The Glorious Cause

  DECEMBER 26, 1776

  The army divided at an intersection five miles north of Trenton, and Washington waited only a minute while Sullivan’s columns moved out on the river road. Knox’s cannon were divided equally, nine to each column, and Greene’s men did not halt, kept moving on the inland road that would take them into Trenton from the north. Out in front, a company of Virginians led the way, men whose instructions were explicit. There could be no sound, no alarm given to whatever Hessian outposts might lie in their path.

  He rode beside Greene in total darkness. The storm was as fierce as it had been all night, and the road was paved in a slippery sheet of ice. He strained to hear any sound, some sign that the Virginians had come up against some opposition, some trouble, yet one more piece of bad news. But the road was empty, and the storm carried them forward in blessed silence, the wind ripping the trees, skeletal patches of woods giving way to rolling snow-covered fields.

  His hands were aching, and he realized he had not eased his grip on the reins for a very long time. He flexed his fingers, thought, We must be very close. It has been too long. He would not ask the time, knew the daylight would come over them no matter how fast they moved now, that the plan was already set in motion, that God had his hand on anything that would happen now. He saw a thin row of trees lining the road, bending with the wind, leaning forward toward Trenton, pointing the way. The branches were framed by a light gray sky, and his stomach jumped, the first glow of the dawn. He would not look that way, stared ahead instead, tried to see nothing at all, only the darkness, only that which would hide his army. He felt his own breathing, the sharp cold in his chest coming out in a visible fog with each short breath. He could see the road now as well, stretching out in front of him, the first time he had been able to see the tracks in the ice, the footsteps of the men leading the way. He wanted to say a prayer, thought of those men, the Virginians, the coincidence, men from his own state leading them into whatever lay ahead. What will they see, who will be waiting for them, what kind of preparation will Rall make? Was there a party after all? We have our spies, does Rall have his? They could be waiting for us, just over the next rise, the next patch of woods. Howe might have ordered him to keep ready, cancel any sort of celebration. There can be no Christmas, not in war.

  He fought to control the voices in his mind, the doubts streaking through him. He focused on the Virginians moving ahead, and beyond he could see a house, small, barely a shack. There was a flurry of sounds, the wind muting a sudden chatter of muskets. Beside him, Greene gave a quick shout, and a company of troops began to run forward, a slow jog, cracking through the muddy ice. Washington spurred the horse, knew it had to be the first Hessian guard post, their first confrontation, the voices in his mind silent now. He kept moving forward, had to see, heard Greene moving beside him, the troops leading them forward at a quick trot.

  He saw the Hessians in the road now, a dozen or more, forming a line, their muskets erupting in one volley. But the Virginians were on them, and the Hessians began to run, darting out of the road, trying to form another line, behind a stone fence, another volley. Washington pushed forward with Greene’s men, the confrontation one-sided, too many Virginians, the Hessians withdrawing again. He watched them with amazement, no panic in those men, retreating in good order, stopping to load and fire, astounding discipline. But his men were too many and pushing too hard, and the Hessians could not hold them, gave way, disappeared over the crest of a hill. His men ran beyond the crest as well, and he followed, reached the top, could see the ground falling away in a long slope. There were more houses, and down the long hill was the town itself, spread out in a beautiful panorama, dark buildings coated with snow, the white streets swept clean by the storm. He stopped the horse, and around him, the main column began to spread out in line, and there was movement in the town, the houses beginning to empty, the streets coming alive. He heard a new sound, muffled, deep and thunderous, then again, a hard thump. He stood high in the stirrups, waited for the sounds again, low thunder, and suddenly there was a bright flash down below in the town, a smashing cascade of fire. He looked out toward the direction of the river, nothing to see, the snow clouding the sky. Greene was close to him now, unable to hide his own excitement.

  “I believe, sir, that would be General Sullivan!”

  Washington could hear the cannon rumbling in a steady rhythm, and around him, more of Knox’s guns were rolling into place. He moved the horse off to one side, saw two cannon lining up side by side, the wheels nearly touching. With quick precision, the gunners were scrambling around them, and suddenly they both fired, one great roar, smoke and fire blowing through the snow, a storm of their own. Out in the field beside him, Greene had his men in line, muskets ready, those who had bayonets leading the way. Greene looked at him, had his sword in the air, and Knox’s cannon fired again, the sound filling him, and there were no words, nothing he needed to say. He raised his arm, looked hard at Greene, and pointed down the hill toward the town. With a sharp cry, growing into a long high cheer, the troops began to charge into Trenton.

  The rout was complete, the Hessians completely stunned by the surprise assault. Those who managed to man their guns, or form some kind of line of resistance were quickly swept away by Knox’s cannon. Many were not panicked by the sudden assault and kept their retreat with the order of disciplined soldiers. But retreat they did, some southward, across the Assunpink Creek, the one place where they would have been surrounded had Ewing brought his militia across the river. Many more pulled out to the east, the road toward Princeton, small bodies of troops quickly surrounded by the swarming advance of Washington’s men. As they filled the town, the two armies fought hand to hand, house to house, but the surprise was too complete, and the Hessians could not hold their ground.

