by Jeff Shaara
The false rumors of Howe’s certain advance on Philadelphia had thrown the city into panic, and no one had reacted with more panic than the congress. Nearly the entire body had gone, were attempting to establish a quorum in Baltimore, some means of maintaining the semblance of a government.
Since the earliest days of the war, most of congress had favored supplying the army with militia, troops who answered first to their own state. It was a means of controlling the army, many believing that a professional, permanent military would result in abuses to the very freedoms they were fighting for. But when the panic engulfed them, many in the congress had put aside their earlier misgivings. Men like John Adams and Robert Morris understood that reality often has a way of pushing aside idealism. As they made plans to abandon Philadelphia, the congress voted Washington absolute power to direct all matters relating to the army and the war. Though congress expressed its approval of Washington as the one man who could be trusted with such unlimited authority, he had been granted, in effect, the power of a military dictator.
DECEMBER 22, 1776
The panic in Philadelphia produced another surprise. Israel Putnam encouraged militia to come out, and faced with the sudden threat to the safety of their homes, over twelve hundred men had enlisted for a six-week term. When they actually appeared, Washington had met them with stunned delight. They were not trained soldiers, of course, and Washington had come to share Greene’s skepticism whether any force of militia could make a strong stand in combat. But the fresh troops were a godsend to the morale of the army, a sign that all was not lost, that the rest of the country was not ignoring the plight of its soldiers.
The congress had decreed one more bit of support for his army, but the reception from the troops was a mix of amusement and disgust. With a grand show of patriotic reverence, congress had decreed that the country, and presumably the army, observe a “day of fasting,” thought to be a necessary show of humility in such a time of peril. Washington ignored the rude comments from his men, knew as well as anyone that such a gesture meant very little to the troops who had to struggle to find any decent meal.
With a force of six thousand men, Washington knew he had the best opportunity he might ever see again to make some sharp blow to the enemy across the river. In barely a week’s time, two-thirds of his strength would see their enlistments expire. Everywhere he rode, all through the camps, the men were looking to him, the commanders, Greene and Stirling, Sullivan and Knox. Every man knew that if Washington was to quiet his critics, put a stop to all the conspiracies to remove him from command, something positive would have to happen. They were simply running out of time.
The man had been arrested by a patrol of local militia, a loudmouthed Tory, known throughout this part of New Jersey as a trader in cattle and other goods, a provider of supplies to the British. His name was Honeyman, and he made no secret of his fierce loyalty to King George, had engaged in more than one fistfight in the taverns around Trenton, daring to shout into the face of any rebel sympathizer, quick to curse their misplaced loyalty to the cause of independence.
He put up a good fight, kicking and cracking his whip at the militiamen who managed to finally drag him from his carriage, subduing him only with a heavy rope. All the way to the camp he cursed them, and when they had heard enough, they plugged his mouth with a rag, yet still he fought, his rage coming through in grunts and high-pitched moans.
When he reached the camp, he was surrounded by guards, the gag still in his mouth, and the troops began to gather, making good fun of this violent misfit. The local men all knew him by reputation and told his story, and the response from the others was predictable. Some men lined up to kick at him, gave him back curses of their own. But none of the physical abuse silenced the fiery loyalty of Honeyman’s dedication to his king. The sport played itself out, and when the turmoil had subsided, the guards brought him to Washington, the staff assuming that this man might be useful after all, might be inclined to reveal some bit of information. The guards themselves were skeptical that the man could be of any use for anything but a hanging, and when Washington ordered them away, there was surprise and deep concern that this crazed Tory would be allowed so close to the commander, that Washington would tolerate the presence of this violent man in his office. Even the staff was surprised when suddenly, the door to the office was closed by Washington himself.
Are you all right, Mr. Honeyman?”
The ropes were gone now, and Honeyman flexed his jaw, laughed, said, “They could have used a clean handkerchief. But, just a spot of rum would wash away the taste.”
