by Ron Carter
The man turned his face full to General Sullivan, eyes defiant. “Yes, sir.”
Sullivan’s eyes dropped and his shoulders slumped for a moment. He slowly shook his head, suddenly detesting war, and sick, freezing, starving men, and the evil duty of standing thirteen of his own before a firing squad.
He raised his eyes to Billy. “Is your commanding officer here?”
“Since Long Island I haven’t known who he is, sir. No one has said. Sergeant Turlock is here.” Billy pointed.
“Sergeant, can you find the regiment these men belong to and get an officer to lock these men up for the night? We’ll handle it in the morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
For a moment longer the four officers sat their horses staring at the deserters in the dancing firelight. None of them had ever seen one of their own men made to stand and be shot by another of their own men, and each was struggling in his heart with the grim fact that military rank came with soul-wrenching realities. They swallowed dryly and reined their horses around and raised them to a canter.
“All right, you lovelies,” Turlock said. “What regiment are you from?”
“Connecticut, mostly.”
“Where in this camp?”
“South, maybe three hundred yards.”
“I’m going to find an officer so you stay here until I’m back. Corporal, any of them makes a move you don’t understand, you and Eli shoot.” He turned to the crowd that had gathered. “The rest of you lovelies go on back to your fires. There’ll be no mobs starting something here.”
He stared them down, and they broke away from the fire in two’s and three’s, mumbling as they walked away into the darkness. Turlock waited until they were gone before he spoke to the prisoners.
“You take any food when you left?”
One man nodded and pointed to two knapsacks stacked near their blankets, muskets, and bayonets.
“When did you last eat?”
The man shrugged. “Sometime yesterday. I can’t remember.”
Turlock wiped a grimy sleeve across his mouth. “Get the knapsacks and sit by the fire and eat something while I’m gone.”
The man’s eyebrows raised. His companion picked up the knapsacks, and sat on a log around the fire, fumbling with numb fingers to open the buckles, and then with trembling hands he passed out moldy, wormy hardtack with bits and crumbs of cheese, and a few hard rinds of fried pork skin.
“You steal that?” Turlock asked.
“Saved it.”
Turlock glanced at Billy. “I’ll be back.” He turned and started south through the trees, looking for the Connecticut Regiment and an officer. For several minutes Billy leaned on his musket, watching the ravenous men work at the frozen hardtack and pork rinds, then turned to Eli.
“I’m going to get a cook pot.”
Five minutes later he returned and filled a black stew pot with snow and set it in the coals of the campfire, adding more snow as it melted until the pot was half-filled, then handed a wooden cup to the leader and set the pot before him. The man stood for a moment, surprised, before he dipped the cup and handed it to one of the disabled men, still seated. He waited, then dipped for the second disabled man, and then the others took turns before they returned to gnawing their frozen bits of food.
Billy spoke quietly to the leader. “Care to give your name?”
The man considered for a moment. “Bertram Pratt.”
“Those two men hurt bad?”
Pratt looked at them for a moment. “Feet froze. Had to cut two toes off one, three off the other. They was black, going rotten. We were tryin’ to get them to a hospital in Philadelphia when you caught up with us.”
“Known them long?”
The man raised pained eyes. “Old one’s my uncle. Young one’s my cousin.”
Billy closed his eyes as the pain settled in.
The man shrugged. “Couldn’t find a doctor while we was runnin’ across New Jersey. Nothin’ to do but keep movin’. The pain was bad so we took off those toes and the pain went away for a while. I figure they’ll be all right if we can get a doctor and some food and a warm bed for them. If we don’t, one may lose a foot. Maybe worse.”
“Didn’t you tell your regiment officers?”
“Every day. Didn’t pay no attention. Too busy tryin’ to stay ahead of the redcoats. Didn’t have no doctors anyway.”
“Been with General Washington long?”
“We was at Long Island. Been with him since.”
Billy turned troubled eyes to Eli, and Eli stared back at him for a moment before he dropped his eyes to the ground and shook his head.
