Being George Washington

by Glenn Beck

  Unlike Cornet Tarleton, Captain Münchhausen wasn’t joking.

  December 24, 1776

  Merrick farmhouse

  George Washington had no time for rest, not even on Christmas—particularly not on this Christmas Eve.

  He sat at his table. On a small scrap of paper, he scribbled the briefest of notes to a staff member. He repeated the process, again and again.

  Dr. Benjamin Rush eyed this scene contemptuously. Rush, now a surgeon with Washington’s army, was a member of the Continental Congress. Only a few months before he had boldly signed the Declaration of Independence, but now he feared that George Washington was squandering any chance that America’s fragile independence had to survive. One retreat followed another. If only Horatio Gates were in charge, the doctor thought, if only Charles Lee were still a free man and in command—we would have the soldiers of the Crown on the run.

  Washington arose. He nodded to Dr. Rush before leaving the room to summon a guard to deliver the brief messages he had just composed. But as Washington departed, he left one document behind. It floated to the wooden plank floor below where he had just sat.

  Rush hurried to retrieve it. He might now learn a little more of what ill-conceived plans ran through this wretched Washington’s mind.

  To his great disappointment, there were no detailed battle plans or grand outlines of strategy on the piece of paper that Rush now held in his hands. It contained just three words:

  Victory or death.

  2

  The Harder the Conflict, the More Glorious the Triumph

  Twilight, December 25, 1776

  Western bank of the Delaware River

  Near McConkey’s Ferry, Knowles Cove

  Bucks County, Pennsylvania

  Officers barked terse orders to their drummers. Hard wooden drumsticks beat furiously in every corner of George Washington’s encampment. In the low hills surrounding McConkey’s Ferry, 2,400 infantry shouldered their muskets and crammed their knapsacks full of sixty rounds of ammunition, a blanket, and three days’ worth of rations. Cavalrymen loaded their pistols and tightly cinched their horses’ saddles. Henry Knox’s gunners checked and then checked once more to ensure that they would be transporting sufficient shot and powder and fuses in their cannon’s side boxes and trail boxes for whatever hell awaited them on this grand expedition.

  These men’s faces betrayed not fear—but anticipation, even eagerness. Many soldiers had already left the army, but those who remained had grown hard and fiercely loyal, devoted not only to the causes of independence and liberty, but also to their commander: George Washington. To these men, Washington had become more than just a general. He had become a father.

  Still, their enlistments would soon expire. They had families and businesses and farms to worry about. They were not Hessians a thousand miles from home, with no way of returning there. They were ill-paid and ill-equipped and had done their duty. They could go home honorably and most of them probably would. And once they did, the long odds against this revolution would grow only longer.

  But while they remained, they were still in the fight. If Washington desired them to brave this ice-choked river and then tramp eight miles in utter darkness cross-country in sleet and snow to strike before the winter sun rose again—to strike at William Howe’s fearsome Hessians, the very cream of Europe’s fighting men—then, by God, they would do it. They would, to a man, die for George Washington.

  The men’s faces, stung and reddened by winter’s blasts, shone brightly with their fidelity. Standing as tall and straight as amateur soldiers might, these New Englanders and southerners, Pennsylvanians and New Yorkers, and Jersey men longing to liberate their homes were eager to go. Waiting for action wore upon their nerves. Marching forward filled them with energy—and courage.

  They scrambled to board the slapdash armada that Washington—aided by the Marblehead, Massachusetts, fisherman General John Glover—had assembled to ferry them toward the enemy. It was a flotilla of diverse vessels, none of which might be found in any real navy: the sturdy flat-bottomed “Durham boats,” made originally to transport iron ore; a handful of scows; all manner of fishermen’s craft; and the two ferryboats that had regularly plied this Delaware crossing in times of peace. All of them would be needed.

