9. Heroes and Villains of the American Revolution: Early Campaign in New York and New Jersey (1776)

My Name is George Washington: Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army

I was born on February 22, 1732, in Westmoreland County, Virginia, among the rolling fields and winding rivers of the Tidewater region. My youth was shaped by the land, by hard work, and by the lessons of duty and perseverance. My father, Augustine, passed when I was young, and much of what I learned came through experience rather than formal schooling. As a boy, I worked as a surveyor, mapping the untamed wilderness beyond the Blue Ridge Mountains. It was there, walking through forest and stream, that I came to love this land and its vast potential for the generations yet to come.

A Soldier in the Making

My first true calling came with service to Virginia. During the French and Indian War, I led men through the rugged frontier, often outnumbered, hungry, and exhausted. I learned the nature of command through failure as much as through success—at Fort Necessity, I felt both pride and humiliation. Yet those early struggles forged my resolve. I witnessed the discipline of the British regulars and saw the resilience of the colonial militiamen. It was clear to me that we were a people capable of self-defense, if only given purpose and unity.

A Reluctant Leader

When the call came in 1775 to take command of the Continental Army, I accepted with humility, aware of the burden I bore. I did not seek power or glory; I sought only to serve the cause of liberty. The army I inherited was brave but untrained, filled with men who believed fiercely in freedom but had little notion of war’s discipline. Together, we stood against one of the mightiest empires in the world, often without pay, shoes, or sufficient food. Yet, I found in them a spirit that no hardship could crush.

The Campaign in New York and New Jersey

In 1776, our struggle reached a crucible in New York and New Jersey. After driving the British from Boston, we marched to defend the city of New York—only to face an overwhelming force under General Howe. We fought on Long Island and were beaten badly. But Providence favored us with fog and silence, allowing my men to slip across the East River by night, escaping annihilation. We lost Manhattan soon after, yet even in defeat, I refused to yield. From Harlem Heights to the bitter retreats through New Jersey, I watched the fire of independence flicker but never go out. Then, on Christmas night, we crossed the Delaware through ice and storm. At Trenton, and again at Princeton, we struck a blow that rekindled the nation’s faith in itself.

Holding the Nation Together

The years that followed tested not only my army but the soul of our cause. There were mutinies, shortages, betrayals, and the endless cold of Valley Forge. But through those trials, I learned that victory was not measured in battles won alone, but in endurance—endurance of the people and of the spirit. When the war finally turned in our favor and peace was secured, I did what few men had done before: I gave up power. I returned home to Mount Vernon, content to lay down my sword.

A New Duty

Yet peace did not bring rest. The nation we had fought to create was fragile, and the Articles of Confederation had left us weak and divided. I was called once more to serve—this time not as a soldier, but as a statesman. In 1789, I accepted the presidency, sworn in on the steps of Federal Hall in New York. I governed with the same principles that guided me in war—patience, restraint, and faith in Providence. I sought unity above all, believing that our union was the foundation upon which liberty must stand.

Preparing the Defense of New York (Spring–Summer 1776) – Told by Washington

When I first arrived in New York after the British evacuation of Boston, I found a city of immense importance but fragile loyalty. The harbor teemed with merchant ships, the streets buzzed with rumor, and the population stood divided—some fervently devoted to liberty, others secretly wishing for the King’s return. The city itself was exposed on every side: bordered by water, open to naval bombardment, and surrounded by islands that could serve as staging grounds for an enemy landing. I knew at once that if the British chose to attack here, they would come in full force. Our task was to prepare the defenses of New York against the greatest army and navy in the world.

The Geography of Challenge

New York presented both opportunity and peril. The Hudson River offered a direct path into the heart of the colonies, while the East River opened to Long Island and the Sound. Whoever controlled these waters could divide our forces or trap us entirely. I ordered immediate reconnaissance of the surrounding terrain, including the heights of Brooklyn, the hills of Manhattan, and the narrow passes where the enemy might advance. We had to prepare for every possibility—an attack from the sea, an assault by land, or both combined. The challenge was enormous: we had neither the ships to defend the waterways nor the trained engineers to fortify such a vast area. Yet we had no choice but to try.

Building the Fortifications

My men and I began construction of fortifications across the region. On Manhattan Island, we strengthened defenses at the Battery to guard the harbor and raised new works at Fort George, Fort Stirling, and Fort Putnam. We established Fort Washington at the northern tip of the island to command the Hudson, and Fort Lee across the river in New Jersey to protect the opposite shore. On Long Island, we fortified the ridges near Brooklyn Heights, constructing redoubts and entrenchments overlooking the western approaches. These would form the outer ring of our defense—our first line against invasion. Every available man took up shovel and axe; soldiers became laborers, cutting timber, hauling earth, and raising breastworks beneath the summer sun.

Training a Raw Army

While the fortifications rose, we faced another urgent problem: our army was green, and discipline was weak. Many soldiers were militia who had never seen real battle. They came from every colony, each with its own habits and expectations. Training them to act as one, to obey orders under fire, was as great a task as building the forts themselves. We drilled daily, practicing formations and musket fire, though supplies were short and ammunition scarce. Food came irregularly, uniforms wore thin, and sickness spread through the camps. Yet the men worked on, driven by the belief that the fate of liberty rested on their endurance.

Shortages and Struggles

Our difficulties did not end with training. The army lacked powder, tents, tools, and even muskets. The Continental Congress did what it could, but the young nation had little to give. We relied on local farmers and merchants for supplies, sometimes paying with promises instead of coin. The soldiers’ spirits wavered at times—long hours, poor rations, and constant labor took their toll. Still, they looked to me for steadiness, and I reminded them that every wall we raised and every trench we dug was an act of defiance against tyranny.

The Calm Before the Storm

By midsummer, our defenses encircled New York like a rough shield. They were imperfect and incomplete, but they represented hope. From the high ground of Brooklyn Heights, I watched the harbor each morning for signs of the British fleet. When it came, it would come in thunder. I knew that all our preparation might not be enough, but to flee without a fight would mean surrendering the very heart of the colonies. We would stand and defend this place, not because it was easy to hold, but because it was necessary to the cause.

Arrival of the British Armada (June–July 1776) – Told by George Washington

By early summer of 1776, the air in New York grew thick with tension. We had fortified every height and pass we could, trained our men to stand firm, and prayed that our preparations would suffice. Yet all knew what was coming. Reports from the coast spoke of a fleet beyond imagination—a force unlike anything ever sent across the Atlantic. Still, even those warnings did not prepare us for what our eyes soon beheld.

The First Sight of the Fleet

It was in late June when the first British ships appeared off the coast of Staten Island. One by one, they came into view—great vessels with masts like forests and sails bright against the horizon. Day after day, more arrived, until the waters of New York Harbor seemed to vanish beneath a forest of rigging. I rode to the heights to witness it myself, and even I, who had faced war before, was struck by the sight. Before us lay over four hundred ships of war and transport—frigates, sloops, and men-of-war—each armed with cannon and filled with soldiers. The British had sent not a raiding force, but an empire.

A Display of Power

Under General William Howe and his brother, Admiral Richard Howe, the British came with purpose and pride. Their fleet gleamed in the summer sun, their discipline unbroken, their banners bold. It was a display meant to awe and terrify, and indeed, it did. The harbor itself seemed to groan beneath the weight of their power. The thunder of their cannons as they signaled to one another echoed across the bay, shaking windows in Manhattan. My men stood upon the shore, silent, staring at the endless line of ships that seemed to stretch beyond the edge of the world.