Washington brought out a glass, and Honeyman drank it in one quick gulp, and with a raspy breath said, “Better. Much better. Perhaps one more, sir. Helps the memory, you know.”
Washington knew the routine, poured another, and Honeyman put it away as well. Honeyman saw a chair now, dropped down, tested the soreness in his side, said, “At least one of your young fellows has boots still. I’ll be feeling that kick for a day or two.” He laughed, and Washington sat patiently, and now the complaining was past, and Honeyman said, “Last things first, General. Have you considered the manner of my escape?”
“We’ll lock you in the guardhouse. There are loose boards in one corner. Wait for the distraction, the guard will change about midnight.”
Honeyman rubbed his chin, said, “They’ll get off a shot or two. Worrisome bunch. They shoot better than the British.”
“They had better.”
It was not a joke, and Honeyman, all business now, said, “The cattle business is doing very well in these parts, General. Sold a nice fat herd to Colonel Rall just yesterday. He has twelve hundred mouths to feed, you know. Hessians all. And, of course, there’s Colonel von Donop, a few miles below, Bordentown, about the same number. From the barrels of good spirits I seen stacked up in Trenton, them fellows are looking to a nice party come Christmas Day. A very nice party. It’s particular to them folks, you know. Hessians, whatnot. They do like their Christmas.”
Washington sat back in the chair, listened to every detail of Honeyman’s report, felt his heart beating faster in his chest. Honeyman kept talking, details of the British garrison in Princeton, the location of the rural outposts along the road, while Washington listened silently, his breathing in a quick steady rhythm, the plan forming in his mind. It was more than troop numbers and placement of guns. The key was the certainty that bored soldiers in winter quarters would be allowed their one celebration, their one pause from the routine of marching and formations in the bone-chilling cold. The morning after their celebration, there would be the fog of sleep, the aftermath of the holiday that would leave most of Rall’s men in no condition to fight anyone. Christmas indeed.
13. WASHINGTON
DECEMBER 25, 1776
He had been near the bank of the river since first dark, had felt the wind rising, the temperature dropping as each hour ticked by. The troops had been kept at drill, practicing formations for most of the afternoon. Though the men didn’t understand the sudden flurry of activity, their officers had been ordered to keep them close at hand, no lapses in discipline, no opportunity for a potential deserter to find himself alone. As the day grew sharply colder, the drilling had kept the men in motion and so, they were not stiffened and uncomfortable. By nightfall, the entire army had a sense that something would happen, very soon, and that it was important.
He sat on a wooden box, an old beehive, wrote orders out carefully, handed each one to waiting couriers, looking hard into the eyes of each man. There could be no idleness, no distraction in these riders. Each commander must know what was expected of him, of the men in his command.
Along the Delaware, the army had prepared for three separate crossings. Horatio Gates was the farthest south, would lead the fresh militia across the river near Bordentown, an attack against von Donop’s forces, which was to be more of a diversion than a general action. If successful, von Donop would be cut off from Trenton, would have no role to play in wh
at might occur there.
Opposite Trenton, Washington had ordered General James Ewing to ferry eight hundred militia to the creek along the southern edge of the town, to bottle up any retreat by Rall’s Hessians in that direction.
Washington himself would lead the main body of the army, twenty-four hundred experienced men, the divisions of Greene and Sullivan. Their crossing would come nine miles north of the town, a place known as McKonkey’s Ferry. Once across the river, the march would be south, along two parallel roads, Sullivan close to the river, Greene farther inland. If the plan was to work at all, the two columns would have to reach Trenton at about the same time, the combined strength the only way Washington could hope to bring an effective attack.
It was a complicated plan at best, a three-pronged assault that depended on the reliability of each commander. And it was not to be. Late in the afternoon, as Washington marched his men north to McKonkey’s, he had been stunned to receive a note from Gates, who had decided to leave his camp and make a sudden trip to Philadelphia. There were rumors swirling around Gates, that with Lee captured, Gates was politicking to his friends in congress, revealing his own ambition by making the most of the failures of Washington’s leadership. Washington had not wanted to believe it possible, Gates having come to the army in the first place because of his friendship to Washington. But there was no time now for dealing with whatever intrigue Gates had in mind. Washington had immediately ordered Gates’ men to be led by his subordinate, General John Cadwalader.
