The Crossing (15 page)

Now Mercer brooded moodily over the trouble the ice would make and how it would depress the men and insisted on dwelling upon the new difficulties they would have crossing the river. Washington refused to be depressed by Mercer's lugubrious mood. Today was the twenty-fifth, and he was so excited at the prospect of the crossing that Mercer's misery had no effect upon him.

When Washington and Mercer came out of the Keith house, the Virginian's young aide, Alexander Hamilton, was waiting for him, and the party of three rode from there to McKonkey's Old Ferry Inn.

[16]

WHEN WASHINGTON GOT TO the Old Ferry Inn, Knox was working his cannon down to the river bank to be loaded onto the big Durham boats that had been drawn up in the shelter of Taylor Island. Knox was possessed of a stentorian voice, and he tended to use it too much and too quickly. His constant shouting and untempered commands had, as Washington noticed, an increasingly bad effect on the New England fishermen and on Colonel Glover, their leader. So strained was this situation that the loading of the cannon was delayed for hours, and here Washington began the task of peacemaking, a task that would continue, through angry argument after argument, for the next twenty-four hours.

Four hundred men whom Washington would lead personally in his section of the attack were already under arms and in parade, trying to appear as spiffy as four hundred freezing men, mostly in rags, might look. At ten o'clock the first lines of marching men began to move toward the Old Ferry Inn, and by noon the situation at the Ferry House was a scene of wild crowding and enormous confusion and excitement. It was the kind of excitement that exhilarates and energizes. There were no short tempers here.

Through all this, Washington was attempting to keep in constant touch with the two other divisions that were preparing for a crossing downriver. The division under the command of General Ewing was supposed to have almost two thousand men. By midday word came from Ewing that the count was perhaps five hundred less than that and that the river was full of ice. Ewing wondered whether the river could be crossed.

Washington controlled himself. Later the same day word came from Cadwalader, who was scheduled to cross below the bend of the Delaware at Bristol. Cadwalader complained that now, by actual count, he had fewer than a thousand men; and he, too, sent word back that the river was full of ice and that he did not think it could be crossed. Once again, Washington kept his temper and replied only that they were to move heaven and earth, if need be, and get across the river. It was not in his nature to understand why the simple fear of death—by drowning or any other means—should cause men to hesitate.

When he first decided to attack, Washington felt that at least the weather would be on their side; and when he awoke that morning and saw a covering of fine crisp snow on the ground, he felt confirmed in his optimism. But the frost that had begun a few days before deepened now, the sky became overcast and a wet, sleety snow began to fall, very slowly at first, but then picking up. As the day wore on into night, this snow-sleet turned into an ice-cold rain. With the sleet came a steady wind that cut through the ragged clothes of the men and drove deep into their bones, sucking out their energy.

[17]

WORKING STEADILY, INDUSTRIOUSLY and in a most disciplined fashion, Colonel Glover's men had loaded the artillery before the sun set, and in the afternoon twilight that so quickly turned into night, with the wet sleet blowing, they began the embarkation of the troops for the crossing.

The first Americans to climb into the Durham boats were the Virginian riflemen under the command of General Stephen. Washington could never overcome his bias toward Virginians in a tight situation, and of course this was noticed by the New Englanders and resented by them, particularly by the Yankees from the coastal towns.

As darkness fell, the scene around McKonkey's Inn changed from simple confusion to a kind of chaos. Dozens of men pushed to enter the inn, looking for the commander or this officer or that one. Inside the inn a blazing fire roared in the big fireplace and warmed the officers, who came in during the night, soaking wet from the rain. Washington's body servants stood by with a change of clothing for the commander in chief whenever he entered the room. But when they tried to persuade him to change, he shook them off. He drank hot rum half a dozen times during the day. It made absolutely no difference in his demeanor, and here, as in other cases, one must bow to Washington's capacity for being visibly unaffected by any amount of wine or hard liquor.