  The men would cross the Delaware first, mostly aboard the fairly spacious Durham boats. Then would come skittish horses, and, finally, all eighteen pieces of Henry Knox’s cumbersome and heavy, yet crucial and powerful, artillery: three-pounders, four-pounders, five-and-a-half-pounders, and six-pounders. Despite its name, a six-pounder’s barrel and carriage alone could weigh as much as 1,750 pounds.

  A journey of a mere eight hundred feet would take hours. But everything had to proceed on the tightest of schedules. The Continental Army needed to invade Trenton before daylight to maintain any hope of surprise.

  Every minute lost could cost a life. Every hour lost could lose the battle. The battle lost could forfeit the revolution.

  Yet, despite the obvious pressure, Washington paused to complete one last task. Two days earlier he had read from a pamphlet. Its words rang like a siren. They roared like a cannonade. His men needed to hear those words, and they needed to hear them now.

  In the freezing air at Knowles Cove, Washington distributed a dozen bound copies of this little work to his officers. “Read this—or have it read to your men. They are better words than I am capable of. Read them now, before we depart.”

  General Knox chose to read the words himself. Famous for his booming voice, Knox calculated that he could best bellow out whatever his commander thought so necessary for his men to hear. Never send out a man to do a job you could better do yourself, thought Knox.

  General Henry Knox cleared his throat and began to proclaim the words that Tom Paine had scribbled out upon a drumhead not long ago and then galloped so quickly back to Philadelphia to print:

  These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph.

  When Knox had finished, his final words echoing across the land, only silence remained. The icy breath of the soldiers filled the air.

  Finally, Washington broke the silence. “All right, men,” he bellowed, his voice firm with resolve. “It’s time to go.”

  December 25, 1776

  Mount Holly, New Jersey

  Colonel Carl Emilius von Donop savored his Christmas dinner—the finest meats and vegetables, served upon a modest lace tablecloth, eaten not with pewter, but with sterling silver utensils. Across the Delaware River, American recruits had no time for feasting. Drums were beating, and men assembling, for a march toward the unknown.

  But there was none of that at Mount Holly, only Colonel von Donop and his very gracious and beautiful—and so very accommodating—hostess. Von Donop, a man known for his appreciation of the fairer sex, could not believe his own luck. While every other female in the community had fled the approach of his troops, this incredible beauty, this young widow, had chosen to remain.

  Ah! thought von Donop. The fortunes of war!

  “Colonel von Donop,” asked his adjutant, a large but nervous young man named Captain Johann Ewald, “might we be leaving soon for Bordentown? We have been here since Monday.”

  Bordentown, where they’d be close enough to support Colonel Rall’s troops in Trenton should any difficulties arise, was their ultimate destination. But Colonel von Donop wasn’t ready to get going just yet.

  “Don’t worry, Captain!” von Donop barked. Then he softened his tone as he eyed his newfound companion, who was ever so slyly glancing back at him. “Colonel Rall isn’t going anywhere. Besides, just look at that weather out there—and it will only be worse when set upon the road. Remember, it’s eighteen miles to
Trenton!”

  Once more von Donop cast his glance toward his comely hostess. “Don’t you agree, my dear?”

  “I could not agree more,” she answered. “Would you care for some brandy?”

  The name of the woman who entertained von Donop that Christmas night is not really known. Nor are her reasons for remaining in Mount Holly when all other women had fled. But among the locals there is a story still told: that her name was Betsy Ross—and that not all patriots shouldered muskets on that Christmas night.

  December 25–26, 1776

  Delaware River

  Great, hard slabs of jagged ice, as big and thick as coffins, slammed with incredible force into the sides of George Washington’s Durham boat.

  There was no place to sit in these immense, canoe-like vessels. So Washington and all the other men in the black boat with bright yellow trim wrestled to steady themselves, fearing they would be tossed into the dark, rushing, ice-choked waters. Four sailors, snug as they could hope to be in their short seaman’s coats and tight woolen caps, struggled to steer Washington’s boat, to keep it from being swept downstream. Slush and ice lapped over the craft’s low sides and onto their feet, making a dangerous and miserable voyage still more wretched. Hard, cold winds stung everyone’s faces.

