Blood Upon The Snow

by Martin Ganzglass

  “I heard our Regiment is to hold back and the militia will advance and silence their pickets with cold steel,” a voice said in the darkness. “Serves them right for what they did at Wayne’s affair,” another replied.2 “No quarter for any of the British bloodhounds,” added a different voice more vehemently. The men were silent as they thought of the slaughter of the Continentals in the surprise British night attack, and the prospect of advancing in silence and gutting the Redcoats in reprisal.

  Bant ignored the sentiments being expressed as more of the soldiers joined in. He was motivated both by thoughts of revenge against the troopers as well as a desire to rid himself of his demons. Night marches suited him. No sleep meant no revisiting the horrors, no feelings of regret and guilt at having survived while twelve others were hanged. The certainty of an attack in the morning gave him the opportunity to kill more of the enemy. Afterwards, he would fall into an exhausted sleep during which his demons might be assuaged by his bloodletting and leave him undisturbed.

  Dark shapes passed among them with orders to resume the march in silence. Bant plodded along, the respite having stiffened his legs rather than revitalized him. He kept close to McNeil, taking two steps to the tall man’s one. His mind was empty of any thoughts, good or evil. Occasionally, his left hand touched his cartridge box to reassure him the ammunition was there, waiting for him when the battle commenced. He noticed with surprise that he was able to make out McNeil’s face, the jutting chin and the over-riding brow. It was near dawn. Ahead, he heard the deep bangs of the Jaegers’ short heavy caliber rifles answered by a concentrated volley of musket fire.

  “Well, no one is sneaking up on those Jaegers and giving them cold steel,” McNeil said as Lieutenant Patten shouted for the company to form ranks and dog trot forward. The air was clear but as the road sloped down toward a river, all Bant could see was a heavy fog blanketing both shores and a faint blue haze hanging over the area. One hundred yards below, the Pennsylvania militia was arrayed along a fence line midway down the slope, firing volley after volley at the Jaegers hidden alongside a wooden bridge across a narrow river. The militia’s two light three-pounders were to his right on the heights, firing down on the Hessian positions.

  “If the fog lifts, there will be enough smoke from all those volleys so we still will not be able to see a thing,” McNeil said, appraising the field below.

  Lieutenant Patten ordered his company to halt in the woods and wait. As the sun rose higher, part of the fog dissipated but still enshrouded the Hessian positions immediately abutting the river. The riflemen were slightly more than two hundred yards away from the enemy’s lines. Bant could make out individual green-jacketed Jaegers running through the shrubbery before taking cover behind a stone mill and its surrounding outbuildings. The Americans advanced further to the edge of the woods. The tall cedars and evergreens provided a cool shaded refuge from the morning heat.

  Bant heard the Lieutenant calling for volunteers and together with McNeil arose and walked up to their officer.

  “Some of you men ascend these tall trees. From that height, lay down a sniping fire on the Jaegers foolish enough to show themselves. There is a battalion of Hessian Grenadiers moving up from their camp. Pick off their officers if you are able.”

  McNeil motioned for Bant to follow him and select two trees to climb. Bant stood rooted to the spot. He saw images of another tree a long time ago; saw himself lying flat along a branch, unarmed, watching British troopers hanging militia men below. Wide eyed, he looked up as a breeze rustled the limbs above him, beckoning him upward.

  He shook his head, seeing men clawing at the tightening nooses, swinging from the branches.

