by Ron Carter
“I left the horse to catch one of my cattle that escaped. I was captured by an American patrol. They took me to their camp across the river.”
Rall nodded faintly. “So I understand. You escaped?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“There was a fire down by the munitions magazine. I broke free while they were putting it out.”
“You crossed the river in a boat?”
“No. Swam.”
One of the soldiers spoke. “Sir, we discovered him this morning with his clothing wet and frozen stiff. He had fallen and could not rise. There is a place on his hip where a bullet tore his clothing and left a welt.”
Rall spoke to Honeyman. “They shot at you?”
“When I escaped.”
“Did you see their camp? Their condition?”
“Yes. All of it.”
Rall leaned back and his face relaxed. “Good. Take a seat. Tell me. Are their soldiers in good health? Good food? Good clothing? High morale? Do they have enough men and arms and ammunition to come here and attack us in Trenton?”
Notes
John Honeyman was an Irish emigrant who had unwillingly served in the Seven Years’ War as General James Wolfe’s bodyguard. The novel’s description of Honeyman’s actions in his critical and heroic role as a spy for George Washington before the battle of Trenton is accurate (see Ketchum, The Winter Soldiers, pp. 239-42; Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 317-18). In addition, Washington did indeed provide a letter of protection for Honeyman’s wife and children.
The dismissive attitude of Colonel Rall towards the American army and the uncivilized actions of the Hessian troops in Trenton are accurate (see Ketchum, The Winter Soldiers, pp. 229-30, 234-35).
The College of New Jersey was established in 1746 and ten years later was moved to Princeton, where the entire college was contained in Nassau Hall. One hundred and fifty years later, British North America’s fourth college adopted the name Princeton University (see “About Princeton” at www.princeton.edu).
Germans traditionally celebrated Christmas over a two-day period, December 25 and 26 (see Smith, The Battle of Trenton, p. 17).
McKonkey’s Ferry, Pennsylvania
December 22, 1776
CHAPTER IV
A stiff southeast wind arose before dawn to whip whitecaps choppy on the black water in the channel of the Delaware. By noon the sun was a dull glow through the gathering clouds, and by four o’clock the wind had died and the Continental army camp was in a frozen overcast that shut out the setting sun. In the eerie twilight soldiers gathered around campfires, shaking from the cold, cooking whatever they could scavenge for supper.
Billy sat on a log, wooden bowl on the snow between his spread feet, hands thrust towards the fire, watching the wispy steam rise from the cooking pot set on rocks in the flames. At noon Eli had returned to camp with a porcupine the size of a dog. Skinned, it looked much like a pig. Cut into strips and thrown into the stew pot, with the head and flat tail following, it had cooked down to a greasy gruel. Billy had added salt from a natural salt lick they had discovered west of camp, and Eli had dug frozen bulbs and roots from the forest and washed them in river water before he split them and dropped them into the steaming morass. Twenty other men had stopped long enough to see the porcupine pelt and most had moved on. Eight remained, silent, the dancing flames reflecting in their eyes and off their hollow, bearded faces. They sat with dripping noses, waiting with their bowls in their hands.
Next to Billy, Eli raised his eyes to track an officer riding a black gelding west, away from the river, and his brow wrinkled. “That’s the sixth one in the past hour,” he said quietly, “and I didn’t recognize three of them.”
Billy wiped his hand across his mouth. “Neither did I. They’re headed for Washington’s headquarters. Must be something heavy.”
“They better be finding a way to get some beef or mutton in here, and some flour.” Eli’s eyes swept the circle of staring faces. “This bunch won’t last in this weather without it.” He reached to stir the pot and raised a stringy strip of meat for a moment. “Almost ready.”
Suddenly Billy raised his head and turned, peering southwest into the gloom. Eli caught the movement and glanced at him, then turned his head to track with Billy’s eyes. “See something?”
“I thought so. Out there in the trees.” For ten seconds they watched before Billy shrugged. “Shadows. Nothing.” They turned back to the stew pot and Billy raised the large wooden spoon smoking and blew on it before he gingerly sipped. “Ready.”
