The Morning Everything Fell Apart

Johann Rall was not a careless officer. He had fought with distinction at White Plains and Fort Washington, where his regiment had led the assault up the cliffs. He was brave, experienced, and respected by his men. But he did not understand the war he was fighting, and on the morning of December 26 that misunderstanding killed him.

Rall had been warned. Loyalist informants sent word that the Americans were planning something. A farmer reportedly delivered a note to Rall on Christmas evening while the colonel was playing cards — a note Rall pocketed without reading. Whether this story is true in its details, the larger truth is clear: Rall did not believe the ragged army across the river was capable of attacking him.

He had reason for confidence. The Continental Army he had observed retreating across New Jersey was disintegrating. Soldiers were barefoot, underfed, deserting by the dozen. What army in that condition mounts an offensive in the dead of winter?

The answer arrived at eight in the morning, in sleet, from two directions at once. Rall stumbled out of his quarters and tried to form his men on King Street. Continental artillery — guns dragged across a frozen river in the dark — raked the street. The Hessians, many of them still pulling on uniforms, could not organize. The neat European formations they had been trained to fight in were useless in the narrow streets.

Rall mounted his horse and led a charge toward the American guns. He was hit twice and fell. His men carried him to a church. He died the next day, reportedly asking that his men be treated well.

The irony of Trenton is that Rall's contempt for the Continental Army was shared by nearly every professional officer in the war, British and Hessian alike. They were not wrong about the army's condition. They were wrong about what desperate men, well led, could do.