by Ron Carter
Brooding, his mind filled with dark foreboding, Howe drew himself up to his worktable and reached for paper and quill.
“October 22, 1777.
It is with utmost regret that I herewith tender my resignation as commander of His Majesty’s forces in North America . . .”
He studied the words, scratched out some of them, added others, continuing to write the rough draft of his letter of resignation.
To the north, at Whitemarsh, General Washington sat at his worktable in his command tent near trees whose branches were stark and bare. Outside the brittle leaves of winter lay on the ground. On one side of his table were half a dozen written reports from scouting parties that had combed the countryside for twenty miles in all directions, searching for a place to build their winter camp.
Washington’s face was lined with fatigue. His thoughts were running, and he let them go unchecked.
Gates defeated Burgoyne at Saratoga—took his entire army—Congress and the people are hailing Gates as a savior—the British forces on the Hudson have taken Forts Clinton and Montgomery—are in control of the river passage to the north—Congress is making official inquiries into my defeat at Germantown—Conway openly criticizing me—Gates has joined him—other officers support them—winter is coming—no food—no clothing—no shelter—sickness—no end to it.
A great sigh escaped him as he reached for the scouting reports. And now we must find a place to establish winter camp.
For a time he shuffled through the documents, then laid them down.
“Here,” he said quietly to himself. “We shall make winter camp here.”
He stared for a long time, then murmured, “Valley Forge.”
Notes
The loss at Brandywine followed by the Paoli Massacre and the occupation of Philadelphia by the British resulted in a rising outcry from many Americans and their leaders. Congressman John Adams publicly declared, “O, Heaven, grant us one great soul!” which General Washington correctly believed was directed at him. See Leckie, George Washington’s War, p. 357.
Nonetheless, the country did rally by sending more troops from Virginia, New Jersey, Massachusetts, and many of Daniel Morgan’s riflemen. However, the initial success of General Gates against General Burgoyne on the Hudson River resulted in Gates sending his official report directly to Congress, and not to Washington, his commander in chief, which was a serious breach of military protocol. Then General Thomas Conway wrote Congress, highly critical of Washington. See Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 357–59; Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, p. 187.
Lafayette had received a serious wound to his leg or foot at the battle of Brandywine and was nursed back to health by a Moravian sister named Liesel Beckel at Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. See Claghorn, Women Patriots of the American Revolution, pp. 22–23.
Two British messages were intercepted. One stated Howe had sent a force to Billingsport in New Jersey to open the south end of the river. The second message stated General Cornwallis remained in Philadelphia while General Howe had moved the balance of his force to Germantown; thus the number of British soldiers at Germantown was substantially fewer than those under Washington’s command, and with the concurrence of his officers, Washington decided to attack them. See Freeman, Washington, pp. 356–60; Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 359–65; Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, pp. 186–87.
For a perspective of the area around Germantown and the locations of the commands of the opposing armies as the battle approached and proceeded, see the map in Leckie, George Washington’s War, p. 360.
Washington did in fact order that all British pickets be silenced, following which the Americans would make a bayonet charge. See Freeman, Washington, p. 357.
Both Caleb Dunson and Caleb Pryor are fictional characters.
The battle of Germantown, from beginning to end, is described. Included is the fact that the British had detected the advancing Americans as early as three o’clock the morning of October third and that General Howe had placed his entire command under arms to meet them. Notwithstanding, the American attack was so powerful that the British bugles were blowing “retreat,” and the Americans had all but beaten them. Then the fiasco at the Chew House, Greene’s force becoming lost, and the rising of the thick fog that resulted in Americans firing on Americans and a general chaotic confusion all over the battlefield, resulted in a reversal, and a final loss of the battle by the Americans. Following the battle General Washington was despondent, knowing that with the prior misfortunes of the summer of 1777, as previously described, he would certainly bear further humiliation. See Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 359–65; Freeman, Washington, pp. 356–60; Mackesy, The War for America, 1775–1783, p. 129; Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, pp. 186–87.
