Prelude to Glory Vol, 3

by Ron Carter

  “Yes, sir.” The captain barked orders, the first fifty men fell into ranks, and he led them north into the blackness at a trot. Rall held up his hand for silence and they all listened as the sound of feet faded. For ten more minutes Rall held his command silent as they listened for shouts or for musket fire, and there was nothing. He turned back to his men and they came to attention.

  “Go on back—”

  He was cut off by Dechow, who appeared directly in front of him with both hands raised, and Rall stared at him in silence.

  “Sir, the units in town have formed outside their buildings, ready. I urge you, sir, send out patrols on all roads—Princeton, down to the ferry, the road to Bordentown. The gunfire may have been intended to draw us off north while they come in from the south or the east.”

  Rall shook his head violently. “No. That was the attack Grant warned about. It was nothing—just a mob of farmers out to make trouble. By now those farmers are all home, frightened out of their wits at what they did. There is no danger. It’s all over. Take your command back to their quarters and let them finish the Christmas celebration.”

  “But sir—”

  “Do it!”

  Rall gave orders to the rest of his command. “It’s all over. Go back to your quarters and your celebrations.”

  At nine-thirty Piel rapped on Rall’s office door and entered on command. “Sir, the captain is back from patrol.”

  Rall stood instantly. “Bring him.”

  The man entered and stood at attention, face red from the wind and the cold.

  “Report.”

  “Sir, we proceeded more than two miles up the road towards McKonkey’s Ferry and there was nothing.”

  “You heard nothing? Saw nothing?”

  “We frightened two horses behind a fence and they snorted and ran. A farm dog came barking. That was all.”

  “No shooting?”

  “None. Either side.”

  Rall nodded. “That’s what I thought. Write out a report. Have your command stand down. Continue their celebration.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Two blocks southeast, Dechow paced in his quarters, hands clasped behind his back, forehead drawn.

  Something’s wrong—I can feel it—something’s going to happen—Rall’s closed it out—won’t listen.

  Suddenly he could take no more. He quickly hooked his cape over his shoulders and thrust his hat onto his head and bolted out the door. He trotted from house to house where every man under his direct command was billeted and gave the same order: “You will stay inside and remain fully dressed in battle gear until further orders. Each of you will take your turn at standing guard outside this door until morning.”

  He walked back to his quarters with the rising wind billowing his cape behind, the temperature dropping below freezing, and scudding clouds moving south to cover the stars. He sat down on his bed, unable to stop or control his unexplained nervousness, and he began watching the clock, counting off the minutes and hours until morning.

  At ten minutes before ten Piel again rapped on Rall’s door.

  “Sir, I have the lieutenant’s written report about the shooting.”

  Rall reached for the paper as he spoke. “What about the wounded?”

  “Four are slight. One has a bullet hole in his leg and will recover totally. One has a broken shoulder. He will be in the infirmary for a time.”

  Rall nodded his approval. “Then send out word. I have no special orders for the night. The men will remain in their quarters but are at liberty to continue whatever they’re doing.”

  “Very good, sir. I’m sure they will appreciate it.”

  Rall grunted, “Tell them.”

  Piel turned to leave when Rall stopped him. “I’m going to Abraham Hunt’s home. Do you know him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He has a party going on and sent me a written invitation. If you need me I’ll be there. I’ll return sometime after midnight. I’ll let myself in, so there’s no need for you to stay here waiting.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Piel nodded and left.

  Rall snapped his cape around his shoulders, tucked his hat under his arm, turned the wick low on his lamp, and walked out the front door of his headquarters into the freezing wind. He walked south to Second Street and the tall, six-gabled home with lights glowing in every window and the sounds of a harpsichord tinkling and of singing and laughter.

