Prelude to Glory Vol, 3

by Ron Carter

  Piel turned to the messenger as Rall walked down the hall to his sleeping quarters. He sat on his bed, leaned forward to break the seal, and opened the message in the light of the lamp to peer at the words written in English, trying to understand. Piel knocked at the door, entered, and Rall handed him the message. Piel read it silently to himself, then read it aloud to Rall in English, then once again, translating it to German.

  Rall listened intently, waited until Piel handed him back the paper, then tossed it onto his night table beside the lamp.

  “Attack? What attack? Take appropriate steps? Be on guard? For what? The Americans are not going to attack. It is impossible. He thinks he knows more about Trenton than we do, him sitting ten miles away?” He shook his head in disgust. “Four-thirty in the morning. What non-sense!”

  He raised his face to Piel. “Write a message to Grant in English and send it back with his messenger. Tell him I am ready for any attack. If the Americans come, we will show them the cannon and the bayonet. They cannot stand the bayonet. That is all. Do not speak of this to anyone. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Piel turned on his heel and walked out, closing the door while Rall shrugged out of the robe and tossed it on the foot of his bed, then sat to pull off his socks. He cupped his hand over the lamp chimney to blow out the flame, and settled into bed muttering, “Attack? Nonsense.”

  The wind died a little before six o’clock and dawn broke clear and calm. By seven o’clock the temperature had risen well above freezing and the icicles in Trenton were smoking, dripping from the eaves of the buildings and the limbs of the trees in the unseasonable warmth. By eight o’clock the streets were a morass of puddled water and mud, with the blue-coated Hessian troops hurrying to finish the necessary morning business of mess, care for the livestock, roll call and inspection, flag raising, parade the cannon with the fifes chortling and drums pounding, and finish the morning report on those fit for duty and those in the infirmary.

  This was Christmas Day! Orders were posted! After the necessaries were finished, the men could rotate short duty on necessary patrols and pickets, and then stand down. Christmas trees in the barracks. Extra rations of rum. Cards. Singing. Gaming. Women. Barracks talk flourished while raucous greetings were shouted in the streets with abandon and banter and laughter flowed.

  At nine o’clock Colonel Rall threw back his thick goose-down comforter and swung his bare feet out onto the cold hardwood floor. He swallowed at the morning taste in his mouth, then looked with surprise at the bright sunlight on the window shade. He walked to the window, toes curled up from the cold hardwood, tugged the shade back six inches and squinted outside at the sunlight reflecting dazzling off the melting snow, the black mud in the streets, and the troops moving, waving, hallooing. He had missed the parading of the cannon and the flag raising, but no matter. The officer of the day had seen to it.

  At nine-forty Rall had finished his bath and dressed and five minutes later settled onto the chair behind his desk in his office to glance over the morning report and the officer’s summary of the patrols. Piel rapped at the door, then entered with a silver tray which he set on the desk. Rall reached for the mug of steaming black coffee, then the knife and fork and began working on the fried German sausage and eggs. At ten o’clock a rap came at the door and Rall called “Enter” through a mouthful of toast. Piel opened the door and stepped into the room while Rall swallowed, finished the last of the coffee, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “What is it?”

  “Sir, another message just arrived from General Grant.”

  “What message?”

  Piel handed it to him. “All it says, sir, is that General Lord Stirling might be in the vicinity. You should watch for him.”

  Rall shook his head and pointed at the patrol reports. “Our morning patrols are back and not one word about Americans, least of all Stirling.” He tossed the message to one side. “There will be no reply.”

  “Sir, one more thing. Major Friederich von Dechow of the Knyphausen Regiment is here to see you.”

  “Dechow? About what?”

  “He didn’t say, sir.”

  Rall shoved the tray towards Piel. “Take this and send Dechow in.”

  Two minutes later Dechow entered and stood at attention, waiting for Rall to acknowledge him.

  Rall spoke. “Ja, what is it you want?”

