Prelude to Glory Vol, 3

by Ron Carter

  They waited until the only sounds were the ice in the river and the wind. “ ‘Victory or Death.’ ‘Victory or Death.’ Remember it.”

  The men quietly repeated it to themselves, then again, and they fell silent for a moment as they pondered it and realized that General Washington meant to take Trenton or give his life in the effort. They heard the voice of Colonel John Glover rise above the wind, and they looked in his direction as he gave orders to his regiment.

  “Move forward and launch these boats, and load.”

  With efficiency born of untold years of experience, Glover’s fishermen tipped the big, black Durham boats booming onto their bottoms, and hands toughened by summers and winters of salt water grasped the gunwales while they heaved their backs into it, legs driving, sliding the boats down the icy incline of the riverbank to smash through the shore ice on the leeward side of Taylor’s Island, out of sight of the New Jersey bank of the river. Some held the flat-bottomed craft steady, broadside against the bank, while others began the task of loading men.

  “Keep moving. Don’t stop moving.”

  The fishermen grasped hands and arms to help the soldiers step from the snow-covered bank over the thirty-inch gunwales into the blunt-nosed vessels.

  “Step high. Move on to the front. Keep moving. Don’t stop.”

  They hit a rhythm and it caught, and the lines began to move a little faster with each minute.

  “Keep coming,” the fishermen called. “Step high. Move to the front.”

  In fading light, Colonel Glover called, “Stop the line. The first load is aboard.”

  His fishermen stepped into the boats and crowded the soldiers together away from the gunwales to make room to man the poles along the sides. Loaded, the gunwales rose a scant twelve inches above the water. The soldiers in the boats stood white-faced, watching the fishermen, and they drew comfort from the look in their eyes and the set of their chins.

  On Glover’s signal they pushed off. Once clear of the riverbank, they turned the boats to run with the current until they were clear of Taylor’s Island, then they set their poles, turned the tillers, and the bows swung left, straight into the main channel, running high and full with the unexpected thaw and choked with ice cakes, some the size of cannon. Every man on shore stood stock-still, shivering, some holding their breath while they watched the heavy boats swing as they plowed into the suck of the swollen river current and they heard the hollow boom as the first of the huge ice cakes slammed into them. They saw the fishermen turn the bows upstream at an angle, and those in the front of the boats began taking the ice chunks as they came, pushing them away with their poles, giving none of them a chance to take the boat broadside. Then they were in the middle of the river, then past it, and then in the fast gathering gloom they were smashing their way through the shore ice on the New Jersey side. The bows of the big boats rammed into the bank and the fishermen leaped ashore to hold them while the men unloaded.

  They watched the fishermen work the empty boats, riding high, back through the channel, then the shore ice to thump hollow against the Pennsylvania bank and the fishermen jumped over the bow to hold them while the next regiment of waiting soldiers began to load.

  The horses were being held bridled and saddled with the girths loosened at the north end of camp, and on command the soldiers led them through the mounting wind and thin sleet down the icy slope to the river. The fishermen swung the boats around broadside to the bank and held them steady as the horsemen lighted lanterns. Some of them stepped into the boats, holding the lanterns high to cast a small circle of light inside the boat.

  “All right, bring the first ones.”

  One man led the first horse down to the gunwale on the near side of the boat with one man on either side while inside the boat the fishermen held their lanterns high. The man stepped over the gunwale, into the boat, and the animal stopped, eyes glowing wine-red in the feeble lantern light while the man on the bridle gave his mount time to peer inside the boat and understand what it was. Then he pulled steadily on the bridle reins while those on either side of the frightened animal grabbed the saddle skirt with one hand and joined their other hand behind the horse’s hindquarters and heaved forward. The frightened horse tossed its head against the pull of the bridle and settled back on its haunches against the pressure on its rump and then it lifted one front leg over the gunwale, then the other and as the front hooves hit the bottom of the boat clattering it buck-jumped its hindquarters in and instantly spraddled out its legs against the sudden unsteadiness of the undulating boat. Quickly the man on the bridle tucked a piece of ragged tarp under one cheek strap, pulled it across the horse’s eyes, and tucked it under the other cheek strap and, blindfolded, the horse dropped its head and settled, hooves set and braced. The man on the bridle talked to the animal, reassured it, patted it on the neck until the quivering stopped, then slowly walked it to the bow of the boat and let it once again spread its feet and settle. He nodded to the next man, who led his horse forward with a man on either side, and he stopped to let his horse peer inside the boat to satisfy itself of what was inside before he stepped into the boat and pulled the bridle reins.

