The Minuteman

by Tony Roberts

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Things went from bad to worse for the Americans over the next few weeks. Fort Washington fell quickly, a disaster, and six thousand men were sent into captivity. Eyes looked at Washington accusingly but nobody dared say anything. Fort Lee was abandoned two days later and the army retreated into New Jersey towards the next natural barrier, the Hackensack River, a couple of miles to the north-west, crossing it at New Bridge.

  Casca was reunited with the Delaware regiment, and had a painful interview with Colonel Haslett when he had to tell him of the death of Private Courtney. Haslett listened silently for a moment, then nodded and stated Sir Richard Eley would meet his fate at an appropriate time.

  The British weren’t too far behind. Lord Cornwallis was given the command of the pursuit and took Fort Lee quickly, then pushed hard on the heels of the retreating Americans. Rain came down relentlessly and puddles formed on the roads, adding to the discomfort of the soldiers. Their misery was palpable. At night the two sides camped on either side of the river, their camp fires clearly visible to the other side, and Casca wondered if the murdering Sir Richard was anywhere amongst their ranks. He’d find out, no doubt, given time.

  They left the Hackensack and carried on westwards, another two miles to the town of Aquackanonk and crossed over the Passaic River on a rather shaky bridge. A cry of ‘dragoons!’ caused some panic and Casca was one of the rearguard given the task to destroy the bridge, which the soldiers did with relish. No sooner had the bridge collapsed into the waters then the horsemen of the British dragoons arrived and stared across the space at the Americans. Casca waved cheerily and left, running to catch up the last of the rearguard who were marching southwards along the west bank of the Passaic towards Newark, the next town and supply depot.

  The rain was relentless and so was the retreat. Casca said goodbye to Newark and with a few regiments marched south to New Brunswick where they took up defensive positions, ready to hold the town and the Raritan River line. They stayed a few days while rumors spread and all kinds of theories were put out by the soldiers as to what was going on.

  A few days later the main American army arrived and reinforced the Raritan line. But once again the problem of the militia returning home once their year of duty was up reared its ugly head, and a couple of thousand just upped and quit, leaving Washington with a much reduced force. It was shortly afterwards the British arrived and unhitched their artillery and began pounding the American positions. As night came the order to retreat came yet again and most of the army marched south-west towards the Delaware River. Casca and the Delaware regiment formed the rearguard and waited with Washington until they decided it was safe to follow. The British didn’t press and they were more interested in repairing the bridge over the Raritan.

  Grumbling grew amongst the Delaware men as their retreat continued. Washington rode up alongside them and the mutterings subsided. Looking down at the men, he spied Casca leading one company and spurred his mount to come alongside. “Well, Captain,” he boomed, “what do you think of it all?”

  “Sir, we’ve plenty of space to continue retreating to but our shoe leather may not last as long.”

  “Fear not, Captain, we shall not carry on for much longer. The Delaware shall be our limit.”

  “And if the British carry on chasing us?”

  Washington shook his head. “Lord Cornwallis is a cautious man; he won’t risk too much, especially as forage will become scarce the further he comes this way. Our depots are sufficient to keep us well fed, but the British face a different situation. They won’t risk a crossing of the Delaware this late into the year, whereas I’m planning something unexpected.”

  “Well, sir, if you give us a victory, you’ll see a change in the men.”

  “And I intend just that, Captain.” He touched his hat and trotted off ahead, leaving Casca thoughtful. The retreat continued into the night until the rearguard straggled into the town of Princeton. There Casca was surprised to see Lord Stirling once more, having been exchanged by the British. Lord Stirling recognized Casca and came over to him, taking Casca’s salute, then, to the soldiers’ surprise, shook his hand. “Captain Lonnergan, once more, eh? My thanks and congratulations to you.”

  “My congratulations to you, sir, for that valiant stand at Cortelyou House. Did the British treat you well?”

