Blood Upon The Snow

by Martin Ganzglass

  His gun crew had disappeared. They probably had entered the building looking for food, Will thought. He should have maintained control and dismissed them. They were as hungry as he was so he could not blame them for not waiting for his order. He was disconcerted by how the battle had ended, elated watching the captured British soldiers being led away, but uncomfortable with not having played any role in its outcome. He had never even come under fire. For Will, the attack on Princeton had been a series of skirmishes, out of his sight, the noise, gun-smoke and shouted battle cries, always in the distance. The fighting had been either in front or behind him as he rode Big Red pulling the brass six-pounder, which had never been unlimbered until the very end. It all seemed very strange to him. Not at all like the engagements on Long Island, the focused attack down King Street in Trenton, or yesterday, commanding the gun in the long entrenchments on the slopes across from the narrow stone bridge.

  The mass of Continentals and militia surged around the large hall and broke into the fine two story building adjacent to it. The men, who had within the last hour, wheeled in formation at a drum roll and advanced in orderly ranks, were now a milling mob, raising mugs full of rum, rolling barrels of flour in the street, flaunting cloaks, hats and jackets of British officers and carrying pieces of furniture plundered from suspected Tory homes.

  Will heard a familiar voice calling his name over the noise of the boisterous troops. Captain Hadley, sitting on his chestnut mare motioned for Will to join him.

  “I have in mind to pursue the baggage train which left Princeton as we entered, and perhaps capture some necessities for our forces. Are you game?”

  Will nodded. “Where are the others?” Will asked looking around. “The two of us will suffice. More can join us if they wish.” He reached into his saddlebag and handed Will a pistol. “It is loaded. You have one shot. The wagon drivers will not put up a fight and the soldiers are defeated and have no stomach for more action.” Will hoped Hadley’s assessment was correct. This was his only weapon. His musket was strapped to the gun carriage.

  Will spurred Big Red into a trot and they rode through the village and emerged on the post road to Brunswick. Their passage attracted two more from their Regiment and the four of them galloped toward the tail of the British baggage train, visible less than a half a mile away.

  John Stoner was at the rear of the long line of wagons, the drivers flogging their oxen, driven by the fear of pursuit by the victorious Rebels. Colonel Mawhood, having escaped with some of his Regiment had found Stoner at the front of the three-mile long caravan and ordered him to be part of the rear guard to protect the baggage train. John had reluctantly left the safety of the lead, cursing the impetuous Colonel under his breath and ridden as slowly as possible along the train back toward Princeton. Why had not they simply proceeded on to Trenton that morning and then with a superior force returned and annihilated the rebel force? No, he thought angrily. Colonel Mawhood with his self important sense of honor had taken on the entire American Army, and now ordered John to place himself in danger. Upon reaching the end of the baggage train, John was surprised to find there were less than a dozen soldiers, shivering and battle weary, riding on the backs of the wagons, their shoulders sagging and heads nodding on their chests. He would not command them to march in ranks. If he did, he would have to lead them and make himself a prominent target. Instead, he turned his horse and positioned himself on the right side of the road, several wagons ahead of the last one and prayed for the train to move faster toward the British garrison in Brunswick and safety.

  Captain Hadley led the three of them at a gallop, rapidly closing the distance to the trailing wagons.

  “Shout lads. Make it seem as if the furies are coming down upon them.” Will guided Big Red with his knees as he pulled the pistol from his coat and cocked it with one hand. Hadley led their charge at a wagon piled high with new tents, their bright white canvas as clean as the snows in the fields beyond. It was six or seven from the end of the train. The three soldiers on the rear most wagon jumped off, fired their muskets wildly in their direction and ran off into a field, discarding their guns and packs in their panic stricken flight. The others formed a single short line, fired a ragged volley and dropped their muskets and raised their hands in the air. Hadley passed them and he and Will pulled their horses up at the wagon carrying the tents and ordered the driver to halt. The thin, frightened looking Redcoat, quickly dropped the reins and lifted his hands in surrender as Captain Hadley pointed a pistol at his head.

  “Turn this wagon around and return to Princeton,” he ordered. “You are our prisoner.” As the driver turned the wagon, Will saw a red flash of a mounted uniformed figure hidden by the next wagon. Hadley was looking down the road toward Princeton. The lone British trooper edged his horse from behind the wagon, pistol drawn and aimed at Hadley’s back.

