Will saw Bant in the trench to his left, crouching down and reloading. He left his cannon and ran along the line of troops.
“Bant,” he said breathlessly. “Can you pick off the gun crew?” He pointed at the Hessians hastily reloading. Bant looked down the slope.
“It is less than sixty yards,” Bant replied. He gestured to two other riflemen and pointed at the enemy cannon. They nodded and eased their long rifles over the embankment. Columns and columns of British light infantry were rapid marching on the muddy road leading toward the bridge. Will raced back to his brass six- pounder, as one of the gun crew rammed home the grape charge. Will took the long thin wire from his pouch and pricked the canvas charge, inserted the quill, remembered to yell, “Primed,” and waited until the first line of infantry was on the bridge. He kept his eye on the advancing troops but in his mind, he tensed himself for a cannon ball from the Hessians. For the third time, the British charged forward, climbing over the wall of dead and dying Grenadiers. They reached the middle of the bridge when Will lit the match and yelled “Give fire.”
The grape shot from his cannon and those in the other batteries and the concentrated hail of musket balls tore into the oncoming troops. It blew the front line away and the next and the one behind that, until the bridge was covered with a mass of thrashing, red-coated bodies. The survivors retreated, many being shot in the back and falling on the road and in the field beyond.
Will glanced over at the Hessian cannon. Five men lay on the ground around it. Only one was moving, his arm flapping across his chest, like a fin of a fish out of water.
It was dark. And silent, except for the occasional musket or rifle shot, preceded by a yellow-orange muzzle flash. Pinpoints of light appeared in the buildings of Trenton. Higher up the slope, fires were lit, indicating where the British troops were encamped. An occasional cry for water or help came from the darkness of the bridge, over the soft constant collective moan of the dying enemy soldiers.
The battle was over. Behind Will, dots of flame appeared as the Continentals lit cooking fires. Will directed the crew to secure the powder boxes before lighting any fires of their own. He walked up the slope, threading between exhausted and hungry groups of soldiers, some lying flat, some sitting with their heads between their knees, simply waiting in the quiet darkness. Tomorrow, the British would attack again, in greater force and with more determination than today. There could be no retreat. There were no boats to carry the Army across the Delaware this time. Besides, the river was choked with huge ice floes. He shivered, whether from relief, the oncoming cold night, or the thought of facing the British army in the morning, he did not know. All he wanted to do now was report to Captain Hadley and find some feed for Big Red. 8
Chapter 3 - A Cold Night March
Bant lay barely off the damp ground on a narrow fencing plank, with his feet facing the large bonfire. He clutched his long rifle to his chest, the stock against his shins, the barrel protruding past his head. All around him, the troops had torn down nearby fences and set the cedar rails ablaze to ward off the cold air that had descended on Trenton. A strong northwest wind caused the flames to dance and dissipated their beneficial heat in the darkness. It was the first time he had any rest since awakening early that morning in the woods several miles up the Trenton-Princeton Post Road.
From his uncomfortable resting place, he could see orange pinpoints of light along the slopes at the top of the town and in the fields adjacent to the stone buildings. The sounds of the British army settling down for the night, drifted across the distance separating the two camps. He sensed there were enemy pickets and sentries closer to the bridge and the creek, a little over forty yards below their lines. No matter. He pulled his worn blanket to his throat, made sure his rifle was safe on top of him, tugged his tri-corn tight on his head and closed his eyes. He was desperate for sleep but afraid of the nightmares he always had. Exhausted as he was, he knew they would come.
He awoke struggling to pull away a bony, grimy hand covering his mouth. It smelled of ingrained gunpowder, dirt and smoked meat. “Be still,” McNeil hissed. “Your demons have got the better of you. You were screaming in your sleep.”
Bant looked up at his companion’s weathered face and slowly sat up and looked around. The fire was still burning but lower now. He was not sure how long he had slept. Men were stirring, moving from where they lay.
“The orders are to form up at the far right of our line,” McNeil whispered, lowering his head to Bant’s ear. “The watchword is silence.”
“Where are we going?”