Messengers were riding to McKonkey's Inn from the whole west bank area of the river and from the two other sections of the army who were pledged to cross the river, and other riders came from Philadelphia and Baltimore. The leading citizens of the neighborhood, some of them men whose homes had been used to quarter officers, were also there, some out of curiosity, some out of a sense of the excitement and importance of the moment and still others to join the attack on Trenton.

The hundreds of men waiting for their turn to cross in the Durham boats were also around the inn, some of them crouched in the shelter of the south side, others sitting on the wet ground in their ranks, resting themselves as best they could, huddled close to each other and tightly wrapped in their cloaks.

After the eighteen cannon, which were all the artillery that the army possessed, had been brought across to the other bank, the Durham boats loaded with Virginians followed. Once the Virginians had landed, they spread out in a great half-circle and set up a chain of sentries almost arm to arm. Tory or patriot, man, woman, child, servant—anyone at all who became aware of their presence was to be made prisoner and held until such time as the crossing and the attack on Trenton had been completed.

In the course of the night perhaps thirty or forty people were taken into the sentry line and made temporary prisoners. Most of these people entered the line with no more than curiosity directing them, but at this point Washington was obsessed with the need for secrecy and would allow absolutely no loophole. Thus, local men, women and children sat in the pouring rain for hours, captive by their curiosity, many of the women and children weeping with vexation from cold and discomfort.

Until the foothold was established on the Jersey shore, Washington was tense and short with those around him, as if his desperate desire to be on both shores at once was more than he could bear. And the moment word came back that the Virginians had secured a section of the shore large enough to defend, Washington decided to cross over. Prior to this, he had felt that perhaps he should wait out the crossing and remain on the Pennsylvania shore until the last boat went over; now he could not wait.

Most Americans derive their information about this crossing from the famous painting by Emanuel Leutze, and while the children of other generations may have been inspired by the painting, in terms of a more practical approach to history it has become rather ludicrous. In the first place, by the time the crossing began night had fallen. In the second place, in the painting three men—Washington included—are standing, which would not only mark them for fools, but irritate the New England fishermen. Thirdly, the painting shows a flag that is not yet in existence. And finally, a dozen soldiers are packed into a fourteen-foot-long boat that is certainly too small for twelve men. In the background other boats are spread out across perhaps a mile of water, as if the army pushed off at a given moment, like an amphibious landing in our own time.

In actual fact, the boat Washington crossed in was between forty and fifty feet long, and it could hold forty men without crowding. It was commanded by Captain William Blackler, a Massachusetts fisherman, and in the boat with Washington were over twenty enlisted men and about a dozen officers, among them General Nathanael Greene and young Colonel Henry Knox.

The mood among the men and officers was sliding downhill. The cold, the wet snow turning to rain and the slowness with which the big Durham boats were loaded in the darkness all served to depress them. Hardly anyone was properly dressed for the weather, and the men in the boat that Washington would cross in were huddled down against the wind.

Washington stepped into the boat, picked his way among the men to where Henry Knox sat, nudged him with the toe of his boot and said vibrantly: “Shift that fat ass, Harry—but slowly, or you'll swamp the— —boat.”

It dissolved the spell of despondency, and it broke up the men in the boat. As the boat pushed off, the laughter could be heard out into the river, less because of what he had said than the way he had said it. The men on the shore came to life, and everywhere, up and down the line of shivering soldiers: “What did he say?”

“Did you hear him?”

“What was it?”

In an age given to uninhibited freedom of language and a rich use of four-letter Anglo-Saxon words, Washington had an unmatched reputation for colorful speech in a crisis. What was not heard was invented, and Washington's observation gained in color and direction until it had swept through the little army. Henry Knox's buttocks became the symbol of the moment, and in that strange way that men communicate under awful conditions, the Virginia fox hunter, the haughty, reticent aristocrat, reached and touched them as he never had with noble sentiment.

[18]

WASHINGTON HIMSELF was high and eager, his whole body tense with excitement and purpose. Whatever occurred now, it would not happen to a man or an army in retreat or in flight or in fear. He was taking the battle to the enemy; and under these circumstances danger and discomfort had absolutely no meaning for him.