  Downstream one hundred yards, the fishermen swung five more boats broadside to the bank and nodded to Colonel Henry Knox. Short, rotund, heavy jowled, Knox’s deep, resonant voice boomed as he gave orders for loading his beloved cannon. Each battery commander, young, wiry Captain Alexander Hamilton among them, supervised his own crew in loading his gun, while Knox strode up and down the slippery riverbank overseeing the work, fretting himself into a high state of nerves at the thought that one of his cannon would be damaged, or worse, lost in the black waters of the river. The soldiers rigged ropes and pry-poles and strained with all their strength to lift the guns and carriages, ranging from one to two tons, over the thirty-inch gunwales and set them down inside the boats, then block the wheels and tie them down.

  Colonel Glover walked among them repeating, “Gently, don’t crack the bottoms of the boats,” while Colonel Henry Knox was vociferous in his commands, “Handle those guns with care—do not damage the guns.”

  Fifty yards downstream, towering over his men, General Washington stood in the freezing, sleet-filled wind with a lantern held high above his head, watching his men load. Like them, he was soaked to the skin, water dripping from his nose and chin as he moved among them, giving a word of encouragement here, advice there, patting a man’s shoulder as he walked by. In the dim lantern light they looked into his face, and in the blue-gray eyes and the set of his chin they saw a commitment beyond anything they had ever known. It struck awe into their hearts, and they knew their leader would be there with them until they were victorious, or dead. They looked and slowed for a moment, and they drew strength and hurried on.

  Washington paused, turned his back to the wind and hunched forward to draw his pocket watch from his vest pocket near the lantern. It was after eight o’clock. He slipped the watch away and for a moment looked into the blackness downstream.

  Ewing and Cadwalader. They should be loading. Are they all right? Will they succeed?

  Nine miles to the south, Brigadier General James Ewing stood on the bank of the river three-quarters of a mile below the Trenton Ferry, soaked, shivering. His eyes were narrowed against the wind and the sleet and his mouth was clenched shut as he stared into the blackness and listened to the grinding of the ice and the whistling wind. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other in frustration, indecision. He turned to one of the officers standing behind him with a lantern.

  “At last light the channel was high and fast and jammed with ice. I doubt we could have crossed. That’s been two hours. Do you think we can cross now?”

  The officer shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. Only way to find out is to send out a boat and see what happens.”

  Ewing hunched his shoulders. “Risk some men?”

  “I can’t think of another way, sir.”

  For a moment Ewing paced. “All rig
ht. Ask for some volunteers.”

  The call went out and thirty men stepped forward. Ten minutes later they pushed away from the shore with one small lantern in the stern, and Ewing and his officers watched the tiny light grow smaller in the blackness and the driving sleet as his men poled the heavy boat out. Suddenly the pinpoint of light veered downstream and Ewing exclaimed, “The current caught them,” and he sucked in air as he watched the light dance eerily as it swept downstream.

  Ewing trotted along the icy bank southward, holding his single lantern high so those in the boat could see it, slipping, stumbling, trying to keep the light in the boat in sight. Above the wind he heard the shouts of frightened men, and then slowly the light in the boat became larger and then he could make out the black silhouette of the boat as it came in and hit the frozen bank. They were two hundred yards downstream when Ewing and his officers reached to hold the boat while the shivering men leaped over the gunwales onto the snow and ice.

  The sergeant in charge came to attention and Ewing faced him. “Ice? Current?”

  “Both, sir. We couldn’t hold her. Maybe Glover’s fishermen can do it, sir, but we’ll lose some men if we try it without them.”

  “Glover’s men are assigned with Washington and Sullivan. We have to do it ourselves or not at all.”

