The Glorious Cause

by Jeff Shaara

  Washington pointed along the wooded trail, and Mercer smiled at him, unusual for the stern Scotsman.

  “General, we’ll see you on t’other side a’hell.”

  Mercer saluted him, and his men were quickly in motion. Washington watched him until his column had moved beyond the intersection, thought of the wilderness in Virginia, the disaster of General Braddock. It had been twenty years now, and he could still recall marching with Mercer alongside British troops who even then despised anything American. Godspeed, General Mercer. We may all have our sweet memories of this day.

  More troops in the long column were moving past him, turning onto the back road. He spurred the horse, rode quickly alongside them, broke out past the trees, felt the warmth of the sunlight. To the left, a wide grassy field rose up away from him, obscuring his view of the Post Road. He turned out into the field, the horse stepping through a thin layer of glistening frost. He climbed the long slope, could see the hill cresting around a pair of farmhouses. Behind him, he saw Sullivan’s men, the head of the column farther east, a ripple of motion as the men moved through the ravine. They did not have to be prodded now, there was no falling out for sleep. They all knew how close they were to the British, that they had yet to be discovered, that so far, everything had happened according to plan.

  Above him on the hill, he saw a rider, an officer, coming down from the crest. The man rode past a line of skirmishers, and Washington motioned to Tilghman, who moved up the hill. The officer met Tilghman on the slope, and Washington could see the man pointing back up the hill. Washington spurred his horse, moved closer. Tilghman said, “Sir, Major Wilkinson reports a column of British troops up on the Post Road. They were on the march west, but have turned, and are in line moving this way.”

  “How many?”

  Wilkinson shook his head, said, “Could only see one regiment at most, sir. They had already crossed the bridge. General Mercer’s men were coming out of the trees, moving out this way.”

  Washington digested the image, thought, Mercer has seen the British, must know he can no longer destroy the bridge. He could see nothing, the hillside still blocking any view of the main road. So the British are on the march, but where? Only one regiment? It came together in his mind now. These British are marching west, toward Trenton. It was the first time he knew for certain that Cornwallis had been fooled. If Cornwallis was still expecting a sharp fight along the Assunpink Creek, he would certainly order the Princeton garrison to send reserve strength to Trenton. These troops had no doubt begun their march at first light. From that vantage point, they could certainly have spotted Mercer. It is simply bad fortune. If we had only been here earlier . . .

  There was musket fire now, up toward the bridge, where Mercer’s men would certainly be. He rode that way, glanced behind him down the hill, the last of the main column below him. He focused again on the sounds, one solid volley, scattered shots. He said to Tilghman, “Go to the main column. Divert the three units of the rear guard this way, have them advance in haste. I will see what we are facing. General Sullivan and the remainder of the column must keep moving toward Princeton.”

  Tilghman was gone quickly, and Washington was surrounded by his skirmishers, the men pulling closer to his horse, protecting their commander. He listened again, another sharp volley, but it was not as many muskets. He knew Mercer would make the good fight, but he had to see. He reached the crest of the hill, could hear the shouts of men blending in with the scattered firing. There was a thick grove of trees, an orchard, a dense cloud of smoke rising above. To his right was the highest point along the crest, framed by the two farmhouses. He watched the fight in the orchard, then looked anxiously behind him, some sign of the advance of his men from the road. Finally they came, a solid line, and he saw Edward Hand’s Pennsylvanians, followed by a line of Virginia riflemen. As they moved past him, they were running, every man seeing the fight. Washington focused again on the orchard, but the firing had stopped, just shouts, and Mercer’s men emerged from the orchard, some stumbling, wounded, others in a fast run.

