“Good enough for the moment,” Will said. “We will redirect our fire at the main body and respond when they engage us again.”
Will lost sense of time. It seemed as if the enemy remained frozen in position across the river, neither advancing nor retreating out of cannon range. From their vantage point up the slope, he could see some of their troops had crossed the river and were hiding behind what cover they could find and firing at the woods sheltering the Continentals. To the left of the ford, he heard heavy musket fire but saw nothing because of the trees and haze that hung over the battlefield. Their three-gun battery was at the center of the line.
He realized there had been no British counter fire for some time. He looked around puzzled. Sergeant Otis motioned to him. Below them, the ranks of redcoats on either side of the road leading toward the riverbanks were withdrawing. The sound of fife and drum and the wail of bagpipes wafted over the fields. The occasional pop of a rifle from their skirmishers seemed louder now because of the overall silence. Puffs of gun smoke dotted the hillsides on the other side of the river where buckwheat fields in bloom abutted against a wall of green forest.
“It appears the Redcoats are consolidating their positions on the opposite hills,” Otis said, pointing to columns and columns of troops appearing on the slopes across the river. “Good thing there is a lull. My two guns are running low on charges and ball. You should take stock for the twelve-pounder. We may have to send one of the crew back to the rear and return with a supply wagon.”
Will heard the Sergeant’s words as if through a porous wall. His ears rang from the roar of his cannon. He stood only a few paces away from the explosions throughout the bombardment of the redcoats and the long artillery duel. He nodded and ordered Grayson to inspect the powder boxes and balls and report back, unaware that his voice was loud.
“You are shouting,” Chandler said, grinning at Will. “Your hearing will be normal in a few hours. That is unless they resume their attack before then.”
Will looked to both sides of the battery. When had these additional troops arrived? He was aware of the sun past midpoint in the sky and beginning to cast its rays into his eyes when he observed the British massed on the opposing hills. They probably will attack when the sun is behind them, he thought. He wished they had more cannons to defend the center and Captain Hadley to command them.
Bant steadied his breath and felt a calmness take hold. In the early morning he had fought the kind of fight he enjoyed. Taking advantage of nature’s cover and ambushing British regulars and then skirmishing with their light infantry and the more sensibly uniformed green coated Hessian Jaegers in the woods on the west bank of the river. The deeper explosion of the Jaeger’s shorter barreled but heavier caliber rifles, intermingled with the sharper, lighter cracking of the Continentals’ long rifles.
His eyes were keen and he could see patterns where most others could not. He had picked off unsuspecting Jaegers confident they were hidden amongst the dense September foliage, their faces and eyes giving them away to Bant who had blown their heads off. It was the only target they presented.
But then, when Maxwell’s rifle regiment had retreated across the river into their own lines, and he had lain there, inactive with his mind returning over and over again to the hanging of the Hessian plunderers, it was all he could do to prevent himself from screaming. And the cannon fire and howitzers which burst overhead made him feel exposed and vulnerable. He wanted to die but not be maimed or horribly wounded by some iron ball or burning metal. He wanted to die crawling through the underbrush, hunting a British skirmisher or Jaeger and in turn being hunted by them.
He was the first to volunteer, when Lieutenant Patten asked for skirmishers to creep up on the Hessian Jaegers hiding amongst some newly cut trees. They were engaged in sniping at Continentals along the far right of the line. Their accurate fire was taking a toll. McNeil and about ten other riflemen came with him. They snaked down the slope but separated at the rail fence bordering the cultivated field. While the others crouched and headed toward the cover of shrubs and brush, Bant, without hesitating, entered the blooming buckwheat field and slithered on his stomach directly toward the Hessians position at the far end. He could hear them rustling, the leaves’ movement telling Bant where they were. Their short hunting rifles, with their silver metal were easy to spot, even if their green coats with brown facing blended into the undergrowth.