As darkness had come, and the weather turned more severe, there arrived more bad news from down the river. Washington was shocked to learn that both Cadwalader and Ewing had abandoned any hope of crossing the river. Washington had read the words with stoic silence, two of his three prongs defeated before the assault could even begin. If Washington halted his own march and ended the mission altogether, their unique opportunity would be lost. The ambitious plan was reduced to one faint hope. He still had the most experienced men in the army under his command, and the march upriver had gone smoothly. At McKonkey’s, the boats were waiting.
They lined the bank in a solid row, and around each boat men were working, some testing the long stout push poles, some tending to the boats themselves. Washington finished the last of his orders, saw John Glover coming toward him, the man’s face hard and unsmiling, the scowl of a man going about his work. Glover saluted him, and Washington could see sweat on the man’s brow, defiance of the sharp cold.
“Colonel, are we ready?”
He tried to hide the impatience, had no reason to scold Glover for anything, and the stocky man stared at him, said, “These boats . . . damnedest thing I ever seen. We loaded one of ’em up with Colonel Knox’s cannon, and she just sat up tall, like she was still empty. I don’t know how this fellow Durham figured how to build these things, but I doubt anyone can sink one.”
Washington could see through the darkness, low lanternlight, the long fat boats rocking slightly, the crews still making their preparations.
“They use them for hauling iron ore down the river, so I’m told, Colonel. They have a shallow draft.” He tried to sound knowledgeable, Glover listening with tolerance, and he felt foolish now explaining anything about boats to Glover. There was a sudden blast of wind, and Glover turned northward, said, “Aye, sir. Shallow draft. That they do. I have to tell you, General, there’s a brute of a storm kicking up.” Washington followed Glover’s gaze, stared into the biting blackness, the wind watering his eyes. He knew to trust the man’s instinct about the weather, and Glover said, “It’ll be snowing before long. The ice is already coming up in the river. These boats will be frozen in place pretty quick.” He looked at Washington. “We best be moving pretty soon, General. The Durham boats are heavy enough to take a pounding, but the ice and the wind’s gonna play hell with the crossing. It’s blowin’ straight down the river.”
Washington saw formations of men lit by lamplight, the troops massing just beyond the riverbank. He looked at Glover again, the man focused on his men at the boats. He saw Henry Knox, the artilleryman supervising the cannon, rolling more of them close to the water’s edge. Knox saw him as well, made a brief wave, then turned again to his gun crews. He shouted something, and his men moved quickly, the cannon suddenly lurching forward, the men hoisting and heaving on the ropes. There would be eighteen cannon carried across, and every one was precious. It was all the artillery Colonel Knox had left.
One by one the big guns rolled into the Durham boats, their crews alongside, and Glover was shouting, pointing, his own men boarding each boat, securing the big guns. Glover looked at him, and Washington could see impatience, the man with no interest in a conversation, not now. Washington said, “Return to your boats, Colonel.”
Glover smiled for the first time, said, “God bless us, sir. I’ll see you on the other side.”
As he moved away, the storm Glover predicted began to swirl around him, the wind buffeting Washington with a howling fury. It was more ice than snow, and he felt the sting in his face and eyes. He held up his hand, a shield, letting him see the specks of light from the lanterns bouncing with the movement of the men who carried them, barely visible now, faint reflections through the blinding sleet.