The Measure of the Enemy

As I looked upon that armada, I understood fully the magnitude of our task. The British had brought tens of thousands of soldiers, including seasoned regiments from Europe and fierce Hessian auxiliaries hired from Germany. They came to crush rebellion, to remind us of the might of the Crown. Against them, we had scarcely ten thousand men, most untested and poorly supplied. Our cannon were few, our powder scarce, and our defenses spread thin. It would be folly to underestimate them, yet it would be betrayal to despair.

A Moment of Resolve

That night, I walked among the camps, speaking softly to the soldiers. Many were fearful, and rightly so. But I told them that courage was not the absence of fear—it was standing firm in spite of it. “These ships,” I said, “bring not the end of our struggle, but the proof of its worth. If they must come with all the might of Britain to subdue us, then our cause is greater than even they can understand.” The men nodded, and though their faces were pale, their eyes shone with determination.

The Offer of Peace

Soon after their arrival, the Howe brothers sent envoys bearing offers of pardon to those who would lay down their arms. I refused them. For how can one accept pardon for defending the natural rights of mankind? The cause of America was not rebellion but restoration—the right to govern ourselves in liberty and law. No amount of ships or soldiers could erase that truth.

Awaiting the Blow

Through June and July, the British army assembled upon Staten Island, drilling and gathering strength. Their movements were steady, deliberate, as though they had all the time in the world. We watched them from across the harbor, our fortifications ready but our hearts uncertain of when or where the storm would strike. The stillness before battle is its own kind of torment—waiting for the first cannon, the first musket, the first cry of war.

The Battle of Long Island (August 27, 1776) – Told by George Washington

By late August of 1776, the British army was ready to strike. Their fleet filled New York Harbor, and their soldiers, numbering more than thirty thousand, had gathered on Staten Island. I knew the blow would come soon, and that it would fall upon Long Island, where our defenses were weakest. To guard the approaches to Brooklyn Heights—the gateway to New York—I stationed several regiments under Generals Putnam, Sullivan, and Stirling. The men were brave but untested. They dug trenches and raised redoubts, watching the British across the bay as one might watch a gathering storm.

The Enemy Lands

On August 22, the British crossed from Staten Island to the shores of Long Island in great numbers, their scarlet lines stretching as far as the eye could see. They landed unopposed at Gravesend Bay, for we had neither the ships nor the men to contest their crossing. In the days that followed, they advanced methodically, securing their position and preparing for the main assault. I rode among the troops, offering words of encouragement, though in truth I knew the odds we faced. The enemy was disciplined, their generals experienced, and their numbers overwhelming. Still, I believed that courage and Providence might yet carry the day.

The Battle Begins

Before dawn on August 27, the British struck. Under the command of General Howe, they launched a massive assault along our defensive lines. General Grant attacked from the south, engaging Stirling’s men at the Gowanus Road, while the Hessian forces pressed from the center against General Sullivan’s troops near Flatbush. For hours, the fighting raged fiercely. Muskets flashed, cannon roared, and the smoke of battle drifted through the trees. Our men held bravely at first, unaware that the true danger was yet to come.

The Flanking Maneuver

Unbeknownst to us, General Howe had sent a large force—nearly ten thousand men—under his brother, General Clinton, and Lord Cornwallis on a wide flanking march through Jamaica Pass. We had posted only a few scouts there, believing the terrain impassable. By dawn, the British column had passed undetected behind our lines. When they appeared on our left flank, the trap was sprung. Our army, caught between three advancing forces, was surrounded. The cry went up that the British were in our rear, and confusion spread like fire through the ranks.

The Rout and Retreat

What followed was chaos and tragedy. Brave men who had stood firm all morning found themselves hemmed in with no avenue of escape. Many fought desperately, forming small bands to resist as long as they could. General Stirling, refusing to surrender, led a gallant charge against the Hessians to cover the retreat of his men. He was captured, but his sacrifice saved hundreds. Others were not so fortunate. Many were cut down or taken prisoner as they fled toward the safety of Brooklyn Heights. By the day’s end, the field was strewn with the fallen—Americans who had fought with courage beyond their training and strength.

My Name is Nathanael Greene: Major General of the Continental Army

I was born on August 7, 1742, in Potowomut, Rhode Island, into a Quaker family that prized humility, hard work, and peace. My father, a devout man, hoped I would follow in the quiet traditions of our faith, but my heart was restless. I loved books more than plows, study more than stillness. I read everything I could find—philosophy, law, history, and the art of war, which, though frowned upon by my community, fascinated me deeply. When conflict with Britain began to stir, I found myself drawn not to silence, but to action.

From Merchant to Militia Leader

Before the war, I worked as a merchant and managed my family’s iron forge. Those were years of toil and learning. I came to see how trade bound the colonies together and how British taxes threatened to strangle our independence. When news of the Boston blockade reached us, I helped organize the Kentish Guards, a local militia. Though I limped from a childhood injury and had no formal military training, I studied military texts late into the night, determined to prepare myself for what was to come. My Quaker brethren disowned me for taking up arms, but I could not stand idle while liberty was under threat.

The Call to War

In 1775, the Continental Congress called for men of courage and principle, and I offered my service. General George Washington, seeing my determination and organization, appointed me a brigadier general. I was young and untested, but I believed that discipline, preparation, and reason could make farmers into soldiers. I soon earned Washington’s trust, not through brilliance, but through reliability. I made it my duty to see that the men were fed, clothed, and ready—a task as vital as any battle.

Defending New York and New Jersey

The campaign of 1776 tested every ounce of endurance in us. I helped fortify Long Island and prepared our positions along the Hudson, though illness kept me from the field at the Battle of Brooklyn. Our defeat there was a heavy blow, but Washington’s calm retreat through the fog saved the army. I commanded at Fort Lee and advised on the defense of Fort Washington—an episode that still haunts me. I urged that the fort could hold, but it fell, and thousands of brave men were captured. The loss weighed heavily on my conscience, yet it taught me that flexibility and retreat can sometimes be greater acts of courage than holding ground.

Loyalty to Washington

Throughout the war, I stood by General Washington, even when others doubted him. When supplies ran short at Valley Forge, I accepted the thankless position of Quartermaster General, tasked with feeding and clothing the army. Many would have refused such a role, but I saw that logistics was the backbone of victory. I traveled from state to state, begging, borrowing, and organizing so that our soldiers might survive the winter. It was not glorious work, but it was necessary, and it bound me closer to Washington than ever.

The Southern Command

In 1780, I was given command of the Southern Department—perhaps the most desperate assignment in the war. The South was ravaged by British and Loyalist forces, and our army was shattered. I knew that to fight Cornwallis directly would be suicide. Instead, I used movement and strategy as my weapons, drawing the enemy deep into the Carolinas while striking where he was weakest. At Cowpens, Guilford Courthouse, and Eutaw Springs, we fought with cunning and sacrifice, bleeding Cornwallis dry until he retreated north toward Yorktown. It was a campaign of endurance, not conquest, and it proved that even defeat can serve the cause of victory.

Return to Civilian Life

After the war, I returned to Rhode Island, weary but proud. I longed for peace, for my wife Catharine and our children, and for the simple rhythm of daily life. Yet peace brings its own trials. I had given my fortune to the cause, borrowing and spending all I had to feed and supply the troops. In the end, I found myself in debt, forced to sell my lands and move south to Georgia, where Congress had granted me an estate in gratitude for my service.

Final Reflections

I died in 1786, only forty-four years of age, my health worn thin from the years of war and strain. But I died knowing that our efforts were not in vain. We had forged a nation from the fires of hardship, a republic where every man might rise by merit, not birth. I was not the most brilliant general, nor the most daring, but I was steady, faithful, and resourceful. My life stands as proof that courage often lies not in the glory of battle, but in the endurance to keep fighting when all seems lost.