  He stayed on the hill, watched it all through the field glasses, thought of moving closer, but the height was the best vantage point to see everything. The smoke was held low by the storm, and he noticed the wind, still blowing against his back, wondered if it had helped his men, any Hessian resistance facing right into the storm. Couriers were moving all around him, and he finally heard from Sullivan, an aide bringing him word of a rapid sweep along the river, Knox’s guns blowing quickly past any resistance.

  He searched through the field glasses to find the one place that should have been the headquarters, could make out a row of cannon that had not been fired, one flag that rose high on a staff. He saw a brief fight outside, his own men pushing past, thought, If Rall was there, he cannot be any longer. Knox’s cannon were suddenly quiet. He looked that way, saw Knox himself moving toward him, a beaming smile on the man’s face, and Knox said, “I have ordered the guns to cease, sir. There seem to be no present targets.” There was still scattered musket fire, but mostly southward, beyond the town.

  “We should advance, Colonel, the danger seems to have passed. Maintain these guns in this position.” Knox started to respond, and behind him, one of the cannoneers shouted, “Their colors are down! They’ve struck their colors!” The man was pointing to the town, and Washington turned, raised the glasses, could see the bare flagstaff. The gun crews were joyously shouting, hats going up, a raucous cheer. Knox joined his men, gave his own cheer, and after a long joyous moment, Knox said, “Has to be Rall’s headquarters!”

  Washington raised the glasses, stared at the bare flagstaff, allowed himself to feel the celebration, a broad smile, said, “It must be. Yes. So it must be.”

  A long line of Hessian soldiers was herded down the wide street, and Washington moved aside, waited for them to pass. He watched as a squad of Greene’s men completed the search of a small house. The windows had been broken out, the door kicked in, and when the search was complete, their sergeant pointed to the next house, and the search began again.

  He moved the horse forward, watched many more prisoners emerging from a side street, flanked by guards, the Hessians silent and sullen, heads down. He moved past them, saw the church, the plac
e where they had told him Rall was being held.

  Washington climbed down from the horse, moved into the darkness of the church, saw the narrow pews draped in bloody white cloth, the wounded Hessians lying end to end. There were soft cries now, moans from one man, bloodier than the others, the man’s life flowing away onto the floor of the church. He saw an older man in a sharp blue uniform, standing with several of Greene’s troops, and the man saw him, wiped his bloody hands on his coat. The troops straightened to attention, and Washington nodded to the man, wondered if he spoke English, said, “Are you the doctor? Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I am a doctor. I believe you have come to see my patient, here.”

  The man backed up a step, and Washington could see a man on the floor, a thick blanket folded under him. Washington leaned closer, the face old, sunken eyes looking up at him, another officer kneeling beside him. The wounded man said something, his voice faint, and the officer stood now, said, “I am Lieutenant Piel, sir. May I assume you are General Washington?” Washington nodded slowly, still looked to the older man, and Piel said, “This is Colonel Johann Gottlieb Rall, sir, in command of the Trenton cantonment. He is . . . we are your prisoners, sir.”

  Rall’s face was a pale gray, empty eyes staring past him, barely conscious. Piel spoke to him, and Rall seemed to focus, responded to Piel, who said, “General, Colonel Rall asks no favors for himself. He wishes only that you offer some kindness to his men.”

  Washington removed his hat, could see death on the man’s face, said, “Tell the colonel that his men will not be abused.”

  Piel conveyed the message, and Washington backed away, moved to the open door. He stepped outside, took a breath of clean air, rid himself of the smell of the church. The doctor had followed him, said, “He will not survive this day, General.”

  Washington wasn’t sure how to respond, said, “We regret the loss of so many.”

  The doctor reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper, handed it to Washington.

  “I thought perhaps you should see this, General. I found it in Colonel Rall’s pocket when he was brought here. The note is written in English, thus it is not likely Colonel Rall knew what it said. He is a somewhat stubborn man, did not appreciate the need for an interpreter. Lieutenant Piel is much abused, I’m afraid. I do not know if this is proper, General, but this note mentions you.”

  Washington took the paper, saw bloodstains, read the words,

  . . . a considerable force of rebels is on the roads north of Trenton . . .

  He handed the paper back to the man, said, “It is not improper of you, Doctor. You are no doubt correct. It is apparent he did not read it.”

  Washington climbed the horse, the doctor disappearing back into the church. The horse carried him into the streets again, and everywhere he looked, his soldiers were in motion, hauling wagons of supplies, men carrying armloads of muskets. He saw Knox again, the man bouncing heavily on horseback, directing the flow of six brass cannon, hitched now to the horses that would carry them away. Knox saw him, waved to him with joyous informality, moved away with his new guns.

  He saw Greene coming toward him, more officers, the horses at a gallop. As they reined up Greene said, “Sir! We have the first reports. The provost has estimated around a thousand prisoners, sir. Perhaps a hundred dead.”

  This was the part that Washington dreaded, but saw none of that on Greene’s face.

  “General Greene, what were our losses?”

