by Jack Fernley
‘Sir, you pay no heed to the reconnaissance provided by Frau Reitsch that the river will be impassable around the Trenton Ferry and even at Bristol?’ asked Greene.
‘I heed her advice, Nat, but we will need protection from the south. Without that second front, I gravely doubt we will be able to take Trenton; without such a loss that victory will be no more than a defeat in disguise. We’ll have Ewing hold the Assunpink Bridge to stop any retreat. If General Gates is correct and these Hessians prove foul, we will need that bridge held by our own. Cadwalader is to bring his forces across at Bristol to distract the brigades of Hessian grenadiers and Highlanders encamped at Mount Holly. My message to John Cadwalader is simple: “If you can do nothing real, at least create as great a diversion as possible.” We don’t want these troops racing to Trenton in support of Rall.’
‘And if they fail to make these crossings?’ Greene asked.
‘Then we must hope that our incursion in Trenton is swift and decisive,’ replied Washington curtly. ‘Our most difficult challenge is ensuring the safe passage of the main party of our forces and a successful attack on Trenton. We will have an advance party, who will form roadblocks and seize any persons going in or out of the town. Major General Stephens’ Virginians will form that party. Alexander, ensure they provide themselves with spikes and hammers to dash the enemy’s cannons if they cannot bring them off to our side. Make sure his men have plenty of drag ropes for that purpose.’
Alexander Hamilton, writing down the orders of the day, nodded his assent.
‘We muster the forces one mile back from McKonkey’s Ferry and embark on the boats under the supervision of Colonel Knox. I trust our experiences at New Jersey will ensure we have a successful crossing of the river. But we must maintain a profound silence, both on the crossing and the march to Trenton. The men must understand this fully. Any soldier who breaks that silence will be summarily executed on the spot.’
‘Executed on the spot?’ Knox expressed alarm.
‘Indeed. Inform them of this consequence and they will understand the necessity of silence. The first execution, if there are to be any, will render the point forcefully.’
Both Knox and Greene made to oppose, but Washington lifted his right hand to stop any protest.
‘I can see from your response that you find this extreme. However, this is a day of extremes. Should we fail in our course, we will find ourselves at best shackled and bound in one of King George’s warships heading for a treason trial in London or, more likely, hanging from a gallows on Boston Common.’
‘I trust then our men will understand the necessity for such severity,’ Knox replied. ‘In what order should we embark for the crossing at McKonkey’s?’
‘General Stephens to embark first, with his advance party. General Mercer, you next, then General Gates, followed by Lord Stirling. Stephens will appoint a guard to form a chain of sentries round the landing place at a sufficient distance from the river to permit the troops to form. In silence.’
‘In silence. And what time would you wish for all the troops to be across.’
‘At midnight. No later than midnight. We will then march on to Trenton and arrive to surprise the enemy as they are still abed,’ Washington answered.
‘Then the crossings must start tonight as soon as the sun sets, not long after four o’clock.’
‘You have the required boats, John Glover?’
Glover, a grizzled mariner, one of the famed ‘codfish aristocracy’, ran one of Washington’s most disciplined units, the Massachusetts Continentals, or the Marblehead Mob to others, named after the fishing port in which he had raised them. He had kept his counsel throughout the discussion. He maintained a simple view of matters military: his role was to ensure the plans of others came to fruition. As he was fond of saying, ‘I would no more trust George Washington to lay my lines across the Newfoundland coast than I would trust myself to lay his lines across the fields of New Jersey.’
‘Aye, the Pennsylvanian navy have proved their mettle. We have fourteen Durhams, several ferries and some smaller vessels. What with my old sea-dogs, dock hands from Philly and local pilots, we can get all the men, horses and artillery across, whatever storm is thrown at us. But we have to start as soon as that sun goes down if you want everyone shipshape and lined up by midnight, sir.’
