by Ron Carter
They battered down the double doors of the town livery and stopped, stunned as they counted eighty barrels of flour, sixty barrels of dried beef, and eighty barrels of salt pork. The piles of stores in the streets grew, and Billy and Eli sent wagons hitched to teams of horses and mules up King Street where men loaded the stores in the big, springless Hessian freight wagons.
Inside Rall’s headquarters, General Washington’s officers started fires in both of the great stone fireplaces and set coffeepots to boil. Twenty minutes later General St. Clair and a dozen other general officers tied up their horses in front of the building and entered. One of Washington’s aides pointed to the library when they entered, and General Washington gestured them to upholstered chairs surrounding a large maple table. The wind moaned through one hole in the south wall made by an American cannonball that had crossed the room to knock rock chips from the fireplace. An aide poured strong, smoking black coffee into Stacy Potts’s china cups and the officers took their places. Washington stood at the head of the table and wasted no words.
“Has anyone heard from either General Ewing or General Cadwalader?”
The officers looked at each other, startled that in the chaotic battle none had thought of either Ewing or Cadwalader. They shook their heads in silence.
“Then we do not know what lies south of us. A strong force of fresh Hessians under General von Donop could be coming this way, if word has reached them. They can be here in four hours.”
For a moment he studied the tabletop in deep thought.
“There is a large force of British in Princeton under General Grant, and they could be here in two hours.” Again he paused. “Our men are at their limits of exhaustion. In the last thirty-six hours they’ve given about all they can. So the question is, what is our next move? Princeton? Brunswick? Bordentown? Or back to our camp to let our men regain strength before we make our next attack?”
Knox’s reply was instant. “Princeton. Just ten miles. We have our cannon and horses here and we can be there in three hours. Surprise is still in our favor.”
Sullivan leaned forward. “Our men can’t march that distance in three hours. Some of them are falling asleep in the snow right now.”
Stirling interrupted. “What about the prisoners? We could have as many as a thousand. We can’t take them to Princeton and we can’t leave them here.”
Greene raised a hand. “The initiative is ours. If they are no better prepared for an attack in Princeton than they were here we could take it before nightfall.”
Washington turned his face to St. Clair. “Did you assign someone to get a damage report of losses?”
“Yes, sir. Should be here any time.”
Thoughtfully Washington dropped his eyes and the room grew silent as he pondered. Then he raised his head.
“Gentlemen, today we’ve won more than a battle. Much more. We have given our country, our people, their first cause to rejoice in more than a year. In my judgment the news of our taking Trenton will go through the states like wildfire and become a rallying cry. Yesterday it appeared certain the Continental army would dissolve at midnight on December thirty-first when the enlistments expired. Today it is nearly certain this victory will inspire most of the men we have, and thousands of new volunteers, to take up the cause of liberty.”
The only sound in the room was the wind outside, working at the hole in the south wall.
“That is worth more right now than taking Rall’s entire garrison. I will not risk this victory by engaging the British in a second battle that could end in our defeat. It is my judgment—”
He was interrupted by the sound of a door, then rapid footsteps in the hallway, and then a knock at the door.
“Enter.”
An aide stepped inside and stood at attention. “Sir, one of our captains is here with a message for General St. Clair.”
“Bring him in.”
A bearded man, soaked from the storm, entered and stood at attention. “Sir, I have the damage report requested by General St. Clair.” He held out a paper.
General Washington gestured to St. Clair, who stood and strode to the man to take the paper. “Thank you. Would you wait outside.”
Every eye in the room stared at St. Clair as he opened the folded paper where he stood, his eyes sweeping the page. His eyebrows arched, and he slowed and silently read the very brief report again, word for word. Then he raised incredulous eyes to General Washington.
“Sir, we have taken nine hundred eighteen Hessian prisoners, including thirty-two general officers. We’re still counting those who fell in the streets, but it now appears the Hessian dead and wounded will be in excess of one hundred.”
Washington’s officers looked at each other, but Washington’s eyes never left St. Clair’s as he waited for the count of American dead.
“Sir,” St. Clair said hesitantly, “it appears that we did not lose one man in the fight. We have two officers reported wounded, and two privates. That’s all. No dead!”
Washington’s eyes closed for a moment while audible gasps broke out, followed by an outburst of voices loud in disbelief. He waited until the talk quieted.
“Is the report on our losses confirmed?”
“This says it is, sir.”
“Would you call the captain back into the room?”
Thirty seconds later the captain stood at rigid attention as Washington spoke to him.
“Captain, is the report of our losses confirmed?”
“Yes, sir, it is. The officers in every regiment report all men accounted for. The report is accurate.”
“Thank you. Dismissed.”
The captain turned on his heel and was gone.
Washington turned to St. Clair. “Does it identify the officers who were wounded?”
“Yes, sir. One was James Monroe. An eighteen-year-old lieutenant from Virginia. A musket ball in his left shoulder. Fairly serious but even after taking the wound he continued to help capture a Hessian cannon out there in King Street and fire it at the Hessians. He will survive it, sir. The other officer was your cousin, William Washington. He was wounded slightly in both hands when they stormed the Hessian cannon.”