The men took turns holding their bowls over the pot while Billy dipped the steaming mixture; they settled back down to sit, clutching the bowl with both hands while they sipped at it and felt the warmth settle into their middles. One minute later Eli casually stood and walked to the edge of the firelight and stopped, facing southwest, sipping at his bowl. Ten seconds later Billy followed to stand silently at his side.
“You were right,” Eli said softly. “Someone’s out there.”
“Patrol?”
“Wrong direction.”
“See them?”
“More like sensed it.”
“Do we go?”
“I’ll leave in a minute. Get a lantern and put out the light and follow.”
Billy walked slowly back to the fire, working at his bowl, and settled back onto the log. Eli finished his and scrubbed the bowl with snow and leaned it against the hot rocks, and a moment later was gone in the darkness. A minute later Billy picked a lantern from a tree, turned the wheel to put it out, and disappeared into the woods. Two minutes later he was moving southwest through the trees, waiting for a signal from Eli. He had gone another hundred yards when Eli was suddenly beside him.
“There’re tracks. Light the lantern.”
Billy struck flint to steel and half a minute later a yellow circle of lantern light cast shadows while they stood close, shielding it, then dropped to their haunches to study the tracks at their feet. Eli studied long and hard, then rose and walked ten feet farther and again dropped to his haunches, his long Pennsylvania rifle in one hand as he bent low to peer intently.
He rose and Billy put out the lantern as Eli turned to him and spoke. “Fresh. Ten minutes. Thirteen of them, most sick, two hurt bad. Two old, three young. The two moving strongest got knapsacks, food I think. Blood spots in six sets of tracks—they aren’t traveling fast. Headed downriver. Maybe Philadelphia.”
Billy drew and released a great breath. “Deserters.”
“That’s what I think.”
“Orders are to shoot them on sight.”
“That what you want to do?”
“No. I’d rather try to bring them back.”
“I doubt there’s much fight left in ‘em. I think we can bluff.”
Billy pondered for a moment. “Let’s give it a try.”
“You keep moving in a straight line with these tracks. Try to catch up and then stay close behind. I’ll try to get ahead and when they come to a clear place I’ll stop ‘em. When I call to you, you answer. Make ‘em think they’re surrounded. We’ll get their muskets and take ‘em all back. Something goes wrong, we’ll meet back at camp.”
Billy nodded, and five seconds later Eli had disappeared silently while Billy took a bearing in the dark and moved ahead. After one hundred paces he stopped to hold his breath in the frigid air, listening for any sound that would tell him they were laying an ambush. There was nothing but the far distant howl of a wolf, and then the raucous bark of a farm dog, and then silence. Billy moved on. Six hundred paces later he stopped and ahead he heard the sound of men moving through brush and trees, and the soft sound of wrapped feet in crusted snow. He pushed on and ten seconds later he heard the labored breathing of sick men struggling, and then their muted gasping in the freezing air. He slowed to peer in the dark, but there was no light. He listened, then followed, trying to keep his interval by sound.
Four hundred yards later the trees thinne
d and suddenly he was in a small clearing with the sounds of men moving just ahead. He heard Eli’s voice strangely clear in the darkness. “Stop where you are and lay down your muskets.”
All sound stopped and then Eli’s voice came piercing again. “Lay down your muskets and surrender or there’ll be shooting. A lot of you dead in the snow.”
Again, silence, and for the third time Eli called. “Corporal, you back there?”
Billy raised his voice. “Waiting orders.”
Instantly rough voices broke out, then dwindled and one answered. “Who are you? British or American.”
“American.”
There was a pause, then muffled talk, and once again the voice came in the dark, but too loud, too hot. “What’s the idea? We’re on patrol.”
“South? Patrol what? Philadelphia? The British are northeast, across the river. You got two disabled. You’re no patrol, you’re deserters. Corporal, you ready?”
Billy’s voice rang loud in the dark. “Ready.”