Greene’s Role in Defending Brooklyn Heights (August 1776) – Told by Greene

In the summer of 1776, General Washington entrusted me with the defense of Brooklyn Heights—a position of immense importance and equal peril. From that high ground, our cannon could command the lower lands and the approaches from Long Island. It was, in truth, the key to New York. I set myself to the task with all the energy I possessed, for I knew that if the enemy were to take the Heights, the city itself would be lost. We worked day and night to strengthen our defenses—digging trenches, building redoubts, and placing artillery along every ridge and road. The men were weary but eager, knowing the British fleet was gathering strength across the harbor. Every sound of hammer and spade carried the weight of what was to come.

The Unexpected Blow of Illness

Just as our preparations neared completion, I was struck down by a violent fever. It came suddenly and left me weak and bedridden. I pleaded to remain in command, but my strength failed me, and the physicians insisted I be removed from the lines. The pain of body was nothing compared to the anguish of spirit. To have spent weeks shaping the defense only to be confined to a sickbed on the eve of battle was a torment I can scarcely describe. General Washington, ever wise and calm, reassigned command to Generals Sullivan and Stirling. They were capable men, but they had not lived and breathed every inch of the ground as I had.

Watching Helplessly from Afar

From my quarters, I could hear the distant rumble of cannon as the battle began on August 27. The sounds carried across the East River like the beating of a great drum of fate. I knew at once that the enemy had attacked in force. Reports came in fragments—first that our men were holding the southern lines, then that the Hessians were advancing in the center. By the time word reached me of the flanking movement through Jamaica Pass, I understood the danger too well. It was the very route I had ordered to be watched closely, and yet illness had robbed me of the power to ensure it was done. When the British appeared behind our lines, the trap was sprung, and there was nothing I could do to change it.

Reflections on What Was Lost

In the days that followed, I learned of our terrible losses—the dead, the captured, and the brave souls who had fought until surrounded. Many called it the army’s first great defeat, but for me, it was a deeply personal one. I could not shake the thought that, had I been present, perhaps the outcome might have been different. Perhaps I would have recognized Howe’s maneuver sooner, or better coordinated our retreat. But such thoughts serve no purpose beyond regret. War is not guided by one man’s will alone; it is shaped by circumstance, by luck, and by the strength of those who remain standing.

Lessons in Leadership

That illness taught me humility. I had believed that preparation and diligence alone could secure victory. But war is unpredictable, and even the best-laid plans can fall to ruin when fortune turns her face away. Still, the defeat at Brooklyn Heights did not break us—it bound us closer. I recovered in time to help with the desperate retreat across the East River, a feat of courage and providence that preserved our army from destruction. From that night onward, I understood that victory in this war would not come through might or genius alone, but through endurance.

The Road Ahead

When I returned to full strength, I threw myself into the work with renewed purpose. The memory of that battle remained with me always—not as a mark of failure, but as a reminder of the fragility of human plans. I learned to lead not through pride, but through patience; not through command, but through trust. Brooklyn Heights was nearly our end, yet from that narrow escape, the army gained wisdom and resolve. And I, who had watched our first great trial from the weakness of a sickbed, learned that sometimes the greatest lessons in command are born not in action, but in the helplessness of watching others fight the battle you had prepared to face.

The Nighttime Evacuation of Long Island (August 29–30, 1776) – Told by Greene

In the days following the Battle of Long Island, our army lay cornered upon the Heights of Brooklyn, trapped between the enemy and the East River. The British had us surrounded, their camps pressing close on the land while their ships waited at the mouth of the river, ready to seal our fate. The men were weary, their faces hollow from hunger and sleeplessness. Many believed the end was near. General Washington moved quietly among the ranks, saying little but observing everything. Though he spoke no word of despair, I could see the weight of command upon him. The decision he faced would determine whether our cause lived or died.

The Plan for Escape

It was then that Washington made the boldest choice of the campaign—to withdraw the entire army across the East River under cover of darkness. To retreat so vast a force, with the enemy so near, was perilous beyond measure. Yet to stay meant certain ruin. Every boat that could be found, from scows to fishing vessels, was gathered in secret. The plan was to move silently through the night, ferrying the men, horses, cannon, and supplies to the safety of Manhattan. No one outside the highest officers knew of the plan, for secrecy was our greatest weapon. I, still recovering from illness, watched the preparations with awe at the calm efficiency with which they were carried out.

A Night Cloaked in Fog

As darkness fell on the night of August 29, the men began to move in hushed columns toward the riverbank. The wind was still, the water smooth as glass. Orders were whispered, muskets muffled, and oars wrapped in cloth to deaden their sound. Hour after hour, boat after boat crossed the river, ferrying men through the black water. I stood upon the shore, watching regiment after regiment disappear into the mist. Not once did a cry of alarm rise from the enemy’s lines. It was as though Providence itself had veiled us from their sight.

Then, just before dawn, a thick fog rolled down from the heights and settled upon the river—a fog so dense that one could scarcely see a few yards ahead. It was a marvel of timing, a cloak sent by heaven. The last boats slipped away as the first light touched the sky. When the sun finally rose and the fog lifted, the British looked upon empty entrenchments. The Continental Army had vanished, leaving behind campfires still smoldering in the dawn.

The Miracle Remembered

To this day, I count that night among the most extraordinary moments of the war. Not a single life was lost in the crossing, and not a shot was fired. More than nine thousand men escaped from the grasp of a vastly superior foe. It was Washington’s finest hour—not for victory won in battle, but for wisdom and calm in the face of disaster. Lesser men would have surrendered or panicked; he remained steadfast. His presence alone steadied all who followed him.

Defending Manhattan and the Skirmish at Kip’s Bay (Sept 1776) – Told by Greene

After our miraculous escape from Long Island, the army regrouped on Manhattan. Though relieved to have survived, the men were exhausted, and our situation remained perilous. The British, with their vast fleet and disciplined ranks, were preparing their next strike. We knew it was only a matter of time before they crossed the East River to attack the city directly. Manhattan, with its long shoreline and open plains, was difficult to defend. General Washington hoped to hold it long enough to slow the enemy and preserve what strength we had left, but in truth, we were outmatched in every way.

A City on the Brink

By early September, British ships had sailed up both the Hudson and the East River, giving them control of nearly every approach. Our army stretched thinly along the island, trying to cover too much ground with too few men. Many of our soldiers were militia—brave in spirit but untested and poorly equipped. Some had never seen real combat before. The city itself was tense and uncertain. Loyalists lurked among the citizens, and the people feared bombardment. It was clear that New York could not be held for long, yet Washington’s duty demanded that we fight to delay the inevitable.

The British Landing at Kip’s Bay

On the morning of September 15, 1776, the British made their move. Their ships positioned along the East River opened fire in one of the most tremendous bombardments I have ever witnessed. The roar of cannon was deafening; the earth shook beneath our feet. Shot and shell tore through our works at Kip’s Bay, scattering dirt and timber in every direction. As the smoke thickened, boats filled with red-coated soldiers surged toward the shore. The militia stationed there—raw recruits from Connecticut—had never faced such fury. They broke. Some fired a few panicked shots; others fled before the enemy even reached the beach.

The Collapse of the Line

When word reached me that our lines had given way, I could hardly believe it. General Washington himself rode to the scene, desperate to rally the men. I was not there at that moment, but those who were told me later that his anger burned brighter than the guns themselves. He rode among the fleeing soldiers, striking his cane against the ground and shouting for them to stand. But it was no use. Fear had taken hold. The militia, seeing the disciplined ranks of British regulars advancing through smoke and flame, scattered in confusion. Even Washington, surrounded by retreating men, was nearly captured in the chaos. It was one of the darkest moments of the war.