‘They’ll be there, have no doubt of that, John Glover. Now, we’ll set off as one line, but when we get to the crossroads at Birmingham village, I want us split into two factions. Nat Greene, you will lead the brigades of Mercer, Gates and Lord Stirling, and march on the Pennington Road.’ Washington thrust his finger onto the map, tracing the route into Trenton. ‘John Sullivan, you are to march by this river road, acting as the first division of the army and the right wing. General St Clair, your brigade will form the reserve of the left wing. These reserves are to form a second line to each division as circumstances demand. May God help us and each of our men.
‘Now for the artillery. I require four pieces at the head of each column, three pieces at the head of each second brigade, two pieces with each of the reserves. We will aim to place our cannons on the high ground at the head of King and Queen Streets—’
‘As requested by the Germans.’
‘As makes most military sense, General Gates. John Sullivan, we will require your artillery to bombard the town from the River Road at the same time. We wish to give Rall a belief that he is surrounded.
‘Now, let us ensure each man has three days’ ration of bread and his flints are fresh. Officers should wear white paper in their hats to distinguish themselves. Gentlemen, may God through his grace provide us with sufficient courage and luck. May we depart hopeful and meet next as victors. Our password shall be this: “Victory or Death!”’
TWELVE
Hand had never felt such cold.
The temperature had dropped to beyond freezing, driving sheets of iron sleet, thousands upon thousands of icy pinpricks that cut through clothing and stung the skin. The river itself appeared tormented by the cold of the night, thrashing wilfully, protesting against the ice forming by throwing chunks of it into the air. There were about thirty men and half a dozen horses on the flat-bottomed Durham boat, still filthy from its usual job of moving pig iron from the works up in Philadelphia. In silence, the old boat inched slowly across the raging Delaware, propelled by oarsmen cursing under their breath. The only sounds, the thwack of huge lumps of ice buffeting the sides of the boat and the occasional moan of a horse driven to distraction by the pain of the weather and the rocking of the boat.
‘This cold is total, yet he stands there, aloof, proud, leading the way. And there she is with him, as insensible of the conditions as if she were taking a pleasure punt down the Charles River,’ Hand marvelled to himself at the sight at the prow of the boat.
Washington, stood tall at the front, jaw jutting into the abyss. A single lantern on the prow, lighting him, guiding the boat. Just behind him, Reitsch, as firm as any sentinel, eyes fixed on the darkness ahead. The general had asked for her to be kept close to him throughout the expedition. If the plan was proved a trick, he would seek immediate redress. But to Hand’s eye, there was already something else there, some form of bond between the two of them. An intangible trust.
It was clear that the crossing was taking far longer than anticipated. They had arrived late at McKonkey’s, the first embarkation not starting until well after six that evening. Each crossing took thirty minutes, without the loading and unloading of men, horses and artillery. And the conditions were steadily deteriorating, so that each trip was harder, riskier and slower than the last as the storm grew wilder, more dangerous with each beat.
Their late departure was partly explained by the failure of Gates to attend at the head of his men. He had sent a message that he was suddenly taken ill. Few believed that. They preferred the rumour that Gates had left camp for Baltimore, where Congress was sitting. The suspicion was if the Colonists were defeated, he would be ready to make
the most of it for his own benefit. Washington had heard the messenger out and simply turned to Hamilton and barked, ‘Put his men under Mercer.’ There would be a reckoning with Gates, but that would be determined by the success or failure of what was to shortly unfold. And if it was failure, well, he would have bigger concerns than Horatio Gates to consider.
In the darkness, the Durham inched forward, jolted by the chunks of ice still throwing themselves at the boat, unsteadying the oarsmen battling to keep their oars to a steady rhythm. They were halfway over, Hand could see the dim light of Knox’s landing point on the other bank, when a giant slab of ice hit them.
It came with no warning, struck the left-hand side of the boat, wedged itself under and stubbornly stayed put, lifting one entire side of the Durham up and out into the air. Horses neighed, oars crashed into each other, men fell about the deck amid muttered gasps and moans. Then the unmistakable splash. Man overboard.
