by Ron Carter
Can I kill a man? Can I pull the trigger? Can I run a bayonet through a man so close I can smell him? What if they come at me with a bayonet? Will I break? Run? Will I? Will I? If I’m wounded what will Mother say?—an arm gone—a leg—what will Mother say? If I’m killed? What will they tell Mother?
O’Malley looked up and down the line at Third Company, dug in close to the middle of General John Sullivan’s command in the center of the American lines, hunched forward behind the breastworks, heads raised just far enough to peer west. The nine o’clock morning sun was hot on their backs as they studied the ground sloping gently down to the creek, then rising slightly on the far side to the thick woods. The American cannon were entrenched, half with muzzles elevated to reach the woods across the creek with solid shot, half loaded with canister and grapeshot, muzzles level to cover Brinton’s Ford and Chad’s Ford, where the British would have to cross.
“Look sharp, lads,” O’Malley called. “What colors do you see in those trees?”
Half a minute passed before one answered, then another. “Blue and green.”
“How much red?”
“Almost none.”
O’Malley settled back, forehead furrowed in puzzlement. Last night, mostly red—this morning, almost no red—no redcoats—blue and green—German Hessians. Where are the British? There was noise in the night—someone was moving over there. Did the British leave? If they did, where are they?
He rose again to point. “Can you see their hats? What shape are their hats?”
Seconds later the answer came. “Tall. Shiny.”
“Any tricorns?”
“None I can see.”
Hessians—where are the British?—something’s wrong. O’Malley was turning to trot up the line to find Captain Venables when the first showing of white smoke blossomed in the distant trees, and he came to a sudden halt.
“DOWN!” he shouted, and crouched, face down, hands clapped over his ears. One second later the ground thirty yards in front of the breastworks erupted with a roar all up and down the American center as sixty eighteen-pound cannonballs ripped into the earth and exploded to blast black Pennsylvania dirt fifty feet in the air. Falling clods and stones rained down, pelting the Americans as the thunder of the British cannon rolled over them.
More than half the Americans had remained standing, their heads exposed, brains locked and fumbling at the shouted command. Two of them were dead with iron fragments in their heads. Half a dozen had dropped their muskets to throw their hands over their faces, moaning, cut by hot, flying metal. One man scrambled from the trench, staggering, arms flailing as he screamed incoherently.
O’Malley leaped from the trench and raced to the man. He seized his shirt front and half-carried, half-dragged him back to the breastworks, where they tumbled into the soldiers in the trench with the man swinging his arms, voice raised like one demented. With strength beyond anything human, the dying man swept O’Malley aside, reaching, grasping blindly as he staggered to his feet and turned, still in the trench, blood streaming from his scalp and mutilated face, stumbling among the soldiers. O’Malley seized him from the back and lifted him off his feet, to throw him down again. Like a wild animal the man twisted, groping, screaming, as the two grappled among the scrambling men of Third Company.
Suddenly the flailing arms slowed and fell slack. The insane screaming dwindled and died. The mortally wounded soldier turned his head as though trying to see through eyes that were missing, then mumbled something as his head slowly nodded forward and he died. O’Malley released his hold, and there was deep pain in his face as he lifted the body from among the tangle of soldiers and laid him in the trench. He straightened the dead man’s legs, then turned to a white-faced man who had been caught in the melee. His shirtfront was soaked with the dead man’s blood.
“Dunson, are you hurt?”
Wide-eyed and shaking, Caleb’s eyes never left the dead man. Horrified, he stared at the head. The upper part of the face was gone—leaving nothing but a mass of blood and gore.
O’Malley seized his shoulder. “Dunson, were you hit?”
Caleb shook his head as though coming from a trance and looked at O’Malley. He tried to speak but could not make a sound. He shook his head and finally forced out a single word, “No.”