Part Two
North of Coryell’s Ferry, near the Delaware River, Pennsylvania
Late November 1777
CHAPTER XV
* * *
At noon a chill breeze came gusting from the north, stirring the dead leaves that still clung to the trees, sending them fluttering to the forest floor. A little before one o’clock the breeze rose to a bitter wind, driving slate-gray clouds to blot out the bright midday sun and cast the southeastern Pennsylvania hills and valleys into a shadowless twilight. By two o’clock the wind was moaning in the pines and firs and rattling the stark, bare branches of the oak, poplar, and maple trees, sending the thick cover of brown, brittle leaves skittering along the forest floor southward. At half past four, wet sleet came slanting on the freezing wind.
Billy Weems drew up the collar of his summer coat, hunched his shoulders, and bowed his head as he walked on with the wind at his back. He carried his musket in his right hand and with his left, reached to hitch up the rope that went over his shoulder to his bedroll. He broke from the trees into a small field of wheat stubble jerking in the wind, now plastered white with the sticky sleet. His eyes narrowed as he peered about in the gathering gloom of early evening for the lights of the farm building that must be nearby. From a quarter mile to the west came a faint gleam, and he turned to his right, slogging through the stubble in soaked shoes that were separating at the seams and had holes in both soles.
He climbed the split-rail fence behind the low, slab-sided barn and paused at the south end, shielded from the wind and sleet to open the pan on his musket enough to be certain the powder was dry. He snapped the pan shut and drew the big hammer back to full cock, carrying the weapon loosely in both hands as he rounded the corner. Yellow lantern light glowed from two small square windows along the west wall of the barn, and he walked past a low enclosure where a sow lay on her belly inside a three-sided hutch connected to the barn, continued past an empty pen for milk cows, and turned again to pause near the front door. Carefully he pulled the latch rope, pushed the door open, and quickly stepped inside, blinking in the light, musket muzzle raised, ready, as the wind and sleet came whistling in.
To his right a startled man sitting on a one-legged milk stool jerked his head from the flank of a Jersey cow and started to rise until he saw the musket muzzle swing to bear on his chest. Straight ahead a boy with a pitchfork load of dried grass straightened to stare, frightened, indecisive, looking white-faced at his father for directions.
Billy’s eyes swept the barn. There was no other movement, and he saw no weapon other than the pitchfork clutched by the boy. He lowered the musket, closed the door, and cleared his throat.
“Sir, I mean you no harm. I am passing through and would like to ask if I might take shelter in your barn for the night.”
The man stood—average height, husky, black felt hat over black hair and beard, heavy coat—and faced Billy. The Jersey cow craned her neck in the stanchion to stare back for a moment, large brown eyes questioning the interruption in the familiar procedure of giving her milk.
“Who might you be?” The voice was high, strained, and there was a German accent.
“My name is
Billy Weems. I am a soldier in the Continental Army. I’m just returning from the north and looking for the army camp.”
“Where are you from?”
“Boston.”
For long seconds the man studied Billy. Taller, sandy-reddish hair and beard, plain features, bullnecked, thick-shouldered, emanating a feeling of disciplined strength.
“If you are with the Continental Army, why are you not with them? Why were you in the north?”
“I was sent north by General Washington to join the fight against General Burgoyne.”
Recognition flashed in the man’s eyes. “You were at Bemis Heights? Saratoga?”
“Yes.”
“You were there when Burgoyne laid down his arms?”
“I was at the surrender.”
“Tell me, did the Hessians fight well?”
Billy could not miss the pride in the German eyes. “Yes. They fought well. At the Breymann redoubt.”
A smiled flashed for a moment in the black beard, and the man bobbed his head. “I am glad they fought well. I am also glad General Burgoyne surrendered before all his army was killed.” He hesitated, then spoke bluntly. “Are you a Loyalist? Pretending to be a patriot?”