From the spluttering ‘Help!’ Hand immediately knew it was Pat O’Leary, but he had no way of helping. He was half buried under a pile of bodies, all frantically trying to right themselves. The lantern was out. He had no sure way of knowing even where the gunwale of the boat was. He struggled to free himself, but he knew he was too late to help his friend.
O’Leary had been standing behind Reitsch and the lifting of the boat had been so unexpected and so great, that he found himself thrown over the lip of its gunwale and into the darkness before he had any understanding of what was happening. He hit the Delaware, a peculiar mix of free-flowing water and hard ice of all shapes and sizes, the cold immediately terrifying. He went down, but came up quickly. Thrashing around, he seized on the stern heft of an oar and tried to hold fast to it, screaming out the ‘Help!’ that Hand had heard.
But O’Leary’s weight only pushed the oar back down into the water and him with it. He freed himself and broke through the water again, but already he knew that if he went down for a third time, it would be his last. He struggled, his fingers failing to stick to the edge of the Durham, his coat acting as a murderous weight; he started the descent into the depths, the cold water sucking all sense from him.
At that moment, when he had given up hope, he felt the pull.
Someone had got hold of his collar and was pulling him up and over. Vaguely, he could feel more hands grabbing him now, at his midriff, at his legs, pulling him up and out of the water, until he was over the boat’s gunwale and being thrown to the deck, so that the only hands that remained were those on his collar, those that had saved him. He looked up to see Ed Hand’s face, but it wasn’t Ed Hand. Even in this inky darkness, he knew Hanna Reitsch had saved him.
Five minutes later, the Durham came to a halt.
Hand heard hushed whispers from the dark vegetation in front of them, followed immediately by disembarkation. On the riverbank, it was a state of organised chaos. Knox was in total command. From atop of his horse, his stentorian voice barked at the men, regardless of rank, to immediately leave the boat and assemble in the holding area just beyond the bank. His was the only voice permitted to be heard.
Moving to the assembly point, there were men, horses and field cannon placing themselves in line for the route march to Trenton. The quietness, the stillness that pervaded among the necessity of urgency, impressed Hand immensely. And then he remembered why: they had enjoyed far too much practice over the last few months in the dismal trade of retreat. No army in the world was better at crossing rivers with minimal loss as the Continental Army. In their abject failure, they had become masters at something. Now they were using that skill to attack. Perhaps the last attack of the war, especially if they were walking into a Hessian trap.
But he had O’Leary to attend to.
Reitsch’s saving of O’Leary had not ended by dragging him back on to the boat. Once she had him on deck, she insisted on his throwing off his wet clothing and wrapping him in her own coat, blankets that had been protecting the horses and Washington’s cloak. In doing so, she had saved him from hypothermia – that and the brandy they had poured into him.
Now he sat in the clearing, swaddled like an infant child, murmuring, ‘It was a miracle,’ while Hand and Reitsch attempted to dry his clothes around a makeshift brazier.
‘We best be quick, the general will be wanting his cloak back before we set off for Trenton. We should make the move soon.’
‘No, I think not. While I can see your General Knox and the boatmen are doing their very best, we shall not be leaving here until around three in the morning. We will not have the troops over in sufficient number until then. We have time,’ she spoke knowledgeably.
‘Hopefully, this weather will have given up by then.’
Reitsch raised her eyes to the sky. ‘I think not. The worst is yet to come.’
‘The worst you say?’
‘The worst. There is a snowstorm coming.’
She was right. At around eleven, the sleet gave way to an enormous snowstorm, a white devil of razor-sharp wind and lumps of hard snow that fell to the ground and looked to cover anyone who stood still in their place. And yet, still they had to wait.
Finally, at around three, as she had predicted, the final load of weary troops made their way from the Durham boats. At once, Washington paraded along the line of men and in a distinct voice above the flurry of wind and snow shouted: ‘We advance! For God’s sake keep with your officers! Forward to the enemy!’
That thought of taking the fight to the enemy once more appeared to sustain every face Hand saw on the long march through the night. This may have been an ill-equipped army, lacking discipline and materiel, but it was an army of volunteers sprung forth on guiding principles, and on that cold, painful night many recognised this for what it was: one last chance to damn the English and reaffirm both those principles and their own capabilities.