The Fall of the City

By afternoon, the British had landed thousands of troops and pushed inland. We fell back northward toward Harlem Heights, leaving New York City in enemy hands. Smoke rose behind us as fires consumed parts of the town. Some said the flames were set by retreating patriots; others claimed Loyalists or British soldiers caused them. Whatever the truth, the city we had fought to defend was lost. The army’s spirit was shaken, and many wondered if the cause itself was doomed.

The Battle of Harlem Heights (September 16, 1776) – Told by Nathanael Greene

After the disaster at Kip’s Bay and the fall of New York City, our army was weary, disheartened, and scattered. Many of the men had lost faith in themselves and in our cause. The militia, still trembling from the thunder of British cannon, looked upon the redcoats as invincible. We withdrew to the high ground north of the city, near a place called Harlem Heights, where the ridges and thick woods gave us a stronger position. There, General Washington resolved to hold firm, regroup the men, and remind them that they were soldiers of a cause greater than fear.

The British Pursue

The British, confident from their victories, advanced northward in pursuit, hoping to crush what remained of our force. On the morning of September 16, a party of enemy light infantry moved forward to test our lines. They were bold and mocking, blowing their bugles in imitation of a fox hunt, as if chasing frightened prey. Their arrogance angered the men, who had suffered too much to be treated like sport. Washington saw an opportunity—not for a grand victory, but for redemption. He ordered a detachment of riflemen and light troops to push back the enemy and teach them respect for the American soldier.

The Skirmish Begins

At first light, our troops moved through the woods, advancing cautiously. The terrain was rugged, with thickets and ravines that made every step uncertain. When our skirmishers met the British advance, shots rang out, echoing through the trees. The fighting quickly intensified, spreading across the slopes and hollows of Harlem Heights. Our men, though outnumbered, fought with renewed vigor. They had grown tired of retreating and were eager to prove their worth. The sound of muskets and the cries of officers carried across the field as the battle swelled into a fierce exchange.

Washington Takes the Field

Hearing the fight grow heavy, Washington himself rode to the front. His presence transformed the men. Standing tall in the saddle, he directed reinforcements with calm authority, his voice steady above the din. I joined him soon after, helping to rally the troops along the ridge. For the first time in weeks, I saw the old fire return to the army’s eyes. The British pressed hard, but we held our ground. Then, as more of our men arrived, Washington ordered a counterattack. The line surged forward with cheers, driving the enemy back through the woods and across the open fields.

The Enemy Withdraws

The fight lasted nearly two hours before the British began to fall back toward their main force. We pursued them just far enough to make our point, then withdrew to our own lines in good order. It was not a large battle by the scale of war, but to us, it was a triumph. The men had faced the same redcoats who had chased them from Long Island and Manhattan—and this time, they had not run. They had stood, fought, and prevailed.

A New Spirit in the Army

That small victory did more to lift the army’s morale than words could ever do. The men spoke of it for days, their pride rekindled. Even the raw militia, once timid and uncertain, walked with a new sense of purpose. The British, who had mocked us as cowards, learned that Americans could fight with courage and skill when given a fair chance. Washington, ever measured, called it a “small affair,” but I could see in his eyes that he knew it meant far more. It was the turning of our spirit.

The Fall of Fort Washington and Fort Lee (November 1776) – Told by Greene

As autumn settled over the Hudson Valley in 1776, our army faced the most difficult question of the campaign—whether to hold or abandon Fort Washington. The fort stood on the northern tip of Manhattan, commanding the river below, with Fort Lee across the water in New Jersey. Together, they guarded the Hudson and the lifeline that connected New England to the southern colonies. I had been entrusted with the defense of both positions, and I believed that Fort Washington could be held. The works were strong, the garrison brave, and I hoped that by maintaining our presence there, we could slow the British advance and preserve control of the river. In truth, I misjudged the situation, and it remains one of the bitterest lessons of my life.

Warnings Ignored

General Washington had reservations about keeping the fort. He feared that once the British gained control of the surrounding heights, the position would be untenable. I, however, believed that the garrison could withstand a siege long enough to inflict heavy losses on the enemy. Reports came that the fort’s commander, Colonel Robert Magaw, was confident in his defenses. The works were solid, and the men within numbered over two thousand. The decision was not made lightly. We all knew that abandoning it would mean surrendering valuable ground without a fight—but holding it meant risking everything. In the end, I urged that we stand firm, and Washington, though reluctant, consented. It was a choice that would haunt me.

The British Attack

On the morning of November 16, the British came in overwhelming force. General Howe, eager to avenge his setbacks at Trenton and Harlem Heights, launched a full assault. Hessian troops attacked from the north, British regiments from the south and east, while their ships on the Hudson opened fire from below. The defenders fought with courage, but they were surrounded on every side. The enemy’s numbers and firepower were far greater than we had expected. I watched helplessly from across the river at Fort Lee as the smoke rose from the heights. We could hear the thunder of cannon and see flashes of musket fire as our men resisted to the last. By afternoon, the white flag was raised. Fort Washington had fallen.

The Cost of the Defeat

The loss was devastating. Nearly three thousand of our soldiers were taken prisoner, along with precious cannon, powder, and supplies we could scarcely afford to lose. It was not just a blow to our resources but to our spirit. The British rejoiced in their triumph, and the Hessians took their vengeance without mercy. For me, the sight of our men marching into captivity, stripped of arms and hope, cut deeper than any wound. I had advised holding the fort, believing it could stand—and now, those brave men paid the price for my misjudgment.

The Fall of Fort Lee

There was little time to mourn. Only a few days later, the British crossed the river and advanced on Fort Lee. Their movements were swift, their numbers great. Washington and I rode together to the fort as the alarm spread. It was clear we could not defend it. We ordered an immediate evacuation, leaving behind most of the stores and artillery in our haste to escape. The army retreated through the muddy roads of New Jersey, pursued relentlessly by the enemy. The loss of both forts left the Hudson open and our army in full flight. It was, without question, the lowest point of the war.

My Name is Charles Lee: Major General of the Continental Army

I was born on February 6, 1732, in Cheshire, England, into a family of modest gentry. From my youth, I was drawn to the life of a soldier. The roar of cannon, the discipline of command, the chessboard of war—these stirred me more than the comforts of estate or society. I studied the art of warfare under the British flag, serving in campaigns across Europe and America. I was a man of ambition and restless energy, always seeking new challenges and broader horizons.

Soldier of the British Empire

My early years were spent in the British Army, where I served in the French and Indian War. I fought beside men like George Washington, though at that time he was but a colonial officer and I, a representative of the Crown. I took part in the ill-fated expedition against Fort Ticonderoga and later served in Portugal during the Seven Years’ War. My temper was sharp, and my tongue sharper still, traits that earned me both respect and enemies. Though I rose through the ranks, I soon grew disillusioned with British arrogance toward the colonies. I began to see in America a people worthy of self-determination, not subjects to be ruled from afar.

A Wanderer and Thinker

After the war, I became something of a wanderer—a soldier of fortune, one might say. I traveled through Poland, Russia, and Turkey, offering my sword and counsel to any who sought it. I met kings, generals, and philosophers, learning from all but belonging to none. My manners were rough, my speech blunt, and I cared little for courtly pretense. What I desired most was command—true command—and a cause that would test both my intellect and my courage. When tensions rose in the American colonies, I saw my opportunity.

Choosing the American Cause

When the colonies took up arms against Britain, I offered my services to the Continental Congress. Some distrusted me for being English, but my knowledge of European warfare made me valuable. Congress granted me the rank of Major General, second only to George Washington. I respected Washington, though I often believed myself the more experienced soldier. Still, we shared the burden of organizing an army from farmers and tradesmen, a task that would test any man’s patience.