  Washington peered through the darkness and struggled vainly to catch sight of solid Jersey ground. It was nearly impossible. A bright moon had arisen early that evening, but great black clouds had then rolled in, causing the December sky and everything under it to disappear into cold, inky blackness.

  And as Washington struggled to look forward, words began to roll through his mind. They were words that he’d recited from his earliest childhood, but they had never possessed greater meaning than they now did on this faithful night, the birthday of the One who had first offered these sacred words to the whole world.

  “… and deliver us from evil,” George Washington’s silent, but fervent, prayer concluded. “Amen.”

  Morning of December 26, 1776

  Western bank of the Delaware River

  Opposite Beatty’s Ferry

  On the Pennsylvania side of the Trenton ferry, eight miles downriver from George Washington and McConkey’s Ferry, General James Ewing, a tough Scotch-Irishman hailing from the Pennsylvania frontier, stood not in a boat, but on the snow-covered shore, swearing mightily. He was near Trenton Falls, and the rushing mass of water hurtling upon the jagged rocks below it had created a massive ice jam nearly five feet deep. Pockets of water flowed only sporadically, and those pockets, where they existed, were just thirty to forty feet wide.

  It was the worst of circumstances. The Delaware was too frozen for boats to sail, yet not frozen enough for Ewing’s seven hundred soldiers to trudge across.

  Washington had ordered Ewing’s troops to join him as he battled the Hessians at Trenton. But there was no way to do that. His boats and men were being held up by a barrier more powerful than what any Britisher or Hessian might have constructed. He had tried as hard as possible, given it everything he could—yet he had failed.

  If George Washington were to secure victory, it would be without General James Ewing’s reinforcements.

  Early morning, December 26, 1776

  Eastern Bank of the Delaware River

  Opposite McConkey’s Ferry

  Campfires blazed along the Jersey side of the Delaware.

  Despite Henry Knox’s bellowing commands and tireless enthusiasm, the crossing had proved far more harrowing than anyone had imagined. The tide had been swifter, the ice thicker, the wind colder. Horses bucked and resisted boarding the ferryboats that had been designated for their transport. They wanted no part of this voyage.

  Perhaps they were smarter than their commanders.

  And moving cannon … well, that was the most impossible task of all. It was hard enough to transport Henry Knox’s guns on rutted roads and through rolling fields and hillsides. Shoving them on—and off—these boats, and over these rough waters was harder and slower still. “Put your shoulder to it, men!” Knox shouted. “Put your shoulder to it!”

  George Washington waited for the last of the cannon to complete the crossing. Only then could they begin the march to Trenton. He had loitered on this shore for so long that he had made a little seat for himself, a broken wooden box that had once contained a beehive.

  As he sat there, dressed in his great blue cloak, in the cold and dark, he pondered whether he had already lost his chance. Could he still reach Trenton before daybreak? Would General Ewing—and General Cadwalader, who was launching his own force from Dunk’s Ferry—be there to meet him?

  So much had to go right. So much had already gone wrong. The Continental Army had lost the great majority of its men since its first losses on Long Island. Its back was against the wall. There could be no more defeats, no more retreats. Today it was all or nothing—“Victory or Death,” as he had once written.

  Suddenly, Henry Knox, puffing mightily and clapping his pudgy gloved hands together for warmth, approached.

  “General,” he said, “we are all across.”

  Washington arose quickly, his little seat toppling over.

  “To Trenton, men! Before the sun rises.”

  Morning, December 26, 1776

  Western bank of the Delaware River

  Near Dunk’s Ferry

  General John Cadwalader was a cultivated Philadelphia merchant. He was not a ferryman.