  He could see bits of color now, the British moving through the orchard, some pursuing Mercer’s retreat. Up on the rise, more British suddenly appeared, spreading into line, moving toward Hand’s men. The two regiments moved toward each other, no firing, Hand’s men allowing Mercer’s refugees to stream past. He began to shout at the retreating men, “Stop! Hold here! Fall in with these men!” Other officers were assembling, some quieting the panic, and the veterans responded, many of Mercer’s men gathering in their own fear, falling in behind Hand’s line. The British were still advancing, and Washington took off his hat, saw the last of Mercer’s retreating men, some scattered behind Hand’s line, some wandering, dazed, some moving forward again, absorbed by the advance of Hand’s men. He saw one small group still running back, stumbling, exhausted men, and they were close to him now, the faces looking at him, the men slowing, fighting for breath, and he shouted at them, “Come with us! They are but a handful! We shall have them!”

  He waved the hat, spurred the horse, and the men responded, found their way into the line of the Pennsylvanians, and he cheered them, knew they would not falter now. Nearly all of Mercer’s men were advancing again into the brief fight they had just lost, their panic erased by the strength of the men beside them. The British were less than fifty yards away, the gap between the two armies closing rapidly, and he spurred the horse, bolted forward, was out in front of Hand’s men, stopped the horse between the two lines. The British were barely thirty yards from him, halted their line, and he waved the hat again, looked back at his men, shouted, “Halt!”

  The soldiers were facing each other, a long silent moment, Washington between them still, and he raised the hat, shouted, “Fire!”

  A smoky blast erupted around him from both sides, the musket fire engulfing him in a roar of sounds. The horse jumped, and he held tight to the reins, stared hard toward the British, could hear the cries and groans, most of the British line a heap of fallen bodies. The men who were not hit were pulling back, the British officers waving their swords, the retreat orderly, but then, the order was gone. They began to run, scrambling back along the side of the hill in a rolling wave of red. His men were around him, wildly cheering, the men looking at him with awestruck relief. Tilghman was there, grabbing the reins, shouting, screaming something, a prayer, some kind of curse, crying relief. Washington could not hear the young man’s words, his ears still ringing from the cascade of musket fire, the voices of his men. But he focused on the British, disappearing out toward the Post Road, leaving so many of their own in the field around him.

  Sullivan’s men had met their own resistance closer to the town, had driven more of the British garrison away in a glorious rout. The British were in full retreat, some escaping west on the road to Trenton. Others were in full flight, disappearing into the countryside. Both wings of Washington’s assault closed in on the town itself. As he reached the open grounds of the college, there was a new scattering of musket fire, piercing the air around him, his men rushing forward on the roads, officers up front pointing the way. He could see flashes now, bursts of firing from the windows of Nassau Hall. Around the large building, his men were beginning to return fire, but they were in the open, British troops smashing out windows, firing from the protection of the brick walls. Cannon were rolling past him, and he looked for Knox, but the guns were manned by another officer, a very young man he had come to know at Harlem Heights. Washington remembered the first meeting, Knox pointing him out, giving the commander notice to watch this young man, some instinct Knox had, that Alexander Hamilton would perform an exceptional service to this army. Washington moved closer, would not interfere as the guns were unhitched and swung around, and now Hamilton looked toward him, seemed to wait for instructions. Well, yes. I would not have anyone destroying this college without orders. Washington was beside the guns now, said, “Captain Hamilton, the enemy is causing us some inconvenience. Are you carrying solid shot?
Can you provide them some discouragement?”

  Hamilton was all seriousness, gave a crisp order, his crew loading the brass six-pounders, and he put his hand on the wheel of one gun now, said, “General, upon your order, sir.”

  The musket fire was still coming from Nassau Hall, and Washington heard one ball whiz closely overhead, could see a British soldier in a first-floor window, the man staring at him with recognition, and Washington thought, No need to give him another opportunity.

  “Captain, you may fire.”

  The two guns jumped to life, the blasts of smoke rising quickly, and Washington could see shattered brick, a ragged hole in the wall just around the corner where his British assailant had been. Now there was a shout, and a dozen men surged forward, began to push through the doors of the Hall. The windows were vacant now, the British position in obvious turmoil, and suddenly, from the same window where the marksman had missed his opportunity, a white cloth appeared. More white began to emerge from the windows of the upper floors, and more of Washington’s men pushed inside. Quickly the British were herded out, a dozen, then more, their number growing. From around the college officers were gathering troops, sending them quickly to surround the British, who continued to flow out of Nassau Hall. Washington backed away, saw Hamilton pulling the guns back, making room in the open yard. Finally the men who emerged through the doorway were his own, and Washington scanned the British, silent, sullen faces, nearly two hundred men, half a regiment of prisoners.