  The sergeant wiped a wet sleeve across his wet beard. “Then, sir, we’ll lose about half our men in the river. Maybe more.”

  With shivering fingers Ewing drew out his watch, then pushed it back into his vest pocket. “We’ve got a little time. Maybe the freeze will help clear the channel. We’ll wait.”

  One hour later the shivering, soaked men once again lifted their wrapped feet high to clear the gunwales and once again pushed away from the frozen riverbank while Ewing and his staff watched the light in the stern move away. The boat had not gone twenty yards before the light reversed itself and came straight back, and once again the men inside returned to the frozen riverbank.

  “Sir, the ice is worse, not better. I don’t want to be responsible for what happens if we put boats out into that channel. I doubt any of them would reach the New Jersey side.”

  Ewing felt the grab in his midsection. What about Washington? If we can’t cross, can Cadwalader get across? If Cadwalader can’t cross to engage von Donop to the south, and if we can’t cross to seal off the bridge road and cut von Donop off if he gets past Cadwalder, what about Washington? Von Donop will have a clear field to come up on his flanks, or his rear, and catch him by surprise. And even if von Donop does not come up to Trenton, our failure to seal off the Bordentown Road will leave a wide-open escape for Rall’s troops in Trenton—they can run south across the bridge and down the Bordentown Road with no one to stop them. Washington will lose what he’s trying so hard to gain.

  By strength of will Ewing forced his stampeding thoughts into some semblance of reason, of order.

  With Glover’s regiment handling the boats, Washington might get across. If he does, he’ll have to take Trenton with his forces alone, no help from me or from Cadwalader. He can do that. If Cadwalader gets across, likely he will be able to slow Donop enough for Washington to get away, but even if he doesn’t, Cadwalader will send a rider to tell Washington Donop’s on the way. And, unless someone from Trenton gets to Donop to tell him Trenton’s under attack, he will not know to bring his command north anyway. Some of Rall’s troops might escape south across the Assunpink Bridge, down the Bordentown Road, but better we lose a few Hessians than most of my command.

  Ewing straightened his shoulders and made the only decision he could. He hated it, loathed it, but knew every battlefield commander lived with the possibility that one day such a decision may rest on their shoulders. He turned back to his staff.

  “We will not sacrifice this entire command until we know it is absolutely necessary. I believe General Washington can handle Trenton. I doubt von Donop and his Hessians will hear about it until it’s too late. So I doubt it will make much difference if neither our troops nor Cadwalader’s get across. If some Trenton Hessians escape down the Bordentown Road, we’ll just have to accept that—better they escape than we lose most of this command.”

  He paused and his men saw the agony in his face and heard the pain in his voice as he gave his final orders. “We will stand down and wait for morning, or until the river clears enough for us to cross. Tell the men.”

  They turned and disappeared in the darkness, and none of them heard him say quietly, “If I’m wrong, may the Almighty be with Washington.” He lingered to stare downstream for a time, trying to see Cadwalder in his mind, facing the river in the blackness, and it rang in his head, What will Cadwalader do?

  Sixteen miles south, General John Cadwalader stood on the frozen riverbank at Dunk’s Ferry with his staff by his side, his command behind, watching the first boat pole its way into the black waters of the river. The single lantern hung from the tiller at the rear of the boat, out of sight of the New Jersey shore, swinging in the whistling wind. The men squinted against the pelting sleet until the tiny light disappeared, then stood motionless, straining to hear, fearful the boat had gone down. Two minutes stretched to five, then ten, and still they waited. Suddenly the light was there, this time at the bow of the boat, and they heard the hollow sound of ice floes plowing into the side of the hull, and then it was nosing in towards shore. The riverbank rose nearly four feet sheer from the water, then angled steeply back for twenty feet before it leveled off. Cadwalader stood on the brink of the four-foot drop to hold his lantern high and quickly count the men. Thirty had gone. Ten had poled the boat back. Twenty were safely on the New Jersey shore.

  The unbearable tension went out of Cadwalader and he reached to help the men scramble up the steep bank. “You made it?” he exclaimed. “It can be done?”

