by Ron Carter
Honeyman stopped to wipe at his mouth with a dirty sleeve. “Rall’s opinion of your army could not be lower. He can’t find a reason to do anything in Trenton to defend it because it’s ridiculous to think you could cross the river, and if you did, he’d wipe you out in half an hour.”
“How did you learn about Rall’s opinion of us, and his troop’s opinion of him?”
“Spent three hours last Thursday night in the Oak Tree tavern. It was filled with Hessian regulars. After their second pint of dark beer tongues were loose.”
Washington cleared his throat. “Any boats?” He scarcely breathed, waiting for the answer.
“None. Not one on the river from below Assunpink Creek clear up to the road to McKonkey’s Ferry. None in town, none being built anywhere I could see. No boats.”
Washington drew a great breath of relief and asked, “Where are his cannon emplacements outside the town?”
Honeyman stared into Washington’s eyes and slowly shook his head. He had been forced to serve with the British during the French and Indian wars. He had been there when the British fought the French in the classic, ironclad European rules of engagement that required the opposing armies to form up in ranks, or squares, and stand out in the open and blast each other with everything they had. He knew the sick devastation cannon and grapeshot could wreak on formations of soldiers, cutting down troops in great swaths. He had fought the Indians who crouched behind anything that could hide them, and he knew the terror that cannon struck into them when the blasting started and the grapeshot came whistling, shredding trees, stumps, brush, and whining off of rocks. Commanders in all armies in the civilized world knew the critical, decisive role of cannon in ground warfare, and they knew that the strategies of most battles were centered around the cannon. What Honeyman did not understand was how Colonel Rall had failed to build one single cannon emplacement to defend the village entrusted to him, regardless of his contempt for the American army.
“No cannon emplacements.” Honeyman waited for Washington’s response.
Washington was incredulous. “None? Anywhere?”
“None. Not in Trenton, not on any road approaching Trenton. The cannon are over there somewhere, maybe inside barns and sheds. But there are none visible.”
Washington shook his head in utter disbelief and Honeyman went on.
“About three hundred Hessian troops are here in the Old Barracks, and the rest are scattered throughout Trenton wherever they could find a place. No particular order, no heavy concentrations, except at the Old Barracks. They got one hundred eighty-eight horses in the pens behind the barracks.”
“Have they built more bridges across the Assunpink?”
Honeyman shook his head. “None. Only one bridge. The old one, at the foot of Queen Street.”
Again Washington shook his head. “Any outposts watching the roads into Trenton?”
“Here, half a mile or so north of Trenton on the road just below where the Pennington Road and the old Scotch Road join. A Lieutenant Wiederhold has a few men there. It’s the home of a cooper—makes barrels—named Richard Howell. He has his shop right there in the building.” He moved his finger. “And here, on the River Road, just northwest of town. The Hermitage—Dickinson’s home. They’ve got a patrol there. Those are the only two outposts I saw on the big map at headquarters. There’re still some Hessians camped across the river from here but Rall’s going to order them back to Trenton any day. They’re usually out on patrols during the day.”
For a moment Washington pondered in amazement. “No cannon, no boats, no bridges, and nearly no one watching the roads?”
Honeyman shrugged. “His opinion of American soldiers couldn’t be worse.”
Washington studied the map for several seconds. “Who’s in command at Princeton?”
“Grant. General James Grant. Cornwallis was given leave to return to England. His wife’s ill.”
Washington’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “Cornwallis is gone?”
“Yes.”
For half a minute Washington’s finger traced the critical positions on the map while he committed to memory the vital information he had just received. He raised his eyes back to Honeyman.
“Is there anything we’ve missed?”
“Yes. The Hessians speak almost no English, and read none of it. They can’t tell a Tory from a Patriot, and they’ve looted and pillaged every place they’ve been, Tories and Patriots alike. The result is, the Tories are as afraid of them as the Patriots. The British don’t like it but can’t stop them.”
Washington glanced at the large clock on the mantel and opened a desk drawer to draw out a large key. He handed it to Honeyman.
“You’re going to be locked in a building at the north end of camp. About two o’clock in the morning a fire will break out at the south end of camp, not far from a munitions magazine. Everyone will be running, and in the uproar, use the key to let yourself out. Be sure to take the key with you. From there, you will have to manage on your own. Our troops will be under orders to shoot you if they can. I’m sorry, but there’s no other way. Head north, then cross the Delaware any way you can and drop the key in the river. Turn yourself over to one of Rall’s patrols. Tell them you were captured but escaped and that you saw conditions here. They’ll take you to Rall, and you tell him what you have seen here—how it is with us in this camp. I don’t believe many more than half my men are fit for duty. Tell him the truth, because he knows some of it, but not all.”
Honeyman listened intently. “I understand.”
“A few months from now someone will deliver fifty pounds in British coin to you at your home. Use it to take care of your family and to continue in the cattle business, supplying beef to the British. Keep up appearances as a Tory Loyalist. We may need you again.”
Honeyman nodded.