In that moment a sudden sureness surged in the hearts of every man in the room and they were awed, humbled with the overpowering certainty.
We were not alone out there!
They stared at each other in silence as the feeling gripped them, and then it faded and was gone and they began to breathe again. No man spoke of it because they could not find words to describe the rare, powerful impression. They moved, shifting their feet, and waited for General Washington to continue the council.
“Gentlemen, I cannot risk this victory by engaging the British immediately in a battle we might lose. We’ll go back to our camp and give our men time to gather their strength. In a few days they’ll be ready. We have enough food and provisions from the Hessian stores to feed and clothe them.”
He waited while murmuring broke out and died before he turned to General Sullivan. “Assign a detail of men to go through this building as soon as possible and gather every document, every letter, every map they can find. Find the quartermaster’s office and collect all the money and valuables and documents there.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Each of you take charge of your commands. As soon as we’ve gathered all the food and supplies we can transport, we’ll go back to McKonkey’s Ferry and move across the river to our own camp. Bring the Hessian prisoners. Same marching order as we came. We’ll use the Pennington Road.”
By mid-afternoon the columns were beginning to form at the big junction at the head of King Street. Sergeant Joseph White paused beside the cannon he and his crew had manned, pain showing in his face. A Hessian cannonball had cracked the thick oak axle and the big gun was sagging to one side, muzzle pointed upward. White shook his head sadly and tenderly laid a hand on the wet, cold barrel. A voice from behind startled him and he turned.
“Sergeant, that gun is be
yond repair. You’ll have to leave it.”
White squinted against the storm, up at Colonel Knox on his horse. “She’s not hurt bad, sir. Maybe I can fix it.”
Knox shook his head. “No time. Leave it.”
White nodded. “Yes, sir.” He watched Knox canter his horse away, then turned once more to his beloved cannon. He went to one knee, studying the widening crack in the heavy axle and a stubborn resolve formed in his heart. He rose and called to two soldiers standing nearby awaiting orders.
“You two. I was on the gun crew that used this cannon to clear King Street. She got hurt in the fight, but she can be fixed. You two game to give me a hand?”
With the storm still raging, White hailed two more soldiers. An hour later, in the fading light of late afternoon, White straightened. “All right. Let’s wheel her around and see if she holds.”
Five pairs of hands grasped the trails and swung them around while White held his breath and watched the cracked axle. A broad grin formed in his wet beard. “She’ll hold, boys! If we’re careful we can get her back.”
Two hundred yards ahead the nine hundred eighteen Hessian prisoners were assembled on the roadway and General Sullivan called for Colonel Glover.
“Can your regiment hold these men in line and keep them moving?”
“Yes, sir.”
In approaching twilight the great column began its journey nine miles north, straight into the teeth of the raging northeaster. Glover’s regiment was split, one half on each side of the Hessians, Billy and Eli among them.
By eight o’clock they had passed Howell’s cooper shop. It was past midnight when they reached the turn towards the river. It was one A.M. when the leaders stopped on the frozen banks of the Delaware. The storm was still howling, sleet driving in from the north.
It was approaching two A.M., December 27, 1776, when the first boats pushed off towards the Pennsylvania riverbanks.
It was breaking dawn, gray and bleak, with the wind still driving the sleet when the last boats loaded, and it was full morning when their bows thumped into the banks near the American camp and waiting hands grasped frozen hawsers to hold the boats steady while the halffrozen men clambered ashore. The last to climb over the gunwales were Sergeant White and his tiny group, who strained and lifted until they got the big gun ashore where White, grinning proudly through his frozen beard, warmly shook hands with those who had helped save his cannon.
Billy and Eli waited until the last man was ashore before they tied the ropes to stakes driven into the frozen ground and were turning to go to the nearest fire, when they slowed and stopped near a huddled group of silent men gathered around something lying on the ground. They worked their way in and stopped short.
Sergeant Turlock glanced at them and they saw the pain in his eyes. At his feet were three bodies, covered with new Hessian blankets. Turlock walked to Billy and Eli and spoke quietly. “They didn’t make it. Froze. Just sat there in the boat and froze without a word.”
Billy knelt beside the bodies and tenderly touched the nearest blanket, then rose back to his feet. Eli stared down, then shifted his eyes. He said nothing as he reached to wipe the wet sleeve of his wolf skin coat across his mouth.
Notes
Rall was carried off the battlefield and taken to the Methodist Church on the corner of Queen and Third streets before finally being moved to his headquarters in the Potts’s home on King Street (see Stryker, The Battles of Trenton and Princeton, p. 192). For narrative purposes, the author has chosen to deviate from the historical record slightly and allowed Washington to occupy Rall’s headquarters while Rall remained at the Methodist Church. While Rall’s officers were tending to his wounds, they found the note Rall received during Hunt’s party the night before. When he finally read the warning—too late—he remarked, “If I had read this at Mr. Hunt’s I would not be here” (as quoted in Ketchum, The Winter Soldiers, p. 270).
Washington did visit the dying Rall and they had a brief conversation where Rall officially surrendered and begged Washington to treat the captured Hessian troops with kindness. Washington agreed and left a few words of consolation and compassion for the Hessian soldier (see Stryker, The Battles of Trenton and Princeton, p. 192).
