The Drum Across the Delaware

Starring George Washington

On a freezing Christmas night, a young drummer boy named Ben is frightened to cross the icy Delaware River with the Continental Army. When Ben slips and delays the crossing, General George Washington kneels beside him and quietly tells the truth about fear, showing that courage can walk with shaking knees. Ben finds a small, steady way to help, and his drum becomes part of the army's brave crossing. The story gently shows that being scared does not mean you cannot be brave.

Christmas night bit at Ben's cheeks like little icy fingers. He tapped a soft rat-tat on his drum to keep his hands from freezing, but his eyes stayed fixed on the dark Delaware, where slabs of ice bumped and scraped like broken plates. Nearby, General George Washington moved among the soldiers, speaking low and steady as they climbed into boats.

Ben told himself he knew exactly what to do. He marched toward the boat, chin up, drum thumping against his coat. Then his boot hit a slick patch. He slid, sat down hard in the snow, and one drumstick skittered into gray slush by the shore.

A soldier reached for the lost drumstick, but the slush sucked it under. Ben grabbed his drum with both arms and stared at the dark water on his mitten. The line of waiting soldiers shifted in the snow, and the crossing paused while he scrambled to his feet.

George Washington came back and knelt until his face was level with Ben's. He set down his lantern, and a small pool of gold spread over the snow. "Your hands are shaking," he said. "Mine do, too, on hard nights. Being brave does not mean you are not scared. It means you still choose your next right step."

Ben drew in a shivery breath. "I thought brave people never felt this." Washington gave the tiniest smile. "Oh, they feel plenty. We just do not hand fear the oars." Ben tried stepping toward the boat again, but his knees locked, and he stopped at the edge.

Ben looked down at the drum with only one stick left. He could not row. He could not stomp across the ice. But he could tap. Softly, he struck the drumhead with his mittened hand and the lone stick. Dum. Tap. Dum. Tap. The men nearest him lifted their boots in the same steady rhythm.

So Ben climbed into the boat while the rhythm went on. Dum. Tap. The oars dipped. Dum. Tap. Ice bumped the sides, and freezing spray kissed Ben's boots, but he kept the beat small and steady. Washington stood near the bow, and the soldiers crossed with their eyes on the far bank.

On the far shore, the snow squeaked under marching boots. Ben jumped down, planted his feet, and gave his drum a clear rat-tat that bounced across the winter trees. Washington glanced back once. Ben's knees were still shaky, but the beat came out strong in the dark.