Washington hesitated, then spoke one more time. “I can’t tell you why, but I can tell you that what you brought me today is possibly the most critical information I’ve received in the past year. Most people will never hear of it, but you and I, and the Almighty, will know what you’ve done for America and liberty. As I am standing here now, I know He is watching.”
For a moment a feeling seized both men and they stood there gazing into each other’s hearts, and they knew, and it was enough.
Honeyman thrust the key into his pocket. “I’m ready.”
Washington tied his hands once again, then strode to the door and opened it. “Aide!”
The major led the captain and two troopers into the room where they stood at attention, waiting.
Washington stood behind his desk. “You’ve done well. This man has given me much information. Give me the names of the two soldiers who brought him in. I will write letters of commendation.” He looked at Honeyman. “I’ve searched the man and he has nothing. Take him to the servant’s house at the north end of camp and lock him in. Post a guard, and if he tries to escape, shoot him. We’ll deal with him tomorrow. Any questions?”
“Shall we leave his hands tied, sir?”
Washington reflected. “No, not in this cold. And give him something warm to eat. We have not yet descended to the level of the Hessians.” He drew a breath, then finished. “Thank you. That is all.”
They walked Honeyman the length of the camp and his heart fell. Soldiers huddled together around fires, summer clothing in tatters, shaking in the bitter cold. A few had broken and worn-out shoes tied on with cord, while most others had wrapped their feet in worn-out blankets or hides of animals. The blankets had absorbed water during the day and were now frozen. The hospital tents were overflowing with the sick and dying. Faces gaunt and bearded, arms and legs shrunk, hair long and matted, the men stared at him from sunken eyes, and he felt the hatred coming from them like something alive.
They shoved him into the small, plank-walled building, and the captain held a lantern while the major untied him. They left him with a blanket in the pitch-blackness of the barren room and one picket with
a musket and bayonet outside the door. When their footsteps faded, he felt his way to the door and silently slipped the key into the door lock to be certain it fit, then shoved it back into his pocket. Five minutes later the two officers returned and thrust a wooden bowl at him with a watery gruel made from wild cabbage and fish, with a crust of dark bread.
“That’s more than our troops had for supper,” the major growled. “I hope you find it to your Tory taste.”
Honeyman gagged on the steaming gruel and set it uneaten on the floor in the corner nearest the door while he worked the stale bread. He felt his way into a corner away from the door, wrapped himself in the blanket and sat down, shaking, waiting for warmth. It came slowly and the shaking stopped. For a time he listened to the faint sounds outside before he heard a quick scratching scurry somewhere in the room, then another, and then the clatter of a spoon on the floor loud in the silence, and he realized rats were into the hot gruel.
He slapped the flat of his hand on the floor and for a moment there was quiet, and then the rats continued. He listened to the sounds of them lapping at the greasy broth and tearing at the chunks of bitter cabbage and old fish. The sounds stopped and once again he slapped his hand on the floor, then stomped his foot several times. He heard the scurrying, and then silence. The picket outside worked with his key and opened the door, holding a lantern high with one hand, his bayonet ready with the other.
“What’s going on in here?” he demanded, peering into the dimly lit room.
“Rats,” Honeyman answered from the corner. “Rats ate my supper. I scared them away.”
“Stay away from the door and be quiet.” The picket closed the door and Honeyman heard the lock working. He pulled the blanket tight around his shoulders and once more settled with his back in the corner, legs crossed before him. The shaking slowly left as the warmth came creeping, and his thoughts went back to the brief, intense meeting with Washington, and he forced his mind to repeat the orders Washington had given him. A fire—use the key—move north out of camp—they will come after you shooting—get across the river any way you can—throw the key in the river—find a Hessian patrol—don’t tell anyone—not Hannah—not the children—he reached to pull Hannah close—then the children—Janey throwing her arms about his waist—hugging with all her strength—the rich smell of Hannah’s cooking—the warmth of the kitchen—
“Fire!”
Honeyman started and jerked and his eyes opened wide in the pitchblackness. He shook his head, disoriented for a moment, unable to come from the warmth of his own kitchen to the frigid blackness of a locked room where he was being held prisoner.
“Fire by the powder magazine!” The shout came again and then a few voices raised and then a hundred frightened voices and the pounding of countless feet. Honeyman threw back his blanket and scrambled across the floor to the wall, and he felt for the door and kicked at it and pounded with both fists.
“Open up! You can’t leave me here!”
There was no response and again Honeyman pounded with his knotted fists and shouted with all his strength. “Open this door! You can’t leave me here!”
The turmoil outside dwindled and Honeyman waited until it was quiet before he pounded once more and listened for ten seconds. There was no sound. Cautiously he worked the key in the lock, swung the door open six inches to peer outside, then opened it two feet to thrust his head out while he jammed the key back in his pocket. He saw the great orange glow in the night sky at the south end of camp and heard the distant, frantic shouts. He threw the door wide, darted outside, and sprinted north, dodging, avoiding firelight, not looking back. A patrol coming in from the north was suddenly before him and he plowed into them, scattered them, knocked them rolling in his headlong charge for the darkness of the brush and willows thick along the riverbank. He heard the angry shouts behind, but he did not pause to look back. The first musket ball came whistling four feet over his head and he ducked as he heard the cracking bang and then three more came, one on top of the other. He felt a tug at his right hip and he veered left and onward into the night. Underbrush tangled his feet and he went down and bounded back up, legs pumping, scrub oak branches clawing at his face and he raised his arms to shield his eyes, and then he was in the blackness and the shouts from behind were fading.