“No.” Billy slipped his finger into the musket trigger guard. “Are you?”
The man squared his shoulders. “I believe the United States should be free from the British, but I will not bear arms. I have my family.” He glanced at the boy, who laid down the pitchfork and walked to his father’s side to stare up at Billy. He was wrapped in a great coat, with a knit cap pulled low.
Billy drew his finger from the trigger. “Are the British nearby?”
“They have patrols. We never know when they will come. If they find you here they will shoot you and burn my farm. They have done it to others. Many times.”
“Would it be better if I did not stop?”
For a time the man did not move. “It will be all right if you stay in the barn. There is fresh straw.” He pointed. “When it is dark I will send Hans with some food and some clothes.” He glanced at the boy, who nodded his understanding.
Billy answered, “I have no money to pay. I will cut some firewood.”
“No. You might be seen. Stay inside the barn. Be certain you are gone before daylight, and leave no trace.”
“I will.”
“Do you know where you are?”
“North of the Delaware. When I left last June, the army was in Morristown. I was told they marched to Middlebrook, but they are no longer there. They are somewhere to the south.”
“That is correct. Across the Delaware, perhaps twenty miles, at a placed called Whitemarsh, the last I heard.”
“How far to the river?”
“Four miles due south to Coryell’s Ferry. You will need to take the ferry across. Whitemarsh is south and east. You’ll have to ask.”
“Coryell’s Ferry? Above McKonkey’s Ferry?”
“Yes.”
“I was at Trenton.”
“Whitemarsh is about thirty miles nearly due east of Trenton, on the Missahickon Creek.”
“I’ll find it. May I know your name?”
The man probed Billy’s eyes, then decided. “Yes. Karl Steinman. We will finish now with the cow. Hans will come after dark. Bury the pail in straw in the corner when you are finished.” He pointed. “And take your old clothes with you.”
“Thank you.”
Ten minutes later the man led the boy out the door, carrying the lantern and wooden milk bucket, and Billy was left to listen to the wind and sleet while his eyes adjusted to the darkness. For a time he stood beside the door with his musket still cocked, but there was no break in the sound of the storm. He uncocked the weapon and sat down on an empty keg to wait, shivering while he listened to the cow working on her cud as she dozed.
He judged it to be half an hour before there was a sound at the door, and instantly he was on his feet with the musket leveled when a shadow entered. With the sounds of the storm raging, the boy handed him a covered pail and a large bundle tied with cord, then turned without a word and was gone.
Billy set the pail on the hard-packed dirt floor and laid the bundle on the keg while he worked with the knot. He could not force his numb fingers to undo it, so he cut it with his belt knife, and in the near total darkness he unfolded the layers. There was a heavy, long-sleeved wool shirt, trousers, knee-length cotton stockings, a knitted cap, and a pair of heavy, stiff-soled work shoes. They were wrapped in a thick wool coat that closed in the front with six huge buttons and a belt.
Shaking in the freezing air, he stripped off his wet summer clothing, pulled on the woolen shirt, then the trousers and stockings, the cap over the matted ice in his hair, and finally the heavy coat. The shoes were too wide, but by pulling the laces tight he closed them enough that he could wear them.
For a moment he stood still, luxuriating in the warmth of the dry clothing. Then he picked the pail from the floor and sat down on the keg.
The potato was steaming, the ham hot, the cheese and thick slice of brown bread rich, made by the hands of a good German woman. She had also sent a pewter jar of fresh milk, heavy with cream and still warm from the Jersey cow, and a slab of apple strudel wrapped in a napkin. Billy set aside a portion of the bread and cheese and the ham, then ate slowly, unable to remember the last time food tasted so good. Finished, he folded the napkin into the pail and buried it in the straw, then wrapped the portions he had saved in his discarded shirt. He gathered the remainder of his wet clothing, rolled it inside his summer coat, tied it with the cord, and set it on the keg with his bedroll, stiff with ice.