But the march was terrible. First there was the upward climb from the Delaware, hundreds of men trying to pull themselves up through the thorn bushes and trees, falling on each other, the air thick with curses and recriminations. Then came the long tramp down primitive paths, the fallen snow turning immediately into treacherous ice that pulled down men, horses and cannon. Few of the men had lanterns, almost all would find themselves slipping on the rock-hard ground or stumbling into the man ahead as yet again the line inexplicably stopped. That was the worst of it: when the line halted and men were left standing for ten minutes or more. The lucky ones had wrapped themselves in worsted blankets or had taken women’s shawls. For those who had ventured out in clothing more useful for a summer stroll, the march was unimaginably terrible. The lack of boots among the men now became a source of disaster for some, their cowhide moccasins not fit for the extended march across the iced fields and paths. There was no need to enforce the code of silence: men kept their own counsel, their own thoughts and fears. They plodded on, heads down, bristling with a mixture of cold, determination and fear.
South of the crossing, the army of fewer than two and a half thousand men divided itself. Sullivan took his troops off down the River Road and Greene, with Washington on his fine white mare Betty alongside him, set off on the Pennington Road. Washington turned to Hand and barked: ‘Hand, I pass Frau Reitsch into your safekeeping. I trust in your judgement as the situation plays out.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Hand replied.
‘I take it he means that if there is a trap, you have the necessary authority to deal with me as you see fit, Doctor.’
Hand looked at Reitsch. ‘That would be my interpretation, madame.’
‘Then we must both pray that my baron is as good as his word.’
‘I save my prayers for other matters, madame.’
At that moment Alexander Hamilton rode up alongside Washington. His face, pinched white by the cold, bore an unmistakable anxiety.
‘Sir, I bring painful dispatches.’
‘Cadwalader?’
‘He and General Ewing. Ewing reports that there is a massive ice jam below the Trenton falls. It is impossibl
e to cross, neither in boats nor across the ice on foot. The ice is chopped up and unstable.’
‘And the same at Bristol?’
‘Yes, there the ice was so broken and the swells so great, that Colonel Cadwalader moved on to attempt to cross at Dunk’s Ferry. But there, even though they overcame the currents, the ice was jammed 150 yards from the shore. The boats could not get close to the shore. Some of the light infantry made it across on foot, but there was no hope for the artillery.’
He paused, the words stuck in his throat.
‘They are now bringing those who crossed back over the river and from there will go back to camp. He says he has no other recourse.’
‘No other recourse? Does he think we have been making merry on our crossing? Our attack on Trenton depends on him and his men! If the Assunpink Bridge is open, Rall and his Hessians can escape and in turn if they meet up with von Donop’s forces, they will turn upon us immediately and we will be cut to ribbons in the field. Our odds of success have been bitterly reduced!’
‘General, do not hesitate.’ Reitsch stepped forward. ‘You have no alternative. You can and will still make this victory. The plans I came to you with made no account for Cadwalader or Ewing being successful. My baron predicted the crossing would be impossible, I am sure you will recall my insistence on that matter. More importantly, he pressed there was no need for them to succeed. You will have the forces to prevail at Trenton. And he will show you the value of his word by holding the bridge.’
Washington held his horse steady and looked deeply at Reitsch. Should he have listened to her and brought Cadwalader’s forces with him as she had suggested? Damn Cadwalader and his failure! Damn Gates and his insubordination! He was hesitating. The tribulations of the past few months had grievously affected his confidence. Was this another disaster into which he was leading his men? Was he a fit commander after all? He had spent much time in an earnest search of his own strengths and weaknesses. He was not much of a gambler, he abhorred gambling among his men, and in his own life he preferred rational weighing of certainties. But now, he had to take a chance. On this throw of the dice everything rested: his ability to remain as commander-in-chief, the safety of the men under him, the course of the war and the lives of a million Colonists. Should he pull back now, lead the men back across the river safely and hole up for the winter, or proceed and gamble on one victory?