He angled towards the river and was soon hidden in tall willows. He plowed on, holding his arms before his face, finally slowing when he broke out onto the ice of the frozen river. He stayed on the river, trotting, slipping, working north on the ice. Minutes passed before he stopped, fighting for breath, vapors rising in a cloud. He waited until his breathing slowed, and he held it as he closed his eyes and concentrated to listen. There was only a faint sound in the distance in the direction of the camp. Once again he set out at a careful trot on the river-ice near the bank, moving north. Half an hour later he stopped and again listened, and there was no sound. He worked his way back into the willows until he was hidden from all but the stars overhead, and he stopped and sat down. Slowly he caught his breath, and he wrapped his arms about his knees for warmth against the raw, freezing cold, and waited. An hour later he stood to work the cramps from his legs and beat circulation back into them, and once again sat down to wait.
The first streaks of gray divided the earth from the heavens to the east, and he stood and once again flailed his arms and worked his legs. He looked down to see what the musket ball had done to his hip. His coat and trousers were torn, and there was a dirty streak on his skin, but it had not drawn blood.
In the gray of a frozen dawn he once more ventured out onto the ice and peered up and down the riverbank, searching, but there was no boat, and his eyes narrowed as he studied the river. Four hundred yards wide, frozen most of the way, with an open, flowing channel, heavy with chunks of ice, and shrouded with a low fog. He glanced east, where the sky was bright with a sun not yet risen, and he made his calculations.
The American patrols are already on their way—no time.
He didn’t hesitate. He broke into a hard run for the far shore and didn’t stop until he felt the ice beneath his feet begin to sag. At the first crack he threw himself down feet first, sliding, legs spread wide. He nearly reached the open channel before the ice crumbled beneath him and he gasped at the bite of the black water and then he was swimming among the ice chunks, head held high, gasping as the water numbed him. He kept his arms and legs working by sheer will, eyes locked onto the far side of the channel—thirty yards away—twenty—ten—and then he was there. He smashed through the thin ice, driving forward until it thickened and he could not smash it with his flailing arms. He reached as far onto it as he could and kicked with all his strength and got one leg up and worked until the other one was up and he was on the solid ice, laid out flat. He inched forward until it was thick enough, and then stood, dripping, ice crusting on his clothing and in his long hair and three-day beard stubble. He flailed his arms against the numbness and forced his legs to work as he stumbled towards the New Jersey shore.
He reached the willows and remembered, and it took two minutes for his numb fingers to fumble the key from his pocket and he threw it skittering across the ice and watched it drop into the black water. Then he turned and worked his way through the riverbank willows, out past the scrub oak and underbrush, into the open. His coat and shoes were frozen stiff. His hair was a solid mat. His face showed white spots, and he could not feel his ears or his fingers. He stumbled on through the frozen snow, falling, struggling to rise, until he reached the Hessian outpost. The breakfast fires were still warm but no one remained in camp; they were all out on morning patrols. He walked on to the road and turned east towards Trenton.
He didn’t know how long he stumbled on. He only knew that he finally fell and got back to his hands and knees, doubting he could rise one more time when he heard the sound of horses’ hooves on the frozen ground. He looked up the road towards the morning sun and saw the silhouettes of four mounted riders wearing the tall hats of the Hess
ian army—a patrol returning to their camp. They surrounded him and dismounted and he repeated his name to them, but they only shrugged.
He forced his frozen jaw to work. “Rall. Take me to Rall. Colonel Rall.”
They recognized the name of their commanding officer and after a terse discussion, three of them lifted him onto the horse of the fourth man, who scrambled up behind Honeyman to hold him on, and they turned their horses towards Trenton at an easy lope.
They carried him into the Old Barracks and sat him beside the huge, potbellied stove at one end of the main floor. When his frozen clothing had thawed enough, they stripped him, bundled him in blankets, and draped his clothing on chairs next to the stove. They brought steaming coffee and he held the mug with both hands and sipped at it while his color slowly returned. At one o’clock in the afternoon he ate boiled carrots and crisped sow belly. At three o’clock he put his dry clothing back on and the Hessians noticed the rip made by the musket ball and the black streak where it had creased his hip. At three-thirty they walked him north on King Street to Rall’s headquarters and waited until the aide led them down a hallway and rapped on a door. Two minutes later Honeyman was facing Colonel Johann Gottlieb Rall, sparse, long-nosed, thin-lipped, with faded eyes. He remained seated behind a large desk in a library. A civilian was seated to his right.
Rall spoke in German and the civilian translated. “You are John Honeyman, who has contracted beef with us?”
Honeyman nodded. “Yes.”
“One of my patrols discovered a large horse northwest of here yesterday. Saddled and bridled in a field.”
“That was my horse.”
“For what reason was it in the field?” Rall leaned forward, eyes narrowed, waiting.