by Ron Carter
Again he paused while the officers surrounding the conference table stared in utter disbelief. Incomprehensible! A Major General in the heart of enemy-held territory, asleep at ten o’clock in the morning at an inn three miles from his command, without enough pickets to raise an alarm and make a fight of it? Never! Not in their wildest imaginings!
“I had delivered written orders to General Lee three times before his capture ordering him to bring his command here. He did not do so and the results have been disastrous. General Sullivan has brought Lee’s troops here to reinforce us. I am aware that Lee’s capture was a matter of the greatest celebration to the British, and a profound shock to everyone engaged on our side, most of all to Congress.”
Washington waited while exclamations erupted. Every man at the table was aware that General Charles Lee had all but launched a public campaign to persuade Congress and the American people that he was the man to replace George Washington. His military credentials included lifelong service in the British army, with the battlefield combat experience that Washington lacked, and he was considered by some, both British and American, to be the most able military mind in the American forces. All that being true, how was it he allowed himself to be captured under circumstances more readily associated with the bumbling foolishness of some new, raw, green recruit? Whatever bright future General Lee may have once had with the United States was gone forever.
Washington waited for the talk to subside and moved on.
“General Cornwallis has left for New York to return to England to be with his wife, who is gravely ill.”
The officers looked at each other, eyebrows arched in surprise. General Charles Cornwallis was the most beloved and respected general in the British military service by both his men and his peers, and one of the most feared by the enemies of England. His absence would make a difference, bad for the British, good for the Americans.
“General Grant has assumed his command in his absence.” Washington paused for the impact. It was Major General James Grant, fat, dour, despised, who had been so loud, blatant, insulting in his contempt for American soldiers. At the battle of Long Island he had nearly overrun General Lord Stirling, who with a vastly smaller force had nonetheless stubbornly, heroically, stalled Grant’s entire column to cover the retreat of a company of Americans on the Gowanus Road, and then sought a Hessian officer to receive his surrender, rather than surrender to the detested General James Grant. The officers facing Washington said nothing. New battles were coming. They would remember Grant.
“General William Howe declared the British campaign for 1776 concluded on December fourteenth, and departed for New York for his winter quarters. It seems he has a yen for the holiday and social season in that city, and for one Mrs. Loring.”
The men about the table shook their heads, well aware of Howe’s considerable appetite and notorious reputation for the high social life.
Washington closed the ledger and set it aside, then unfolded a map that covered half the tabletop. He waited for thirty seconds while the officers silently studied the details of the Delaware River and the land on both sides, from Lambertville on the north to Dunk’s Ferry on the south, from Princeton on the east to the Neshaminy River on the west. His face shone in the lamplight as he spoke.
“Each of you will have a part in what we now discuss. On pain of court-martial and a firing squad, not a word of this can leave this room.”
He paused and the officers stared into his hard eyes, glanced at each other, and then looked back at the map.
“Before General Howe declared his troops into winter camp, he established a string of command posts beginning at Staten Island, and curving down here”—his finger moved, pointing—”Perth Amboy, Brunswick, Princeton, Trenton, on down to Bordentown, and Burlington.”
The room was locked in dead silence as he continued.
“Hessians are stationed from here, Trenton, on down to Burlington with General Carl Emil Kurt von Donop in overall command.”
He moved his finger back to Trenton. “Here, Colonel Johann Gottlieb Rall has command of about fourteen hundred. His subordinate officers are Knyphausen and Lossberg. Rall was given this post because of his performance at White Plains and Fort Washington. His men are disciplined, well-fed, ready to fight. I will come back to Colonel Rall.”
He moved his finger down the Delaware. “General von Donop intended setting up his command headquarters here, at Burlington, but some of our cannon on gondolas could reach him, so he moved a few of his men away from the Delaware to Black Horse and Mount Holly and then moved his headquarters back up the river to Bordentown, here. He has about fifteen hundred men down there, scattered from Bordentown to Brunswick, wherever they can take housing. General von Donop has at least a modicum of respect for American soldiers, enough to be a little cautious.” He paused and his face took on a caste like granite. “Now I move back to Colonel Rall at Trenton.”
He cleared his throat and his eyes became flinty.
“Our army is a matter of profound contempt and disgust to him. He has not turned one shovel of earth to build barricades, trenches, fortifications, or gun emplacements. He stays in bed until past nine each morning. His patrols are haphazard, minimal. His men have grown resentful, boastful, disgusted. He has pulled in his outposts and there is nearly nothing and no one on any road leading into Trenton to give him advance warning of anyone approaching. He has openly said he doesn’t need to do any of these things because if we come, he will simply show us the bayonet, and we cannot stand the bayonet.”
A few of the officers around the table moved, and Washington let them settle before he went on.
“The German Christmas festival is coming Wednesday and Thursday. I expect their officers will let their men stand down sometime in those two days, and I expect they will issue a healthy ration of rum or beer. If they do, the command will be a little less attentive to their duties sometime during those two days, probably the twenty-fifth.