At that instant the second barrage of British cannonballs came whistling to rip into the breastworks. Shards of timber and clods of dirt leaped high and came raining down. Caleb doubled into a ball and threw his hands over his head while the booming wave rolled past. Then he straightened, unable to tear his eyes from the faceless soldier lying dead next to him. O’Malley leaped from the trench to shout, “Keep your heads down! Heads down! They’re getting the range. Heads down!”
The next second the ground trembled as the heavy American cannon blasted a reply. A dense cloud of white smoke rose from the center of the American lines to drift lazily northward, and two seconds later geysers of dirt erupted in front of the oak and maples across the creek. Some cannonballs tore into the trees, shredding them, knocking leaves and branches loose to fall to the ground. For thirty seconds silence held in the beautiful Brandywine Creek basin, and then once again the British cannon boomed, and the cannonballs came whistling. Twenty seconds later the American guns answered.
The gun crews on both sides of the stream settled into the loading and firing of the cannon. Dip the huge swab into the barrel of water and run it hissing down the hot barrel to kill all lingering sparks; one live spark could ignite the incoming gunpowder and blow the arm off the soldier delivering it. Scoop one measure of gunpowder from the budge barrel and carefully push the ladle down the cannon muzzle, then twist the long handle to dump it. Jam the dried grass or the large cloth patch into the muzzle and use the ram to drive it home to lock in the gunpowder. Drop the next cannonball into the muzzle and use the ram once more to seat it against the patch. Smack the smoking linstock onto the touch hole and wait until the powder caught, then step back from the cannon’s blast and recoil. Soak the swab and start again.
O’Malley turned to Caleb. “Get the man’s blanket.”
Caleb turned and grasped the dead man’s bedroll and with trembling fingers untied the knots in the two cords. One minute later the body was wrapped, lying at their feet in the trench.
O’Malley asked, “Know his name?”
Caleb licked dry lips, and his voice cracked as he spoke. “I think it was Evans. Hosea Evans.”
“Remember it. For the regimental record.”
The pounding of the cannon and the exploding of cannonballs became an incessant roar. Minutes seemed unending, and time became meaningless. The sun continued its arc and came hot on their shoulders as the morning wore on. O’Malley timed the rhythm of the incoming volleys, and in the thirty seconds it took the British to reload, he was out of the trench, walking among his men, calming them, watching for the first signs of panic. Well he knew the harsh realities of what a sustained artillery attack could do to the nerves and the resolve of soldiers crouched in trenches behind breastworks, knowing the next cannonball could blind them, cripple them, kill them and that they were helpless to do other than crouch and pray to their God to be spared. One terrified soldier breaking from ranks to run could take five with him, and five could take ten more. He watched and waited.
It was shortly after ten o’clock that O’Malley slowed and stopped, then raised his head above the breastworks far enough to study the ford where the British or the Germans would have to cross. There was no one in sight. A look of wonder crossed his face as the next cloud of white smoke erupted from the distant trees and he dropped into the trench while the cannonballs came whistling, some into the breastworks, some overhead to plow into the earth fifty yards behind the trenches and explode.
They’re not coming—two hours of cannon and they’re not coming—should have started across an hour ago—something’s wrong—something’s wrong.
The inescapable conclusion struck him, and he stiffened. They’r
e not going to cross here—crossing somewhere else—north or south—can’t be south because the cannon are firing down at Chad’s Ford just like here—if they were attacking at Chad’s, we’d hear muskets, not cannon. They’re going to cross somewhere to the north—maybe Brinton’s Ford, where Stephen and Stirling are.
He raised his head once more, squinting north, but could not see the shallows at Brinton’s Ford. He was settling back into the trench when movement to the east caught his eye, and he turned, startled. An American officer was kicking a hot, blue roan horse in the ribs, holding a steady lope south through a harvested oat field two hundred yards behind the lines.
Messenger! Who? From where? What message? A look of increasing concern passed over O’Malley’s face as he settled down. Something’s wrong. Time will tell. We wait.
