To Try Men's Souls - George Washington 1

by Newt Gingrich

  Hard to see for a few seconds. Shadowy figures were emerging, but with no clear color to their uniforms. All was shrouded in tones of gray——snow, sleet, and smoke.

  He turned about to move in behind a volley line, a single rank deep, men spaced several feet apart. Other troops, running hard, continued to move behind this line, Greene shouting for it to be extended.

  More shadows appeared, moving like ghosts flying toward them.

  There was a momentary fear: Were these his own men? Had some debacle unfolded in the village in the last few minutes? Had the Hessians, ever so precise and disciplined, re-formed? Were they now driving his men out? Would he in a few more seconds see the enemy emerge and advance inexorably, ready to return volley for volley?

  More shadows appeared . . . uniforms . . . blue! They were running blindly.

  “Make ready!”

  The Massachusetts men raised their muskets high.

  “Take aim!”

  A hundred or more muskets were leveled. And at that instant the shadows before them began to slow, men sliding to a stop. Guttural cries drifted on the wind . . . in German.

  “Fire!”

  A volley rang out, half a dozen Hessians dropping.

  There were cries of confusion, rage. Several raised muskets and fired back, shots going wide in the confusion.

  The Massachusetts line was already reloading. More shots rang out. The men falling in to the left of the Massachusetts men were hurrying to join the fray.

  Allen stepped away from the trapdoor, looking defiantly at Jonathan for a few seconds, and Jonathan slowly stood up. Seeing James again, warm, well dressed, and obviously well fed, had been bad enough.

  But this?

  There was shouting outside in the alleyway, triumphal cries, more men running past the window.

  “For God’s sake,” Jonathan hissed, “take that goddamn jacket off now!”

  Allen did as ordered, letting it fall to the floor.

  As the oldest child Allen had always been the protective brother, pulling Jonathan out of so many childhood scrapes with James. It was Allen whom he had idealized, and it was Allen who so often said that it was Jonathan, though the “runt of the litter,” as he would jokingly call him, was the one who was born with the brains and destined to attend college. It was Allen who, when Jonathan slipped away from his chores to play or wandered afield, would so often cover for him, quietly doing the chores himself and never saying a word. It was Allen who, when he went down to Philadelphia on family business, would always return with some small present for him, such as a book from Mr. Franklin’s shop, and then tell him all the news of the wide world beyond.

  “Jonathan,” Allen sighed, and he came toward him, eyes filled with obvious relief.

  Jonathan held his hand up in a gesture as if to ward him off.

  “No, don’t.”

  “My God, Jonathan, we’ve been worried sick for you.”

  “Obviously.” He gestured toward the food spread on the table. “Even as you fed them.”

  “Jonathan, we had to,” Allen replied.

  “At least they didn’t loot us,” James interjected, speaking up at last. “The way your army wanted to when it ran through here three weeks ago.”

  “We did not,” Jonathan retorted. “What we took we paid for.”

  James snorted derisively. “The money made good kindling.” He gestured toward the blazing fire. “That’s all it was worth.”

  “And from what I saw in the shop, you made certain most of the goods were well hidden.”

  “Son, do you want us reduced to poverty because of this damn war?” his father interjected.

  “You know what I wanted.”

  “All of you, stop it,” his mother snapped. The men fell silent.

  “William, go fetch some dry clothes for our boy.”

  His father nodded and left the room.

  She folded her arms and gazed at her sons. “All of you, sit down. I will have no fighting or profane words in my kitchen.”

  Jonathan could not help but chuckle sadly. Did she not know that a battle was literally raging outside her home? A war that months before seemed so distant when he had marched off to join it——with James by his side——had literally come to their doorstep. And one of the enemy stood before him.

  Allen came to sit across from Jonathan, but as he pulled the bench back, Jonathan stood and backed away.

  “I will not sit with you, Brother.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Jonathan! Stop it.”