“Now I will point out where our forces are.” He moved his finger. “The building we are meeting in is here, at McKonkey’s Ferry, nine miles north of Trenton. In the past ten days I have gathered some of our forces here with me.” He moved his finger south, down the Delaware. “General Ewing and a force under his command are posted here, just below Trenton, on this side of the river.” Again he moved his finger farther down the west side of the Delaware. “General Cadwalader has a force down here, at Dunk’s Ferry, well below Bristol. So as you can see, generally, our forces are spaced about equally with the Hessians, us on this side of the river, them on the other.”
He straightened and his finger left the map. “There are a few other critical facts. We have every boat within forty miles in both directions hidden on our side of the river. We can cross the Delaware, but they cannot, although I am unable to explain why the British haven’t built more boats. They have lumber stacked at Trenton, already cut and cured, and engineers, carpenters, and boat builders. It appears they don’t mean to cross, at least until the ice is thick enough to support horses and cannon, or until next spring.”
He cleared his throat and went on. “You will recall the big Durham boats we acquired from the iron mill up at Riegelsville, above Lambertville—the ones we used to cross the Delaware to reach this side earlier this month. We still have them, hidden and ready.”
Every man at the table slowly leaned back in his chair, eyes wide in stunned disbelief at what was emerging, minute by minute. Washington continued.
“The enlistments for most of our troops expire at midnight, December thirty-first. Nine days from tonight. Unless something is done, on January 1, 1777, we will have no more army.”
There it was! Out on the table, raw, brutal, final. Since their devastation at New York and their humiliating, headlong run across New Jersey to escape total annihilation, the officers had lived with the terrible question riding them black and ugly every moment of their lives. What becomes of the Continental army at midnight, December thirty-first, whe
n almost all enlistments end? Beaten, sick, starving, freezing, filthy, badly armed, dressed in rags, looking across the half-frozen Delaware at British and German troops who are warm, fed, well-armed, confident, simply waiting for winter to kill the Americans—who among the enlisted would stay one day longer than their enlistment? Only fools! Only fools!
The officers had awaited a miracle that would save the army, but none had come. Congress had thought General Charles Lee might be their savior until his unbelievable stupidity in getting himself captured had sent that illusion crashing. Then who? What? Unless the Almighty sent lightning from the heavens, on January 1, 1777, the dream of liberty, of a free America, would become but a footnote in some obscure British history book, hardly noticed by the second generation.
The officers leaned forward in thick silence, scarcely breathing, hoping against hope that Washington was going to reveal the miracle that would turn the British, save them all, secure their shining dream. Washington looked into their faces, and once again reached to tap the map with a long finger.
“Sometime during the Christmas celebration we’re going to cross the river and take Trenton.”
There was a sharp intake of breath around the table, and then talk erupted among the stunned, astonished officers. Washington raised a hand and slowly the room quieted.
“One at a time.”
General Horatio Gates leaned forward. Large, paunchy, born and raised in England, a major in the British army by training, Gates had come to the colonies as a younger man. When the break came with England, he had offered his services to the fledgling Continental army and was considered by some to be one of the two finest military minds in the American forces, certainly the finest now with General Lee captured. The room fell silent in tense anticipation.
Gates spoke with a half-smile and his voice was restrained. “Sir, you’re proposing to move what’s left of the army across the Delaware with the intention of engaging the Hessians at Trenton?”
Washington’s eyes bored into him. “Yes.”
“In those Durham boats, I presume?”
“Yes.”
Gates shook his head. “Boats that large and slow make excellent targets for cannon. Not one will survive if a Hessian patrol sees them before they reach the New Jersey shore.”
“We cross at night.”
Every man in the room stopped and stared at Washington in disbelief.
Gates continued. “Cross with what? We have no trained army. Only citizens who have picked up musket and ball. For the past half-year they’ve moved but one direction—away from the enemy as fast as they could. On the far side of the Delaware are several thousand of the finest trained Hessian soldiers in the world. Sending our so-called army across the river to engage them would amount to mass suicide.”
Washington’s expression did not change. “They’ll stand and fight.”
Gates dropped his eyes for a moment and shook his head. “The rule of engagement is one cannon per fifty soldiers.” He glanced down the table at Colonel Henry Knox, short, rotund, twenty-six years old, commander of cannon. “That would suggest we need about one hundred twenty cannon. We have eighteen. The Hessians will shred us with grapeshot and canister long before we are in musket range.”
“We will be in musket range before they are aware of us.”
“Surprise? You think to catch them by surprise?”
“Yes.”
“Professionals?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Attack at five A.M. after the night crossing.”
Gates leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers across his paunch, and stared at the ceiling.
General Sullivan spoke. “What happens if hard weather sets in?”
“We’ve seen hard weather before.”
“If the river freezes four inches of ice out in the channel it won’t support men or horses or cannon, but it will stop boats. Then what do we do?”