Twenty minutes later the winded rider reined in a spent horse behind the breastworks at Chad’s Ford, shouting above the din of the cannon, “Where’s General Washington?”
An officer pointed, and the rider raced past to pull his horse to a stop ten yards from a group of huddled officers. Two walked out to meet him, hands on their swords.
“Identify yourself.”
“Major Lewis Morris. Aide de camp to General Sullivan. Carrying a message to be delivered to General Washington personally.”
Diminutive Colonel Alexander Hamilton stepped forward. “I’ll take it.” He turned on his heel and strode back to the group of officers to hand the written message to General Washington, who stood six inches taller than any other man. They all flinched as the next barrage of cannonballs came whistling and exploded; then Washington opened the written message. His breathing slowed, and he carefully read it again.
There was hardly a change in his expression as he spoke, cool, clear, aggressive. “We were wondering why the British haven’t attempted to cross the ford and attack. We have the answer. Colonel Moses Hazen up at Jones’s Ford wrote this message to General Sullivan less than an hour ago. He personally observed a large British column marching north. He thinks they’re going to the forks of the Brandywine with the intent of crossing and coming down on General Sullivan’s flank.”
He paused for a moment, mind racing as he adjusted his thoughts and his battle plan to the startling new information.
“If that’s true, then the British positions opposite us are considerably weaker than we thought.”
They all flinched as the American cannon roared. Washington waited three seconds and continued.
“I think—”
The sound of a second incoming rider interrupted, and they all turned to peer east at a young lieutenant reining a bay gelding to a halt. He hit the ground running and stopped as he approached the knot of officers.
“I’ve got a dispatch from Lieutenant Colonel James Ross of the Eighth Pennsylvania. Up north near Osborne’s Hill.” He thrust the sealed document forward, and Hamilton took it to Washington. Again Washington paused, and his head came up, eyes bright as he read aloud from the paper. “From every account five thousand with sixteen or eighteen field pieces marched along this road just now.”
For a split second he hesitated, then exclaimed, “With five thousand of them marching north, the force across Chad’s Ford is half what we thought. Now is the time to cross and crush them.” He turned to Laurens and Hamilton. “Write orders for my signature. Tell Generals Stephen, Stirling, and Sullivan to cross the Brandywine immediately and attack. Tell Generals Armstrong and Greene to prepare their commands to cross Chad’s Ford and attack. The moment those orders are ready, get them to me, and find the best horsemen you can to deliver them. Understand?”
The cannon fire slowly slackened, and for a time it stopped. The soldiers in the trenches looked at each other, oddly disquieted at the sound of silence. A little before two o’clock in the afternoon, Washington sat tall on his gray mare and looked up and down his battle lines. His men were ready. Greene and his command, and Armstrong with his, far to his left, were crouched behind the breastworks. All eyes were on the officers, waiting for the order to rise and charge. For one moment Washington paused to reflect. By now General Sullivan should be prepared to cross. We’ll hear the muskets when he starts. We can wait no longer.”
Washington was reaching for his sword when the sound of a running horse coming in from behind turned the heads of the nearest officers. The rider held a paper high above his head as he brought his horse in, sweated, winded.
“From General Sullivan, sir. Urgent, he said.”
Quickly Washington broke the seal and read.
“Since I sent you the message by Major Morris, I saw some of the militia who came in this morning from a tavern called Martins on the forks of the Brandywine. The one who told me said he had come from thence to Welches Tavern and heard nothing of the enemy above the forks of the Brandywine and is confident that they are not in that quarter. So that Colonel Hazen’s information must be wrong. I have sent to that quarter to know whether there is any foundation for the report and shall be glad to give your Ex’y the earliest information.” Washington read the signature. It was unmistakably that of General John Sullivan on information delivered to him by Major Spear, Pennsylvania Militia.
Washington’s mouth became a thin, straight line as his mind leaped. Hazen and Ross both wrong? Who is this Major Spear? Martin’s Tavern? Welches Tavern? Where are these taverns he’s talking about? Who told Major Spear? Reliable? Unreliable?