  “Why did you do it?” Jonathan asked, and was ashamed that his voice began to break with emotion.

  “Jonathan.”

  Allen was up and by his side, arms going around him, and for a moment Jonathan did indeed break. He began to weep, Allen holding him as he had so often in the past when he lost a scrap or fell into trouble with his parents.

  He wept and Allen held him.

  “Jonathan, I had to.”

  “If not for Allen, they would have looted us clean,” James interjected.

  “Is that it? Is that what the price of your soul is worth?” Jonathan snapped, pulling away from Allen.

  He glared at James.

  “You I figured out, at last, to be a coward.”

  “You can go to hell, Jonathan.”

  “Sunshine patriot, that’s all you ever were, James,” Jonathan cried. “But you, Allen? You?”

  “Do you actually believe in that rot?” James retorted.

  “What rot?”

  “Reverend White showed us a copy of what that fool Paine just wrote.”

  “And you call it rot?” Jonathan cried.

  “Yes, the ravings of a drunken fool, and you actually believe it.”

  “Yes, I do!”

  He felt light-headed and in spite of himself collapsed back onto the bench, emotion all but overwhelming him. Outside the storm, the battle, continued to rage.

  “Listen to that! There are good men, my comrades out there. Fighting, dying, for what you call rot.”

  James replied with a sarcastic sneer.

  “Damn you. Don’t you believe in anything?”

  He nodded toward Allen, who looked down at him with a sad and weary expression.

  “At least he believes in something, even if I now call him my enemy.”

  “Jonathan, you could never be my enemy,” Allen whispered.

  “Then why are you wearing that damn traitor’s uniform?”

  “Traitor? I am loyal to our king. Little Brother, which of us is the traitor?”

  “All of you, stop it!”

  There was a time when a mere whisper from his mother, far more effective than any shouted commands from his father, would have sent Jonathan scurrying, but not now.

  “Mother,” he sighed, “I will always respect you as my mother, but please don’t try and stop me now.”

  “You are sick, my boy.” Again her tone was that of a mother hovering over an ill child.

  There was an instant when he did want to give way, to be led to bed, to be under warm covers with her sitting by his side, as she had so often done when he was sick as a boy.

  James stalked out of the room and turned into a side room that was the office for their business. Jonathan could hear a desk drawer being opened, and seconds later James returned, holding up a newspaper.

  “Reverend White gave this to us yesterday. Do you see it?”

  He held it up before Jonathan. He could barely focus on it, but he knew what it was.

  “And you actually believe the ravings of this madman? All of those damn madmen. Do you know that while you froze, that Congress of cowards ran away? While all this madness goes on, they are safe, warm, and fat in Baltimore?”

  He pointed toward the window, the sound of battle rising in volume.

  “For all you know, your army is on the run, and in a few more minutes those Hessians that were here will be back, looking for your hide, and Allen will of course try to save you, even though you don’t deserve it.”


  The blow nearly lifted Colonel Rall from the saddle, knocking the breath out of him.

  There was no pain. That had always struck him as strange. He had heard it in the garrison talk around the table when as a boy he was allowed to listen to the stories of old soldiers. Then there were his own memories of Luetzen, when he had nearly lost his arm, the slash of a Turkish saber across his thigh on the Romanian border. At first no pain, just a numbed blow. The pain would always come later.

  “Sir!”

  It was Münchasen, up by his side, offering a steadying hand. He waved the man off and actually forced a smile.

  “Nothing, Münchasen. Now rally the men, please.”

  Münchasen looked at him, wide-eyed, another volley ringing out, his adjutant flinching.

  “Never show fear Münchasen,” he gasped. “Now help rally them!”

  Münchasen drew away.

  Rall could see the rebel lines. My God what was happening? This was not as before. They moved like ghosts in the storm, relentless, coming forward, swinging in to block him in. Behind the infantry he could see several guns being manhandled into position.

  This could not be the damned rebels. Always they had run, always.