  “No, no” he shouted, putting his hand before his eyes. He fled from the tree line down the slope toward the militia, running blindly into the brightly lit field. He tripped, rolled over and lay there on his back, his eyes tightly closed his fingers wrapped around his rifle barrel. Gradually, the open space above him, the warmth of the earth and the clean smell of fresh grass still wet from the fog and dew, soothed him. The noise of musket fire did not disturb him. It was the sound of Jaeger rifles that aroused him. Cautiously, he stood up and saw he was mid-way down from the heights, between the riflemen above and the militia less than fifty yards ahead. Without thinking, he loped down to the fence line. He would kill Jaegers from there. And maybe a few Grenadier officers as well. 3

  Will was in the middle of a large column of regulars rushing down a broad dirt road leading to the town. Ahead, in the fields, several Regiments were racing through the knee-high grass, fanning out in a long line of battle. As he rode forward on Big Red, who was easily pulling a light six-pounder and a wagon with the gun crew, Will saw the tents, baggage wagons, sacks of provisions and even a few field guns, hastily abandoned by the British units. They had been over-run by the advancing American divisions now flanking the stone houses of the town. The troops on the road, sensing the collapse of the British line, let out a roar of triumph that to Will’s ears was louder than the heavy volume of musket fire. He was eager to join the battle, afraid that it would be as at Princeton where, obstructed by other troops, he had arrived too late to partake in the assault on Nassau Hall.

  The columns in front of him slowed and parted for a rider approaching from the front. Will recognized an aide to Colonel Sargent, who to his surprise reined up alongside Big Red.

  “General Knox’s orders. You are to join the assault on this fortress that is impeding our advance. Follow me.”

  Will followed the aide to a low stonewall that bordered the road. There were four six-pounders firing at a massive two and a half story solid grey stone house. The building sat like a castle on dominating high ground, with a clear field of fire for about thirty yards all around. Will hurriedly dismounted. Chandler, Tyler, Baldwin and the new man, Ezra Davenport who had replaced Grayson, killed at Brandywine three weeks ago, had already unhitched the gun carriage. Will helped them manhandle the six-pounder into position. They unloaded the side boxes with the canvas charges. Will decided the powder box would be safer closer to the stone wall than further behind the gun where it could be struck by the steady but errant musket fire coming from the second story windows of the building. A ring of smoke hung around each of the stone framed windows as the British troops inside laid down a hail of fire, both at the troops along the stone wall and those marching past and on toward Germantown. The soldiers on the road were barely within effective musket range. It was almost one hundred yards to the house. Nevertheless, the whiz of balls in the air, whether aimed or not, caused the troops to increase their pace as they passed.

  “Who is in charge of this gun?” an officer asked to no one in particular.

  “I am Sir. Sergeant Will Stoner of the Massachusetts Artillery.”

  “I am Colonel Proctor in command of this battery. You are to direct your fire at the doors and windows. Our balls seem to do no damage to the stone front.” As he spoke, Will saw a cannon ball glance off the wall causing a shower of sparks and a small cloud of pulverized dust, barely leaving a mark to show where the ball had struck.

  “Sergeant, wait for my order. The New Jersey boys are preparing to assault this building. We will lay down covering fire.” He noticed the powder box near the wall but said nothing. “After the first round, fire when ready until our troops advance.”

  Will nodded, thinking grape shot might be better if they were aiming at the windows but the Colonel had already moved to another cannon in the battery. “We will use grape shot,” he said to Davenport. They inserted a wooden wedge under the breach to elevate the cannon. Once it was loaded, Will reached into his pouch and removed a quill, pricked the canvas bag through the vent and waited. The Jersey Regiments formed into compact columns and hunched down behind the stonewall, both for cover and to conceal their imminent charge.

  “Prime your guns,” Colonel Proctor shouted. Will inserted the quill in the touchhole shouted primed and lit the slow match. “Give fire,” the Colonel
yelled again and Will dipped the match in the quill and stepped back. The five guns roared, almost simultaneously. Multiple puffs of dust peppered the tall second story window and a cheer went up as a six-pound ball shattered part of the front door.

  “Have at them again.” Will thought it was the Colonel who shouted the command but with the ringing in his ears, he was not certain. The crew worked efficiently together, with Baldwin closing the vent, Tyler quickly sponging the barrel, Chandler inserting the long worming pole and Davenport bringing up the canvas charge and then the grape shot. They fired several more rounds. The wind was behind them, blowing their cannon smoke up toward the grey fortress. Through the haze, Will saw some of the British had closed the thick wooden shutters of the windows before a round was fired and opened them to pour musket fire down on the Americans while the cannons were being reloaded. He determined to switch to a six-pound ball and put an end to that ploy when Proctor ordered them to hold their fire. With his cannon already loaded but not primed, Will placed the quill back in his pouch.