  “Oh, yes, even if they refused to call me Lord Stirling! Bah! Damned stubborn people. I’ll show them!” He saluted again and moved off to take the unit details from the various colonels. In the event they didn’t remain at Princeton for very long. Word that the main British army was advancing towards them came a couple of days later and they marched out shortly before the town fell, reaching Trenton and the Delaware River the next day, and made it over the icy cold river in boats, crossing into Pennsylvania. All along the river there were fires where various units had encamped, and Casca and his unit were directed to take up their position along the river a few miles to the north.

  Over the next few days they resupplied and got used to life on the banks of the Delaware. News kept on coming in from various people, some new arrivals from Philadelphia, others locals who brought food to the troops. Congress had abandoned Philadelphia and had moved to Baltimore. Casca frowned. That wasn’t a good sign if the leaders of the revolution were running too. It looked like they had no faith in the army stopping the advance of the British.

  Casca did the rounds of the company. There were supposed to be 85 or so at full strength but there were only 34. The same was true across the army. Some units were even worse off. At least the Delaware regiment had uniforms and bayonets, something that marked them as an ‘elite’ unit. Washington was pinning his hope on units such as these to show the rest the war could be won.

  The weather wasn’t that bad and the British looked as though they were settling down into winter quarters. Word was that they weren’t going to cross the Delaware until the spring, which was a relief. The river was over a thousand feet wide at that point, and Casca gazed across it into enemy territory. Trees dotted the banks, bare of leaf, and the winter landscape made him shiver. The bank on the far side was steeper than where he and his men were, so if they were to cross they’d have a harder time landing than setting off. Typical.

  Washington had grouped the men at the ferry points, just in case anyone tried to cross, but it looked as though they would have a quiet Christmas. Casca should have known, however, that something was brewing, for he was summoned to Colonel Haslett’s tent a couple of days later, and he and his fellow officers were informed they were going on the offensive. The British had stopped and were thinly scattered across New Jersey, thinking the Americans were a beaten force, and they were going to get a rude shock.

  The target was Trenton, just across the river. It was defended by Hessians under a Colonel Rall, and information had been received that Rall had about 1,300 men to defend the town. Washington had 10,000 and he would use his local superiority to good effect. A victory was needed, and he was going to give Congress and the American patriots just that.

  Casca thought it was a good idea. They were getting used to too many defeats or retreats. A victory would do wonders for morale, both in the army and amongst their supporters.

  They were to gather their combat equipment, sixty rounds, gunpowder, three day’s rations, and any combat equipment, and report on Christmas Day to their crossing point as night fell. When Casca told the men they were both pleased and dismayed. Pleased they were going into battle, but dismayed it meant their Christmas was interrupted. “Don’t worry, guys,” Casca told them, “plenty of time for celebrating after the battle is won.”

  As evening fell they gathered by the riverside. Boats had been found, sixty feet long and flat bottomed, and all of Casca’s company would fit into one. But the weather had turned, and now a snowstorm was building, blowing straight into the faces of the embarking men. It was raw and bitter, and Casca pitied the men who had no shoes; they would suffer terribly, even t
hough they had rags wrapped around their feet.

  Oars were in short supply and the crew manning the boat used long poles to push the boat through the water. Ice floes were floating down the river, making the crossing hazardous, and Casca looked left and right as other boats struggled across against the ice, wind and snow. It was a surreal scene. One good thing about the storm, though, was that it kept any enemy pickets indoors. Nobody sane would attack that night, especially at it was Christmas night.

  They struggled up the New Jersey bank, helping each other up the steep slope, and gathered in the scrubland waiting for the commander to arrive and lead them off. The group was to split into two columns, and Casca’s men were to go with General Greene and approach Trenton from the north, from the high ground. They took with them a few pieces of artillery. The guns would slow them down, Casca mused. It looked as though Washington wanted them to co-ordinate a pincer attack, arriving at dawn, and how they were to do that with the storm, darkness, and the guns to move, was anyone’s guess.