  Abraham Hunt was the United States Postmaster for Trenton, a highly successful merchant, and a lieutenant-colonel in the local American militia commanded by Colonel Isaac Smith. He was also a notoriously gregarious soul, open and cheerful, famous for miles for his warmth and hospitality. He made it a point to be cooperative and highly receptive to the British and Hessians and held his home open to them any time, any day, entertaining both the officers and troops with lavish dinners from the day they marched into town. The result was that neither the British nor the Americans were able to decide on which side his true loyalties lay, and consequently neither side interfered with his home or businesses.

  Overhead, clouds hid the heavens as Rall approached the front door and rapped. He wiped a hand across his mouth in anticipation of the feast within while he waited, and he felt the first sting of sleet on his face as Abraham himself answered the knock.

  Hunt’s face beamed as he grasped Rall’s hand. “Colonel, how good of you to come. Do come in out of the storm. Here, let me take your cape and hat. Fire’s warm in the parlor and library, and there are wines or rum—whatever you like—and meats and pies and custards for the taking. Cards in my den. Singing around the harpsichord. Oh, what a celebration we’re having. So good of you to come.”

  The hot buttered rum was sweet and smooth, and the warmth spread through Rall. He felt the tensions of the day draining away and his muscles relaxing as he mellowed. He exchanged brusque greetings with other officers, bowed low to Mrs. Hunt, and for a time sat in one corner listening to the tinkle of the harpsichord and the robust blend of voices singing German Christmas carols and English folk songs. He sipped at his hot rum and found himself wishing his life had allowed him to learn at least the rudiments of music and singing. But it had not. The system in his birthplace of Hesse-Cassel for selecting boys for a life in the army was rigid, brutal, unforgiving, and allowed no time for the nonsense of art or music or a thousand other things he had secretly yearned to do and to know.

  It was nearing midnight when he made his way through the revelers to the den where men sat at two tables, intent on the cards they held in their hands and those in the discard. Each man had a small heap of dried white beans before him, and a larger pile was in the center of the table. Crystal goblets partially filled with red wine were at the elbow of most of the players. Rall watched for several minutes before one man gestured to an open chair, and Rall dug a handful of beans from a nearby bowl and sat down. He set his mug of rum to one side, carefully set his beans on the table, and waited for the dealer to collect the cards, shuffle, and start the next hand.

  The game was commerce, and it cost each player two beans to sit in. The dealer quickly dealt three cards to each player, they held them close to their chests to study them and make their decision to either hold what they were dealt or discard up to two cards. Then the dealer went around the table again, filling each hand to three cards.

  The betting began. The pile of beans in the center of the table grew while those before each player diminshed. By midnight Rall had drunk three goblets of the rich, red wine, and won a few more beans than he lost. Hunt was standing nearby, the ever present gracious host, watching the games when one of his servants came to his side and spoke to him quietly.

  “Sir, there is a visitor at the front door insisting he see Colonel Rall.”

  For one second, unnoticed by all but the servant, Hunt’s eyes narrowed and his entire demeanor subtly changed as he reached inside himself and made an instant decision. He brought his mouth close to the servant’s ear and whispered, “C
olonel Rall cannot be disturbed. Have the man write the message and bring it to me.”

  The servant nodded and left the room. He walked down the hallway to the front door where a Tory farmer stood outside, black felt hat in hand, wrapped in a heavy coat wet with the sleet that had come on the wind.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but Colonel Rall cannot be disturbed. Please write the message and I will deliver it to Colonel Rall at once.” The servant held out a pencil and paper to the man.

  The man stepped over the threshold to spread the paper on a nearby table and, with fingers still numb from the cold, slowly wrote out his message. He read it once, then folded it, and gave it to the servant. “Colonel Rall must see this immediately.”

  “I will deliver it to him now.”

  The man nodded and walked out the door into the storm while the servant quietly moved back into the den and passed the note to Hunt’s hand unnoticed. As Hunt’s fingers closed on the paper he neither looked at it nor did he move towards Rall. Smiling, ever the warm, affable host, he stood nearby, nodding, chatting, and he waited. The dealer dealt a new hand. Beans were pushed to the center of the table. The men concentrated and then discarded. Hunt watched Rall push two cards away and hold up two fingers, attention focused intently on the dealer.

