To Try Men's Souls - George Washington 1

by Newt Gingrich

  The artillery fire had reached a crescendo. There was distant cheering, but by which side?

  “At least Congress won’t have to worry about printing more money to pay you fools at the end of the month,” James taunted, even as Jonathan faced the window trying to discern what was happening outside, wondering now if he should just leave this damned house and rejoin his comrades for what might be their final stand.

  “Though I bet Paine is still making his money. He’s warm, well fed, and safe in Philadelphia, writing this drivel while you fools freeze and die at his bidding.”

  James turned to the fireplace, balling up the paper as if about to throw it in.

  Jonathan was out of his seat, and before Allen or his mother could stop him, he flung himself on James, the two bowling over. James let go of the paper, and it rolled into the fireplace. Reaching in, Jonathan grabbed it, cursing, scorching his hand as he pulled it out. With a feeble effort he grasped the paper tight and then stuck it in under his jacket to keep it safe.

  He could barely hear his mother screaming, or feel the strength of Allen as he separated the two of them, the way he so often had when as boys they had fallen into yet another fight.

  Jonathan, gasping for air, came to his feet. Without Allen’s support he knew he’d collapse. He leaned against his brother.

  “You better hold on to him,” James sneered. “In a few minutes our old lodgers will be back, ready to run him through.”

  “At least I’ll die for something I believe in,” Jonathan said coldly. “You have no soul, you have nothing but yourself and your selfishness. God help you.”

  “Will they hurt him?” his mother asked, looking up at Allen.

  “No, Mother. He’s just a very sick boy. They know me. I won’t let them hurt him.”

  “I don’t need your pity,” Jonathan gasped.

  “Do you think they won?”

  Jonathan’s father was in the doorway to the kitchen holding a bundle of clothes. There was something about him, at this moment, for Jonathan, that was heartbreaking. He saw the old man so differently now. A merchant, a scared merchant, once portly with success, now shaken and uncertain.

  “I think, Father,” Jonathan whispered, “either way, you will lose.”

  He tried to pull away from Allen’s grasp.

  “Jonathan, you better stay close to me,” Allen said. “They’re not a bad sort once you get to know them.”

  “I can see you have.”

  He looked into his brother’s eyes. Allen lowered his gaze.

  “Someday, you might understand.”

  “I doubt it.”

  He looked back at James.

  “You at least have the courage of your convictions, Allen.”

  The roar of battle echoed from outside, reaching a new peak and then, suddenly, began to die away, a strange eerie silence enveloping the room, punctuated only by the occasional musket shot and counterpointed by the ever-present howling of the window.

  “It is finished,” James said coldly. “You’ve lost.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “For God’s sake,” Washington cried out. “End it! Surrender!”

  As if his thoughts had been picked up by the men around him, he heard shouts from his own line, in German.

  Startled, he looked about. Some of his men were actually lowering their muskets, cupping hands to their mouths, shouting in German. “Geben sie auf! Leben sie noch! ” [Surrender, damn you! Surrender! Quarter if you surrender!]

  It caught his heart. The men shouting were riflemen from Pennsylvania and the Maryland line, men fully as German as their Hessian opponents. In a different world they, too, might have been in Hessian uniforms, but having chosen America were now loyal to their new home and their new dream.

  The cry was picked up, others shouting in English.

  Again there had been no order to do this, and his heart filled. He wondered, if all were reversed, would these Hessians be doing the same? Or would they be as merciless as they had been at Long Island and Harlem? There when his men were defeated, fleeing and pleading for mercy, the Hessians had advanced with the bayonet and slaughtered.

  God, this is what we are, after all. But minutes ago these same men had fought with a demonlike fury, and now they were offering mercy.

  “Surrender, you damn fools! It’s over!”

  The Hessians, pushed together into a confused mass, were not fifty yards away, ringed in tight on all sides, the storm lifting enough so that all was visible.

  One of Washington’s staff looked over at him, and he nodded, gesturing toward the Hessians.

  “Tell them to surrender”——he pointed toward several guns that were being wheeled down the hill——“or it will be grapeshot at fifty paces.”

  The orderly nodded, sheathed his sword, and went forward, holding his hand up high. Washington could feel the tension of the moment. His men, unbidden, were offering mercy, but if an errant shot struck down this man, it would unleash hell. Now, at this moment, he was beginning to sense a crowning victory, a victory that as Americans we would wish to end this way, and not in an orgy of bloodletting that would sully all they had gained this miraculous morning.

  “Kameraden!” the orderly shouted, hand still held high.

  A Hessian officer stepped out of the ranks of his men.

  Lying on the frozen ground Colonel Rall was not sure who was calling for surrender. Münchasen perhaps? He wanted to tell him no. Honor demanded that they fight to the end. But he could not speak. Someone was cradling him. He looked up. A drummer boy. The lad was crying. Terrified.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered to the sobbing boy. “You are a soldier of Hesse. Do not be afraid, my child.”

  He could hear someone shouting. It was Münchasen, and at that moment the pain in his soul overcame the agony he knew heralded death.