  The darkness was punctuated by hand-held torches. The men shuffled off along narrow roadways, hemmed in by thick growths of alder. The storm shrieked through the trees, rattling the tops, and snow found its way down the backs of necks, making the men shiver. There was little noise; each was sunk in their own private thoughts, and Casca wondered how they would perform. He was hopeful they would acquit themselves well; the Hessians would be caught on the hop and would be outnumbered.

  The night seemed endless and the guns held their march up, as Casca had guessed they would, but as the sky began to lighten, they came out of the undergrowth on the northern outskirts of the town, and spread out, loading up. Some of the gunpowder had gotten damp, but they had enough for a fight. Casca still carried a musket, despite comments from some of the other officers which he ignored, and he loaded up too.

  The houses stood ahead, blanketed in snow, and shots were beginning to shatter the peace of the morning. Pickets had encountered the advancing Americans and the garrison was tumbling sleepily out of their billets, bad tempered and shocked. A long road ran straight ahead downhill towards the river, lined with tall oblong houses, lined with trees, and somebody said it was King Street. At the very top of the hill the artillery was unlimbered and loaded up.

  Blue-coated Hessians with their peaked brass faced caps began assembling a hundred yards away and Lord Stirling, commanding the brigade that the Delaware regiment was part of, began barking orders to line up in two ranks. Casca snapped a brief order and his men formed two lines, straddling the edge of the road, in between two particularly straight alders. “Stand steady, boys,” Casca said firmly, eyeing the Hessian force.

  Gunfire was breaking out to the far right, and Casca guessed that was the other column coming into contact with the defenses in that part of the town. Down the road there stood a church, the spire showing up against the lightening sky, coated with snow. The snow was blowing now from over their shoulders into the faces of the Hessians, who began to advance. The cannon opened up and cut holes into the German soldiers, men falling left and right, but they pressed on grimly. “Ready!” Casca raised his musket, sensing the Delaware soldiers did likewise.

  “Fire!” Colonel Haslett snapped from behind the lines.

  The crack of the volley echoed around the street. Bullets ripped into the soldiers, sending them staggering and falling. “Come on, boys, they’re retreating!” Haslett shouted.

  Casca drew his saber, slinging his musket over his shoulder, and led his men down the street. The Hessians retreated past their own cannon that were swinging their barrels around to face the approaching Delaware troops. Casca sucked in his breath; they wouldn’t get to them before they fired.

  Just then the American guns opened up. They’d seen the danger and now blasted at them, shattering one of the cannon and cutting down the crews. With a whoop of delight Casca led the charge down the street, swinging left off the street onto the snow covered verge where the cannon were sited, and charged the dazed gunners. One raised his saber in a defensive gesture but Casca evaded it and cut across his chest, sending the Hessian back against the wheel of his gun, where he slowly sank into the snow.

  The gunners threw up their hands, the fight knocked out of them. The whole town was now echoing to gunfire, and the Americans were flooding into the town on three sides. Casca checked his men and found only one had been wounded. Making sure he was fine, they reformed and crossed the open space in between King Street and the next one, Queen Street, and took up positions behind the fence that ran along the border.

  Hessian troops gathered a little way down the street, and then, led by their commander on horseback, came marching up in between the two streets. “Steady,” Casca said, kneeling, his musket once more loaded and ready to fire. “Pick your targets, wait for the command.”

  The soldiers tensed and waited. Casca grinned. These were good soldiers. Make the rest of the army like this and they’d do fine. As the Hessians approached, Casca drew in his breath. “Now!”

  He shot at the officer on horseback, but he didn’t see whether he’d hit him or not as the cloud of smoke obscured the entire scene. When it dispersed the Hessian column was in chaos and the officer was lying in the snow, his horse galloping off in fright. “Reload,” Casca ordered, reaching for another charge.