  “Sir, some of the troops spoke of a messenger from General Grant who arrived in the night. He took morning mess with them before he left for Princeton.”

  Rall bobbed his head. “Go on.”

  Dechow’s eyes narrowed. “May I inquire, sir, what the message was about? There is some concern among my men.”

  Rall leaned back, eyes wide. “Concern? What concern? There is no concern.”

  “Is there any word we might be moving south to take Philadelphia?”

  Rall dropped a palm flat on the table. “Foolishness! No such word. General Howe is in New York. The campaign is finished until spring.”

  “Is Grant expecting an attack from the Americans?”

  Rall’s voice rose. “Grant said be ready. Take precautions. That is all. We are ready. We have taken precautions. What is the concern?”

  “There have been incidents lately, sir, over the past ten days. American patrols have shot at our pickets. Wounded a few, killed two. We have no trenches, no breastworks—”

  Rall broke in loud and caustic. “You know that yesterday I myself led two patrols. One hundred men each. We moved far up the Pennington Road and caught a band of rebels sneaking back to their boats. We shot at them and wounded many and then the American artillery across the river fired on us and we came back. There is no force of Americans on this side of the river. Only small patrols. Nothing. I have seen to it myself. Tell your men.”

  Dechow cleared his throat and gathered his courage. “Sir, may I suggest that it would be wise to move our extra supplies and equipment and ammunition away from Trenton to keep it from rebel hands? The food and blankets we have here would be of great benefit should they seize it.”

  Rall leaned forward, palms flat on his desk. “To seize it they must take Trenton, and to take Trenton they must cross the river and defeat us. You’ve seen the reports. Their condition.” He stood abruptly, arm raised, finger pointing at Dechow, face flushed, anger rising. “I would welcome it! The war will be over in one-half hour if they attack us here!” He suddenly caught himself, lowered his arm, and sat back down. When he spoke again, his voice was restrained, quiet. “Let this talk of attack stop here, now. Tell your men. Let them enjoy Christmas.”

  Dechow did not move a muscle until Rall finished. “Yes, sir.” He turned on his heel and walked out.

  As the door closed Rall exhaled and all the air went out of him.

  First Grant, now Dechow. What’s wrong with these men? Do they really think the Americans can cross the river and take Trenton? Insanity! I have the reports. It’s all there. They could not cross the river and defeat us even if a voice from the heavens commanded it.

  He impulsively seized the stack of reports on his desktop and sorted through them, once again glancing at the critical figures and conclusions in the summary at the bottom of each page. He put them back in their basket.

  It is all there. The matter is finished.

  He strode to the door and was twisting the handle when the first faint sense of disquiet rose nagging in his consciousness. He released the brass knob and slowly walked back to his desk and sat down. For a time he sat in silence, working with the growing feeling inside that there was something around him to which he was blind. He nursed it, nudged it, tried to define it, to push it out into the open where he could see and understand its origin, its shape and size, but he could not. He moved and licked dry lips and lapsed into tense silence once more but it would not emerge from the shadows into the light.

  Then suddenly his own words came reaching and his eyes opened wide and his breathing slowed.

  They could not
cross the river and defeat us even if a voice from the heavens commanded it.

  The words came again and his face blanched with the thought. He dared not ask the question, and then he could not withhold it.

  A voice from the heavens? Has a voice from the heavens commanded them?

  The hair on his neck and arms stood on end. He leaned back in his chair, frozen, staring at the far wall but not seeing. He did not know how long he sat before he suddenly shook himself and thrust out his bulldog chin and took control.

  Utter nonsense! Wars are not won by voices from the heavens. They are won by voices from officers who command better trained, better prepared, better armed troops than the enemy. They are won by facts.

  He looked at the stack of daily reports and bobbed his head.

  Facts. They are there, and they say we will win.

  He rose and marched to the door and threw it open and called down the hall, “Adjutant.” He heard Piel’s running footsteps and then Piel was trotting down the hall to stop before Rall.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have my horse saddled and ready in fifteen minutes and one for yourself and two other officers.”