All their heads pivoted at the sound of feet crunching in hard snow and of voices coming in from the south. They watched Turlock lead a seven-man squad to the fire. One wore a black tricornered hat with gold braid and had a saber dangling from his side while the other six were armed with muskets. The bayonets gleamed yellow in the firelight. Four of the men had a large coil of rope over one shoulder.
“All right, you lovelies. This is Lieutenant Upton from the Connecticut Regiment. He’ll take you back to your camp. On your feet.”
Billy and Eli took a step back as the six men with muskets took positions around the destitute group while they struggled to their feet. Billy and Eli saw the black blood their feet left in the snow.
Upton’s face was young, voice high, strained, too loud as he blurted orders to his squad. “Tie their feet.”
The four men with ropes leaned their muskets over a log, uncoiled their ropes, and knotted it around the left ankle of each man at five foot intervals, three men to a rope. Upton watched until they finished. “Very good. Now move these men down to our camp.” He turned back to Turlock. “Someone will return for their muskets and luggage.”
They shuffled away from the fire, the stronger helping the disabled, while Billy, Eli, and Turlock studied the tracks in the snow. There was black blood in half of them.
Billy spoke. “It’s hard. Shooting them for trying to get a doctor.”
Turlock turned to him. “A doctor? What’s that about?”
For three minutes Billy and Eli talked in the firelight while Turlock listened intently. They finished and fell silent, and Turlock sat down on a log and stared into the flames for a long time before he raised his eyes.
“If that’s true, you’re right. It’s a hard thing.”
Eli spoke. “Was it General Washington gave the order to shoot deserters?”
Billy nodded.
“Then he can change it.”
Turlock looked at Eli. “Yes, he can.”
They said no more for a time, sitting near the fire, palms towards the warmth, each lost in his own thoughts. Eli broke the silence.
“Maybe the court-martial won’t convict them. Maybe they’ll let them go.”
Turlock quietly said, “I hope so.”
Billy turned to peer west through the trees into the darkness beyond, straining to see the lights of Washington’s headquarters in the Keith House, five hundred yards distant. “The General had most of his officers at his quarters tonight, from clear down below Burlington. Must be important. Maybe we can write something for him to read in the morning that will explain about those men.”
Eli looked west into the darkness. “Maybe we can. With all those generals over there, I wonder what was going on tonight.”
For several moments all three of them looked west, pondering, sensing something of terrible import was stirring, but not knowing what.
Inside the Keith House, behind the closed door and drawn drapes of his second-floor private chambers, Washington sat at his corner desk, unaware he was rolling a quill pen between his fingers. His buff-andblue officer’s tunic lay on the bed where he had folded it nearly an hour earlier. He had paced the floor, eyes downcast, not caring about the time. He had finally sat down at his desk and, by force of will, pulled his raging emotions and racing thoughts under control.
Gates was right—no army, just ci
tizens with muskets—sick, starved, frozen, no shoes, counting hours until their enlistments are up—they won’t rise to it—crossing at night is impossible—impossible—surprise is out of the question—no chance against the Hessians—no chance—no chance—eighteen cannon against their many—grapeshot and canister will chop us to pieces five hundred yards before musket range—Gates was right—he was right.
He stared unseeing at the quill while he continued to roll it between thumb and fingers.
They all sensed it—know it—when the orders are given what will they do—will they obey—will they balk—will they argue? If the men sense weakness in the officers it’s all over—we’ve lost—beaten before we start.
Slowly he laid the quill on the desk before him, and he leaned forward, elbows on the desk, face buried in his hands for a long time. Then he straightened in his chair, rose, and walked to sit on his bed, next to his tailored, folded tunic.
No choice—our last chance—if we sit here we lose the army in nine days and it’s all over. We turn it around here and now, or not at all.
His head dropped forward and he studied the round braided rug on the floor without seeing it, and then suddenly his head came up.
We’ve come too far—paid too high a price. He will not turn His back on us now. He will not. This is His work—not mine! If I fail, He will find another way and He will not fail. Gates will be wrong and He will be right!