He waited before crawling closer, moving carefully, using his elbows for leverage and keeping his belly close to the ground. The breeze masked his movements and blew the faint pink, not yet withered flowers on the four-foot high buckwheat stalks. When he was a little more than one hundred yards away, he settled comfortably on the warm earth, with the stock of his long rifle nestled against his cheek. Peering out, he sighted just below the black tri-corn of the Jaeger who was kneeling and appeared to be directing the others. His ball blew part of the soldier’s head away. Fortuitously he fell backwards, giving his surviving comrades the impression he had been struck from the front.
Bant rolled to his side and, lying in the dry depression of a furrow, bit the end of another cartridge. He poured some powder into the pan, quietly closed the pan cover, and then, on his back, with the stock clasped between his mocassined feet, rammed the rest of the cartridge and ball down the long barrel and refixed the ramrod. Slowly and carefully, he turned onto his stomach and peered through the leafless stalks at the Jaegers. They had moved forward several feet and spread out. He was deciding to shoot one of those closer to him who was reloading, when he saw another Jaeger, further away, rise up next to a stump and take aim. Bant fired and saw the man crumple, this time falling to his left from the impact of the ball striking him in the throat. Bant rolled over to reload and wondered how long it would take the Jaegers to realize he was in the buckwheat field. He heard the sharp bark of rifles and assumed McNeil and the others were engaging the Hessians from further up the hill.
Patiently, he waited for the breeze to shift the tall buckwheat stalks before moving. This time, he saw two Jaegers facing toward him, scanning the field, both having taken cover behind one of the fallen trees. They were slightly uphill from him and not too far apart. After shooting one, the other might be better able to determine where Bant had fired from and catch him while he reloaded. Then again, the Jaeger had no idea he was alone and might be hesitant to charge into the field. Bant arbitrarily selected the one on the right. He aimed at the forehead of the green-coated soldier who lay behind the thick log, exposing only his head from the neck up. It was enough. Bant fired and was certain he had killed him.
Instead of reloading, he lay flat and motionless, his chin resting on the soft earth and waited. Fortunately for Bant, the smoke from his rifle stayed low to the ground and dissipated in the light breeze. He smiled, enjoying this cat and mouse game. The other Hessian seemed only to move his eyes, methodically scanning each row for any clue of Bant’s location. Bant breathed slowly. He watched the soldier’s gaze pass by him and continue on to his left. Bant took this moment to roll over on his back and reload. The rifle fire and the Hessian’s sniping made it hard for Bant to hear whether the Jaeger had entered the field with his gun loaded and ready. He lay quietly with his own rifle resting on his stomach before cautiously turning to face uphill. The Hessian who had been searching for him was not where he had been. Bant waited, confident he would reveal himself. He scanned the logs lying horizontal to the field, looking for telltale signs of a human. Behind the dark gnarled twist of the trunk, he spotted the black hair and the dirt-smudged forehead of the Hessian. The soldier had taken his tri-corn off and was doggedly waiting for Bant to reveal himself. His hunting rifle pointed over the log like an uncut branch. Unaware he had been spotted, the Hessian remained motionless. Bant sighted just between his eyebrows and pulled the trigger. The head disappeared.
Bant cautiously reloaded, aware of the shouts of men and heavier rifle fire. He stood in time to see the men of his regiment sweeping down the slo
pe and into the woods with the Jaegers rapidly giving ground. They retreated across the Brandywine with Maxwell’s rifles in close pursuit. Bant raced to join them, splashing across the creek at the shallow ford and beyond the tree line along a road paralleling the river. He found McNeil and the men under Lieutenant Patten’s command resting behind a line of shrubs bordering a fallow field. On the slopes ahead of them, some of the retreating Jaegers had taken cover and begun a sniping fire. Masses of redcoats lined the tops of the hills. Bant rested with his back to the enemy. At least three regiments of Continentals were crossing the ford in good order, fanning out to their left and right and forming lines three deep in preparation for the attack.
“I suppose we will be tasked to clear the Jaegers again,” McNeil said taking a long drink from his canteen.
