom tried to stand, but Rush put his hand on his shoulder and forced him to remain seated. He stared down at Tom, then wrinkled his nose.

  “My heaven’s, man, but you stink.”

  Tom tried to smile. “You should smell the rest of the army. I fit right in there.”

  Rush sat down beside him. Suddenly he was transformed; a doctor, not a member of Congress. He put a hand to Tom’s forehead, the other feeling for his pulse, as he leaned to look into his eyes.

  He removed his hand from Tom’s forehead and shook it in disgust.

  “You are lousy, man, absolutely lousy.” With the heel of his shoe he crushed a louse that had sought the warmth of the doctor’s hand.

  “You’re a bit feverish as well. How is your stomach?”

  “Empty.”

  Rush drew back slightly.

  “Michael!”

  The servant was already returning, carrying a tray with a decanter of wine, two glasses, and some pastries.

  “Put that down, Michael. Have one of the girls draw a bath out in the kitchen for Mr. Paine. The man is filthy with lice, so just strip him down.” He turned to Tom. “Burn those rags and find him something clean to wear.”

  “I already got the water heating over the fire,” Michael announced. He left the tray on a small table by Rush’s side and hurried back to the kitchen shouting orders.

  “I don’t hold with the notion some have against bathing in winter,” Rush announced. “Bathe first. Let Michael cut and comb out your hair to get rid of the lice. And that beard will have to go as well. I think I should bleed you later and draw out some of the bad humors.”

  Paine looked at him sullenly.

  “Some rum inside of me would be better.”

  Rush smiled, filled a thick crystal glass with wine, and handed it to him.

  “Drink slowly, my friend. It is just about the last of my port. Blockade and all, it’s running short.”

  Tom drained the glass in a single gulp.

  Rush shook his head. “I have to go to the state house but will be back later and we can talk then.”

  “Is it true Congress is running?”

  “Damn cowards. Yes, at least most of them are. They’re going to Baltimore, and it’s triggering a panic. A few of us are staying on, though.”

  Tom liked the edge in the man’s voice.

  “My God, man, your breath is as fetid as a sewer. You do need bleeding, but first the bath.”

  He took the glass from Tom and offered a pastry, which Tom wolfed down in two gulps.

  “Now tell me before I leave. Are the British truly marching on Philadelphia?”

  “I don’t know,” Tom sighed. “I don’t think so, though. Their pursuit slowed once we got south of the Raritan River. I heard some say they are going into winter quarters. Others say Howe is going to sail around Jersey and come up the Delaware instead. It would only take one day of good weather to do so. I just don’t know.” His voice trailed off.

  “Well, Congress is all in a panic,” Rush replied. “The last of the fearful are leaving now, taking lock, stock, and barrel.”

  “And you, sir?”

  “Damned if I’ll run. I volunteered to stay behind as a special observer. They want me to investigate General Washington.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I think you know as well as I do. Some want his head. They talk of Lee or Gates being put in command instead.

  Rush patted his knee and then withdrew his hand, looking at it carefully first.

  “We’ll talk more later. I’d best be off.”

  Rush left him to sit by the fire. Once Rush was out of the room Tom forgot a
ll decorum and gulped down the sweet cakes and drained the decanter. As the effect of the wine took hold, he heard Rush shouting some orders to Michael about getting Mr. Paine into the bath, burning all his clothes, and then putting him to bed.

  The mention of burning set off a momentary panic. He fumbled into his backpack and drew out the sheets of paper, some of them crumpled by McKinney, placed them on a side table, and carefully flattened them out. As Rush headed out the front door, slamming it shut, Tom was unfolding toward the floor.

  When Michael came in a few minutes later to help him to his bath in the kitchen, he found Tom Paine lying on the floor by the fireplace, drunk and fast asleep. The servant debated what to do and then noticed the sheets of paper on the table. Picking them up he scanned the first page and, for the moment, the man snoring by his feet was forgotten as Michael stood riveted, reading the words.

  Born a slave in Barbados, Michael was now a free man, and he could read.

  What he read cut into his soul like lightning.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  East Shore of the Delaware, Nine Miles North of Trenton

  2:45 A.M., December 26, 1776

  Fuming with impatience, Washington snapped open his watch. It was becoming a nervous gesture, he knew, one that could only annoy the men observing him, but he could not help it. Shielding it against the storm, he held it to reflect the firelight off the face. Seeing the time, he snapped it shut again.

  Lord, help us move faster, he prayed under his breath.

  “Grab hold there, damn it!”

  He looked back to the dock. It was Glover, angrily pacing back and forth on the icy planks, directing his men.

  They were exhausted, chilled, moving woodenly after nearly ten hours out in this blow. Their pace was slowing. All could sense that, but Glover was still driving his company to their tasks. A hard man.

  Though Washington doubted he would ever completely shed his mistrust of most New Englanders, his admiration for Glover was complete.

  If ever there was a night of total humiliation in his life, in this war of unrelenting humiliations, Long Island transcended all on the night of August 29. Others had counseled that his deployment was folly, splitting his numerous forces between fortifications along the Jersey side of the Hudson, the island of Manhattan, and his main force on Long Island, dug in beyond the village of Brooklyn.