  The two Jersey Regiments clambered over the wall, spread out in a battle line and charged up the driveway and grounds heading toward the shattered front door and first floor windows with their shutters hanging askew. The British opened up with a deadly rain of fire from the second story windows and there were flashes of musket fire from the cellar just at ground level as well. The volleys were incessant as the British soldiers who had fired stepped away to allow those with loaded muskets their turn. The effect was continuous sheets of lead balls. A few of the Jersey men reached the cellar windows and were bayoneted as they tried to climb in. Several died on the narrow steps leading to the front door. The lucky wounded were dragged or carried back out of range as the troops retreated. The others lay where they had fallen, motionless blue clad mounds amidst the deep green grass.

  The troops behind the wall kept up a harassing fire but from that distance it was largely ineffective. Will moved away from his battery and found Proctor conferring with an Officer from a Jersey Regiment.

  “Yes, Sergeant. What is it?” Proctor said, whether annoyed at Will’s presence or at the failure of the assault, Will could not determine.

  “Sir. I have fired all except my first round with grapeshot at the second story windows. The time such fire is needed is not before our troops attack but during the assault. I ask permission to fire while the men are advancing.”

  Proctor studied Will as if he were a strange species of beast he had encountered in the woods for the first time.

  “And why do you suppose Sergeant, all our artillery manuals do not advise such a practice? Because of the risk of hitting our own men in the back.”

  “Yes, Sir. But in our current situation, the building is on higher ground, the second story windows higher still and it is from there the British pour down a deadly fire on our men.”

  Will noticed the New Jersey Colonel nodding in agreement. Proctor saw it as well.

  “If a single soldier suffers grapeshot in the back, I will see you court-martialed and hung for that soldier’s death.”

  “It will be easy to know, “ the New Jersey Colonel added. “All of my men, killed or wounded, bear their bloody marks on their fronts, suffered while advancing.”

  “So be it, Sergeant. Support the attack before with cannon balls and grape during the assault,” Proctor said, dismissing him.

  Will returned to the gun crew and relayed their orders, leaving out the part about the threat of court martial. After several rounds, one of which blasted through the closed shutters of a second floor window, causing his men to cheer, they were ordered to hold fire. Will made certain the wedge elevating the cannon was firmly in place and called for Davenport to load with grapeshot. The Jersey Regiments rose again and charged the building. Will saw several British at the window with the now shattered shutters, fire and drop back to be replaced by several more leaning forward over the sill, the flashes of their muskets bright pinpoints of light through the smoke.

  “Give fire, he shouted. He watched with satisfaction as the grape struck home and several soldiers fell backwards from the stone sill into the room.

  “Quickly now men. They are back at the window.” Will pricked the charge, poured powder down the touchhole and shouted primed, followed by the slow match and the command of “Give Fire.” Again the lethal lead balls found their targets, one soldier falling forward over the sill before being dragged back by his comrades. As the gun crew readied the cannon again, Will noted that no more soldiers appeared at the targeted opening. Instead, a heavy concentrated fire continued from the windows to its left and right. The deadly hail of lead took its toll and the Jersey soldiers retreated, with far fewer in their ranks than had advanced.

  Will lost count of how many times assaults were mounted and repulsed. The battle became a blur of cannonades and rounds of grape shot at windows, and then sporadic musket fire and regrouping for the next attack. Sometime in mid-morning, they were ordered to hold their cannon fire. Through the smoke and haze, Will observed a small force of blue clad men, led by an officer with a sword, coming from the direction of a barn about fifty yards behind the main house, with armfuls of hay and straw. They disappeared behind a low stone building to one side of the house and then rushed forward toward the now shuttered first floor windows on the front. The few who had made it that far huddled against the thick walls, trying to light the hay while the Americans kept up a heavy musket fire against the British in the second floor windows. Will thought he could see flickers of flame take hold, a few of the brave souls rose up and were shot as soon as they pulled the shutters open and climbed over the sill. A solid ring of smoke emerged from the cellar windows as the defenders fired a musket volley and the last of the brave men fell. The troops to the left and right of Will’s cannon let out a roar of helpless rage and renewed their generally ineffective musket fire at the stone fortress.