  Greene laughed, an odd response, and beside him, another man said, “Colonel Knox had some difficulty, two of his officers received light wounds. Two other men are unaccounted for, lost possibly on the march last night.” The man stopped, and Washington waited for more, said, “What else?”

  Greene was still smiling, said, “Nothing else, sir. There were no other casualties.”

  Washington felt a strange numbness, disbelief.

  “Thank God for that.”

  Greene’s smile faded, and he looked at Washington with concern.

  “Are you all right, sir? This was a perfect victory, General. Your strategy was without flaw.”

  He heard men cheering now, saw a regimental flag held high, the men who captured it parading it through the streets. When they saw the officers, hats went up, the flag held out, and behind them, more men, a second flag, one man holding it aloft on the point of a bayonet. Greene raised his hat, and the men returned the salute. More troops were gathering, and there was music, and Washington saw a drummer, the young man who had given the signal on the bank of the river, the young man’s legs covered now, ill-fitting stockings from the trunk of some Hessian soldier. It was a small symbol, one man’s comfort, the spoils of this extraordinary victory. Through all the joy around him, the music and the cheering, he felt a strange sense of amazement. He thought of Rall, that one curious piece of paper that could have changed everything. The man will die never understanding that he has been defeated by his own arrogance. It is the arrogance of them all, of William Howe and King George, all those who so blithely dismiss this army. Yet we have a purpose, and if we are allowed the opportunity, we will defeat you.

  All through the town, the army went about its work, but the celebrations were few, the officers and their men seeming to know as much as Washington did. If the war was to be won, this day was only one victory. There had to be many more.

  The flags were packed away now, the music muted, and Washington rode back up the long hill, could see Knox’s two guns still in position. He stopped the horse, pulled it slowly around, looked out over the town, realized for the first time the snow had stopped. He rode slowly into the open field, held up his hand, kept the staff away. He wanted a moment by himself, would not have them close by just now. He was feeling the fatigue of the long night, his hold on the emotions breaking down, the command slipping, giving way to his tears. He looked out across the town, could see his army at work, knew there would have to be a new plan, immediate and definite, securing this victory, that the captured supplies and prisoners would have to be taken back across the river, the army made ready to make the best advantage of this day. But he could not think of that now, needed just this one long quiet moment. He sat back in the saddle, and the tears stopped, and for the first time in this awful war, he began to feel the joy. We have won the day. This was a victory. It is a glorious day for our country.

  14. WASHINGTON

  DECEMBER 30, 1776

  He had been back across the Delaware twice, seeing to the transfer of the captured supplies and the disposition of the enormous number of Hessian prisoners. John Glover’s Marblehead fishermen had manned the boats once more, had crossed and recrossed the icy river, carrying load upon load of equipment, tents and muskets, and the Hessians themselves. By now the prisoners had reached Philadelphia, had been paraded into the city to an audience who would be awed by their martial appearance, the sharp uniforms an astounding contrast to the ragged clothing of the men who guarded them.

  Washington had come back into Trenton, had surveyed the town with an eye to its defense, but the town itself was not as important as the protection of his army. Scouting and raiding parties were sent into the countryside, their first priority to keep an eye on the British position, the strength of the garrison at Princeton, and beyond. He knew that Howe would not let him just settle into Trenton and bide his time for the rest of the winter. The loss in both men and prestige was a sharp and bloody wound that Howe could never just ignore. There would certainly be a response. The question Washington had to answer was when, and how strong.

  Below the town, the Assunpink Creek provided a barrier, and so he moved his men into position behind the creek, with their backs to the Delaware River. On the road that led northeast toward Princeton, he sent Colonel Edward Hand, with his regiment of Pennsylvania marksmen. Hand would resist whatever force came down the road from Trenton, buying Washington’s men the precious time to construct a solid line of defense.

  Down the river at Borden
town, Cadwalader’s militia had finally crossed, only to find that the Hessians there had wisely withdrawn. Washington had no need for a separate force miles to the south, and Cadwalader was ordered to bring his men to Trenton. There would be a bit of delay, since the militia had taken readily to the job of pursuing the Hessian retreat. It was the kind of fighting the unskilled soldiers could perform with raucous enthusiasm. Their enemy was running away from them.

  If the British responded as Washington believed they must, there would have to be a new plan. To just sit and wait at Trenton was unlikely to bring any kind of success. But there could be no strategy until he knew what he was facing. From the beginning of the New York campaign, his strategy had formed itself around the needs of the moment, dealing with the new crisis at hand. Well before the British would reach his defenses, Washington had a crisis of a different sort. Many of those men who had already served, who had become veterans, were now preparing to leave, their enlistments expired. Washington had recently received a newly published pamphlet, authored by Thomas Paine, which expressed exactly the sentiment that Washington had to communicate to his troops. The Crisis was a call for the country to offer up its men as soldiers, an earnest and passionate plea for sacrifice as the only means of saving the country. Washington had read the paper and envied Paine’s eloquence, had little confidence in his own. But he would make the effort, speak to the men, and offer his own plea for his army to remain together. Though he might still raise an army for a spring campaign, the new recruits would have none of the backbone of these soldiers, and whatever advantage had been gained against the British would be lost. The victory at Trenton would mean nothing at all.