Eli’s voice came strong. “You men got five seconds to lay down your muskets and get away from them before the shooting starts.”
There was a pause. “We’ll surrender if you agree we won’t be shot.”
“We won’t shoot, but I can’t speak for General Washington. You got two seconds.”
Billy counted two and his thumb locked onto the big hammer on his musket when the voice came.
“How many are you?”
“Enough. Time’s up. Corporal, open fire.”
“Stop! We’re laying down our arms. Show yourselves.”
“Lay down your muskets and move this way until I say. Do it now.”
Billy heard sounds moving away from him and he followed, then called, “I’m going to strike a light and gather the muskets.” He held his breath, listening and heard Eli’s voice.
“You men sit down where you are.”
With numb fingers Billy struck flint to steel and nursed a spark in the tinder, then lighted the lamp wick and set the chimney. In the yellow light, he gathered and counted ten muskets, eight with bayonets.
“Only ten. Any more over there?”
“No.”
“Give me some time.” Quickly Billy twisted the bayonets from the muskets and laid them in the snow, then opened the pan on each musket and dumped out the gunpowder. “The pans are empty, and I got the bayonets separated.”
Eli answered. “All right. Keep the lantern lit.” He spoke to the men sitting in the snow. “Who’s your leader?”
One man stood.
“Stand over here, near me. You others on your feet.” He waited while they stood, the able helping the crippled. “Corporal, bring your lantern over here so they can see.”
Billy walked around the group and stopped by Eli, the lantern swinging from his raised hand, throwing its yellow light onto the group who stood staring, unsure what to do. Billy raised the lamp high while he and Eli looked at them.
Their clothes were in tatters, feet wrapped in rags and blanket strips. Blood spots showed black in the snow where they had walked. Their faces were gaunt, bearded, filthy, and their eyes stared from sunken sockets. Two were either wounded in battle or had frozen feet, and stood with legs slightly bent. One man had his arm about the shoulder of the man next to him. Billy glanced at Eli and Eli’s mouth was clenched, and for a moment his eyes dropped to the snow in the lantern glow.
For the first time the men saw Eli and Billy, and for a moment they stared at Eli. He wore his wolf skin coat, parka over his head, legs wrapped below the knees, beaded moccasins showing. A leather strap was tight about his middle, with his tomahawk shoved through and his belt knife attached.
Their leader, standing closest, recoiled and gasped, “Indian!”
Eli swung the muzzle of his rifle to the chest of the leader, drew his tomahawk and slipped his wrist through the leather thong. He spoke to them all, the long rifle in one hand, the tomahawk dangling from his other wrist.
“There’s just two of us. Billy’s going to get out ahead with the lantern, and you’re going to pick up your muskets and bayonets and knapsacks and follow him. Those two hurt men go first with someone up there to help them along, then the rest of you. Your leader is going to be back here with me, with my rifle right in the middle of his back. One of you makes a break, your leader goes down first, then whoever is moving gets the tomahawk.”
The eyes of all thirteen men were riveted on the tomahawk, dangling loosely on its thong, black, deadly, lantern light glinting off the iron head. For a moment they raised their eyes to Eli’s face, and in the shadow of the parka they were seeing an Iroquois Indian with the weapons of his own people, in the dark of a freezing night in a strange country. They understood and could accept the musket and cannon—weapons of the white men—but the tomahawk and the scalping knife struck fear into their hearts.
Billy led and they followed the moving, dancing lantern glow, plowing through the snow-covered brush and trees. They saw the blood spots in their own tracks as they struggled on, half-carrying the two injured men. Once their leader turned his head and Eli was there, rifle steady, tomahawk on his wrist. They moved on, Billy and Eli hating what they had to do. The thirteen deserters stumbled on with terror in their hearts at the image that burned bright in their minds of being stood before a line of men, and watching the smoke and flame blast from their muskets, and feeling the shock of the huge musket balls ripping. Minutes ticked by too fast and too slow as they watched for the first points of campfire lights through the trees ahead.