  Münchasen was surrendering the command; asking, pleading for quarter.

  He wanted to countermand him but could not as he looked around at his men. They were beaten, terrified. They had fought a hard war, and in the passion of that war, at times, they had shown no mercy to the rebels, for, after all, the enemy were not really soldiers to be treated with honor as one would the Austrian or French uniformed regiments of the line. They were peasant rebels and to be treated as such.

  And now the rebels had the upper hand, and as was usually the case, slaughter would be their retribution.

  Better to die fighting, but he could not draw the breath to countermand Münchasen.

  If they were indeed spared, what honor was left? But from the appearance of his terrified men he could see that honor did not matter to them at this moment. They would not have to face their prince. Perhaps Münchasen would have to someday, but I will not, and he thanked God at least for that blessing.

  My name will be disgraced forever.

  Though the distance was but a few dozen paces it was hard to hear what was being said with the wind still howling about them. Washington turned to the gunners wheeling their pieces about, dropping the elevation on their guns.

  “Grapeshot, if they do not yield,” Washington announced, voice tight. The battery commander nodded and passed the order to his crew.

  The mad passion of minutes before seemed already to be draining away. The order was passed as if reluctantly.

  “My God, they’re striking colors!” an officer near him gasped.

  Washington turned to see.

  The flags were being lowered; Hessian infantry were already dropping muskets, some taking hats off and holding them high as a gesture of surrender.

  His orderly was running back across the narrow ground, waving his arms excitedly.

  “They’ve struck! Hold your fire, men! They’ve surrendered!”

  At that instant it was as if all passion, all energy and fire, drained out of his men. There were a few cheers; an officer with the Marylanders called for three huzzahs, but only a few joined in. Most of the men stood in silence, muskets clenched tightly. A few slappe
d each other on the back, several men actually went to their knees and lowered their heads in prayerful thanks. A pale-faced boy swayed and then with a clatter of a dropped musket simply collapsed, creating a momentary fear that the gun might discharge and shatter the silence and perhaps unleash mad confusion.

  Washington rode forward, sheathing his sword.

  “Ground your weapons, men, but stand ready,” he shouted, moving out into the killing ground between the two forces. There was scattered firing still coming from the south, down by the bridge and inside the town. He inclined his head toward Greene no order needing to be given. Greene shouted for his staff to ride like hell and pass the word that the enemy had struck.

  A Hessian officer, the one his orderly had spoken to, came forward, snapped to attention, and saluted.

  “General Washington?”

  His English had but a slight trace of an accent.

  “I am he.”

  “Sir, on behalf of my colonel, who lies wounded, I beg to offer the surrender of his command,” and with a flourish he reversed his sword and held it up, hilt first.

  For the first time in this war, for the first time in all his years of soldiering, an enemy officer was offering his sword in surrender. The gesture caught him so by surprise that for on instant he did not know how to react. Then the years of breeding, of old ways, of a code of behavior as a gentleman and leader took hold. The hundreds of enemy were watching, not sure of their fate, perhaps more than a few remembering the treatment they had given to these conquerors during the fighting around New York, and most likely expecting the same.

  “You have fought with honor,” Washington replied. “You may keep your sword, sir.”

  The Hessian officer looked at him, astonished.

  “Gather your fallen and get them into shelter. Have your men stack arms here. Your officers to keep their swords and sidearms.”

  “Sir, you are generous.”

  There was a momentary flaring-up, a desire to snap back a reply that such was far better than he might have been offered had positions been reversed.

  “We’re Americans, sir,” he said coldly. “Not savages.”

  The Hessian lowered his head at the reproach.

  Even as they spoke, men from the Pennsylvania and Maryland regiments were cautiously moving down, approaching their foes, some of them calling out in German that the fighting was over.

  The moment seemed to be frozen as the storm whipped around them. Somewhere someone was crying. A young Hessian was kneeling beside an elderly sergeant who had lost his left leg below the knee, the boy frantically trying to stop the bleeding. A Pennsylvania rifleman was down beside him, taking off his belt, already helping to put on a tourniquet, while others stood about, gazing at one another, the fight having gone out of both sides now, some conversing in German, too.

  “With such men . . . ,” Washington reflected again.

  The firing to the south was continuing. He caught Greene’s attention. “See to escorting these men back into the village. Secure them in the barracks or churches.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he rode off, escorted only by Billy Lee. He saw ahead another milling crowd of Hessians pressed in near the creek, some still trying to cross, but this fight was tapering off, and then it stopped. From out of the smoke a lone officer approached. It was Major Wilkinson, the young officer who had been the bearer of the message from General Gates.

  Was that really less than twelve hours ago, he thought, the word that Gates would not move in support. At the time he had thought it the harbinger of the unraveling of all his hopes, a betrayal that could foredoom this attack.

  Wilkinson, at the sight of his General, stood in his stirrups, waving his sword overhead.

  “Sir, they’ve struck. General Sullivan begs to report the enemy regiment he faced by the bridge has been repulsed and is surrendering!”

  The last of the gunfire was dying away, and the scene behind Wilkinson was similar to that he had just left. Hessians were laying down their muskets, lowering flags, his men circling in around them.