  As the two new cards came sliding towards Rall, Hunt leaned close and thrust the note near Rall’s free hand.

  “Sir, this note was just delivered by a visitor at the front door.”

  Without moving his eyes from the dealer, Rall grasped the note, quickly stuffed it into his vest pocket, and reached for the two new cards. He looked at them and leaned back, holding a straight face as he added the two nines to the one already in his hand, and he sorted out twenty beans as the betting worked its way around the table.

  Two blocks away, at his quarters, Dechow sat in the yellow lamplight at his table fully dressed, listening to the wind drive the sleet and snow murmuring against his window. Nervous, indecisive, he rose to open the door, and the yellow light caught the ice crystals driving in the freezing wind. He closed the door and stood with his head down for a few moments, then resolutely straightened and quickly threw his cape on, set his hat firmly on his head, again opened the door, and strode out into the storm. Two minutes later he stopped at the shouted voice of the sentry at the nearest home where twelve of his command were billeted.

  “Who comes there?”

  “Major Dechow.”

  “Advance.”

  Inside, chairs scraped as men instantly came to their feet when he opened the door. They were fully dressed except for their heavy overcoats and hats laid on their bunks with their muskets nearby.

  Dechow spoke rapidly, curtly. “My prior orders are rescinded. You may stand down from duty until morning. There is no need for a picket outside your door. You may continue with your celebration. Carry on.”

  There were perfunctory smiles as he finished and walked out the door and sent the picket inside. Dechow stood silently outside the door long enough to hear the raucous comments and laughter as the men shed their tunics and heavy boots and set the rum and wine flasks on the table. Dechow strode to the next home where a picket again challenged, and Dechow delivered his message to the ten soldiers inside. It was approaching one A.M. when he finished delivering his message to his entire command. He reentered his own quarters, shook the rain and melted sleet from his hat and cape, hung them on the back of the door, and settled down to his own fire, his own wine.

  By twenty minutes before three o’clock Rall had finished six goblets of wine, lost more beans than he had won, and was having difficulty with his concentration. He pushed his chair back, nodded to the other players, dropped his few remaining beans back into the bowl, and made his way out into the hall.

  Hunt was by his side instantly. “Let me fetch your cape and hat, sir.” He hurried away and returned to help Rall fit his cape on his shoulders and fasten the catch at his throat, hand him his hat, and he reached to grasp Rall’s hand warmly.

  “Sir, it has been an honor to have you here. Thank you for coming. Can I have a carriage take you to your quarters? The storm is fierce out there.”

  Rall shook his head. “The walk will do me good. Thank you for a good evening.”

  Hunt held the door for him and Rall walked out into the wind and the sleet, now mixed with snow, slanting on the wind. Hunt watched him walk unsteadily to the front walk, then turn north, and he was gone in the darkness. Hunt was aware the note remained in Rall’s vest pocket, forgotten by Rall. He closed the door and stood in deep thought for a moment, then returned to his guests in the library.

  At ten minutes past five o’clock, a tiny buzz began in the slumbering brain of Jacob Piel and at five-fifteen he opened his eyes in the blackness of his quarters. Wind and sleet and snow hummed at the window and sighed in the chimney. For a time he lay still, burrowed beneath the down comforter, listening in the dark, letting his thoughts run.

  We should have put candles on the tree—like home—like Mother did—so far away. How are they? Mother? the children? Is Aunt Hilda alive for the celebration? so old—frail. How many pies did Mother make this year? how many sausages? What gifts did she make for the children? What did they make for her?

  He threw back the comforter and made his way across the cold floorboards to the fireplace. By feel he lifted the leather bellows from its hook and carefully blew on the banked coals until they glowed. At the first lick of flame, he added shavings, then sticks, and finally kindling, waiting while the chimney began to draw and the warmth reached him and crept into the room. In the dancing light he looked at the clock. It was half past five o’clock, December 26, 1776.