  “Yes, sir. How long will we be gone?”

  “Two hours. Maybe three.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The horses sensed it, and stepped frisky. The warmth of the sun, the drip of ice and snow melting from the roofs and eaves, the troopers grinning, calling, splashing uncaring through the mud as they hurried about their duties, anxious to finish and return to the warmth and levity of rum and song and the long-awaited celebration. Rall reined his sorrel gelding north up King Street with Piel beside him and two young, blue-caped lieutenants behind. He raised his mount to an easy lope, splashing, throwing mud behind and the two lieutenants instantly fell back sixty feet. Rall smiled and pulled his mount down to a trot and the two riders closed the gap.

  At the north end of town, at the junction of King and Queen Streets with the Pennington Road from the north and the Princeton Road from the east, Rall reined to a stop facing the two pickets patrolling the intersection. When they understood who he was they snapped to rigid attention, waiting.

  “Report,” he ordered.

  “Calm all morning. No enemy sighted. Nothing out of the ordinary to report, sir.”

  Rall bobbed his head. “Carry on.”

  He drew rein left, east on the Pennington Road and held a brisk canter for a time, then slowed to a walk as the stone house occupied by a detail of men under the command of Lieutenant Wiederhold came into view, partially hidden in the thick, snow-filled woods. As Rall approached the two pickets at the front door came to attention.

  “Report.”

  “Calm. No enemy sighted since daybreak. Nothing unusual, sir.”

  “Is Lieutenant Wiederhold inside?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get him.”

  Wiederhold emerged into the bright sunlight in full uniform and came to attention.

  “Is all well with your command?”

  “It is, sir.”

  “Have you seen any Americans today? Patrols?”

  “None, sir.”

  “Any gunfire?”

  “None.”

  “Carry on.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Rall continued north onto the Scotch Road for a quarter mile, then turned west, for four hundred yards on a trail leading through the snow and the woods to the River Road, just above the home of Philemon Dickinson where a patrol was billeted. On the River Road he reined south, towards the huge stone house and stopped facing the pickets.

  “Report.”

  “Calm since daybreak. No enemy sighted. No patrols.”

  “Carry on.”

  Rall reined his horse around the house, down the slight incline seventy feet to the river and he sat for several minutes, peering upstream, then downstream, then studying the shore ice, and finally the open channel in the center. The hard freeze of two weeks earlier, eighty miles north, had thawed with the unexpected warmth of the day, and great slabs of ice were coming down, jamming the channel. The river was running fast and full, with the grinding of the huge chunks echoing through the trees and off the banks. Rall drew his telescope from his saddlebags and extended it, then stood in his stirrups to study the river upstream as far as he could see. There was no end to the ice chunks filling the river.

  He replaced his telescope, then wheeled his horse around to the River Road and turned south, back towards the lower end of Trenton and the Old Barracks building. The pickets snapped to attention as he passed and he raised a hand to his hat brim and turned north once again, up King Street to his headquarters.

  Still mounted, he spoke to Piel. “Make out a report. Where we stopped, what we asked, and the answers. No one has seen an American or an American patrol today. I want it in the records.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rall shifted his weight to dismount when one of the young lieutenants behind spoke.

  “Sir.”

  Rall settled back into the saddle and turned. “What is it?”

  The young man pointed northeast. “Sir, those clouds have been gathering on the horizon for two days. They’re piling up. Could mean a storm coming in.”

  “We’ve had storms before.”

  “A storm could cover troop movements.”

  “Theirs? You think they could cross that river in a storm?” Rall shook his head in contempt. “You saw the river.”

  The lieutenant’s face flushed and he diverted his eyes and fell silent.

  Rall dismounted and Piel asked, “Will the colonel be needing his horse again today?”

  “Yes.”

  Rall walked into the building as Piel dismounted to tie both horses to the iron rings sunk into the marble pillars in front, and the two young officers wheeled their mounts around to return to their duties at the Old Barracks.