Three miles northeast, at the army camp, an officer worked his way west, away from the river, through the fires and the trees, peering ahead for the dull lights behind drawn drapes in a building. On December fourteenth, Washington had accepted the offer of William Keith to use his large, square, two-storied stone home nine miles north of Trenton, on the Pennsylvania side of the Delaware, just west of McKonkey’s Ferry, for his new headquarters. Yesterday Washington had sent mounted messengers with sealed, handwritten orders to some of his officers in the ravaged, scattered Continental army to gather at his new headquarters that evening. The invitation was mandatory: let nothing detain you.
They had begun to arrive at McKonkey’s Ferry as the wintry sun dropped below the western rim, to work their way west through the freezing, starving soldiers huddled around the fires. The troops had sat sullen, shaking in the cold, not rising, not saluting as the officers rode their horses past them, looking for the building in the fast fading light.
The last officer dismounted his horse, handed the reins to a stable sergeant, and strode to the rear entrance of the stone building. He stamped snow from his boots and rapped at the door. An aide showed him down the hall and into the spacious library, now serving as a conference room. The officer entered, removed his hat and cape, and rubbed his hands together as he walked towards the big fireplace against the east wall, nodding curt greetings to those already assembled.
The aide spoke perfunctorily. “I will tell General Washington you’re all here.”
Silence hung prickly in the air like something alive as the officers assembled around the large, maplewood conference table. They glanced at each other, guarded, uneasy that each had received the blunt, unexpected, written order signed by General George Washington.
The sound of boot heels came hollow in the corridor and all heads swung around as Washington opened the door and entered. The instant they saw him—tall, full uniform, mouth a thin line, face set like granite—they knew. His eyes were of one who had offered himself on the altar of the Almighty and faced his devils in the cauldron of his own Gethsemane. The white heat had burned out the dross, purged him, sanctified him, brought him low, then raised him up to emerge as pure, tempered steel, dedicated in his soul to the cause of liberty. They watched him as he took his place at the head of the table and for a moment his eyes worked around he table, checking. Arnold, Greene, Stirling, Glover, Knox, de Fermoy, Gates, Mercer, Stephen, Sullivan.
“Thank
you for attending. Please be seated.”
Chairs scraped on the polished hardwood floor as they sat down and their breathing slowed as they waited. Washington remained standing and there was an edge in his voice.
“What we discuss now will not leave this room for any reason.” It was an order, not a request.
“To set matters before you correctly I must recite a brief chain of events for foundation. Some of it you know, some of you do not. Bear with me.”
He opened a ledger and for a moment glanced at it, then raised his face.
“Philadelphia is essentially deserted. The residents were afraid of what would result if General Howe led his British forces to take it, and most of them have evacuated.” He cleared his throat before he continued. “Some of our leaders there have defected to the British. Congressman Joseph Galloway of Pennsylvania has deserted, and it is rumored that Congressman Dickinson will refuse to run for reelection. The Allen family of Pennsylvania—powerful in politics—has gone over.”
He drew a great breath. “Congress abandoned Philadelphia nine days ago. They were concerned they would be hanged without trial if they were taken by the British. I don’t know where they are, or when they’ll reconvene. Perhaps in Baltimore, soon. In the meantime, we have no way of getting support for anything from Congress.”
A buzzing broke out around the table and died.
“In the meantime, the British may try to take Philadelphia. If they do, there is little we can do to resist. The loss will tend to discourage the Patriots, but as a practical matter Philadelphia has little strategic value to us.”
He glanced at his notes, then raised steady eyes.
“I confirm to you that the British have captured Major General Charles Lee.”
To a man, the officers straightened, then leaned back in their chairs as open talk broke out. Washington waited for silence and continued.
“He was taken mid-morning on Friday, December thirteenth, asleep at an inn owned by a Mrs. White at Basking Ridge, three miles outside of Morristown. A young British officer named Banastre Tarleton and six or eight others were part of a single British patrol under the command of Lieutenant Colonel William Harcourt that drove him out of the inn half-dressed.”