  His troops were gathering still, some only staring, others laughing, calling out to the British, who did not respond, the captured men seeming to press together, closing ranks against this new kind of assault. Washington thought, How odd that they would fear us. Are we so unknown to them?

  He saw one man burst out of the doorway of the Hall, the man running toward the cannon now, gripping a bottle of some dark liquid, and the man shouted toward Hamilton, “Captain, you’re a fine shot, sir! You blowed a hole right through a painting of King George!”

  From the upper floors of Nassau Hall, more of his men were cheering, calling out, some displaying bits of uniforms, British hats, swords. There was no longer any battle, the mood of the army changing abruptly to a celebration. All through the surrounding houses and shops, men were emerging with British prisoners, supply officers mostly, noncombatants. Others carried all manner of British uniforms, packs, supplies of every kind. One man was pulling a small wagon by himself, and Washington could see the cargo, a stack of white cloth, fresh tents, blankets. He would not stop them, knew that out on the Post Road Mercer’s men were holding tight, a careful eye toward Trenton, artillery pieces now doing the job of destroying the bridge over Stony Brook. He knew Cornwallis would surely be coming, but for the moment, there was no danger. The men had desperate needs, and the blankets and clothing of the British would replace many of the rags his men carried. He was actually enjoying the spectacle, the pure joy of his army, another extraordinary day, another gift to the nation, another victory.

  Men began to emerge from Nassau Hall again, and there was something new, a man holding a loaf of bread, and another a bottle, the man shouting, “There’s a fine feast here! We done interrupted their lunch!”

  Men began to flood into the hall, and Washington knew he could not keep them from a meal, would not try. The officers were filling in the gaps around the British prisoners, were now herding them away in the road, and Washington felt his own hunger, could smell what the troops had discovered, some kind of soldier’s mess in Nassau Hall, a delicious odor of something still cooking. He climbed down from the horse, and Tilghman was beside him, the young man stepping in front of him, blocking the way. Washington stopped, said, “It seems the British have obliged us with a meal. If we are fortunate, there will be enough for all. However, if we do not make haste, the men may consume every scrap before we can find something for ourselves.”

  Tilghman did not reflect Washington’s good spirits, seemed not to hear him, said, “Sir, I have to say . . . you put a mighty fright in us today. We all thought . . . well, sir, we all thought you had put yourself in harm’s way. We were greatly relieved that you survived.”

  He was surprised by Tilghman’s emotions, looked at the rest of the staff, some men nodding, echoing what Tilghman had said. He tried to recall the moment, the horse carrying him out in front of the men.

  “Gentlemen, a commander must lead his men.”

  Tilghman began to protest, and Washington held up a hand.

  “I am grateful for your concern. In the heat of battle, we do not always think of our own safety. And, as you can see, on this day, I was blessed by the hand of the Almighty. Indeed, on this day . . . we were all blessed.”

  He rode back across the wide hillside, the ground still littered with heaps of red. Some of the wounded had been moved, but there were many more still to be tended, and he moved past them holding the thought away from his mind. On the crest of the hill, the two farmhouses were now hospitals, and before he could put his army into motion again, before he could begin any kind of new march, he had to visit the men who would stay behind. And one of them was Hugh Mercer.

  He stepped into the house, could hear the sounds of the dying, sharp screams and low groans. Every room was lined with men, and their clothing showed a mix from both armies. He saw women, kneeling, wrapping bloody limbs, and he moved past them without speaking, thought, The farmer, perhaps, his family. Their peaceful home was suddenly the center of a battlefield, and yet they remain here to help. We are blessed with such people as these.