The Campaign of New York and New Jersey

In 1776, as we prepared to defend New York, I advised Washington that the city was indefensible against a superior navy and should be abandoned. My counsel was not taken, and when the British landed on Long Island, my fears were proven right. We suffered defeat after defeat, and I could not help but speak my mind, sometimes too freely. My independence of thought was mistaken for insubordination, and tension grew between the commander-in-chief and myself.

Capture and Controversy

During the retreat through New Jersey, I lingered behind with a small guard, perhaps too carelessly. On December 13, 1776, British dragoons surprised me at Basking Ridge and took me prisoner. It was a humiliation I would not soon forget. While in captivity, I was treated more as a guest than a captive, questioned about American strategy, and accused by some of revealing too much. My reputation suffered, and though I was eventually exchanged, suspicion followed me like a shadow.

The Battle of Monmouth

Upon my return, I sought to restore my honor. In 1778, at the Battle of Monmouth, I led the advance against the British, only to find confusion and chaos among the troops. Believing the position untenable, I ordered a retreat. When Washington arrived, furious at the sight, he confronted me before the army. Words were exchanged—harsh and heated. I felt wronged, yet the army saw only my hesitation. I demanded a court-martial to defend my actions, but the verdict was suspension. My pride, already wounded, could bear no more.

A Life in Exile

After my dismissal, I withdrew from public life, embittered and weary. I lived quietly in Virginia and later in Pennsylvania, writing pamphlets and letters defending my reputation. I never ceased to believe that my military judgment had been sound, though history would remember me otherwise. I had fought for the cause of liberty, but pride and controversy had undone me.

The Retreat Through New Jersey (November–December 1776) – Told by Lee

After the fall of Fort Washington and Fort Lee, our army began what can only be described as a desperate flight through New Jersey. The British, confident in victory, pressed us hard at every turn. Their columns moved swiftly, their cavalry harried our rear, and their bugles echoed through the frosty air. What had once been an army now resembled a broken procession—men without shoes, supplies, or spirit. It was not an organized withdrawal but a struggle for survival. Each day, the sound of British drums grew nearer, and each night, we prayed that the morning would find us still free.

Chaos and Confusion

The retreat began in haste. When Fort Lee was lost, the men fled with little more than the clothes on their backs. Cannon were abandoned in the mud, wagons overturned on the frozen roads, and soldiers straggled in small groups, many too weary to keep pace. Discipline had crumbled. Some deserted outright, returning to their homes or vanishing into the woods. Others marched on, their faces hollow and their spirits worn thin. Washington did his utmost to rally them, but the sense of defeat hung heavy in the air. Even the officers, though outwardly calm, felt the chill of despair creeping into their hearts.

The Weight of Pursuit

The British under General Cornwallis pursued us relentlessly. They advanced with precision, their troops well-fed and well-armed, while we stumbled ahead, cold and hungry. Each time we thought to make a stand, word came that the enemy had outflanked us. Bridges were burned behind us to slow their advance, but still they came. The towns through which we passed offered little comfort—some residents cheered us, but others, weary of war, turned away or whispered that the cause was lost. I will not deny that even among our own command, doubts began to grow. The Revolution seemed to be slipping away, one frozen step at a time.

Desperation Among the Ranks

By the time we reached the banks of the Delaware River, the army was a shadow of its former self. The men were wrapped in rags, their feet bleeding from the march. Many had not eaten in days. The enlistments of thousands were due to expire with the new year, and they spoke openly of returning home. Washington, though burdened beyond measure, showed remarkable calm. He said little, but his presence alone gave the men reason to endure a little longer. I saw in him a quiet determination, though I confess I did not yet understand the depth of his resolve.

My Own Command

During this time, I commanded a separate division in northern New Jersey. My orders were to harass the British rear and delay their advance, yet I often found myself frustrated by the disorganization of our forces. Communication between the divisions was poor, and confusion reigned. I wrote to Washington frequently, offering my counsel—perhaps too often. In truth, I believed I might do better if given greater independence. Pride, I must admit, guided more than one of my letters. But the situation left little room for rivalry. The army’s survival was all that mattered.

Crossing the Delaware

At last, in early December, Washington led the remnants of the army across the Delaware River into Pennsylvania. The crossing was a grim affair. The boats rocked in the icy current, the wind howling through the darkness. When the last man reached the opposite shore, we destroyed the boats to prevent pursuit. Behind us lay a state overrun by the enemy; before us, a land uncertain and cold. Yet we were alive, and for the moment, safe.

Lee’s Capture at Basking Ridge (December 13, 1776) – Told by Charles Lee

The winter of 1776 was cruel and bitter, and I confess that I felt its weight more than most. The army was in disarray, retreating before the British like a hunted fox. I commanded a detached division in northern New Jersey, tasked with harassing the enemy’s rear and buying time for Washington’s retreat across the Delaware. The task was thankless and the men were exhausted. I had not slept properly in days, and my temper, never mild, grew shorter with each passing hour. When we reached the small village of Basking Ridge on December 12, I decided to stop for the night at a local tavern. I believed we were far enough from danger to rest, a belief that would soon prove disastrously false.

The Illusion of Safety

The Widow White’s Tavern was a modest inn—a warm fire, a roof that kept out the snow, and a few loyal officers to share a bottle of wine. My men were encamped several miles away, spread thin along the road. It was foolish, I now see, to separate myself from them, but fatigue dulled my judgment. I sat writing letters by candlelight, one to General Washington himself, another to Congress, giving my views—perhaps too freely—on the state of the war. The night passed in uneasy comfort, and I retired at last, still clothed, intending to resume our march come morning.

The Sudden Attack

At dawn on December 13, I was awakened not by the sound of drums or bugles, but by the pounding of hooves. Before I could reach for my sword, British dragoons under Colonel William Harcourt burst into the yard. They had ridden hard from their lines at Princeton, guided by Loyalist spies who knew exactly where to find me. My guards, caught unprepared, scattered or were cut down. I stepped to the window and saw red-coated horsemen circling the house, their sabers flashing in the cold light. Escape was impossible. The door crashed open, and I found myself staring down the muzzles of pistols.

Taken Prisoner

I was given no time to arm myself or gather my papers. A few of my officers tried to resist, but it was useless. Within minutes, I was disarmed and taken into custody. The dragoons treated me with rough civility—no cruelty, but no courtesy either. They knew exactly who I was. As they bound my hands and led me outside, I could hear one of them boast that they had captured “the second general of the American army.” It stung my pride more than the ropes that bound me. I was mounted on horseback and carried swiftly away under heavy guard, a captive of the enemy I had sworn to defeat.

Reflections on the Ride

As we rode through the frozen countryside toward New Brunswick, I had ample time to think. I had been careless, too confident in my own importance, and too sure of my safety. My capture was not just a personal humiliation—it was a blow to the army and to Washington himself. Yet, as I would later come to understand, it was also a strange sort of blessing. With me removed from the field, Washington was freed from the shadow of my second-guessing and could act with full command. The victories at Trenton and Princeton soon followed, and I cannot deny that my absence may have played a part in that success.

A Prisoner of War

The British treated me as a prize. I was taken first to New York and confined under guard. For a time, I feared they might hang me as a deserter, for I had once served under the Crown. Yet they saw value in keeping me alive, hoping perhaps to trade me for one of their own. I chafed at captivity, my pride wounded, but I remained a soldier at heart. I studied every detail of my confinement, every movement of their troops, and planned how I might turn my misfortune into advantage. Still, it was months before I saw freedom again.