  “Captain. Watch out,” Will yelled kicking his heels into Big Red’s flanks. His intention was to get between the Redcoat and Captain Hadley. The trooper hesitated, jerked his horse’s head and fired an instant later, before fleeing up the line of the baggage train toward Brunswick. Will caught a glimpse of his brother’s frightened face beneath a black tri-corn trimmed with a gold band. In an instant, Will gave chase consumed by a fierce anger. John had killed Captain Hadley. His brother drew another pistol from his saddlebag, glanced over his shoulder and without taking careful aim, fired a shot in Will’s direction. The distance was closing rapidly. John turned around to see if his pursuer was still there and this time recognized Will. He lowered himself on his horse’s neck and desperately beat at its flanks with his whip. Will pressed on, oblivious that he was riding up the line of the train toward its head where there would be more troops. He saw the startled faces of the wagon drivers as he thundered by on Big Red, and glimpsed one of them aiming his musket. He heard a shot, followed by another. He tucked his head low over his left shoulder and saw Captain Hadley behind him and the crumpled body of the red-coated driver lying sideways on the plank seat.

  “Turn back,” Hadley shouted. Will reined Big Red in and took one last look at his brother racing ahead, still frantically whipping his horse. He now realized the danger he was in. There were at least fifteen wagons between Will and the one with the tents, each with a driver armed with a musket and fully aware the two Americans were alone. Hadley had drawn his sword and was waving Will forward to him. Big Red easily jumped the two rails of the cedar fence on the side of the post road and he and Hadley galloped across the snow covered fields toward the rear of the baggage train. Puffs of blue smoke appeared along the line of wagons, followed by a dull boom from the Redcoats’ muskets. Their fire was ineffective at that range, more a futile gesture of defiance and anger, than a meaningful threat.

  They caught up with the captured seven wagons, driven by Redcoat prisoners and escorted by the two others from their Regiment.

  “Well, we have put the King’s spaniels to flight,” Hadley said, as they trotted alongside the rear most wagon. “Tis a pity we cannot pursue them to their kennel in Brunswick. Those drivers have now discharged their muskets and not yet reloaded. We should return and ask them to also accompany us to Princeton.” Will felt a jolt of fear in his stomach that did not entirely fade when Hadley laughed. “No need, Will. We have done enough for one morning.”

  “That was my older brother.” There was a tremor of anger in his voice.

  “Who?”

  “The one I was chasing. The one who fired at your back.”

  “You were after him? What were your intentions?”

  Will thought for a moment. Hadley slowed his mare and looked at him, waiting for an answer. He realized he had intended to ride alongside and shoot John, not take him prisoner. As he put his thoughts into words, he was surprised his saying so did not disturb him. John was a turncoat and traitor.

  “There is no longer any bond of brotherly affection between us. If we meet again, I would not hesitate. If his aim had been better, he would have killed you
and then me.”

  “Fortunately for me, you were there to thwart him.” Hadley tipped his tri-corn in salute. “I thank you for that.” He reached over and squeezed Will’s shoulder. “Do not feel badly. Remember that yours is not the only family divided by this war,” he said gently. Will thought perhaps the Captain remembered his long evening talks with Miss Mercy van Buskirk in Morristown. There had been many skirmishes, retreats and battles since those quiet nights before the warmth of the van Buskirk hearth.

  In Princeton, all was haste to load the wagons with as much of the captured stores and supplies as possible before the advance units of the British Army arrived from Trenton. Already, the sounds of skirmishing a mile or so down the Trenton-Princeton Road signaled that the Jaegers and light infantry were approaching. Hadley found a building that had served as the mess hall for the British garrison. They pushed their way through a mob of boisterous soldiers gathered around casks, hurriedly filling their canteens with rum. British fare of baked bread, butter, cheese and roast beef, littered the rough hewn wooden tables, having been picked over by the hungry and victorious soldiers. Will wolfed down as much of the beef and bread as he could, stuffed some cheese and bread in his haversack and followed the Captain outside as the drums continued to beat the long roll. They made their way through troops rushing to form up.

  He hitched Big Red to the brass six-pounder still standing in the compound of the multi-storied spired building where he had seen the British troops surrender. Together with the rest of the artillery and soldiers from a New England Regiment, Will left Princeton on a road leading northwest from town. Behind them came the wagons carrying the wounded followed by others loaded with wooden boxes of musket and cannon balls, tents, blankets, shoes and cured hides, and barrels of gunpowder, flour, salted pork and beef. The remainder of the army, in good spirits from the rum that also insulated them from the cold wind, straggled out of Princeton. Some troops remained as a rearguard at Stony Brook on the Post Road, to contest the crossing and impede the Redcoats’ progress. Another small contingent in Princeton had started bonfires and were burning the captured British supplies the Americans could not take with them. 6

  Will looked back at the thick black column of smoke snaking upward into the cloudless clear blue sky. He wished they could follow the remnants of the British Army toward Brunswick instead of retreating from Princeton. He wanted another opportunity to confront his brother.

