The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [86]
Along the Delaware, the army had prepared for three separate crossings. Horatio Gates was the farthest south, would lead the fresh militia across the river near Bordentown, an attack against von Donop’s forces, which was to be more of a diversion than a general action. If successful, von Donop would be cut off from Trenton, would have no role to play in what might occur there.
Opposite Trenton, Washington had ordered General James Ewing to ferry eight hundred militia to the creek along the southern edge of the town, to bottle up any retreat by Rall’s Hessians in that direction.
Washington himself would lead the main body of the army, twenty-four hundred experienced men, the divisions of Greene and Sullivan. Their crossing would come nine miles north of the town, a place known as McKonkey’s Ferry. Once across the river, the march would be south, along two parallel roads, Sullivan close to the river, Greene farther inland. If the plan was to work at all, the two columns would have to reach Trenton at about the same time, the combined strength the only way Washington could hope to bring an effective attack.
It was a complicated plan at best, a three-pronged assault that depended on the reliability of each commander. And it was not to be. Late in the afternoon, as Washington marched his men north to McKonkey’s, he had been stunned to receive a note from Gates, who had decided to leave his camp and make a sudden trip to Philadelphia. There were rumors swirling around Gates, that with Lee captured, Gates was politicking to his friends in congress, revealing his own ambition by making the most of the failures of Washington’s leadership. Washington had not wanted to believe it possible, Gates having come to the army in the first place because of his friendship to Washington. But there was no time now for dealing with whatever intrigue Gates had in mind. Washington had immediately ordered Gates’ men to be led by his subordinate, General John Cadwalader.
As darkness had come, and the weather turned more severe, there arrived more bad news from down the river. Washington was shocked to learn that both Cadwalader and Ewing had abandoned any hope of crossing the river. Washington had read the words with stoic silence, two of his three prongs defeated before the assault could even begin. If Washington halted his own march and ended the mission altogether, their unique opportunity would be lost. The ambitious plan was reduced to one faint hope. He still had the most experienced men in the army under his command, and the march upriver had gone smoothly. At McKonkey’s, the boats were waiting.
THEY LINED THE BANK IN A SOLID ROW, AND AROUND EACH BOAT MEN were working, some testing the long stout push poles, some tending to the boats themselves. Washington finished the last of his orders, saw John Glover coming toward him, the man’s face hard and unsmiling, the scowl of a man going about his work. Glover saluted him, and Washington could see sweat on the man’s brow, defiance of the sharp cold.
“Colonel, are we ready?”
He tried to hide the impatience, had no reason to scold Glover for anything, and the stocky man stared at him, said, “These boats . . . damnedest thing I ever seen. We loaded one of ’em up with Colonel Knox’s cannon, and she just sat up tall, like she was still empty. I don’t know how this fellow Durham figured how to build these things, but I doubt anyone can sink one.”
Washington could see through the darkness, low lanternlight, the long fat boats rocking slightly, the crews still making their preparations.
“They use them for hauling iron ore down the river, so I’m told, Colonel. They have a shallow draft.” He tried to sound knowledgeable, Glover listening with tolerance, and he felt foolish now explaining anything about boats to Glover. There was a sudden blast of wind, and Glover turned northward, said, “Aye, sir. Shallow draft. That they do. I have to tell you, General, there’s a brute of a