Loyalists and the British Occupation of New Jersey (Winter 1776) – Told by Lee

During the bleak winter of 1776, as I languished in captivity, New Jersey lay under the iron grip of British occupation. Though I was not free to witness it directly, word reached me of what became of the land I had once marched through with our troops. When the Continental Army fled across the Delaware, the British poured into New Jersey like a tide. They came not as liberators, as they had claimed, but as conquerors. Towns that had once echoed with the cry of liberty now trembled under the sound of foreign drums. The redcoats and their German allies, the Hessians, spread across the countryside, seizing homes, stores, and livestock with little regard for ownership or mercy.

The Rise of the Loyalists

Wherever the British army settled, they found friends among the Loyalists—those who had clung to the Crown even as rebellion swept through the colonies. These men and women, once quiet and uncertain, now stepped boldly into the light. They greeted the occupiers as saviors and turned upon their patriot neighbors with a vengeance. Old grievances were settled under the guise of loyalty. Farms were looted, families betrayed, and the friends of independence were dragged before British officers or driven from their homes. The promise of protection from the King was the excuse; revenge was the true motive.

The Conduct of the British and Hessians

The British soldiers, disciplined though they were on the field, showed little restraint in private dwellings. The Hessians, fierce and foreign, treated the land as plunder for the taking. Reports told of houses ransacked, barns emptied, and the inhabitants left to starve in the cold. Women and children fled into the woods or sought refuge in neighboring states. Those who dared protest were met with the flat of a sword or the butt of a musket. What began as an occupation soon became a reign of terror. The very people the Crown claimed to protect were reduced to beggary and ruin by the hands of their so-called defenders.

Fear and Division Among the People

The moral fabric of New Jersey frayed under such strain. Some who had once stood firm for the Revolution began to falter, believing resistance hopeless. Others took up arms in secret, forming small bands that struck the British patrols by night. The people no longer trusted their neighbors, for no one could tell who was friend and who was foe. The British, for their part, thought the province subdued. They mistook fear for loyalty and silence for submission. Yet beneath the ashes of defeat, the flame of resistance still smoldered.

A Kingdom Built on Sand

The British occupation of New Jersey was as harsh as it was short-sighted. They believed that by demonstrating power, they would win back the allegiance of the people. Instead, they sowed hatred that would last for generations. Every barn burned, every home plundered, every insult delivered by a redcoat officer hardened the hearts of the people against the Crown. The Loyalists, who had placed their hopes in British protection, found themselves despised by both sides—distrusted by the occupiers and hated by their countrymen.

The Turning of the Tide

When Washington struck back at Trenton and Princeton, the spell of British dominance was broken. The very people who had bowed under the weight of occupation rose to cheer his victories. The Hessians who had terrorized the countryside were now the hunted, and the Loyalists who had boasted of British triumph fled for their lives. It was a swift reversal, but one born of the cruelty that the enemy themselves had sown.

Reflections on Division and Consequence

The winter occupation of New Jersey revealed the true nature of war in a divided land. The struggle was not only between armies, but between neighbors, families, and consciences. I have seen war in many lands, but never one so personal, so intimate in its bitterness. The British believed they could break the will of America through fear, yet in doing so, they forged a deeper resolve. For every Loyalist they gained, they created ten patriots, bound together not by ideology alone, but by shared suffering. It was a lesson the empire never learned, and one that would, in time, cost them the continent itself.

Morale and Desertion in the Continental Army (December 1776) – Told by Lee

The closing weeks of 1776 were the darkest the Continental Army had yet endured. The defeats on Long Island, the fall of Fort Washington, and the desperate retreat through New Jersey had reduced our once-proud ranks to a collection of weary, ragged men. The cold was bitter, food scarce, and hope scarcer still. As we withdrew across the Delaware into Pennsylvania, the army was little more than a shadow of its former self. The air of confidence that had filled the camps only months before had vanished. Every face reflected exhaustion and doubt. The Revolution itself seemed to totter on the edge of collapse.

The Erosion of ConfidenceWhen the war began, the men believed that courage alone could bring victory. They imagined swift battles and quick glory, not the endless marches and bitter cold that came to define their days. Now, after months of retreat and loss, that belief had withered. Many no longer trusted their officers, and even General Washington—steady though he was—could not completely dispel their despair. They questioned whether Providence still favored our cause, or whether liberty had been only a dream too fragile for this world. Some whispered that the Congress had abandoned them, that the Revolution had already failed.

The Problem of Desertion

Desertion became a plague upon the army. Men slipped away by the dozen each night, vanishing into the darkness to return home to their families. They had suffered enough, they said, and could see no purpose in dying for a cause that seemed already lost. Others left not from cowardice, but from necessity—driven by hunger, illness, and the freezing winds that tore through their threadbare clothing. Their enlistments were soon to expire, and few saw reason to renew them. Those who remained looked upon the empty tents each morning with a mix of anger and envy.

The Crisis of Command

In such conditions, leadership itself was tested. Washington bore the burden of command with a quiet dignity, though many questioned whether caution had cost us too much. Officers bickered among themselves, each believing he knew the better path. I, too, was guilty of pride in my own opinions, as were many others. Yet I cannot deny the strength it took for Washington to stand firm in the face of defeat, to speak of perseverance when all others spoke of retreat. The army did not need brilliance at that moment—it needed endurance, and he embodied it. Still, it was a lonely kind of leadership, for even his faith was tried by the enormity of the struggle.

The Spirit of the Common Soldier

I often wonder how those common men found the will to continue. Their pay was worthless paper, their shoes worn to tatters, and their bellies empty. Yet when orders came to march, they lifted their muskets and obeyed. Some did so from patriotism, others from loyalty to their comrades, and a few simply because they had nowhere else to go. I have seen soldiers in many wars, but none have endured what these Americans did with such quiet resolve. They grumbled, they doubted, but they did not break completely—and that, perhaps, was miracle enough.

A Nation’s Fate Hanging by a Thread

By December, it seemed that one more defeat would end the Revolution altogether. The British sat comfortably across the river, convinced the rebellion was finished. Even in our own camps, despair whispered through the ranks like a cold wind. Yet, in that moment of near ruin, something remarkable was born. From the ashes of defeat came the resolve to fight one more time. Washington’s daring plan to strike at Trenton would soon follow, and with it, the spark that reignited the spirit of the army.

The Crossing of the Delaware (December 25–26, 1776) – Told by Hamilton

By the end of 1776, the army was near ruin. The defeats in New York and New Jersey had driven us across the Delaware River into Pennsylvania, and what remained of the Continental Army was cold, hungry, and disheartened. Desertion had thinned our ranks, and those who stayed did so from loyalty rather than hope. General Washington, though weary, refused to surrender the cause. He knew that only a bold stroke could save the Revolution from collapse. Thus was born the plan that would carry us back across the icy river to strike the enemy at Trenton.

The Eve of the Attack

The night of December 25 was bitterly cold. Snow and sleet fell hard upon the wind, and the river was choked with ice. Many of us doubted whether the crossing could even be made, let alone an attack launched afterward. Yet Washington’s resolve never wavered. His calm presence steadied all who saw him. I commanded a battery of artillery, and my men stood ready, our cannon already lashed to the boats. We spoke little as the General moved among the troops, his cloak whipping in the wind, his words brief but firm. “Victory or ruin,” he said quietly, “we cross tonight.”

Into the Darkness

Shortly after sundown, we began the crossing. The boats—Durham flat-bottomed ferries—were heavy with men, muskets, and cannon. Ice drifted thick upon the river, grinding and cracking against the hulls as we pushed through. The oarsmen strained in silence, their breath turning to frost in the air. The snow fell sideways, stinging our faces, and more than once it seemed the current would carry us away. The men huddled together for warmth, clutching their muskets beneath their coats. I will never forget the sound of the wind, nor the sight of Washington standing in one of the leading boats, tall and still, a figure of iron in the storm.