Wrapped in the heavy coat, minutes later he was burrowed into the straw, with the warmth of the food in his midsection and the luxury of dry clothing bringing on drowsiness. Disconnected thoughts that had long been denied came with a will of their own.
Mother and Trudy—are they all right?—did they find buyers for their candles?—must write—Mother will worry—Matthew on the sea—has he survived?—Kathleen—they must get together—they’ll get together—a just God would not deny them—Brigitte—loves her British captain—is she still waiting for him?—Eli—found his sister—seventeen years searching—never saw such joy in a man—so good—so good—he’ll be coming down soon—down from the north—to find Mary—where’s Mary?—he’ll find her—must find her—never dreamed a war could scatter families, loved ones, so far—so far . . .
At four o’clock the sleet dwindled and stopped, and the clouds thinned and parted to show the stars and a quarter-moon waning. Minutes later the wind slowed and stopped, the temperature dropped, and the night became a silent, frozen world. Billy sat bolt upright, listening for what had wakened him, and realized it was the quiet. He rose from the straw and opened the door to peer outside, where the morning star was dropping toward the eastern skyline. Quickly he slung his bedroll over his back, tucked his bundled clothing under his left arm, and walked silently out the door with his musket in his right hand. There were no lights in the house as he hurried to the back of the barn, climbed over the rail fence, and walked across the frozen field, feet crunching in the frozen sleet, working his way south through the stubble field with his breath a cloud of vapor trailing behind his head.
He reached the Delaware with the sun half risen to turn the frozen sleet on the fields and trees into an endless blanket of diamonds. He turned left, southeast, onto a rutted, frozen dirt road that followed the river to Coryell’s Ferry. He helped a man load two Guernsey bulls onto the ferry to pay his fare and crossed the black, ice-choked Delaware with the sun half an hour above the eastern tree line. The sun was climbing when he came to McKonkey’s Ferry, and he paused at the memories and the scenes that came before his eyes, vivid and powerful, as though he were seeing them as they had happened eleven months before.
The starving men—no shoes—blood in the snow—sickness—no shelter—no food—the desperate realization that all enlistments would expire at midnight, December 31,
1776—the Continental Army would disband, the revolution lost—the wild plan to cross the Delaware at night on December 25—John Glover’s Marblehead fishermen and the great Durham boats—loading at dusk as snow began to fall—Glover’s men crossing the river at night in a driving blizzard with two-ton ice floes battering the boats—men, cannon, horses, all across safely—a miracle—a miracle—the march in the dark, nine and one-half miles downriver to Trenton—the attack in the blizzard at eight o’clock—three hours late—the chaotic battle in the streets—routing the entire Hessian garrison of one thousand four hundred of the best fighting men in the world—pushing them into the wheat field and orchard east of town—surrounding them—their commanding officer, Colonel Johnann Rall—Eli knocking him from his horse with two shots from his long Pennsylvania rifle—Washington visiting the dying Rall in the church in town—accepting his surrender—the casualty count—all fourteen hundred Hessians killed or captured—four Americans wounded, none dead—unbelievable, impossible—the march back to McKonkey’s Ferry, recrossing from the New Jersey to the Pennsylvania side.
For a time Billy walked through the abandoned campsite at McKonkey’s Ferry, scuffing in the snow where he remembered the firepits, searching for the lean-tos they had hastily built to shield them from the freezing storms of winter. There was almost nothing left to mark the place the Americans had suffered and fought and won a victory that rocked the world.
He hitched at his bedroll and walked on south, down the river. At noon he paused to peer five hundred yards across the waters of the Delaware at the south end of Trenton and at the bridge they had held at the foot of King and Queen Streets. He knocked the frozen sleet from a log, sat down, unwrapped the ham and bread and cheese he had saved, and while he ate he was seeing the scenes once again.