  Will knocked the wooden wedge from under the breech. “I want to skip a ball into that cellar window, second from the front door,” he said to no one in particular.

  “The ball will most likely strike some of our men lying there,” Levi Taylor observed. Will could not hear him. “What did you say?” Levi repeated it in a loud voice. Will looked confused and turned toward Chandler for advice. The Corporal put his arm around Will’s shoulder.

  “They are most likely dead already,” he said. His lips were pressed grimly together as he nodded in agreement with Will. The men grabbed the handspikes and moved the six-pounder until it was directly in a line with cellar window. When the general musket and cannon fire resumed and their cannon was loaded and primed, Will put the slow match to the quill, shouted “Give Fire,” and jumped up on a side box to see better. Their ball hit the ground about twelve feet from the fallen blue clad soldiers, there was a spray of blood as it plowed through the human barricade made by the American’s bodies and smashed directly through the stone framed window.

  Hard of hearing as he was from the constant cannon fire, Will thought the noise of muskets and artillery had increased. A blue haze rose from behind the house as more of the American troops thickened the lines encircling the bastion. The firing was constant, another indicator to Will that as one line fired and stepped back to reload, another line let loose a volley of musket balls. After all of the hours of bombardment, it was clear the cannon balls were having no success in battering down the massive walls. He wished he could leave his post and probe the other sides of the house where the walls may not have been as thick or as well made, but he knew he needed permission from Colonel Proctor. He looked around for the Colonel and saw a substantial body of troops marching up the road from the town toward the rear. More troops followed, emerging out of the haze and fog in an orderly and quiet procession, some curiously looking at the troops lining the stonewall facing the massive house on the hill. Will saw the New Jersey Militia shoulder their arms and leave the wall to join the columns marching away from the battle that had been going on in the town and beyond
.

  An officer moved through the battery shouting for them to secure the cannons and proceed to the road. As his gun crew loaded the side boxes on the carriage, Will retrieved Big Red and the wagon from a shed in the field now filled with marching men. The horse raised his head as he smelled the gunpowder and blood but trotted forward obediently. The crew wrestled the cannon into position as Baldwin and Tyler hitched the tongue to the back of the wagon. The New Jersey troops had withdrawn and Will found himself surrounded by a Maryland Division that marched by quietly, their muskets at shoulder arms. He turned to look back at the stone mansion and was surprised to see a swarm of Redcoats, about one hundred in number, emerge and form up on the road. They fired a volley at the rear of the retreating column.

  A company of Marylanders turned and formed into a defensive line as the rear guard. Will dismounted and together with the crew, unlimbered the six-pounder and pushed it down the road toward the British troops. He felt a fierce spirit of vengeance and anger, mixed with the pleasure of being able to kill those who had hidden in their fortress for all these hours. He sensed the same emotion amongst the crew, Baldwin was shaking his leather encased thumb and fist at the Redcoats and Tyler’s mouth was drawn back in a vicious anticipatory grin. Only Chandler looked remorseful as if he had to perform this distasteful duty one more time this bloody day. Without an order from Will, they loaded the light field cannon with grapeshot and waited. The six-pounder was to one side of the road, aimed at the center of the British line, with the Marylanders to the crew’s left. At the command, the Marylanders let loose a volley. A few seconds later, Will shouted “Give Fire” and the deadly hail of lead balls tore into the ranks of the British soldiers kneeling to fire and those reloading in their rear. One more round and they hitched the cannon to the wagon and retreated unhindered back up the road they had so enthusiastically marched down at dawn. 4