Bant licked his lips and realized how thirsty he was. Biting cartridges and having black powder blow back in his face from the pan had made his throat dry. He had not retrieved his own canteen, left at the edge of the buckwheat field. McNeil offered him his. Greedily, he emptied it. The warm water tasted pleasant going down his throat but made him crave for more. He loped the short distance to the river, filled McNeil’s canteen, drank half of it, and refilled it before returning.
Supply wagons were passing along the road and Bant lined up behind McNeil to get more cartridges. He took a handful of hard biscuits although he was not hungry and wished the suttler had brought extra canteens. The bottoms of his pants legs had already dried in the September heat, although his feet chafed in his wet moccasins. McNeil drank some from his canteen and refilled it with cider from a barrel on the wagon.
“Some of the men, those that have heard you scream at night when your ‘demons’ possess you, speak openly of you as a lunatick,” McNeil said, slipping the canteen strap over his shoulder. He put a large hand on Bant’s shoulder as they walked back to the shrub line. “Now those who know of your wailing when we hung the four Hessians will believe it too. You may be crazy, but you are the calmest soldier under fire I have ever seen and braver than most. Not one man in a hundred would have entered that buckwheat field for fear of being spotted and picked off by those Hessian hunters.” He wiped the sweat from his grimy forehead with his sleeve. “There. I have said my piece.”
Bant nodded. He had felt good in that buckwheat field, killing those Jaegers. Maybe, if he killed enough of them, the heavy, dark burden of guilt would be lifted, eventually. If not, he could always seek out the musket ball to bring him final peace of mind. Today was not the day, however. He was eager to get back into battle.
“The whole God-damned British army and their bastard Hessian mercenaries are across the river and we are riding to God knows where,” Private Grayson said loudly to the rest of the crew. “This is the main ford. Any dolt can see that. Why we are leaving. . .” He stopped in mid –sentence and grimaced as the supply wagon hit a hidden tree stump in the grassy field. The men were bounced into the air and then viciously slammed down on to the rough wooden bench. Behind the wagon, the twelve-pounder, weighed down by the side-boxes, twisted on the hitch but remained upright.
Will was going to say, orders are meant to be followed and Grayson should not question them. General Maxwell’s aide had ridden up to the gun crews and shouted to Sergeant Otis- the battery was to follow the troops already departing through the pastures behind the lines and get on the road in the distance and make utmost haste to support General Stirling’s Division.
Before Will could reply, Baldwin rebuked Grayson. “We have never taken the Lord’s name in vain in this crew and I suggest to you whilst we are not certain the day’s battle is over, now is not a particularly appropriate time to do so.” Sergeant Merriam had not tolerated any blaspheming. Will was surprised that Baldwin had spoken up, being the one who had gently mocked Merriam’s religiosity.
“It does not seem to me we will need the Almighty’s divine protection since it is we who are leaving the field,” Grayson grumbled to no one in particular.
Will felt the moment for him to say something had passed. He was disturbed by his lack of decisiveness. Later, he thought, he would consult with Chandler about whether he had been right to remain silent. He clicked his tongue and lightly tapped Big Red’s haunches with the reins. In the distance, misty brown clouds of dirt lay close to the road they were supposed to take, marking the soldiers’ path almost directly north meandering away from the ford. It seemed to Will there were a lot of soldiers on the move away from the river.
The air was warm and muggy. After the repeated rounds of cannon fire, the comparative quiet as they left the trenches and barricades behind them seemed eerie to Will. His hearing had returned. He could perceive the clop of Big Red’s hooves, the creak of the leather traces, the dull rumbling of the iron clad wagon wheels and the occasional scree of a hawk, peering keenly from aloft to spy any prey flushed from the fields by the soldiers marching through. He was sure they were leaving one battle for another. But for that ominous thought, he could have enjoyed the pleasant warm mid-September afternoon, surrounded by peaceful verdant fields, neatly lined with proper fences.
Once they reached the road, they made better time. The soldiers of the regiments trotting along in good order made way for the horse drawn artillery, all heading toward the sounds of rolling musket fire ahead. After reaching a T, they headed almost due east as the road became steeper. Big Red, without any urging from Will maintained his pace. Will saw Continentals dug in a field to the right, flanking the sides of a steep hill, which bristled with more troops. The sounds of rolling musket volleys filled the air.