He was aware that an unexpected feeling had crept into the room. He felt his arms and face begin to tingle. His breath came short and he looked about the room as though expecting the presence of another being, but there was no one. Slowly the feeling faded and then it was gone.
He could not remain seated and he suddenly stood. His mind was crystal clear. His resolve was immovable. Never had his vision been more pure. He strode to his desk, seized the quill, squared a piece of paper, and began to write.
An hour later he laid the quill down and for thirty seconds stared astonished at the stack of folded, sealed papers. Before him was the finished plan, and the written orders for every officer, by which the Continental army was going to take Trenton.
Outside, in the frozen blackness, a passing breeze stirred the barren branches of the oak and maple trees and then the breeze stiffened. Ten minutes later the northeaster wind was singing through the thrashing trees, and then the first stinging ice crystals and snowflakes came slanting.
Notes
Washington had begun to formulate a plan to attack Trenton as early as December 8, 1776 (see Ward, The War of the Revolution, vol. I, p. 292), but it wasn’t until December 22, 1776, that Washington held a council of war at his headquarters in the Keith House and revealed his plans for Trenton (see Smith, The Battle of Trenton, p. 16; Ketchum, The Winter Soldiers, pp. 222, 236). A second war council was held on December 24, 1776, where Washington made specific assignments to his generals (see Ward, The War of the Revolution, vol. I, pp. 292-94; Ketchum, The Winter Soldiers, pp. 245-46).
While General Gates is portrayed in the novel as opposing Washington’s plan, historical records are silent on the reactions of Washington’s generals to his plan for Trenton. However, Gates’s points are well-taken and accurately describe the precarious situation of the Continental army at that time. It would not be too surprising if confidence in Washington’s plan was low. With the enlistment of nearly all the soldiers expiring at midnight, December 31, 1776, the very foundation of the Revolution was in jeopardy (see Ward, The War of the Revolution, vol. I, p. 290). Congress had abandoned Philadelphia on December 13, 1776, for fear of the British taking the city (see Ketchum, The Winter Soldiers, p. 213). Several prominent Patriots had abandoned the Revolution to join the British, among them the powerful Galloway and Allen families (see Ketchum, The Winter Soldiers, pp. 205-6). The conversation between Gates and Washington closely follows the fictional dialogue on pages 89-91 of Howard Fast’s book, The Crossing.
Washington’s information about the number and placement of both the Hessian and the American troops as described in the novel is accurate (see Ketchum, The Winter Soldiers, pp. 225-26, 243-44; Ward, The War of the Revolution, vol. I, pp. 289-90, 296).
The capture of General Lee by the British officer Banastre Tarleton on December 13, 1776, is detailed on pages 214-19 of Ketchum’s book The Winter Soldiers.
Colonel Rall was indeed scorned by his own men for his bad habits. He was also woefully lax in his preparations for an American assault. He boasted, “Let them come! We want no trenches! We’ll go after them with the bayonet” (as quoted in Leckie, George Washington’s War, p. 317).
John Cadwalader spent most of the war with the rank of lieutenant colonel. However, Washington temporarily promoted him to brigadier general so he could effectively command the force of Americans at Dunk’s Ferry (see Ward, The War of the Revolution, vol. I, p. 293). Cadwalader is simply referred to as “general” throughout the novel for consistency.
Bertram Pratt and the twelve other deserters in the novel are fictional; however, desertions from the American army were frequent (see Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, pp. 399-403).
For additional information on matters depicted in this chapter, see Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, p. 166, and Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 315-21.
New York City
December 22, 1776
CHAPTER V
The raging inferno that swept from the Hudson River waterfront through the southwest section of New York City the morning of September twenty-first left the wharves and warehouses and business buildings and homes in charred ruins. The streets were littered with wreckage from the Battery to St. Paul’s Church between Broadway and the Hudson River to the west. The ruins that had fallen or been thrown into the narrow streets were shoved up against the scorched walls of buildings on either side. Inside, the broken hulks of the beams and timbers of the collapsed roofs lay jumbled like the blackened bones of some great animal, while empty windows stared dead-eyed at all who passed. October rains and the storms of November and the snows and frosts of December had crumbled the charred remains, and the runoff had seeped from the burned-out buildings into the streets carrying ashes to fill the cracks between the cobblestones, and then cover them. It clung to the shoes and boots and clothing of all who passed, and to the wheels of vegetable wagons and milk carts, and the hooves of the horses and the feet of the dogs that pulled them.