“General Washington did not consult me on his intentions,” the tall man replied. “Nor has our Colonel confided in me. Maybe we are to hit the British in the rear with a night attack. Maybe we are off to somewhere else. Until it is clear, I would not trust my pack to the baggage train.” 1
Bant shouldered his knapsack, grabbed his long rifle and followed McNeil up the slope. Others from their Regiment joined them as they moved away from the Delaware, instinctively crouching as they passed behind the bonfires of other troops, so as to cast a smaller shadow from the prying eyes of British pickets. They scurried along in a single line, one behind the other, until they reached a woods. Below them, a few large bonfires burned brightly and beyond their own lines, the Assunpink Creek. They stood and waited silently, leaning against trees and stomping their feet against the cold. The ground was hard beneath Bant’s feet. He wiggled his toes in his moccasins. It had dropped at least twenty degrees since he first lay down, he thought. He glanced up at the sky. There was no moon. Only a few stars were visible.
Following a whispered order, they proceeded walking two abreast along a narrow path. It was almost impossible to pierce the impenetrable darkness of the forest. Bant relied on the sounds of the men in front of him to follow along. Feet crunched through the thin ice that had formed over ruts. Hacking coughs, sneezes, spitting of snot or phlegm, and the occasional string of farts punctuated the wordless march as they threaded through the blackness. Bant walked into a freshly cut tree stump, about two feet high, and groaned as he barked his shin. McNeil chuckled softly. “Watch the man in front and see when he steps high or over,” he said softly. Bant concentrated on the legs of the dark form in front of him, barely able to distinguish the shape in the gloom.
They crossed a shallow run, the water icy cold up to their ankles. Bant sensed they had turned east but was not certain.
After several minutes, the men bunched up and came to a halt. McNeil grunted and turned on the man behind him. “Shoulder your rifle,” he hissed angrily. “You will poke a hole in my back the next time.”
They waited in silence, standing in place. A few men tried to lie down and rest but were pulled up by their comrades. One rifleman fell asleep, leaning against a tree and had to be roused as they resumed trudging in the cold. Bant was tired but alert. His fear of nightmares kept his drowsiness at bay. Now that they were well past the British lines, the men spoke in normal tones, although they still moved cautiously through the woods.
“It is not a night attack on the British at Trenton,” McNeil said. “We have gone too far for that.” There was some commotion ahead and they slowed their pace. A cannon was blocking the road, it’s axle jammed against the thick stub of a cut tree, the gun crew trying to back the piece off while the horse, still in its traces refused to move.
“You men, over there. Give us a hand.”
Bant, McNeil and a few other dark shapes moved forward and grabbed the lever bar between the spoked wheels. With several of them on each side they lifted the carriage over the stump. Bant stumbled as the horse pulled the cannon forward with a jerk. He turned around and returned to the tree where he thought he had left his rifle. It was not there. Panic-stricken, he looked back at the path, trying to get his bearings.
“Over here,” McNeil called and handed Bant his rifle. “It has nice heft to it,” he said.
“It suits,” Bant replied, offended the man had taken his gun. He
brushed the dirt and pine needles from the base of the stock.
“Now that we are far beyond the British lines, you must talk to me as we march,” McNeil said. “I am terribly sleepy and fearful I will fall down and be left behind.” Bant looked at the tall man to see if he was making fun of him and decided he was not.
“The others behind us will step on you. That will awaken you soon enough,” Bant said. He was not a talker and although he felt a sense of comradeship with McNeil, it was not enough to make him a blabber.
“Those behind us, in our regiment are just as tired as I am and would not even notice,” McNeil said. “And I heard in camp we are attached to a Pennsylvania Militia unit that made a twelve mile night march from Bordentown. Let us see how awake they are for today’s commotion.”
Bant let McNeil talk on about the different units he had seen after the battle: tradesmen and artisans from Philadelphia, the remnants of a Maryland Regiment that had served in Brooklyn and retreated down through Jersey, an untried and overeager militia from Mount Holly in southern Jersey. He grunted or coughed occasionally to keep up his side, relieved he did not have to do any more talking. McNeil fell silent and when Bant glanced at him, the tall rifleman was walking forward but angling toward a tree. His eyes were closed. Bant grabbed him by his sleeve and pulled him back onto the narrow path. McNeil looked down at him. His eyes seemed to have sunk further into their sockets beneath his prominent brow.
“You were walking with your eyes closed,” Bant said.