The eyes of fifty officers were on him, waiting, poised, sweating in the hot afternoon sun. Thousands of men were crouched behind breastworks, prepared to surge over the top, down the slope, shouting, shooting, directly into the grapeshot and musketfire and bayonets of whoever remained in the trees and trenches across the Brandywine. If those trenches were filled to full strength, too many Americans would be slaughtered before they reached the far side of the creek.
Go? Wait?
For long seconds Washington weighed it in his mind with the loneliness of ultimate command riding heavy. He shook his head. I can’t go forward until I know.
He spoke to his officers and gave his orders. “I have information that prior reports of British movements to the north are mistaken. I refuse to risk this army until I know the facts.” He stopped, and every officer within earshot stared, mesmerized, knowing what was coming. “Colonel Hamilton, there is no time for writing orders. Send a messenger at once. Tell General Sullivan to remain where he is. He is not to cross the Brandywine until further orders. Send another messenger to Generals Greene and Armstrong with the same orders. All other officers present, order your men to stand down.”
Hamilton wheeled his horse and was off at a gallop. The other officers stared for several moments in disbelief, then quickly returned to their commands to give the orders that would bewilder the soldiers, tear at their resolve. Preparing to charge into grapeshot and musketballs and bayonets made strong men quiver. To be crouched in a trench, sweating, shaking, ready to make the desperate run over the top of dirt breastworks, down a slope, and wade a creek knowing half of the first ranks would never reach the far shore took all the courage a man had to give. To be steeled for the order and then be told to stand down, left soldiers limp, cursing, hating war, their officers, themselves.
For half an hour the cannons continued to blast, first on one side, then the other, while Washington held an iron check on his impatience, his rising need to know what was happening to the north. He paced, turning his head every few minutes to listen, waiting for the sound of the distant cannon to dwindle and for the unmistakable rattle of muskets to begin in the north.
He flinched at the sudden outburst from Laurens. “There, sir!”
He spun and raised a hand to shade his eyes from the afternoon sun while he peered to the east. A man was coming in from behind them. He was clearly a farmer, bare-legged, riding a horse that was running stumble-footed, near collapse. With Hamilton and Laurens beside him, Washington waited while other officers came running.
The farmer was dripping sw
eat as he reined in his spent horse. He leaped to the ground and came running toward Washington, panting, long hair plastered to his forehead and face. There was no pretense of military decorum as he pointed north, shouting, “The British are on this side of the Brandywine marching south. Thousands of them. They’ll overrun the breastworks up at Brinton’s Ford.”
Washington stared at the man. “Who are you?”
“Thomas Cheyney.”
“Where do you live.”
“Across the creek, near Trimble’s Ford.”
“Who sent you?”
Cheyney’s voice rose. “No one. I was at home. The British came. I swam the creek. They shot at me. Chased me. Thousands of them. Cannon. Don’t you understand? They’re coming in behind you!” He stood there, stunned that neither Washington nor any of his officers could grasp the fact that their entire army was caught in a trap.
Washington turned to Laurens and Hamilton. “What do you make of this?”
Laurens shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. Could be a trap. This man could be a Tory sent to trick us.”
Cheyney could take no more. He fairly shouted, “I’d have you know I have this day’s work as much at heart as e’er a blood of ye!” He dropped to his knees in the dirt and quickly made marks, then raised angry eyes to Washington, pointing as he spoke, “There’s a map of it, sir. I live there. The British came marching past this morning. I swam the Brandywine there. They shot at me, chased me. Henry Tredwell’s farm is there. I stopped to warn him, and I took his horse—that sorrel mare you see behind me—and I’ve likely killed her to get here. That’s the truth of it!”
Washington stood silent, torn, indecisive, then shook his head.
Cheyney sprang back to his feet. “You’re mistaken, general. My life for it, you’re mistaken. By heaven, it’s so! Put me under guard till you find out it’s so!”