  And in spite of his order to Münchasen, he felt fear for the first time. Not for his own life, though from the numbness in his side he did wonder if the blow was fatal. It was so hard to breathe now. But what of his honor? What of his men?

  He looked down at them. To the column that had fled out of the town, he had passed the order that once clear of the village they were to form a square. But no square was forming. These men were milling about, some just gazing in shock at the ghostlike enemy, who now poured in volley after volley, a blast of grape sweeping in, bowling over half a dozen men. Those to either side were edging back in terror, a few tossing aside their weapons, falling to the ground.

  He looked toward the stream, strangely named Assunpink, some savage name most likely. The bridge was blocked, again by ghostlike enemies standing on the far shore, firing toward him.

  “Colonel!”

  He didn’t recognize the man. Someone from the other regiment under his command.

  “What are you orders, colonel?”

  The wound was beginning to stab with a painful agony. He struggled for a breath of the frigid storm-driven air. He couldn’t draw the air in.

  Out in the open? Without artillery to suppress theirs, they will pound us to pieces.

  He looked toward the village. Head there? Try to take the barracks. It’s a stone building. Hole up in there, make a defense. Try to get word to Cornwallis. Ask the damn British to come rescue us after putting us here?

  He caught a glimpse of his flag. My flag. The bearer went down, a sergeant snatching the colors and holding them back up as a rally point.

  I must at least save my colors. Merciful God, how can I ever go back home without my flag?

  My God, what will I say to my prince?

  “Colonel! Your orders?”

  “Back to the town. Rally at the barracks.”

  And then the second blow hit, this one knocking him to the ground and, for the moment, oblivion.

  Washington caught glimpses of faces. Men wide-eyed, but not with terror and panic this time.

  A fury of battle was being unleashed as more and more men fell in, extending the battle line southward around the town. As each man came into place, with Greene shouting for them to “get into it, boys,” more and more men raised their muskets, leveled, and fired.

  Wild shouts, curses, huzzahs, guttural screams of long-pent-up fury greeted each shot.

  Before them was confusion. No military formation, just random knots of Hessians. Some milling about in panic. One formation was emerging, perhaps company strength, led by an officer waving a sword. Before they could level and fire, a volley from his own men dropped the officer and the enemy line disintegrated, turned, and ran back toward the village.

  A flag could be glimpsed in the smoke and snow, more of the enemy coming up. His men did not flinch; instead, the sight was greeted with curses, shouts to get that “damn, bloody flag!”

  The enemy charge surging toward the orchard disintegrated before it had really started. Greene was riding up and down behind his line, shouting encouragement, yelling for his men to hold and deliver disciplined volleys, but his encouragement was not needed, not this day.

  Washington saw the flag go down, come up again, and a few seconds later a mounted officer riding alongside of it collapsing.

  Washington watched in silence, heart swelling, awed by what he was seeing unleashed, at last.

  The shadows in the smoke and snow fell back.

  “Close in on them, men!” Washington roared. “Close in!”

  They needed no urging. Without a single officer present these men would have pushed forward. At this moment they were filled with a mad passion, a passion for war, driven by the most primal of urges.

  The line, ragged and disordered, pushed to the edge of the orchard, and as they came upon some of the fallen enemy, several of the men dashed forward, knelt down, and began to try to pull off their boots and jackets.

  Officers shouted for the men to keep moving and reluctantly the looters, feet trailing smears of blood, fell back in and pressed on.

  “Look there, sir!”

  It was Greene, eyes afire, filled with fierce delight, pointing farther south to the far side of Assunpink Creek.

  A column on the move, pushing several artillery pieces along. Another moment of doubt: Why was Greene filled with such delight? And then he realized why. It was Continentals pouring out of the south side of the village, in orderly fashion, running at the double . . . Sullivan!

  They were through the village, crossing the bridge, deploying to seal the gap that should have been filled by the Jersey militia, having enough presence of mind to bring up several cannon for support.