  At six o’clock he put on his boots and overcoat, hurried next door, up the stairs, and silently opened the door to Colonel Rall’s quarters far enough to hold the lamp high and peer into the shadows. The colonel lay unmoving in his bed, breathing slow and deep. The slightly sour smell of last night’s wine and rum reached Piel and his nose wrinkled as he closed the door and returned to his own quarters next door.

  By seven o’clock Piel had heated bathwater and bathed and shaved, and was standing at the stove cooking griddle cakes and sliced ham. At seven-thirty he finished cleaning the dishes and walked to the front door of the building, opened it, and for a moment watched the wind drive the snow to the southwest, singing in the trees and gusting around the corners of the houses. He glanced up and down the street, and there was not a picket in sight. His forehead wrinkled in puzzlement as he shivered, then shrugged, closed the door, and walked to the small desk beneath the window of the west wall. He rubbed his hands together for warmth, then squared a piece of paper, reached for a quill, and carefully began to write.

  My Dear Mother:

  He started, and his head jerked up at the sound of more than twenty muskets blasting above the howl of the wind, and he stood stock-still with the first sense of fear rising within. Two seconds later a second volley blasted and then individual shots cracked sporadically. Piel dropped the quill, spun on his heel, and darted out the door, sprinting across the street to the home where the duty detail was billeted. He pounded on the door with both hands until a sergeant answered, still in his underwear, eyes red with drink and reveling, hair askew.

  Piel gaped. “Are you the duty patrol?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Were you on duty this morning?”

  “No, sir. Major Dechow gave orders for us to stand down last night.”

  Piel recoiled back one full step in disbelief. In the entire town of Trenton, not one building, not one of the barracks had a picket out. The town was totally without a warning system.

  Piel’s voice rang loud. “There was heavy firing up on the Pennington Road five minutes ago. What was it?”

  The sergeant’s face went ghostly white. “I heard no firing. I don’t know.”

  Piel fairly shouted, “I’m ordering you and your patrol out in three minutes to proceed at double time north up Pennington Road to Wiederhold�
��s post and then return at once to report on the gunfire. We could be under attack.”

  The sergeant turned and shouted in the dark room, “Fall in! Fall in! Dress and fall in! There’s shooting.” Two seconds later the room was a bedlam as bare feet smacked onto the floor and frightened troopers grabbed for socks and pants.

  Piel turned and sprinted back across the street to Stacy Potts’s home where Rall was still sleeping, and pounded on the front door with both hands. The house was as dark and quiet as a tomb. Piel pounded for thirty more seconds, then stepped back two steps and cupped his hands about his mouth to shout with all his strength towards the window in the second floor.

  “Colonel Rall! Colonel Rall! There’s shooting outside of town and we have no pickets out! Colonel! Wake up!”

  He shouted three times before the second floor window was thrown open and Rall’s head appeared, hair whipping in the wind and sleet, eyes bleary. It took Rall a moment to focus well enough to recognize Piel down in the street and he called, “What is it?”

  Piel shouted, “There’s gunfire at the edge of town, near the Pennington Road. There are no pickets out. There is gunfire. Do you understand?”

  Rall shook his head to drive the cobwebs from his wine-addled brain, swallowed sour, and called out, “I’ll be down in a minute.” The window slammed and Piel stood alone before the big house, waiting in the raging storm for Rall, not knowing what to do next. Movement from his left caught his eye and he turned to see a troop of Hessians buttoning their overcoats as they spilled out of a nearby church jerking the sleeves off the poles with the regimental colors, trying to unfurl them in the storm. They trotted into the street as Lieutenant Colonel Scheffer, weak, fevered, arisen from a bed where he had lain sick for over a week, appeared from an alley, mounted on a frightened horse, and began shouting orders to get the men into rank and file, while some of the men led rearing horses up King Street towards the cannon in front of the headquarters building.