McNeil snorted. “The perfect soldier I am. I can march and sleep at the same time.” Strange as it seemed, McNeil was actually refreshed after the incident. They passed through the woods, across runs and climbed over fences too numerous for Bant to count or remember. They made good time on a frozen hard road, the ruts solid ridges as if they had been made of stone.
“We are definitely going to Princeton,” McNeil said. Bant had thought so since they reached the road. The dawn’s light confirmed his sense of direction. It would be a clear day but promised to be even colder than it had been during the night. They crossed an old stone bridge shortly after dawn and followed other troops on to an even wider road. The grass on the flat rolling hills was covered with frost and in places reflected the sun’s rays off frozen droplets on the bare shrubs and branches. The sounds of cannon and musket fire broke the peacefulness of the early morning. McNeil pointed to a long low cloud of white powder smoke arising ahead and to their west, less than a mile away.
“There is the beginning of this day’s battle,” he said, watching the smoke float slowly upward into the sharp blue sky. They waited on the road, listening to the volleys and counter volleys, the booming of cannons and the shouts and piercing cries of men fighting and dying.
John Stoner had begun the day pleased Lieutenant Chatsworth and the 16th Light Dragoons were leaving the relatively small garrison at Princeton and joining the entire British Army in Trenton. Every Officer was of the opinion this would be the end for the Rebels and the reinforcements from Princeton would probably arrive too late to participate in the rout. From there, after disposing of the American army trapped near the Delaware, it would be on to Philadelphia and he, John Stoner would make sure he was in the vanguard of the troops entering the Rebel’s capital. He would protect the Crown’s interests of course, but there would be ample opportunity for self-enrichment in that city, known for the brick mansions of its wealthy merchants.
Chatsworth was riding up front, his horse prancing next to Colonel Mawhood, who, to John, looked ridiculous riding a small brown pony with his two mottled English spaniels darting back and forth across the Post Road to Trenton. A solitary dragoon raced across a field, joined the Colonel, and pointed to the southeast. The column of infantry halted. Mawhood, accompanied by the Dragoon and Lieutenant Chatsworth, rode to a slight rise overlooking a distant woods. They galloped back to the road and suddenly, the entire column turned back toward Princeton, the Light Dragoons racing ahead, the infantry, grenadiers and highlanders all running in quick-time in good order behind them. John was barely able to move his horse off to the side before the Dragoons swept by him shouting about a large Rebel force on their left. He followed as they caught up with the baggage train. The drivers laboriously turned their teams around toward Princeton, partially blocking the road. The Dragoons dismounted, tied their horses to the backs of the wagons, grabbed their muskets and headed on foot, along with the infantry off the highway toward an apple orchard. 2
John decided the safest place for him would be with the baggage train. He positioned himself so the wagons acted as a screen, blocking the Dragoons’ vision of him and watched as the men took positions behind the orchard’s fence. The American force was advancing from the lower part of the field. That was enough for him. He rode among the wagons, trying to appear inconspicuous, fearful his bright red coat and clean buff britches would attract the attention of a senior officer. Behind him, the musket volleys and cannon fire intensified.
Bant watched as a cluster of officers, riding hard, galloped down the Saw Mill Road, away from Princeton, toward the sounds of battle. He thought he recognized Colonel Hand but was not certain. The riflemen stood impatiently in the cold. It mattered not to Bant whether they continued on to Princeton or fought the British here. All he wanted was to be in place to kill the enemy. While they waited they were issued half a gill of rum, sprinkled with gunpowder.
Bant had never seen this drink before. He sniffed at it suspiciously. “It is supposed to give courage,” McNeil said, downing the contents of his wooden cup and placing it back in his pack. “I have gone into battle after having the drink and fought when the ration was not issued. It does not seem to matter.” Bant shook his head and handed his pewter mug to a rifleman who had left his haversack behind in Trenton. The drums beat the quick advance and they left the road, marching in ranks through a snow-covered field. Ahead, puffs of smoke marked the line of the British troops behind a fence at the edge of a pasture. Remnants of the American troops fled before them across the open ground toward the road. Behind them, other Americans formed up and advanced toward the British. Bant’s regiment would strike the Redcoats on their left flank. He unstrapped his pack and left it in a neat line with the others and continued advancing.