He stepped away from the river, climbed the narrow bank, and farther up he saw Greene, stepping down to the water’s edge. All through the darkness, the commanders moved out in front of their men, and along the river, Glover’s fishermen were standing beside each boat, their work complete, each of them aware that the moment was close. He could feel their energy, could see Greene looking at him, knew they were waiting for his order. Close beside him, Tilghman had brought a drummer, a very young, very thin man, a ragged coat over bare legs. The man was shivering, stared at Washington with wide eyes, Washington turned toward the river, could not look at the drummer, knew so many of them had so little. He pushed the thought away, pointed to the drum, the young man responding, the sounds of the storm suddenly cut by a steady roll of the drum, then several sharp beats, and another roll. Out in the darkness, more drummers knew to pick up the rhythm. As the sounds echoed over the army, the men began to come forward, stepping in line to the long fat boats. He could see Greene, close to the water, guiding his men, seating them tightly into each boat, Glover’s men standing high on each rail, the men holding tight to the push poles. Some of the soldiers had sticks of their own, to ward off the ice in the river, the stark white shapes that floated past them, some already thumping and ramming the boats. He tried to see in both directions, but farther away, the darkness and the storm blanketed his men, the flickers of light the only sign that his army was moving at all.
After a few minutes there was a shout from Glover, and Washington saw the fishermen gathering at the stern of each boat. Glover held his arm in the air for a brief moment, his own signal, and Washington saw it come down, and just as quickly, the boats began to move, sliding away from the shore. Washington did not feel the wind now, ignored the flecks of ice biting his face. He held his hands at his side, clenched his fists, felt a sharp tightness in his throat. If God has any mercy for our cause . . . let these men have their one good day.
The first wave of boats had gone across and returned empty, and it was his time. He stepped into the boat, moved to the front, sat himself in the center of the bow, waited for the boat to fill behind him. He looked at the rail, thick and heavy, could see a large piece of ice float by, close enough to touch. Behind him, Tilghman was in place, and the boat was rocking slightly as the last of the troops stepped in.
He tried to keep his hands covered, the bite of the wind cutting through his gloves, and he pulled his coat around his shoulders tightly. Tilghman leaned close to him, said, “Sir! The flag is boarded!”
Washington turned, saw a man holding tightly to the pole, the ragged cloth wrapped securely. The last man was seated now, and at the stern, Glover’s men were waiting for the order. He waved his arm, and the boat slid forward, the bow settling slightly into the wa
ter. Two men were standing up beside him, pushed their long poles downward, began to walk back to the stern, then quickly were up again. The boat slid past more ice, was suddenly rocked by a collision, more ice now sliding along the sides of the boat. He focused into the darkness ahead, his fists still a tight clench, could see a dull shape, the bluffs of the shoreline in front of him. The boat kept moving, more ice punching the sides, and he saw a flicker of light, one lantern, on the far shore. The snow was blowing harder, and he shielded his eyes, saw more lanterns, more light, the shapes of men, shadows moving. The boat suddenly stopped, rocked slightly to one side, and men were splashing toward him, one lantern held high. He stood up, steadied himself, one hand on the rail, saw a hand, ignored it, stepped down into the water. The sudden wetness shocked him, the boots soaked through quickly, and he stepped through a thin layer of ice, made his way quickly to the bank. His horse had been ferried across already, and waited for him up on the bluff. He climbed up, tried to ignore the sharp cold in his boots, saw more lanterns, the men spreading forward in column on the road. He looked back toward the river, could see the whiteness, the ice that was growing thicker still. He could see nothing of the shore they had left, the wind blowing the snow in a low moan, but he knew there was nothing to see. His army was here, had made it across without accident, without a single man lost.
He rode up to the front of the column, Tilghman close behind, saw Greene now, the only lantern still lit. Washington glanced at Tilghman, said, “The time, Major?”
“It is nearly four o’clock, sir.”
Washington grimaced, said nothing, thought, The crossing should have been completed by midnight. But we could not know how bad the weather would become. And I will find no fault with Glover’s fishermen. But we will not reach Trenton until daylight. He looked at Greene now, saw Sullivan moving up beside him, said, “Nine miles, gentlemen. With dispatch. Absolute silence. No stragglers. You may commence the march.”