  Yes, he had men from his city’s waterfront to assist him in making his crossing of the Delaware, but he was still getting absolutely nowhere. The same ice floes that stymied General Ewing to the north hamstrung Cadwalader. He had been assigned to cross at Dunk’s Ferry, across the river from Burlington, New Jersey, but his boats could barely be put in the water there, let alone be rowed or poled toward the opposite shore. Changing plans, he moved north along the river, but it was the same story there. Slabs of ice the size of mattresses and as hard and sharp as bayonets filled the river. An advance party had made it across earlier, but that was it. No one else could.

  The British might yet somehow be defeated, but this wretched river could not.

  Cadwalader just stood there, forlorn and staring, his hands jammed hard into his pockets, a scarf covering his face. He was too much the gentleman to swear as General Ewing did. All he could do was order his men—tired from lack of sleep and disheartened from failure—to march home to camp and pray for General Washington.

  Morning, December 26, 1776

  Bear Tavern Road, beyond Jacob’s Creek

  Western bank of the Delaware River

  Now it was sleeting.

  Not just squalls of heavy snow, but the worst and wettest sleet anyone in the Continental Army had ever seen. Freezing and stinging, it made moving forward even more difficult.

  Washington’s march to Trenton had commenced a full four hours late. Shoeless men, their feet swaddled in rags, deposited an ominous trail of blood along their path. Washington saw a drummer lad, a redheaded boy from nearby Delaware, so weary that he lay down in the snow to rest, perhaps even to sleep.

  “Rouse him! Shake that boy!” George Washington shouted from horseback, through gales of sleet. “To sleep this night is death!”

  The road had run upward from the river, a good two-hundred-foot change in elevation, with portions of that incline extremely pitched. That made the hard work of Henry Knox’s burly gunners into something that was more akin to impossible. Then came even more trouble, this time in the form of Jacob’s Creek—which, despite its name, was no ordinary stream, no bucolic brook in sunlit meadows. Lying in a steep ravine, it required Knox’s men to lash their longest drag ropes to trees to winch their guns down—and then up—its perilous slopes, placing at risk their guns’ often fragile wooden carriages and high wheels.

  Washington rode alongside his men. Watching, yes, for others who might fall sleep, but all the while encouraging them onward—faster, faster, and, yet, faster still. “Press on, boys, press on!” he shouted.
Time and weather had already allied themselves against his cause. He could not risk any more delay.

  Galloping on sloping, icy ground, his horse skidded to a stop. Bucking and panicking, the beast started tumbling downward, threatening to crush the general under its weight. Washington panicked not for a second. Dropping his reins, he extended his arms and grabbed the horse’s mane with his powerful hands. Miraculously, he pulled the mane—and the animal itself—upward, steadying it enough to keep it, and him, from falling to earth.

  “Was I dreaming?” exclaimed the drummer boy whom Washington had only just roused. “Was that real?”

  “No, lad,” said the soldier standing next to him. “I saw it, too. We all did. And this I know: nothing can stop George Washington from reaching Trenton this day. I just hope we make it with him.”

  • • •

  Perhaps that anonymous soldier was wrong. Perhaps there was something that could stop Washington from reaching Trenton: his own men.

  Along he rode. In the snow-whitened distance, men marched toward him. Hessians in their fine brass helmets? The British, venturing from snug winter quarters?

  “Hello!” came the call. “Don’t shoot! We’re Virginians!”

  “What are you doing here?” Washington demanded. He knew they could not be Ewing or Cadwalader’s troops. They were, to a man, Pennsylvanians and Rhode Islanders.

  “Those damnable Hessians snuck like the skunks they are across the river and killed one of our boys. So we had to even the score. We just came from Trenton. Gave them a little taste of their own medicine! I reckon we got one or two of ’em.”

  Washington’s heart sank. The element of surprise he had plotted so carefully had vanished, simply flung away like a chicken bone by a few dozen buckskin-wearing squirrel shooters.

  “What now, General?” asked a voice barely heard above the general’s own seething breath.