It was dusk on the seventh of December. At midmorning we’d had word that the rest of the army had arrived. Mother and Father and Lucy and I bundled up some clothes, warm blankets, and food, and headed for the river. Along the way we picked up the Moores.
The scene when we arrived around one in the afternoon was like a nightmare. The river was full of rowboats, ferry boats, and galleys from the Pennsylvania navy. It was a day of gray skies and no sun and biting cold, which added to the nightmarish quality. The crossings from New Jersey to Pennsylvania had begun in early afternoon, and I was desperately afraid Dan would cross before I found him.
Betsy Moore and I had gotten permission from our parents to wander up and down the banks and try to find Dan. We’d been searching for what seemed like hours, meeting each other every so often to commiserate and start looking again. It was getting to be dusk already. All up and down the river where the endless stream of the army was gathered, bonfires and torches were lit, adding an unreal quality to an already unreal scene.
I turned suddenly, bumping into a tall officer who was shouting orders at the stunned and weakened men as they approached the embarkation point.
“Damnation!” He turned to peer down at me. “What’s this? You shouldn’t be about alone in this mess, miss.”
“My parents are nearby. I’m Jemima Emerson from Trenton, sir. I’m looking for my brother, Daniel. He’s a captain. He wears the blue and red of the Second New Jersey.”
“Our men wear anything they can get their hands on these days, miss.” His uniform was filthy and ragged, but he still wore his crimson silken sash and sword, and in spite of a day’s worth of beard he bowed politely.
“Lieutenant Colonel David Henley, at your service. From Trenton, you say? I didn’t think there was anyone left in Trenton who cared. I did see some New Jersey men over there to the left, near the artillery.” He gestured beyond the rim of torchlight. “This way, soldier, right here, come on, lad,” he was saying.
They came up to him like ghosts out of the dusk and wordlessly boarded the boats. They were like skeletons, scarecrows. Their clothes hung in tatters. The once-fine coats of the Continental army were muddied and torn. Rags were wrapped around their necks, and their breeches were threadbare, with bloodied legs showing through. The lucky ones had tied blankets around them with pieces of rope. Their knapsacks and cartridge boxes and muskets and canteens dangled from their emaciated bodies.
Some had sores on their faces, and their lips were cracked and blue from the cold. Only a few had shoes. Most had rags wrapped around their feet, and their hair hung limp and unkempt. Many stumbled, held up by comrades.
But they kept coming, passing me with eyes that saw nothing because they had seen too much. And yet their eyes had a peculiar fire in them, a dull, persistent gaze. I could not take my eyes from them as they streamed by me. They looked like a lost tribe that had wandered the earth homeless. Yet something about them, some sense of shared experience, made them look as if they all belonged together. That look made them an army and clothed them far better in sameness than any bright uniform with dashing swords and plumes and buttons.
I found Dan standing near some artillery pieces with a group of tattered soldiers. The torchlight behind him silhouetted his figure against the bleak winter sky.
I would have known him anywhere. I would have known him in hell. He said something to one of his men. His broad shoulders were straight and commanding in the faded blue and red coat. His breeches were dirty, his boots worn and muddy. His wrists were thin and chafed. But he wore his sword with authority, and there was something about the way he held his head and wore his cocked hat that would make me single him out in a field of a hundred men.
“Daniel!” I could barely speak his name, lest the speaking of it make him disappear. And I could barely see him for my tears.
He turned. “Jem? Is it really you?”
I ran to him, slipping on the frozen ground.
“Be careful, Jem. Don’t fall.” His voice was older, huskier, more confident. Oh, how could he be confident in the middle of all this?
I ran across the frozen ground into his arms.
Both of my brothers crossed the river within the next hour. There was scarcely time for Dan and Betsy to have a few moments together and for him to visit with Mother and Father.
Scarcely time for him to tell the Moores that he’d had to leave Raymond north of New Brunswick at the house of a farmer and his wife, for Raymond had fallen ill with dysentery and fever. He gave the Moores the name of the farmer and told them where he lived.
Mother and Lucy gave him the bread and meat they had brought, and he shared it with his men, along with the blankets and blanket coats. Father’s voice was low and sad when he told Dan that there hadn’t been any shoes in his shop to bring. I know he considered it a personal failure.
The crossings continued far into the night and the afternoon of the next day while we stayed in our house. Father closed his shop, the first time I ever remember him doing so.
“What good is a shop,” he said, “when I couldn’t supply my son and his men with what they needed?”
At supper that night there was a knock on the door. Father went to answer it and came back to the dining room with Stacy Potts.
“Did thee not hear the music?” Mr. Potts asked.
“No,” Mother answered, “we have been in the house all day.”
“Oh yes,” he said, “the British and Hessians came into town with much music and display. They came shortly after the last of the Americans crossed the river a few hours ago.”
Hessians! Paid soldiers from Germany hired by George the Third! I drew in my breath. Lucy had told me stories about the Hessians. She said that Hessian grenadiers had killed more American soldiers than any other Hessian unit on American soil!
“Would you sit and sup with us, Mr. Potts?” Mother asked calmly.
“Thank thee, no, ma’am. It has been a tiring day.” He smiled and winked at my father. “The Americans, James, met them with a shower of grapeshot from across the river.”
My father nodded in solemn approval.
“But I will not keep thee from thy supper.” He hesitated. Then, “James, these will be difficult days for us all when the town is occupied.”
“I’ve given it much thought, Stacy.”
“I know my Patriotism has been in question since I refused to take the oath to the Cause.”
“I know your Quaker faith forbids oaths, Stacy. We have no doubts as to your Patriotism.”
“Thee is kind. I would hope thee has no doubts in the days to come.”
“And why should I, Stacy?”
“My house has already been inspected as a possible headquarters for the Hessian commander, Johann Gottlieb Rall. If he chooses to occupy it, I will be an impartial and gracious host.”
“There is nothing else you can do, Stacy.”
He nodded, bowed to my mother, and went with my father to the door. When my father came back he looked at us. “Stacy Potts is one of the most prosperous and decent men in town. His house is probably the most commodious. I know him to be a true friend and Patriot. I’ll hear nothing in the way of disparaging remarks about him if they occupy his house.”
“We’ll include him in our evening prayers, James,” Mother said.