“The river won’t freeze over between now and the time we cross.”
The officers exchanged baffled glances, struck by what appeared to be Washington’s blind innocence.
General Mercer interrupted. “They had a hard freeze last week on the river about one hundred miles north. A foot or more of ice. It could happen here.”
“It won’t.”
Sullivan continued. “There’s a storm gathering right now. If we get a northeaster wind, we’ll be in a blizzard in the next thirty-six hours.”
“So will they.”
General Stirling lifted a hand. “How do we move men from here down to Trenton, nine miles south? Durham boats?”
“No. March them.”
Stirling gaped. “In their condition? Nine miles at night? Half of them can hardly walk. They’re boiling the inner bark from trees now for something to eat. No shoes, no winter clothes—how can they march that far in this weather and then fight when they get there?”
“I’ll get food. I’ve sent a message to Robert Morris to get money. The nearby farmers will sell food to us.”
“You’ll get food in time for all this?”
“The men will be strong enough.”
Gates leaned forward once again, and the room silenced. “With enlistments up in less than ten days, how are you going to force men to do all this? They have simply to refuse for nine days, and go home.”
Washington’s voice remained controlled, disciplined. “They’ll obey.”
Gates raised both hands, palms facing outward, in a gesture of defensive resignation. “Do you have the particulars worked out as to what each of us will do to effect this … uh … attack?”
“Generally, yes. We will meet again in the next two days to work out the details and I will have written orders.”
He paused and waited until each man was settled, waiting, then leaned forward on stiff arms, palms flat on the table. “In the next two days, each of you shall have every man in your command check the flint in his musket and be certain he has a second one in his pocket. Check their powder to be sure it’s dry. Count their musket balls. We will need more doctors, and I have sent a request to all surrounding towns in Bucks County to get them. Have your men prepare cooked food for three days and pack it in a blanket or a knapsack.”
He straightened. “Each of you will be notified in writing of our next meeting, when we will address the details. Until then, what has transpired here tonight must remain in this room. Discuss it with no one. No one.” He watched until he knew each officer understood.
“Thank you for your attendance. If you wish, you are invited to remain here for the night. My aide has prepared quarters. You are all dismissed.”
They stood while General Washington collected his ledger and map, then strode from the room and the echo of his boot heels faded down the corridor. The officers reached for their capes and hats, minds foundering as they grappled with the shocking plan of their commander in chief. Talk was sparse, disconnected as each struggled with his own inner vision of boats trying to carry a sick army across an icechoked river in the night, then walk nine miles undetected to do battle with an enemy that had already beaten them into near extinction five times in four months. They saw it in their minds, and they trembled.
Those who were staying the night waited while Washington’s aide showed the others to the door. They filed out into the freezing night and walked, crunching in the ice and snow, to the place the livery officer had their horses saddled, waiting, nervous, vapor rising from their nostrils. They lifted foot to stirrup and reined their horses around, each to go his own separate direction, when they heard distant, loud voices and then hard words coming from the camp four hundred yards east. They held their horses in for a moment, peering at the pinpoints of campfire light in the black woods, trying to understand what was becoming an uproar. Three of them shrugged and tapped spur and disappeared into the night, riding for their own command. The remaining four, General John Sullivan among them, raised their mounts to a canter and headed due east towards the lights
and the sounds.
They came in just north of the ferry, horses prancing in the cold, and slowed as the men opened a path. They reined to a stop twenty feet from a large fire and sat facing a group of thirteen men standing in rags and tatters, filthy, beaten, eyes downcast, two clinging to the man next to him to keep from toppling over. On one side of the group was a stout, sandy-bearded man carrying a musket and wearing a blanket coat. Next to him was a small man, bearded, hollow-cheeked, sunken eyes reflecting the firelight. On the other side was a tall man clad in a wolf skin coat, parka thrown back, with a long-barreled Pennsylvania rifle in one hand and an Iroquois tomahawk dangling from the wrist of the other. The officers saw the leggings and the beadwork on the moccasins.
“I’m General John Sullivan. What’s going on here?”
The response surged from a dozen angry voices. “Deserters! All of them.”
Sullivan’s eyes widened as he stared at the men in the huddled group who refused to meet his eyes. “True? Are you deserters?”
No one spoke or moved.
Sullivan looked at the gathering of men. “Who says they’re deserters?”
Half a dozen fingers pointed to Billy and Eli, and Sullivan spoke to Billy.
“Who are you?”
“Corporal Billy Weems. Boston Regiment.”
“Do you accuse these men of desertion?”
“We caught them four miles south, headed for Philadelphia. They said they were deserting. We brought them back.”
“Who is we?”
“Myself and Eli Stroud.” Billy pointed. “He’s a regimental scout.”
Sullivan straightened in his saddle. “You two brought back thirteen?”
“They didn’t resist much.”
“Which one is their leader?”
Billy pointed.
Sullivan’s eyes bored into the man. “Is Corporal Weems telling the truth?”