The Endless Night

Hour after hour we crossed, the storm worsening with every mile. The artillery pieces, including my own, were the last to move. It took every ounce of strength and every willing hand to drag them onto the opposite bank. Many men fell from exhaustion; some never rose again. Yet no one complained. The sense of purpose that night was stronger than hunger or cold. Each man knew we were part of something greater than ourselves—a moment that might decide the fate of our country. By the time the last boat reached the shore, it was near dawn. The army had crossed without a single loss to the river, though we were soaked, frozen, and half-starved.

March to Trenton

Once ashore, we formed ranks and began the nine-mile march toward Trenton. The snow turned to sleet again, and the road was slick with ice. Our guns bogged down, but the men pressed on, dragging them forward by hand. The storm masked our approach, and the Hessians sleeping in Trenton had no warning. As we neared the town, I could hear the faint sounds of church bells and see the faint glow of their campfires through the storm. The hour of decision had come. Washington gave the order to advance.

The First Shots of Dawn

Our artillery opened fire first, my battery among them. The roar of the cannon shattered the stillness, and the enemy scrambled from their quarters in confusion. Muskets flared in the snowy streets as the Continentals surged forward, shouting and firing. The Hessians, caught unprepared, fought bravely but could not form a defense in time. Within an hour, Trenton was ours. Over nine hundred prisoners were taken, along with their arms and supplies. Not a single American life was lost in the fighting. The victory was total and stunning.

Reflections on the Crossing

That night upon the Delaware remains one of the most extraordinary feats I have ever witnessed. It was not the triumph of numbers or might, but of courage, faith, and endurance. Every man who crossed that river carried within him the hope of a nation yet unborn. The storm that might have destroyed us became our ally, cloaking our movement and confounding the enemy. As I looked upon Washington after the battle, his face calm but his eyes bright with quiet triumph, I realized that we had crossed more than a river—we had crossed from despair to determination, from the brink of defeat to the beginning of victory.

A Nation Reawakened

The victory at Trenton breathed life into the dying cause. Men who had planned to abandon the army reenlisted. The people once again believed that liberty could prevail. For myself, I learned that night that true courage lies not in the clash of battle, but in the decision to act when all seems lost. The Delaware was more than a river of ice—it was a river of resolve, and we who crossed it became forever bound by the memory of that perilous, miraculous night.

My Name is Alexander Hamilton: Captain of Artillery in the Continental Army

I was born on the island of Nevis in the British West Indies in either 1755 or 1757, the son of James Hamilton and Rachel Fawcett. My early life was marked by struggle. My father left when I was still a child, and my mother died soon after, leaving me an orphan with little but determination and ambition to sustain me. I found work as a clerk for a trading company, where I learned the language of commerce—the weight of coin, the balance of debt, and the power of order in chaos. Yet I longed for more. I devoured books and dreamed of a life beyond the islands, a life shaped by reason, honor, and opportunity.

The Path to the Colonies

In 1772, a letter I wrote describing a devastating hurricane caught the attention of local leaders, who saw promise in my words. They raised funds to send me to America for an education. I arrived in New York, a young man of ambition and purpose, determined to make something of myself. I studied at King’s College, now Columbia University, where I immersed myself in philosophy, politics, and mathematics. But as the storm of revolution gathered, my studies turned to the question that gripped every colony: freedom or submission. I chose freedom.

A Voice for Liberty

Long before I took up arms, I took up the pen. I wrote pamphlets defending the rights of the colonies, arguing that liberty was not rebellion but justice. My words found readers far beyond my years, and some mistook me for an older scholar. Yet the time for argument soon passed. When the call to arms came, I joined the New York artillery and trained my men in the science of war, mastering the cannon as others mastered the sword.

Service Under Washington

In 1776, I fought in the defense of New York and New Jersey. The enemy was powerful, and our defeats were many, yet courage was our constant companion. At the Battle of Trenton and later Princeton, I commanded artillery that rained fire upon the British and Hessians. My conduct caught the eye of General George Washington. He saw in me not only a soldier but a mind capable of shaping the nation’s future. He made me his aide-de-camp, a post that brought me close to the heart of command. From his side, I learned the art of leadership, the patience of diplomacy, and the weight of responsibility.

The Burden of Ambition

Though I served Washington faithfully, I yearned for action in the field. I was proud, perhaps too proud, and when I felt slighted, my temper flared. After a misunderstanding, I resigned my staff position and demanded a combat command. Washington, to his credit, did not hold the grudge for long. In 1781, he granted me my wish. At the Siege of Yorktown, I led a daring assault on a British redoubt. We stormed it with bayonets alone, and the victory helped seal the fate of the war. At last, my sword had matched my pen.

The Making of a Nation

After the Revolution, I turned my mind from battle to building. I studied law, entered politics, and sought to give shape to the liberty we had fought to win. I believed that freedom required structure, that order was the guardian of justice. As one of the authors of The Federalist Papers, I argued for a strong central government, a balance of powers, and a Constitution that could bind thirteen states into one nation. President Washington later appointed me the first Secretary of the Treasury. There, I built the financial foundation of the republic—establishing a national bank, assuming state debts, and securing the nation’s credit at home and abroad.

Enemies and Ideals

My ideas did not please all. Thomas Jefferson and I clashed bitterly, for he saw in my vision the shadow of monarchy, while I saw in his, the seeds of disorder. Yet I believed with all my heart that America’s strength lay in unity, industry, and honor. Politics hardened me, but my devotion to the country never wavered. I sought to lift America from poverty to prosperity, to make her respected among nations.

The Fatal Duel

But ambition has its price. My sharp tongue and fierce convictions made me many enemies, none more dangerous than Aaron Burr. In 1804, after a long feud of words and pride, Burr challenged me to a duel. On the morning of July 11, we faced each other at Weehawken, New Jersey. I fired my pistol into the air, unwilling to take a life. His shot struck me in the abdomen. I died the next day, leaving behind my wife Eliza, our children, and the unfinished work of a young republic.

The Battle of Trenton (December 26, 1776) – Told by Alexander Hamilton

When dawn broke on December 26, 1776, our army stood shivering in the snow outside Trenton, cold, soaked, and exhausted from the long night’s crossing of the Delaware. The storm still raged, and sleet stung our faces like knives. The men had marched through ice and darkness, yet not a complaint was heard. We knew that everything—the survival of the army, the Revolution, perhaps the very idea of liberty itself—depended on what we would do that morning. The Hessian garrison at Trenton was strong, but they believed us beaten. That belief would be their undoing.

The Plan of Attack

General Washington divided the army into two columns. One, under General Sullivan, would approach from the south; the other, under Washington and General Greene, from the north. I commanded a battery of artillery and was placed with the northern force. The storm worked to our advantage, for it hid our approach and muffled the sound of our movements. By the time we reached the outskirts of town, the Hessians still slept, unaware that an army had crossed an icy river to fall upon them. The signal to advance came just as the first light crept over the frozen landscape.

The Surprise Unleashed

The silence broke with the thunder of our cannon. My guns fired the first shots, and the sound rolled through the narrow streets like a drum of judgment. The Hessians scrambled from their quarters, half-dressed, muskets in hand, confusion in their faces. Their officers shouted orders, but discipline faltered under the shock of our attack. Our infantry surged forward, moving from house to house, pressing them on every side. Smoke filled the streets, mingling with snow and gunpowder. The Hessians tried to form ranks near the center of town, but our artillery swept through their lines, scattering them before they could rally.