  Rall took lunch in his office at two o’clock. At three o’clock Piel delivered a two-page report on the morning’s ride. Rall scratched an extra line onto it with his quill, signed it, and put it on top of the stack. At four o’clock he buckled on his heavy blue cape and with his hat under his arm walked to the foyer, where Piel stopped filing papers and waited.

  “Come with me.”

  Forty-five minutes later Rall dismounted in front of headquarters and handed the reins to Piel. “Stable the horses and make another report. The sentry posts we inspected and the answers we got. Troops in good spirits. Celebrating Christmas with great enthusiasm. No Americans. No Stirling. Nothing but mud and snow and a storm gathering in the northeast.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  At five-fifteen Rall ate a piece of dark German bread spread with braunschweiger and drank a stein of beer, then rose, restless, and walked up the stairs to the second floor to rap on the door of his host, Stacy Potts, who owned a tannery and a small ironworks in town.

  Potts opened the door and smiled. “Merry Christmas, Colonel Rall. I trust you’re enjoying the celebration.”

  Rall nodded. “All is well. A game of checkers would be nice.”

  Potts stepped aside. “As you wish. Please do come in.”

  Five minutes later the two were hunched over the checkerboard. At six-twenty a tray of steaming roast beef, potatoes, and carrots with mince pie and black coffee was delivered to them. At ten minutes before seven the combatants put their twelve checkers on the opposing black squares to begin their fourth game, and by seven o’clock were locked in deep concentration with the wind beginning to sigh through the trees and down the chimney.

  At five minutes past seven both men jumped and their heads jerked up as the unmistakable sound of gunfire shattered the stillness and echoed through the streets. A heavy, sustained volley, then scattered shots, then silence. Instantly Rall was on his feet, jolting the checkerboard, and he spun and was out of the room running. He pounded down the stairs to his quarters to grab his cape and hat, then back out through the foyer with Piel coming behind, out into the street. H
e snapped his cape into place and jammed his hat on his head while he shouted to the pickets in front of his building.

  “Which direction?”

  “There, sir,” they answered, and pointed north, up King Street. Rall peered up the street but could see nothing, then pivoted to look down King Street towards the Old Barracks where his own regiment was the duty regiment, dressed and ready to move if necessary.

  Inside the barracks building the troops slammed down their rum glasses and cards went flying as they ran to grab their overcoats, hats, and muskets. They came running out the door into the street to follow the point of the pickets north, sprinting while they struggled to get their coats and hats on. The moment they reached Rall he ordered them into ranks and led them north at double time, watching everything, waiting for movement.

  They slowed as they came into the big intersection of King Street, Queen Street, Princeton Road, and Pennington Road, and for a moment Rall could not see the patrol stationed there on guard. Then he saw movement and he turned as a bewildered young lieutenant advanced from the shadows.

  “What happened?” Rall demanded.

  “I don’t know, sir. One minute there was nothing and then there was heavy musket fire and then it stopped. We fired back and we heard them running in the dark and we followed but they were gone.”

  “How many?” Rall held his breath, waiting.

  “From the musket flashes, maybe thirty-five, forty.”

  “Soldiers? Did you see any officers?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Was their volley controlled or wild?”

  “Wild, sir. They were scattered all over, not concentrated like soldiers in ranks.”

  “Casualties?”

  “Six wounded. None dead.”

  “Serious wounds?”

  “Two.”

  “Did you hit any of them?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Too dark.”

  “What unit are you?”

  “Major Lossberg’s, sir.”

  “Get your wounded down to the infirmary and make out a report.” Rall turned to the men behind him. “You, captain. Take the first fifty men and proceed up the Pennington Road towards McKonkey’s Ferry. Watch sharp. Those shots may have been intended to draw our men up the road in the dark into an ambush. At the first sign of trouble get your men off the road behind cover and send two runners back for help. If you find no one, come back. Understand?”