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    George Washington had no time for rest, not even on Christmas—particularly not on this Christmas Eve.
    He sat at his table. On a small scrap of paper, he scribbled the briefest of notes to a staff member. He repeated the process, again and again.
    Dr. Benjamin Rush eyed this scene contemptuously. Rush, now a surgeon with Washington’s army, was a member of the Continental Congress. Only a few months before he had boldly signed the Declaration of Independence, but now he feared that George Washington was squandering any chance that America’s fragile independence had tosurvive. One retreat followed another.
If only Horatio Gates were in charge
, the doctor thought,
if only Charles Lee were still a free man and in command—we would have the soldiers of the Crown on the run.
    Washington arose. He nodded to Dr. Rush before leaving the room to summon a guard to deliver the brief messages he had just composed. But as Washington departed, he left one document behind. It floated to the wooden plank floor below where he had just sat.
    Rush hurried to retrieve it. He might now learn a little more of what ill-conceived plans ran through this wretched Washington’s mind.
    To his great disappointment, there were no detailed battle plans or grand outlines of strategy on the piece of paper that Rush now held in his hands. It contained just three words:
    Victory or death.

The Harder the Conflict, the More Glorious the Triumph
     
    Twilight, December 25, 1776
    Western bank of the Delaware River
    Near McConkey’s Ferry, Knowles Cove
    Bucks County, Pennsylvania
    Officers barked terse orders to their drummers. Hard wooden drumsticks beat furiously in every corner of George Washington’s encampment. In the low hills surrounding McConkey’s Ferry, 2,400 infantry shouldered their muskets and crammed their knapsacks full of sixty rounds of ammunition, a blanket, and three days’ worth of rations. Cavalrymen loaded their pistols and tightly cinched their horses’ saddles. Henry Knox’s gunners checked and then checked once more to ensure that they would be transporting sufficient shot and powder and fuses in their cannon’s side boxes and trail boxes for whatever hell awaited them on this grand expedition.
    These men’s faces betrayed not fear—but anticipation, even eagerness. Many soldiers had already left the army, but those who remained had grown hard and fiercely loyal, devoted not only to the causes of independence and liberty, but also to their commander: George Washington. To these men, Washington had become more than just a general. He had become a father.
    Still, their enlistments would soon expire. They had families and businesses and farms to worry about. They were not Hessians a thousandmiles from home, with no way of returning there. They were ill-paid and ill-equipped and had done their duty. They could go home honorably and most of them probably would. And once they did, the long odds against this revolution would grow only longer.
    But while they remained, they were still in the fight. If Washington desired them to brave this ice-choked river and then tramp eight miles in utter darkness cross-country in sleet and snow to strike before the winter sun rose again—to strike at William Howe’s fearsome Hessians, the very cream of Europe’s fighting men—then, by God, they would do it. They would, to a man, die for George Washington.
    The men’s faces, stung and reddened by winter’s blasts, shone brightly with their fidelity. Standing as tall and straight as amateur soldiers might, these New Englanders and southerners, Pennsylvanians and New Yorkers, and Jersey men longing to liberate their homes were eager to go. Waiting for action wore upon their nerves. Marching forward filled them with energy—and courage.
    They scrambled to board the slapdash armada that Washington—aided by the Marblehead, Massachusetts, fisherman General John Glover—had assembled to ferry them toward the enemy. It was a flotilla