The Discipline of Victory

What struck me most that morning was not the chaos of battle, but the discipline of our men. Only months before, many had been raw recruits who fled at the first sound of cannon fire. Now, despite hunger and fatigue, they moved with purpose and steadiness. Orders were obeyed, ranks held firm. Every man understood his duty. The months of retreat, defeat, and humiliation had forged something harder than courage—it had created resolve. I saw soldiers fight not for glory, but for redemption. Every musket fired was a defiance of despair.

The Fall of Trenton

Within an hour, it was over. The Hessian commander, Colonel Rall, fell mortally wounded, and his men, surrounded and broken, laid down their arms. The white flag rose above the rooftops, signaling surrender. Nearly a thousand prisoners were taken, along with muskets, cannon, and much-needed supplies. It was a victory not of numbers, but of will. Not one American life was lost in the fight. When the firing ceased, the men stood in silence for a moment, scarcely believing what they had accomplished. Then, as realization spread, a cheer rose through the snow—ragged, hoarse, but filled with life.

The Meaning of the Moment

Trenton was not a great battle in the measure of history, but it was the turning point of a nation’s spirit. In a single morning, Washington had transformed despair into triumph. The victory revived our cause, restored faith among the people, and showed the world that the American army still lived and could strike with strength and precision. Even the men who had doubted now walked with their heads high, knowing they had stood firm when the world expected them to fall.

The March to Princeton (January 2–3, 1777) – Told by Alexander Hamilton

The victory at Trenton had given us new life, yet it also placed us in grave danger. The British could not allow such defiance to go unanswered. In late December, General Cornwallis marched south with a large force to trap us on the banks of the Delaware. Washington, unwilling to give up the ground we had gained, recrossed into New Jersey to face him. The army was still weary and thinly supplied, but our spirits were high. We had tasted victory, and we would not surrender it easily. The days that followed would test our endurance and Washington’s genius more than ever before.

The Battle at Assunpink Creek

On January 2, 1777, Cornwallis’s army caught up to us near Trenton. The British came on with determination, confident that this time they would crush us. We took position behind Assunpink Creek, a frozen stream crossed only by a narrow bridge. As they advanced, we poured musket and cannon fire upon them. Three times they tried to storm the bridge, and three times we threw them back. Night fell with the enemy camped just beyond our lines, their fires glowing through the cold mist. Cornwallis, believing us trapped, famously declared, “At last, we have run down the old fox.” But he did not yet know the fox still had one more trick.

Washington’s Bold Plan

As the British slept, Washington gathered his officers. To stand and fight the next day would mean destruction, yet to retreat across the Delaware again would undo all we had won. Then Washington proposed a plan so daring that at first we thought it madness. We would slip away in the night, leaving our fires burning to deceive the enemy, and march north to strike at Princeton, where a smaller British force lay unsuspecting. It was a maneuver of stealth and speed—one that would require absolute silence and discipline. The men were ordered to pack their gear, and by midnight, we began to move.

The Silent March

The night was bitterly cold. The roads were frozen and rutted, and the wagons creaked despite every effort to quiet them. Not a word was spoken. The army moved like a shadow through the dark countryside, guided by faint moonlight and the steady will of its commander. I rode beside the artillery, ensuring that our guns did not lag behind. At times, the road disappeared entirely beneath ice, and men had to haul the cannon by hand. Behind us, the fires at Trenton still flickered, fooling the British into thinking we remained in camp. It was a night that tested every ounce of endurance we possessed, but the thought of striking another blow at the enemy kept us moving.

The Surprise at Princeton

As dawn approached on January 3, we neared Princeton. The leading column under General Mercer unexpectedly met British troops marching south toward Trenton. A fierce skirmish broke out in the fields outside town. Mercer’s men fought bravely, but he fell mortally wounded, and the line began to waver. At that moment, Washington rode into the fray, his calm courage turning chaos into order. He rallied the troops with a cry, “Advance, my brave fellows!” His horse stood firm under fire as musket balls tore through the air around him. Inspired by his composure, the men surged forward, driving the British back toward the college and through the town. My artillery was brought up, and we fired upon their retreating ranks, sealing the victory.

A Victory and a Resurrection

When the battle ended, the enemy was in full flight, leaving behind their dead, wounded, and supplies. Princeton was ours. The triumph was more than a military success—it was a renewal of faith. Within ten days, Washington had turned defeat into glory, striking two victories where despair had once reigned. The British, who only weeks earlier believed the rebellion nearly finished, now faced an army reborn. The people of New Jersey, long suffering under occupation, rose in support. The tide of the war had shifted, and the name Washington was spoken with awe even among his critics.

Spirit of the New Year: "A Glorious Cause Reborn" (Jan 1777) – Told by Hamilton

When the sun rose on the first days of January 1777, it found an army transformed. Only weeks earlier, we had been a beaten, ragged band, hunted through the frozen fields of New Jersey. Now, after the victories at Trenton and Princeton, we stood taller, prouder, and stronger in spirit than at any time since the war began. The smoke of battle still hung in the air, and the bodies of friend and foe alike lay scattered upon the frozen ground, yet a strange and powerful warmth filled every heart. The Revolution, once gasping for life, had been reborn.

The Power of Victory

It is difficult to describe how deeply those victories revived the spirit of the people. In December, despair had swept through the land. Congress had fled Philadelphia. The soldiers’ enlistments were expiring, and even those loyal to the cause doubted whether the struggle could continue. Then, in the span of ten days, everything changed. Trenton and Princeton were not grand battles, yet their effect was greater than a dozen triumphs might have been. The news spread like fire through the colonies—Washington had struck back, and the British had been beaten. Towns that had fallen silent with fear now rang with bells and cheers. Farmers who had hidden their sons from enlistment now sent them proudly to join the army. Hope, that rarest of commodities in war, had returned.

The Spirit in the Army

Among the men, the change was no less profound. I saw soldiers who had been worn to shadows during the retreat now marching with heads high and eyes bright. The bitterness of defeat had given way to the pride of accomplishment. They had proven to themselves, and to the world, that they were no longer merely a band of rebels—they were an army. Discipline began to take root where once there had been chaos. Men reenlisted, not from obligation, but from belief. They spoke not of survival now, but of victory. For the first time, the Revolution felt possible.

Washington’s Quiet Triumph

At the heart of this renewal stood General Washington. He made no speeches and claimed no glory, yet his presence was the source of our strength. I had seen him in moments of deepest despair, calm and unshaken, and now I saw him in triumph—still calm, still unshaken. He accepted victory not as a personal triumph, but as a sacred trust. “We have been favored by Providence,” he said, “and must prove ourselves worthy of that favor.” His humility inspired more devotion than any display of pride could have achieved. It was his steadiness through defeat that made our victory meaningful, and his vision that turned survival into purpose.

A Nation Awakened

The Revolution after Princeton was no longer a desperate rebellion—it had become a cause of destiny. The people began to believe that America could stand among the nations of the world, not as a colony defying a king, but as a republic defending its liberty. The idea of independence, once whispered with fear, was now spoken with pride. The hardships that lay ahead were still immense, but the victories of the winter had proven that we could endure them. The army was no longer fighting to stay alive—it was fighting to win.

Reflections on a Reborn Cause

I often think of that winter as the true beginning of our nation. It was then that the Revolution ceased to be a dream and became a living force, sustained by courage, discipline, and faith. The men who crossed the Delaware, who fought at Trenton and Princeton, were no longer merely soldiers of circumstance—they were the founders of a new spirit. I was young then, filled with ambition and conviction, yet even I could sense that history itself had turned a page. The new year brought with it more than victory—it brought rebirth. The cause of America, once near extinction, had risen again, glorious and alive, carried forward by the unyielding will of a free people.