  He glanced into a small room, saw a man in a British uniform, the insignia of a doctor, bent over, tending to a man in a blue coat. Washington looked over the doctor’s shoulder, saw the wounded man’s face, and his heart turned cold. It was Mercer.

  The doctor looked up at him, no recognition, and Washington said, “Sir, if you please, I would speak to my officer.”

  The doctor said nothing, moved quickly to another man, and Washington knelt, relieved to see Mercer’s clear eyes, said, “General, it is nothing serious, I pray.”

  Mercer smiled slightly.

  “Can’t say for sure, sir. Told that chap I’m a doctor myself, he didn’t believe me, wouldn’t tell me anything. I do know one thing, sir. I’m about as full of holes as a man can be and still be in one piece.”

  Washington could see bloody rips in Mercer’s coat, spots of blood on the man’s legs.

  “They thought I was you, sir.”

  Washington was puzzled, said, “The British?”

  Mercer nodded. “Thought they had captured the commander in chief. They were mighty rude about it too, as though General Washington would have been so unwise as to walk himself right into the line of fire. I took it as an insult, sir. On your behalf, of course. No excuse for myself.”

  Washington could not help thinking of the scolding from Tilghman, and Mercer took a long deep breath, gripped Washington by the arm, raised his head slightly, said, “We hurt ’em, General. Dropped a good many. We got off three good volleys, but I give the redcoats their due, they kept coming. They shot my horse, didn’t have much choice but to lead the men on foot. But we couldn’t stand up to the bayonets. I ordered them to fall back, and then . . . well, I wasn’t about to let a redcoat insult you, sir.”

  Mercer laid his head down, another long breath, and Washington felt the man’s grip loosen on his arm.

  “You did your part, General. We won the day.”

  The man’s eyes were closed now, and Washington felt himself shake, put a quivering hand on a bloody stain on the man’s chest, could still feel movement, soft slow breaths, thought, Thank God. He looked for the British doctor, but the man was out of the room, and Washington stood, stared down at the old Scotsman, blood on every part of his clothes. He backed away slowly, the smell of the room filling him, the doctor moving past him again, carrying a wad of white linen, going about his work with calm precision. Washington stood in the doorway for a moment, looked again at Mercer
.

  “God bless you, General. We won the day.”

  After the food had been consumed, and the army had gathered as much of the British supplies as they could carry, he assembled the officers to survey the condition of his troops. The British supply depot at Brunswick was another hard day’s march, and Cornwallis would be pursuing them from behind, but no matter how much speed the British commander could make, Washington’s men had the head start. He was still not sure of the British troop strength at Brunswick, the reports from the scouts inconsistent. Some believed it was unprotected, and Washington wondered if those reports were more wishful thinking than good scouting. But others believed that Howe had continued to send reinforcements from Amboy, and any move on Brunswick might involve another sharp fight. The spirit of the army might be willing, but every officer understood that to push the men on yet another forced march, to the probability of yet another fight would exceed what his men could endure. With Cornwallis in pursuit, any hesitation on the march, any need to stop the army even for a brief rest could result in a sudden disastrous attack from behind.

  The road to Brunswick divided at Kingston, the army arriving at dark as a storm of fresh snow began to cover the trees. When the army reached the intersection, their commander agonized still over his decision, the dangerous temptation to continue marching the men toward Brunswick. Most of the men were still in rags, again leaving a trail of bloody footprints, and no matter the stores that might wait for them in Brunswick, they were still a brutally exhausted army. Few of the men knew what the intersection meant, and when Washington gave the order to march on the left fork, few knew that they were heading northward, to a place called Morristown. There they could make camp safely, would be protected, surrounded by great fat hills. Cornwallis would not follow them, would listen instead to the orders from General Howe, the British commander who would finally be allowed his winter quarters. If Washington’s men didn’t know the roads, didn’t realize that they would finally have some rest, every man understood that in the past ten days, the tall man on the large white horse had led them through the battles that had inspired their nation, shocked their enemy, and changed the war.