“Cannons to that hill,” a Lieutenant shouted, riding down the line directing Will and Sergeant Otis to leave the road. The ground in the field was soft and almost swampy. Big Red strained to pull the cannon and wagon through the muck.
“Gun crews out,” Will ordered and the men jumped out of the wagon to lighten the load. The horse, freed from their extra weight, surged forward onto solid ground and almost galloped up the narrow path, worn through the wooded slopes by the troops and guns that had preceded them. Two six pounders were already in place, surrounded by a shield of felled trees and low earthen works. The smell of gunpowder was strong with the wind blowing toward them from the fields and woodlands below.
“Will. Over here.” Captain Hadley waved his tri-corn in the air. “When they sent for more artillery, I had no idea you would be among them,” he said offering Will his hand as he dismounted. Together they unhitched the twelve-pounder before the rest of the gun crew arrived. Baldwin, Chandler, Tyler, and Grayson quickly pushed the cannon into position behind a protective embankment and unloaded the side boxes. Grayson set up the powder boxes and began piling loose stones around them, while the others carried the cannon balls close to the piece. Will waited until Sergeant Otis’ crews had the two six-pounders unhitched before he remounted Big Red and led the other two horses back down the far side of the slope. Will tied the horses to the trees, patted Big Red and hoped he would be safe. Then he sprinted back up the hill. The wagons were hidden amongst the trees, well behind the summit. Their battery consisted of four sixpounders and his twelve-pounder with Captain Hadley in command. Will felt both a sense of relief of not having to make decisions and also a surprising twinge of disappointment of not being in charge.
The noise of musket fire was constant. The cannons although loaded, were not yet engaged. Hadley led the men to the edge of the embankment. Below them, lay a sloping hill, the green fields shimmering in the late afternoon sun. At the bottom, along a road running parallel to their position, a bright red British battle line had been drawn up behind a fence. After firing a volley up toward the lead American skirmishers, they were busily engaged in tearing down the rails.
“That road below our hill leads to the Birmingham Meeting House. Our right flank is protected by General Sullivan’s Division. Ahead, on our left, Smallwood’s Marylanders are heavily engaged. When the British appear in force, we are to rain down on them a furious fire t
o break their ranks and stop their advance.” He pointed to a large dust cloud about a mile and a half away, in the direction of the Meeting House. “I believe the King’s minions are approaching. Man your guns and hold your fire until I give the order.”
The sounds of musket fire intensified although Will was uncertain as to the direction. He studied the approaching cloud extending back in a long column. If the dust was created by marching troops, there were many indeed on the way to assault the American lines. At approximately a mile away, he could discern the soldiers. They came steadily on, their muskets at shoulder arms, bayonets glinting, their regimental flags fluttering in the light wind blowing toward them. Here and there, a few field officers on horseback rode alongside.
“God save us,” Grayson whispered. “They are Grenadiers.” “God has better things to do than save those who have taken his name in vain,” Baldwin said, spitting on the ground. “Let us hope, Providence will look with favor on our cause this day. Do your duty Grayson and hope for the best.”
Will saw the tall, dark bearskin caps almost at the same time as he heard an aggressive jaunty tune, the high pitched fifes projecting above the menacing steady beat of many sheepskin drums. 6 Their regiments came on in massed, compacted units. At an order, more sensed by Will and the gun crews than heard, the Grenadiers broke from their marching units and crisply formed a long battle line, two deep with each Redcoat an arm’s length from his companion. Will heard the thunder of many drums as the Grenadiers quickened their pace. To Will, it seemed that the quick charging troops would overwhelm and roll up the American lines at either end and the battery would be captured. He pushed that thought from his mind.
“Gun crews ready,” Captain Hadley said quietly. Will pricked the charge, inserted the quill in the touchhole and shouted “Primed,” slightly before the Sergeants of the other two gun crews.
“On my order.” Hadley raised his sword. “Steady. Fire,” he shouted.
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