The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [105]
His troops were gathering still, some only staring, others laughing, calling out to the British, who did not respond, the captured men seeming to press together, closing ranks against this new kind of assault. Washington thought, How odd that they would fear us. Are we so unknown to them?
He saw one man burst out of the doorway of the Hall, the man running toward the cannon now, gripping a bottle of some dark liquid, and the man shouted toward Hamilton, “Captain, you’re a fine shot, sir! You blowed a hole right through a painting of King George!”
From the upper floors of Nassau Hall, more of his men were cheering, calling out, some displaying bits of uniforms, British hats, swords. There was no longer any battle, the mood of the army changing abruptly to a celebration. All through the surrounding houses and shops, men were emerging with British prisoners, supply officers mostly, noncombatants. Others carried all manner of British uniforms, packs, supplies of every kind. One man was pulling a small wagon by himself, and Washington could see the cargo, a stack of white cloth, fresh tents, blankets. He would not stop them, knew that out on the Post Road Mercer’s men were holding tight, a careful eye toward Trenton, artillery pieces now doing the job of destroying the bridge over Stony Brook. He knew Cornwallis would surely be coming, but for the moment, there was no danger. The men had desperate needs, and the blankets and clothing of the British would replace many of the rags his men carried. He was actually enjoying the spectacle, the pure joy of his army, another extraordinary day, another gift to the nation, another victory.
Men began to emerge from Nassau Hall again, and there was something new, a man holding a loaf of bread, and another a bottle, the man shouting, “There’s a fine feast here! We done interrupted their lunch!”
Men began to flood into the hall, and Washington knew he could not keep them from a meal, would not try. The officers were filling in the gaps around the British prisoners, were now herding them away in the road, and Washington felt his own hunger, could smell what the troops had discovered, some kind of soldier’s mess in Nassau Hall, a delicious odor of something still cooking. He climbed down from the horse, and Tilghman was beside him, the young man stepping in front of him, blocking the way. Washington stopped, said, “It seems the British have obliged us with a meal. If we are fortunate, there will be enough for all. However, if we do not make haste, the men may consume every scrap before we can find something for ourselves.”
Tilghman did not reflect Washington’s good spirits, seemed not to hear him, said, “Sir, I have to say . . . you put a mighty fright in us today. We all thought . . . well, sir, we all thought you had put yourself in harm’s way. We were greatly relieved that you survived.”
He was surprised by Tilghman’s emotions, looked at the rest of the staff, some men nodding, echoing what Tilghman had said. He tried to recall the moment, the horse carrying him out in front of the men.
“Gentlemen, a commander must lead his men.”
Tilghman began to protest, and Washington held up a hand.
“I am grateful for your concern. In the heat of battle, we do not always think of our own safety. And, as you can see, on this day, I was blessed by the hand of the Almighty. Indeed, on this day . . . we were all blessed.”
HE RODE BACK ACROSS THE WIDE HILLSIDE, THE GROUND STILL LITTERED with heaps of red. Some of the wounded had been moved, but there were many more still to be tended, and he moved past them holding the thought away from his mind. On the crest of the hill, the two farmhouses