  The Hessians tried to return fire, but the wind was blowing into their faces and they couldn’t see very well. Their exposed position left them open to fire while the Americans were protected by the buildings and fences. Casca picked out a soldier carefully reloading, and on his command for the men to volley fire, squeezed his own trigger and when the smoke cleared, saw the soldier was leaning over in pain.

  The Hessians gave ground, carrying their wounded commander. “Come on, let’s go,” Casca waved his men up. The entire Delaware regiment rose up and advanced, bayonets fixed, down the street in the wake of the retreating enemy. They got to the center of town and found what enemy units were still there had surrendered.

  Firing was still going on to the south and east, but Colonel Haslett told the men to stand down. Trenton had been taken.

  The prisoners were herded together and passed to one of the other units to guard. Casca took his men to one side and told them to take a break and have something to eat. He saw the Hessian commander being carried into a large building, and General Washington and his immediate subordinates followed. Turning to a couple of his men he grinned, clapping one around the shoulder. “Good fight. Nice victory. How does it feel to win a battle, then, boys?”

  “Damned cold, sir. How about a fire?”

  “Good idea. Grab some wood and get one going. Right here in the middle of the street. Won’t endanger the houses.” Leaving the men to organize a fire, he wandered around the center of the town, noting the discarded equipment littering the ground. It looked like the enemy had lost over twenty dead and scores wounded, while American losses were minimal, maybe a handful dead and wounded. They’d caught the enemy napping, that was for sure.

  The snowstorm continued regardless, and Casca shivered, turning his back to the wind. Damned weather. There came the shattering of glass and ribald shouting, and he made his way across the square to a liquor store that had been ransacked. Hogsheads of rum had been liberated and the men were making themselves free with it. Casca was about to order them to stop when he thought better of it. It was cold, they’d just won a battle and, hell, it was Christmas. Grabbing one from a soldier who was struggling with two, and glaring at him when he went to protest, he carried it back to his men and planted it in the snow at their feet. “Merry Christmas, boys.”

  The men cheered and grabbed their pewter mugs and lined up for a tot. Casca was allowed first go, and he walked away, a full mug of the dark liquid, and inhaled it. Ahhh, great stuff. Reminded him of the time he had been a pirate. Chuckling, he took a mouthful of the fiery liquid.

  Merry Christmas, indeed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The exposed position
they found themselves in meant they had to retreat once more across the Delaware, taking the captured equipment and prisoners with them. The snow turned to rain, a lashing, cold rain that made the men even more miserable and, oddly, making them feel even colder.

  After a couple of days to recover, once more they were given the order to re-cross into New Jersey. Casca sighed. Back and forth, back and forth. Much more of this and they’d grow webbed feet. The weather continued to play its part, throwing down six inches of snow overnight and then sending the temperature dropping so that part of the river froze solid. Some of the men even walked across to the far shore, although the guns and heavy equipment had to be taken by boat, and the ice made the crossing hazardous to say the least.

  Casca’s men were grouped with other units under the command of Brigadier General Mercer, but the four regiments and supporting units only came to some 300 men, a fair way short of their full complement. The end of the year was approaching and the time for enlistment was up amongst the men of the Delaware regiment. There were only 92 men left and they had been fighting for a long time and were tired and worn out.

  Colonel Haslett called the men together at Trenton which they had once more taken, and asked them to stay past their enlisted period of service. Casca added his voice to Haslett’s, stating they had now just won a famous victory and the British-Hessian forces were retreating and in a panic. It was a little exaggerated, Casca knew, but it didn’t do any harm to stretch the truth a bit.

  But despite their pleas, the majority of the men had decided enough was enough and they wanted to return to their homes and families. Haslett sighed and looked at Casca. “It appears we are just a unit in name, now, Captain.”

  “So it would appear, sir. What now?”

  “We carry on, Captain. We’re part of the brigade, so we shall remain under arms.”