Before the smoking embers had died, both British Loyalists and American Patriots pounced on the disaster with mindless fury in their wild struggle to blame the other for the holocaust. Stones flew and clubs swung with neither side knowing or caring how the disaster had started, or who was responsible. They had found the excuse they needed to rise against each other to vent the anger that had been too long building and festering. With British and Hessian troops marching daily in the streets with their muskets and gleaming bayonets visible and ready, there was never a question as to which side would win, or which would lose, in this city divided against itself.
In open daylight, British soldiers and Loyalists smashed down the doors of King’s College. They stripped the great library of its priceless collection of books, the natural history building of its irreplaceable scientific instruments, and the art building of its paintings of the great European masters. Frenzied mobs ripped down the gates and smashed the entry doors into the homes of many known Patriots to ransack them of the furniture, paintings, silverware, everything of value. Within days the plunder began to appear in the pubs and inns and door-todoor, offered for sale or barter by soldiers, Tories, or hired women for whatever price they would bring.
In the filth and grime of the streets and the burned-out warehouses and shipping offices of the waterfront, thieves, looters, army deserters, runaway slaves, and women of the night tacked together cast-off lumber and half-burned canvas sailcloth to build hovels where they slept and ate while they were not prowling the streets, stealing anything they could find to sell for a bit of food, or wood
for heat, or a blanket against the storms of fall and winter. The waterfront district quickly came to be known as “Canvas Town.” For the price of a bottle of whiskey, or rum, or a block of cheese, or a smoked ham, one could find a dozen assassins who would commit murder, and no one came inquiring of the bodies found in the charred hulks, or in the dirty streets, or floating face down in New York Harbor at daybreak. Only those with business in Canvas Town ventured into the squalid streets, and should their business be at night, they came in groups, with lanterns, armed with sword and pistol.
The most rabid of the Tories formed into mobs to roam the streets of central New York City with chalk and buckets of paint and brushes. They branded the doors of known Patriots with a great “R,” marking them as the despised rebels. Those who trembled behind the locked doors knew the unending terror of windows shattered in the night by burning torches.
Churches attended by the Patriots were seized by vengeful Tories. The benches and pews, pulpits and sacrament tables were chopped into firewood and the buildings stripped to the walls. Captured American soldiers were herded like cattle into some, given a blanket, and held as prisoners of war behind the bolted doors, without heat, fed a starvation meal twice a day, and forced to exist in the stench of their own filth. Other churches were jammed with cots and turned into hospitals for the wounded, sick, and dying. When space ran out, the worst injured were put on blankets beneath the cots to die. Patriots volunteered, or were forced at bayonet point to serve as nurses or as aides to surgeons who used crude instruments to amputate arms and legs from screaming men. Nurses held the writhing men on blood-spattered wooden tables and forced rags into their mouths to shut out the sounds, but they could not, and they found themselves waking sweat-soaked at night to the echoes of their own cries as the scenes of carnage returned again and again bright in their sleep.
When the churches were filled, the British sent red-coated officers with swords and troops with bayonets to seize the mansions on the northern limits of town, among them the great three-storied Flint mansion with its six-column portico, and eight blocks away, the Broadhead mansion. The Flint stables were stripped of the prized Percheron draft horses, the saddle mounts, wagons, carriages, tack, and gear. The magnificent furnishings in the mansions were hauled out under armed guard and never seen again, while hospital cots were jammed to the walls in every room. Overnight they were filled with wounded and dying American soldiers. The Flint and Broadhead families were ordered either to abandon their estates or live in the cellar.