At forty yards, on a given order the riflemen stopped, dropped to one knee and fired. Bant was certain he had blown the head off a grenadier, his high bear skin cap seemingly suspended in air for an instant, without the soldier’s skull to support it. The British soldiers in front of them, assaulted from this unexpected quarter caved in toward the center of their line and then hastily retreated across the field and toward the bottom of an orchard.
“After them men. Hunt them down. Hunt them down.” Bant recognized Colonel Hand’s voice but needed no further encouragement. Relentlessly, he and the other riflemen pushed forward, picking off the fleeing Redcoats, pausing to reload behind leafless, barren apple trees, their trunks freshly scarred by musket ball and canister, the ground littered with twigs and branches knocked down by the heavy gunfire.
As the riflemen approached the top of the orchard, where the British had overrun the American lines, they abruptly stopped in dismay. Ahead of them, the blood of the dead and wounded slowly flowed down hill toward them, moving like red rivulets over the smooth surface of the sheen of ice. 3
McNeil muttered an oath of disbelief under his breath. “This is the devil’s very work,” he said, raising a hand to his face to ward off the image. Bant gingerly skirted the eerily shimmering streams of blood and climbed through a partially dismantled fence. They passed the corpses of American troops, lying partially hidden behind shattered gun carriages and carts. Many had multiple bayonet wounds and bashed in heads, evidence of no quarter having been given by the British. 4 At the sight the dead American troops, the riflemen pursued the fleeing Regulars with a grim determination. It was now a ruthless hunt for revenge. Ahead of them, the remnants of the British Regiments fled across the snow-covered fields,
slipping and scrambling on the ice to escape. Occasionally, a group would form up, turn, fire a volley and then resume their retreat. The pause in their flight, simply gave the riflemen a better opportunity to sight and fire at stationary targets and more time to reload. Bant thought he killed one officer and two Regulars in this fashion. Now Hand’s regiment was almost to the Post Road.
Ahead, a Highlander, using his long broadsword as a crutch, was hobbling toward the safety of a stone house to the right of the road leading toward Princeton. Bant aimed first at the sword, intending to knock it from the large man’s hand and watch him fall. Instead, he targeted the man’s neck. The Scotsman pitched forward and lay still. The sword would be good booty to sell after the battle, Bant thought, but there was no time to collect it now.
Some of the riflemen pursued the fleeing British across the road and into the wooded fields. Bant, McNeil and others, turned right and raced down the road toward Princeton, eager to cut off the Redcoats before they reached their artillery on a hill, less than a mile from town. Methodically, Bant shot two more, at a distance of less than fifty yards. The British artillery was withdrawing to Princeton. Bant had hoped to get a shot at an artillery officer. Instead, thwarted by their hasty retreat, and absent any other orders, he trotted back the way he had come to retrieve the Highlander’s sword.
Will felt trapped. The three gun battery, instead of being in the forefront of the troops, as at Trenton, was blocked by the ranks marching down the Saw Mill Road. Behind them, he heard sporadic musket and rifle fire. Ahead, from his vantage point on Big Red, he could see a massive four story building with a central spire and numerous chimneys. Puffs of smoke from the long rows of windows, their expensive glass shattered, marked the location of British troops inside firing down at the approaching Americans. Two cannons were already deployed in front of the building. As the men on the road spread out on the grounds surrounding the building and prepared to assault it, Will rode Big Red through a wide opening in the fence, quickly dismounted, and together with his crew unlimbered the brass six pounder and wheeled it into position. They were still carrying canister in the side boxes and loaded a charge. It would only be of use, Will thought, if the British soldiers within emerged from the Hall and attacked. Will waited for further orders, unwilling to take it upon himself to fire grape shot at a brick building. Someone shouted the command “Give Fire,” and the two cannons already in place in front of the building boomed and white smoke blew toward the building.5 Will watched in horror as one ball rebounded off the exterior brick and narrowly missed an American officer on horseback. The other shattered a window shutter. American troops stormed the entrance way and almost immediately, white sheets appeared at the windows. The men cheered as the British troops emerged, stacked their muskets and were marched away under guard. Will guessed there were less than fifty of them, scowling and surly in their countenance, distressed by the curious stares of the Continentals and militia who had poured through the fence and into the compound’s yard.
Blood Upon The Snow Page 5