Colonel Knox and General Greene were in favor of pressing on to Princeton, but Washington recognized that the Continental army had won a major psychological victory as well as a physical victory that day and he was not willing to jeopardize either by advancing into another battle prematurely (see Ketchum, The Winter Soldiers, pp. 265-66).
The casualty reports for both the Hessian and American armies are accurate: over a thousand Hessian troops were either killed, wounded, or captured, while only four Americans were wounded (see Ward, The War of the Revolution, vol. I, p. 302). James Monroe eventually became the fifth president of the United States (see Leckie, George Washington’s War, p. 321). The only other American casualties were the three men who froze to death on the return trip across the Delaware (see Ketchum, The Winter Soldiers, p. 266).
Sergeant Joseph White repaired a broken cannon and, with the help of four men, transported the cannon back to the American camp. As he told Colonel Knox who asked why he bothered dragging a broken cannon away from the battlefield, “I wanted the victory complete” (as quoted in Ketchum, The Winter Soldiers, p. 267).
Indeed, the American victory at Trenton was total and complete and marked a turning point in the war. “This was a long and a severe ordeal, and yet it may be doubted whether so small a number of men ever employed so short a space of time with greater or more lasting results upon the history of the world” (as quoted in Ward, The War of the Revolution, vol. I, p. 303).
Boston
December 27, 1776
CHAPTER X
Margaret Dunson stopped by the great fireplace in the parlor and closed her eyes to listen for the sound of the front gate closing, but it did not come. She glanced at the clock on the heavy mantel, then walked quickly to the front window to hold back the curtain with anxious fingers while she peered out past the white picket fence to the street. For two days a strong northeaster had raged, whistling at the windows and howling in the chimney, but had quieted in the night. By noon the first rifts had appeared in the thick storm clouds, and now shafts of sunlight came slanting from the west to cast shadows of trees stark and bare on the snow in the frigid afternoon. She watched people hurry past in the streets, bundled to their noses, vapor trailing behind their heads.
She turned back to the fireplace and reached with a brass poker to swing one of the four arms outward from the banked fire, and with a hot pad lifted the lid on the kettle hanging from the hook at the end of the arm. The diced mutton and vegetables were simmering and she reached with a wooden spoon to dip some broth. She blew on it, then gingerly sipped at it and worked it in her mouth, testing for flavor.
Salt. And a touch more sage.
She walked to the kitchen to return with the salt bowl and a small pewter box of sage, and added a pinch of sage to the smoking mix and enough salt to make a small white mound in the palm of her hand. She stirred with the wooden spoon, dipped more broth, blew, sipped, and nodded her head in satisfaction before she returned the spices to the kitchen cupboard. She paused at the black kitchen stove to open the oven door and peer inside at the four loaves of bread and the single pan of cinnamon rolls, fully risen and beginning to brown on top. A smile came creeping at the thought of the children reaching for the thick, steaming slices with eyes wide and faces beaming in anticipation of heaping butter on, and that first soul-warming mouthful. She closed and latched the oven door, gave the grate in the firebox one shake, then glanced at the woodbox.
Takes so much wood to keep a family through the winter. Caleb will have to fill it before supper, and the fireplace box too.
At the thought of Caleb she once again walked to the front window and leaned to peer up and down the street, and suddenly in her mother’s heart she knew something was wrong. Her breathing constricted for a moment an
d she straightened and stood still to allow the premonition to settle.
Caleb’s in trouble.
She turned to the coat-tree near the front door and reached for her heavy winter coat, then stopped at the sound of the front gate closing. She threw the door open as Brigitte came striding toward the house where Caleb had shoveled a path in the snow, scarf wrapped about her head, face white from the cold. She came through the door and Margaret closed it and waited while Brigitte unwound the scarf and began working with the large buttons on her ankle-length winter coat. Brigitte was watching Margaret’s eyes, sensing her deep concern.
“The children have not come home from school,” Margaret exclaimed.
Brigitte slowed and stopped, looked at the clock, then frowned.
“It’s Caleb,” Margaret said. “Something’s wrong. I know.”
Brigitte’s shoulders slumped. “Caleb again? Do you want me to go looking?”
“We’ll both go.”
Margaret reached for her coat as Brigitte buttoned hers back up over her long dress. Her shoes still had light dustings of flour from her day’s work at the bakery. She wound the long, deep blue wool scarf back around her head and waited while Margaret buttoned her coat. Margaret swung the supper kettle away from the fire, and the two of them shook the four loaves of bread from their pans and set them on the cupboard covered with a towel to cool, with the pan of cinnamon rolls beside, before they walked out the front door.
They were one block from the school when they saw the twins with Caleb behind them. The twins came running, their nine-year-old legs pumping as they ran on the icy path.
“Mother, Mother,” Adam shouted. “Caleb got in a fight and there’s blood!”
Priscilla slowed as she approached, panting, wide-eyed, frightened. “Mother, it was awful! Caleb and Robert Simmons and Elijah Beaman. Rolling on the ground and hitting!”