  Wilkinson reined in by his side, and for a moment all formality was put aside.

  Grinning, Washington extended his hand to Wilkinson, the young major proudly taking it.

  “Major Wilkinson. This is a glorious day for our country!” Washington stated formally.

  Wilkinson grinned at him with boyish delight.

  “Sir, I am honored . . .” The young officer paused, his face full of joy. “I am honored, sir.”

  “General Washington!”

  It was Sullivan, followed by some of his staff, as filled with delight as Wilkinson.

  “Excellent work, General Sullivan. Indeed excellent!”

  “Thank you, sir. Sir, I regret to report that some of the enemy did escape, fleeing across the bridge before we could seize it. Several hundred at least. They are retreating toward Bordentown. Should I order pursuit?”

  Men of Sullivan’s command were breaking away from the surrendering Hessians, coming up to watch the exchange. He scanned their faces. There was joy to be sure, but exhaustion as well. The fury of battle was passing. The flame within, after such a bitter, hellish night, was flickering out. The features of these soldiers were drawn, numbed. All of them were wet, trembling with cold, exhausted, fatigued beyond describing, having borne more than any man should ever be asked to bear.

  It was now clearly evident that for all his elaborate planning, of three crossings from north of Trenton down to Philadelphia, these men, this force alone, had reached the eastern shore of the Delaware.

  If the other columns had crossed, Bordentown would already be seized, that escape route blocked for those Hessians who had managed to slip out of Trenton.

  The men waited, saying nothing, and he realized with wonder that, if ordered to do so, they would in fact pursue the enemy until they dropped in their tracks.

  “Post a picket to hold the bridge. Send out scouts to shadow those who escaped.”

  He looked again at his freezing men.

  “I want these brave lads sent to the village. Warm houses, dry clothes, and food is what these men deserve now, General Sullivan.”

  Sullivan accepted the order with obvious relief, those gathered around him offering a ragged cheer.

  “You are brave lads, all of you,” Washington cried. “God bless you for what you’ve done this day for our country!”

  He turned about, the men cheering him again, and started for the town; Wilkinson, Billy Lee, and several staff falling in beside him.

  It was only a few hundred yards to the village. As he approached the edge of town he came upon a knot of Hessian soldiers carrying an officer who was bleeding profusely, blood dripping on the ground.

  He slowed, the men looking up.

  “General Washington?” one of them asked.

  “It is the General,” Wilkinson announced.

  The wounded Hessian, carried in a blanket litter stirred, trying to sit up, groaning, laying back.

  “This is Colonel Rall,” a Hessian lieutenant announced.

  Washington stopped. He had heard much of this man. Of his boasts, of his disdain for the “peasant rabble,” of his men despoiling the countryside as they marched through New Jersey, and of how he did not react when prisoners taken by his command had been stripped naked and paraded about to the jeers of his men.

  Rall’s features were already going gray with the pallor of approaching death. “General Washington?” Rall gasped.

  “I am, sir.”

  He spoke in German. The lieutenant translated. “General, do I have your pledge to spare my men?”

  There was a moment when he was tempted to offer an angry reply, but pity stayed him. The man was dying, and he knew that if this situation was reversed, that would be his first question, his plea as well.

  “Your men shall be treated justly, according to the rules of war,” Washington replied. “They have nothing to fear from us now,” he added. “That is how we Americans fight, sir,
and how we treat those who have surrendered.”

  He almost regretted saying it, for he could see the look in Rall’s eyes. Was it shame? Shame over his defeat at the hands of this peasant rabble, or it was it something more? Shame for what he himself had done over the last six months, now to be met by this victorious foe, who was offering civilized compassion to an enemy?

  “Thank you, General Washington,” Rall gasped as he lay back, obviously wracked with pain.

  “Do you have a competent surgeon with your command?” Washington asked the lieutenant.

  “We do, sir. Thank you.”

  “Take him to his quarters. If you should need assistance, send a messenger to me. My surgeons will help with your wounded, of course.”

  The lieutenant looked up at him with wonder and saluted.

  “You are most generous, sir. Again, thank you. My colonel thanks you.”

  Washington did not reply and rode on, back into the town of Trenton, which was American territory again.

  So that is Washington, Rall thought, mind clear for a moment.

  He had pictured him as being molded on the model of most British officers, diffident, haughty, almost disdainful.

  Not like that.

  He had pledged that his men would be spared. Something told him that this man would keep his word. And the reproach offered had cut into his heart.

  For the first time since this war began he realized he was not fighting a rabble. He was fighting an army. An army that had, in spite of his thirty-five years as a soldier, bested him . . . and killed him.

  Colonel Johann Rall lay back in the blanket litter and prayed that death would come soon, without too much pain, and that his God would not blame him too much for the sins he and his men had committed in service to their land and prince.

  Jonathan felt stronger and broke away from his brother’s grasp. There was shouting coming from Queen Street, and as he stepped to the kitchen door he saw that the door to the street was still open. He slowly walked toward it. Men were outside, moving slowly.