By the time the Virginian had disembarked on the east shore, it was almost eight o'clock in the evening or perhaps a half hour after eight. As yet, only a few hundred of his men had crossed the river. He set up an uncovered, unprotected headquarters in the cold sleet of the east shore—that is, a piece of wet, muddy pasture. His servants hovered around him, but he rejected their attentions. He had no intention of being coddled or of changing into dry clothes. One of the officers suggested that they build a fire, and Washington turned on him in such anger that the suggestion was not repeated. No light, no fires except the covered ember boxes for the cannon.

Someone found a box about two feet square that had once been used as a beehive, and Washington acquiesced to this as a substitute for headquarters or shelter. His men pleaded with him to sit down and rest, and he seated himself on the old beehive.

To the younger men, Hamilton, Monroe and Washington's own distant relative, the gallant Captain William Washington, the commander in chief was an old man. He was almost forty-five years old then, and the younger men were constantly amazed at his endurance and his strength. To Washington, a man's body was a servant from which he would brook no disobedience whatsoever.

As he watched the boats arriving, his frustration and annoyance mounted. He had hoped to get his army across the river and formed up on the bank and on the march toward Trenton by midnight. This timetable was absolutely necessary if he intended to launch his attack on Trenton under the cover of darkness. But midnight came and went and the army was not yet across. By two o'clock in the morning, Washington realized with a sinking heart that the opportunity for a night attack against Trenton had been lost and that if he went up against Trenton, he would do so in daylight or not at all. And to cap this wretched turn of events, he had no news from either Cadwalader or Ewing, who should have already crossed the river.

When at last he would proceed to march with his twenty-four hundred men toward Trenton, it would be under the assumption that fifteen hundred men under Ewing were to attack Trenton from the south, while at the same time another thousand men under Cadwalader would be across the river nine miles farther south attacking the Hessian encampment of Von Donop. Perhaps of all the things that happened on this strange night, Washington can be most grateful not for what he knew, but for what he did not know. Indeed, among other things, he did not know that the Hessian commander, Colonel Rahl, was aware of every detail of the plan to make the crossing.

[19]

NOW WE MUST GO BACK on the same day to about 5
P.M.
and see what happened at the Hessian encampment at Trenton, where Colonel Rahl was in command.

Colonel Rahl had received news of the impending Continental attacks not only from Dr. Bryant and the British General Grant but from his own informants. Once he accepted the reality of that news, swallowed his contempt for the Americans and admitted to himself that there was a possibility that the Americans could mount an attack of size and importance, he proceeded to take certain defensive measures.

He posted guard detachments that were alert and well armed all around Trenton. He also had a sort of mobile guard that marched up and down every street of the little town.

The weather in Trenton was as cold and miserable as it was at McKonkey's Ferry, where Washington and Glover and the others were undertaking the crossing. This was Christmas Day, and the Hessians, who had looked forward to the pleasures of Christmas and to a fine celebration of Christmas, were solemn and angry at the lack of piousness on the part of the Americans and particularly aggravated at their being ordered out to duty in such foul weather.

The Christmas tradition was stronger among them than it was among the Americans, and so few were their comforts that the privilege of a day of rest on December 25 was almost unassailable. Nevertheless, they were disciplined mercenary soldiers, and they responded to the orders of their officers. Now at about five o'clock, just as dusk had fallen—and on a cloudy winter day with sleet turning into rain, this dusk would be more impenetrable than usual—the Hessian encampment was attacked.

A group of Americans, possibly no more than twenty, possibly as many as sixty or seventy, dashed out of the woods, raced toward the Hessian outposts and let loose a volley from their muskets. Their gunfire was rather ragged since their powder was wet, but it had sufficient effect to kill three Hessians and to wound three others. Coming as they did so suddenly out of the darkness, the Americans appeared to be far more formidable than they actually were. At the roar of their guns, the Hessian drummers immediately beat to arms, and those Hessians who garrisoned the outpost that received the attack stood to arms calmly and began to return the American fire.