  Chapter 4 - The Education of King George

  “Get up you Hessian bastards. Raus. Raus.” Georg blinked at

  the militia guard barking at them as daylight streamed through the open cell door. At least fifty of them shivering in their wet uniforms, hungry, despondent and exhausted by their day long forced march from the Pennsylvania side south of the ferry landing, were crammed into a small room of a brick prison. The rough stone walls were so like frozen blocks of ice, the men could not bear to lean against them for long. They were without blankets or food. Their only source of warmth was to huddle together. The room was dark and men constantly groaned and cursed as others stepped on them. Those able to find a place to lie down did not remain still, but incessantly, almost insanely, scratched at their thighs and stomachs. Worse than lice, the thawing wet wool of their breeches and shirts created a ferocious itching that was not relieved even when their broken finger nails drew blood. The floor was covered with a thin layer of straw and in one corner was a chamber pot, which by dawn was overflowing. The soldiers closest to the pot sat or lay in the excrement of their comrades, too weary or cold to care.

  Georg stood up and flexed his stiff knees. His toes were numb in his worn square black shoes, his bare ankles chaffed raw against the inside of his canvas gaiters. He was certain the skin of his feet was cracked and covered with congealed blood. He hoped he would not lose his toes to frostbite. The thought of them being amputated scared him and he wiggled his toes vigorously to keep the blood flowing. As the prisoners stumbled into the clear light of early morning, the militia by gestures and angry commands directed them to line up in files, in preparation for the morning march. Some of the men, who knew a few words of English, shouted for bread. Georg added his voice, although his throat was dry and scratchy. “Brot. Brot,” he heard himself squawk. “Und wasser,” he added. Others took up the cry. Soon, all two hundred of them were calling in unison for bread and water.

  The militia escorting them encircled the prisoners and made a show of fixing their bayonets and aiming their muskets. Georg saw his friend Christoph. He pushed through the shouting men until he reached him.

  “They treat us like dogs,” Georg said, over the yelling. “This is not what Andreas dreamed of. Surrender indeed. For this? What a fool he was,” he said of their dead friend.

  Christoph pointed to an ox drawn wagon lumbering toward them over the ice encrusted cobblestones. One of the militiamen jumped up on the back of the wagon and began throwing loaves of bread onto the snow covered ground. The prisoners broke ranks and rushed forward, scrambling eagerly for the food. With no officers to restrain them they were an undisciplined mob. Georg as a Corporal felt an obligation to attempt to maintain some sort of order.

  “We are not animals,” he shouted. “Form lines,” he yelled at the men around him. The hungry prisoners ignored him and continued to fight each other for the bread. Some who had snatched a loaf shared with their close comrades. Others held on to the precious food for as long as possible, wolfing down as much as they could before they were knocked down and the bread ripped from their possession.

  Christoph had a chunk of bread in his hands. He tore it in two and offered half to Georg. The bread was stale and crawling with weevils. It had a heavy musty odor. Georg forced himself to chew slowly and swallow it.

  “Wasser.Wasser,” the men cried. One of the militia pointed at the muddy snow on the ground. He bent down and scooped it up and made a gesture of eating it from his hand. As a few of the prisoners picked up the snow, the militia man made a point of dropping his pants and pissing on a relatively clean white patch in front of him. He laughed and tied his breeches, joking with the other militia and pointing from the yellow stain to the Hessians eating snow.

  They left the town, surrounded by their guards and led by three militia officers, mounted and proudly prancing ahead as if they had captured the Hessians single-handedly. Their buff colored breeches were clean and the brass buttons on the pristine fabric of their dark blue coats were as bright as gold coins. It was obvious to Georg these militia officers had never been in the field. After a half hour, they were ordered off the road and permitted to rest on the cold frozen ground. Georg collapsed against a tree and tucked his bare hands under his armpits to warm them. Christoph leaned against him, furiously scratching one leg.

  “What will happen to us?” Christoph asked. “Will they shoot us?”

  “If God has not forsaken us, we will remain prisoners for the duration of the war. Where we will be held is my concern. Do the Rebellers have prison ships? I could not bear to be kept in some dark hold below the water line, my feet gnawed at by rats, never knowing whether it was day or night out.”

  “I wish someone had a bible. Mine was in my pack, taken from me at Trenton.”

  Georg looked at Christoph. He had not been one of the more religious men in their Company, more prone to taking the Lord’s name in vain or complaining about the length of the compulsory services. Hardship changed men’s characters, even their beliefs, he thought.

  More Hessian prisoners, these from Colonel Rall’s Regiment straggled up the road, prodded by the bayonets of the militia escorting them. Some limped along, others who seemed too weak to walk on their own, had their arms draped over a comrade for support. All looked bedraggled, dirty and defeated. If Colonel Rall could see his proud Grenadiers now, Georg thought, he would weep with shame. He had heard the Colonel had been killed at Trenton. Better fortune for him. He wondered bitterly if the other captured Hessian Officers were enjoying the hospitality of Rebeller Officers befor
e a warm fire in some nearby town.

  He heard shouted commands of “Raus. Raus,” followed by the familiar English words he had learned since being captured, “you Hessian bastards.” The men struggled to their feet and joined the soldiers from Rall’s Regiment on the road. What a piteous procession of silent beaten men we make, Georg thought. And there are so many of us.