  The two elements of the trap were closing tight.

  A cone of fire was now slashing into the enemy from all directions, the jaws of the vise inexorably closing tighter and tighter.

  He caught glimpses of a Hessian column that had advanced toward the orchard heading back into the town, perhaps trying to break through to the north, or rallying to make a final stand in the village. If they became organized, the battle would turn into a vicious house-by-house. Or if they could hole up in the stone barracks, it might take hours to dislodge them, and in the interim enemy reinforcements might arrive. This victory might still degenerate into a bloody killing match if they were allowed to still their panic and regain a semblance of command.

  He knew that the scope of the battle was, at this instant, beyond his ability to control, with his own forces formed in a circle more than a quarter mile across. But his heart told him that though beyond his control, his men, this morning, knew what they must do and would not hesitate now that they were tasting this long-hoped-for victory.

  The enemy column had disappeared, except for occasional glimpses of their flags. From the hill where he had first watched the battle begin, he could hear the thumping of the artillery, well-placed shots plowing into the flank of the enemy column, shredding it.

  Some of Sullivan’s men were deployed on the far side of the creek and at the bridge, others in buildings at the edge of the town were leaning out from windows to fire at their enemy in the open.

  The Hessian retreat to the edge of the village was lost to view, fire increasing, while in the orchard the Massachusetts men came to a stop, dressed their line, and reloaded, some of the men casting aside weapons that had misfired, picking up muskets dropped by the Hessians.

  “Here they come again, boys!”

  It was Greene, who seemed to be everywhere at once, riding up and down the line, sword drawn, pointing toward the field below the orchard.

  He was right. Another enemy surge was pouring out, in some vague semblance of order, the storm clearing enough for the moment that this time he could see them clearly. A ragged column, colo
rs at the center, was attempting to deploy into volley line, to batter its way through their tormentors.

  What unfolded was slaughter.

  His artillery up on the hill plowed solid shot into the enemy ranks, one officer and his mount going down in a tangled mass. From out of the village, pursuit by his own soldiers followed, men firing, hurriedly reloading, pressing forward a few dozen feet, firing again. Men with wet muskets advanced with bayonets leveled, and if without bayonets, their muskets held high like clubs, waving them, screaming defiance.

  From the south, Sullivan’s men pressed in as well.

  An enemy surge headed toward the bridge, but the artillery Sullivan had so brilliantly moved to the far side of the Assunpink opened on them with a salvo, dropping a dozen or so. That one salvo showed clearly enough that escape that way was impossible.

  A milling knot of the enemy broke into a run, heading for the gap that was still in his line between the far left of Greene’s command and the right flank of Sullivan’s, the enemy tossing aside muskets, plunging into the creek. Some appeared to make it across, others were shot down before reaching the far bank. It was hard to see, but in the confusion it looked to be a hundred or more who were escaping.

  All was happening so quickly he knew he could not react to fill this momentary breach in the circle. Sullivan would have to contain the enemy alone. To order Greene to try to push his line farther south might leave this barrier by the orchard too thin to block any renewed surge.

  The advancing enemy numbered in the hundreds, clustered around their flags. Yet with every step, more and more of them fell, fire ringing them in. He heard musket balls and then a solid shot screech by overhead. The enemy was not firing in their confusion. The ring was now so tight around them that the bullets and artillery rounds must be coming from Sullivan and his men pressing out now from the town.

  Another volley came from the men deployed at the edge of the orchard. Solid shot was plowing into the confusion, knocking Hessians over like ninepins, ghastly cries rising up.

  “For God’s sake,” he whispered, “give up.”

  It was changing from a battle into a massacre.

  There was the slightest ripple of fear. Not for himself, but for the battle itself. Might it have shifted after all, the Hessians rallying? Jonathan turned his attention away from James, looking out the window as if he could catch a glimpse beyond the alleyway.