  The sergeant answered. “It can be done right here, sir. The channel broadens here and flows a little slower than upstream.”

  Twenty minutes later twelve boats shoved off the Pennsylvania bank and slowly disappeared into the broad expanse of black water and ice. One hour later the bows drove into the bank at Cadwalader’s feet and he turned to those waiting behind.

  “Load the cannon.”

  Willing hands seized the trails of the huge guns at the top of the sharp incline while others drove six-inch timbers through the wheel spokes to lock them. They eased the two-ton gun over the edge of the incline and set their feet to hold it back when one man on the trails slipped on the packed snow and went down, knocking the feet out from under the man ahead of him. The six men left standing could not hold the cannon back and it careened down the incline while the men shouted a warning. The great gun cleared the four-foot drop-off and cartwheeled into the waiting Durham boat. The hull held as the cannon slammed into the far side and drove it down into the water. The near side rose high out of the water, and as the terrified men on shore watched, the huge black boat seemed to balance on one edge for a moment and then it rolled on over. The eight men inside leaped clear before the gunwale came down and for a moment there was spray everywhere as the cannon hit the water and sank out of sight.

  For a moment those on shore stood rooted in the dim light of four lanterns and then the eight men in the water came up fighting, and those on shore plunged down the incline to thrust the long poles out to them and drag them ashore, gasping, water flying.

  Cadwalader shouted over his shoulder, “Build fires! They’ll freeze!”

  Twenty minutes later Cadwalader called his staff away from four small, hidden fires, around which the eight men huddled, shaking uncontrollably, ice in their beards and hair, the freezing wind and sleet cutting into them.

  Cadwalader spoke. “Can we load the cannon without ropes?”

  The officers looked at each other and finally one spoke. “I doubt it, sir. There’s no way to hold them back once they start down the incline. We’ll be risking both the boats and the guns if we try.”

  Cadwalader shook his head in frustration. “The incline on the ban
k runs for more than two miles both directions, and either way we go, the river narrows and the channel would be impossible.”

  “Yes, sir. Either we get ropes now, or we wait for morning.”

  “Where do we get ropes?”

  “Bristol, sir.”

  “Too far. We couldn’t get there and back before morning with enough ropes to load the cannon.”

  “We could try to engage von Donop with just the men, sir.”

  For a time Cadwalader stared across the blackness of the river before he spoke. “We’d lose most of the command if we went at him on the flatland over there, with no fortifications and no cannon.” He turned his back to the wind and his shoulders slumped. “Get that capsized boat righted and send all the boats to get the men back from the other side. We can’t leave them there. We’ll have to get the cannon out of the river at daylight—I don’t know how—and hope von Donop doesn’t learn about the Trenton attack until it’s too late.”

  “Yes, sir.” The officers walked away and for a time Cadwalader stood alone, staring north into the wind and sleet, trying to drive from his brain the image of Washington being caught by surprise between Rall’s command in front of him, and von Donop’s command suddenly on top of him from behind. For a moment he was back on Long Island, once again seeing the terror on the faces of the Americans when ten thousand British soldiers with cannon came through the Jamaica Pass and trapped them, Hessians in front, redcoats on the rear and side, with no way out but the Gowanus swamp and the East River. The screams of the doomed men echoed in his head and he shook himself and walked away, back to his command.

  Twenty-five miles to the north, up the Delaware, the wind quickened. In sleet and blackness so thick lanterns could hardly be seen at twenty feet, Glover’s fishermen held their rhythm. Soaked, water running from their beards and brims of their black, flat-topped seaman’s hats, taking their bearings from an inner compass, they kept the big black boats moving steadily back and forth across the ice-choked river. It was after eight o’clock when General Washington and Colonel Knox took their places in one of the boats. On the New Jersey side, someone set a summer beehive box on the slick bank and Washington sat for a time, watching the men assemble into their regiments as they arrived. It was after eight-thirty when the fishermen beckoned to Billy and Eli and their company, and they stepped over the gunwales to take their position near the bow of the boat, clutching their weapons, feet spread for balance. Minutes later they felt the thrust of the poles as the boat broke free of the bank.